The Shadow Cabinet

W. T. Tyler

With today’s mass civilization it isn’t absurd to suggest that in some rich, advanced and neutral country, power might one day be seized, for example, by a coalition of athletic clubs. In that case, we might have a sportsman in shorts or a beauty queen in a bathing suit at the helm of state. But even then, public affairs would not become crystal clear.

—IGNAZIO SILONE

The School for Dictators

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

1.

It had been a gray Monday in Washington, a day too chilly to be autumn and too wet to be winter, a day when the trees seemed as bare as January, naked against a sodden sky, but a day when some leaves still fell out across the Virginia and Maryland hills. Darkness had fallen as Haven Wilson reached Farragut Square in his old Chevrolet station wagon. The commuter exodus had been snarled by a brief deluge that drowned visibility and crippled a few stoplights. Some intersections were blocked. By the time he found a parking garage, he was fifteen minutes late.

The address Charles Larabee had given him over the telephone that afternoon led him to a rain-darkened old structure that more resembled a private residence than a businessmen’s club. No lights showed; the interior shutters were drawn. In the dimming subversive light beyond the reach of the streetlamps, the empty sidewalks pocked by a light steady drizzle, he thought he’d made a mistake. The massive door at the top of the narrow steps under the broken pediment was painted a greenish black and decorated by a polished brass knocker in the shape of a mermaid. A small brass plate, recently polished, held the name Larabee had given him—The Six Hundred Club.

Wilson, a tall, gently bred Virginian who’d spent twenty years in Washington as a government lawyer, first with the Department of Justice and then with two Senate committees, had never heard of it. The foyer inside was softly lit, upholstered in red plush and illuminated by brass fixtures with art deco milk-glass shades, something like a New Orleans bawdy house. A hostess in a black velvet jacket, velvet shorts, and black fishnet hose took his name and led him to the steamboat room at the rear where Larabee was waiting, hunched over a small table, a margarita in front of him.

Wilson had had only the dimmest recollection of Larabee when he’d called that afternoon, and now he remembered him no better. Larabee was in his late fifties. His coarse face was darkened below the wiry reddish hair by what may have been a golf course suntan, and he was heavy in the neck and shoulders. The dark-blue jacket seemed too small, like the starched collar, which had squeezed a beading of water from the tan flesh above the sandy brows. His rough voice had a cardiac wheeze, a faintly aspirate echo from too much tobacco, too much alcohol, and too little exercise. In the lapel of his dark jacket was a small flag of the Republic of China.

“It’s a backstreet place, this club,” Larabee informed him as he lit another cigarette. “Gives you a little privacy, something you can’t buy in this town. The foreigners go for it, especially the A-rabs and the Latinos, so we do a little business here. They go for the skin show.” He lifted his pale-green eyes toward a bare-shouldered waitress who was approaching. “What are you drinking?”

Wilson asked for a martini on the rocks. The waitress couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Her pitted face was heavily rouged, her penciled eyebrows not her own, but she had a nice smile that showed her small milk teeth. She wore black hose and a pink-and-black boudoir corset, laced tightly in the back, squeezing unnatural cleavage from a youthful figure remarkable in its own right. Around her neck above the bare shoulders was a black velvet band, like a dog collar, to which was pinned a cameo inscribed with the club logo. Wilson felt sorry for her.

“Bring me another margarita, would you, dolly?” Larabee asked, his drink still half full in front of him. His eyes followed her back across the room. “Like I said, it’s a fun place. You go to the Army-Navy Club, you see too many people you don’t want to see, you know what I mean? Keep it confidential, like you used to do, right? How long since you left the Senate Intelligence Committee?”

“About eight months.”

“You got tired of it, we heard, fed up. Resigned, was that it? Someone said you broke your pick with a few senators, is that right?”

“No, I just left. No hard feelings. They understood.”

“That’s the way to play it—don’t burn your bridges, right? Ten years hacking away with those Senate committees is long enough, believe me. A bunch of prima donnas. They squeeze you all the time, those assholes, and then election time rolls around and they play with your balls like a pussycat. I thought you might be interested—that’s why I called you up. Some pals of mine are looking for a guy with your kind of experience.”

Larabee had claimed he had a small interest in a management and consultant firm handling U.S. military sales, PL-480 shipments, communications contracts, and special projects for several foreign clients. Wilson’s recollection of Larabee was as dim as ever. He recalled that Larabee had had a desk in a Senate office building, part of a Pentagon liaison team putting special briefings, Quantico quail shoots, Air Force planes, and European commissaries at congressional disposal, but he couldn’t recall which service.

