Chapter 4

Chapter 4—If we play this right …
3:15 a.m., Friday, December 30

Allison looked up at James, and asked, "What time is it?"

"Three fifteen," James replied without looking at his watch.

James Colson and Allison Fulbright had spent the whole late evening and early morning drinking and spilling Scotch in a fourth floor Central Park East apartment. Allison was doing most of the drinking, and all of the spilling.

She had gathered up every pillow and bed covering from the entire apartment, and piled them on the floor in Bernadette’s office. She sat in the middle of the pile, with a half-full glass. James sat at Bernadette’s desk, logged on to her computer. The only light in the whole room emanated from a small florescent reading light above where he was working, and from the monitor.

"How in hell did we get to this place?" Allison muttered, miserably slurring her words. She was drunk.

James swiveled around to face her. "We’ll survive this, Al. But we have to act quickly ... and decisively."

When that word "survive" bounced around and through Allison’s neurons, it disrupted her whole being. Her bloodshot hazel eyes immediately opened widely, accenting an uncharacteristically pathetic frown on her sixty-year-old face. For just a moment it appeared that she might burst into tears; but she quickly resisted the urge.

There was nothing attractive about Allison’s appearance on this early New York morning. Her bobbed dishwater blond hair was a mess. Whatever minimal makeup she might have started with was gone. And the Ralph Lauren robe did nothing to mask her thick calves and hefty thighs. At virtually every other time during any given day, her patented designer beige pantsuits did that job as well as could be hoped for. But she was trying to relax, and she was drunk—always a bad combination when it comes to ones appearance.

But even though she did have too much to drink, she was not sufficiently intoxicated to insulate her feelings from that horrible word James tossed in her direction.

"Survive! What the hell do you mean by that? Survive? I don’t want to survive, I want to be President. Damn it, James, I’m supposed to be President. Surviving doesn’t mean anything to me. If you don’t get that by now you’re no damn use to me. If I’m not sitting in the Oval Office in two years, I might as well be dead. Don’t you get it? That’s all that matters. That is absolutely all that matters."

Allison had already spent eight years in the White House as the wife of a popular President, and had designs on the office for herself. This driving desire dated back to her days as a law student at Yale. After her husband’s second term had ended, Allison spent every moment planning her return to Pennsylvania Avenue, but this time as the first female President of the United States.

Most political analysts predicted she would win the nomination eight years after her husband left office. However, even though she made a powerful attempt, she lost too many primaries, and was forced to pull out of the race. She felt she was cheated—she was convinced that she had deserved to be the candidate.

"You’re not looking at this from the right perspective."

"What other perspective is there? That bastard printed every word we said. Verbatim! Every damn word that came out of our mouths. It’s all right there in your hands, James."

With that, Allison threw up in the large bowl James had placed at her side. It was not the first time. She had been pouring Scotch for several hours, and much of it had made its way between her lips twice. With a slow mechanical swiping motion, she wiped her mouth off with a towel he had placed alongside the bowl. Then, as very drunk people are prone to do, she examined the towel to see what she might have deposited on it, her head weaving a little as she did.

Allison was dressed comfortably. Before she even knew that she was going to meet with James, she had already finished one glass of Scotch, started another, and traded her heels and favorite pantsuit for the robe and more comfortable foot wear. As she sat swaying on the floor, she suddenly realized that she was wearing only one slipper. For some reason, the whereabouts of the missing slipper began to preoccupy her. She did not try to stand, but she did raise her head enough to peer around the office in search of it.

"But you’re not seeing the larger picture, Al. Mossad does not want you destroyed. I can’t believe they seek that. They are simply trying to prevent an assassination. They distrust this guy as much as we do, but they fear a power vacuum more than his screwed up Mideast policies.

"This is how I see it. They recorded our meetings all right, but they’re holding onto the recordings. And they’ll keep holding them. But only if we give them what they want. They are very good at what they do. If we play ball, there is no way that they will ever release those recordings; at least not in our lifetime. I am sure we can win this thing."

