THE PRESIDENT’S JOB existed beyond logic and sense. It truly belonged in the realm of magic. When the Man was blessed, thrice-blessed, all acts were good. Signs and portents ruled the realm. When the Man was cursed, truly cursed, all skies brought unwanted rain, nothing brought gain.
It seemed, looking backward, that the strangeness had come with Camelot. Imagine this, that the nickname was more knowing than knowing knew. That the arrogant affectation—that this was a new age and bright, that these were knights more special than those that had gone before—revealed a truth so bizarre that no one single person for one single moment considered it literal. The myth of Arthur is that he was the Once and Future King. That he would return. Imagine this, that he did return and that he re-created the kingdom dedicated to dreaming, generosity, and virtue. Someone there was Merlin. Who the hell was Merlin? It doesn’t matter.
What matters was that once again the king must die, once again be murdered. The corpse—like the body in some fabulous allegory—wove its own shroud into a tapestry of illusion. Everyone who looked upon it saw a different story. Everyone who looked upon it swore that all the other stories—about his death, about his killers—was false.
And he left a curse upon the crown. His death left everything upside down. Or perhaps Merlin, divine necromancer, interepochal fixer, in rage and despair, left a wizard’s trick upon the throne.
How else to explain the tragic Macbeth—Macbird, they called him in delicious satire—who followed him? How to explain the fall of Richard Nixon, master of intrigue and plotting, brilliant and devious—how could the incompetence of a couple of clowns breaking into a hotel, step by somehow unstoppable, undivertible step, bring him down lower than any president before him? Then Gerald Ford, an apparently decent, competent man, with no fault except bumping his head, found unfit to be president because he was clumsy on camera. Then Carter, who worked hard, who studied goodness like a theologian, brought down day by grinding day, by the hostage countdown on television.
Which, of course, is the name of the magic that brought us John F. Kennedy, whatever he was, and the curse that he left behind. The proof is the one and only man who beat the curse—the television man, Ronald Reagan. He didn’t work hard, he didn’t know much about all those things that presidents are supposed to know—economics, foreign policy, law, history, even art. He did the opposite of what he said, seemed unable to tell truth from late-night TV, and should have been embarrassed by much of the company he kept. Yet he once again made the White House seem like a palace and the capital of a glittering imperium. Luck and blessings seemed to fall on all that he did and there was radiance around him.
A curse? To Bush, whose whole life had been subservient to the goal, whose every choice had been faithful to what the polls said a president should be, do, think, feel, it often seemed as if, having arrived, he had stepped off the edge of the known world. Nothing he did had the result it was supposed to. All the courtiers and advisors and cabinet members and experts scurrying around the White House, very busy, in a great hurry, carrying lots of papers, going up, going down, going sideways, making conference calls, sending memos, screaming to be heard, convinced they were right, requiring limousines and special lunches, were a bunch of rabbits and Mad Hatters, and not all their energy made one dent in what was really important, his standing with the American people and whether or not he would win reelection.
Bush was on Air Force One. Baker was with him. They had been at a meeting in San Francisco with the Pacific Rim Business Association. Most of its members were Americans, including the majority of the board of directors, but in essence it was a front for Japanese corporate interests. Its pitch was free trade, something that was part of the Republican canon and which the president intrinsically favored. The argument against it was that the Japanese used its rhetoric to mask practices that were, in actuality, both restrictive and predatory.
Bill Magnoli, president of America’s Exporters, Inc., had asked for a few minutes to present his case to the president.
A million voices clamor to be heard. The king wishes only to survive. Yet he must make decisions, he must lean left or right, forward or back. On what basis can he choose? The president—who has no time for original research, who doesn’t have the energy left to reach outside the loop on every one of thousands of issues—listens to those few voices that get to present their story. Which is what makes access the prize.
America’s Exporters had at one time actually been an American-owned company. It was now owned by Musashi Trading Company, the key company in what is called a keiretsu in Japan. As every reader of the financial pages or of Japan-bashing thrillers knows, a keiretsu68 is like a conglomerate, but larger, closer-knit, more predatory, infinitely more terrifying.
