King Richard: Nixon and Watergate: an American tragedy

PROLOGUE

introduction to a play or novel

It doesn’t have an on-and-off switch.

—ALEXANDER BUTTERFIELD

to President Nixon, February 16, 1971

SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, 1973 | INAUGURATION DAY

It had been one helluva show. The Grieg piano concerto, in particular, had been a revelation. Van Cliburn was superb: no one could match his virtuosity. Of course, most of the Republican high rollers who feasted on colonial roast duckling and plantation pineapple in their tuxedos and long dresses—clowns, in Richard Nixon’s estimation—did not know what the hell was going on. But the president had thoroughly enjoyed both the music and the political symbolism of the evening.

His arrival at the Kennedy Center had been heralded with ruffles and flourishes from sixteen military trumpeters in full Ruritanian regalia. The orchestras at each of the three inaugural concerts had blared out Hail to the Chief as he entered the presidential box, as per an action memo from his chief of staff, H. R. Bob Haldeman. Best of all, he had succeeded in sticking it to Washington by excluding the dreary, politically correct National Symphony Orchestra from the festivities. Instead, he had brought the outspokenly conservative Eugene Ormandy down from Philadelphia to conduct the rousing finale to a wonderful event.

The clanging church bells and simulated cannons of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture were still reverberating in Nixon’s ears as he said good night to the evening’s guest of honor, Mamie Eisenhower, at the front door of the White House. He took the mirror-paneled elevator to the residence on the second floor and then headed left through a succession of grand hallways lined with books and paintings to his private den in the far corner of the mansion. This was the Lincoln Sitting Room, the smallest room in the White House and his personal favorite. The cozy Victorian parlor was the place where he did his best thinking and writing, scribbling his ideas onto yellow legal pads to the booming strains of Victory at Sea. He settled into his plush Louis XV–style armchair, a birthday present from his wife Pat, resting his feet on the matching ottoman. A black-and-white print of the Lincoln family hung on the wall above his head, next to the window, which provided a perfect picture frame for the floodlit Washington Monument.

Snug in his sanctuary, Nixon gazed into a crackling fire set by his personal valet, Manuel Manolo Sanchez. He was still dressed in the tuxedo he had worn to the Kennedy Center, offset by black bow tie and gleaming presidential cuff links. His hair, dark brown with splotches of gray, was carefully brushed back, a sartorial choice that emphasized his receding hairline and protruding widow’s peak. His already thick jowls had filled out even more during his first four years in office. Combined with his darting eyes, they gave him a tortured look, as if he were perpetually brooding over past slights and disappointments. The upturned, slightly twisted nose, on the other hand, suggested a bumbling American everyman, like Walter Matthau in a goofy Hollywood comedy. Assembled together, it was a face that was neither handsome nor ugly, distinguished nor plebeian. But it was certainly memorable.

It was already past midnight, but the thirty-seventh president of the United States had no desire to sleep. In less than twelve hours, at noon, he would be appearing on the steps of the Capitol to deliver his second inaugural address. He was still tinkering obsessively with the text. As I stand in this place so hallowed by history, I think of others who have stood here before me, read one of his last-minute tweaks. Another note reflected his determination to scale back the Great Society that his Democratic predecessor, Lyndon Johnson, had devoted so much energy to constructing: "our goal for government—to take less from people so that people can do more for themselves."

Nixon at work on his yellow legal pad in his favorite room in the White House, the Lincoln Sitting Room. His conversations on the telephone by his left shoulder were recorded automatically.

Nixon read through the speech once more, fountain pen in hand, marking the passages he wished to emphasize in dark blue ink. He underlined some phrases and scratched in a few additions, until the text resembled a heavily annotated sheet of music. He had issued strict instructions that the speech not go a word over 1200 words. As with so many of his peremptory commands, the order had gone unfulfilled, largely due to his own contradictory impulses. He had planned to emulate Abraham Lincoln—who had used just 701 words for his second inaugural address, one of the most memorable in American history—but there was too much he wanted to say. In the end, he had settled for a speech of 1,800 words, still reasonably short by modern-day presidential standards. He calculated that it would take sixteen minutes to deliver, including applause.