With that, Allison propped herself up against a large pillow that was leaning against the wall. She had, for a moment, fallen on her side, and was lying in a quasi-fetal position. She had found that posture quite pleasant—so comfortable, in fact, that for a moment she considered just falling asleep for a while. But James’ words had got her attention, and now she intently listened to what he was saying.

"What exactly do you mean, my dear James? They have already released the damn tapes ... to that bastard reporter ..."

She had not finished her sentence before James started shaking his head. "No, I doubt that very much. In fact, I’m virtually positive they did not give him the recordings. It’s obvious that all this guy had to work with were transcriptions. And transcriptions don’t mean diddly-squat if you don’t have the actual recordings, or a good witness to corroborate."

James was from the South. In every respect he was a true Southern Gentleman—an African-American Southern Gentleman. Because of his good southern upbringing, he always had an aversion to using strong language in front of a lady. And, even though Allison often sounded more like a truck driver than a former First Lady, James always tried to avoid profanity in her presence.

Allison appreciated the fact that James was always attentive to her, and that he was polite—two attributes totally absent in her relationship with her husband.

James had no obvious flaws. He was ruggedly handsome. It was said about him that he had a voice for radio and a face for TV. His six-foot two-inch frame carried his 187 pounds well. It was obvious to all that he worked out regularly. And not just cardiovascular exercises—he lifted major weights twice a week.

But beyond his good looks, James was liked and respected by all that knew him. He never opened his mouth unless he already knew how his words would affect the people to whom he was speaking. Not that he engaged in nuance. He did not. He just simply thought his words through carefully. And he never lied.

He could often be seen sitting quietly, even in a conference meeting, not saying a thing. Then, at the appropriate time, he would interject something profound—concise and profound. No matter who was talking at the time, everyone stopped and paid attention to what James had to say.

For all the same reasons, both Bob and Allison totally trusted James.

"Okay, I’m listening," Allison said.

Rolling his chair closer to where Allison was sitting, James leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

Allison had observed that posture a hundred times before. She knew this meant that James was really on to something. Even though Allison was drunk, her mind was clear enough to critically process James’ words.

Suddenly he jumped up from his chair and briskly walked out to the kitchen. James never did anything slowly, especially when his mind was so magically engaged. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed two bottles of water, and then returned to where Allison was sitting. He opened both. Handing one to Allison, he said, "drink this. We’ve got to flush your system. We’ve both got work to do."

Allison took a small sip of the water. She was not feeling well, and suspected that she would not be able to hold it down.

"Don’t worry about it. Just drink it. Drink as much as you can. If you toss it, that’s fine. That’ll just flush some of that expensive Scotch out of your system."

Allison hated to be told what to do. But she knew James was right. So she took several large swallows.

She then looked James in the eye, and asked: "Okay. What makes you think this idiot writer does not have the tapes?"

"It just figures. If he had the actual recordings, he would be using them right now. Writers, even hack writers like this jerk, they hate to be questioned, much less doubted. If he had the recordings, he would have sent something along with this to prove credibility—something substantial, irrefutable. He would be trying to establish a strong bargaining position."

James paused for a moment, and then continued: "He sent only this transcript. Considering all the allegations that can be inferred from it, it is beyond curious for him to send it without any corroborating evidence. That tells us one thing—he has no proof. He wants us to think he has, but I’m convinced that he’s either bluffing, or, … perhaps he’s not even a real journalist."

"Keep going," Allison said, taking another long drink of water.

"Look. I’ve tickled every friendly news outlet. Nothing suggests that anyone else has specific knowledge about this. The only thing I ran into were rumors, and I think I might have started all of them. … And the thing about rumors is, they don’t mean a thing. If anyone in the media, and I do mean anyone, had recordings, or had even heard the real thing; or if anyone had anything else whatsoever to substantiate this story, somebody would know about it."

James paused again to gather his thoughts, and to get Allison’s attention. He then continued, "Mossad has them. Mossad created them, and they continue to hold them. And, knowing the way Mossad works, they’re not about to give them up, not to anyone; especially not to anyone in the media."

Allison belched in the most unladylike fashion, and then threw up again in the bowl.