Musashi had bought America’s Exporters for its name and for its president, Bill Magnoli, the most American guy the Japanese company spotters had ever met. Workdays or weekends, Bill was a bouncing ball of cliché. Drove a Mustang, ate grilled steaks and large desserts, watched football, talked football, played golf, boffed his secretary twice a week, his wife once a week, really liked double knits and Willard Scott, played Lotto and thought Vegas was really, really hot. He had two kids, one in college, one in rehab, and carried their pictures in his wallet. He was a go-along, get-along guy, a real booster of whatever put bread on his rather large table and gas in the tanks of the four cars he supported.
When Bill Magnoli got up and spoke on behalf of America’s Exporters, it took a real effort to remember that he was really a spokesman for Hiroshi Takagawa, whose title at Musashi was always translated into English as “vice president for the improvement of Japanese-American relations,” but written in kanji, the ideograph version of Japanese, it could be read as “member of the General Staff, Strategic Planning for Victory in America.” It was never translated that way, and it was considered rude to even mention that around gaijin.
At issue was military procurement, one of the ways that America has traditionally supported private industry. Private industry, in turn, has been very supportive of the military. Some chipmaker with a politician in his pocket—alternatively described as a congressman concerned with his constituents, many of whom made their living in silicon; alternatively described as a patriotic American worried about his country’s high-tech independence in case of war—had introduced a bill requiring the Pentagon to buy only Made-in-America chips. The congressman was going to get his bill, but it would permit the Pentagon to make exceptions if . . . There was currently a debate over whether the next phrase would be “it was a matter of compelling necessity for the immediate defense, for a period not to exceed one year,” or “no reasonable alternative was available.” Obviously, the impact of the law, if any, now depended on which clause was selected and how it was enforced.
Magnoli was cogent, colorful, concise. As well he should have been since Hiroshi Takagawa had paid a great deal of money to an American PR firm to research and prepare the pitch, as well as for an acting coach to drill Magnoli.
The question was not whether or not Magnoli was wrong or right, whether he was an agent of influence of a foreign power, or even whether or not the president should have heard those opinions directly. The question was, why did Bill Magnoli have access?
“Bushie, how did you happen to be talkin’ with this Magnoli fellow?” James Baker asked the president.
“Neil,” the president said, talking about what he was concerned about, his son. “Is there an outcome indicator?” Meaning, Did Baker know if Neil would be indicted or not.69
“It’s taken care of.”
“If he weren’t my son . . .” Bush waved a finger. Not meaning, If he weren’t my son, I’d see to it he did hard time to set an example; meaning If he weren’t my son, no one would care. “Not some blabbermouth publicity hound.”I hope the attorney at Justice, who is told to quash this thing, doesn’t turn around and tell the world he was told to quash it70“This picking, picking at nits. They better wait and see.”
“You know he fronts for the Japs,” Baker said. Back to Magnoli.
“Of course, I know—what do you take me for?” Bush said. “Don’t answer that,” he quickly quipped.71
“His company is wholly owned by Musashi.”
“I told you I knew that,” Bush said. “Read my lips. Do you want to know how I knew that?”
“Sure,” Baker said.
“Because it was my friends at Musashi, who are helping me out, and who else is? They asked me to give a few minutes of my time to Magnoli. Two plus two, that’s not going to escape my notice,” Bush said, pleased, as he was from time to time, to do something that Baker didn’t even know about.
“Helping you out?”
“With the Memo thing. Gosh, I didn’t tell you about that, did I?”
“No,” Baker said. “You didn’t. Not that you have to. I just like being in the loop because it makes me feel important, you know that, Bushie, and who the hell is more behind you than I am.”
“Remember the Memo?’
“The Memo?”
“Atwater’s Memo,” Bush said, smiling his famous lopsided smile.
“Oh. The Memo.”
“Right.”
“How it said, Hartman, show it to him.”
“It didn’t say show it to Hartman,” Baker said. “It sort of said don’t show it to anyone, maybe get Hartman to do the job if anyone was going to do the job.”