As he prepared to take the oath of office for the second time, the son of the struggling Quaker grocer had many reasons to celebrate, despite his perpetually restless nature. He had been reelected by the largest margin of popular votes of any president in the nearly two-hundred-year history of the Republic. He had won the grudging respect of the foreign policy crowd—that despised band of elitist snobs—for the geostrategic brilliance of his opening to China. Most gratifying of all, he was on the cusp of concluding a peace agreement with the Communist government of North Vietnam, heralding an end to a war that had cost the lives of fifty-eight thousand Americans and countless Vietnamese. Four years previously, in his first inaugural address, he had described the title of peacemaker as the greatest honor history can bestow. The road to peace had been long and bloody, but the prize was finally within his grasp. The initialing of the peace accords was set for January 23, just three days away, in Paris.

Of course, the Nixon haters were still out in force. They had seized on the bizarre scandal spawned by the attempted bugging of Democratic Party headquarters in the Watergate office building back in June 1972—a third-rate burglary attempt, the White House spokesman Ron Ziegler had termed it—to cast a shadow over his smashing reelection victory. There had been sensational stories in the press alleging a link between the White House and the hapless band of Cubans caught in the act of breaking in to the Watergate. But the trail seemed to be petering out. The burglars were refusing to provide the names of the mysterious higher-ups who had set the plot in motion. Important witnesses had developed amnesia. Even The Washington Post, which had covered the scandal most aggressively from the beginning, was running out of leads to pursue. A special inaugural section of the newspaper titled The Nixon Years did not contain a single mention of the dreaded word Watergate.

Unable to sleep, and excited by the prospect of four more years in the White House, Nixon was eager to share the moment with the son I never had. He lifted the receiver of the telephone on the polished mahogany coffee table beside him and was instantly connected to an operator.

Mr. Colson, please.

The political operative known around Washington for his boast that I would walk over my own grandmother to ensure Nixon’s reelection came on the line less than a minute later, at 1:04 a.m.

Yes, sir, Mr. President. Despite the late hour, Chuck Colson managed to sound chipper and eager to please. He had evidently been waiting for the call.

Well, how’d you like the evening?

Nixon cut off his aide before he could answer the question. He wanted Colson to know that he had practiced the Grieg piano piece as a sophomore in high school, back in California, at a time when he had been quite advanced in music. He had never heard it performed better. In the hands of a less skillful conductor, the orchestra could easily have overwhelmed the piano. But Ormandy was superb. He was a fantastic musician and a fantastic man. Word had reached the president that the Hungarian-born maestro had told dissident members of his orchestra—goddamn left-wingers—to go to hell when they asked to be excused from the concert as a protest against the Vietnam War.

Marvelous, that’s marvelous, enthused Colson.

Formally, Colson had the title of special counsel, but this concealed his true function in the White House, which was to serve as Nixon’s chief political adviser and confidant. The self-described hatchet man was accustomed to such late-night calls, which he considered a form of handholding. One of his responsibilities was to help Nixon deal with his chronic insomnia and talk himself to sleep. A few months earlier, he had received a 1:00 a.m. call from Camp David, the president’s weekend retreat. Nixon had just returned from Moscow. It was obvious he had been drinking, in addition to taking sleeping pills to fight jet lag. He slurred his words so badly that he was practically incomprehensible. In the middle of the telephone conversation, he passed out. Worried that the president might have injured himself or could even be dead, Colson tried desperately to get back through to Camp David. He could not make a call on his own phone, because the party on the other end—Nixon—had not hung up. Rushing out into the night, he woke up a neighbor and managed to reach Manolo Sanchez, who went to investigate. After a few minutes, the valet reported back: the commander in chief was snoring peacefully.

