Endgame At Watergate

By Bob Hyslop

1973 The 16th Jonas Forbes Thriller
March 1973 and the Watergate Scandal is drifting over into public outcry. President Nixon struggles to avoid exposure of a decade’s misdeeds. A tension-filled Washington may not be the best place to be. An English diplomat, Peter Northwood, is murdered - surely by mistake. Jonas Forbes, notorious for his ‘direct approach’ to solving crime, is sent by the UK Foreign Office to help the MPD and FBI in their competitive investigations. But he’s certainly not a welcome addition to the investigation and soon realises he can trust nobody.
Quickly he’s sheltering a witness from the Mafia. But is information being leaked from the MPD or the FBI – or both? Certainly a hitman is in desperate pursuit – knowing failure will mean his own death. Fearing betrayal the Trafficante capofamiglia orders a thorough ‘spring-clean’ to be carried out by the subordinate Gibellina famiglia.
Meanwhile, within the Gibellina famiglia trouble opens up a second front. Vespasianu, heir apparent to the crown of capofamiglia, is more ambitious than his consigliere father, ready to use both his sister, Cettina, and extreme violence to further his ambitions. Cettina is determined to strike back and looks for help both inside and outside the famiglia. What can induce Jonas to offer her help? Will betraying Peter’s murderer prove enough? How can she pit him against her brother without destroying her family?
Jonas disappears - to the irritation of the MPD and FBI, the alarm of the Gibellinas and the despair of friends and family back home. Who will come out on top?
A fast-paced and violent thriller set against a political system in crisis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Hyslop
• Release date: Jan 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9780957369498

Bob Hyslop

I am a retired teacher, living near Chichester, Sussex, UK. I am married with one daughter and two grandsons. Apart from writing my main hobbies are Family History, Music (all kinds) and playing the guitar. I have published four historical novels under different names which, you may find, still in print. I should point out that I wrote for my OWN enjoyment with the hope that others might also enjoy my books. What SERIOUSLY undermines my sales is my reluctance to be involved in social media. The details of my email account proves I am no recluse: I just focus on the negative sides of social media and so avoid them. However, you can contact me via my blog site re' my books and I'd welcome your questions and comments. I promise to check for them regularly.

Book preview

ENDGAME

AT

WATERGATE

Bob Hyslop

‘… What can be avoided

Whose end is purposed by the almighty gods?’

(William Shakespeare ‘Julius Caesar’ II: 2:26)

‘The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it."

(Omar Khayyam ‘Rubaiyat’}

‘The Jonas Forbes Saga’: Vol. 16

First published in Great Britain 2015

Cuthan Books (http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk)

Copyright Bob Hyslop

The right of Bob Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN 9780957369498

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To the Gallant Knights and Fated Pawns who battle in the chess game of life without realising how essential they are.

Acknowledgement to ‘Watergate: The Hidden History’ by Lamar Waldron (2012) for material so useful in navigating through a most complex episode in US history & apologies for any misunderstanding or interpretation of events

CONTENTS

CHAP 1. A PAWN TOO FAR

CHAP 2. IN JUMPS THE KNIGHT

CHAP 3. BATTLE IS JOINED

CHAP 4. A QUEEN ENTERS THE FRAY

CHAP 5. BETRAYAL?

CHAP 6. A KNIGHT IS SACRIFICED

CHAP 7. CHECKMATE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAP. 1. A PAWN TOO FAR

For a scant few seconds Peter Norwood could think of nothing: his mind convulsed by terror - then his body crashed into the sidewalk outside 2778, Thirty-Fourth St. NE Washington and even terror disintegrated.

Life and chess have much in common – opportunities (missed or secured), defeats (escaped or complete), gambits and sacrifices, triumphs and disasters. In many ways both exist on three planes – opening, middle and endgame – but nobody knows the most important, except with the treacherous mirror of hindsight, and then it’s too late! Peter Norwood had played out his role as a Pawn, an over-ambitious pawn suffering the consequences. But enough of chess analogies, at least for the moment.

Peter Anthony William Norwood was born in Shepton Mallet, Somerset on 23 March 1946 to Dr Philip and Margaret Norwood. Philip had been educated at Sherbourne School, then at King’s College, Cambridge, acquiring a First before carving out a successful career as a heart surgeon. His eldest son, Philip, followed his father to Sherbourne School and subsequently to King’s and then to a First (in PPP) before entering, as if preordained, the profession of Law (albeit as a solicitor rather than via the preferred branch at the Bar).

