conferences in towns all along Long Island Sound. Miller still remembers the town meeting held at Greenwich Library. "Of course, Stig spoke to those who attended, over 1,500 people, and I remember the pleasure Stig felt when children stood up to testify to the importance of Long Island Sound in their lives."

But working with the Hosts is "most definitely not all work and no play," Miller insists, who like Ed Hicks, gives high marks to the diners — "it's not every day you get to talk to Henry Kissinger. But I remember in particular one meeting that I had with Stig. We decided to take his boat to Great Captain Island to brainstorm over the next stages of our work. In the middle of our conversation, we took a break to swim in the Sound, then we got back to work. That's just Stig's way of enjoying life, of appreciating his surroundings."

The Listen to the Sound campaign has evolved into the largest and most successful effort to clean up the Sound that has ever been launched. We've completed the final plan," explains Miller, "and we're now ready to present it to Governor Weicker, Governor Cuomo and Carol Browner, the head of the EPA. Because of the funding we receive from the Host Foundation, we have been able to make hundreds of thousands of people aware of the dangers the Sound faces. We can make it the next Chesapeake Bay in terms of national attention and action. But we couldn't have gotten this far without the generous support, both in money and time, from the Hosts."

The Host Foundation's support of the efforts to draw attention to Long Island Sound is not the first relationship the Hosts have had with the Audubon Society. Jeanne Host's great uncle, George Bird Grinnell, was a principal founder of the society.

The latest projects being explored by the Host Foundation involve funding educational projects that will bring children from Greenwich schools to visit sites owned by land trusts in both Westchester and Greenwich. "We have been working with Patsy Howard of Greenwich Acad-

## Another Side

The afternoon of the tenth annual Alexander Host Foundation dinner held last April at the Harvard Club, Stig Host called Henry Kissinger's office to advise him that the employees of the Harvard Club (where he was to speak) had just gone on strike and there would be pickets at the front door. So not to worry, they weren't picketing him. Henry Kissinger's secretary thanked Stig for his call and added that Dr. Kissinger would be terribly disappointed.

That side of Kissinger, the one that sees humor or the ridiculous in life situations is not generally well-known. The public persona is that of a very serious gentleman indeed. But anyone who has heard him speak knows that he can deliver a funny anecdote deadpan.

In his introduction to Dr. Kissinger,

Stig Host mentioned former Prime Minister Harold MacMillan. This prompted Kissinger to tell the following story:

"When Stig referred to MacMillan, it reminded me of an experience I had with him. In the later stages of his life, he was getting to be quite elderly; it happens to many people. So when he began to speak, you usually thought, 'If this man lasts five minutes, it will be a miracle.' But then he would gain steam and he would go on and on and on and be marvelously eloquent. Well, I once made the terrible mistake of going on the same program with him that was organized by the *National Observer*, a very distinguished group of economists. And he just staggered up to the dais and started mumbling, but then before you knew it, he was giving

58

GREENWICH

October 1992

[LC]

PHOTOGRAPHS BY JENNIFER KROOH

At the annual Host Foundation Dinner — now in its second decade — at the Harvard Club last April, guest of honor Dr. Henry Kissinger makes a point: his wife Nancy (r.) approves.

Opposite page clockwise from top left: Greenwich High oceanography teacher Dan Barrett; Nancy Coffin (l.) and Nancy Casserley; Peter Berle, National Audubon president; Stig Host (l.) with David Miller, Audubon regional vice president

# Of Kissinger

one of the great speeches, and I had to follow him. It was like a draft following a trade wind.

"It took me about five minutes to establish any rapport with the audience at all. At the precise moment that I was beginning to be about a quarter as good as he had been, he staggered up from his seat, staggered over to the podium, and he said, 'You're the hope of the world, old boy, but I have to catch my train.' Then he staggered out, and I had twenty-five minutes left to speak; I never did recover.

"So thanks, Stig, for reminding me of Harold MacMillan."

After Kissinger had finished addressing the audience, discussing many of the issues that he wrote about in his new book, *Diplomacy*, he took questions from the audience. In response to a question concerning what is

involved in negotiating settlements between warring factions, he explained the enormous difficulties inherent in forging agreements and told the following anecdote:

"One of my great moments in Greek/Turkish negotiations was when the Turks offered to make a conciliatory bid, which is unusual for them. And I said, 'Don't you bid that, let me present it as an American idea, because if the Greeks know the offer comes from the Turks, they will never accept.'

"They agreed. I took the idea to the Greeks, and the Greeks accepted it. So I went back to the Turks, and they rejected their own proposal — the Turks figured that if the Greeks accepted it, there had to be something wrong with it." ☐

emy recently." says George "and the things they are doing the children are just amazing wonderful. It's becoming more apparent that this general children in school today is getting the one that will make all the difference. That's why we are so mined to support projects in and middle schools whenever he says. His own three children, range from two to eight, remind him to recycle and turn the lights. "And you can be what I'm told." he says.

Jeanne and Stig Host are going that George has become so involved in the foundation. "That was at this year's dinner," notes Jeanne, "Many of the guests were poraries of George and our sons." But the senior Hosts had intention of giving up their commitment. "It's our way of keeping Sandy's memory and passion environment alive." Jeanne plains. "It's very much a part of lives. It also enables us to work cooperatively with some of the dedicated and hard-working I've ever met."

Stig is often asked how he makes it to get Henry Kissinger to come year after year, and how he makes it in the first place. "Henry because he enjoys the dinner much. He has told me that he loves meet our friends from Greenwich for when I met Henry. I once told story at one of the dinners that introduced him — and to this one is quite sure how true it is. When Henry was first at Home, I didn't know him very well. when he became more familiar began to remember him better. When he became Secretary, I thought of him practically my roommate."

Whether or not they were roommates, they are close friends for Kissinger to have in Stig Host to join him at one World Cup Soccer Games this year. "Henry Kissinger is obsessed soccer." explains Stig. "He an soccer teams by their national acteristics. He believes the

Prime Minister. This is what I tell the

MacMillan. In the past it happens often when he usually gives five or six. 'But and he was and he was well, I take of the time with the distinguished ones. And he said, 'then giving

ober 1994

October 1994

GREENWICH

[LC]

Well-known author and researcher, Walter Isaacson has written a book on Kissinger's deals, those which he manages by means of the firm, "Kissinger Associates".

This book interests us because one of its clients was Carlos Andres Perez's administration, for which he was a "lobbyist" in Washington, and his recent visit to President-elect Rafael Caldera, to which he was accompanied by Gustavo Cisneros, which indicates that Kissinger aspires that the new Government continue to use his services. What we have never known is the dollar cost to the Venezuelans for Mr. Kissinger's advice, and it would be advisable for Caldera's new administration to inform the public opinion what was the exact cost. Nixon's famous ex-Secretary of State has close ties to Gustavo Cisneros, who introduced him to ex-President Perez. The book in review lists several of Kissinger's American clients, but we know of several Venezuelan corporations who use his services, surely for a fabulous fee: among these are Eugenio Mendoza, Alfredo Reviere and, surely, the Cisneros organization, as well. President Caldera has repeatedly said he did not employ foreign advisors in his election campaign and does not intend to do so either in his administration. We believe that the Kissinger-Cisneros arrangement will not lead to anything.

The book relates that GTE is among Kissinger's clients and says that they "paid billions of dollars for a 20% share of the Venezuelan Telephone company". (A summary of Isaacson's book follows.)

Batkin felt there were enough subtle differences between the Spanish text and the translation supplied by Gold Reserve Corp. to warrant having Barbara do it over.

The book describes Kissinger Associates in basic and fairly abstract terms and what it believes is KAI's design, that is, "The world reserved to Kissinger Associates involves a lucrative mixture of strategic counseling, perceptions together with foreign affairs, good connections, opening of some doors and the profits derived from one of the most marketable names in the world." The article then goes on to describe KAI's fee for services basis and that fact that Dr. Kissinger insists that whatever project he takes on be justified as in the interest of the host government. Later on, the author provides background on KAI's origins, its personnel, specifically those whose previous employment was either U.S. Government-related and/or directly tied-in to Dr. Kissinger (i.e., Scowcroft, Eagleburger, Rogers, Bremer and Stoga).

The article mentions some international projects and proposals in which U.S. companies such as TCW and/or GTE or FMI were involved, or had expressed interest in and that fact that they just happened to be KAI clients. Although the KAI client list is top secret and each potential client must first sign an agreement pledging to keep its relation with KAI secret, the author generously provides a list of some of KAI's clientele.

The excerpt speaks of KAI's offices in a physical sense, the fact that the name does not appear in the telephone book, on the lobby directory, or even in the reception area. The reception area and the receptionist's area are described, the contemporary decor (beige-painted walls, white sofas, etc.) which resembles a medium-sized securities firm.

> There is a description of Dr. Kissinger's behavior in the office: "When Kissinger is there, the office hums with a mixture of low-level terror and excitement. He doesn't tend to sit quietly in his office. On the contrary, he comes and goes from one end to the other with silent steps to the others' offices, demanding explanations, looking cautiously at his future schedules, and then rejecting them as completely unacceptable. Afterward, he suddenly launches an incisive suggestion on one or another ongoing project, gives a compliment or makes a joke."

There are, however, other exerpts which are really not as negative as the above. For example, the author does admit to the power of Dr. Kissinger's name and the fact that what he is really marketing are his own opinions and perceptions, that many companies and/or governments feel a very definite comfort level saying that their decisions have, in part, been based on Henry Kissinger's assumptions.

UNICORNIO C.A

TEL:58-2-32-52-10

Jan 27 '94

11:38 No.002 P.02 [LC]

EL MUNDO, Thursday January 20, 1994, page 6
by M.A.C. (miguel Angel Capriles, Editor of the newspaper)

## KISSINGER'S DEALS

The bestselling book in the U.S. (mentions) the close ties between Nixon's former State Secretary and ex-President Carlos Andrés Pérez.

Well-known author and researcher Walter Isaacson has written a book on the deals handled by Kissinger through the firm called Kissinger Associates. This book interests us because Carlos Andres Perez's administration was one of the firm's clients for whom Kissinger lobbied in Washington, and because of his recent visit to President-elect Rafael Caldera in the company of Gustavo Cisneros, a sign that Kissinger aspires to continue to render his services to the (Venezuelan) government. Nevertheless, we have never been able to figure out how much Kissinger's services has cost us in dollars, therefore it would be advisable for Caldera's new government to inform public opinion of the exact cost. Nixon's famous ex-Secretary of State is close to Gustavo Cisneros, who introduced him to ex-president Pérez. The book in review lists several of Kissinger's American clients, but we know of several Venezuelan corporations who engaged his services for a fabulous fee, such as Eugenio Mendoza's businesses, Alfredo Riviere and the Cisneros organization. President Caldera has repeatedly said he did not employ foreign advisors in his election campaign and does not intend to so in his administration, which is why we don't think the Kissinger-Cisneros connection will prosper.

The book mentions that GTE, a Kissinger client, "paid billions of dollars to obtain a 20% share of the Venezuelan telephone company". (A summary of Isaacson's book follows.) M.A.C.

(An interesting excerpt of the review:)

Kissinger rejects being cast in the role of a glorified briber, but at least 25% of his projects-related work has consisted in paving the way through the bureaucratic red-tape his clients must face in foreign countries. This means he has to make a couple of strategic phone calls to his friends in very high places.