This time, Colson had no difficulty understanding his boss. Both men viewed the inaugural festivities as an opportunity to promote a new conservative majority in the country that had cleaved off great chunks of the old Democratic coalition. They had already made inroads into the Democratic power base in the Old South by appealing to white voters alarmed by the gains of the civil rights movement. Colson had now set his sights on the labor unions, allied traditionally with the Democrats. He wanted to bring pro-Nixon union leaders to the front of the presidential reviewing stand on Pennsylvania Avenue one by one so they could stand alongside the president as he took the salute at the parade. It would be a visible demonstration of a seismic shift in American politics. Soon, the Democrats would be left with just the blacks, the poor, the intellectuals, and a lavender shirt mob composed of homos and queers.

Nixon could see the value of giving the defectors their moment in front of the television cameras. Those two and a half hours on the reviewing stand could be mined for a hell of a lot of gold. But he was worried about being caught chatting with a supporter when he should be saluting the flags carried aloft by the marching bands.

You see, I’ve got to stop every two minutes to put my hand on my heart as the flag goes by, he reminded Colson, his deep baritone voice tinged with irritation. He wanted to make sure that actual conversation was kept to a minimum. Wives must definitely be excluded.

Colson reassured him. We won’t do too much of it, but I think a little bit of it would be a nice touch . . . I believe that the New Majority is there, Mr. President. I really do.

The conversation turned to Nixon’s controversial decision to launch a massive bombing campaign against North Vietnam over Christmas. For eleven tension-filled days, waves of American B-52s supported by thousands of tactical aircraft had pounded North Vietnamese ports and airfields and power plants, as well as air defenses around Hanoi. The North Vietnamese had earlier agreed to release all American prisoners of war and permit the anti-Communist South Vietnamese leader, Nguyen Van Thieu, to remain at least temporarily in office. They refused to make further substantive concessions but did allow some token modifications to the peace agreement that were sufficient for Nixon to claim he had achieved his goal of negotiating a peace with honor. His toughness had been vindicated. The huge sacrifices of the last four years, including a further twenty-one thousand American lives, had been justified. That, at least, was how Nixon saw it.

It had not been easy. Even his national security adviser, Henry Kissinger, had wavered toward the end beneath a firestorm of criticism of the bombing from Congress and the media. Had Nixon given in to the critics, the goddamn war would have continued for months if not years, and thousands more Americans would have been killed. There was one outstanding problem: that son of a bitch Thieu was threatening to boycott the signing ceremony in Paris because he mistrusted Communist promises of an end to hostilities. But Nixon believed that his South Vietnamese ally would cave when threatened with a cutoff in American aid. Thieu was not about to commit suicide.

We go ahead and make our deal, he told Colson. We sink Thieu and everybody says, ‘Thank God [Nixon] was a tough son of a bitch on both sides.’ The hell with them.

That’s right, Colson chimed in. We accomplished our objectives.

Once peace with honor was achieved, Nixon continued, it would be Colson’s job to stick it to the antiwar people, both on Capitol Hill and in the country. We just pour it right to ’em.

It was the kind of assignment the hatchet man relished. A bespectacled former marine captain with a mischievous grin, Colson shared the president’s disdain for the East Coast elite, even though he was himself the product of a top New England prep school. He liked to boast that he had turned down a full scholarship to Harvard, choosing instead to attend slightly less prestigious Brown University, where he became a champion debater and leader of the Young Republicans. He was proud of his reputation for political ruthlessness, summed up by the Teddy Roosevelt quotation he kept in the den of his house: When you’ve got ’em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow. The president knew he could rely on Colson to carry out his orders without question—unlike some other aides, who would prevaricate when asked to do something that seemed impractical or illegal. He had put Colson in charge of dirty tricks, such as tracking down photographs of Edward Kennedy dancing with starlets or harassing the leakers of secret government documents. He praised his forty-two-year-old assistant for having the balls of a brass monkey. For Nixon, Colson was Mr. Can-Do.

Although the hour was late, Nixon wanted to give his most appreciative audience a preview of his inaugural address. He flicked through the large-font, double-spaced copy he had been marking up and began reading his favorite portions aloud.

The stuff on the world is good. I mean, it’s very strong, the president enthused. "The time has passed when America will make every other nation’s conflict our own or make other nations’ future our responsibility or presume to tell the people of other nations how to manage their own affairs . . . Get the point?"