The second son, Peter, wasn’t quite up to the mark (because isn’t life really a race from GO! to the Tape?), passing through Preparatory School with clear distinction, then Sherbourne School with distinction, and on to red-brick Bristol to secure a modest 2:2 in Geography. Peter tried to blot out the clear disappointment in maternal eyes (and contempt in those of his father) by enrolling in the modest ranks of the Civil Service based at Charles Street in Whitehall to which were entrusted the Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. The heart surgeon secured the assistance of the solicitor in the family to persuade a cousin (who was an MP) and an even more distant cousin (a retired judge) to manipulate whatever operated as cogs of influence within the corridors of Whitehall to secure a responsible position within the UK Embassy in Washington. There the family hoped Peter might enjoy a respectable, if not glittering, career on the treadmill serving the wielders and shakers of the political class – or, at least, do whatever he could do well away from an unappreciative family. And that is BASICALLY how Peter Norwood finished up on Washington concrete. But let’s examine the minutiae of the catastrophe.

&&&

It was Saturday 17 February 1973 and ironically ‘President’s Day’ because what started then was to play a very minor part in the downfall of a president. George Washington, whose birthday had been on this day and hence its title, would have been shocked by what was already coming to light regarding his current successor and what would soon disturb / appal the nation he’d cherished. The previous year the ‘Committee to Re-elect the President’ (aka CREEP – how appropriate) for months had dirtied its hands in dubious activities. Some of these had been reported in the newspapers. Even so, on Tuesday 7 November 1972 47,168,710 had voted for Richard Milhaus Nixon (President since 1969) or 60’7% of the voters; in the Electoral College the triumph was even more spectacular with 520-17. Looking back some members of CREEP may well have wondered why they’d risked detection, and historians have wondered the same ever since. Although Nixon had been sworn in as President on 20 January at the Capital’s East Portico, in his speech declaring that ‘We shall answer to God, to history, and to our conscience for the way in which we use these years.’, his staff were making sure they wouldn’t suffer earthly judgement for their actions over the past few months. They were trying to conceal or destroy those activities usually grouped together as the Watergate Scandal.

So what had all this to do with Peter Anthony William Norwood? Nothing. What had all this to do with his murder? Everything.

Peter and his fiancée, Barbara Evershed, had arrived in Washington on 6 February after crossing the ‘pond’ for the first time, and found it somewhat difficult to get over the excitement – or should that be exuberance? For several days that nasty experience called work or, even worse, ‘doing your duty’ got in the way. So much to learn, so many new faces to remember, such unfamiliar customs and manners to master, meant they only even talked at the end of the day in the small apartment (NOT ‘flat’!) they were renting in Willard Street NW. They were gradually mastering the daily trip to the British Embassy at 3100 Massachusetts Avenue NW. Barbara had been most impressed by the ambassador, (George) Rowland Stanley Baring, 3rd Earl of Cromer, especially when she heard he’d been Governor of the Bank of England for five years. Naturally Lord Cromer turned on the charm which, in his case, meant playing down the number of notable positions he’d held. Peter realised how much he’d have to play up his meagre haul of past responsibilities, although he managed not to be over-awed by ‘His Nibs’, as several of his colleagues called the Ambassador.

At last, on the second Saturday they’d been in Washington, Peter insisted they should have the day off and ‘hit the tourist trail’, spoken in what he hoped approximated to an American drawl. Unfortunately, Barbara had to sit in on a UK citizen threatened with deportation following arrest at an anti-war demo. Essential for me to get my feet under the table, she’d insisted and so they’d agreed to meet at the main entrance to the American History Museum on Constitution Avenue – which she had no great desire to visit, unlike her husband. The plan was for them to go on to the Natural History Museum ‘next door’ – neither had become acclimatised to the size of American buildings!

So Peter found himself in the American History Museum soon after the doors opened at 10:00. He’d been amazed at the range of exhibits, from the original star-spangled banner to military equipment to the red shoes worn by Judy Garland in ‘The Wizard of Oz’; a range of fascination far wider than to be found in London’s British Museum - but then that institution tackled human activity on a much wider scale. He was particularly interested in locating exhibits relating to the American Civil War. Why? One of the few historical topics enthralling him at Sherbourne School had been Cromwell and the English Civil War - Peter seemed unable to grasp the only link between the two conflicts was the word ‘Civil’.

He was examining a photograph of ‘A Burial Party on the Battlefield of Cold Harbour’, fought in June 1864, and reflecting that, from what he’d been told by men who’d served in Korea and such-like, conditions hadn’t changed much over the last hundred years. He’d been indulging in remembered tales of the trenches and ‘over-the-top’ heroes in World War I, which his teachers had seemed to worship, when an exchange from the right suddenly intruded itself.

CREEP must have got well over a million bucks, for God’s sake!

We’ve still gotta go on our knees to Uncle Sam if we wanna’ get any say-so to get stuck in.

