Again, the hesitation. “Yes, Mr. President. I guess I did.”

And Cunningham knew what he’d been about to say. He hadn’t been able to get anyone at NASA to believe him.

The president shook his head. What a bunch of damned idiots they’d been. Or maybe not. The story had simply been too wild to take seriously. “Thanks, Jerry,” he said.

—

Restoring good relations with the Russians had been one of Cunningham’s core goals. And, at least on a personal level, the two countries had come a long way. There were still people in power in Moscow who disliked and thoroughly distrusted the United States. Just as there were angry voices in D.C.

But Dmitri Alexandrov, the Russian president, had been at the White House five months earlier. The meeting had gone well. They’d conducted a joint press conference in which they tried to make the case for getting rid of what remained of Cold War animosity. Alexandrov’s support, against unhappy opposition at home, in joining the coalition to create a world free of nuclear weapons, had been enormously helpful in winning friends in the U.S. The problem was that too many people still thought that the White House, in getting rid of its atomic capabilities, was handing the world over to its rivals.

He checked the time. It was late in Moscow, but Alexandrov was not inclined to retire early. He picked up the red phone and pushed the button. It took a few minutes.

“Yes, George,” said Alexandrov. The call was strictly audio. “You are calling about the Moon shot, no doubt?” Much of his education had taken place in London, and he spoke with an accent that was a mixture of British and Russian.

“How’d you guess, Dmitri?”

“It is all over the newscasts. What else could it be?” He smiled. “I should mention that taking a call on the red phone is not as alarming as it must have been in the old days.”

“It’s a better world, my friend.”

“Yes. Thanks to you. So what did happen with the Moon flights? I trust there’s no emergency.”

“No. Everything is fine.”

“I am glad to hear it. And I am very curious. Your country put two vehicles on the Moon in 1959, prior to Apollo XI, and told no one. Why did that happen? There was such intense competition at the time—”

“Dmitri, I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

He laughed. Then realized it was not a joke. “Why would you think that?”

“Photos from that era were doctored to hide the landings.”

“So how does that involve us?”

“Russian photos, Dmitri. Yours as well as ours.”

“Surely, George, you are joking.”

“I have it on the best authority.”

There was a long silence at the other end. Finally: “If I even try to look into it, I will be laughed at. Nobody would ever take me seriously again.”

“I know. I have the same problem. I just thought you should be aware.”

—

“So let me get this straight, love,” said Lyra. “You think Nixon set up the Watergate break-in because an anthropology professor left his briefcase in the Watergate restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“And this is because the briefcase had a connection with two Moon flights that we did in secret?”

Cunningham just looked at her.

“And all this happened three years after the flights in question?”

“That’s what it looks like,” he said.

“Okay. Can you tell me what this Cohen could possibly have been carrying around that was that valuable?”

“I don’t know, Lyra. That’s what we’ve been trying to find out.”

“Why do you think there was something in the briefcase?”

“I told you about Irene Akins—”

“The woman who worked in the Nixon White House.”

“Yes. She thought there was a connection with Cohen. And she said something about a set of notes. In a foreign language.”

She looked at him. Shook her head. “You said he was a linguist.”

Cunningham walked over toward the window. It was a bright, clear evening. The Washington Monument dominated the sky. And a sliver of moon was rising in the east. “Yes, he was,” he said.

“So what’s next, love?”

“Okay. Look, we know they were trying to hide something. Three years later, and they hadn’t destroyed it.”

“So—?”

“It was something they wanted to hold on to.”

“So they hid it somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“All right. Where?”

“I can only think of one place.” He looked at her for a long moment, picked up the phone, opened it, and waited. After a moment he spoke into it: “Ray, you think Milt’s free tomorrow?”

35

Milt Weinstein pulled off Yorba Linda Boulevard into the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum parking lot. A white colonnade overlooked a long, rectangular pool and a beautifully landscaped rose garden, filled with shrubs, annuals, palms, and flowering trees. Birds sang, and a young couple sat contentedly on a bench, holding hands. Others wandered through the grounds. The place looked busy and simultaneously placid.

Weinstein got out of his rental car, followed a walkway into the rose garden, and went through the front doors into a large display room. Tourists were everywhere, taking pictures of a Nixon bust, looking at framed photos from his presidency, posing among bronze figures of world leaders from that long-gone era. He walked slowly among flags and tapestries. Posters provided a history of the thirty-seventh president, from his early days in Yorba Linda and Whittier College, to his election in the midst of the Vietnam War, his breakthrough with China, and the devastating experience of Watergate. And, finally, his years as an elder statesman.

There was a short line at the admissions desk. He waited his turn, then showed his White House ID and asked to see Ms. Morris. Michelle Morris was the director.

The woman at the desk frowned at the ID, then looked at Weinstein. “Is she expecting you, sir?”

“Yes,” he said.

“One moment, please.” She picked up a phone, explained that Michelle had a visitor, nodded, paused, and nodded again. “Mr. Weinstein,” he said, “someone will be right out.” Then she looked past him. “Next.”

—

A tall young man in a museum uniform appeared out of a doorway. “Her office is in back,” he said. “Please come with me.” On the way, he passed the 1969 Lincoln that had provided transportation for President Nixon and glanced into a replica of the East Room of the White House, which was used by the museum for appearances by celebrities, and to accommodate weddings and other special events.

Morris rose from her desk as he entered. “Mr. Weinstein,” she said. “They told me you were coming, but wouldn’t say why. Please have a seat.” She was tall and blond, about fifty, wearing a dark jacket over a white blouse. The jacket had a Nixon Museum patch on its breast pocket. Behind her, visible through a set of curtained windows, was a small one-and-a-half-story cottage. Richard Nixon’s birthplace, built in 1912 by his father, Frank. Somewhere in the immediate area of the house grounds were the graves of the former president and his wife, Pat.

“The museum is very impressive,” Weinstein said.

“Thank you. We’re proud of it.” She flashed an automatic smile. White House or not, I’m busy. Can we please get on with it? “So what brings you—?”

“This is going to sound a little off-the-wall, Ms. Morris.”

“We’ll help any way we can.”

“Good.” He lowered himself into an armchair. “There’s a possibility a message may have been left here for the president. Left by President Nixon, that is.”

The smile widened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I quite understand—”