[Y]

KISSINGER ASSOCIATES
350 PARK AVENUE
NEW YORK, NY 10022-6022

(212) 759-7919
FACSIMILE: (212) 759-0042

FACSIMILE COVER SHEET

NO. OF PAGES: 15
(Including this one)

DATE: 9-30-94

RECIPIENT:

NAME: MR. TOM BARR
LOCATION: CRAVATH, SWAINE & MOORE
FAX NO.: 765-3580

SENDER:

NAME: DIANA K. DAVID

MESSAGE:

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"Your view represents the cowardice of
the Eastern Establishment," Kissinger cried.

trip to China "with Bill Blass and Oscar de la Renta" which he was planning. He mentioned that he wanted to take one of Dunne's books. "Which one?" Dunne inquired.

*The Two Mrs. Grenvilles, Kissinger replied, referring to a novel by Dunne's brother Dominick. "You've got the wrong brother," Nancy Kissinger hissed into her husband's ear.*

As the Republican Party moved further right during the Reagan and Bush years, Kissinger became increasingly isolated from the center of the party. In 1980, during the Republican convention, there was a brief moment when it seemed he might return to power. At the last minute, just as Ronald Reagan was getting ready to accept his nomination, there were whispers of a dream ticket: Reagan and Jerry Ford, two presidents for the price of one. There was even, it seems, a discussion of what might have amounted to a sort of co-presidency. Ford, apparently reluctant to accept a vice-presidential slot, was said to have demanded that part of the price of his participation on such a ticket was the return of Henry Kissinger as secretary of state. Dick Allen, by then a top Reagan adviser, saw the drafting of Ford as something of an attempted coup by Kissinger and made it his personal mission to shoot it down.

Still, Kissinger remained a man who could always get himself on television, and the networks vied to sign him as a special commentator. Though he was sometimes capable of being truly visionary, his appearances were often strangely disappointing, his voice oddly muted. "A grumpy talking head," John Lewis Gadsis, the diplomatic historian, called him. "My sense is that he is unconsciously ill at ease with so public and democratic an instrument."

To this day, he remains extremely sensitive to everything written about him. John Ehrlichman once wrote that Kissinger and his wife, Nancy, seemed to have become in his postgovernment years the joint keepers of the Henry Kissinger flame, alternating on four-hour shifts. Prolonged diligence was required last May, when *The Haldeman Diaries*, the personal journals of H. R. Haldeman's White House years, was published.

Bob Haldeman, it turns out, was a

careful diarist, recording everything that occurred during his years as Nixon's presidential assistant. He decided, late in his life, to turn it into a book. His motivations were complex, and because he died before the actual publication, we will never know exactly what propelled him. Money probably had something to do with it, as well as the desire to clear his own name. There was also the distinct possibility that the diaries were an attempt at some revenge on Richard Nixon, who had failed to pardon Haldeman, and on Henry Kissinger, who had never really been tainted by the crimes of the administration as all the others who had belonged to it had been.

When Jo Haldeman decided after the death of her husband to go ahead with the publication of his diaries, she was extremely sensitive to their potential impact on both Nixon and Kissinger. She called representatives of both men to let them know what she intended to do. She is now gently discreet about their reactions, but my sources tell me that neither Nixon nor Kissinger was greatly pleased about the planned publication of the diaries. Arguments were put forth that the publication of the book would serve no purpose and only open up old wounds. Nixon apparently suggested, at some point, that the book be published—if it had to be published—after his own book, which was then also scheduled for a spring publication. The former president apparently did not want to spend his publicity tour answering questions about Bob Haldeman's memories of the unfortunate past.

The Haldeman book did, indeed, bring back the past, and there was the darkness evoked once again. Here was what Roger Morris called "the constitutional squalor," the vengeful president once again raging at those around him. The diaries are, I think, particularly devastating to Kissinger. They are our record of the way he played to Nixon, of his systematic attempts to undercut Bill Rogers, of the fact that on several critical occasions—despite what he was saying in Georgetown—he was more hawkish than Nixon and the others on the subject of Vietnam. When some writers with memories took note in the papers of the diaries and the revelations about Kissinger, the man himself responded with angry letters to edi-

tors. When I asked Kissinger about the diaries during an informal talk for this piece, he was dismissive. (He agreed to see me, not so much to answer questions but—I believe—to find out what I was up to.) He had not bothered to read them, he said. He cautioned me to remember that Haldeman had not been involved in foreign policy, seeming to insinuate that in the Nixon administration there had indeed been a boundary separating politics and foreign policy.

The Establishment which Kissinger was once part of is now almost completely changed. During the 70s, it was transformed into a new professional class, and it has continued to change. It now includes the new generation of professionals, including not only Kissinger's lineal descendants but new groups—including human-rights organizations and others committed to the plight of refugees. What was once a small, exclusive club has now grown much larger and noisier. What is clear now is the power that television has played in the metamorphosis of the international political process. As it dramatized certain issues, the medium revealed that it could also affect the foreign-policy agenda of nations like the United States. Thanks to television, someone like Randall Robinson—the South Africa activist who went on a widely publicized hunger strike against U.S. policy in Haiti—can now be as influential as a man like Henry Kissinger. What is strange is that Kissinger, a man so skilled at manipulating the media, was so slow to see the changed dynamic of the contemporary world and even slower, perhaps, to fathom its consequences. He continues, quite ironically, to see himself as the standard-bearer of the old order rather than the harbinger of the new. At a recent dinner party, Henry Kissinger and a group of colleagues were discussing the malaise in contemporary America. Someone said that the problem with the country was the decline of its elite, the loss of the Establishment which Kissinger had once represented. Paul Volcker, former chairman of the Federal Reserve, looked over at Kissinger and asked if he thought that this was true, that the elite was in decline.

"No," said Kissinger, pausing just long enough, "but it is true that I am getting very lonely." □

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Rogers seemed unable to grasp the fact that Kissinger
intended to take him out as a player—using Vietnam.

First, Scotty Reston wandered by and asked what Hersh had. "Henry seems very upset." said Reston. Hersh showed him; Reston nodded his head. "Fine," he said. "No wonder he's upset." Then a call came from Clifton Daniel, Washington-bureau chief for the *Times*, who also checked out the story. Finally a call came from Abe Rosenthal, the managing editor in New York. No one tried to stop Hersh, in part because the *Times* was playing catch-up with *The Washington Post* on Watergate. Then, around five o'clock, a call came from General Alexander Haig, who had replaced Haldeman as White House chief of staff.

"Seymour," he began. (Since he had never been Seymour to Haig before, Hersh knew that something serious was coming.) At first, Haig tried to justify the wiretaps as legal and perfectly proper— not a news story. Then, as that argument began to evaporate, Haig toughened his defense. He said that this would end Kissinger's legitimacy, that he would be forced to resign, and that the government would unravel. Finally, as deadline approached, Haig rose to his ultimate ploy.

"You're Jewish, aren't you, Seymour?" he asked. Hersh said that he was. "Let me ask you one question, then. Do you honestly believe that Henry Kissinger, a Jewish refugee from Germany who lost 13 members of his family to the Nazis, could engage in such police-state tactics as wiretapping his own aides? If there's any doubt," Haig continued, "you owe it to yourself, your beliefs, and your nation to give us one day to prove that your story is wrong." Hersh believed that Kissinger, despite his background, was perfectly capable of employing wiretaps. And so the *Times* went with it.

In two ways, Kissinger was dramatically different from past Establishment figures. In an earlier age, when they had worked among Washington's leading journalists—columnists such as the Alsops, Scotty Reston, Roscoe Drummond, and Walter Lippmann—the Establishment figures had used their power on behalf of policy. But Dean Acheson never tried to sell himself directly to Reston, and he most certainly never attempted to separate himself from a policy that Truman ap-

proved of but that he sensed Reston would not approve of. Kissinger represented something new, a man who managed inside the White House to be utterly servile to the president while deftly separating himself from his policies when he was with people who disagreed with them. This was a new era, one which produced a different kind of person and offered a different set of rewards; it was defined by the vastly greater power of the media and the different nature of a less Calvinist, more media-conscious society which presented vastly different temptations. The members of the old class had hardly been without ego, but the codes they lived by demanded suppression of idiosyncrasy and the upholding of team values. It was not by chance that Kissinger became a star in the new era; he responded to the powerful orbital pull of the media. Dealing with the new celebrity journalists fulfilled not only a professional but also a psychic need for him. It was important to his vision of his larger career. ("Henry always knew there was going to be life after Nixon," John Ehrlichman said.) He was drawn first to print people, and particularly to columnists, who were more influential than they are today, and then to television reporters. As such, he was surely the harbinger of a wider change in America as it began to manifest itself in government, not so much of greater ego but of greater manifestations of ego. He did not come from the same class as the Old Establishment, and his psychological needs were different from those of the men who had once served in comparable positions.

By the spring of 1994, Henry Kissinger was still an important player in American foreign policy, although probably more influential overseas than in America. He had founded Kissinger Associates, an international consulting firm worth an estimated $10 million, and had become extremely wealthy. For those hoping to do business in China, for example, his assistance in opening doors was considered extremely valuable. He remained what his Washington years had made him: a star, that most unlikely of things—a celebrity produced by the national-security complex. Even the darker

side of his history, which had come to the surface through various books and articles, had not diminished his glamour and in fact seemed to increase his panache among some new friends.

The break with many of his old academic and political colleagues, mainly over Cambodia and Vietnam, had been painful. Few of those relationships had ever been successfully patched up. His relations with Harvard remained bitter; when he found himself in the Boston area, he refused to attend any function conducted on Harvard ground.

In the 80s, when he stood for re-election to the board of the Council on Foreign Relations in New York, the Establishment's last great forum, he came in last. Though he joked about his defeat, friends considered it to have been deeply wounding. Some associates believed that it damaged his relationship with Winston Lord, the council head. Lord had been one of the young staffers who had stood by him during Cambodia. Kissinger was said to have blamed Lord for encouraging him to stand for the seat.

As always, he seemed ever ready to shift alliances. A former aide remarked that he still made his way through life "like Eliza moving across the ice floe." As he had once been a man of Cambridge and the Rockefellers, of Harvard and Georgetown, he was now close to the instant tycoons of the exurban Connecticut countryside, the semi-beAUTIFUL people: men such as Wall Street mogul Henry Kravis, men wealthy and grand enough to require their own secretaries of state. He enjoyed the privileges of their wealth, particularly their private jets. After one incident when Kissinger commanded the Kravis jet for a trip to Japan, the amused millionaire was heard to tell friends that he hoped to go to China soon himself, "if I can get the use of Henry Kissinger's plane."

In his new world of celebrity, he courted the famous as assiduously as ever. Or almost as assiduously. My friend the novelist John Gregory Dunne once met him at a party in Los Angeles given by the late agent Irving "Swifty" Lazar. "I am a great admirer of your work," Kissinger politely told Dunne, who received the compliment with a degree of skepticism. Later in the evening, Kissinger spoke of a

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"I became a handmaiden of Kissinger's drive for power, said Richard Allen. "I had my zipper wide open."

camp. After the meeting, he was unable to sleep, convinced of his own role in a certain disaster. At the time, he was supposed to be taking over a job as staff coordinator, and he went in to see Kissinger, to say that he would not accept the job. Kissinger's reply was memorable, reflecting his awareness that he had crossed his own private Rubicon. "Your view represents the cowardice of the Eastern Establishment," Kissinger cried. Watts was enraged and leapt out of his seat and tried to take a swing at Kissinger, who had retreated behind his desk. A little later, Al Haig asked Watts what he was doing. Watts said he was resigning and Haig said, "You can't do that. You have an order from our commander in chief." "Fuck you, Al," Watts said. "I'm going home."

