Lawrence Dunning has been writing and selling fiction–novels and short stories–for more years than he cares to admit. So far, publication has amounted to three novels in the suspense/espionage/thriller category–two of which have been republished under the Authors Guild BackinPrint.com program–and some 35 short stories published in literary journals, many of which have been included in a new book of short stories titled Rondo and Fugue for Two Pianos. Along the way he has garnered various awards for his writing, among them three Colorado Authors’ League Top Hand awards for short stories and the listing of two of his stories in annual Best American Short Stories selections of the 100 best short stories published in the previous year. He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
[The following are the diaries (redacted) of Nelson Courtney English III discovered by his daughter Sarah Vanderbilt English after his death by suicide on September 10, 1993.]
Monday, 8 July 1940--Interview with William J. "Wild Bill" Donovan this morning went extremely well, and am now officially an associate of the prestigious law firm of Donovan Leisure Newton & Lumbard. Offices are at 2 Wall Street, near the Stock Exchange--couldn't be better, especially for a fellow who just passed the New York Bar last month. "Wild Bill"--I had the gall to ask him point-blank--was the nickname hung on him in the Great War in 1917, when he served under Black Jack Pershing. "The year you were born," he laughed this morning--he'd obviously checked my vitae. Right off the bat he asked me what my politics were, and though it was none of his business I told him Republican. He said that was his, too, and that in his neck of the woods where he grew up in Buffalo everybody was Republican. I told him in my neck of the woods, too, but a different neck, mine of course being Main Line Philadelphia. He asked me if we'd had servants. I told him two maids. He said in his family the women tended to be maids, and that the men worked in factories and drank a lot. He obviously prides himself on his humble origins--I'll have to remember to key into that when the occasion arises in days to come. He graduated Columbia Law and said he drank a lot but held it better than most. I said I'd match my alcohol intake at Yale with his at Columbia any day. He laughed and said he thought we'd get along just fine--he shook my hand and called me Nelson, and I had to tell him that I preferred Courtney or actually Court, between friends. He said to call him Bill. He offered me a choice of bourbon or Scotch from his private office bar and I of course took Scotch. We toasted my acceptance into the firm. I have to feel that, at age 23, I am well on my way up the legal ladder of success, having gotten so well connected at the outset.
Wednesday, 18 September 1940--Work with Donovan going better than I could have expected--I seem to be a kind of protégé of his, which cannot be bad for my career. I've noted down several things he's told me over the last month or so--they seem to be his guiding principles and thus I should make them mine. For example: "Be somewhat reserved, with an agreeable manner, a sense of humor, and a pleasing speaking voice. No need to be a courtroom bully--you can get your way with a jury by being charming but forceful and absolutely fearless." And again: "Know the value of theater. Be soft-spoken and impeccably dressed. State your main point as a single, powerful, incontrovertible point, and repeat that point as often as necessary, until it becomes canon for the judge and jury." In fact, Bill dresses more handsomely than anyone I've ever known--he patronizes only the best tailors, shirtmakers, and cobblers both here and in Europe. He travels in the highest style and stays in only the best suites in the best hotels. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him. He told me the other day that this is the only way to live a decent life. I agreed wholeheartedly.
Sunday, 7 December 1941--The Japanese bombed the U.S. fleet in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, today. The country is at war--can Germany be far behind? I have no desire to volunteer for fighting--let others who lead miserable lives anyway take care of it. Perhaps, if inevitable, there will be a chance for a commission and some decent rank for me through Donovan's great influence. Roosevelt, pig-headed as ever, should have kept us out of it, but too late now, I fear.
Tuesday, 8 September 1942--Donovan asked me and several others from the firm to join him in the super-secret Office of Strategic Services, doing intelligence-gathering and spy work, apparently. Initial rank of First Lieutenant in the Army, with guaranteed promotion to Captain if the war lasts that long. Donovan told us he's mostly relying on his friends and associates among attorneys, bankers, industrialists, and conservative academics to staff the new organization. He feels lawyers, in particular, have a duty to contribute some of their time to public service. While I do not feel as strongly about this as he, I agreed to join the OSS as he asked, since the alternative might very well be conscription as an enlisted man.
Sunday, 11 October 1942--Reported to OSS headquarters in Washington at the old National Institute of Health building at 25th and E streets on 1 October, and was sent the next day for training at a special OSS school at the well-guarded Congressional Country Club outside DC. I will be here for at least another few weeks, perhaps longer. This spy business is more interesting than I thought, and most of the people going through training with me seem to be the same sort of chaps--most come from wealthy, conservative Republican, socially prominent families, and most attended Ivy League schools and belonged to the same clubs we all did (even ran into a couple of Bones men here). We've already been told to expect a certain amount of ostracism from the regular uniformed services--they apparently refer to the OSS as "Oh-So-Secret" or "Oh-So-Social." But Donovan has Roosevelt's ear, and wields more influence than almost any General (he holds the rank of Colonel). I foresee being extremely busy over the next months and may therefore not have the free time for regular or frequent notations in the diary, but will do my best.
Wednesday, 9 February 1944--London weather continues beastly but should be used to it by now, having been here almost a year. Did have a spot of luck last Friday, running into a fellow I knew slightly at Yale--James Angleton. He was more the literary type, edited a little poetry magazine that published Ezra Pound, among others. His English prof steered him into OSS--he'd been in London scarcely a fortnight when we ran into each other by accident. We're both Captains--he in X-2 (Counterespionage) while I of course am in Secret Intelligence (SI)--but our jobs at the moment are similar, namely, to work closely with British Secret Intelligence Services (SIS). We seemed to hit it off immediately, agreeing that we were happy doing what we're doing instead of being assigned to SO--the Special Operations boys who do all the dirty work of parachuting into occupied territories, contacting the Resistance leaders to help them carry out sabotage and assassination. Angleton was married not long ago but that seems not to bother him, since his wife is a very long distance away. In the way of OSS business I introduced him to a Brit named Kim Philby, who is head of the Soviet Section in our counterpart MI6. Well-bred, Cambridge, knows all the right people in England and all over, and besides, a delightful drinking companion. When we're not winning the war for good old Uncle Sam, drinking is in fact our major preoccupation. Living in this abominable climate, it is easy to see why so many Brits are rummies.
Sunday, 26 March 1944--Last night went to a party in Kensington Crescent with Jim Angleton and Philby and Angleton's Yale mentor. Met an incredible roster of literary and musical luminaries, including T.S. Eliot, Benjamin Britten, Graham Greene, E.M. Forster, and Ralph Vaughan Williams. French champagne, Norwegian caviar, Irish berries in cream. One would never think there was a war going on.
Thursday, 19 October 1944--J.A. (my good friend and compatriot Jim) off to the X-2 resource in Italy, which country he knows well from youthful residence in Milan where his father ran Italian branch of NCR. I shall miss him, miss our long lunches and dinners together eating and drinking the best that wartime Britain has to offer--poor at best. The night before his departure we had a last fling at our favorite watering hole near Hyde Park--the maitre d' obliged with blackout curtains until 4 a.m. J.A. very nearly missed his transport to the airfield later on.
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Tuesday, 8 May 1945--So-called V-E Day (victory in Europe) as Germany surrenders. There is still the Japanese thing in the Pacific, but that seems to be winding down. Perhaps this frustrating and destructive war can finally be brought to a close with the forces of decency the victors. Allied compromises with Russia, however, remain a problem.
