“President Cunningham thinks it might have been deposited here with instructions to turn it over to a future president if one inquires about it.”

“Mr. Weinstein,” she said, “you’re not making sense.”

Weinstein laughed. “I don’t know what it’s about either, Ms. Morris. But apparently there’s reason to believe such a letter exists.”

“If it does,” she said, “it’s the first I’ve heard of it. What’s it about, do you know?”

“They told me that it might have something to do with the Moon flights.”

She sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.”

“You’re sure?”

She got up. Ready to move on. “Positive.”

“There’s not some sort of lockbox here?” Weinstein tried a grin. “A hidden vault, possibly?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. But you can tell your boss that I’ll have one of the interns look around. Just in case.”

—

He called Chambers from the Rose Garden. “Negative, Ray,” he said.

“Nothing at all?”

“No, sir. She laughed at me.”

“Okay,” said Chambers. “It was worth a try. Come on home.”

“Ray, if you don’t mind—”

“What, Milt?”

“What are we actually looking for?”

“Just come home, Milt. And thanks.”

Chambers disconnected, leaving Weinstein staring across the grass at President Nixon’s Sea King helicopter. Marine One. Or Army One, depending on the service branch of whichever pilot had been on duty when the president was traveling. This was the helicopter that Nixon had climbed into on that last desperate day, turning to wave a final good-bye to his presidency. A crowd stood around it, taking pictures of it, sometimes using it as background for family photos. Despite the dark history on display inside—the Watergate break-in, the Saturday Night Massacre, the enemies’ list, the secret tapes, and the rest of it—the general aura of the museum left Weinstein with a sense that the former president had, after all, been an iconic figure. A man for the ages.

He knew better. Weinstein wasn’t old enough to remember Nixon in the White House. He’d been in his teens when he’d learned about the man’s anti-Semitism. That he’d thought Jews were running the country and would ultimately bring it down. Nixon’s presidency had come to a sad conclusion, but it was hard to sympathize.

He turned away from the helicopter and began walking slowly back toward the parking lot.

Weinstein was on Route 55, headed south toward Santa Ana and the John Wayne Airport, when his phone sounded. “Milton?” Morris’s voice. “This is Michelle. I guess I was wrong. I think we might have something.” The formality was gone.

“A letter?”

“No. It’s a small locked box. Instructions attached to it are exactly what you described. They say it’s to be turned over to any president who inquires about it.”

“What’s in it?”

“I haven’t opened it.”

“Where was it?”

“Back in storage. It wasn’t in the safe.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Milton, there’s probably no point in your coming back here.”

“Why not?”

“The instructions say it has to be delivered personally. I have to put it into the president’s hands.”

“All right. You want me to pick you up? You can fly back with me.”

“I’m not exactly ready to go this minute.”

“You’re not going to keep the president waiting, I hope.”

“Oh, c’mon. How urgent can it be? It’s been here since the 1990s.”

“Only thing I can tell you, Michelle, is that they’re anxious to get their hands on it. When can you be ready to leave?”

36

“She’s with you now?” asked Ray.

“Yes, sir. We’re on our way to the airport.”

“She has the box, of course?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ray gave the president a thumbs-up. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. The president nodded. “Have her open it.”

“Tell her to open it,” said Ray, tying his phone into the speaker so the president could listen.

Weinstein was gone for a minute. Then: “She said President Nixon left instructions it should be opened only by the president.”

Cunningham sighed and spoke into the mike. “Milt, put her on.”

Michelle responded: “Mr. President? Is that really you?”

“Of course it is, Ms. Morris. Would you tell us what’s in the package, please?”

“Sir, I know it sounds like you, but I really can’t be certain. I’m sorry. President Nixon wrote specific instructions that no one except the president should be privy to the contents.”

“Strange phrasing,” said Cunningham.

Ray grinned. “Presidents talk like that sometimes.”

Cunningham raised a hand. “Okay, Michelle. Is it okay if I call you that? Don’t open it. Milton will bring you here.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

She apparently handed the phone back to Weinstein. “You want me to bring her right in tonight?”

Ray took over: “Yes, Milt. Come directly here when you get in.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll be there as quickly as we can.”

Ray disconnected and looked disapprovingly at the president. “What’s wrong?” asked Cunningham.

He shrugged. “That was a mistake, George.”

“What? That we didn’t insist she open the package in the car?”

“Yes. Why wait six or seven hours until they get back here? We’re getting hammered by the media, and we need some answers.”

“Relax, Ray. First off, I’m not sure she would have acceded. In any case, no answer that we come up with is going to satisfy the media. We’re just going to have to take the heat. At least for the time being. My primary concern right now is that we don’t compromise anything. If Nixon thought nobody should see it except the president, we should trust his judgment. At least until we know what this is about.”

“But Nixon was a paranoid. I’d expect him to be overly secretive about something like this.”

“Something like what?”

Ray put his hands to his skull and squeezed. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Then just go along with me, okay?”

“Okay, George. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

“No need for you to stay on, Ray. They won’t be here until after midnight.”

“I think I’ll hang around. I doubt I’m going to sleep again until we get this settled.”

—

Lyra was parked in front of the TV, watching the NBC news anchor report on the Moon mission. “—will be entering Earth orbit in another hour,” she said. “NBC will be providing full coverage tonight, and we’ll be there when the Myshko sets down. We hope you’ll stay with us.”

They went back to their regular programming, one of the evening panel shows. Angela Baker, an attractive blonde who usually supported the administration, was speaking with a guest, one of the network’s “political contributors.” Cunningham was never sure precisely what that meant.

Lyra looked up as he came into the room, walked over, and slid down beside her. “Not the best day at the office, I take it?” she asked.

He was about to ask why she’d drawn that conclusion when some statistics appeared on-screen:

CUNNINGHAM APPROVAL RATE DIPS TO 41%

“That’s down sixteen points,” Angela was saying, “just in the last twelve days.”

“He’s gone off a cliff,” said the political contributor.

“Actually, love,” said Cunningham, “we might have gotten a break finally.”

“I mean,” the contributor continued, “the president either didn’t know, or he did.”

“Where do they get these guys from?” asked Lyra.

“If he didn’t know, he looks out of touch. If he did, then he’s been lying to the American people. Either way—”