He looked at the speakers. One was a shortish, squarish sort of individual in what appeared to be a bright-blue suit largely concealed by a heavy trench-coat. He had his back to Peter but was the next to speak.

The boys just aint gonna be happy about missing this chance.

Nobody’s gonna - The speaker paused as his eyes met those of Peter. The stranger had cold, grey eyes, matching the stony-grey of the three-piece suit he wore with the coat carelessly undone. Peter hurriedly looked away but his brain had abandoned the factual world of American history for the fictional world of John Buchan and ‘Sapper’. These men may not be spies but surely they were up to no good. He heard them moving away and stole a look. They were just heading into another section of the gallery. Peter paused and then made the major mistake in his life. He followed them.

Peter was just in time to catch the men moving on, not bothering to examine anything within that section. He followed. Rounding the partition which shuts off part of the ‘Wars against the Plains Indians’ exhibits he was confronted by both men apparently staring at the wall to his left – or were they? The shorter man said something to his companion, turned and hurriedly went off towards the exit. The man with the stony-grey eyes turned to examine a display of a Sioux chieftain. Peter sidled towards his left and found himself looking at an almost-empty case containing what looked like a partially-dismantled exhibit. He turned back and found the man had disappeared.

By now Peter had, to use the English term, got the ‘bit between his teeth’. They must be up to no good but he’d already lost one of them. He quickly did a circuit of the gallery and had the good fortune to find ‘stony-eyes’ in a corner PRETENDING to read a notice about evacuation exits. If Peter had been more intelligent he might have wondered why the stranger was PRETENDING to do anything. He wasn’t in the museum sheltering from the weather, was he? If he’d only been interested in certain displays or objects he’d have been on his way towards to the exit. If he’d only been in the museum for a clandestine meeting, he’d have been gone by now, wouldn’t he? Peter decided to appear to be examining a poster encouraging US participation in World War I while frequently directing his eyes towards his target. After a few minutes the man made his move and rapidly headed for the stairs. Peter followed. ‘Stony-eyes’ rapidly crossed the Reception Hall with such scant attention to other visitors that he almost ploughed into a stream of pupils up from North Carolina. Their teacher opened her mouth to protest but the man was almost out of the doors and she’d no reason to castigate a departing back. She shrugged her shoulders, much to the disappointment of several of her pupils anticipating a distraction from what threatened to be a rather boring afternoon.

Peter skirted the group and glanced at his watch. 11:45. Barbara was bound to be late so he’d have plenty of time to add some proper ending on how he’d spotted a spy...or a terrorist...or a... he couldn’t think of what. He stepped through the exit and paused to pick out ‘Stony-eyes’.

Keep moving towards that black Chevrolet, grunted a voice from behind, and don’t look around! A push punctuated that command and Peter stumbled forward. Something stabbed into his back and Peter continued moving, about twenty paces behind ‘Stony-eyes’ towards the vehicle. At one point he bumped into a souvenir salesman who opened his mouth to protest, took one look at Peter’s escort and changed his mind. Too late Peter considered arguing with the salesman and bringing the whole affair to a halt, in the process defying ‘Stony-eyes’. However, the salesman had turned away.

&&&

Jonas, you do know I’m expecting you to go with me to see Mum in Mayday, don’t you?

Vanessa was just scrapping any idea of fixing a suitable hat on top of her unmanageable hair and didn’t bother to confront her husband sprawled in an armchair. He’d have to think again, if he expected to be lazing his way through whatever ‘The Sunday Times’ deemed important, while she was battling her way by means of the 109 and ‘shanks’s pony’ to visit her mum in the orthopaedic ward at Croydon’s second hospital.

When do you want to go? The question was asked without Jonas’s brain really detaching itself from the story about the shooting dead of two Pakistanis on 20 February. What really interested Jonas was the apparent change in attitude towards discharging firearms by the police. He remembered how, almost ten years before, he’d almost lost both his permit to carry a weapon (as authorised by the Foreign Office) and even his licence as a ‘Enquiry Agent’ because ‘in a public place’ he’d killed somebody trying to kill him. He ignored the certainty that even now whoever had fired the shots would have been getting the same treatment. Only authorised British policemen could use a gun under certain circumstances - and even then must be prepared to face an enquiry.

In about half-an-hour... The children can be looked after by Beryl. She was the long-suffering, grandmotherly sort who normally was there when the three girls got in from school. Vanessa had continued to soldier on as general factotum at 27 Flambard Street.

Have you asked her already?

