Thompson said: “Tell us a little bit about how those devices worked—how they were activated, for example.”

Cam yelled: “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

Butterfield went into a long explanation of the system, and eventually revealed that it was voice-activated.

Cam sat down again. This was a catastrophe. Nixon had secretly recorded everything that went on in the Oval Office. He had talked about burglaries and bribes and blackmail, all the time knowing that his incriminating words were being taped. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Cam said out loud.

Cam could guess what would happen next. Both the Ervin Committee and the special prosecutor would demand to hear the tapes. Almost certainly, they would succeed in forcing the president to hand them over: they were key evidence in several criminal investigations. Then the whole world would know the truth.

Nixon might succeed in keeping the tapes to himself, or perhaps destroying them; but that was almost as bad. For if he were innocent, the tapes would vindicate him, so why should he hide them? Destroying them would be seen as an admission of guilt—as well as one more in a lengthening list of crimes for which he could be prosecuted.

Nixon’s presidency was over.

He would probably cling on. Cam knew him well by now. Nixon did not know when he was beaten—he never had. Once upon a time this had been a strength. Now it might lead him to suffer weeks, perhaps months of diminishing credibility and growing humiliation before he finally gave in.

Cam was not going to be part of that.

He picked up the phone and called Tim Tedder. They met an hour later at the Electric Diner, an old-fashioned luncheonette. “You’re not worried about being seen with me?” said Tedder.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving the White House.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t you been watching TV?”

“Not today.”

“There’s a voice-activated recording system in the Oval Office. It’s taped everything that has been said in that room for the past three years. This is the end. Nixon is finished.”

“Wait a minute. All the time he was arranging this stuff, he was bugging himself?”

“Yes.”

“Incriminating himself.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of idiot does that?”

“I thought he was smart. I guess he had us all fooled. He sure had me fooled.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s why I called you. I’m making a new start in life. I want a new job.”

“You want to work for my security firm? I’m the only employee—”

“No, no. Listen. I’m twenty-seven. I have five years’ experience in the White House. I speak Russian.”

“So you want to work for . . . ?”

“The CIA. I’m well qualified.”

“You are. You’d have to go through their basic training.”

“No problem. Part of my new start.”

“I’m happy to call my friends there, put in a good word.”

“I appreciate that. And there’s one other thing.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to make a big deal of this, but I do know where the bodies are buried. The CIA has broken some rules in this whole Watergate affair. I know all about the CIA’s involvement.”