Yes, sir. Yes, sir.

Abroad and at home, the time has come to turn away from the condescending policies of paternalism, of Washington knows best.

Oh, great.

"This is the key line. Let us measure what we will do for others by what they will do for themselves."

Mmmmm. Beautiful. Colson emitted a moan of pleasure down the phone line.

The president rushed on toward his peroration.

Let each of us remember that America was built not by government but by people, not by welfare but by work, not by shirking responsibility but seeking responsibility.

Oh, Jesus!

In the challenges we face together, let each of us ask not just how can government help, but how can I help.

Magnificent. Just magnificent, Mr. President. That is the Nixon legacy, in my humble judgment. The era of the 1960s, when Americans looked to government to solve all their problems, was definitively over.

The two men turned to the practical question of building support for Nixon’s Vietnam policy in the weeks that followed. Colson confidently expected the furor over the Christmas bombing to be forgotten as soon as the peace agreement was signed. He rattled off a stream of opinion polls to bolster his argument that the antiwar crowd was out on a big limb that was about to get sawed off.

The important thing to remember, Mr. President, is that the country does not buy a lot of the crap that they’re fed. Obviously the American people have an uncomfortable sense about the bombings and wish they had not taken place. But sixty-seven [percent] do not believe that we deliberately bombed hospitals or civilian targets.

Good God, Nixon exploded. When you think of what Eisenhower did in World War II. I mean, he decimated cities.

So did Truman.

Why did Truman drop the atomic bomb? Not because he wanted to demolish cities. Because he wanted to end the war. Why did Eisenhower bomb the shit out of the cities of North Korea?

That’s right.

And that’s what ended the war, you know.

Colson could not wait to slash the bejusus out of the Nixon critics and the jackasses in Congress who had proposed holding up funding for the war.

It’s treasonable, Nixon exclaimed.

Totally treasonable, Colson agreed. We’ll cut the bastards right to the bone.

In the meantime, he had a nugget of good news to relay. His campaign against The Washington Post for its aggressive coverage of Watergate was showing gratifying results. He had orchestrated challenges to the renewal of the parent company’s lucrative television licenses in Florida. Its stock price had plummeted by more than 25 percent in the last two weeks alone. Nervous investors were demanding the firing of the editor, Ben Bradlee. Colson had made clear that the price for calling off his attack dogs was a complete change of management. To show good faith, the Post would be required to publish a few obviously friendly editorials on how well the President is handling the Vietnam War and put the Watergate case back inside the paper where it belongs instead of blasting it across the front pages.

Colson was delighted to inform Nixon that the economy was doing great and everybody’s fortunes were up except those of the Post.

Oddly enough, their stock has dropped three more points since I told you last. It’s now $28.

That’s too damn bad, the president replied sarcastically.

Isn’t that a shame? It was $38 in December and had record earnings, and it’s dropped ten points.

Keep ’em busy, Nixon instructed.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m., finally time to go to bed. The president had to be up early the next morning for the Inauguration Day ceremonies. He said good night to his special counsel and hung up the phone. Two floors below, in a locked cabinet in the West Wing basement, a Uher 4000 reel-to-reel tape recorder stopped whirring.

The tape recorders in room WT-1 were activated by an ingenious system of electronic signals that did not require the pushing of buttons. The Secret Service logged the president’s movements around the White House. Aides could determine his location from panels of twinkling bulbs hanging above their desks, similar to the device used in English country homes to summon servants. The First Family Locator system powered up individual tape recorders, depending on the room Nixon had just entered. The Uher machine hooked up to the telephone in the Lincoln Sitting Room—extension 586—had switched itself on automatically after Nixon returned to the residence from the Kennedy Center. When he picked up the receiver to call Colson, the voltage on the line dropped. This was the signal to start recording. Placing the phone on its cradle produced a small spike in the voltage that turned off the recorder.

The taping system in other parts of the complex depended on a combination of locator devices and voice activation. The president had to be physically present in the Oval Office or his hideaway retreat in the Executive Office Building next door for the designated tape machine to power up. The recorder switched itself on whenever Nixon, or one of his aides or visitors, began to speak. It switched itself off after fifteen seconds of silence.