“What’s your role with this consultant firm?” Wilson asked.

“I’m a contact man, you might say.”

“You’ve done pretty well, then.” Wilson let his eyes drop to the Republic of China flag in the buttonhole.

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Larabee said, looking down at the flag too. “They’re giving a small reception tonight, which is why I’ve got to cut out early, quarter to seven at the latest. A purchasing mission in from Taiwan.”

The waitress brought the drinks. Larabee drained his first glass, then hunched forward over the table to toy with his second.

“Shifting vocational gears, yeah, I know your problem,” he resumed as he watched the waitress’s saucy promenade across the room. “Someone said you were selling real estate now. Lemme tell you something. The bucks aren’t there these days, you know what I mean? Not for a lawyer like you. You’ve got something to sell, right? Ten years on the Hill, ten years over at Justice, sure. That’s worth a bundle in this town, believe me.”

“That’s what my wife says,” Wilson replied without irony, wondering where Larabee had got his information. He wasn’t selling real estate. He was handling the legal work for a small brokerage in Virginia in which he had a small interest, while he considered his options.

“She’s right. The little woman’s right, Haven. It’s Haven, isn’t it? I’m Chuck. So listen, Haven, you’ve got something to sell but you’ve gotta pick your spots, the way I did. Two years ago, these pals of mine were just getting off the ground, but the Carter types made them look bad. Now they’ve got more than they can handle. They’re putting together a couple of military packages for the Persian Gulf, a couple of emirates out there. A few C-130s, some commo equipment, maybe a few Hueys. Saudi financing, some of it. It’ll run—what?—maybe seventy, eighty million.”

The pale eyes lingered on Wilson’s face, searching for a reaction. Wilson said nothing. “That’s a lotta bucks for a guy that was just hanging around CINCPAC five years ago, waiting for another stripe.”

“So you were Navy, then,” Wilson said.

“Navy, sure. Two tours in ’Nam, two in Taiwan, one in Seoul. I had a Special Forces hookup, real tough, and I didn’t shit in my britches in ’Nam like a lot of them did. I lost my cherry up near Pleiku, Cambodian border.” He drank from the margarita and pulled another cigarette from the package of filter tips on the table. “Real estate won’t cut it, Haven. Maybe you’re doing something else too, right? Maybe you’ve got your own sideshow going in addition to this real estate. Some sort of special consultancy? You look like you’re keeping in shape. Me, I try to work out twice, three times a week. Keep down to a hundred and ninety, hundred and ninety-five. Gym work. How much do you weigh?”

“A hundred and ninety.”

“That’s what I figured. So maybe you’ve got something cooking, some kind of project your old pals over at Justice cut you in on.” He seemed to smile as he lit the cigarette, both thick hands brought to his face to shield the flame, the way an old Navy line officer would.

“No, just some real estate legal work while I make up my mind,” Wilson said, watching the ribald face through the curtain of smoke. Larabee, he decided, was trying to hustle him.

“Waiting for an offer from some blue-chip law firm?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“So what is it, a guy with your contacts?” Larabee leaned forward to again toy with his drink. “You’ve got a lot of contacts around this town. Justice. Up on the Hill. Senate committee on intelligence, special investigations staff. Some big opportunity came along, your pals wouldn’t just hang you out to dry—not with all those years you put in. What is it—something they cut you in on?”

“I’m on my own now, still looking around,” Wilson said.

“There’s a lot going on these days—not domestic stuff, either. You don’t wanna limit yourself, you know what I mean? Take Honduras. A couple of my friends got some big projects down there—real tough, real quiet too. I’m helping them out—their contact man, you might say. Training packages, a little ordnance. I did a job down there in Nicaragua a couple of years back—consultant on some Navy ordnance. Somoza’s brother-in-law was a buddy of mine.” Cigarette held in his mouth, Larabee took his wallet, opened it, and passed a faded business card across the table. It was in Spanish. Larabee’s name was in the corner, an agent for an import firm. He passed another card proclaiming him a member of the Managua Chamber of Commerce.

The waitress returned with another margarita and a second martini. “Thanks, doll,” Larabee said. “I’ve got a whole lot of drinking ahead of me tonight, but you get used to it. It’s out at Ben’s place. Spring Valley. Real classy.” His voice dropped. “These pals of mine I was telling you about, they’ve got a few old Agency types on board. They’ve got people know the Middle East as good as anyone. Persian Gulf too. Charley Finch, you know him? Station chief in some stinkhole out there. Now they’ve got him aboard. George Rawson’s another, an old Agency type, retired two years ago. You remember George?”

