“Sure. Please.” While he poured, Weinstein asked whether he’d known Cohen when the Moon landings were happening. “The early ones,” he added. “In—what was it—’69?”

“No. I was still in the Navy then.” He glanced sidewise at a picture of himself, a much younger version, minus the beard, in a lieutenant’s uniform. “Didn’t get to GWU until 1972.”

Weinstein asked about his service. He’d been on a destroyer in the Pacific for two years. Then two years with subs, operating out of Norfolk. “I don’t guess, having been a naval officer, you had much tolerance for heavy drinkers.”

“There’s some truth in that. But I don’t think it had much to do with my time in service.” He sucked on his lips. “My father was a drunk.”

“Oh.”

He looked at his watch. “Anything else, Milton?”

Weinstein tapped his notebook with his pen. “Not really. Cohen’s history seems to suggest he didn’t have a drinking problem until he got to GWU.”

“I have no idea.” He pushed back in his seat. “I can tell you one really odd story about him, though.”

“What’s that?”

“We threw a farewell party one time for one of the people in the department. Lisa Rhyne. She was getting married, as best I can recall, and moving to Boston. I think she’d gotten a position at Boston College.”

“And—?”

“Anyhow, on the subject of Cohen’s reaction to Nixon and the scandal: We were all sitting around at the party. At one of the local restaurants. And Cohen had had too much to drink. At one point I heard him tell one of the women that he’d been one of the Watergate burglars.”

“Say that again?”

Gray laughed. “That’s right.”

Weinstein wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was a joke, Marvin.”

“He wasn’t smiling.”

24

Jerry entered Bucky Blackstone’s office, nodded to Gloria Marcos, and approached Bucky’s desk.

“My, don’t we look sharp today?” said Bucky with a smile. “New suit?”

Jerry nodded. “And tie.”

“I hope you remembered to use the company credit card.”

“I did. But I feel a little guilty about it.”

“Why?” asked Bucky. “You billed the government for everything for years.”

“Yeah,” said Jerry. “But that was the government. You’re a private citizen.”

Bucky smiled. “The only difference is that I’m not seventeen trillion dollars in debt . . . yet.”

“There is that,” agreed Jerry. “Anyway, I stopped by to see if there’s anything you want me to say or avoid saying. I won’t ask every time, but this is my first press conference.”

“Just answer their questions,” replied Bucky. “Well, as many of them as you can answer. I have no secrets from you or them or anyone else. But if you’ve been told anything in confidence, about the crater or anything else, keep it in confidence. We’re doing them a favor. I don’t need publicity as much as they need something to write about.”

Jerry grinned. “Now I know I’m not in the government.”

Bucky chuckled. “Three billion dollars insulates you from a lot of criticism.” He paused and continued smiling. “And the wild part of it is that I owe it all to one forty-two-inch bosom.”

“Yeah, I heard about how you got your start—or how Suave did. Whatever happened to Miss 42-D?”

“I married her.”

Suddenly Jerry felt very uneasy. “I didn’t mean . . . that is, I . . .”

“It’s okay,” said Bucky easily. “It lasted fifteen months.” An amused smile crossed his face. “I think the final nail in the coffin was when I ran Miss 44 Double-D on the cover.”

“You’ve led an interesting life, Bucky,” said Jerry.

“I’ve had my moments.” Bucky checked his watch. “Yours is coming up fast. Want me to introduce you, or would you feel better if I was nowhere around?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Then I think I’ll watch from here. If I introduce you, I don’t think I could stop from saying that you quit NASA as a matter of conscience, and that’s all they’d ask about for the next hour.”

“Thanks, Bucky.”

“Oh, you’re not getting off the hook. I’d kind of like you to defend the guy who’s paying your salary, and that’s who they’ve come here to savage.”

Jerry frowned. “Why? You’re always a good news story.”

“They’ve been told to, of course.”

“By . . . ?”

“By the administration, of course.”

“Come on, Bucky,” said Jerry. “This is America. They can’t tell people what to write.”

“No,” agreed Bucky. “But they can make access to the president damned difficult for anyone who doesn’t play ball.”

“You really think they would?”

“This wouldn’t be the first White House, or the tenth, or the twentieth, to do just that,” said Bucky with conviction. “All of which is academic. They’re going to try to get you to admit that I’m an idiot or a madman.” Suddenly he grinned. “Might be interesting to see their reaction if you agree with them.”

“You really don’t care, do you?” asked Jerry.

“If I cared what the press thought, I’d sit in splendid isolation and clip coupons. Now you’d better get down there.”

Jerry turned and walked to the elevator, took it down to the studio, and was surprised to find the place totally empty. He was still looking around when Ed Camden walked in.

“Hi, Jerry.” He extended a hand. “I just want you to know there are no hard feelings.”

“Thanks, Ed,” said Jerry. “I appreciate that.” He looked around. “Where is everybody?”

“They get unruly if they have to wait, so we keep ’em outside until the spokesman is ready for them.” Another man came in, and Camden nodded to him. “Okay, Harry—unlock the cages.”

Harry radioed down to the main floor, and a moment later some forty members of the press, most of whom Jerry knew on a first-name basis, thundered into the studio.

“Please be seated,” said Camden. “As soon as you’re all comfortable and those with cameras have set them up, we can proceed. Everything said will be saved to video and audio and made available on our Web page tomorrow afternoon, which gives you a twenty-four-hour head start.” He paused, waiting for them to take their seats and set up their cameras. “Allow me to present the newest member of Team Blackstone, Jerry Culpepper, who will be our spokesman on all matters concerning our pending Moon shot.” He stepped aside. “Jerry, it’s all yours.”

Jerry came forward. “Good morning. I’m a little new on the job, so I may not have answers to every one of your questions, but I promise that anything I can’t answer today, or at any conference in the future, I will answer within twenty-four hours. That said, I have a few brief announcements. First, it has been determined that the ship will take off and land at a private field owned by Mr. Blackstone. Maps will be available to you on your way out. Second, the launch will take place exactly four weeks from this morning.”

“That soon?” asked The Washington Post.

Jerry smiled. “The technology has been available since the late 1960s, though of course we’ve improved upon it.”

“How does it feel to be working for a nutcase?” asked The Los Angeles Times.

“I don’t know,” answered Jerry. “I’ve never had the experience.”

“What does Blackstone expect to find up there?” demanded CNN.

“The Moon,” answered Jerry, breaking the growing tension and eliciting some chuckles.

“Come on, Jerry,” persisted CNN. “Isn’t this whole business about bringing you in here just a stunt to get publicity for your boss’s Moon shot?”

“He’s the second-most-recognizable man in the country after President Cunningham,” said Jerry, “and I don’t think you can find a dozen citizens who don’t know he’s flying to the Moon, so why does he need to create false publicity?”