Tedder had no scruples about breaking the law, but he was used to working with the government, and within twenty-four hours he appeared in Cam’s office with a written plan and a budget.

The plan provided for three men to watch Jasper Murray’s apartment over two days to determine his routine. Then they would enter at a time they knew to be safe and plant a transmitter in his phone. They would also place a tape recorder nearby, probably on the roof of the building, in a casing marked 50,000 VOLTS—DO NOT TOUCH to discourage investigation. Then they would change the tapes once every twenty-four hours for a month, and Tedder would provide transcripts of all conversations.

The price for all this was five thousand dollars. Cam would get the money from the slush fund operated by the Committee to Re-elect the President.

Cam took the proposal to Ehrlichman, sharply conscious that he was crossing a line. He had never done anything criminal in his life. Now he was about to become a conspirator in a burglary. It was necessary: the leaks had to be stopped, and the president had said: “I don’t give a damn how it’s done.” All the same, Cameron did not feel good about it. He was jumping off a diving board in the dark, and could not see the water below.

John Ehrlichman wrote “E” in the approve box.

Then he added an anxious little note: “If done under your assurance that it is not traceable.”

Cam knew what that meant.

If it all went wrong, he was to take the blame.

• • •

George left his office at five thirty and drove to Barney Circle, a low-rent residential neighborhood east of Capitol Hill. The church was a shack on a lot surrounded by a high chicken-wire fence. Inside, the rows of hard chairs were half full. The worshippers were all black, mostly women. It was a good place for a clandestine meeting: an FBI agent in here would be as conspicuous as a turd on a tablecloth.

One of the women turned around, and George recognized Maria Summers. He sat next to her.

“What is it?” he whispered. “What’s the emergency?”

She put her finger to her lips. “Afterward,” she said.

He smiled wryly. He would have to sit through an hour of prayers. Well, it would probably do his soul good.

George was delighted to be part of this cloak-and-dagger plot with Maria. His work at Fawcett Renshaw did not satisfy his passion for justice. He was helping to advance the cause of equality for blacks, but piecemeal, and slowly. He was now thirty-six, old enough to know that youthful dreams of a better world are rarely fulfilled, but all the same he thought he ought to be able to do more than get a few extra blacks hired at Roath airport.

A robed pastor entered and began with an extempore prayer that lasted ten or fifteen minutes. Then he invited the congregation to sit in silence and hold their own conversations with God. “We will be glad to hear the voice of any man who feels moved by the Holy Spirit to share his prayers with the rest of us. In accordance with the teaching of the Apostle Paul, women remain silent in the church.”