Max Collins - Majic Man

“From a public official, you mean. It wins columnists Pulitzers.”

“Listen, my friend, Jim Forrestal has nurtured, has created, this nightmarish Central Intelligence Agency, and mark my words, America will suffer the consequences for decades. And before he had that charming organization up and running, peddling its counterintelligence and counterinsurgency around the world, he would step in himself, raising huge funds from his rich friends to pay off railroad strikers in France, to buy off politicians in Italy-”

“Save it for the broadcast.”

He arched an eyebrow. “All right. Since you seem disapproving of my campaign- successful campaign-to induce Harry S. Truman to remove James V. Forrestal, I have to ask: why did you want to see me today?”

“Why were you willing to see me?”

The smile turned sly again; he stroked his purring pussy and said, “Well … I thought, as someone who’s spent time with Forrestal … who has his ear, his trust … you could, you might, let me know just how far around the bend he is.”

“Why, so you can put it on the radio tonight?”

“Yes,” he said, with no shame. “It appears to me that Forrestal has gone off his rocker. That he’s mad as a hatter. And if I could say that, with confidence, on the air, it would be a great service to our country.”

“Jesus! Suppose the guy has lost his marbles … and I’m not confirming that, mind you … what purpose does it serve humiliating him further? You won, Drew! Isn’t that enough?”

“You don’t think the country has a right to know that its Secretary of Defense is a madman? I want to know how long he’s been demented, I want to know what orders, policies, security breaches might be ascribed to his mental state! If a raving lunatic has made government policy, mightn’t we want to undertake a critical review of those policies?”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I haven’t seen a ‘raving lunatic’-just a man battered down by years of hard work for his country, and maybe buckling a little under your barrage of bullshit.”

He rocked gently. “I ask again, Nathan: why did you want to see me today?”

“To ask you, out of common decency, not to broadcast any speculation about Jim Forrestal’s mental condition. He’s quitting tomorrow-give him a chance to go out with a little goddamn dignity.”

Both eyebrows lifted. “This is unexpected, Nathan.”

“What is?”

“The milk of human kindness in one so monetary.”

“Why don’t you surprise me, Drew, and behave like the liberal lover of mankind you pretend to be: give the guy a fucking break.”

He thought about that, as he scratched his cat’s neck. Finally he said, “All right. But if Forrestal gets back into the political fray, all bets are off.”

I hadn’t expected it to be this easy; frankly, I hadn’t expected him to go along with me at all.

“Understood,” I said.

“But … I need a favor of you, in return.”

So much for the milk of human kindness.

“What kind of favor?”

“Your presence in Washington is fortuitous, Nathan.”

“It is?”

“Yes. I’d like you to do a job for me. Today. This afternoon.”

“… What kind of job?”

He folded his hands prayerfully on the desktop. “I want you to talk to somebody for me. I don’t want to be seen talking to this individual myself, and I don’t even want my staff knowing about this particular … subject matter.”

That didn’t surprise me. Pearson had a conspiratorial managing style, never letting an investigator or legman know what each other was up to.

I asked, “What subject matter is that?”

He spoke very softly: “In researching your client, Secretary Forrestal, I stumbled onto some information that is either the biggest story of the century … or an attempt to make such a fool out of me that I would be discredited, once and for all.”

“All right. You’ve got my attention. But, favor or no favor, my fee is a hundred a day.”

Immediately, he reached in a desk drawer, withdrew a checkbook and began filling out a check, asking, “You want that made out to the A-1 or to yourself?”

“A-1 will be fine … but make it four hundred, to bring your account up to date.”

Pearson shrugged. “All right.”

My jaw dropped. “Now you really have my attention….”

He handed the check across to me, its black ink glistening wetly. “No further expenses, though … for right now, this is a one-day affair, and you can buy your own damn meals.”

“Fair enough. Who do I talk to, and on what subject?”

He rocked back, folded his arms. “Let’s start with the subject. Nathan … what do you know about flying saucers?”

I winced. Weren’t Commies, Zionists and Nazis enough? Must I add spacemen to the list?

“Nathan, please … answer the question.”

Money was money. “Well … last year or two, there have been a lot of sightings of flying saucers, flying discs, flying cigars, whatever, some of ’em by fairly reputable types. I figure it’s some kind of postwar hysteria-like the gremlins pilots in the war talk about seeing. I saw ’em myself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, in Bugs Bunny cartoons.”

Pearson shuffled through some manila file folders on his desk, came up with a thick one, folded it open and began thumbing through; I hoped it wasn’t my FBI file again.

“The first published report of a saucer sighting was in June of ’47,” he said, “by an air rescue pilot-Kenneth Arnold, of Boise, Idaho-who said he saw nine flying saucers flying at twelve hundred miles per hour over the Cascade Mountains in Washington State, in formations, shifting positions like … what’s it say, here, where is it … ‘like the tail of a kite.’ This seemed to trigger sightings, with saucers spotted in Texas, New Mexico, Oregon, Idaho, Missouri, Colorado, California, Arizona, Nebraska …”

I nodded. “Yeah, for a few months there, if you wanted to see your name in the paper, all you had to do was just call in and say you saw an unidentified flying what’s-it.”

“Your attitude mirrors my own, essentially; but some of these sightings are from credible sources-a United Airlines pilot, a National Guard captain-and I’ve learned that the U.S. Air Force is studying and cataloguing these sightings.”

“Or pretending to-after all, these ‘saucers’ could be some new experimental top-secret aircraft or weapon of ours. The kind of thing a civilian might easily misconstrue.”

Pearson nodded. “And the inquiry into ‘saucer’ sightings could be a military screen of ‘black propaganda’-lies. In any case, that effort-whether sincere, or simply cosmetic-started in December ’47, as Project Sign, but it’s evolved into something called Project Grudge.”

“That sounds like the code name for your Forrestal crusade.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Well, Secretary Forrestal is involved in this matter.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. As I said, I came across this information in my investigation of Forrestal…. Take a look at this, Nathan.”

Pearson handed me a photostat from his folder; it was of a single sheet of stationery, rubber-stamped at the top: top secret/majic eyes only.

White House stationery.

The date was September 24, 1947, and the contents were as follows:

MEMORANDUM FOR THE SECRETARY OF DEFENSE

Dear Secretary Forrestal:

As per our recent conversation on this matter, you are hereby authorized to proceed with all due speed and caution upon your undertaking. Hereafter this matter shall be referred to only as Operation Majestic Twelve.

It continues to be my feeling that any future considerations relative to the ultimate disposition of this matter should rest solely with the Office of the President following appropriate discussions with yourself, Dr. Bush and the Director of Central Intelligence.