When Tony Lake and Roger Morris decided to resign as well, the three men spoke at great length about whether or not to go public in a press conference on Cambodian policy. They now saw Kissinger as being an essential part of the Nixon policy on Vietnam, more hawkish than they had wanted to believe, a critical part of the darkness they saw around them. In the end, they decided not to go public; they decided that Kissinger, despite the Cambodian invasion, might still be the one redeeming force in the government. In Morris's words, "His intellectual quotient and potential for policy was still somehow greater than his megalomania. . . . If we had gone public with our description of the real Henry whom we knew, and of Nixon's drinking as we knew it and as it was reported to us by Henry, and of the horrendous tenor and tone of the White House in general . . . we knew he would be destroyed." They decided they needed to save him and they did not hold a press conference. Morris now regards the failure to go public as the single biggest mistake of his career. The invasion was, of course, a disaster. The COSVN headquarters was not found. (Watts had once asked a friend in the C.I.A. about COSVN, and the friend had laughed: "There's nothing to find. It's not a fixed place. It's a state of mind.") Watts and the others realized that the invasion brought Cambodia full force into the war with catastrophic consequences. "Because of what we did, we made Pol Pot, we

made him a hero in his own country," Watts said years later. A few days after the invasion had taken place, a meeting was held in Haldeman's office where the top staff people spoke of how to explain the essential failure of the invasion to the media. Kissinger wanted no part of it. "I do not deal with P.R. problems," he said as he strode out of the room.

Going along with the Nixon policy on Vietnam was probably not that hard a call for Kissinger. He was extremely conservative in a classic sense, much more so than most of his old Harvard contemporaries, who—if they were, in general, hard-liners on the Cold War—remained properly optimistic about the uses of American power and the inherent strengths of democratic life. Kissinger was always more pessimistic. He had watched one society collapse and it made him cautious and deeply suspicious of profound political change. His most natural voice was mournful/pessimistic. He was extremely wary of too much idealism in politics, particularly the idealism of the left, which he had seen transformed into totalitarianism. Still, he always feared the right more than the left. Once before in his life, the right had struck against everything he believed in. At one point during the tensions over Cambodia when he was arguing policy with his more dovish staff, he told them that he and Nixon were saving them from the right. "Henry, you are the right," Tony Lake countered, meaning that when you employ policies designed to head off the right, you become the right.

There was, I think, a certain cynicism to the Vietnam policy. When the peace settlement was finally agreed on, John Ehrlichman asked Kissinger how long he thought the South Vietnamese might hold out. Ehrlichman had expected some kind of benign reassurance. Instead, Kissinger told him the truth. "I think that if we're lucky they can hold out for a year and a half." Bringing an unwinnable war to its final end is not a pleasant task under any circumstances, and given the nature of the men in the Nixon administration, it was particularly unpleasant. It was longer and messier than it should have been. The war was extended for an unnecessary period of time, and instead of being able to rescue those Vietnamese who had been

loyal, we were left with a remarkable image: a shot of the people whom we had joined in battle, and whom we had intended to save, hanging on to the skids of departing helicopters.

As the Nixon White House came apart during Watergate, Kissinger's longtime courtship of the media proved invaluable. As a friend to the faithful in Georgetown, he was a Good Guy, "Our Henry" to their Nixon, their Haldeman, their Ehrlichman. He was—or so it appeared to some—the last vestige of legitimacy in a government near collapse, and there was an active and determined effort to protect and save him from the spreading stain of Watergate. A number of prominent media figures participated in this effort, either actively or by their silence. Very few reporters pursued the Kissinger angle. For a time, it appeared that he might eventually escape the larger morass uncathed.

Then, one day in 1973, Bill Sullivan, a high F.B.I. official, called Seymour Hersh of *The New York Times* and suggested lunch. They met at an F.B.I. hangout in Washington near the Justice Department. Sullivan said he had something for Hersh and pulled out a folder with 17 authorizations for wiretaps of N.S.C. staffers, other government staffers, and some journalists, many of them instigated by Henry Kissinger. Even Hersh, accustomed to probing the least savory corners of government, was stunned. The revelation of Kissinger's complicity in this went beyond his own darkest scenarios. He quickly returned to his office to call the F.B.I. men whose names were on the wiretapping orders to assure himself that they did indeed exist. With the documents verified, he phoned Kissinger. He recalls the events that followed very clearly. His first question to Kissinger was followed by an audible gasp at the other end of the line. Then Kissinger's attempted denials faded as Hersh provided chapter and verse of the evidence. "How can I run the government if material like this is printed?" Kissinger pleaded as the conversation ended.

All through the day, there were interruptions as Kissinger marshaled his connections in an attempt to stop the stories.

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Above: Kissinger with media baron Rupert Murdoch in June 1994. Right: Richard Nixon greets Kissinger at a party for former U.N. ambassador Jeane Kirkpatrick in the late 80s.

# Kissinger said he was on his way to China with Bill Blass and Oscar de la Renta.

foil. Lacking Kissinger's innate talent for the subtleties of infighting, Rogers seemed unable to grasp the fact that Kissinger intended to take him out as a player—using Vietnam as the instrument. In an entry in *The Haldeman Diaries*, dated March 3, 1971, Haldeman describes himself joking with the president (labeled here as "P") about which of his two foreign-policy experts—Kissinger and Rogers—would, if need be, throw himself on a sword out of loyalty. The president repeatedly emphasizes that he realizes Kissinger is both more valuable and more *loyal* than Rogers. "The P made the point," says Haldeman, "that if we got to the stage where somebody had to fall on a sword in order to save the P, Henry would do it, but Rogers wouldn't. I made the point that I agreed with that, but that if Henry did it, he would do it with loud kicking and screaming and make sure that the blood spurted all over the place so he got full credit."

Kissinger put together a brilliant young staff at the N.S.C. But most of the staff were deeply suspicious of Nixon; they were men who had turned on the war some time ago and who were inclined by background to favor Kissinger over Nixon. They savored Kissinger's anecdotes about Nixon's drinking and about his general emotional volatility. Among other things, it made their jobs psychically more palatable: they were, it seemed, working for Kissinger, not Nixon. There was an additional benefit in this for Kissinger, some of them later suspected. Surely they would report back to their friends in Georgetown and elsewhere on his lonely, liberal fight against the forces of darkness.

So he was a man playing different

roles to warring constituencies. A dangerous game—and Kissinger was nervous about what might happen if his staff mixed socially with the other aides. He couldn't risk having his people discover his support for Nixon's policy in the meetings with the president. Al-

though it was White House custom for a rising figure to display his power by maximizing the number of his staffers he could get into the White House Mess, Kissinger cut off mess privileges for his staff.

ixon's great policy problem was Vietnam and his pledge to end the war with peace and honor. Simply stated, this was not doable if the U.S. continued the process of troop withdrawal. Nixon could not adjust his rhetoric to the realities. The idea that the South Vietnamese ARVN—already a defeated army—could achieve what 500,000 Americans, backed by the most formidable assemblage of airpower in the history of mankind, could not was simply ludicrous. The war was over and the other side knew it. What was being debated was forms of withdrawal, fig leaves really. Peace would come only with defeat. No one, I suspect, had a better grasp of this than Henry Kissinger, master of realpolitik.

The Cambodian invasion was—according to Roger Morris, one of the most brilliant members of Kissinger's N.S.C. staff—the fateful moment for Kissinger in the Nixon White House, his personal crossing of the Rubicon. (When I spoke to Kissinger, he agreed with this, although, I suspect, with a significantly different view of who the ultimate victim in all this was.) Up until now, Kissinger had been able to be two different men, answerable to both the Nixon hawks and the more liberal Establishment. Now he faced a choice between the part of himself that courted favor with Nixon and the part of himself that needed the goodwill of Harvard and Georgetown, the political-social-journalistic world where he had invested

20 years building up friendships and credibility. He chose, of course, to maintain power. Though he continued to portray himself to some columnists and journalists as a man agonized by the Cambodian bombing and invasion, his staff realized during the Cambodia crisis that this was not, indeed, the case. The young men watched with increasing distress the growing duplicity of his performance, alongside what Roger Morris referred to as Kissinger's self-absorption, megalomania, and gamesmanship.

Cambodia tore Kissinger's staff apart, not unlike the country itself. "The bleeding hearts," as he liked to call them, these young men whom he had cherished and admired, were appalled. The move into Cambodia was to them a disastrous move in terms of domestic politics; it would imply a wider, not smaller, war. The Americans. Kissinger's staff realized, would never be able to locate the COSVN, the Communist headquarters in Cambodia, and they felt the invasion would drive the Khmer Rouge westward toward Phnom Penh. It was, at least one of the staffers believed, the needless sacrifice of a small, powerless nation to a flawed, indeed failed, military policy.

The meeting of Kissinger's staff where he told them about the coming move into Cambodia was, in its own way, as skilled a piece of bureaucratic manipulation and duplicity as one could imagine. The goal was to dampen and limit staff dissent. What was not discussed was the critical incremental jump in the policy, not merely the use of fixed-wing aircraft in this strike but also the fact that South Vietnamese combat troops would be joining U.S. forces in the invasion. Some of the staff people attending the meeting knew this, but they had not been told who else, if anyone, knew it. Therefore, they could not mention it at the meeting. Thus was debate—and dissent—on the most important aspect of the operation effectively suppressed. (Later, when they spoke among themselves, they would find out the degree to which they had been had. Many had, in fact, known of the escalation, but Kissinger had skillfully tied them up.)

Bill Watts, one of three who actually resigned over Cambodia, had come to the White House from the Rockefeller

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work more effectively if he did not come out publicly with his support. His exact words: "I can do you more good if I am not public." Kissinger became a secret source for the Nixon people while simultaneously assuring friends in Paris that he held Nixon in contempt. Clearly, the old codes that had existed in the world of foreign policy had been detonated.

At the same time, as reporter Seymour Hersh later discovered, Kissinger had made an offer to pass on information about Nixon to Humphrey, information accumulated by the Rockefeller organization throughout the years when Nixon and Rockefeller were rivals for the Republican nomination. "The Shit Files," they were called. "My God," Hersh told me, "I started checking around and I found out he was a double agent, not only giving stuff to Nixon on the Democrats, but offering the Rockefeller stuff to the Humphrey campaign."

To Dan Davidson, a young Harriman aide working in the Paris peace talks, the subsequent revelation that Kissinger was passing information to the Nixon campaign was stunning. "Later," says Davidson, "long after it was over, we found out that he was sending our stuff back to the Nixon people, though we never knew exactly what he was sending back. Knowing Henry and his eagerness to impress Nixon, and to win some kind of place in the Nixon administration, there is no reason to believe that he held back anything." It was one thing for an eager would-be officeholder to play both camps by straddling the middle. It was another thing entirely to use credentials gained from one camp to penetrate another and pass on its secrets.