Of course, replied Vanessa irritated her husband should ask such a question. Did he think she was the sort of mother who’d abandon her children without a moment’s notice? Then she remembered that was just what she’d done last Monday when her mother had collapsed. Beryl had stepped into the breach magnificently, even though she’d had her brother and sister-in-law coming for tea. The three girls were planted in the ‘front room’, equipped with books, crayons and whatever could keep them quiet for an hour or so, until Jonas would get in. He was told they’d been like ‘little mouses’ by the sister-in-law, Louise, in a sickly attempt to ‘get down’ to ‘kiddy-level’ – she’d obviously never had children. Jonas passed on to Vanessa a full report from Louisa Anne (8) on the misdeeds of the teenage children of Derek, Beryl’s brother, as discussed by their aunts. The report was supplemented by Marian Samantha (11) but had confused Sharon Elizabeth (6), especially the phrases like ‘she’s no better than she should be’ and ‘he should know how many beans make five’. Vanessa had laughed and remarked how all three girls seemed to be taking after their stepfather. I hope not! was the response which killed the mood.

I’ll get spruced up, Jonas said, Just in case ‘Ol’ Joe’ is there.

Vanessa wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, because ‘Ol Joe’ was her dad and he didn’t have a reputation for smartness. Then she realised it meant nothing, just something he might have said to ‘Ol’ Joe’ Clarke himself.

In forty minutes they were approaching Mayday Road when Vanessa suddenly called out for Jonas to stop.

There’s a florist on the corner... Just the thing.

She’d jumped out before Jonas could ask, What thing? She knew he would. He could be quite slow sometimes.

&&&

Carl Bosquet had bitten down all the nails on his right hand and was now causing depredation on its companion. Why was Carl proceeding to eat himself slowly? Because he was bored; and the reason for that must take us back to 1 August 1972 when a cashier’s cheque for $25,000 had surfaced, supposedly for CREEP but made out to Bernard Barker, one of the burglars arrested in connection with a break-in at the Democrat National Committee HQ. That raised questions within the FBI about mysterious money circulating in areas apparently involving both supporters of President Nixon and the Mafia. So Special Agent Carl Bosquet and Special Agent Paulo Domenici were given the job of trying to ‘scrub up a murky glass’, to quote some bright spark, who could actually go home to his family at a civilised time at reasonable intervals. Domenici was the one able to add up to twenty without removing shoes and socks while Bosquet could knock out the front teeth of anybody challenging his authority without a second thought. Obvious other agents were supplementing this partnership.

Gradually they discovered large amounts had been somehow transferred into the bank accounts of men facing a charge of burglary. At least $86,000 had been given by fans of the President to secure the re-election of their hero. This money, and a lot more, had somehow found its way into the PERSONAL bank account of Bernard Barker before moving on into other people’s accounts. So Barker must be illegally moving funds, legally or illegally donated, into activities that were definitely against the law. The Cuban exile was a key member of Nixon’s ‘White House Special Investigations Unit’ who were supposed to prevent leaks as well as investigating those ‘misguided’ individuals opposed to the President. He’d heard they’d been nicknamed ‘The Plumbers’ but, from what had been happening lately, Nixon was thinking they were responsible for some of the leaks.

Bernard Barker was apparently involved in even darker matters. Three weeks before, Richard Helms, sacked head of the CIA, had told the Senate Foreign Relations Committee they’d fired Barker because ‘we found out that he was involved in certain gambling and criminal elements’. That would appear to include the Mafia and, as that interested the FBI, Bosquet and Domenici were brought back into the fray.

Will you soon be back in the land of the living or do I sort out a long vacation for myself? If Paulo Domenici had died he wouldn’t have heard the question, would he? Such subtleties were wasted on Carl Bosquet and Paolo was long used to the dormant state of impatience in his partner.

I’ll take a break in about an hour. Why don’t you take a run around the block? Not a genuine suggestion of course, but basically a request for Bosquet to go away and take his brooding presence with him. Without a word Bosquet stood up and his 6’ 6" frame left the room, closing the door quietly behind him as a thank-you for his release.

Paolo Domenici wasn’t a small man, unless he was standing next to Bosquet, but his features were sharp as an outward sign of an inner drive to cut into the secrets of others. He was good at his job, although too often (in his opinion) having to rely on the muscle of his partner to secure confirmation. For the last hour he’d been working his way through several print-outs of bank statements, containing evidence of money moving from different accounts and then into that of one of Bernard Barker’s various companies. Money seemed to have been donated to CREEP by legitimate sources, some by companies (bending electoral law) and others from less obvious operations – and those were the ones interesting Paolo. That’s not quite true. There’d been money seemingly from outside the USA, a breach of electoral law, but Paolo was chiefly interested in entries coming from certain types of establishment (e.g. casinos) or ‘unusual’ donors, such as funeral directors, because he suspected those came from ‘organised crime’ or, for the sake of simplicity, the Mafia.

However, Paolo was developing an interest in payments MADE by Barker’s various companies which, certainly in some