Wednesday, 15 August 1945–After we destroyed two large cities–Hiroshima and Nagasaki–with some new weapon called an atomic bomb, Japan has surrendered and World War II ends. So far there are only rumblings about a timetable for mustering out the U.S. forces, but I am eager to return to the practice of law. Donovan has indicated to his former associates that we will all have jobs when we return to civilian life; I, however, have my own grand plans for the eventual formation of my own legal firm. This war has taken three years out of my productive life, though I've met several fellows in the OSS who will perhaps prove invaluable to me later in a business way.
Saturday, 29 September 1945--Most of us, the scattered troops of the OSS, have been returning to Washington DC for the past month or so. A week ago President Truman abolished the Office of Strategic Services effective 1 October. Bill Donovan called a meeting this evening of all OSS employees at the Riverside Skating Rink, one of the OSS's DC properties, primarily to announce his resignation but also to thank us all for the work we've done toward ending the war. The crowd was subdued--there were more than a few tears shed, and sadness at the end of camaraderie was the theme of most of the speeches. Donovan's was the most impressive, leading us to believe that he would continue to fight for a national policy based upon accurate foreign information. He very much wants a peacetime national intelligence service, and I believe that before long we shall indeed see such an organization.
Sunday, 25 November 1945--These are crazy, jubilant days in Washington since the war's end. I am to be mustered out of Army next month, in time for Christmas (I hope). Last night at a wild Georgetown party I met a beautiful girl named Adele Bourchier, who oddly enough had been working for the OSS-connected Office of War Information (OWI) in New York. Not only is she pretty, but her father is the wealthy heir of a French arms manufacturing family who emigrated to New Haven after WW I and founded the hugely successful American branch of the French bank Credit Lyonnaise. He also, as it happens, married into the Vanderbilt family--Adele's mother. She is 23, five years younger than I, which is just about perfect. She kisses well and, when drunk, pets to a point, but is adamant about not going further before marriage. At least no jocko has been there before me. All in all, a girl worth pursuing.
Tuesday, 25 December 1945--Gave Adele a $3000 emerald necklace for Christmas which we both took to be a sort of engagement present, though the actual words were not spoken. At any rate I can afford it, thanks to my association once again with Bill Donovan's law firm.
Sunday, 16 June 1946--Adele and I married yesterday, 2 p.m., in a small but elaborate ceremony at her parents' summer place in West Yarmouth on Cape Cod. Both sets of parents (mine did not attend, the bastards, but at least gave us the first year's rent on our upper East Side apartment as a wedding gift) seem pleased that we have each married well. Drank too much champagne, could not consummate the vows sexually when we reached our hotel here in Bermuda, but finally did this morning. True to her word, Adele was a virgin--the sheets were a mess and had to be replaced posthaste. I am now desperate to go out for a drink but Adele seems to want to do it again.
Monday, 28 July 1947--Over the weekend Pres. Truman signed into law the National Security Act which creates the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), the logical successor to the OSS. However, in true Democratic fashion he messed it up, mandating that the Director of Central Intelligence would work closely with Truman's National Security Council--in other words, hog-tying the CIA for purely political reasons. Donovan is livid over this--Truman, of course, no friend of his.
Wednesday, 16 November 1949--As Adele now 4½ months pregnant, I've contracted to purchase an 8-room cooperative apartment on Fifth Avenue near 63rd--an excellent address--and have promised the movers a bonus to get us in before Thanksgiving, a week from tomorrow. But as they are all union, they take their sweet Jesus time about it.
Friday, 24 March 1950--Adele huge with child, and per her expressed wishes, no sex since mid-January. I despise this situation. She is ugly to look at and her temperament has changed to coincide. I now fully understand those married men who do not wish to sire children. One piece of luck--Adele's friends assure her that carrying the fetus high almost certainly means a boy. It had better!
Sunday, 2 April 1950--Sarah Vanderbilt English born last night. All appendages intact. Adele in labor 24 hours--understand this is a long time but Jesus! Being in a ward full of screaming women not my cup of tea. The hospital paging system (the number I gave them as my office actually the Plaza bar) misfired so that I was 2 hours after the baby was born getting back to Adele's room. She was furious--maybe she had a right to be, or maybe she just smelled Scotch on my breath. I shall not soon forget the look of cold hatred in her weepy eyes.
Sunday, 30 September 1951--Tomorrow starts my new life as a full partner in my own legal firm, Wiley Rouse & English. Had a big party here last night to celebrate. Donovan and many of my former associates in attendance. Donovan a sweet man--wished me well, and over the past few months even helped me set things up. If he's miffed about my pulling all the Vanderbilt business out of his firm into mine, I can't help it--he knows about Adele's connection to the family. In my position I like to think he would have done the same.
Thursday, 14 May 1953--Nelson Courtney English IV born yesterday. Small, they say--slightly less than 5 lbs. Never cried, and the doctors said something wrong with his lungs. Poor little sonofabitch died this afternoon. Adele inconsolable–I think she somehow blames me. Stupid bitch.
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Monday, 7 February 1955--Life goes pleasantly along. Adele has her charities and other pursuits, the French nanny sees to Sarah, and I--taking Bill Donovan's prescription for the good life to heart--make as much money as I can while I can, invest what I must, and spend the rest as I see fit. In fact, I lack for nothing, with the possible exception of a large suburban mansion suitable to my place in business and society where we could entertain decently. I'm working on this, having put out feelers with a Connecticut real estate agent recommended by Adele's father (her mother passed away last year--so far this has not interfered with my legal representation of certain lucrative Vanderbilt interests). In the meanwhile, luckily, for business reasons I continue to travel a great deal out of the city and even outside the country. I find German women particularly appealing, especially those who have a bent for sadomasochistic sex. There is nothing like having anal intercourse with a woman after whipping her buttocks raw and slowly licking the blood from her flesh. If Adele ever knew--finito.
Friday, 29 April 1955--Bought a 20-room house in Greenwich, Connecticut and have started inquiries about joining the right local clubs. Adele loves it and has begun interviewing for a cook and a chauffeur. The local zoning ordinances absolutely prohibit any Negroes or Jews or other foreigners from buying property anywhere within the town limits, such a relief from living in Manhattan where even in a decent building you're liable to run into scum in the elevators.
Thursday, 14 February 1957--Phone call today from Masterson, one of associates at Donovan's law firm--Donovan had a stroke and is at Mayo Clinic. No word yet on the prognosis.
Saturday, 16 February 1957--Masterson reached me at home this morning--doctors at Mayo say Donovan has inoperable arteriosclerotic atrophy of the brain. I called up there and they finally put him on--he knew who I was and said how much he appreciated the call, and that they'd be starting physical therapy shortly. I consider Bill one of my best friends and told him so--also, that 74 wasn't old enough for him to be scaring us all this way. He said to get ready for some serious golf in a month or two, but I expect he's being overly optimistic.
Tuesday, 16 April 1957--Call from Bill Donovan in Washington--he lives in a suite of rooms at Walter Reed Hospital, which President Eisenhower ordered for him because Bill worked so hard to get Eisenhower elected in 1952 and again in 1956. Bill wants me to fly down there tomorrow for a meeting with him and Allen Dulles, whom Eisenhower appointed CIA Director in 1953. He didn't say, but I think they have something in mind for me. In any case, I of course told him I would come.
Thursday, 18 April 1957--Interesting meeting yesterday with Donovan and Dulles at CIA headquarters in Foggy Bottom. Bill in a wheelchair with a full-time nurse, but otherwise managing. Dulles wants me to come on board as CIA Assistant General Counsel when the position opens up in summer of 1958. For public consumption they'd set me up as Deputy Assistant Attorney General in the Antitrust Division of the Justice Department, and would even give me an office at Justice. I was intrigued, of course--asked them to give me a week to think about it, since I do have a thriving law practice and a family to consider. Bill told me that's exactly the position he was in in 1941 when Roosevelt asked him to form an intelligence unit, and it worked out fine for him. Besides, he assured me the “Assistant” part of my CIA title would only be temporary until the aging General Counsel retires in a couple of months. I've not yet mentioned this offer to Adele.
