Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [112]
The right decision.
How many meetings had there been on that subject of Russo and the Widmer hearings once there was a whiff of information about the allegation against the president? Four? Five? They’d taken place around Washington, away from the White House or major agencies, in hotel rooms and private homes, small groups, the lid on tight, the agenda secret until those from the administration or agency representatives with unquestioned loyalty to the White House were behind secure doors.
Strategies had been offered on how to derail the Widmer hearings and Russo’s testimony. They ranged from launching an aggressive public relations campaign to digging into the pasts of Republicans on the subcommittee in the hope of turning up damaging dirt on them; smearing the writer of the book and his subject, Russo, to more aggressive solutions, including buying Russo and the writer off or letting Russo’s former criminal colleagues know of his plan to travel to the United States and stoking the need for revenge.
During this intense period of meetings, he’d received a call from someone at the CIA, Mark Roper, who said it was urgent that they meet. A call to Garson confirmed for Fletcher that a meeting with Roper might be useful.
They met just after dark one evening in a cutout on the Washington Memorial Parkway, across from Theodore Roosevelt Island. Clandestine after-dark meetings with members of the nation’s lead intelligence agency were not something with which Fletcher was comfortable. Roper, who struck Fletcher as surprisingly young, climbed into the passenger seat of Fletcher’s Oldsmobile sedan, introduced himself, and said, “I know you’re busy, Mr. Fletcher, and I’ll take as little of your time as possible. We’ve analyzed the situation with this Russo and the Widmer hearings and have come to the conclusion that extreme steps might have to be taken. We’re also aware that you, above all others, are responsible for the president’s political life. I’m certain you agree that a second term is vitally important for the nation.”
“Extreme steps?”
“The details aren’t important, but time is. We know Russo plans to travel to Washington to testify. No matter how untrustworthy his testimony might be, its impact could be, in our opinion—and after careful analysis—severely damaging.”
Fletcher agreed with the CIA man’s statement. The potential political fallout for the man he served in the White House had caused sleepless nights and bouts of stomach distress. He nodded.
Roper looked out his window at a car that pulled into the same cutout, and saw it contained a young couple, probably looking for a place to neck. He turned to Fletcher. “We need your permission to take whatever action we deem necessary to protect the president.”
“My permission?”
“As the man most involved in preserving this presidency for the future.”
“Yes, I understand,” Fletcher said. “Yes, I—it must be stopped.”
Roper looked at him intently. “Your reputation isn’t exaggerated, Mr. Fletcher,” he said. “The president is in good hands.”
He left Fletcher’s car without saying another word, got into his own, and drove off. Fletcher stayed there for a few minutes until he felt he was intruding on what was going on behind the steamed-up windows of the other vehicle. As he drove home, he was tormented by what had transpired. Extreme steps! Did Roper mean something as extreme as doing physical harm to Russo? The thought was wrenching; it assaulted him physically, and he feared he might not be able to continue driving. But after sitting up alone and late in his home office and sipping a brandy from a seldom opened bottle, he’d calmed down and had a less dramatic perception