Thomas Mallon - Finale - A Novel of the Reagan Years

“Hmm,” said Nixon.

Anders suddenly remembered that Nixon could of course get it to Bush — another of his old appointees, like Weinberger and Shultz — all on his own. Now afraid that he might have given offense, he decided to take the plunge. “And probably Admiral Poindexter.”

“Good idea,” the ex-president said, offhandedly, disguising his enthusiasm. Still nervous, Anders changed the subject. “When did you last speak to President Reagan?”

“A month ago,” said Nixon. “Before I went over to Moscow.”

Nixon’s information was often fresher and better than what the White House gathered on its own.

“Wait a minute,” Nixon added. “I talked to him after I got back, too. I called to congratulate him on his South Africa speech. Not that it was much of one.” As if concerned he might be approaching disrespect, Nixon tacked on a disclaimer: “The circumstances didn’t permit a great speech, of course.”

The administration was walking a fine line over Pretoria, proposing “modified” sanctions rather than the more stringent ones being advocated by European governments and protesters here at home. Don Regan had recently made things worse by saying that women sympathetic to the tougher measures would take a different view once the price of diamonds rose.

“Right,” said Anders, walking a fine line himself. Ronald Reagan was his ultimate boss, and when talking to a nonappointee — even Richard M. Nixon — all of the administration’s public pronouncements were to be deemed splendidly well-reasoned. So he changed the subject: “Will you have a chance to see the president at the Carter Library opening?”

“Hell, no!” answered Nixon, with a snort. “JC wants the spotlight all for himself, and he doesn’t give a damn about history. Thinks of his lousy administration as the New Testament — no need to pay attention to anything that came before it. He’s got to have Reagan there, but he figures he can get along without the exes. And God knows, without me .”

Anders knew that, for all the phone calls and memos to and from the White House, Nixon hadn’t been through its doors since ’81, when Reagan and Haig had given all the ex-presidents, including Carter, a little bon voyage before sending them off to Sadat’s funeral. Surely, as much as he craved becoming a back channel, Nixon desired at least one or two more chances to walk through the front door.

“Reagan needs to be campaigning in the South,” said Nixon, with sudden energy. “Not just sitting on a platform in Atlanta, listening to Carter sermonize. If they lose the Senate in November, after having had it for six years, things will be halfway back to where they were in ’80.”

Curious, thought Anders, that he said “they” instead of “we” when it came to the GOP. Even before his disgrace, Nixon had lost any real taste for party-building.

“I tell you,” the former president added, with a chuckle, “election night 1980 was the most enjoyable one I ever had outside of ’46 and ’68. Church, Bayh, McGovern, Gaylord Nelson — seeing that whole crowd go down like ten little left-wing Indians!”

Anders laughed with him, before offering the current inside view: “The political people around here think we’ll hold the Senate.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Nixon. “The Democrats are hungry , and they’re going to make every effort. Christ, they’ve got the Widow Harriman out there rattling her solid-gold cup for them. And she must have plenty of her own cash now that ‘the Governor’ has finally kicked off.” Averell Harriman had died, at the age of ninety-four, on July 26.

“I wouldn’t know about all that,” said Anders, referring to wealth and society with a boyish laugh.

“Well,” said Nixon, shifting into some world-weary philosophy, “you’re better off for it. I never needed the Georgetown crowd when I was in the game, and now that I’m out of it I don’t need to stay at the goddamned Hay-Adams when I’m back in Washington. Speaking of hotels: When was the last time you had your folks come visit? Do they like to stay on their own when they do? A lot of older couples prefer that to staying with the daughter or son-in-law. And I can tell you, the best hotel bargain you’ll find is One Washington Circle over in Foggy Bottom. Not too far from the State Department, but not so close that you can smell it!”

Anders laughed, and wondered what to say. The hotel Nixon had just recommended, like some office-supply salesman who did his business travel on a budget, was also just blocks from the Watergate.

“Get ready for a test,” said Nixon.

Anders started, as if the ex-president’s baritone were announcing a fire drill in the EOB. But then he realized this was only one of those conversational lurches that Nixon made whenever he recognized, with a certain embarrassment, that he had let the discussion meander into small talk.

“A test?”

“It’ll spring from the Zakharov thing,” Nixon explained, referring to the arrest over the weekend of a Soviet spy attached to the United Nations.

Anders instantly warmed to this new subject. “When I was up at the UN, the Soviets had five hundred people in the Secretariat, and I’m telling you, Mr. President, four hundred of them were spies.”

“They’ll respond to his detention with a bullshit arrest of someone over there, one of our people, on trumped-up charges. They can’t afford not to. They can keep Zakharov’s arrest out of their papers at home, but all the ‘representatives’ of their client states will be seeing it in New York, and they can’t lose face with them. So get ready for some kind of crap — which the administration is going to have to resist. And which means not being so overeager for a summit that we let the Russians get away with whatever the stunt turns out to be.”

“An excellent point, sir.”

“The U.S. goes to summits feeling hopeful; they go to achieve an advantage.”

Anders copied down this latest antithesis, just as he would make a Xerox of the fax on his desk. He couldn’t deny that he hoped to write a book one day.

“You know the expression cherchez la femme ?” asked Nixon. “Well, I’ll tell you the femme to keep in your sights.”

“Raisa?” guessed Anders.

“Hell, no. Nancy. She’s the one who’s going to keep pushing Reagan back to the table. That’s the big, last image she wants for him: tough man turned peacemaker. A little like myself in that regard. But she wants it for all the wrong reasons — she craves the approval of all the wrong people . She’s more and more friendly with Kay Graham these days. Christ, she’s even been sucking up to Jackie Kennedy. They’re what she likes to see as her real crowd — not showbiz. Forget the hundred times she and Reagan have stood next to Bob Hope. Show business is what she wants to overcome. Even if she still sees everything in those terms. Sort of like Mrs. Harding and small-town Ohio.”

Anders laughed, nervously. Criticizing the boss’s wife was worse than criticizing the boss. And…Mrs. Harding ? “Before my time, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Before mine, too. But I’ve got a lot of time to read these days.”

Anders ventured down the safest first-lady route he could think of: “How is Mrs. Nixon?” he asked. In the pause that followed, Anders wondered if the former president was having “thoughts that lie too deep for tears,” a line he always remembered from English 350 at Wake Forest.

“She’s well at the moment. Sometimes she struggles. Pulmonary problems.”

He seemed to speak the more clinical word, rather than “lung,” as if it would do a better job keeping his wife’s afflictions in check.