Wilson met the pale lifted eyes, remembering Rawson’s name. He’d been retired in 1978 under dubious circumstances. “I don’t think so.”

“Speaks Arab like a raghead,” Larabee continued. “So they’ve got people know the Middle East and have the contacts out there, same as Latin America, where they’re in solid. It’s the legislative side they’re trying to build up, not the senators so much—the salad boys in the back room, oiling up the cabbage. And it’s big cabbage, too, Haven, lemme tell you—big bucks. You worked with the Foreign Relations Committee, didn’t you? You say the word and I could get you together with these friends of mine.”

“That was a few years ago. I don’t think it interests me much these days.”

Larabee wasn’t daunted. “You got the experience, the nuts and bolts. Take El Salvador. They had a piece of the El Salvador package, maybe five, six million, but the fuckers turn the water off. It’s still in the pipeline. So you got Latin America heating up, the administration’s gonna open things up down there, like this Honduras operation I was telling you about, closing off this Cuban-Nicaraguan arms corridor to El Salvador, but Congress has to get its shit together. You’ve got the right contacts for that.…”

Wilson didn’t reply. Larabee rambled on:

“Some of those Senate and House staffers still act like it’s the goddamn Carter administration, you know what I mean? They’re still in a reactive mode. You take the defense budget. It’s a big-ticket operation—that’s what the White House wants, what the public wants. So you gotta keep Congress honest. I had one guy over on the Hill say to me last week, ‘Look, Chuck, we gotta think about political answers before we talk about beefing up military sales, right?’ Well, that’s bullshit, lemme tell you.”

“How many Latin American countries do your friends handle?” Wilson asked with only polite interest. The nearby tables were beginning to fill as more members entered from the rainy street. The din from the bar in front had grown louder.

“Three, I think it is,” Larabee said, his eyes restlessly prowling the room. He looked at his watch. “So Latin America’s heating up, this administration’s blowing the lid off down there. That’s why my friends need to beef up their legislative staff, make sure those guys on the Hill get the right message about what the Sandinistas and Cubanos are doing to our friends down there. You say the word, I’ll put you in touch.” He leaned down to bring his briefcase from beneath the table and removed a large manila envelope. “Basically, when it comes to national defense, I’m a PR purist, Haven, no schlock. That’s how they made up this brochure—it tells it like it is. It tells you how this firm is set up, who their clients are, where you’d fit in if you want to come aboard. Take a look at it. If you’re interested, give me a call and I’ll get you together with them.”

“I’ll do that,” Wilson said, hoping to bring the conversation to an end.

“Like I said, these are fast-moving times,” Larabee said, signaling for the waitress. “Historically, over the last couple of years they’ve been moving like Gangbusters, but you factor in Reagan and that’s what you’d expect, right? A cloud-buster, right out the fucking roof. Now’s the time to go for it, Wilson.” Larabee paid the check.

Outside, the rain had stopped momentarily. A taxi was waiting for Larabee at the curb.

“Thanks for the drink,” Wilson said. “Glad to hear you’re doing so well.”

“Anytime. It’s Chuck, remember. Sorry I have to run.” He crossed the pavement, but turned back at the door of the taxi. “You’re ready to roll, right? Nothing you’re working on except this real estate deal. I can tell my pals that, right?”

Wilson watched the cab drive away and turned back toward Farragut Square. Traffic was lighter. With the rain gone, a fine mist hovered in the air. At the parking garage two blocks away, he stood under the overhang, waiting for his car. He was still puzzled. If Larabee had been trying to hustle him, he was very confused about something. Confused or uncertain, perhaps both. He’d been trolling for information.

A pair of young businessmen in beige car coats and Irish hats waited nearby. “The world’s greatest grandma and they franchised her,” he heard one say. “She didn’t think much of the idea at first, but it went over like Rubik’s cube.”

Wilson lifted his eyes, depressed.

“What, the franchise?” asked the other. Both looked to Wilson like advertising or public relations executives. Their Italian shoes and calfskin briefcases were identical, like their Irish hats.

