Seventh Crisis

Baedeker

He ran late at night or early in the morning. He ran in air heavy with humidity in the least warm hours of June—not to avoid heat, which Hayes could endure as well as anyone, but to avoid the noxious traffic fumes of day.

The major part of his urban course, however, included some of Washington's finest landscapes and best-known monuments, all of them dramatically lit after dark. The Presidential Ellipse as well as the Congressional Mall—two miles of clipped and hedged lawns, from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial—these served, in his special hours of running, as his privileged, almost personal track.

All year round, John Cabot Hayes enjoyed wide sidewalks and pebbly walkways, and even a few grassy trails—though discouraged by a battalion of unhappy National Parks Service grounds keepers—that were taken advantage of by avid runners like himself and not a few respected lawmakers. For nearly an entire fall, one glorious Indian summer that extended well into November, back when he was employed by the Treasury Department, Hayes had run early mornings almost every day, their schedules coinciding, with Senator William Proxmire—and an initially apprehensive aide running close behind them. Proxmire, of course, assumed that Hayes knew who he was and had never actually introduced himself. And Hayes, for professional reasons, had never volunteered his own name. One fine fall morning Hayes found himself running for almost an hour with both Proxmire and the pterodactylic Senator Strom Thurmond, who did not at all slow them down for the four or five miles the unlikely trio ran together.

And often, in charting Washington's most hallowed grounds, Hayes acted as his own Baedeker. He sometimes planned his runs so that they coincided with historical events.

One hot August he'd toured every genuine remnant of the 1812 British march on the Capitol, either by walking or running, for Hayes insisted that the only authentic way to celebrate an important event or to truly experience a historical monument is to do it on foot: pacing the crumbling walls of a quadrangle and counting cannon pocks and climbing the one lookout tower that remains from that era—and tasting the acrid breath of one's own activity. An ultra-comfortable Gray Line view gained by sitting in an air conditioned bus was, to Hayes, slothfulness beyond imagination.

And Hayes had ended his self-charted Baedeker's tour by having dinner at City Tavern, as British officers had done on the same date, a hundred and sixty years earlier, after they'd burned the Capitol and the President's House. No television cameras, no newspaper reporters in attendance—the event too obscure to be mentioned in local or national news—Hayes alone marked the anniversary (not celebrated!) by requesting lamb with onion sauce, boiled new potatoes, and fresh green peas, the same menu he'd been served at the Kews, at Stratford on Avon. And not a single waiter in the restaurant knew the significance of that historic date.

On another occasion Hayes traced the escape route of John Wilkes Booth in ten-mile daily segments, running from Ford's Theater down the Oldham Trail into Maryland, to Surrattsville. One hundred years later—and probably as sweaty as Booth must have been after his horseback ride on that unusually warm April night, in 1865—Hayes had sprinted with upraised arms at exactly one o'clock in the morning on April 15, 1965, into the public square where Mary Surratt had been seized by federal troops, illegally, and later hanged for reputedly helping Booth. Years later she would be declared innocent by several prominent historians, Hayes had discovered.

But the subtly distinguished seasons of the Capital accounted for most of Hayes' nocturnal and early-morning mapping—with spring his favorite. In early April he would inspect the budding pale Akebonos near the Jefferson Memorial, and then the white Yoshinos a week or two later. And at season's worst, when mechanized rubberneckers jammed Maine Avenue daily, chrome to chrome—the majority remaining in their vehicles for a lazy and polluted and hasty view of the cherry blossoms—Hayes would loop down, running close to the river at Hains Point, where the richest trees are always the last to flower.

Hayes knew that few knee-stockinged and Kodak-carrying tourists, and even fewer Washingtonians, had ever risen early enough to enjoy his visions of double cherry blossoms shrouded in white by misty dawn, and deep pink blossoms underlain by fleecy fog rising from the Potomac. These views belonged almost exclusively to Hayes and his fellow naturalists, several distinguished American pictorialist painters (dating back almost two hundred years), and a few adventurous photographers.

Past the Potomac, having paid homage to Pierre Charles L'Enfant—whose tomb was Hayes' private pylon, his five-mile turning point—he was now surveying, under a slightly hazy summer sky, the view that was brightly displayed before him. From an off-limits, upper portion area of Arlington National Cemetery, he could see most of L'Enfant's hundred-square-mile dream, which L'Enfant had envisioned and sketched, but didn't live to see.

