Maria tried to conceal her shock as her mind reeled with the implications. So it was a White House caper. She was amazed. No president other than Nixon would have been so arrogant and stupid.

Once again, she would find out the most if she pretended to be supportive. “Okay,” she said, “let’s think about this. Kleindienst isn’t Mitchell, you know.” John Mitchell had resigned as attorney general in order to run CREEP. His replacement, Richard Kleindienst, was another Nixon crony, but not as biddable. “Kleindienst will want a reason,” Maria said.

“We can give him one. The FBI investigation may lead to confidential matters of foreign policy. In particular, it may reveal damaging information about CIA involvement in President Kennedy’s Bay of Pigs invasion.”

That was typical of Tricky Dick, Maria thought with disgust. Everyone would pretend they were protecting American interests when in reality they were saving the president’s sorry ass. “So it’s a matter of national security.”

“Yes.”

“Good. That will justify the attorney general in ordering the FBI to back off.” But Maria did not want it to be so easy for the White House. “However, Kleindienst may want concrete assurance.”

“We can provide that. The CIA is prepared to make a formal request. Walters will do it.” General Vernon Walters was deputy director of the CIA.

“If the request is formal, I think we can go ahead and do exactly what the president wants.”

“Thank you, Maria.” The boy stood up. “You’ve been very helpful, again.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Dewar.”

Cam left the room.

Maria stared thoughtfully at the chair he had vacated. The president must have authorized this burglary, or at least turned a blind eye to it. That was the only possible reason for Cam Dewar to be working so hard on a cover-up. If someone in the administration had okayed the burglary in defiance of Nixon’s wishes, that person would by now have been named and shamed and fired. Nixon was not squeamish about getting rid of embarrassing colleagues. The only person he cared to protect was himself.

Was she going to let him get away with it?

Like hell she was.

She picked up the phone and said: “Call Fawcett Renshaw, please.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Dave Williams was nervous. It was almost five years since Plum Nellie had played to a live audience. Now they were about to face sixty thousand fans at Candlestick Park in San Francisco.

Performing in a studio was not the same at all. The tape recorder was forgiving: if you played a bum note or your voice cracked or you forgot the lyrics, you could just erase the error and try again.

Anything that went wrong here tonight would be heard by everyone in the stadium and never corrected.

Dave told himself not to be silly. He had done this a hundred times. He recalled playing with the Guardsmen in pubs in the East End of London, when he had known only a handful of chords. Looking back, he marveled at his youthful audacity. He remembered the night Geoffrey had passed out, dead drunk, at the Dive in Hamburg, and Walli had come onstage and played lead guitar throughout the set with no rehearsal. Happy-go-lucky days.