Friday, 19 April 1957--Sleepless night mulling over the ramifications of the CIA offer, but decided to take it. Told Adele this morning (Justice, not CIA--I'll decide later about that) and then held a meeting with Wiley and Rouse, my two partners (also using the Justice
class=WordSection2>lie with them). We hammered out an agreement that I'll be on open-ended retainer of $10,000 per month from the firm until such time as I decide either to make CIA a career (unlikely at best) or return to full-time partnership. Not much they could do, in any case, since I control 50 percent interest and they split the other 50. Then called Donovan in Washington and told him I would accept, and to pass on to Allen Dulles how much I was looking forward to working with him.
Friday, 18 July 1958--Signed papers today to lease the Greenwich house, with proviso that right of occupancy reverts to me upon 60-day notice.
Monday, 11 August 1958--Moved into new house in Georgetown section of Washington, a 2 1/2-story red brick Colonial on Dent Place, not more than a couple of blocks from where Donovan lived during the war. Adele likes it, Sarah as usual noncommittal, but she’s already been accepted at National Cathedral School where she’ll meet other children of the better people here in Washington. Yesterday I finally told Adele it was CIA, not the Justice Department--she seemed to take it well, but I thought I detected a look that said, "What else have you been lying to me about?"
Tuesday, 2 September 1958--First day at the CIA--Dulles introduced me personally to several department heads and showed me to my office in one of the wooden buildings thrown up after the war near the Lincoln Memorial along the Reflecting Pool. I was told this was to be only temporary, for a month or so, until the General Counsel staff is moved to the Foggy Bottom headquarters of the CIA. This, too, will be temporary--Dulles is spearheading the drive to complete a huge new CIA headquarters building in the Virginia woods near Langley by early 1962.
Monday, 20 October 1958--New Foggy Bottom office not much better than previous, but had a nice first-day surprise--ran into Jim Angleton from OSS London days in the hallway completely by accident. He's been with CIA from the beginning, as chief of the Counterintelligence Staff. He insisted on taking me to lunch at a place he frequents, a decidedly low-rung French joint in Georgetown called La Grenouille–frog-- appropriate on several levels, with waiters on roller skates. We ate and drank (J. prodigiously--three martinis and two bourbons, plus wine) for nearly four hours, and when I casually inquired whether anyone at headquarters ever objected he said no, they trusted him to do his work whenever he did it--drunk or not, I thought. But it was pleasant, and we intend to continue the custom regularly from now on.
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Wednesday, 14 January 1959--Two weeks after Bill Donovan's 76th birthday, and he is dying. As a final gesture from the Agency, Dulles arranged for a portrait of "Wild Bill" to be placed on the lobby wall at CIA headquarters and asked me to escort Bill to the unveiling, which I did this morning. It was a sad occasion but maybe not so sad--as I pulled the cord and the covering dropped away, he smiled for what his nurse said was the first time in many months. Whether he knew what was happening or not is perhaps immaterial.
Sunday, 8 February 1959--Bill Donovan passed away today, God rest his Catholic soul. My only thought at the moment: I do not want to die that way, a piece at a time, my brain shriveling slowly to dust over a period of years. Far better to choose the time and
class=WordSection3>place, to fit bullet to chamber, muzzle to temple, finger to trigger, and evaporate.
Tuesday, 14 July 1959--Adele took Sarah and decamped for her family place up on the Cape at West Yarmouth. I'm glad they're there and I'm not--the place is a shambles, no order, no sophistication within a thousand miles. Sarah will probably wear that tiny two-piece bathing suit and have every boy along the shore panting to put his hands on her--I don't know why Adele allows it. Only 9 years old, but already she has firm little breasts. Sometimes I think...[illegible]
Friday, 17 July 1959--Here by myself in the house I can get as drunk as I please, which I fucking well am, with no one to say me nay. [illegible] early start--J. and I took early lunch at Rive Gauche, consumed so much alcohol and expensive food we decided not to return to office. Angleton has a dry sense of humor that shows itself at odd moments--at lunch, acting like the spy he is (or isn't) he whipped out a black-and-white photograph from inside his suit jacket and laid it on my plate. I wasn't sure what I was looking at--he explained it was J. Edgar Hoover engaging in oral sex with his assistant, Clyde Tolson. Not that this is any big secret in the halls, but to have the actual photograph! Only Angleton. It occurs to me that I would not like to have my friend J. for an enemy--his entirely illegal U.S. files could probably destroy a raft of well-known Americans.
Thursday, 17 March 1960--J. called me into his inner office and played a tape for me that one of his staff "black bag" boys obtained, God knows how. It was Senator John Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe going at it in a hotel room in Los Angeles, sometime during the past year. J. says it's one of 5 or 6 similar that he has. Nobody would give a fuck except that Kennedy is running for President. I like his father Joe and have done business with him in New York, but the son seems like a patented do-gooder who might, given the chance, turn on his own kind. I asked J. what he planned to do with the tapes--he said nothing now.
Wednesday, 12 October 1960--Two days ago J. asked me to see what I could do about contacting some mob killers to take out Fidel Castro. I remembered some dealings I'd had with a possible go-between, Robert Maheu, a former FBI agent who sold out to become Howard Hughes's security chief. More than once he'd implied he had gold-plated contacts on both sides of the law. I phoned, we chatted, I flew out to Vegas yesterday. I stressed that his pitch was to be that this was a straight business deal. He said what else?--are you in something besides the legal profession I don't know about? I think I smiled at him. He made some calls from his private office while I listened in--Johnny Roselli, Sam Giancana, some other Mafia capos. I mentioned a figure J. and I had agreed on, Maheu mentioned another figure J. and I had also agreed the CIA black fund could absorb. I left with Maheu's assurance that it was a binding contract, with of course no paper.
Wednesday, 9 November 1960--John F. Kennedy elected President last night. Party here at house to celebrate what we knew would be Nixon's election became angry, drunken melee after late returns in--broken glasses, vases, furniture. Adele threatens never again but she's the one who likes giving parties. I think she needs them as excuse to drink. I don't.
Tuesday, 25 April 1961--Bay of Pigs invasion a farce--Kennedy rightly taking heat for not providing air cover, etc. Rumors in Agency halls that Kennedy will shortly replace Dulles as DCI, probably with John McCone--Dulles will be scapegoat. J. and I agree that this will be bad for Agency morale--Dulles one of the original OSS boys. Kennedy seems to hate the CIA and may wage personal vendetta against us.
Saturday, 1 July 1961--Early Fourth of July party tonight at Ben and Toni Bradlee's Georgetown house, up the street from ours. J. and wife Cicely also there, as well as Robert Kennedy--whom everyone calls Bobby--sans wife, looking much less like the U.S. Attorney General than like a young man on the prowl for a piece of ass for the night.
Monday, 13 November 1961--McCone bright enough as administrator but he's no Allen Dulles. After Bay of Pigs the President has stated repeatedly in public that there's no effort to dislodge Castro's Communist government in Cuba--but of course various CIA departments have been working on such a plan for some time. Finally, in order to cover our asses, McCone along with J. and I went to call on Bobby Kennedy at his office on the 5th floor of the Justice Dept. Without much pushing, Bobby agreed to secretly endorse our Operation Mongoose to overthrow Castro's Cuba. None of us from the Agency seemed to feel the need to point out this inconsistency between the Kennedy brothers.