Kissinger's move to the Nixon camp, Dan Davidson believes, reflected a significant change in the delicate area of foreign and national-security policies. The old boys of the Establishment, Davidson says, had character and operated within certain boundaries that were clearly outlined and that one did not violate lightly.

Recently I asked Davidson if now, more than 25 years later, Kissinger's double game still bothered him. "Not if you come to realize that you were dealing with someone who is completely without character," Davidson answered, as if he were amused by the idea of Kissinger scurrying back and forth between the camps, trying to gain favor and somehow come out on the winning side.

For a brief time, Davidson worked under Kissinger at the National Security Council, but it was not a mutually satisfying experience. He was one of the

aides who left early on, and later it was discovered that he had been one of the staffers who had been wiretapped. Talking about what eventually happened in the White House, specifically the wiretapping of N.S.C. staff members with Kissinger's authorization, Davidson makes this point: "You cannot imagine McGeorge Bundy and Carl Kaysen sitting around in the Kennedy White House saying to each other, 'Let's wiretap our N.S.C. people.'"

That Nixon, with the knowledge he had of Henry Kissinger's fundamental character, found a place for him at the highest level of his administration is not, upon consideration, surprising. Kissinger had proved his value with his actions during the 1968 campaign. He had, ironically, proved his loyalty, if that is the word. He was a player. When I suggested that a dark sun brought Nixon and Kissinger together, I used the description advisedly. Nixon was from the start, for whatever intelligence and political skill he possessed, a damaged man. It was one thing for Kissinger to be a courtier in the world of Nelson Rockefeller, where the abundant confidence of the candidate permeated all meetings. It was quite another thing to be insecure, without connections, and rootless in the administration of the most insecure and disconnected of modern politicians: Richard Nixon.

The Nixon White House had an unusually ugly atmosphere, a kind of swaggering macho style reflecting the lowest common denominator of American social behavior. Because it was believed that people who sounded tough were tough, points were awarded to those who seemed manly and hard. From the start, the union of Nixon and Kissinger in this environment was not merely unhealthy but also dangerous. Here were two highly intelligent men, each relentlessly ambitious, each significantly damaged and distrustful, each in his own way insecure and vulnerable. Unsure of himself, unsure of his relationship to his president, Kissinger set out to consolidate power.

Dick Allen was the first to learn that Henry Kissinger was not your average professor, ill-prepared to face the demands of the political bureaucracy. He quickly recognized the fact that standing before him was a superb and relentless bureaucratic infighter, a man for whom issues of power, down to the tiniest details, were always in play. Kissinger moved Allen, who was serving as his deputy in the Nixon White House, out of the action quite skillfully and almost im-

mediately. When Richard Moose, a young staffer, asked Kissinger what he should do with Allen, Kissinger replied, "Give him the largest office we have, but no telegrams." That is, flatter him, but keep him off the cable traffic. Allen was quickly stranded; his assignments took him far away from central issues.

What Kissinger managed in the White House during those early years was something of a bravura performance. He knew that for a variety of reasons he was culturally unacceptable, that there was a severe allergy to him, and that he had to pass a kind of Caesar's-wife test almost every day. After all, he was Jewish, he represented Harvard and the Rockefellers, and he was the butt of jokes. One of his aides remembered being with Kissinger, Haldeman, and Ehrlichman in the West Wing elevator. One of the men commented on a Washington Post item about Kissinger's having dinner with a young woman the night before. There was a quick suggestion that the idea of Henry's liking girls was a surprise; they had always heard that he preferred boys. There it was—the reminder that he was the man outside, the one who would be required, again and again, to prove himself.

At first, as he gradually made his accommodations to the norm of the White House, some of his more idealistic staff members were staggered by the level of his duplicity. What amazed them was not the dishonesty or ruthlessness, but the fact that what was at issue was frequently stunningly inconsequential. There would be a modestly successful press conference and soon the phone would ring and it would be Nixon calling Kissinger to ask how it had gone. Kissinger would launch, full throttle, into the flattery that seemed to come so naturally: it had been magnificent; the reporters had looked like children. Then Haldeman would call and upbraid Kissinger for Nixon's weakness on foreign policy, and a different Kissinger would seem to accept this. Later, Kissinger would call Rockefeller to tell him how terrible Nixon had been.

Kissinger's first great challenge in the Nixon White House was to prove his usefulness to the practical Nixon and his toughness to Haldeman and Ehrlichman. He had to show that he was not faint of heart like Bill Rogers, their secretary of state. Kissinger's strength in the early formative months was that he could offer the president one thing at all times: total agreement on Vietnam. He had made his separate peace; he would be their man. Bill Rogers, saddled with a clumsy, less than hawkish bureaucracy, was his perfect

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"I can do you more good if I am not public,"
Kissinger told the Nixon people.

brought in. Kissinger was furious. Later, he turned to his colleague Mort Halperin. "Do you know what that was about?" he asked. Halperin did not. "It was an attempt to embarrass me," said Kissinger, explaining that the professor in question had written unfavorably about one of Kissinger's books. Bringing him to Harvard, Kissinger suggested, would lend the university's imprimatur to the review.

He was a brilliant man with a capacity not merely to reinvent himself but to become—at least momentarily—the person that others wanted him to be. As Walter Isaacson has noted in his excellent biography, Kissinger was the prototype of someone who had grown up in an authoritarian society, obsequious with those above, overbearing with those below, and devious with peers. There is an additional consideration: more than one acquaintance has pointed out Kissinger's own internal resentment of the flattery that had become his trademark. This, perhaps, explains his unattractive tendency to privately ridicule—as if to gain some kind of revenge—the very people he had just courted.

At Harvard he was acutely aware of and quite resentful of the success of another rising star, Zbigniew Brzezinski, whose talents and ambition were quite similar to his own. If anything, in those days, Brzezinski—slim, attractive, and roguish—was perceived as socially more presentable than the somewhat overweight Kissinger. And Brzezinski had one additional advantage: in those early, overheated days of the Cold War, he was automatically regarded, by virtue of his genes (he was an émigré Pole), as a hard-liner. Kissinger, a Jew, inevitably aroused somewhat more suspicion on the right for possible left-wing sympathies. He had to work harder than Brzezinski to show his bona fides as an anti-Communist.

In the 50s, Kissinger made a lateral move to the Rockefeller operation, becoming an adviser on foreign policy. His book on the use of tactical nuclear weapons was published and was a surprising success. It even made the best-seller lists. But Kissinger was hardly a commanding figure; his massive insecurities about being an immigrant Jew were not assuaged by working for

one of America's first families. His reputation for sycophancy increased, as did his talent for flattery of the most skilled sort: intellectual flattery. He was very aware of where powerful men stood on all issues, who their enemies were, and—far more than the norm—he had the capacity to play to these men, to bring up subjects and prejudices close to their hearts. So often the men were stunned by this brilliant young mind who seemed to feel as they did about so many things and expressed their very own feelings with such conviction. Kissinger was not someone, it was said, who ever disagreed with anyone more powerful than he, at least face-to-face.

As his power within the Rockefeller organization grew, Kissinger began to think of himself as increasingly grand. When a press liaison who had an almost perfect ear for Rockefeller's speech patterns once tried to rewrite a Kissinger speech, Kissinger was not pleased. "When Nelson buys a Picasso, he does not get a housepainter to go and retouch it," he said. Inevitably, Emmet John Hughes, for many years the ranking Rockefeller intellectual and a man who watched Kissinger's rise with a combination of resentment and disdain, retaliated. In 1968, before the Rockefeller presidential run, frustrated by what he perceived as constant Kissinger undercutting, Hughes suggested that the Rockefeller people bring in Brzezinski as an adviser. Brzezinski, Hughes said, had a far better mind than Henry's. Soon there were rumors not only of a Brzezinski opening (playing the Polish card, one Rockefeller staffer called it) but also of sightings: Zbig and Emmet lunching at a place where rising stars were offered important jobs. Kissinger was appalled. He was heard to say that there was no need to bring Zbig into the campaign; there was already plenty of intellectual firepower. Rockefeller, however, was intrigued by Brzezinski; if two intellectuals were better than one, then certainly three were better than two, and they clearly cost a good deal less than Picasos. For a time, Brzezinski responded to the seduction: he was closer to Humphrey politically, but thought more highly of Rockefeller as an administrator. But by the time the Rockefeller offer

was tendered, he had signed on with Humphrey.

But Zbig remained something of a thorn. Years after the Rockefeller faceoff, after Carter had given Brzezinski Kissinger's old job as national-security adviser, Kissinger was invited to a dinner at Kay Graham's in honor of Frank Wisner, who had just been named ambassador to Zambia. During the festivities, Kissinger had been extremely bothered by a photo on the mantel of a slim, handsome young man. "Kay," he asked, "how could you do it to me?"

"Do what, Henry?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Put up a photo of Zbig, and so quickly, too."

"Henry," she said, "that is a photo of Phil Graham" (her late husband).

To all intents and purposes, Rockefeller's 1968 loss of the Republican presidential nomination seemed, at least to the outside world, a loss for Kissinger as well. His surprising move to Nixon, however, signaled the coming of a new age and a new type of foreign-policy adviser. What was stunning to many people was the degree to which the qualities that had been important in the past, those of character and loyalty, were discredited. Gradually, after Kissinger surfaced in the Nixon camp, some of his old friends in the Johnson administration came to believe that he had betrayed them by feeding vital information on the Paris peace talks to the Nixon people, information which—when relayed back to Saigon—had a critical effect on the negotiations. Kissinger fed this information first through Richard Allen and then through John Mitchell, the general campaign manager. Allen, who had brought Kissinger into the Nixon campaign, later told *The New York Times's* Seymour Hersh: "I became a handmaiden of Henry Kissinger's drive for power. I was naïve. I had my zipper wide open."

After Rockefeller's defeat at the convention, Allen—who greatly admired Kissinger's intellect—offered him a chance to be a Nixon foreign-policy adviser. Kissinger had told Allen that he was positively inclined toward Nixon, but that he could

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John Kennedy tries out a director's chair during a visit to Hollywood in 1940.

the partner interviewing him had made notes on his shiftily-eyed manner. Nixon was, to this world, forever the outsider. Even when he tried to be friendly, it seemed artificial.

Kennedy was filled with the kind of easy confidence that was crucial to being an Establishment member in good standing. He was secure not only in the belief that good things would happen to him but also with the idea that they *should* happen to him. He deserved them. Doors would open readily, important men would seek his company, appealing women would find him attractive. Kennedy accepted his good fortune without doubt; he never questioned his entitlement. Nixon, with all his stored-up anger, was untrustworthy. The insecure were *always* untrustworthy. And the Establishment was premised, as much as anything, on trust.

In the years after W.W. II, the Harvard Government Department was not a place for the faint of heart. Of the young men who were teaching fellows there in the early 50s, three went on to become national-security assistants to the president of the United States: McGeorge Bundy, Kissinger, and Brzezinski. It was the hot place, offering instant connection to power. With the growth of the Cold War and the coming of America as a superpower, the country needed an entire new class of bright young men to serve. Harvard was the magnet for those who would fill the vacuum—a new breed of action intellectuals, men not content with academe, men determined to create and act on new policies.

