Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [109]
“It was, sir, at least as far as the Widmer hearings were concerned. We didn’t take into consideration that there were tapes. We couldn’t stop the book. Hobbes House—”
“The book isn’t what concerns me, Chet. Yeah, it’s bad enough, but how many people will read it? Not enough to make a difference. But those tapes the writer is supposed to have are another story. They’ll play them day and night on cable news channels and right-wing radio talk shows. Walt Brown tells me Widmer intends to go through with the hearings as long as he has the tapes.”
“He won’t have those tapes, Mr. President.”
“You sound damn sure, Chet.”
“He won’t have the tapes, Mr. President!”
“Do you have them?”
“Not yet. Shortly.”
Parmele’s tone softened. “Good. I appreciate the way you’ve handled this. As unfortunate as it was, the murder of Widmer’s witness in Union Station was—well, how can I put it so that it doesn’t sound callous? It was fortuitous. What’s the status of the murder with the police?”
“The attorney general’s office is following up on that,” said Fletcher. “It’s my understanding that it’s been ruled a revenge killing by the people he—Mr. Russo—testified against some time ago in New York. I’m also told that the man who killed Russo was in all likelihood hired by the mob for that purpose and was himself eliminated to assure his silence.”
The president leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head. “The whole Mafia notion is interesting, isn’t it, Chet? What do they call it, ‘my thing’? Their society is so insular, governed by its own rules. Omertà. Their code of silence. Judging from all the turncoats I’ve read about, including this guy Russo, they aren’t always silent. Once the code is broken… I’ve always wondered whether there was any truth to the story about the mob being contracted to kill Castro. I know they prevented sabotage on the New York docks during World War II, and advised on the invasion of Sicily. Were they involved in JFK’s assassination? Marilyn Monroe’s death? Joe Kennedy didn’t have any trouble dealing with them or with Hollywood moguls like Wasserman and Mayer.”
“I’ve never put credence in any of it, Mr. President,” Fletcher said. “They’re just a bunch of goons trying to look legitimate and big-time.”
“Like Mr. Russo.”
“Exactly.”
Parmele straightened in the chair. “Maybe Robin is right, Chet. Maybe I should stand up at a podium and simply dismiss the charges in the book.”
“At some point that would be in order, Mr. President. Not now.”
“When?”
“After we let the press play its cards, show us what they’ve got.”
“Nixon stonewalled and look where it got him.”
Fletcher’s frown wasn’t lost on Parmele. “Forget I said that, Chet. I know this isn’t precisely stonewalling.”
Fletcher gathered papers in preparation for leaving.
“Chet,” Parmele said.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“It’s important to me that you know the truth.”
“Sir?”
“About the Eliana assassination.”
“Mr. President, there’s no need to—”
Parmele held up a hand to silence his political guru. “Hear me out, Chet,” he said. “When I was over at the Company, I was aware that there were cells within the agency that preferred to follow their own agenda. It was the same with some people at NSA and the NSC. Cowboys. Have all the answers. I used to think that the toughest part of my job at the Company was figuring out who they were and corralling them, keeping them from playing out their fantasies about what was good for America. I wasn’t always successful.”
A knock on the Oval Office door interrupted. An aide poked her head in, but Parmele waved her away: “Not now.”
“Where was I?” he asked after the aide was gone. “The cowboys, the rogues. I knew there were people in the agency advocating assassination as a public policy tool, and I knew Eliana was high on the list. I heard all their arguments during my years there, and there were times when they seemed to make sense. It would have been a hell of a