Thursday, 11 January 1962--Finally moved into new General Counsel suite of offices on 2nd floor of new Langley CIA headquarters building. J.'s offices in corner of same floor--I walked over to see his set-up. His secretary a tough red-haired woman who guards banks of black files in outer office. Inside, J. has his own files--no other access, he assures me, not even McCone. He has windows but keeps them heavily draped so room is dark, except for small desk light and the glow from his ever-present cigarette. Every surface in room piled high with papers and folders, but what appears to be random chaos is not. We agreed to try the Langley cafeteria for lunch, and did. Separate lunchrooms for covert and noncovert employees, which makes sense. J. entitled to use covert but did not, in deference to me. Food awful.
Monday, 5 March 1962--J. pointed out today that he, I, and John Kennedy are all virtually the same age, all born 1917. But differences are, of course, enormous--for one thing, he's many times wealthier than J. or I can ever hope to be and in addition is an immoral, conceited prick.
Monday, 7 May 1962--Lunch with J. at Key Bridge Marriott. J. furious (as I am) about increasing U.S.-Soviet détente, all JFK's doing--J. says détente is a sham, a Soviet tactic for waging cold war. Kennedy surely leading U.S. down the garden path with his civil rights initiatives and his appeasement of every foreign interest. We agree he must be stopped. But how? Also, J. has tapes of many of JFK's sex meetings with Judith Campbell Exner, who is Mafia don Sam Giancana's mistress and who apparently knows all about the deal I set up October 1960 with Maheu to have Mafia eliminate Castro. So far they haven't, but Exner's knowledge is extremely dangerous to the CIA and the country. J. suggests I set up a second meeting with Bobby Kennedy to feel out his reaction, without going through McCone. Bobby continues to hound Giancana even though, because of Exner, this could ruin his brother the President. J. and I have a fantasy that if the JFK-Mafia link gets out to the public he may be impeached. Wonderful! (Except, of course, that the CIA would go down the toilet with him.)
Friday, 11 May 1962--Meeting with Bobby K. went extremely well--two attorneys discussing business. Bobby controlled but obviously furious that JFK knew but did not inform him about CIA contracts with Roselli and Giancana to assassinate Castro. Bobby said to leave Exner to him--I wonder if he plans to have her killed?
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Friday, 7 September 1962--JFK continues to disturb J. and me with his prodigious appetite for women. (J. has many tapes from planted bugs in private houses and apartments and even the White House, including phone lines.) Marilyn Monroe death last month called suicide, but since she was sexually involved with both Bobby and Jack K. it is anyone's guess. Good riddance, for my money--she was a psychotic nymphomaniac whose only positive attribute was big tits. A much more serious problem is Mary Meyer, Ben Bradlee's sister-in-law, whom JFK has been banging since the first of the year. She and her friend, drug freak Timothy Leary, seem to want to corrupt the world's leaders with illegal drugs to make them more peaceful. J. slightly connected to her through her ex-husband Cord Meyer, a former senior Agency official. J. bugged her Georgetown art studio, got tapes (J. played them for me) of her and JFK smoking marijuana and taking the hallucinogenic drug LSD during heavy sex. At lunch today at La Grenouille, J. and I discussed the enormous implications for the security of the country if the President could conceivably be too crazed from drugs to push the panic button in the event of a Soviet nuclear attack. Leaking this information to the liberal press would do no good--they would simply cover it up, as they invariably do and have in the past.
Monday, 15 October 1962--Entire CIA and all U.S. military units on extreme red alert. Yesterday one of our U-2 reconnaissance planes on Cuban overflight took 14 photos of Soviet medium-range ballistic missiles deployed only 90 miles off our coast. Nuclear war a distinct threat, depending on actions next 24 hours of our deranged President.
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Saturday, 27 October 1962--Missile crisis ended for now, but apparently only because JFK promised Khrushchev he would never invade Cuba. At Langley today met with J. in his office to discuss what to do--without doubt Kennedy is destroying country, and apparently plans to destroy CIA though will probably wait until reelection in 1964. I suggested that JFK must be replaced as soon as possible and before expiration of this term in office--meaning either that a palace revolution must be arranged or his death otherwise ensured--and J. agreed without hesitation, stating that Lyndon Johnson is much more a hard-liner on Soviets. Discussions along these lines must continue.
Sunday, 23 December 1962--Adele and I to pre-Xmas dinner at J.'s house in Alexandria. After dinner J. privately took me to his study for Cognac and a brief recapitulation of our many talks these past 2 months, to ensure we were still on the same wavelength. J.'s eyes were intense, almost glowing--"You realize, Court," he said, "that we've come too far now to back down--the only logical course of action for us is to arrange his assassination within the coming year." And as I remember I nodded and said Yes, I know--and that was that. We shook hands solemnly, as befits a momentous occasion such as this, and touched our brandy snifters in salute to this revolutionary concept. In keeping with his slightly melodramatic view of the spy world, J. on the spot gave our impending operation the code name BIG BOY.
Wednesday, 30 January 1963--Word received at Langley that Kim Philby has defected to Moscow from Beirut. J. visibly agitated, almost ill with disbelief that our Brit MI6 friend from London OSS days has gone bad. Most Agency people, including me, have been suspicious for years.
Thursday, 14 February 1963--J.'s internal dirty-tricks chief found a candidate from Texas for the shooter, a fellow named Lee Oswald. We purposely avoided my Mafia connections owing to the possibility of trace-backs to the Agency. If this Oswald checks out, we intend to send him out of Texas, but deep South, for training.
Monday, 11 March 1963--New Orleans chosen for training of Oswald, as J. implicitly trusts an Agency rep down there named Burton LaSalle. I've stayed away from the technicalities, but J. and his man Jaramillo say Oswald will use his own rifle, an Italian army surplus 6.5 millimeter Mannlicher-Carcano carbine fitted with a 4-power scope. Our technical lab people say it wouldn't be their weapon of choice for an Executive Action but that it has "kill power"--muzzle velocity of over 2000 feet per second, meaning the bullet will penetrate 2 feet of pine. J. and I decided Oswald's comfort with the weapon and his familiarity and previous practice with it in Texas count for a lot.
Tuesday, 19 March 1963--J.'s paranoia is an infectious disease and I seem to have caught it--part of the reason I continue to note damaging material here in my diary, to protect myself against the possibility that J. and his own massive and totally secret files might someday be used against me. Not a likely prospect, I think. But though I keep these volumes locked away and don't intend for them to be shown to anyone, my personal legal counsel Eldridge Hayes has been given certain instructions in case of my death in an untimely or otherwise suspicious or unnatural manner.
Thursday, 25 April 1963--Oswald has moved to New Orleans for training.
Friday, 17 May 1963--J. assured me Oswald will definitely be linked after the fact with the pending assassination. When I asked why, he played back a taped conversation between LaSalle and Oswald shortly after his arrival in N.O.--LaSalle (after being shown the scoped Italian carbine): How did you acquire this weapon, Lee? Oswald: I bought it by mail order in Texas. LaSalle: Can it be traced to you? Oswald: No, I'm not stupid, I used an alias. LaSalle: What alias? Oswald: A. Hidell. LaSalle: What address? Oswald: A post office box number in Dallas. LaSalle: Yours? Oswald: Of course--but they can't trace it to me because the name's wrong. LaSalle (after Oswald has left room): I just stared at him, Jim. The guy's an idiot--I hope you know what you're doing. J. had Jaramillo get on the horn to LaSalle and reassure him Oswald will work out fine--after all, we want him to be blamed ultimately--it's been set up that way.