Kennedy was cool, innately patrician,
clearly the first Irish-Catholic Brahmin.

From the start, Kissinger seemed a less than passionate teacher. His lectures on occasion, said one observer, resembled modern press conferences. At the beginning of class, he answered questions about world events; if there was time at the end, he *might* discuss the assignment. Those who wanted to see him were told to make three appointments. He would, he promised, be sure to keep one. He was interested in those above him in the hierarchy, and was one of the earliest networkers. Christmas cards, oddly enough, were one of his chosen instruments. On the surface, the young Kissinger might have appeared an unlikely holiday celebrant, but he kept the names and addresses of everyone on hand, including those young foreigners who had come through the Harvard international program and who seemed destined for something.

He had the ability to find the right older man to sponsor him. At Harvard, it was William Yandell ("Wild Bill") Elliott, one of the towering figures of the Government Department. Bill Elliott was a former college football star who took great pleasure in the roughness of his language and manner. If he did have, as he was certain, one of Harvard's best minds, it was clearly matched by the dimensions of his self-regard. He became an important Kissinger booster, but being an Elliott protégé was not always an unmixed blessing. Bill Elliott was not above letting his acolytes know the price they paid for his sponsorship. In 1955, a classmate of mine named Richard Ullman (later a distinguished political scientist at Princeton) was working as the editor of the summer *Crimson* at Harvard, and he went to see Bill Elliott for a story about the International Seminar then conducted at the university. When Ullman asked Elliott a procedural question, he replied, "Go see my water boy about that."

"Who's your water boy?" the puzzled Ullman inquired.

"Henry Kissinger."

"Why do you call him that?"

"Because he does everything I ask him to," Elliott answered.

Somehow in those years Kissinger managed to offend Elliott; no one knew how. Perhaps Elliott sensed that Kissinger was intent on transfer to a larger field of action. But something happened, and

in 1963, at the time of Elliott's retirement, there was a scene that became legendary. Elliott's senior colleagues had gathered at a dinner to say farewell and the guest of honor had visited each with parting words. Almost all his comments were generous, until he came to Kissinger: "Henry," he began, "you're brilliant. But you're arrogant. In fact you're the most arrogant man I've ever met." Kissinger became ashen-faced. "Mark my words." Elliott continued, "your arrogance is going to get you in real trouble one day."

Because of the unique force of his will, Kissinger's weakness became his strength. His insecurity in the end became his weapon; he needed success more than others, and he would do more to attain it. Sensing himself an outsider, disconnected and rootless, he acted with fewer restraints on his conduct. The key factor here was his insecurity, produced as it had been by his terrible childhood in pre-Holocaust Germany. Uprooted, the society around him destroyed, his most cherished institutions corrupted and made evil, Kissinger arrived here badly damaged, wary, extremely suspicious. He gave his trust and loyalty to no one, and in personal and professional dealings (for a man like him the two were never separated), he was always on red alert: *Is this friend or enemy? What are his weaknesses, prejudices? Can he be flattered, neutralized?* Unsure of his place in the new world, he could theoretically understand its protections but could never entirely trust in them. This damage, however, only made him more brilliant, more interesting—and finally more devious. He could never relax or let down his guard. Despite the blessings of a free society, he could never entirely overcome the warieness of those whose childhoods have been lost in the totalitarian states they have left behind. (Though Kissinger has often denied that his childhood is in any way part of the psychic key to him, his longtime associates feel otherwise.)

He was ferociously territorial, with the tendency to interpret the simplest of moves in the darkest of lights. He squabbled constantly with Bob Bowie, his superior at the Center for International Affairs. At a department meeting, Bowie suggested that a noted professor be

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They joined the best clubs within the colleges, Porcellian and Fly, Skull and Bones...

Above: General George Marshall makes a stop in Paris on his way to Moscow for a meeting at the Kremlin.

Right: Elihu Root, who served as secretary of state under Theodore Roosevelt, helped define the Establishment's internationalist stance.

refugee organizations.) The new class, trained quite specifically for the task, was created not to wrest power away from the older, more traditional Establishment, but ostensibly to serve it. Its rise created a dramatic impact. Before World War II, the ruling class had drifted through the Ivy League, turning rather casually to careers in government if they were bored with more traditional careers in finance and the law. There was nothing casual about the new generation. They sought advancement in the most singular way.

The Wasp Establishment as it existed in the 50s and early 60s was a select group of prominent men whose job was to guide American foreign policy, which they had done with considerable success for much of the earlier part of this century. The term "Wasp" should not lead one to assume that the sole qualifications were to be white and Protestant. There were millions of good, God-fearing white Protestants who were not, by standard definition, true Wasps. Rather, the term referred to a class within a class, a governing elite which had served, earlier on, as both upper and ruling class. Most of its members were men of the Atlantic, Republican internationalists who—because of financial interests—tilted toward Europe. They

shared a special kinship with England, a vague tolerance—and certain irritability—toward France, and a wary acceptance of Germany. Almost all of its senior figures had been interventionists in those lonely, desperate years before World War II when America was still isolationist and Hitler was on the rise, threatening England and the democracies of Europe. If there was a thread which bound together the great American diplomats and policymakers of that era—Henry Stimson, George Marshall, John McCloy, Dean Acheson, George Kennan, Averell Harriman, and Bob Lovett—it

was their common role in that great struggle to move America toward preparedness before the war. The later battle for the containment policy which stalemated Soviet aggression in Europe seemed easy by comparison.

They were eastern men, even if they were not all eastern-born (Lovett came from Texas, Kennan from Wisconsin). Educated in New England, they had joined the great banking houses and law firms of Wall and State Streets and were groomed in the verities and politics of the world to which they had been born or become apprenticed. They accepted its internationalism, its dress codes, its restraints, its mastery of ego. Their preferred continent was Europe, not Asia, the preferred general Eisenhower, not MacArthur, the preferred sports tennis and sailing, not baseball or basketball. They rendered these decisions with finality, a certainty inculcated in the great prep schools, where their values and friendships had been solidified and where they had learned to distinguish who among them was worthy and sound. From the right preps they had moved on to the right colleges and, more important, to the best clubs within the colleges, the Porcellian and the Fly at Harvard, Skull and Bones and Scroll and Key at Yale, and Ivy and Cap and Gown at Princeton. They were

united by styles and manners that symbolized everything they shared; in the 50s at least, they were known as "Shoe" (for "White Shoe") or "Clubby," which has over the years mutated to "Preppy."

The better young men were not so much brilliant as clubbable, vouchable. The bloodlines were tested, the values confirmed early on. The legatees knew who had "the right stuff" and who, conversely, would never pass muster; they knew what was to be discussed only in private. They knew—and this was perhaps the most elemental rule of all—that they were not to take credit for anything, even if the credit was rightfully theirs. They tended to be self-deprecating and detached, stoic. (Many were uneasy with John Foster Dulles not just because of his slowness to perceive the danger of Hitler but also because he was considered too partisan and vainglorious.) They were sound; they were solid: the Establishment resisted fashion. It was important to hold the center; it was important not to embrace new ideas too quickly—it was better to be wrong than to be hasty.

Issues of class were critically important to the men who inhabited this inner circle. By all rights, these centrist Republicans should have supported Richard Nixon in 1960, but the Establishment had never warmed to Nixon. John Kennedy may have been a Catholic, he may have been a Democrat, he may even have been old Joe Kennedy's son. But he was cool, innately patrician, clearly the first Irish-Catholic Brahmin. Having dealt all his life with his father, an autocratic tycoon, he was equipped to charm even the most towering figures of the Establishment on their home turf.

Nixon was another matter. In 1960, Henry Luce, patriarch of *Time*, was fond of saying that he was supposed to be for Nixon, but he didn't like him very much. He was supposed to be against Kennedy, but he liked him a great deal. Nixon—a striver, awkward and uncomfortable, too nakedly ambitious—conducted himself quite differently from someone raised in the culture of Luce and the others. Years earlier, when Nixon had gone to New York for an interview at the Establishment law firm of Sullivan and Cromwell,

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Kissinger with Ali MacGraw at the world premiere of *The Godfather* in 1972.

Kissinger and wife Nancy with *The Washington Post's* Kay Graham aboard Rupert Murdoch's chartered yacht, *Midnight Saga*.

gant.

presented at tempo- played media- lled the film as a great film, but had ex- iment as to whether and how much of the film should be ex- pected to be of value. The film is a complex, and in some units and rules of the com- plex, but the com- munication and tra- vels were no more than a set of goals. The film is a bur- eral mark of the film, and the be- ing that Americans should be made up of things, which in- dicate that the film is made in China. The film is a film. They are not only per- fectly fatal er- rors in the film, but also in tech- nical points. These

miscalculations cost them and the class they represented dearly.

The Establishment's decline stemmed not merely from the loss of its myth of expertise. Its base was torn asunder by domestic change. The G.I. Bill had altered the very nature of American society. America had gone from political democracy to econom- ic democracy with the New Deal, and to social democracy with the coming of the G.I. Bill. The nation's great elite colleges were no longer private sanctuaries of privilege. In the years after World War II, they were being opened to the children of the meritocracy, and once this happened, the very nature of the Establishment was transformed. It had to adapt quickly, admitting new members such as Zbigniew Brzezinski, who would ultimately become Jimmy Carter's na- tional-security adviser, and Kissinger, whose fathers had not even been born on American shores.

The power of privilege and the connections that came from being a legatee of a great family fell into decline. It was harder for the children of bygone glories to assume command, for they were often outstripped in college by the hungry, driven children of the meritocracy. It was an article of faith that the prep-school graduates performed better during freshman year than the public-school graduates, but that late in the sophomore year the hungrier public-school boys passed them by. The world changed similarly. In later years,

Henry Kissinger would reflect this contrast when he upstaged Secretary of State William Rogers, whom he saw as his principal rival for influence in foreign policy during the Nixon administration. Rogers—certifiably Waspy, demonstrably clubbable—belonged to Burning Tree and to the Racquet and Tennis Club as well as the Metropolitan. But he never craved power as Kissinger did. Rogers, although perceived as a Washington insider, became stunningly vulnerable almost overnight.

The Establishment declined for other reasons: American power and money moved south and west, and the consequences for the Republican Party, and thus the Eastern Establishment, were profound. (While the Establishment liked to think of itself as nonpartisan, it was essentially genteel centrist eastern Republican.) The final decline of that wing of the party was foreshadowed in 1964 when Goldwater won the Republican nomination from the main liberal candidate, Nelson Rockefeller. After 1968, no Republican liberal would run for at least a quarter-century, although John Anderson ran as an independent and John Lindsay campaigned as a Democrat. George Bush transmogrified from the son of Prescott Bush, good eastern liberal internationalist, to George Bush of Texas, a man who played to (but never really won over) the Republican right. Late in his career, in one of his less successful transformations, Kissinger—

after having served Nixon and Ford, the Republican center's surviving figures—attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to recast himself yet again to satisfy the new right wing.

Another factor in the Establishment's decline was rising media power. The failure of U.S. Vietnam policy diminished the Establishment but strengthened the media, which reported the war more accurately than the government did. The media, bolstered by network television, arrived as a power center rivaling government itself. Previous Establishment media people working Washington had known their place; they were ancillary to their government betters. But the new generation, demonstrably less responsive to men in office, was more independent and more aggressive. Within government, there was far greater pressure to leak, which undermined many Establishment norms, most notably secrecy, which had worked through the 50s and 60s.