When first elected president, Nixon had recoiled from the very idea of a recording system. Informed that his predecessor, Lyndon Johnson, had routinely taped many of his telephone calls, he ordered that the equipment be removed, along with other LBJ gadgets, such as a triple-screen television monitoring system. But after two years in office, his thoughts turned increasingly to his own place in history. He appreciated Winston Churchill’s dictum that history will be kind to me for I intend to write it myself. Writing the kind of memoir he had in mind—one that would meticulously chronicle his accomplishments, settle scores with his enemies, and put uppity subordinates like Kissinger in their place—required the keeping of an authoritative record. Naturally, this record would be under his complete control. He alone would determine right of access. Apart from a very few trusted aides, no one else would even be aware of its existence.

Initially, he had included a note taker in important meetings, particularly with a foreign leader. The anecdotalist was also responsible for including some color, such as subtle changes of tone or facial expression, what Nixon called the intangibles. But it was difficult to find people with sufficient literary flair and high enough security clearance who were also completely trustworthy. The introvert president felt that the scribbling intruders inhibited discussion. He tried to dictate his own notes as soon as a meeting was over but was unable to set aside the necessary time. Another experiment involved stationing an aide outside the room to interview the people he had met. But this was also unsatisfactory, because it produced a skewed account of the conversation, from the point of view of Nixon’s interlocutors rather than the president himself. Eventually, at the beginning of 1971, Nixon reverted to the idea he had earlier rejected: taping his meetings and telephone conversations.

He discussed the possibilities with Bob Haldeman, who quickly identified a problem. You’ll never remember to turn it on except when you don’t want it. When you do want it, you’re always going to be shouting—afterwards, when it’s too late—that no one turned it on. That was a tactful way of putting it. Privately he considered the president far too inept with machinery ever to make a success of a switch system. Pat Nixon liked to joke that her husband had almost killed himself as a young man attempting to roller-skate. He was especially inept with tape recorders. He had trouble operating the Dictaphone that he used to record his private thoughts because he could not get the buttons straight. Any system that depended on Nixon to start and stop the recording was likely to fail, in Haldeman’s view. The solution, they both agreed, was devices that would switch themselves on whenever Nixon engaged in conversation. They instructed Haldeman’s assistant, Alexander Butterfield, to make the necessary arrangements.

To ensure maximum discretion, Butterfield turned to the technical security division of the Secret Service, the agency charged with protecting the president. The supervisor, Alfred Wong, immediately raised objections. His people were responsible for sweeping the White House to eliminate electronic eavesdropping devices, not installing new bugs, even officially sanctioned ones. They were not audio specialists. Wong mistrusted the suede-shoe operators-hucksters in the recording industry who boasted that they could guarantee high fidelity under any conditions. He foresaw a host of environmental problems, such as what might happen if the Secret Service installed a microphone in a table lamp in the Oval Office and the interior decorator wanted to take the lamp out. In that case, we would have to wrestle him to the ground and get the table lamp back. This was definitely not a simple job of mixing a few martinis and hoping you can put a microphone in an olive, he told Butterfield.

Butterfield was adamant. The president wanted a taping system. It was up to the Secret Service to create one as expeditiously as possible. Wong dropped his objections.

The first microphones and recording devices were installed over the long weekend of February 12–15, 1971, while Nixon was away in Florida, relaxing in the sun. Because there was insufficient time to design a state-of-the-art system, Wong instructed his men to use standard electronic equipment lying around their storage rooms. They spent the weekend drilling holes in the presidential desk in the Oval Office and feeding cables through the walls and floorboards. To test the microphones, they took turns sitting behind the presidential desk and holding conversations in different parts of the room. After experimenting with various options, they ended up concealing five microphones in the desk and another two behind lighting sconces on the opposite wall next to the fireplace. The microphones were connected, via mixers and switching devices, to a pair of Sony TC-800B reel-to-reel recorders in a disused telephone cabinet in the basement below. Wong’s men secured the steel closet with an iron bar and pick-resistant locks to prevent unauthorized access.