“Yeah, the Pacific Northwest,” said his companion. “She drove a fork-lift for Boeing, I think it was. Sixty-eight years old, with a red bandanna around her neck and one of those blue-and-white engineer’s hats. ‘World’s Greatest Grandma,’ that’s what she had stenciled on her forklift. When the snack bar vending machines were pulled out by the concessionaire, she started bringing in homemade cookies to sell to the day shift. They caught on big; just a cottage industry, you know, but she kept at it, still driving her forklift. She didn’t think about going public, but her kids franchised her. ‘The World’s Greatest Grandma.’ Just like that. Now they’ve got vending concessions all over. It’s a great success story—a four-million-dollar account for our L.A. office.”

A gray Ford LTD moved up the ramp, stopped, and the two men climbed in. Stupidly, still holding Larabee’s envelope, Wilson watched them drive off.

“This yours?” a black youth called from across the ramp, leaving the front door of the old Chevrolet station wagon. On the rear window was a Georgetown University logo and on the bumper below, a tattered I Don’t Brake for Republicans sticker. The vehicle had belonged to Haven Wilson’s younger son during his final two years at Georgetown but was too old and too undependable to take him across country to Oregon, where he’d taken a job with a newspaper after graduation. Wilson had bought it from him for the price of a plane ticket to Portland.

“Yeah, it’s mine.” He tore up Larabee’s envelope and dropped it into the trash barrel on the ticket booth island. Thunder boomed across the rooftops.

“Say what?” the black youth asked. A wooden African comb was stuck in the back of his woolly hair.

“Washington,” Wilson said, digging fifty cents from his pocket. “The world’s greatest grandpa and they’re franchising him.”

2.

At the rear of a McLean shopping mall and only a few miles from Washington in the Virginia suburbs, The Players still drew a regular luncheon crowd from the nearby beltway consulting firms, from assorted federal agencies, and from CIA headquarters at Langley, but the evening trade in the back room had moved elsewhere after the tavern was bought by an enterprising Vietnamese who’d changed the menu and the decor. Bamboo and tropical plants had replaced the gin-and-bitters English pub atmosphere. The dark oak, the sporting prints, and the polished brass were gone; so were the obscure photographs, the foreign maps, and the tattered red-and-blue Vietcong flag that had once hung, under glass, next to the WC—all packed away by the former owner for a new nautical fish and steak house in Boca Raton. One more casualty of the post-Iran withdrawal syndrome, some said, taking their memories elsewhere.

On Monday nights in autumn and winter, a few diehards from the old days still gathered in the back room to drink, grouse, and watch Monday night football. With the decline of the Redskins, the economy, and the dignity of federal service, now challenged by that spirit of feckless amateurism that had overrun Washington with the Reagan victory, the back room gatherings were often as churlish as a last poker game in a condemned firehouse.

Haven Wilson was an occasional member of the back room chin and chowder society. It was a morose group he found assembled there this Monday night, watching a public television documentary on the Moral Majority. Senator Bob Combs was on the tube, his performance videotaped during a recent Senate hearing.

“Someone ought to burn his ass,” he heard Buster Foreman say. “Burn him big, bigger than Nixon.” Foreman was a large man, an ex-CIA rowdy with a large man’s bullying contempt, his voice burdened by twenty years of bureaucratic grievances.

Someone had turned down the sound on his way to the bar in front, wearied of Combs’s courtly South Carolina drawl as he chastised a trio of regulatory bureaucrats. Now they sat looking at the pink pubescent face. Without the sound, the cherubic head ballooned larger than life, the bubble-gum kiss on the Moral Majority valentine PBS was blowing the nation’s capital on a rainy night following another Redskins loss.

“He’s an airhead,” said Cyril Crofton, a thin, dyspeptic CIA analyst.

“Pure celluloid,” Buster Foreman said, “a Baptist shyster—Genesis, grits, and shit. Ask Murphy when you see him, ask him about Senator Combs. He was at the embassy in Athens when Combs came through. Ask him what kind of shyster Combs is.”

“Where is Murphy these days?” asked Nick Straus, his gray head still damp from the rain. Haven Wilson was surprised to see him there. He’d come wandering in a few minutes before Wilson, like a stray cat, arriving on foot from his house a few miles away. Small, fiftyish, with mouse-gray hair and mild brown eyes, he’d worked twenty-five years at the Agency as a Soviet analyst and arms control technician, but had been retired during the housekeeping sweep of the late seventies. He’d hired on with a beltway defense firm, lost his job, been treated for acute depression, but six months earlier had been hired by the Defense Intelligence Agency at the Pentagon.