Hayes had flown over this national monument several times with old army friends of his. On clear winter nights he had been able to see Fort Stevens, where General Jubal's troops had threatened President Lincoln for months. He had seen, on the highest approaches to the city, where Forts deRussey and Reno had been built. (Villainous congressmen had allowed Fort Reno to be razed, ruined, and forgotten, now buried beneath a reservoir!) And Military Road, too—Hayes was able to discern the approach, now roughly traced by the Southeast Freeway, taken by the British Armies some sixty years before the Civil War, where they had encountered shamefully light resistance.

Around midnight, and often later, with no more than sparse traffic on Memorial Bridge, there had been magical times in his running when, with no vehicles on the 200 foot metal draw span, Hayes thought he could discern a muted metallic chiming that echoed his footfall. At half speed (heels hitting first, feet out-thrust in the shortened, break-fall stride he'd devised to keep from over-running—and stumbling—on steep bridges elsewhere) his deliberately heavy footfall now engendered—maybe—faint echoes from the recent steel underpinning of this, his favorite pier-and-arch bridge.

Often his altered cadence brought to mind a few patriotic tunes, and now—proudly humming America Forever—John Cabot Hayes was crossing the Potomac. Soon he was clipping the rhythm of his pace to match the double-time stepping of his often imagined companions, Archibald Willard's famous '76ers, the bedraggled fife and drum corps who—ragged and weary, bandaged but victorious—marched beside Hayes as he made his entrance into the heart of the District of Columbia.

Breaking and Entering

When John Hayes came striding down from history, running past midnight into the second hour of June 17, 1972, he ran down along the Potomac and looped back over to Virginia, where he encountered an aberration in his view of the Washington landscape—at 2600 Virginia Avenue—that troubled him.

Already he had run past Gordon Liddy's souped-up Jeep, a green golf pennant tied to its antenna, and Howard Hunt's faded four-door Pontiac—a family car for a family man, not exactly the sporty vehicle you'd expect a mystery writer and master spy to drive. Both were legally parked on the avenue, near Attorney General Mitchell's Watergate apartment.

But ahead, parked amidst maybe a dozen no-parking signs, was a battered old Ford, exactly the kind of unmarked car the Metropolitan Police unimaginatively employ for their TAC units. Hayes had learned the hard way that criminals are, at minimum, as smart as crows. He knew that D.C.'s worst elements are always leery of well-fed, healthy young bums riding around in a ratty old car. And he knew for certain that any fool on Chicago's South Side could spot the FBI a block away in the generally conspicuous Brooks Brothers business suits they wore, even on slummy Wabash in summertime. Find the ludicrously overdressed man at a crime scene and there's a good chance you've picked out an FBI agent. Former FBI agent Hayes had learned this the hard way, a year before leaving the agency, a year after some savvy punk had popped a .25 slug into his left calf.

Hayes circled this very suspicious old Ford. None of its wheels had been locked by the D.C. police. Its hood hadn't been propped up to signal distress. And it didn't seem to Hayes that this jalopy's owner could afford to ignore the tow-away sign close to its windshield. With the heel of his hand, Hayes butted a side vent that hadn't been fully cocked. He unlocked the door and ran his hand under the dash until he found what he had guessed would be there—a coiled cord with a microphone dangling from it.

He ran directly across the street and into the Howard Johnson Motor Lodge, nodding to the night clerk and others who did a double take at this sweaty runner wearing nothing but ultra-light nylon running briefs and Addidas and a blood-red bandanna around his forehead. Up the aggravatingly slow elevator, running the hallways, Hayes stopped at Room 723. He and Gordon Liddy had carefully selected this room—after examining a total of six and renting two of them—for its unobstructed view across the street, and for its straight-line transmitting path for a couple of tiny telephone and room bugs that had been placed—and were to be augmented—in offices across Virginia Avenue.

The door to Room 723 opened slightly. Yes?

It wasn't that Alfred Baldwin didn't know who Hayes was—he knew, all right. Hayes, whom Liddy had introduced to Baldwin as Rutherford, was the only one associated with Liddy's mission who'd voluntarily offered to relieve Baldwin from his day-in, day-out chore. Since the Memorial Day weekend, for more than two weeks now, Baldwin had been cooped up in this single room—where he had intercepted and transcribed more than two hundred telephone calls—for eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Hayes had come to Room 723 twice, allowing Baldwin to spend a couple of evenings as far away from the Howard Johnson as he could get.

I think..., said Hayes, hesitating, for he had no official role in this business, I think you may have a serious problem on your hands.

I'm not aware of any problem. The door, still opened just a crack, didn't move.

Hayes had called Baldwin early in the afternoon to say that since he had duties that would be keeping him in town for the weekend, he would be willing to relieve him for a few hours that evening. But rather nervously—and surprisingly it seemed to Hayes—Baldwin had turned him down.