Monday, 24 June 1963--J. on secure phone asked me to set up blind foreign bank accounts for Oswald and a contract pilot named David Ferrie, who will fly a rented plane with bogus paperwork out of New Orleans to wherever it's needed, no doubt on short notice. J. in contact with Secret Service for updates on JFK's fall travel plans.
Friday, 26 July 1963--Lunch with J. at Rive Gauche. Oswald training is on schedule. J. asked odd question--was I still enthusiastic about BIG BOY? I told him definitely--particularly in light of Kennedy's announcement the other day that the U.S. and Britain have signed a nuclear test-ban treaty with the Soviet Union. This is obvious appeasement and betrayal of the cause of freedom--the man is a traitor and therefore legally and morally deserves to die.
Sunday, 13 October 1963--Drinking too much, in anticipation of the upcoming event. Hands shaking like palsied old-timer's. Advance word received 3 days ago that Kennedy visits Dallas for 23 November fund-raiser--also advance description of parade route obtained through phony offer of CIA intelligence assistance. J. and I agree well-known Dallas bigotry [illegible] perfect for our purposes. LaSalle accompanied Oswald on a (reward!) trip to Mexico and encouraged him to visit Cuban Embassy and ask suspicious questions--J. and I pleased that Oswald is setting himself up. Ferrie flies mid-November to small secluded air strip in Grand Prairie, near Dallas, and disappears for a week. We now have D-day--23 November. My God, what worldwide turmoil we have set in motion! Can this be happening?
Thursday, 24 October 1963--Oswald has obtained employment in building directly on JFK parade route. Since we can take no chances, a French-Canadian professional has been hired to kill Oswald as he leaves building--and there is the pilot Ferrie as backup. I think open murder of Oswald will point fingers of suspicion of conspiracy in all directions, but J. says we have no choice.
Sunday, 17 November 1963--Everything in place, nothing new--Adele wonders why I've been moody, withdrawn, and generally drunk the past month--no idea of the tension, just waiting for [illegible]...what if it should all fall apart at last minute? I will NOT go to prison!
Thursday, 21 November 1963--J. and I talked briefly--time for BIG BOY tomorrow set for approximately 12:30--we have decided to leave early for lunch at La Grenouille, where we can wait for TV announcement.
Friday, 22 November 1963--It's done! Jesus Christ Almighty--we did it! As we predicted, major media frenzy underway, nothing but Kennedy death everywhere tonight, Adele weeping, etc., though she detested Kennedy nearly as much as I. BIG BOY, however, botched in significant ways. At La Grenouille, first announcement came on schedule, restaurant in uproar, but as the minutes ticked on J. and I anxiously awaited announcement that Oswald had been killed. J. called to phone--his man Jaramillo reporting from Langley that our French-Canadian insurance missed his opportunity when after hearing Oswald's rifle shots the crowd swarmed up a nearby grassy knoll, preventing his stopping Oswald. J. told Jaramillo to see what if anything could be done and to keep in close contact. When he returned to our table at about 1:10 the announcement was just coming on that President Kennedy had died in Parkland Hospital emergency room at 1:00. Texas Governor Connally also wounded but this of no importance to us--J. and I quietly touched glasses, still hardly believing it. J. said he had no remorse, no feeling, really, except that we had done a good and worthwhile thing for our country. For the whole civilized world, I said, agreeing. We stayed listening to reports until about 2 p.m., then returned to work at Langley where seven floors of hell had broken loose. Later J. called me to his office--with incredible stupidity, Oswald had stopped off on his way to the Texas Theater rendezvous with Ferrie to kill a policeman named Tippit, God knows why. Dallas cops swarmed the theater minutes after Oswald arrived and arrested him on the spot--not for anything having to do with Kennedy but only the Tippit thing--and Ferrie sat there in a dark corner watching helplessly as they hauled Oswald away. We were still in J.'s office when our building public address system boomed out the announcement from Dallas that Lee Harvey Oswald, an employee of the Texas School Book Depository, was being charged with the assassination of President Kennedy. J. buzzed Jaramillo on the intercom and ordered him in his official capacity to pull out all the Central Registry records the Agency had on Oswald, since that's what the DCI would expect J. to do. We badly need damage control in Dallas, I told J., and he agreed, suggesting someone with contacts inside the Dallas police department would be our best shot to take care of Oswald before he talked. I took a break, found the first pay phone in McLean and called Maheu, my previous go-between with Johnny Roselli and other mobsters. Without going into detail I explained that Oswald was a menace to the security of the country and that he had to be eliminated quickly. Maheu is to call me at home tomorrow with a name--we'll all be working through the weekend at Langley.
Saturday, 23 November 1963--Dead tired, and even with a dozen straight Scotches since I got home about 9 p.m. I can't [illegible]...Maheu called minutes ago--the name is Jack Ruby, small-time hood, oddly patriotic, with good police contacts...[illegible]...Ferrie the fairy called J. from Dallas--they've still got Oswald in the police department building and a Fed in on the questioning says he still hasn't opened up. Sooner or later they have to move the little fucker--hope this Ruby's a good shot.
Sunday, 24 November 1963--At Langley this a.m. when word came that Jack Ruby shot Oswald in front of the goddamned television cameras, surrounded by cops as they were moving Oswald to the county jail. I phoned J.'s office--he said he watched it on TV and couldn't believe his eyes. Then we watched together as Oswald pronounced dead at Parkland Hospital at 1:07 p.m. Ruby of course in jail--he's a raving idiot, claimed he did it in sympathy for Kennedy's wife and family. J. says what I'm thinking--that we'll have to get back with the Mafia boys and subtly but firmly let Ruby know if he ever talks about being hired, various mob types in jail with him will take him apart piece by piece.
Wednesday, 27 November 1963--Jack Ruby indicted by Dallas grand jury.
Friday, 29 November 1963--President Johnson today announced his plans for a 7-member commission to investigate the Kennedy assassination, to be headed by Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren. It seems certain Johnson wants to reassure the country that Oswald was the sole deranged killer--we will have to be very careful until the commission's findings are announced and the public furor settles down.
Monday, 16 December 1963--J. called today to tell me his man Jaramillo has been accepted as the CIA liaison to the Warren Commission. With our former DCI Allen Dulles already a member of the commission, we and all Agency employees feel somewhat protected from potentially embarrassing scrutiny of our files and methods. J. is confident there are no leads to us in any case--he claims he's made subtle changes to the CIA Central Registry and has destroyed all his own pertinent notes and files, but I'm not so certain. His entire career has been one of deviousness, and in any case I've not told him about my own diary. As a lawyer, I'm used to documenting everything--even if just for myself.
Wednesday, 12 February 1964–Big flap at Langley and Justice, with CIA and FBI as usual at each other’s throats. A Soviet KGB Lt. Colonel named Yuri Nosenko has apparently defected to U.S., specifically through our Geneva residency. FBI thinks he’s genuine, McCone and others here, including J., think he’s a plant. They’ve asked me if they can use my Georgetown house as a temporary safe house for initial debriefing and of course I agreed. Nosenko claims he was in charge of vetting Oswald when he was in Russia (I hadn’t known about Oswald’s little trip but am sure J. did). Nosenko a short, ugly man. Says the KGB decided against trying to recruit Oswald because he was “too mentally unstable” for intelligence work. J. dug at Nosenko like a rabid terrier but couldn’t get him to change his story. At one point this evening when we took a break I saw Sarah sitting at the top of the stairs, watching and listening. I ran up and grabbed her arm and pushed her back to her bedroom, telling her that if she ever so much as breathed a word about what was happening downstairs she would be hauled off to prison where they would do terrible things to hurt her, and that she’d never see me or her mother again. She was shaking and crying so hard I slapped her to keep her quiet. Back downstairs J. looked at me and I shook my head to signal that everything was okay.
