Keep the Lid On

LIDDY STRODE stealthily down the carpeted hallway. He paused every few steps to make sure no one heard him. He felt carefully along the wall until his hand grasped a familiar object: a doorknob. He waited again, his chest heaving. He tried to control his breathing. From inside his plaid polyester sport jacket he drew a Mickey Mouse penlight--a gift from the gang in the Company after a memorable visit to Disneyland in 1971. He struggled with the door knob lock, employing his special tools fashioned from stolen forks. It was a motel-style lock, easily picked. He had once owned a key to the door, but Liddy didn't trust keys. Keys were hard to swallow if you got caught.

When the lock clicked, Liddy nudged the door open. He shined the penlight into the dark, revealing familiar furnishings: a washbasin and a toilet. He squatted behind the door and ran his hand along the wall. He silently counted the ceramic tiles, seven across from the right wall, four up from the floor. Liddy picked at the soft plaster until the tile came loose. Again using one of his handmade tools, he removed the tile and slipped it into his coat pocket. Liddy plunged three fingers into the vacant hollow and withdrew a small white paper slip. In the same motion he placed the paper in his pocket, replaced the tile, and tiptoed back to the hall. He didn't want the Hungarian cleaning lady to surprise him again.

Once outside, Liddy hopped into the driver's seat of his panzer tank. He was distressed to find a parking ticket tucked under the gunmount. At last, he unfolded the paper. It was a blind memorandum, a standard CIA message with no saluation, no signature. The message read:

'Write a novel. Everyone else did.'

A WEEK LATER, Liddy was sitting in the executive office of a New York publishing house. A publishing executive across the desk was shaking his head emphatically. Liddy clearly looked disappointed but remained calm. From the left breast pocket of his leisure suit he drew a small white candle and a matchbook. Holding a match to the candle base, he melted it until the candle stuck firmly upright on the desk. Then he lit the wick.

"Until you agree to a $50,000 advance, I'll hold my hand in this flame," said Liddy.

Liddy positioned his right hand over the candle so that the flame licked at his palm. Soon, the room filled with the scent of burning flesh. Liddy did not flinch. The stench became overwhelming. The executive pushed a button on his intercom.

"Miss Moody," he squeaked. "Make out a check for $50,000 to Mr. Liddy."

Liddy blew out the candle.

"Don't worry," smiled Liddy. "I type with two fingers anyway."

Liddy stared at his typrwriter, inspecting it for boobytraps. It looked safe but as a precaution he stood several feet from his desk and used a fire poker to strike an "L." Satisfied, he sat down to write the first sentence of his novel:

"If patience is a virtue, Edward Zlin thought to himself, I am not a virtuous man."

Liddy was thrilled with his progress. He called William Colby.

"Four-o-seven-eight," answered Colby with his CIA code number.

Liddy read him the sentence. After a long silence, Colby grunted. A grunt in CIA-talk means, "I just caught a slug in the gut," or "Sounds like you're novel's coming along nicely."

"Thank you," said Liddy. Colby hung up.

Next, Liddy called E. Howard Hunt and read him the sentence, Hunt grunted.

A grunt in novelist-talk means, "I just got shot in the stomach," or "I hope you got a big advance from the publisher."

"I did," said Liddy. Hunt hung up.

Finally, Liddy called Richard Nixon.

"Uh, hello," said Nixon.

Liddy read him the sentence. Nixon hung up.

It took him by surprise. It crept up behind him. It crushed him by the weight of its blow: the need for a plot. He left his typewriter and consulted the books in his den. Certainly one of them should provide a plot worth appropriating. He leafed through his books--all manuals. He had airplane manuals, car manuals, weapons manuals. And of course, a tattered sex manual. His head filled with story ideas, confidence renewed, he returned to his writing desk.

He pecked out lengthy sentences describing airplane take-offs, car transmissions and rifle barrels. And of course, he wrote about sex:

She received and expressed pleasure so well, and Rand's own pleasure was directly proportionate to what he was able to give. The two of them together, he thought, were like compound turbines increasing each other's rpm reciprocally until they went through the red line and fused from the heat of a passion that exceeds human design limits.

When he finished, he showed his manuscript to William Colby.

"Great stuff, said Colby. Liddy smiled under his mustache.

"But there are no characters besides Zlin," said Colby.

"Oops," replied Liddy.

IMAGINATION did not agree with Liddy. He grew pale, his throat throbbed, irregularity plagued him. Still, he made no progress. On April 24, at 2:37 p.m., inspiration attacked. While thumbing through a Robert Ludlum novel, it hit him--characters. He swiftly plugged them into the plot: the "very Nordic" Rick Rand, suave financial genius; the "very oriental" T'sa Li, Rick's sex-hungry girlfriend; Mikhail Sarkov, KGB agent posing as multinational chairman Greg Ballinger; T'ang Li, T'sa Li's mammoth brother and Kung Fu expert. Liddy threw in a mafia don and several Company people because, after all, they were his friends. He kept Edward Zlin, because, after all, Zlin was Liddy.

Zlin was not so much concerned with the personal consequences of discovery and apprehension as he was with mission failure. Failure would plague him, give him no rest...Zlin did not consider his act theft, nor himself a thief. He was acting on behalf of his government and would retain none of the money, nor derive any gain from it.

Liddy showed his second draft to Howard Hunt.

"Whew!" whistled Hunt. Liddy beamed.

"But there's no style," said Hunt, "no metaphors."

"Oh," replied Liddy.

Liddy sat back down and contemplated figures of speech. His thoughts drifted to sex. Fantasies of French virgins brought him to new metaphorical heights--sex as photography:

"I have come to take your picture."

"What?"

"I am twenty-two. I have decided. You are a good man. It is time."

Slowly and carefully Garance lowered her camera toward him. Rand reached up, cupped her buttocks in his palms and guided her lens down gently to a close-up of his mouth.

Liddy called Nixon.

"I finished my book," he said.

"Join the club," said Nixon. "What's it about?"

Liddy summarized: "The CIA suspects Greg is linked to the Soviets. Rick, armed with documents stolen from Greg's safe, sets out to prove the connection. He shrewdly manipulates some multinational stock holdings and prepares to take over Greg's company. Greg kidnaps T'sa Li and runs her finger through a meat grinder. T'ang Li rescues his sister. Greg escapes by plane but Rick, piloting his private Messerschmitt, knocks him out of the sky in a dogfight over Manhattan."

"Thanks for calling," said Nixon. "Now I don't have to read the book."