Ah—listen, said Hayes. This is no real concern of mine, but there's a mighty suspicious vehicle parked in front of the Watergate entrance.

The door closed.

Hayes had provided Liddy with a detailed breakdown of the Watergate Office Building—for purposes never fully explained by Liddy, which did not bother Hayes.

Following daytime and early-evening visits to the Watergate, Hayes had been able to sketch all of its entrances and exits, noting which were accessible at night, which remained open to the central hallway at all times.... More importantly—judging by Liddy's fleeting reaction—Hayes had discovered that the back stairwell opened directly into the sixth floor offices, the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee and its arrogant chairman, Lawrence O'Brien.

The door opened slightly. Baldwin peered out at Hayes with only one eye. It's just a beat up old Ford.

Hayes glanced up and down the hall before continuing. Look, Al, it's after midnight, and God knows that Hunt always needs his beddy-bye. Hunt's here, Liddy is here—his jeep is parked over in front of Mitchell's place. And you're suddenly acting as if you were guarding Fort Knox. One more thing. Your beat-up old Ford has a microphone hidden up under the dash. Enough?

Okay, okay, said Baldwin, opening the door. Look, it's just that—

I know, said Hayes. Orders are orders. Where are Liddy's binoculars?

Hayes opened a sliding glass door leading to the balcony. Across the street, the sixth floor of the Watergate appeared to be okay. A quick scan of the other floors revealed nothing out of the ordinary. But then Hayes said, You've got lights going on and off on the eighth floor.

I've reported that—it's just a guard check. Every hour on the hour.

Hayes knew quite well when the guards checked the building. When Liddy had sought Hayes' help a second time, Hayes gave up a weekend in Providence so that he could visit a guard who worked nights at the Watergate, an army pal he hadn't seen in twenty years. His army buddy wasn't there, but Hayes talked his way past the downstairs guard and made an unannounced visit, at midnight, to the Federal Reserve guards' post on the eighth floor. The other guards, fortunately, were also army retirees, as was Hayes' friend. And with them Hayes nurtured a two-hour chat (mainly about the boredom of retirement) that lasted long enough for Hayes to observe the hours at which they made their rounds, that they ordinarily had two men on duty at all times, and that they had no regular contact with the Watergate guard down in the lobby, whose rounds were independent of theirs. And he'd noticed that the Watergate guard looked only for something out of the ordinary—such as a light that had been left on or a door that had been left open.

With Liddy's binoculars, the ones he and Gordon had used in the selection of this particular room, Hayes carefully inspected the sixth floor. No lights. No movement. Have you warned them—told them anything about the car?

I must have been in the bathroom when it drove up. When you knocked I hadn't seen it yet.

Perhaps you should tell them we're fairly certain there's an unmarked police car out front.

Suppose it's just a false alarm—suppose it's not the police?

You figure it's a pauper trying to rent top-dollar office space in the middle of the night?

Baldwin lifted a cushion from the couch and fished around for the small transceiver he'd evidently hidden there. If the problem before them were not so serious, Hayes might have been amused by Baldwin's antics. A makeshift antenna had been taped to one of the glass doors. Tape recorders, an oscilloscope, and receivers of various sorts were stacked here and there. And screwdrivers and electrician's tape and electronic parts of all description were scattered everywhere. Apparently McCord had been there earlier in the evening. The place resembled a Nazi espionage nest straight out of World War II movies, and Baldwin had chosen to hide his walkie-talkie, the most innocuous tool there.

Hayes remembered Liddy's forthright and unflattering assessment of Baldwin. Shortly after succeeding McCord as Martha Mitchell's personal bodyguard, Baldwin had managed to drive her limousine smack into the middle of a peace demonstration—and then he'd stalled the car while trying to get away. The Metro police eventually came to Mrs. Mitchell's aid. Baldwin lasted only a couple of weeks, and then McCord—for reasons unknown to either Liddy or Hunt, and now to Hayes—had hired this failed FBI agent for a bit of super-secret electronic surveillance.

Baldwin stood at the glass door, whispering: Two to base, two to base. He seemed almost embarrassed at having to use coded language. What Baldwin didn't know, apparently, was that even a low-power transmitter can be intercepted by the wrong persons. Liddy had told Hayes how McCord's first tests of the transmitters had produced shadowy and garbled interference on the room's television set.

Hold it, said Hayes. We've got some movement here. How are your men dressed—in jeans, T-shirts...?

