The Hellfire Club(80)
“Iran,” Street added.
“British Guiana,” said Charlie. “Vietnam!”
“But he means troops,” protested Renee defensively, as if John Cameron Swayze had written the questions personally. “That’s why it says manpower.”
“CIA are men,” said her husband. “And they’re in Saigon. And all over.”
“Poorly worded, Swayze,” Charlie teased.
Renee shot him a look of mock offense.
“The card does say Korea,” Margaret said. “So go again.”
Since returning from New York City and Nanticoke Island two weeks before, Charlie had done everything he could to keep his head down. He’d dutifully, if unhappily, handed the This Is Your Life investigation to Cohn, agreed to co-sponsor the farm bill with Carlin, and prepared for the comic-book hearing on behalf of Kefauver. All of it filled him with regret but there was some consolation in Margaret now knowing and understanding that this was what he had to do until they figured out some escape plan.
At work, he seldom left his congressional office except for a hearing or a vote; Leopold kept close tabs on him and seemed pleased with his new attitude, as it made for fewer complications in her professional life. After discovering nothing particularly noteworthy about Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer, Bernstein retreated to her more secretarial tasks; their banter continued but it was less charged, more benign. He wished he could explain to her the strategy, such as it was: Charlie had retreated from DC socializing and was spending any and all free time with Margaret, dining or seeing movies, and, twice now, staying in with the Streets.
“‘In what town did Senator Joseph McCarthy first reveal the presence of two hundred and five members of the Communist Party in the United States State Department?’” Margaret read.
The Streets conferred. Isaiah thought it was Charleston, West Virginia; Renee was certain it was Wheeling.
Charlie took the card from his wife’s hand and read it silently. “I would note,” he said, “that the card suggests that McCarthy’s ever-changing number of Reds at State is a factual accusation. When it says he revealed the presence.”
“What should it say instead?” Renee asked.
“I dunno. Claimed? Invented?”
“You yourself have said there are Communists in the government, Charlie,” said Isaiah.
“Of course,” Charlie said. “But we all know by now that McCarthy and Cohn were making up these numbers. I don’t think they’ve actually nailed down one Red in the State Department. They just concocted a story.”
“Don’t reporters do that too?” asked Margaret.
“Do they?” asked Charlie.
“I don’t think John Cameron Swayze makes anything up,” said Renee.
“I read articles about the Puerto Rican guerrillas that got everything wrong,” said her husband. “There are a few solid reporters here and there, but it seems like too much of what’s in the news media is spoon-fed to journalists by various government factions with agendas. Anti-Communist, pro-GOP, pro-Stevenson, pro-McCarthy, whatever. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Not these cards,” said Charlie. He lit a cigarette.
The next morning, as he walked through National Statuary Hall, Charlie noticed a small floor tile honoring James Polk, the eleventh president of the United States and the only former Speaker of the House to have made it to the top job. The tile marked where Polk’s desk had been from 1835 until 1839, when he was Speaker and the House Chamber was located where Statuary Hall now stood. Charlie had walked past or even on this tile countless times without giving it much thought; now he paused to examine it. Polk was an incredibly consequential president most Americans knew nothing about, he thought. Politics was a cruel gig.
Charlie’s early days in DC had been exciting (probably too exciting, he knew), but as the novelty wore off and the realities of political life became more oppressive, he found himself missing the less flashy, more substantial work he’d left behind at Columbia. He’d loved the quiet thrills of research and discovery, and if he was being completely honest, he missed the acclaim that came with his bestselling book.
He returned to his office, greeting Leopold with an absentminded nod as he sank into the chair behind his desk. Before him sat a collection of letters and documents as well as two books that had been sent to him: early proofs of Hermann Hagedorn’s The Roosevelt Family of Sagamore Hill and the latest from his friend Paul Horgan, Great River: The Rio Grande in North American History. He sighed. What was he doing? He recalled Mac and then Margaret Chase Smith suggesting he check out the special members-only collection at the Library of Congress; Smith had specifically urged him to look into Ben Franklin and the Hellfire Club he had briefly mentioned in Sons of Liberty. Beyond the welcome distraction and the possibility that another book might provide him with a clearer path forward, Charlie felt excited at the prospect of research and access to rare documents. He called Margaret to tell her he’d be late getting home.
“Five thirty. Right on time,” Bernstein said, looking at her watch. She’d been waiting for him in the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. Above her, in the semicircle over an arched window, hovered a painting of Johannes Gutenberg with two assistants at his printing press. Nearby were other painted tributes to the evolution of scholarship: a cairn, hieroglyphics, a cave painter, a monastery scriptorium.