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Saturday, 14 March 1964--Ruby's trial jury has returned a verdict of guilty and the judge handed down a death sentence. Ruby's attorney Melvin Belli, who wouldn't let Ruby testify, will appeal.
Tuesday, 2 June 1964--This morning, along with DCI John McCone and DDP Richard Helms, I was called to testify before the Warren Commission about the CIA's prior knowledge of or connection with Lee Harvey Oswald--which of course we denied. J. Lee Rankin, General Counsel to the Commission, was a persistent bastard, asking me directly whether the Agency has ever had any reason to think there was an assassination conspiracy, foreign or domestic. I trust I completely dispelled any such notion.
Sunday, 7 June 1964--Jaramillo reported to J. that Earl Warren and Gerald Ford interviewed Jack Ruby today in the Dallas County Jail, and that Ruby claimed his life was in danger and wanted them to bring him to Washington to testify but Warren refused. Many people, particularly in Texas, apparently consider Ruby a hero. J. and I have done nothing further to bring Mafia threats down on Ruby, but J. insists we keep that option open in case Ruby begins to publicly cry conspiracy.
Monday, 28 September 1964--The final report of the Warren Commission was released to the public this morning, and my office received one of the first copies off the press. After quickly Xeroxing a copy for J., he and I have been separately studying the document ever since. Although there are reportedly some 26 volumes of testimony and exhibits that will be made public within a month or two, I've found nothing disturbing in the report itself, its main conclusion being that Oswald alone committed the Kennedy assassination. A few moments ago, deep into my second reading of the document and my fifth or sixth Scotch since dinner, J. called on the telephone and simply said "Home free."
Friday, 26 February 1965--Pres. Johnson fired McCone as DCI and replaced him with Admiral Wm. Raborn--the word is he's only a temporary caretaker. J.--always more knowledgeable about Langley politics than I--believes Richard Helms is waiting in the wings. I asked J. why not him, but he'd rather stay the powerful force in the shadows. I need to think about my place here, and whether in fact I oughtn't to resign.
Sunday, 26 September 1965--This past week it was all but announced that Helms will take over after beginning of next year, and that he'll want his own people in key positions, including in the General Counsel's office. At lunch I told J. I was ready to resign. He asked me to stay a while, but he knows that every day I remain at Langley I'm losing a small fortune from my Manhattan law firm. I didn't tell him that I've already contacted the management company in Greenwich to give the lessors immediate notice I want my house back within 60 days, or that Adele has already made preliminary arrangements for Sarah's private school back in Connecticut. Adele will miss the Washington social scene, but it will give her something to talk about for years among her Greenwich matron cronies.
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Sunday, 12 December 1965--House a shambles--movers here all week. CIA farewell party Friday at Langley, followed by final debriefing although drunk on my ass. In fact, drinking [illegible] all fucking weekend, and even moreso last night at J.'s house in Alexandria--went thru many bottles--Scotch, wine, Cognac--the women were disgusted with us--and we with them--but this end of an era, by God! J. and I tied together for all eternity by unimag. things--tho by now speculation about the JFK assass. has pretty well died down. At 4 this a.m. invited J. to come to New York or Greenwich but he won't--may be just as well--he belongs here, in [illegible] bowels of Langley--fucking Kennedy's gone! we congratulated ourselves--Adele not speaking to me today, fuck Adele.
Wednesday, 5 October 1966--J. called today from Langley on his secure phone line--Texas Court of Criminal Appeals reversed Ruby's conviction and ordered a new trial--word on the street is that he may go free after a short prison term for murder without malice. We don't need a Jack Ruby roaming around the country stirring up trouble--J. and I discussed the possibility of arranging an accident. Will it never end?
Tuesday, 3 January 1967--Jack Ruby died this morning in Parkland Hospital (same death place as Kennedy and Oswald, oddly enough) of a massive pulmonary embolism--fortunately J. and I did not have to act. We spoke briefly today--at J.'s suggestion I've installed a scrambler line in both my home and office. The list grows shorter--only major players left now are Ferrie and LaSalle in New Orleans. LaSalle, being CIA, is probably okay (J. says the same about Jaramillo but I worry about both, having seen more than one CIA agent sing for his supper). Ferrie still a problem--an egotistical homo, eminently blackmailable.
Wednesday, 22 February 1967--A nude David Ferrie found dead in his apartment today, surrounded by empty pill bottles, by New Orleans police--will definitely be ruled a suicide. J. had previously informed me that New Orleans DA Jim Garrison was opening up his own ridiculous JFK assassination investigation, and Ferrie would have been one of the first people called to testify. We subsequently convinced N.O. mob boss Carlos Marcello it would be a good thing for everyone if they offered Ferrie a chance for suicide rather than having Marcello's boys torture him to death. Obviously Ferrie agreed.
Monday, 2 October 1967--Thurgood Marshall sworn in today as first nigger U.S. Supreme Court Justice--this looks like the end of U.S. jurisprudence, now that the jungle bunnies have their own Justice.
Monday, 29 January 1968--Just returned from a week of non-stop eating, drinking, and fucking beautiful whores in France--Lyon and Paris--ostensibly for semi-annual board meeting of Credit Lyonnaise after having been elected to the board through influence of both sides of Adele's family (Bourchier and Vanderbilt). Could have taken Adele, of course, but convinced her it would all be dull business meetings 24 hours a day--she probably didn't believe me but so what? Seem to have picked up an oozing penis, however--must call Dr. Wellsley tomorrow.
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Thursday, 4 April 1968--Martin Luther King Jr.--shooting off his mouth as usual--shot and killed today in Memphis. No big deal, as I see it--somebody just got tired of it, as we all were.
Wednesday, 5 June 1968--Sitting here in my study with the TV on, holding today's New York Times front page in one hand and a large Scotch-rocks in the other, savoring both. The huge 3-line 8-column headline reads: "Kennedy Shot and Gravely Wounded After Winning California Primary; Suspect Seized in Los Angeles Hotel." The story goes on as follows: "Senator Robert F. Kennedy was shot and critically wounded by an unidentified gunman early this morning just after he made his victory speech in the California primary election. Moments after the shots were fired, the New York Senator lay on the cement floor of a kitchen corridor outside the ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel while crowds of screaming and wailing supporters crowded around him. On his arrival at Good Samaritan Hospital a spokesman described Senator Kennedy's condition as breathing but not apparently conscious. He had been shot twice in the head. The suspected assailant, a short, dark-haired youth wearing blue denims, was immediately seized by a group of Kennedy supporters, including the huge Negro professional football player Roosevelt Grier. They pinned his arms to a stainless steel counter, the gun still in his hand." Quite a day--actually, it's now the wee hours of Thursday a.m.--Adele long ago went to bed, and am thinking about doing the same, but there's a news flash just now on the television that Senator Robert F. Kennedy died in the hospital without regaining consciousness at 1:44 a.m.--Full circle!
Friday, 26 July 1968--Thank God I'm rich! Wrote a personal check today for $100,000 to Greenwich Christ Episcopal Church--and through the name of Wiley Rouse & English, another check for $750,000 toward the campaign of R. Nixon. Impossible to imagine H. Humphrey and certainly not Clean Gene McCarthy as President.