The arrival of men such as Kissinger and Zbigniew Brzezinski at the forefront of the national-security complex signaled the first surfacing of a professional class of foreign-policy experts, a new generation for America's postwar incarnation. (In time, this nucleus of experts trained specifically for the role of foreign policy would expand further with the coming of the representatives of human-rights groups and

PHOTOGRAPHS: LEFT, BY SANTI VISALL; RIGHT, BY DAVID JONES

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Kissinger, serving as
Gerald Ford's secretary of state
in 1975, chats with then
vice president Nelson Rockefeller,
his old mentor.

"Henry, you're brilliant," Elliott began. "But you're arrogant."

It was as if both were equal beneficiaries of Kissinger's intellectual credentials. Kissinger, Teddy told me, had been extremely stilted, even after Nixon's departure, when they chatted for an hour before Teddy raced to catch the shuttle to New York.

That night, the phone rang just as Teddy entered his apartment. The voice, heavily accented, was familiar: it was Kissinger. "Teddy," he said plaintively, "that last conversation we had together in Miami—it was off-the-record, wasn't it?"

Kissinger's appointment brought to the inner circle of power the most complicated, brilliant, and controversial government servant of the postwar era, a man with a towering intellect, an unnerving appetite for power, and a reputation, as time passed, for conduct of the most deviant sort. ("I admire Henry," said Richard Allen, a conservative Nixon adviser who helped bring Kissinger into the Nixon camp and was later squeezed out by him. "What is troubling about him is why he needs to be so devious and manipulative—he's so brilliant, he works so hard. He sees connections before everyone else. He could rise just as high if he played straight. But for some reason, he just can't play straight. He *has* to manipulate.")

Kissinger was the first great figure of the meritocracy to play so great a role in the foreign-policy superstruc-

ture, the first (but certainly not the last) who came from the seemingly disinterested ambience of Harvard to use that institution as an elegant but glorified trade school. The contradictions in his life were dazzling: He was a firsthand observer of our fragmented and less than generous refugee policy toward the Jews of Europe, but for much of his life seemed to downplay systematically the importance of human rights in foreign policy. He often seemed uneasy with the American instinct for goodness and morality in foreign policy, as if it were the weakness of a youthful, innocent nation lacking in its sense of realpolitik. Though he had been propelled to the inner sanc- tum of power by the forces of the Eastern Establishment, his willingness to go along with Nixon's actions on Vietnam, and most specifically Cambodia, had a profound impact on his relationship with the Establishment, which effectively broke with the Nixon administration over these policies.

Kissinger's role in the Nixon White House signified a sea change in the nature of the American Establishment, which, in the past, had prided itself on the now seemingly archaic notion that character and integrity were more important than brilliance and originality. The greater good of the ruling class, which of course meant the greater good of the country, was more important than self-advancement. Kissinger's rise to power, his ability to retool and repackage himself, his

cultivation of journalists, represented something else, something contemporary, a different kind of man who played by different rules in a new, media-driven age. His success signaled the end of the Establishment as it had existed in the past, the Establishment as written about by Richard Rovere and John Kenneth Galbraith, a group united not merely by certain goals and ideals but also by immutable rules of behavior. More, it signified the coming of a new ethos: character and traditional standards of loyalty were no longer, as they had been, a requisite; more important, they could now be viewed as a weakness. The more loyal a man was, the more he was burdened by the past. One should not be tied to people who were out of favor.

The Establishment's high-water mark was probably 1960 and the election of John Kennedy. Vietnam was its nadir, when it lost something critical: the belief on the part of ordinary Americans that it possessed a rare expertise that those of more plebeian backgrounds lacked. Vietnam, among other things, revealed the Establishment as poorly informed on a vast landmass which included, among other countries, China. The Establishment's elite was made up of men who looked toward Europe. They had seen Vietnam as essentially peripheral, and they had made a fatal error in failing to understand not only the ineffectiveness of American technology there but also the revolutionary forces driving their opponents. These

250

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Nixon to
Channel
 finger
ions
 ma-
t to
 John
 the
 col-
 he
 bert
 re-
 spo-
 lob if
 role
 na-
 ty to
 ---an
 overt
 Nixon
 of the
 n su-
 ly set
 and
 ange-
 tions,
 royalties
cool
 reviews
 part
 readily
 of al-
 the
 would
 fold.
 he hu-
 ver in
 on his
 price
 Nixon's
emed
 most
 uraged
 re less
 mon-
s that
 feller
 hap-
 Rocke-
 phone
 securi-
 Nixon
 d the
 y sur-

prised were Kissinger's associates in
the foreign-policy wings of the Rock-
efeller and Humphrey campaigns, peo-
ple who had thought they were close
to him, people who had thought they
knew that he viewed Nixon as a kind
of political devil incarnate. The reason
they had thought they knew this was
that Henry Kissinger had often told
them so.

In early 1969 I lived a few blocks
from the historian Teddy White on Man-
hattan's East Side. We often went for
walks when our workdays were done,
and on January 23, 1969 (I am grate-
ful for H. R. Haldeman's diary for re-
minding me of the exact date), Teddy
told me a story rich in its ironies. On
the previous day, January 22, he had
been at the White House for his final
interview with Nixon—now newly in-
stalled as president—for *The Making
of the President, 1968*. By chance, he
had also seen Kissinger.

"The last time I had seen Henry was during the Miami convention, which nominated Nixon," Teddy said. "Nixon clearly had a lock on the nomination and so I decided to wander over to the Rockefeller headquarters to see what it was like there as the last of Nelson's presidential ambitions were coming to an end. It had the feeling of a morgue. Everywhere you looked there were old plates of take-out food and half-employee coffee containers. And the only person I saw was Henry. I have never been greeted so warmly; it was as if I were his last friend on earth.

"'Teddy,' he said, 'we have to stop this madman Nixon ... ' Kissinger went on a prolonged indictment of Nixon, that he was not to be trusted, that he represented everything dark and dangerous, that he was not worthy of the office. He said that America might not survive a Nixon presidency."

Teddy White had not been greatly
moved by this tirade; he had heard com-
parable Kissinger soliloquies. Then,
just two days after the inaugural, he
had visited Nixon in the White House.
Nixon had welcomed him, outlining
his vision of the presidency and then
taking him to meet his new assistant
for national-security affairs, *Doctor Hen-
ry Kissinger*. Teddy had been amused
by Nixon's continuing emphasis of the

WISCONSIN
JOHN MCCONLEY
Wall Street attorney,
assistant secretary of war,
high commissioner for
Germany, president of the
World Bank, chairman
of Chase bank, chairman of
the Council on Foreign
Relations. More than any
figure of this century,
McCloy symbolized
Establishment values.

stern

Establishment came for Henry Kissinger in November 1968.

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He had been one of the men chosen to eulogize Nixon, a decision which had confounded the old loyalists: the bond between Henry Kissinger and the former president, whom he had served as national-security adviser and then secretary of state, had never been warm. Nixon had always been hyper-sensitive to Kissinger's ambition and his tendency to

take credit with journalists for triumphs that Nixon considered his singular territory. H. R. Haldeman had once told John Ehrlichman that their former boss had bugged his own office in order to be able to demonstrate, in Ehrlichman's words, "that the foreign-policy initiatives of his Presidency were in fact his own, not Henry's." The Nixon-Kissinger relationship, frail and edgy at all times, was particularly fraught at certain junctures: such as the week when *Time* selected both as Men of the Year, which enraged Nixon, or the day when Kissinger won what Nixon regarded as his Nobel Prize. They survived as colleagues in no small part because they were, for better or for worse, bound to each other, essentially each other's hostage.

The immediate interests that joined them were complicated by larger tensions: there had been Nixon's unfortunate anti-Semitism, amplified on occasion—some observers believed—for Kissinger's benefit as a little test among the boys. Nixon sometimes used the description "Jewboy" (a term ranking right up there with "kike" for most Jews) to describe his top foreign-policy expert. As for Kissinger, known for his treacherous mouth, he was often scornful of the man who had helped advance him, something Nixon was well aware of. After Nixon left office, a group of Canadian reporters overheard Kissinger calling the former president an odd, artificial man, one of his milder epithets. From the beginning of his

White House tour, Kissinger often portrayed Nixon to his staff as unstable, irrational, given to heavy drinking. "My drunken friend," he liked to call Nixon, or sarcastically "our peerless leader."

The consequences of their union were historic. Given their personalities, their respective insecurities, and the effect they would have on each other, it was as if there had been some dark sun on the day they came together. Nixon was paranoiac, brooding, pessimistic— a man who stored up grievance. Much of that grievance was directed at the power and snobbery of what he considered the Eastern Establishment. Kissinger was paranoiac, brilliant, devious, manipulative, and neurotically territorial; he was, at least outwardly, a product of the forces Nixon most despised: Harvard, the Rockefellers, the old boys. On occasion, even after leaving office, Nixon would speak bitterly of those institutions, which he believed represented the weakening fiber of America. He referred to their members as *Henry's crowd*, and he did this long after Kissinger himself had been largely separated from the Establishment by the incursion into Cambodia.

The telephone call that signified the decline of the Eastern Establishment, as an instrument of class propelled by certain traditions of loyalty and honor, came for Henry Kissinger in November 1968 at a meeting with his patron, Nelson Rockefeller, at the latter's West 54th Street apartment in New York City. Kissinger and other Rockefeller staffers were trying to predict which position Nixon would offer their boss in his new administration.

It appeared likely to the Rockefeller insiders, if not to the Nixon insiders, that their man would be offered something major, probably secretary of defense. In turn, he would offer a choice appointment to Kissinger, probably assistant secretary for international security—a considerable plum and a perfect launchpad for a rising star. It was also quite possible, however, that Kissinger would be offered something higher: unbeknownst to Rockefeller, he

had made himself unusually helpful to Nixon, serving as his secret channel on the Paris peace talks. Kissinger had used his Democratic connections to gain access to privileged information in Paris and had funneled it to Nixon men Richard Allen and John Mitchell. He had more lines into the Nixon camp than his Rockefeller colleagues imagined, but then again he also had more connections to Hubert Humphrey than the Nixon group realized. Humphrey, in fact, had also spoken of giving Kissinger a top job if he was elected, quite possibly the role of the president's chief adviser for national security. Kissinger's capacity to be all things to all campaigns—an overt Rockefeller man, a semi-overt Humphrey man, and a covert Nixon man—reflects the emergence of the rootless operator in the modern superstate. Kissinger was the first—though there were others to follow—of the wildly ambitious agents of opportunity set loose in the wilds of Washington and other capitals. They are interchangeable men, singular in their ambitions, unhampered by traditional loyalties or affiliations. They are men so cool and detached in their geopolitical views that they sometimes seem to be part of a new international elite, readily transferable to the governments of allies and adversaries alike.

It did not seem to occur to the Rockefeller camp that Nixon would not welcome its leader into the fold. But Nixon had not forgotten the humiliation inflicted by Rockefeller in 1960 when the former had won his first presidential nomination. The price of Rocky's support had been Nixon's consent to a platform which seemed more Rockefeller than Nixon to most conservatives and which had enraged the Republican right. There were less tangible resentments as well: old money, the East, all the associations that Kissinger inherited and Rockefeller embodied. There would, as it happened, be no job for Nelson Rockefeller. Instead, after the brief phone call, Kissinger became national-security adviser.

