“Good.” He activated the Skype. Audrey Conroy appeared on the TV. She was seated at a table, looking a bit flustered, an understandable reaction from someone who’d just learned the White House wanted to talk to her. But she gazed directly out of the screen and kept her voice steady.

“Yes, Mr. Chambers. What can I do for you?” She was tall, with clear brown eyes and hair cut short. She wore a light blue blouse, and her expression reflected an amused awareness of her own disquiet. She did not look like a grandmother.

“Ms. Conroy, we’ve been trying to clear up a few details about the DNC operation at the Watergate.”

“Really?”

“Yes. During the Nixon years.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. Then she was looking out of the screen again. Taking a deep breath. “You’re kidding.”

“No, ma’am.”

“There’s another investigation going on?”

“No, no.” The chief of staff was trying too hard to be reassuring. Just ask the damned questions, Ray. “Nothing like that.”

“Oh. Good. That’s a relief.”

“Yes. We’re just trying to set the record straight on a couple of details. Does the name Jack Cohen ring a bell?”

Her forehead creased. Then she broke into a big smile. “You mean Larry’s old buddy.”

“We’re talking about Lawrence O’Brien?”

“Yes. Is that who you mean?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The smile grew even wider. “Jack Cohen. Sure. This is the first I’ve heard his name in a long time.”

“How well did you know him?”

She shrugged. “Not that well, really. He’d come into the office once in a while, and he and Larry would sit and talk.” Cunningham could see her reaching back through the years. “He seemed like a nice guy. But he wasn’t the quickest horse in the stable.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was an academic type. Loved to talk about Egyptian tombs and stuff like that. I never understood what Larry saw in him. I mean, Larry was down-to-earth, you know what I mean?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“Okay. Anyhow, Cohen was always in some other world. But Larry was a little bit like that, too. I mean, he had a good imagination. And he was smart. But Cohen always seemed kind of lost. I remember one time he’d promised Larry tickets to a play at one of the colleges. But he couldn’t find them in his pocket so he started looking through his briefcase. And he came up with tickets but they were to a show downtown. The Thurber Carnival, I think it was. The tickets were ten years old. I remember asking him if something had happened because he hadn’t used them. He shrugged and said how he didn’t remember, it was too long ago.”

“Did he find the correct tickets?”

“I don’t remember. It’s been a long time, Mr. Chambers.”

“What else can you tell me about the briefcase? Did he ever leave it at the Watergate office?”

She thought about it. “Not exactly,” she said, finally. “But there was an incident. How did you know?”

“Just a rumor we’d heard.”

“Well, yes. He did lose it on one occasion.” Her brow creased. “It’s an odd story.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Well, Jack Cohen and Larry went to lunch together a lot. Usually in the hotel restaurant at the Watergate. They were down there one day and afterward they came up to the office.” She paused, trying to remember. “I think what happened was, they sat in his office and talked for a while. Later that afternoon, Cohen called, saying he’d left his briefcase somewhere, thought it was probably with us. Would we take a look?

“I don’t really remember the details. I don’t even remember whether I took the call or Jessica did. I don’t think Larry was there at the time it came in. But we looked around. Didn’t see anything. When Larry got back to the office, he looked, too. Cohen came back around closing time and they hunted some more. It sticks in my mind because it was right around the time of the break-in.”

“Did it happen that night?” Ray asked. “The break-in?”

She shook her head. “I just don’t know, Mr. Chambers. It might have. Or maybe it was a day or two later.”

“Audrey,” said Ray, “did he ever find the briefcase?”

“Oh, yes. It turned out he left it in the hotel restaurant.”

“I assume you returned it to Cohen.”

“As far as I know. Larry would have taken care of that.”

“Audrey, thank you.”

Cunningham had a line into Ray. “Ask her if she has any idea what was in the briefcase.”

He relayed the question.

Audrey nodded. “I don’t remember any specifics, but he was a teacher, and I think it had something to do with his classes. But I don’t know. Again, it’s a long time ago. He seemed really flustered. But this guy was always like that. Larry said how he was brilliant, but you couldn’t prove it by me.”

—

“Ray, how did Blackstone know where to look for the descent modules?”

Ray looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“He seems to have known exactly where to go.” It was apparently a question that hadn’t occurred to the chief of staff. “The back side of the Moon has a surface area of about seven million square miles. Blackstone was looking for a couple of pieces of metal that blended with the ground. How could he have possibly known where to find them?”

Ray sucked on his upper lip and shook his head. “I have no idea. He must have gotten lucky.”

“Sure he did. I think we should ask him.”

“You know how he is, Mr. President. He won’t tell us.”

“I think he will. We’ll have to put up with the gloating, though. I’ll tell you what. Put a call through to Jerry. Tell him I want to talk to him.”

—

Jerry looked nervous. The smart, friendly, easygoing guy who’d been such an asset on the campaign trail a few years back had gone missing. And Cunningham understood why: He’d gone over to the enemy. It was hard to understand how that could have happened. He knew Jerry had received plenty of job offers. Good ones. Cunningham had arranged a few of them. But Blackstone had undoubtedly outbid everybody. Had taken Jerry for the sole reason that his presence would embarrass the president. What a son of a bitch he was. And he wasn’t really sure which of the two men he was thinking of at that moment.

“How you been, Jerry?” he asked, keeping the anger out of his voice.

“I’m fine, Mr. President.” He looked off to the side, but Cunningham doubted anyone else was present. Jerry took a deep breath. Then the eyes came back. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Congratulations on the Myshko flight.”

“Thank you. I’ll pass them on.”

“I’m sure you will.” Cunningham was seated on the sofa in his study. “How’s the new job working out?”

“I’m enjoying it, Mr. President. It keeps me in the space program.”

“Yes. Very good. I was sorry we lost you.”

“I was sorry to go.”

“Well, I guess these things happen.” Jerry’s eyes were locked on him now. He was probably expecting an offer to draw him away from Blackstone. “It looks as if you and he were right all the time.”

Jerry managed a nervous smile.

Cunningham made no effort to put him at ease. “Got a question for you, Jerry.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How did your boss know where the descent stages would be? How’d he know where to look?”

Jerry needed a moment to decide whether he was free to speak. He apparently decided he was. Or maybe he couldn’t resist putting a needle into the president. “It wasn’t really that difficult,” he said.

Cunningham listened while Jerry laid it all out. Rumors of a “Cassandra Project.” Photos from satellites and probes, both Russian and American, that had been doctored. He was about to add something, but he thought better of it and broke off. Held up his hands. “That’s about it, Mr. President.”

“The Russians were part of the cover-up?”

“Yes, sir. They must have been.”

“You’re sure about that? Absolutely positive?”

“I’ve seen the photos, sir.”

“That sounds as if you put some of this together.”