Monday, 4 November 1968--Back from my first post-employment CIA Halloween (spook) party, this year in Brussels--good to spend time with J. again, tho he refused, as I knew he would, to join me in the sexual pleasures provided for attendees. Hard to believe that anyone so morally upright and unbending could be so intellectually devious.
Friday, 20 December 1968--Actually Saturday by now, of course, and has been for a long time, tho no sleep and still sucking on my own personal bottle of Dom Perignon left over from the debutante ball at the Waldorf, where my darling little Sarah "came out," as they say. Daddies traditionally do the first waltz, before turning them over to their escorts of the evening--in this case, Randy Talmadge, a nice enough young man--except I wonder if he's been getting into her, if he was going to spill his spunk after the dance into her 18-year-old pussy--not that I think for a minute she's still a virgin, private school girls these days have all given it away by the time they're 16--must admit she looked beautiful in her low-cut gown, her lovely large breasts fairly bursting out all over the place--got an enormous hard-on dancing close with her but when she noticed she pulled away and scowled at me--haven't enjoyed [illegible] Adele in a long time.
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Wednesday, 29 January 1969--J. called today to ask me to fly down to DC for a memorial service for Allen Dulles at Georgetown Presbyterian Church. J. has been designated to carry Allen's ashes afterward. We both agree he was the last real tiger we've had as DCI, tho J. seems to have found a new and powerful patron in Richard Helms.
Saturday, 15 November 1969--Headlines today that 250,000 peaceniks are marching on Washington in the largest anti-Vietnam War demonstration so far. I think Nixon ought to get off his duff and order the whole uncivilized little country carpet-bombed to oblivion.
Friday, 9 April 1971--In her Junior year (unheard of) Sarah picked for Phi Beta Kappa at Vassar--of course I told her I was proud, but that doesn't excuse her leftist intellectual leanings--and certainly not what I gather has been her involvement in heavy sex and drugs. Adele tries to excuse it by saying everyone Sarah's age is doing it, but that cannot be true--decent girls don't shoot up or whatever and then invite some Bard College all-male dormitory to spend a weekend in her bedroom.
Saturday, 17 June 1972--Sarah married this afternoon in our back garden--thought I might have to drag her outside by her hair. She is willful and stubborn--I suspect that bodes no good for me in the future. Adele cried more than I thought was necessary--all women do, at weddings. In any case I like Sarah's husband Randy well enough, though he's not at all ambitious. I imagine about now he is pounding away inside her tender flesh, getting what all men finally agree to marry for--regular pussy. I hope she enjoys it more than Adele seems to these days.
Friday, 29 September 1972--Call from J. today, asking me to fly down to DC and spend some time there. He admitted what I suspected--that the CIA was involved in the June 17 break-in at the Democratic National Committee offices in the Watergate complex. Congress is making noises, and J. says they need my legal help to keep Nixon afloat, since I still have good political contacts all over DC and I know where most of the bodies are buried (joke!). Of course I will go--I always lend a hand.
Friday, 20 April 1973--Sarah claims to be at loose ends. To keep her off the streets (literally, no doubt) I've agreed after much pleading on her part to use my influence--hell, I'm on the board--to get her some kind of piddling job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Maybe she could help set up some of the displays and write blurbs for the curators--anything to get her off my back.
Monday, 5 November 1973--Just back from my 15th annual CIA Halloween party, this time in Tangier. For the first time I smoked kif, with a dark-skinned little whore who couldn't have been more than 15--but after she'd sucked my penis dry I still wanted my usual Scotch. J. not in attendance--he's been having his own political problems in the Agency, tho that seems impossible, given his long tenure. After Helms perjured himself before Congress about the Watergate thing, new DCI William Colby came down hard on J. for some of his little secret and largely illegal domestic spying schemes. I've warned J. before that no one is indispensable--his time may be short. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Sunday, 9 June 1974--Took Randy down to the Palm Beach house to fish, sail, drink, and fuck with two lovely young ladies who seemed to live on the beach and hardly ever wore clothes--if anything, they drank more than we did. Mine had to work hard to help me get it up--is it old age, or all the years of alcohol? Or, God forbid, can I only do it now with 15-year-old Arab girls? Adele would say it's God taking his revenge, but Adele doesn't know about this or anything.
Friday, 9 August 1974--Nixon resigned today, poor bastard--they would have driven him crazy if he hadn't. [illegible] a good man in many ways, tho too liberal for my taste--I called J. in Washington to remind him what can happen to incriminating tapes left lying around, but he assured me there's nothing "lying around." For our sakes, I hope so.
Saturday, 21 December 1974--Colby fired my good friend J. yesterday--of course they let him resign. He knew it was coming and so did I--he refused an official Agency farewell party, but I flew down there and with a few other close friends we had a magnificent lunch at Rive Gauche that went on into dinnertime and the wee hours. J. got entirely drunk, so that he couldn't stand unaided--tho bleary-eyed myself, I drove us in his car to his house in Alexandria where I spent the night in a spare bed. I believe at some point he cried, tho I would not have thought it possible. He loved intelligence work more than anyone else I've ever known, and was demonstrably better at it than most. I suspect he will manage to keep his hand in, in some clandestine way--they've already asked him to edit the newsletter of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers. He told me a dozen times or so last night that he plans to do nothing but fish, grow orchids, and make jewelry in his basement workshop--and stop drinking, tho I doubt it. If it hasn't killed him before this, what difference does it make now?
Wednesday, 6 August 1975--A friend of Adele's--whose husband I do a great deal of business with--was in the city shopping the other day and happened to see a disgustingly nude portrait of Sarah in a prominent SoHo gallery. She recognized Sarah immediately, and the damned thing was even titled "Portrait of Sarah with Tits and Cunt." I am furious, as is Adele--how dare that little slut hold us up to such ridicule by our friends and business associates? I told Randy about it, and after he'd gone down there to see for himself I understand there was a terrible argument during which he threatened divorce and even knocked her around a little. I don't blame him--she's really out of control.
Monday, 27 October 1975--Sarah finally back from God knows where in the eastern Mediterranean--I suppose Turkey, Lebanon, Egypt. She and Randy went to Greece (theoretically only the Grecian Isles) a month ago, but then she got bitchy and told Randy she was staying longer in order to visit the most debauched Third World countries and learn to smoke opium, among other things, and that she didn't want him around--she had plenty of her own credit cards. So poor Randy came home alone. Adele cried, and yesterday I threatened Sarah with cutting her out of my will--not a new idea--if she doesn't shape up and live a decent life.
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Thursday, 22 April 1976--J. and I talked on phone about fact that a U.S. House Select Committee on Assassinations has been formed to reinvestigate the Kennedy and Martin Luther King assassinations. Some testimony has already been given--notably by Johnny Roselli, who knows far too much for our comfort. Later I contacted Maheu again to see what he can do with the mob as far as shutting Roselli up so he cannot implicate the Mafia at some future date.
Saturday, 24 July 1976--Police found Roselli's mutilated body floating in an oil drum in Biscayne Bay south of Miami--ugly, but effective.
Sunday, 15 May 1977--Sarah told us last night she wants to divorce Randy, but Adele and I agreed we don't need the scandal and forced S. to promise us she would give up the pill and try for a kid.
