The Hellfire Club(109)

Charlie chuckled and then, aware that the president might not understand why, said, “You’ll forgive me, sir, but I’m not quite sure how much you know about the past four months.”

“I know more of it than you probably think I know,” he said. “I know you got caught up in this silent war we’re in. Not the Cold War, though that’s part of it. But these factions and associations and clubs. Hellfire and such. Not to mention the Communists, of course.”

“I did, sir. We did, rather. My wife, Margaret, and myself.”

Eisenhower looked down at the coffee table, then back up at Charlie.

“I heard of the nasty business with that lobbyist breaking into your house,” the president said. LaMontagne’s fall onto the Georgetown street had been impossible to contain or conceal; the Marders had immediately called the police and reported an intruder. Local newspapers covered it as a DC businessman gone mad and then the FBI took over the investigation.

“And of course I know about the Reds going after your wife,” the president added. Two days earlier, the National Park Service had discovered the decomposing bodies of Gwinnett, Kessler, and Cornelius floating in the ocean. The FBI’s official conclusion was that the three academics had drowned because of the powerful storm; they neglected to mention the small detail of the bullet wounds.

“Yes, we’ve been getting it from all sides,” Charlie said.

Eisenhower looked at him thoughtfully.

“You fought in France,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Our allies in that war very quickly became our enemies. The Chinese snatched half of Korea. The Soviets did the same with Germany. Blink of an eye, everything turned. On my desk when I first walked into this office, back in January 1953, was an appeal for executive clemency for the Rosenbergs. Which I denied. There are spies: Alger Hiss. Truman’s number two at Treasury, Harry White. Dr. Fuchs over in England. I mean, they’re there. We don’t know how many. Of course, McCarthy is fighting Communists in the most un-American way. But the threat is real.”

“I know it’s real,” Charlie said. “The Communists tried to kill my wife. And then a few hours later, some anti-Communists tried to kill me and my wife.”

“And my guys saved you two.”

“Yes, sir. Your guys.”

“Charlie, what do you know about the intelligence establishment?” Eisenhower asked.

“Just the basics, sir. Need for intel during the war created the OSS, which is now Central Intelligence.”

Eisenhower chuckled. “Well, there’s a bit more to it than that. You know, we had practically nothing when I went to Europe. Years before, Secretary of War Stimson had even ended what we had, a tiny code-breaking office. ‘Gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail,’ he said. Cripes. Can you imagine that? ‘Gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail.’” Eisenhower chuckled forlornly.

“Yes, sir. That sounds hopelessly naive.”

“No one was a fiercer opponent of the OSS continuing after the war than the isolationist wing of our own party. Except maybe J. Edgar Hoover, who didn’t want the competition. But by now, we have a growing intelligence apparatus out there, run by Allen Dulles. I’m confiding in you now. But the truth is, I don’t trust how much it’s grown. So I, personally, have my own network of folks keeping track of what’s going on. Reporting to me. Those are my boys. My advisory group, I call them. They don’t exist on paper anywhere. They’re solely mine. They tell me everything. Your dad is one of them. Street too. There are three dozen of them, and they all have their own sources and methods. It’s invaluable. Matters are in many ways getting out of hand.”

Charlie was quiet for a moment, then said, “When you say matters are getting out of hand, I’m not sure if you’re referring to McCarthy or the Hellfire Club or the Reds…”

Eisenhower greeted Charlie’s questioning pause with a stern look.

“Well, let’s discuss these one by one,” the president said, “since I am now assuming you will be serving on my advisory board. On the first matter, soon enough McCarthy won’t be a problem. We already see in public opinion polls that his popularity is plummeting. By the end of this year, it will no longer be McCarthyism; it will be McCarthy-wasm.”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Charlie asked.

The president smiled. “Permission granted, soldier.”

Charlie collected his thoughts. Watching the U.S. Army–McCarthy drama had been nerve-racking; it felt as though the nation’s tolerance for indecency and lies would never reach a limit. He had watched as senators he’d previously respected pretended that the unacceptable wasn’t becoming the status quo. He feared McCarthy would keep rising in popularity and status, leaving in his wake the complete destruction of basic societal norms. The historian in him intellectually suspected that something at some point would stop McCarthy; all great tyrants experience downfalls. But he couldn’t see it coming for Tail Gunner Joe. He tried to take some small comfort in the president’s confidence that the end was near, but he needed to know more.

“Sir, how can you be so sure?”

The president took a second to consider his reply. “I am sure because I am confident in the idea of the United States of America, Charlie,” he finally said. “I believe that the combination of checks and balances and a free press and our democratically elected representatives ultimately will expose charlatans. I believe in the good sense of the American people, and I know in my soul that truth will win out.”