Butterfield demonstrated the Oval Office taping system to Nixon after the president got back from Florida. He explained that the recording devices were linked into the presidential locator board and were activated automatically, by voice. It doesn’t have an on-and-off switch, he informed Nixon proudly.

It was the absence of an on-off switch, not the practice of secret recording, that made Nixon unique. Every American president from FDR onward had made some use of magnetic recording devices first popularized in Germany in the mid-1930s. Angry about being misquoted by The New York Times, Roosevelt began to record his presidential news conferences in August 1940 after deciding to run for reelection to an unprecedented third term. Technicians installed a single microphone in a lamp shade on his Oval Office desk, linked to a continuous film recording machine—originally developed for the movie industry—that they hid in the basement below. The president activated the bulky machine from a control box in his desk drawer. He stopped using it after he won the election. Truman and Eisenhower both experimented with recording press conferences and scraps of private conversations but soon abandoned the practice. The first president to tape himself extensively was John F. Kennedy, who made a copious record of the anguished debates with his advisers during the Cuban missile crisis. Kennedy’s successor, LBJ, routinely recorded his telephone conversations, accumulating more than eight hundred hours of material he intended to use for his memoirs.

Like his predecessors, Nixon assumed that the tapes were his private property. After being shown the newly installed microphones in the Oval Office, he again demanded assurances that no one be allowed to listen to the recordings without his authorization. Butterfield assured him that only five people on the Secret Service staff were even aware of the existence of the tapes. They only change the spools. They cannot monitor it.

Mum’s the whole word, Nixon told Butterfield later that morning. He would not be transcribed without permission. There might be times when he would ask Butterfield to transcribe a specific conversation to correct the record, but the recordings and any transcripts were for him alone.

In accordance with Nixon’s wishes, the taping system was expanded over the next fifteen months to include the Cabinet Room, his hideaway office in the Executive Office Building, and his weekend retreat at Camp David in the mountains of Maryland. Taps were also placed on the telephones he used most frequently. With the exception of the recording devices in the Cabinet Room, which were controlled by Butterfield, there were no on-off switches.

The taping system had become so much a part of the daily White House routine that Nixon no longer gave any thought to the fact that he was recording himself. At times, he even forgot which rooms—apart from the Oval Office—were bugged and which were not.

ACT I

HUBRIS

excessive pride, presumption, or arrogance

Hubris became the mark of the Nixon man because hubris was the quality that Nixon admired most.

—CHARLES COLSON

MONDAY, JANUARY 22 | DAY 2

The Secret Service caught up with Richard Nixon as he emerged from the elevator on the ground floor of the White House, two floors below the private residence. He had come to work a little earlier than usual in order to meet with Henry Kissinger. The national security adviser was about to leave for Paris for a final negotiating session with the North Vietnamese. If all went well, he would initial an agreement to end a war that had lasted almost two decades. As was often the case in the hours leading up to a climactic point in his presidency, Nixon was on edge. He was already worrying about minor details of scheduling and presentation, determined to ensure that his moment of triumph not be sullied.

He walked along the long, red-carpeted corridor, striding past the portraits of former First Ladies and the Map Room, where Franklin D. Roosevelt had charted the course of World War II. A Secret Service man scampered in front of him, opening the twin sets of glass doors that led to the colonnade adjoining the Rose Garden. But instead of heading to the Oval Office, Nixon descended another flight of stairs to the West Wing basement. He strode across West Executive Avenue, the closed-off street that separated the West Wing of the White House from the monstrous neo-Baroque pile of the Executive Office Building. A grand outdoor staircase of twenty-six stone steps, framed by multiple pillars and balconies, brought Nixon to the hideaway office that he used for what he called his brainwork.

(Above) Nixon crosses West Executive Avenue from the West Wing to his private office in the Executive Office Building, or EOB. (Below) Aerial view of the White House Mansion, the Rose Garden, the Oval Office, and the West Wing taken from the presidential helicopter as it landed on the South Lawn. The EOB, where Nixon had his hideaway, can be seen in the background.