"That’s great, get rid of it. We’ve got to get you cleaned out. You’re gonna hold the most important press conference of your life. And it has to be today."

"I can’t do that. Just look at me. I’m a mess."

"Has to be today. And you can do it. It’s Friday. Whatever we get out there today, if it is early enough, it will still carry the weekend. It couldn’t be more perfect. … Well, that’s an overstatement. It certainly could be better. But given what we have to work with, I am sure we can turn this whole thing around, if we do it right. … And right away. At the very least, we’ll buy some time."

"Okay, James, let’s go over this," Allison said, struggling to sober up. Her words were becoming noticeably less slurred.

"That a girl, Al."

James grew quiet for a moment, organizing his thoughts in a way that he knew Allison would appreciate. "If we’re going to pull this off, you have to be up to speed and totally on board," he said. "Here’s the deal. Mossad did a great job. They went to a lot of effort. Now listen carefully here. This next part is very important."

James again rested his elbows on his knees, and looked deeply into Allison’s slowly sobering eyes. "Okay. If Mossad had wanted to destroy you, and your potential presidency, they would have released the recordings to the FBI—not had this fellow give transcripts to us. All they really wanted to accomplish was to avoid a power vacuum. And that’s exactly what they feared would happen if President Butler were to be assassinated."

"So, then, is it off? Is our plan dead?"

"Don’t know for sure. Can’t know for sure, at least not for right now. At the very least, it has been changed. Our job, right now, is to turn this story, or non-story, on its head. We have to deflect whatever comes out, and prevent it from grabbing the headlines. Because, if it is released now, without our doing something to direct public attention away from it, potentially it could be very damaging. … No, that’s an understatement. This story, if allowed to take root, will destroy us all. We have to give the press a bigger fish.

"I don’t think this guy, or anyone else, is about to run this story. But if a story about these meetings were to get out, it could be all that gets talked about for a very long time.

"And that’s what we need—a little time. We need to figure out what Mossad is really after, and how they plan to use what they’ve got for the short term. We need a little breathing room. ... But, I can promise you that we do not have to worry about the actual recordings ever being released to the media. You can trust me on this one, Allison."

"But, James, they do have physical evidence of a conspiracy. And not just any conspiracy. They’ve got proof that we plotted to assassinate the President of the United States." As those words escaped her lips, she finally started to cry.

"That’s right, Mossad does have recordings. And for sure they are incriminating. But that’s not the end of the world. … and, as I said before, we can work through this. In fact, I think this whole matter can end up being a positive thing—if we manage it properly."

"Are you out of your mind? How in hell can conspiracy tapes work for us?"

"They can—I promise you. We just have to handle it properly," James said, in his most reassuring voice.

Allison was not sure she believed him yet, but she wanted to.

"Now, if the Russians had the recordings, it would be a totally different story. But Mossad does not want this country, or you, destroyed. Without us, where would they be? And you have always been a supporter. …So, okay, they’ve got some very embarrassing recordings of us conspiring. Thus far they have used what they’ve got brilliantly. Like a warning shot across our bow. …The bottom line is this, I think. While they may have blocked us here, temporarily, we must keep in mind that we’re playing chess, not checkers. It could be that they just want to be a player. Maybe they think they have a better idea."

James paused a moment, and then continued. "Al, you still can be President. Only the when and the how remain to be worked out. Perhaps all they need is to be assured that the transition will be a smooth one. It might not be this next election cycle, but it will happen. The very fact that Mossad holds those recordings can be beneficial to your cause."

"I heard you say that before. I don’t see how that can happen."

"Once you are in office, and it is quite possible that they may very well help us get you there, they will use what they have—but not to destroy you. …They will expect favors—maybe missiles, missile defense, fighter jets. So, you give them some B-1s. Big deal. They’re not going to use them to bomb DC.

"If we let them help us get you in the Oval Office, they will be willing to support your every move, as long as you consult with them occasionally—particularly on Mideast matters. They will think they have you in their pocket; but you will own them. If we play this right, that’s exactly how it will be."

Just then there was a loud pounding on the door.

"FBI, open up."