Many were surprised when Nixon offered and Kissinger accepted the job. Among those particularly sur-

SEP-30-1994 13:34

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## House Dinner

Lorinberg, chairman, Walt Disney Studios, and Mari-
Etzenberg

George F. Kennan, Institute for Advanced Study, and Annelise Kennan

Anthony Lake, assistant to the president for national security affairs, and Nicholas Burns, special assistant to the president for national security affairs

Eugene K. Lawson, president, U.S.-Russia Business Council, and Stephanie Lawson

Sen. Patrick J. Leahy (D-Vt.) and Marcelle Leahy

Thomas F. "Mack" McLarty, counselor to the president, and Donna McLarty

Rep. Robert H. Michel (R-Ill.) and Corinne Michel

Abner Mikva, retired judge, U.S. Court of Appeals, and Zoe Mikva

Sen. George J. Mitchell (D-Maine) and Heather MacLachlan

Stuart Moldow, Gymboree Corp., and Phyllis Moldow

John J. Murphy, chairman, Dresser Industries, and Louise Murphy

Dee Dee Myers, assistant to the president and press secretary

Hazel R. O'Leary, secretary of energy

Rep. David R. Obey (D-Wis.) and Joan Obey

Leon E. Panetta, chief of staff to the president, netta

Sen. Claiborne Pell (D-R.I.) and Nuala Pell

William Perry, secretary of defense, and Lee Perry

Thomas R. Pickering, U.S. ambassador to Russia, and Alice Pickering

Molly Raiser, chief of protocol

David Remnick, The New Yorker, and Esther Fein

John M.D. Shalikashvili, chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Joan Shalikashvili

Steven Spielberg, CEO, Amblin Entertainment, and John Williams, composer

Robert S. Strauss, Akin, Gump, Strauss, Hauer & Feld, and former ambassador to Russia, and Helen Strauss

Howard Stringer, president, CBS Broadcast Group, and Jennifer Patterson

Strobe Talbott, deputy secretary of state and former ambassador to Russia, and Brooke Shearer

Maurice Tempelsman, New York

David Wilhelm, chairman, Democratic National Committee, and Degee Wilhelm

Robert C. Wright, president and CEO, NBC, and Suzanne Wright

Daniel Yergin, author, and Angela Yergin

United States
affairs of the of-

liant

President
protocol services

The department of security
chief directorate of security
Administration of Nizhniy Nov-

ia of foreign affairs

The department of North
Africas

Counselor, Russian Embas-

 protocol

Assistant to the United Na-
tive secretary of state

CEO, Archer-Daniels-Mid-
areas

in Mitchell

ence Corps

Treasury, and B.A. Bentsen

Brewers, and Marjorie Billington

Chevron Corp., and Eliza-

d, " and Meredith Brokaw

Price, and Alma Brown

Jackson

State, and Marie Christopher

Russian-American Enterprise

Unsel, and Rhoda (Polly) Kraft
eral, and Ann Langdon
man and CEO, Texaco Inc., and

the House of Representatives, and

d Barbara Walters

and Jane Gephardt

N.Y.) and Rita Gail Gilman

Monite, and Dorothea Green

and Nancy Hamilton

Rva) and Ruth Harkin

Television Network Group, and Wil-

ccidental Petroleum Corp., and

ent, CNN, and Edwina Johnson

Journal, and Karen Elliott House

## Simon & Schuster and Touchstone

### Congratulate

# Henry Kissinger

### Winner of the 1994 Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Current Interest, for Diplomacy.

A TOUCHSTONE BOOK
A Division of Simon & Schuster

SIMON & SCHUSTER

WP

The day weekly: The girls have nightmares now, “nightmares about monsters,” their mother testified last year. “They say that Papa tells us real, real scary stories, really scary visits with his friends, David and Kathryn, do not know what to say, and Jessica, 6, know. (Sarah, who is 3, is too shy to know. Or is she?) The parents know only what their children want them to know. Suspicion, once loosened into a family, ravages. It's easy to spark, nearly impossible to snuff.

Yester-
Special Appeals
Annapolis to hear arg-
determine just how the
parents. Is their homosex-
access to their children? Or a
exposure to a gay parent some-
In an hour of heated argu-
standing-room-only courtroom, the

## WASHINGTONOLOGY

# The House of Pure History

By Joel Achenbach
Washington Post Staff Writer

The most wonderful tourist attraction in Washington, not to say the most impressive, is the house where Abraham Lincoln died, because for one thing there's a sign on the front of it saying "House Where Lincoln Died." That's one of the few straightforward, unambiguous statements you'll ever encounter in Washington. No spin.

It also is such a small thing. Most of Washington's historic sites are monumental, screaming of neoclassical heroism, with domes, columns, insane numbers of marble steps that don't really go anywhere

(I am thinking of the Capitol, also known as “the House Where Health Care Reform Died”).

Most of the museums, meanwhile, are monstrous, crushing the visitor with their inventory. The saddest day of my life was when I found out that the Smithsonian was not a single museum but 16 of them.

The House Where Lincoln Died is an ordinary row house at 516 10th St. NW, across from Ford's Theatre. After walking up a few curving stone steps you enter a narrow hall. A parlor is to the left. Straight down the hall is the bedroom where Lincoln was carried. As you step into that tiny room the deathbed is directly to your right. For years the original pillow, com-

ple
near
vice
c ratio

Kissinger
ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

SANTA ANA, CA
DAILY 372,750

THURSDAY

MAR 24 1994

BURRELLE'S

638
6waa

FB
a...n

# ANC wants S. Africa to control Zulu area

**UNREST:** The ANC and Inkatha invite former U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger and Britain's Lord Carrington to mediate.

Houston Chronicle

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa — Two senior officials of the African National Congress on Wednesday called on the council that oversees South Africa's transition to democracy to take over the Zulu homeland where more than 80 people have been killed in five days of political violence.

The ANC officials urged the Transitional Executive Council to assume control of the homeland of KwaZulu. The council Wednesday appointed interim rulers of another homeland, Ciskei, which was taken over by South African authorities Tuesday. Both homelands were created under apartheid, and their leaders had ordered boycotts of South Africa's first universal elections April 26-28.

Thousands of disgruntled civil servants assembled in a stadium in Ciskei's capital of Bisho, hoping that the deposed Ciskei leader, Brig. Oupa Gqozo, would give

said at a news conference that the situation in KwaZulu is explosive and that the homeland's leader, Mangosuthu Buthelezi, who also heads the Inkatha Freedom Party, was involved in a plan to stop the elections.

Buthelezi met with officials of the transition council in Ulundi, KwaZulu's capital, and agreed to allow polling places in the homeland. But, he said, Inkatha still intends to boycott the election.

The relentless violence in Natal continued, with hundreds of families around Durban fleeing their homes as roving bands of arsonists burned them to the ground. More than 80 people, in-

cluding a peace monitor who was slain Tuesday, have died since Friday, when a new wave of violence began sweeping across the region.

In another development, a spokeswoman for former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger confirmed reports that the ANC and Inkatha had invited Kissinger and former British Foreign Secretary Lord Carrington to mediate their dispute.

In Washington, Jody Williams, a spokeswoman for Kissinger at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, said the former secretary of state is ready to serve.

The Associated Press

**SITE OF SLAYING:** A member of a South African riot squad Wednesday monitors the site in a south Durban township where a peace monitor was executed a day earlier.

assurances that their pensions would be safe after South Africa's first democratic elections next month.

But Gqozo did not appear. South African troops were stationed on the border of the homeland to restore peace, if necessary.

The two senior ANC officials, Jeff Redebe and Jacob Zuma,

■ Smokey the black Lab may be spared after all. Danville, Va., Commonwealth's Attorney William H. Fuller III said yesterday that the town will drop a charge against Smokey's owner of harboring a vicious animal because the definition of "vicious" in city laws is not clear, according to the Associated Press. Smokey had sparked worldwide media attention—including a plea for clemency from Henry Kissinger—after being sentenced to death for chasing, but not biting, mail carriers.

A Reprieve for Smokey

Death Row Dog's Bark Was Heard 'Round the World

By David Reed

Associated Press

DANVILLE, Va., Dec. 16—Smokey, the sad-eyed black mixed Labrador retriever whose death sentence for chasing mail carriers attracted-worldwide interest, was sprung from the pound today after the prosecution dropped its case.

Smokey scampered in small circles around his
owner, who plied him with big chunks of deer
meat from every pocket as he walked him home
across a creek and up through a hilly neighbor-
hood.

"This all shows you, you don't mess with a man's best friend," Craig Jackson, 29, said on his front porch as he snuggled Smokey's cold nose. Jackson, an unemployed repairman, is separated from his wife and has no children.

"This is my boy here, my son. I missed him.
Ain't no mailman gonna see him again."

Smokey had been caged at the Danville Area
Humane Society since Dec. 6, when General Dis-

trict Judge T. Ryland Dodson Jr. sentenced the
Lab to die by lethal injection after convicting
Jackson of harboring a vicious animal.

Dodson rescinded the order today after Dan-
ville Commonwealth's Attorney William H. Full-
er III said city laws do not adequately define "vi-
cious." Postal workers testified that the dog had
menaced them but had never bitten them.

The humane society was deluged with calls
from people protesting the death sentence and
offering to adopt the animal, whose picture inside
a small cage was published in newspapers around
the world.

"This is the most amazing thing I've ever
heard of," Dodson told Reuter yesterday, refer-
ring to the worldwide publicity. "The whole com-
munity's been harassed for more than a year, in-
cluding the mail people, who won't even deliver
mail on that street. The news media quite often
doesn't get the total picture."

Jackson was fined $50 for keeping a vicious
animal.

See SMOKEY, C8, Col. 1

REUTER

Smokey, back at home with owner Craig Jackson. Said the judge who sentenced Smokey to death for chasing mail carriers, "The owner of the dog probably is the one who deserved the punishment."

REUTER

Smokey, shown caged Dec. 7, needs medical attention, authorities say.

Dog Wins His Freedom

SMOKEY, From C1

"The owner of the dog probably is the one who deserved the punishment, but the way the city code is written, I had no choice," Dodson said. "If I decided it was vicious—and based on the facts of the case I thought the dog was vicious—the only thing I could do was require him to be put to death."

Back at the humane society, Smokey's former keepers were furious yesterday, vowing the ordeal may not be over.

Blood samples show that Smokey
has heartworms, which can be fatal
if the dog does not receive expen-
sive, long-term treatment, society
director Paulette Dean said.

Jackson, Dean claimed, said he
would not take Smokey to a vet.
"Mr. Jackson said he would rather
see his dog die of natural causes

than [see] 'you people have the pleasure of killing him.'"

Dean said a humane officer will
seek another court order to have the
dog removed from his home if he
hasn't been treated for heartworms

Jackson said he was just yanking
their chain. "I didn't pay her no mind
really. I'll call the vet and if that's
really what the deal is, I'll get it [the
heartworm treatments]."

Smokey is not neutered and by
Jackson's estimate has sired more
than 100 puppies. Dean said 55
stray dogs have been euthanized
since Dec. 6, including some black
Labs.