The president cocked a finger like a gun, pointed it at Baker, and said, “It’s in development.”
“In development?”
“That’s the way they say it in L.A. ‘In development.’ And they put their top, top shooter on it Jonathan Lincoln Beagle. Do you remember Riders of the West. That was one great movie. That scene where Clint Eastwood just squints at the bad guys, that squint . . .” The president squinted like Clint.
“I thought you shredded the Memo.”
“I found it. It was all at the same time, coincidental timing, when Hartman met me in Orange County.”
“You had the Memo? You didn’t shred the Memo?”
“It was right there in my pocket.”
“How did it get in your pocket?”
“One of the secretaries found it in my briefcase.”
“How did it get in your briefcase?”
“I like it, Jimbo. You know what I feel like? Maverick, Burt Maverick. There’s a big pot on the table, and I’m opening my cards, real close to my chest and I look real cool, because it doesn’t matter what’s in my hand, I got an ace up my sleeve.”
Baker didn’t tell him the TV characters had been Bret and Bart Maverick. He said, “So you met Hartman and gave him the Memo.”
“And he put it in development. You know what development is?”
“I know. Who’s paying Beagle? Is anyone paying Beagle? Who else knows about this? How many people are in the loop?”
“That’s the beauty of it. No one. Except Hartman and me and Beagle and now you. But you always were, sort of.”
“Beagle knows?”
“Well, how can he direct a war if he doesn’t know he’s directing a war? I couldn’t. Could you?”
“So they’re doing it for nothing?”
“No. Very clever. Hartman, he arranged it all. Jews are like that, with arrangements. Musashi is paying for it. But they don’t know it.”
“That’s terrific,” Baker said, trying to find a way not to sound too, too interrogatory. “How did he arrange that?”
“You see, there’s overhead and salaries. That’s what business is about. It creates jobs. Staff and such. And living in L.A. You know the cost of living there is very high. So he just let Musashi know that if they underwrote a development deal with Beagle that the president, that’s me, would be very grateful. I’m grateful enough that I’ll listen to one guy for seven minutes. I’m reasonably grateful. I am.”
“They didn’t want to know why you would be grateful that they give a Hollywood picture-show director a couple of million bucks? I’m guessing it’s a couple of million—everything out there is a couple of million.”
“I don’t actually know the actual amounts. It was all that was necessary.”
“And this Hollywood agent and this Hollywood picture-show director, they’re not talking this up at parties or with their girlfriends to impress them or whatever?” Baker asked, masking a rising sense of panic.
“You’re concerned about security?”
“Well, some,” Baker said. He wished he were afraid of flying. That would have meant that the feeling in his stomach was that he was in a tubular aluminum coffin twenty-two thousand feet in the air, not that Bush had started something that was going to be a combination of Watergate and Jimmy Carter being attacked by a rabbit. L.A.! Movie directors planning the next war! This thing had bimbo and bimbo leak written all over it. What the hell was going on? Did Hartman arrange some nubile thing to give George genuine Hollywood-style blow jobs, leaving him disoriented and deranged? Baker had seen what happened to aging men, especially WASPs, when they discovered oral sex.
“We have total security. Surrounding the clock. Wiretaps, everything.”
“CIA?” Baker asked. There was that acid feeling, creeping up his throat In a moment he was going to taste it at the back of his mouth. He knew it. Some fucking liberal-leftist Democrat congressman or senator would get some scared-shitless, piss-in-his-pants wimp from the Agency under oath and he would blab all the secrets all over the press. It had happened before; it would happen again.
“No,” Bush said, pleased with himself. “I had Gates take it private.”72
“Oh,” Baker said, deeply relieved.
“You forget I was at Langley. I was in charge of Langley. I know all the tricks. Or most of them. I wasn’t out in the field. But I sure had some of those field agents in to tell me what was what and how we accomplish some of the tricks of the trade.”