Improbably, thought Wilson, who couldn’t explain it. The Nick Straus who sat next to him now was only the ghost of the man he’d known for fifteen years. He’d attended his retirement luncheon at Langley, when Straus had received the career intelligence medal. Wilson thought he’d deserved better. He remembered the luncheon now, looking at Nick’s shoes. His socks didn’t match, the shoes were shapeless black oxfords with worn ripple soles, and the feet didn’t look like Nick Straus’s feet at all.

“Murphy’s selling commo systems out of a place out in Rockville,” Buster Foreman said. Fuzzy Larson came back from the bar in front. “A letch,” Foreman continued, still watching Senator Combs. “He doesn’t sweat much, either, you notice that? It must be a hundred and five under those lights and he’s not cooking, not even sweating.”

“The guy’s a jerk,” Fuzzy Larson said loudly. He was short and blond, the dome of his head covered with a fine feathery down, like an Easter chick. A former FBI and CIA technician, he’d left Langley a year earlier to open a forensics crime lab with Buster Foreman and a retired FBI lab man. “Look at that mouth, how wet it is. Always working too, you notice that. All juiced up.”

“Tell them the story about Combs in Athens,” Buster suggested, “the story Murphy told us.”

“Oh, yeah,” Larson recalled. “It was one of Combs’s staff aides. I forgot all about it. Do you know who I’m talking about, Combs’s number one aide, what’s his name?” He appealed to Haven Wilson, who knew the name but only shook his head. “Anyway, Combs comes through Athens with this staff aide, who gets some Greek broad in the rack and tries some funny business with her, the way he thinks the Greeks do. So she yelled her head off and someone had to shut her up quick. This aide is drunk, the control room crowd at the hotel in Athens is running around like crazy, doing the funky chicken, and so the station did it, deuces wild. Three o’clock in the morning and they get the goddamned station chief out of bed to buy off a ten-dollar hooker. Combs was sleeping right there in the next room, so you know he’s gotta know what kind of meatball his staff aide is. What do you think of that?”

“They’re all meatballs,” Buster Foreman said, his eyes still lifted to the television screen. “Look at that idiot. I’ll bet he diddled his way through Bible school down in South Carolina or wherever it was. I’ll bet he’s still diddling.”

“So what did Murphy have to do with it?” Cyril Crofton asked.

“He had to come up with the dollars to buy her off,” Fuzzy said. “The next day this jerkwater staff aide says he doesn’t remember anything about any Greek girl, the station chief was out of pocket, and so Murph paid him back out of some operational account. Then a week later in Rome, super-dick gets into the same kind of jam again, and the station had to pull his pants back on there too.”

“Which proves what I said,” Buster Foreman drawled. “Which proves it right there. The guy’s a hypocrite. Look at that goddamned prissy little mouth.”

“It’s the holier-than-thou crud that gets me,” Cyril Crofton said. Cyril knew Congress only at a distance, Haven Wilson remembered, unlike Buster Foreman, who’d spent some time in secret testimony on the Hill after the Angolan debacle. “How the hell do they get away with it?”

“Money,” Buster said. “Big dollars. He talks like that, roasting those bureaucrats, and the bucks come rolling in. Look at his face. He’s blowing every right-winger in town with that spiel, blowing ’em big, right on the tube. What do you think, Haven? Are these guys for real or not?”

“I’d say so,” Wilson replied. It was time to go but he didn’t move, curious as to what Combs might be saying. “But there are plenty of screwballs around these days, not just Bob Combs. A lot of other people think they’ve got a piece of this administration.” He was thinking of Chuck Larabee. Their conversation still made no sense to him.

“Like who?” Cyril Crofton asked, turning.

“The big chili-and-taco crowd from Texas, the funny-money millionaires from the West Coast, the tightwad burial insurance tycoons in between. Who’ve I left out?” he asked Nick Straus, smiling.

“The committee for the coming deluge,” Straus said.

“You think he’s kidding?” Buster Foreman broke in. “See what he’s saying now.”

“The same old crap.” Fuzzy Larson got up to adjust the volume.

“… an’ what you burr-o-crats have to unnerstan’ is that the good folks o’ this country who’re paying for all these reg-u-lations have had enough. Y’all think you can jes’ set there, set here in Wash’n’ton the way you been a-doing since the Great Society giveaway an’ mandate social mor-ees by reg-u-lation an’ fee-at. Well, lemme tell y’all—it’s not a-gonna happen anymore. Those good folks out yonder have had enough. They’ve given us a man-date.…”