Hayes watched as someone—casually dressed, wearing a baseball cap, a flashlight in his hand—was proceeding cautiously, entering each room with a key, turning on a light, checking the room carefully, looking into closets, searching under desks and around partitions. Police, Hayes thought to himself. But the man had no weapon—or at least Hayes could not see a gun. Could this be one of Liddy's men? But Liddy's men would not be turning on lights!

Now there were two others—out on the balcony. One of the men stretched over the metal and concrete railing, holding onto the railing with one hand. He leaned far out, over nothing but warm night air, evidently trying to see whether there were lights on the floor below.

A frequency-squeezed voice—probably from another rented room, or from across the street somewhere—answered Baldwin's call. Base here. Read you loud and clear. The sound, coming from the walkie-talkie and also from a receiver somewhere in McCord's bank of equipment, was pinched but strident. Hayes could tell that Gordon Liddy was speaking.

Baldwin asked, How are our men dressed—in work clothes, in jeans...?

Negative. They're in business suits—all of them.

Hayes grabbed the transceiver from Baldwin. Cops, he said. Three plainclothesmen. Two of them on the balcony, on the sixth floor. One inside. They're turning on lights and checking out every room on the avenue side.

Now Hayes saw what he'd been looking for. And guns—they've drawn their guns!

Another voice—high-pitched, excited: Base to one, base to one.

There was no answer from the Watergate.

Base to one, base to one—come in, goddamnit! The panicky, out of control voice was definitely that of Howard Hunt.

Then Liddy's voice: Base to one, base to one. Come in, God damn you—this is an order!

To Hayes, Baldwin said, We haven't been able to reach them for an hour. They've turned off their walkie-talkies or they just can't hear us. They were supposed to report to Liddy when they were in the DNC offices, but we never heard from them.

Hayes gave the transceiver back to Baldwin. Maybe you can reach them. From here you have only glass panes to get through.

Baldwin jacked into the antenna attached to the glass door. Two to one, two to one. Can you hear me?

After Baldwin had made three attempts, followed each time by nothing but faint static, Hayes said, Where did you hide the .45?

From the nightstand, Baldwin brought out the .45 Colt that McCord had given him when he'd been hired to protect Martha Mitchell. Reluctantly he handed it to Hayes.

Hayes dropped to one knee—untying his laces, removing the nylon pouch in which he carried his driver's license and the Treasury Department gun-toting permit that he himself updated annually so that he would have a quasi-legal excuse for keeping a 7.65mm Colt in the glove compartment of his car. If he'd ever gotten into trouble over the ID, Hayes had friends at Treasury who would have vouched for its authenticity. On the bed were a wallet, a considerable wad of bills—the top bill definitely a hundred—a set of keys, a pocket knife, quarters and pennies....

Your stuff? asked Hayes.

McCord's. Hunt gave him a phony ID to take along.

"Jim McCord is across the street?" James McCord was on the payroll of the National Republican Party as well as the Committee to Re-elect the President. McCord was security chief for both, and the payrolls of both organizations are available to the General Accounting Office. Therefore it was a matter of public record that he worked for the Republican hierarchy.

The possible fallout, if McCord was to be arrested, weighed down on Hayes—heavily. He sat on the bed, feeling as if he'd just completed a marathon.

McCord went in with the others?

I wouldn't worry about it. He was supposed to get in and out in a hurry. All he had to do was fix one of the bugs and then get the hell out of there.

Baldwin's powers of ratiocination were appalling to Hayes. I suppose he simply forgot his wallet and keys—and his van—and walked home to Maryland.

Hayes drew a deep breath, trying to regain his energy. Try to reach them one more time, he said.

"Two to one, two to one. Macho—can you read me? Macho!"

No response.

Hayes held out a hand for the transceiver—I'm heading across the street. I'll try to call them from the back stairwell.

When Baldwin hesitated—confused, clearly not knowing what to do, not wanting to disobey orders—Hayes said, "Okay, you hike it across the street, shoot the lobby guard, and make contact. I'll order a few hors d'oeuvres from room service, watch a little TV, and wait for you here. How's that?"

Hayes clipped Baldwin's walkie-talkie to his trunks. With the antenna retracted, it resembled a large paging device. He ran down the hall and bounded down the stairs. Faster than waiting for the elevator. For the trip through the lobby he'd concealed the pistol in a small box that had held electronics parts—parts that he'd dumped onto the floor of Room 723. A hurried walk through the lobby and a quick sprint across the street.

There were no other police cars in sight, no sirens yet. But Hayes could see that most of the lights on the sixth floor had been turned on. None of McCord's men would have switched on a single light without being ordered to do so. Hayes found