For decades, the EOB had served as the unloved adjunct of the White House, a place of exile for bureaucrats who were not sufficiently close to the president to command an office in the West Wing. Dubbed the ugliest building in America by Mark Twain, it had been built in the aftermath of the Civil War to house a rapidly expanding federal bureaucracy. But it had acquired a sudden prestige as a result of Nixon’s decision to use the Oval Office primarily for ceremonial purposes. Obsessed with privacy and solitude, he was determined to escape the hothouse atmosphere of the West Wing and the prying eyes of aides and journalists who were still camped out in the lobby at the beginning of his presidency.

After reviewing various possibilities, he settled on an airy first-floor suite known as EOB 175, with twenty-foot-high ceilings and a patio overlooking the White House. He decorated his study with a selection of gavels from his time presiding over the Senate as vice president, dozens of miniature elephants, the symbol of the Republican Party, footballs, and a prized hole-in-one golf card. A collection of political cartoons celebrating his various election victories, beginning with his trouncing of the soft on Communism congressman Jerry Voorhis in California in 1946, adorned the walls of the staff office next door. Hidden behind the bathroom and kitchen, in the mysteriously named room 175½, was a telephone equipment closet used to house a battery of tape recorders connected to microphones drilled into the desk in Nixon’s office. The placement of the microphones made it difficult, sometimes impossible, to pick up conversations in other parts of the room.

Prior to moving in, Nixon had demanded that his study be equipped with a big comfortable chair similar to the one I now have in the Lincoln Sitting Room. His wife, Pat, arranged for a much-loved lounge chair and matching ottoman to be brought down from his Fifth Avenue apartment in New York, where he had worked as a lawyer before assuming the presidency. He also requested a pretty good bookshelf where he could place books by the authors he most revered, such as Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, and Charles de Gaulle. For relaxation, he turned to biographies of Theodore Roosevelt, political thrillers by writers like Allen Drury, and the World War II novels of Herman Wouk, which he kept on his desk.

Nixon permitted his alter ego, Colson, to move in to a neighboring suite but kept other top aides, including Haldeman, Kissinger, and his press secretary, Ron Ziegler, a safe distance away in the West Wing. They would come only when summoned.

A bodyguard logged the arrival of Searchlight—Nixon’s Secret Service code name—in the Executive Office Building at 7:56 a.m. on Monday, January 22. It was the first full working day of his second presidential term. As he stepped into his private office, he was greeted by his valet, Manolo. After ten years in Nixon’s service, Manolo had become accustomed to his routines. Breakfast usually consisted of cold wheat germ cereal, orange juice, coffee, and glass of skim milk, served in his bedroom. After breakfast, Nixon typically ran in place for a few minutes to get his adrenaline going. He had already picked out what he was going to wear the night before, a dark suit, white shirt, and sober tie. On this particular morning, he delayed washing up until arriving in his EOB suite. The voice-activated Sony TC-800B tape machine began rolling as he issued a gruff instruction to Manolo to fetch his bathrobe.

Kissinger poked his head around the heavy oak doors twenty minutes later. Nixon had been sitting in his armchair dictating a letter to the evangelist Billy Graham about the Sunday church service in the White House. He gestured to Kissinger to pull up a chair opposite him. All set for your trip? he asked. Kissinger assured him that the peace treaty would be initialed by Tuesday evening, in time for Nixon’s planned television broadcast. He had been shuttling back and forth between Washington and Paris for three and a half years. The first few meetings with the North Vietnamese had taken place in complete secrecy, surrounded by the kind of mystery and intrigue including disguises, false identities, and lies about his schedule that Kissinger relished. It was only after Nixon publicly revealed the existence of a back channel to Hanoi in January 1972 that reporters finally caught up with the man they came to call Super K.

Nixon with Kissinger in his hideaway office in the Executive Office Building. A paging device for summoning aides is visible beside the telephone on the president’s desk, at bottom right, alongside one of Nixon’s miniature elephants.

After Kissinger left the room, Nixon