Tuesday, 9 August 1977--Reggie Phipps died of a massive heart attack last night. Reggie and wife Cornelia perhaps our closest Greenwich friends--cocktails many evenings, weekend barbecues in the garden, even travel together over a period of many years--but I feel nothing about his death except that it makes it easier for Cornelia and me to continue our affair. Adele caught us kissing in our garden 8 or 9 years ago but it blew over, mostly because Adele is a prig and would hate for anyone to know I was unfaithful, and Cornelia and I have been circumspect ever since--easy enough because of our social position. I suspect after a short interval of phony mourning I'll divorce Adele and Cornelia and I will marry--she has money of her own now, and she not only likes to fuck but she allows me to indulge myself in several odd sexual things I've learned here and there over the years, which Adele never would. Cornelia is as brainless as Adele but that is no drawback--she'll content herself with taking care of the social things and won't even mind when I go off on my own pursuits, sexual or otherwise.
Friday, 14 April 1978--Cornelia and I settled now--the change in my lifestyle from one wife to the other remarkably insignificant. Our decision for a small civil wedding in town was best--I knew my ungrateful child would not attend, and hers are scattered elsewhere. Adele being a [illegible] bitch about moving out of the Greenwich house but tough shit--I paid for it, and she has plenty of her own Vanderbilt money in several trusts. Whoever said women are only good for one thing and not very good at that said a mouthful.
Friday, 28 July 1978--Flew down to Washington yesterday for lunch with J. at the Army-Navy Club--discussed fact that the House Select Committee on Assassinations has opened public hearings--we agreed that with Roselli out of the way we have little to worry about, since any testimony is likely to be either a rehash of the Warren Commission or else moot because of witness deaths or fading memories after 15 years. In any case, J. said G. Robert Blakey, the Committee's Chief Counsel and Staff Director, is in the bag, believing the CIA can do no wrong.
Saturday, 30 December 1978--House Select Committee on Assassinations now recessed. J. called to tell me a report they issued states that conspiracies are likely in both JFK and MLK Jr. cases but that no hard evidence is available that would warrant additional prosecutions. Once again--home free!
Thursday, 8 March 1979--Sarah's divorce from Randy final--I couldn't care less what she does with her life now--but if she thinks she's going to live off my money she'd better think again. Spoiled bitch!
Saturday, 24 March 1979--Went with Cornelia to Randy's wedding this afternoon--at the reception at the Club (which I funded) I told him Peggy seemed like a nice, simple woman, probably much easier to control than Sarah ever was, and we agreed there's no reason he and I can't continue our little extracurricular trips to Palm Beach or wherever.
Sunday, 18 May 1980--Sarah seems to have found some kind of job in a publishing house, after being asked to resign from the Metropolitan Museum. She yelled at me on the phone, claimed I insisted they fire her--actually it was more a suggestion that the board chose to adopt.
Wednesday, 5 November 1980--Yesterday Ronald Reagan received a huge victory in the Presidential election--took along with him a large number of new Republican Congressional members. This is a new era for those of us who hold the power and the personal wealth to see that things are run properly in this country--the commie liberals be damned!
Monday, 30 March 1981--President Reagan was shot in the chest by some little jerk named John Hinckley outside the Washington Hilton--after I heard about it I called J. at his house in Alexandria and couldn't resist saying Fucking amateur! J. sounded somewhat more paranoid than usual--said not to call him like that again on his home phone, it was too dangerous. I wonder if he suspects a tap, after all this time?
Thursday, 3 June 1982--I fly to Washington tomorrow for a strategy meeting with J. and his factotum Tony Jaramillo--the three of us and God knows who else from the Agency have been subpoenaed to testify Monday before Congressman Lucas Hopper's House Committee on Government Operations investigating illegal domestic CIA operations, specifically, J.'s mail-opening program and his authorization of surveillance against suspected leftist U.S. citizens--both of which I condoned.
Wednesday, 9 June 1982--Fucking righteous media bastards! The New York Times this morning reported on Hopper's committee hearings on Monday--an all-day nightmare of being hounded by Hopper in what seemed a kind of personal vendetta against me, though I've never met the SOB before. And then when they questioned that spic bastard Jaramillo he swore that although J. had run both operations, his good friend Courtney English, the CIA General Counsel, had assured J. that no one would ever question the legality of what he was doing and that, even if they did, the CIA and the Criminal Division of the U.S. Attorney General's office had a long-standing agreement that the CIA's legal staff itself could determine when or if to involve the AG if CIA employees violated the law. Of course that made Hopper come down on me and I had to swear that I knew nothing of these illegal activities, that I'd been essentially out of the loop. Hopper asked me if the part about the AG-CIA agreement was true and I admitted it was--he said that was a terrible thing for the American people and he would personally try to overturn the Executive Order that allowed it, but of course that was mostly grandstanding for his tiny little Wyoming constituency.
Sunday, 7 November 1982--Wonderful to find out what a complete slut your daughter is. According to her mother, Sarah's apparently been sleeping around, forgetting to take the pill, and now at the tender age of 32 she's gotten herself knocked up and doesn't even know which sonofabitch it was. She's picked up a lot of feminist bullshit from her Greenwich Village friends and says she wants to have the kid anyway...imagine! Whatever happened to [illegible]...and I'll drink to that.
Thursday, 12 May 1983--Adele called from St. Vincent's in Manhattan, where Sarah just had a baby she's calling Allison English. I can't stand the idea of anyone thinking of this little bastard as a true English family member, though since Sarah took my name back after her divorce I suppose there's nothing else to call it--Baby X, maybe. In any case, I want nothing to do with it, even if Adele does.
Tuesday, 10 April 1984--After DCI William Casey acknowledged that the CIA mined Nicaraguan harbors, the Senate passed a resolution condemning U.S. participation. In my day and J.'s day the Agency never would have admitted anything like that--bunch of fucking pansies now--
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Sunday, 9 June 1985--Rockwell board meeting last week at the Beach and Tennis Club out in La Jolla--big party final night, not too bad-looking woman took me up to her room in the hotel and worked on me 2 or 3 hours--hand job, blow job, even massaged my prostate with a vibrator--but I never could get it up--got to call the doc tomorrow, get those testosterone shots increased, something--Jesus, I'm not that old, am I?
Tuesday, 21 April 1987--Sick of hearing about that egotistical little piss-ant Lt. Col. Ollie North--if he'd known what he was doing there wouldn't be these House and Senate Iran-Contra hearings. Intelligence these days is a goddamn joke.
Tuesday, 12 May 1987--J. died yesterday morning in Washington--I got a call about noon, and of course am flying down for the funeral Friday. There was a sizable article in the New York Times this morning, all about his powerful role as Chief of Counterintelligence in the Central Intelligence Agency for more than 25 years and how some liked him and some didn't, but that in any case he knew about virtually every CIA operation conducted during those years. He died of lung cancer, of course--he smoked more than anyone I've ever known. Only 69 years old, same as me--probably the best friend I ever had, maybe the only one.
Friday, 15 May 1987--Memorial service for J. this morning at Rock Springs Church in Arlington--saw a few of the old Agency people we both knew but not many--Jaramillo was there, and we nodded in passing but I had no desire to speak to him. I couldn't help feeling an era had ended, tho in fact it had ended a long time ago. I hope to Christ J. finally destroyed any incriminating tapes and documents--I have no way to find out, of course, since I've never been close to the family, even when I lived in Washington and saw or spoke to J. nearly every day. While somebody was up there saying some kind words about him, I kept thinking that probably no one knew him even a tenth as well as I did. I also felt a certain relief at there being one less person alive who knows the details that could still ruin me. I was going to stay around Washington a few days, visit some of the old haunts, but I didn't have the stomach for it--anyway, where the Rive Gauche used to be in Georgetown is now a Banana Republic, hard to get drunk there--Fuck this sentimentality! In fact, fuck everything...