C. H. BUNKER CAME to much the same conclusion that Joseph Broz did.
His arithmetic was slightly different But the sum was the same.
John Lincoln Beagle is working 14 hours a day, 7 days a week on a war movie.
− Gates does not employ U. Sec. w/out “limits” for a movie.
= John Lincoln Beagle is working on a war or, since that’s insane, something very like it.
He thought a long time about firing Mel Taylor. He liked David Hartman’s logic. In the world as Bunker saw it, there were qualities far more mysterious than IQ and measurable education and whether actions were logically correct. Some people won, some lost. Some day the people measurers—the psychologists, sociologists, test writers—would realize they were measuring the wrong thing. They would make up fancy new words for winners and losers. Then they would think up fancy new standards to measure them. And they wouldn’t get that the measuring sticks were already in place and that everybody but them knew what they were—money and power.
But even trickier than recognizing today’s winners and losers was figuring out how they would perform tomorrow. Or rather, what shape tomorrow would have, because the world changed, constantly, and the exact same things that won for you today would make you a loser in the new world you woke up to tomorrow morning.
That, in the end, was what he decided to bet on.
Bunker happened to know why Taylor hated Broz. Griff had told him about it. It was one of Griff’s favorite stories. Joe had won a lot of credit with C. H. by getting Griff home. Who would have thought that Preston Griffith would have been that weak. Turned into a goddamn sniveling junkie. That wasn’t quite true either. Griff had turned into a cynical, charming, smart junkie. With a lot of baggage, too few illusions, and in a conspiracy with his pain to utilize opium and its derivatives.
Goddamn Vietnam. Next time they have a war, they better run it right. Nobody that came back from that goddamn place had a good war. Except maybe Joe Broz. Not even him. Joe would never admit to it, but it took him some years after he came back to handle it.
They came back heroes from C. H.’s war. American Heroes, saviors of the world, ready to run the world, for its own good, and they’d done a damn good job of it. If Griff had come back the way they all expected him back, he would have made a goddamn good son-in-law. The best. Been the heir apparent. Given C. H. grandsons. Goddamn, he knew the boy had good seed in him. Seed enough to plant grandsons, C. H. knew that for a fact. There was a little bastard boy running around somewhere, he’d heard about it before Griff left for Vietnam. Everyone hushed it up. C. H.’s daughter had cried for a month over that. College-kid stuff. A little wild oats. They’d made it up, the girl and Griff, before he left. But the way he’d come back . . .
Next time they have a war, they better run it right.
But he kept Taylor.
He knew that Taylor wasn’t going to change. He would be neither better nor worse. But Bunker figured that this little universe, the one that orbited around this particular secret was going to change, and when it did, those things that Taylor was would turn out to be the right things, just as they appeared to have been the wrong things yesterday. Taylor was dogged and persistent and he hated Joe Broz enough that Joe couldn’t fool him.
C. H. liked Joe. Owed him for that matter. But he had a suspicion that Joe was throwing sand in their eyes. Ballsy move walking in. It was exactly what an innocent man would do. If he wasn’t throwing sand, then more power to him, hope he had a good ride on that randy woman with her good breasts and long flanks. Certainly as prime as prime could get.
What C. H. did was put Sheehan in charge of the L.A. office, temporarily, with Taylor under him, a serious loss of face, so that Taylor would feel the pain and the goad.
He told Taylor, “Let Broz run if he’s running. He’s a damn fine ferret. If there’s something there, let him find it. Then snatch it from him. Then shut him down.”
According to David Hartman’s passport, he was Episcopalian. It was a small deception and made everyone more comfortable when he entered Iraq. Apparently, no one at Passport Control or among the intimates of the country’s ruler was a regular reader of Premiere magazine or of “Sherie” or “Suzi” in any of the many places that they’re syndicated, because nobody said to him, “Hey, I read about the mega-bar mitzvah you had for your son. How come he had a bar mitzvah if you’re Episcopalian? Huh?”
If James Baker had met with Hussein, or George Bush had made contact, someone would have taken note. But the world’s “serious” media paid no attention when David Hartman arrived in Baghdad. Hartman had a letter of introduction from the president that said, in appropriately flowery Arabic, that the bearer brought greetings and was acting on the president’s behalf. Hartman destroyed this letter as soon as possible after meeting Hussein. Unlike the Atwater memo, which still rested in his safe.
Although Saddam is a naturally cautious and deeply suspicious person, the offer did not appear to shock him or disturb him at all. He had certain conditions, of course. Also, because some of his needs were very pressing, there were things he wanted from the United States immediately—as a gesture, gifts of goodwill, even, Allah willing, a first exchange in the bargain that they would soon strike.
Hartman said that sounded reasonable.
It would have been ungracious to refuse the tour of Baghdad that his host offered him. As a result, he stayed the night. The next morning he flew to Rome, where he met with several old acquaintances involved in finance and film. They were part of that labyrinth of personal connections that runs Italy. Hartman was looking, he said, for a bank that could handle large sums with great discretion. Preferably, one with an American subsidiary or branch because, if the funds came out of the States, at least on paper, they could be guaranteed by the United States. His friends knew of several.
Hartman wished he could stay. There was something wonderful about Rome. It was the mother of cities and had defined so much of civilization. Empire. Wealth. Corruption. Opportunity. When he was there, as in few other places, the stones of the centuries, layered in ruin and glory, spoke to him that Hollywood was nothing new. It reassured him that that much insanity had existed, in exuberant splendor, somewhere else, that it had not fallen apart in minutes, as it ought, but lasted, growing ever more grandiloquent, for generations.
From there he went to Geneva. Another banking conference. The banker shook his hand when they were done. “Just don’t hire Fawn Hall107as your secretary,” he said, “and all will be well.” He chuckled mightily. Swiss bankers are aware of their image and take great care to live up to it. So by Swiss banking standards, chortling was high hilarity.
107 Ollie North set up a secret Swiss bank account—he’d seen them in the movies or read about them in thrillers—to transfer funds to the contras. He received $10 million from the sultan of Brunei. He directed Fawn to have it sent to the numbered account. She transposed two digits and had the money sent to someone else’s account. It was missing from August to December 1986 (Los Angeles Times 6/3/87).