“Gates is a good man,” Baker said. Robert Gates was. He was a stand-up guy, that is to say, he wouldn’t tell Congress something just because the law required him to and would be unembarrassed if the truth was later revealed. He’d been a Soviet scholar, head of all CIA analysts, executive assistant to Director of the CIA William Casey and then Casey’s deputy director. Reagan named Gates to succeed Casey, but his nomination was withdrawn when it came out that he’d failed to notify Congress, as required by law, of Ollie North’s diversion to the contras of the profits from arms sales to Iran. He also had an extensive history of doctoring data to reflect political goals rather than reality.
“You bet,” Bush said.
“How’s the money getting to Bunker?”
“I’m out of the loop on that one,” Bush said.
“George, I really think you should have told me. I am secretary of state.”
“Well, with things, this opportunity was the occasion.”
“I mean if we’re going to go to war with someone”—Baker managed a smile—”I should be aware of it.” At the time he had read the Memo, it had seemed strangely compelling. Now it just seemed strange.
“Don’t be a pussy, limbo. And you might think you’re smarter than me, I know you think that you’re smarter than me. But don’t underestimate me like so many of them do. I’ve been a congressman, chairman of the Republican party, head of the CIA, ambassador to China, and Ambassador to the U.N. Now how many people do you know who’ve done even one of those things, let alone two of them, without getting their ass in a sling? Huh?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. President. You have a point. You have an excellent knack for not putting your ass in a sling.”
“Or my nuts in a vise. Or my tits in a wringer. Or any other of those things.”
“Let me pour you a drink, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. And, Mr. Secretary, I want you to know that I have this very much under control. I’m not going to do something stupid here. I am not going to go down in history as the stupid president. But I am going to do whatever it takes to win. Now are you onboard or are you gonna jump ship?”
“We’re at twenty-two thousand feet, I’m not going to jump ship,” Baker said. He passed a Chivas to his president, then took his own. He decided he was going to block this insanity. If for no other reason than that the president had done an end run around him. Not that Bush didn’t do that from time to time, just to prove who was in charge. That was OK. Normally. But not about something important.
“I got an ace up my sleeve,” the president chuckled. “I love it. Just like Burt Maverick.”
Baker raised his glass in salute. He didn’t say anything about Bret or Bart. The president touched it with his own.
“To war,” Bush said. “To a good war.”
“I just want to know one thing,” Baker said, waiting to drink. “Who are we going to go to war with?”
“I don’t know. It’s just in development.”
68 It is for the Japanese what the penis is for the black man. The thing that they have that is reputed to be larger than the whites’, more potent, more irresistible—the thing about his race of which the white man is most afraid and with which he will sexually enslave the women of the white race.
69 If anyone wants to be reminded of the details, they are: 1983, Neil Bush (son of G.B.) goes into the oil business. Neil puts up $100. His two partners put up $160,000. 1985, Neil becomes a paid director of Silverado, which loans his partners $132,000,000. 1987, one of his partners “forgives” a $100,000 loan to Neil. 1988, the developers default, Silverado fails. FDIC bailout cost about $1,000,000,000. (Sources—Time, Spy)
70 There is no evidence whatsoever that the president or the secretary of state-intervened with Justice on behalf of Neil Bush.
71 I have never in my writing life had a character “quip.” I cringe at “he quippeds.” However, it seems to me that Bush is a person who does exactly that, so here it is, this one’s for the quipper.
72 The various “intelligence” agencies of the United States have always used, owned, created, financed, controlled, associated with, external organizations. In the post-Watergate years a lot of information about the CIA, in particular, came out. Illegal and incompetent and wasteful and silly activities were revealed. The CIA was placed under a variety of new restrictions and “cleaned house.” The recent history of Iran-contra demonstrates that alternative formats, a little further removed from congressional scrutiny, were immediately developed. That those efforts were discovered and Ollie North appears to have been so incompetent doesn’t mean all such alternatives have been revealed or that all are so bumbling and ineffective. Remember, this is the administration that believes in privatization. Wackenhut does security for U.S. embassies; Universal Security has a variety of government contracts, including urine analysis and drug screening of employees of the Departments of Agriculture and of Transportation.
Gates was not at the CIA at this time, he was at the NSC. After these events, in 1991, Bush would nominate Gates, once again, as director of the CIA.