"I can almost guarantee some of them were Smokey's offspring," she said at a news conference.

Jackson denied that. "I can account for 85 percent of where the [offspring] go to. We don't just give them to anybody." He said he will not have his dog neutered.

Washington Post

12-17-94

Jody

He had been one of the men chosen to eulogize Nixon, a decision which had confounded the old loyalists: the bond between Henry Kissinger and the former president, whom he had served as national-security adviser and then secretary of state, had never been warm. Nixon had always been hypersensitive to Kissinger's ambition and his tendency to take credit with journalists for triumphs that Nixon considered his singular territory. H. R. Haldeman had once told John Ehrlichman that their former boss had bugged his own office in order to be able to demonstrate, in Ehrlichman's words, "that the foreign-policy initiatives of his Presidency were in fact his own, not Henry's." The Nixon-Kissinger relationship, frail and edgy at all times, was particularly fraught at certain junctures: such as the week when *Time* selected both as Men of the Year, which enraged Nixon, or the day when Kissinger won what Nixon regarded as his Nobel Prize. They survived as colleagues in no small part because they were, for better or for worse, bound to each other, essentially each other's hostage.

The consequences of their union were historic. Given their personalities, their respective insecurities, and the effect they would have on each other, it was as if there had been some dark sun on the day they came together. Nixon was paranoiac, brooding, pessimistic—a man who stored up grievance. Much of that grievance was directed at the power and snobbery of what he considered the Eastern Establishment. Kissinger was paranoiac, brilliant, devious, manipulative, and neurotically territorial; he was, at least outwardly, a product of the forces Nixon most despised: Harvard, the Rockefellers, the old boys. On occasion, even after leaving office, Nixon would speak bitterly of those institutions, which he believed represented the weakening fiber of America. He referred to their members as *Henry's crowd*, and he did this long after Kissinger himself had been largely separated from the Establishment by the incursion into Cambodia.

wait to be invited.

him, but that's the point: who outside of Establishment members themselves had heard of the man Rovere fingered as Chairman, John J. McCloy? The Vice-Chairmen are the better-known Lloyd Cutler (White House counsel and co-founder of an important Washington law firm) and Peter G. Peterson (former commerce secretary, head of a "boutique" investment bank, chairman of the Council on Foreign Relations, and anti-deficit crusader).

Past Chairmen Cyrus Vance and Warren Christopher have both dropped a notch in status over the last year because of flawed diplomatic performances. The Establishment's Treasurer is Felix Rohatyn and its Chief of Communications is Bill Moyers. Its official lookout for threatening populist activity is Kevin P. Phillips. Co-chairman, with Gore, of the Under-50 Division is Strobe Talbott, the deputy secretary of state. The Treasurer is Steven Rattner, a protégé of Rohatyn's, and the Chief of Communications is Walter Isaacson, editor of new media at Time Inc.

Recently, I dropped in to see the Chairman, a silver-haired, genial man who emanates sober trustworthiness, which, rather than intellectual brilliance, is the key quality a Chairman is required to have. As all Establishment Chairmen must, by ironclad law, he denied everything—that there is an Establishment, that he's in it—but the evidence is incontrovertible: Whitehead is former co-chairman of Goldman, Sachs & Co., the most important investment bank, and former deputy secretary of state, and has headed the Harvard Board of Overseers and the boards of the Asia Society, the Brookings Institution, the International Rescue Committee, and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. He did, however, seem to have a little time on his hands. Was this because he had the whole thing running so smoothly, or because business was slow?

There can be no doubt but that some important tasks will always be done by the Establishment. It will choose the presidents of the Ivy League universities and decide which artists get major retrospectives. Unless things

get really bad, it will run every presidential transition. The real question is to what extent the Establishment will be in on the big reorganizing developments in society: the mergers and financings of major economic entities, political realignments, and fundamental changes in government policy. Somehow knowing that the Establishment had controlled the Viacom-Paramount deal would make the Council on Foreign Relations luncheon on Brazil a lot more interesting.

The Establishment has done pretty poorly at bringing in the leaders of countervailing power groups. Only in the cultural wing of the Establishment, for example, do you consistently find real-estate, technology, and entertainment names on boards (such as Michael Ovitz at the Museum of Modern Art), and this is the result more of the time-honored desire of rich entrepreneurs to associate themselves with Art as a way to increase their respectability than of the Establishment's trying to form new strategic alliances. The only truly heads-up activity going on within the

Establishment is in the Under-50 Division, where many of the key players have begun repositioning themselves as more in tune with the post-industrial order. Al Gore, for example, was associated in the 1980s with two of the classic Old Establishment issues, environmentalism and arms control, but is now best known for his interest in regulation of information technology, which is the present-day analogue of trust-busting in Theodore Roosevelt's era.

It would take a lot for the Establishment to get back to the level of its apogee. Probably it will never happen. Still, counting the Establishment out entirely would be unwarranted. It may bungle; it may ignore developments it should have noticed; but it still has its hole card, the power to confer membership. Is anyone truly immune to the magical crook of the finger? Certainly no one who has answered it ever, ever quits. ☐

Revealed: The Chairman of the Old Establishment for 1994 is . . . the impeccably credentialed but almost invisible John C. Whitehead.

Photograph by JONATHAN BECKER

245

prised were Kissinger's associates in the foreign-policy wings of the Rockefeller and Humphrey campaigns, people who had thought they were close to him, people who had thought they knew that he viewed Nixon as a kind of political devil incarnate. The reason they had thought they knew this was that Henry Kissinger had often told them so.

In early 1969 I lived a few blocks from the historian Teddy White on Manhattan's East Side. We often went for walks when our workdays were done, and on January 23, 1969 (I am grateful for H. R. Haldeman's diary for reminding me of the exact date), Teddy told me a story rich in its ironies. On the previous day, January 22, he had been at the White House for his final interview with Nixon—now newly installed as president—for *The Making of the President, 1968*. By chance, he had also seen Kissinger.

"The last time I had seen Henry was during the Miami convention, which nominated Nixon," Teddy said. "Nixon clearly had a lock on the nomination and so I decided to wander over to the Rockefeller headquarters to see what it was like there as the last of Nelson's presidential ambitions were coming to an end. It had the feeling of a morgue. Everywhere you looked there were old plates of take-out food and half-emptty coffee containers. And the only person I saw was Henry. I have never been greeted so warmly; it was as if I were his last friend on earth.

Teddy White had not been greatly moved by this tirade; he had heard comparable Kissinger soliloquies. Then, just two days after the inaugural, he had visited Nixon in the White House. Nixon had welcomed him, outlining his vision of the presidency and then taking him to meet his new assistant for national-security affairs, *Doctor Henry Kissinger*. Teddy had been amused by Nixon's continuing emphasis of the

**WISE GUY**
John Mccloy
Wall Street attorney,
assistant secretary of war,
high commissioner for
Germany, president of the
World Bank, chairman
of Chase bank, chairman of
the Council on Foreign
Relations. More than any
figure of this century,
McLoy symbolized
Establishment values.

Kissinger as an undergrad.
Harvard, 1950.

honorific. It was as if both were equal beneficiaries of Kissinger's intellectual credentials. Kissinger, Teddy told me, had been extremely stilted, even after Nixon's departure, when they chatted for an hour before Teddy raced to catch the shuttle to New York.

250

In fact you're the most arrogant man I've ever met.”

The Establishment's decline stemmed not merely from the loss of its myth of expertise. Its base was torn asunder by domestic change. The G.I. Bill had altered the very nature of American society. America had gone from political democracy to econom ic democracy with the New Deal, and to social democracy with the coming of the G.I. Bill. The nation's great elite colleges were no longer private sanctuaries of privilege. In the years after World War II, they were being opened to the children of the meritocracy, and once this happened, the very nature of the Establishment was transformed. It had to adapt quickly, admitting new members such as Zbigniew Brzezinski, who would ultimately become Jimmy Carter's national-security adviser, and Kissinger, whose fathers had not even been born on American shores.

The power of privilege and the con-
nections that came from being a lega-
tee of a great family fell into decline.
It was harder for the children of by-
gone glories to assume command, for
they were often outstripped in college
by the hungry, driven children of the
meritocracy. It was an article of faith
that the prep-school graduates per-
formed better during freshman year than
the public-school graduates, but that late
in the sophomore year the hungrier pub-
lic-school boys passed them by. The
world changed similarly. In later years,

Henry Kissinger would reflect this
contrast when he upstaged Secretary
of State William Rogers, whom he
saw as his principal rival for influence
in foreign policy during the Nixon ad-
ministration. Rogers—certifiably Waspy,
demonstrably clubbable—belonged to
Burning Tree and to the Racquet and
Tennis Club as well as the Metropoli-
tan. But he never craved power as
Kissinger did. Rogers, although per-
ceived as a Washington insider, be-
came stunningly vulnerable almost
overnight.

after having served Nixon and
Ford, the Republican center's surviv-
ing figures—attempted, albeit unsuc-
cessfully, to recast himself yet again to
satisfy the new right wing.

Another factor in the Establishment's
decline was rising media power. The
failure of U.S. Vietnam policy dimin-
ished the Establishment but strength-
ened the media, which reported the war
more accurately than the government
did. The media, bolstered by network
television, arrived as a power center
rivaling government itself. Previous
Establishment media people working
Washington had known their place; they
were ancillary to their government
betters. But the new generation, demon-
strably less responsive to men in of-
fice, was more independent and more
aggressive. Within government, there
was far greater pressure to leak, which
undermined many Establishment norms,
most notably secrecy, which had worked
through the 50s and 60s.

PHOTOGRAPHS: LEFT, BY SANTI VISALL; RIGHT, BY DAFYOD JONES

251

Issues of class were critically important to the men who inhabited this inner circle. By all rights, these centrist Republicans should have supported Richard Nixon in 1960, but the Establishment had never warmed to Nixon. John Kennedy may have been a Catholic, he may have been a Democrat, he may even have been old Joe Kennedy's son. But he was *cool*, innately patrician, clearly the first Irish-Catholic Brahmin. Having dealt all his life with his father, an autocratic tycoon, he was equipped to charm even the most towering figures of the Establishment on their home turf.

252

the partner interviewing him had made notes on his shifty-eyed manner. Nixon was, to this world, forever the outsider. Even when he tried to be friendly, it seemed artificial.

"Henry Kissinger."

"Why do you call him that?"

in 1963, at the time of Elliott's retirement, there was a scene that became legendary. Elliott's senior colleagues had gathered at a dinner to say farewell and the guest of honor had visited each with parting words. Almost all his comments were generous, until he came to Kissinger: "Henry," he began, "you're brilliant. But you're arrogant. In fact you're the most arrogant man I've ever met." Kissinger became ashen-faced. "Mark my words," Elliott continued, "your arrogance is going to get you in real trouble one day."

Because of the unique force of his will, Kissinger's weakness became his strength. His insecurity in the end became his weapon; he needed success more than others, and he would do more to attain it. Sensing himself an outsider, disconnected and rootless, he acted with fewer restraints on his conduct. The key factor here was his insecurity, produced as it had been by his terrible childhood in pre-Holocaust Germany. Uprooted, the society around him destroyed, his most cherished institutions corrupted and made evil, Kissinger arrived here badly damaged, wary, extremely suspicious. He gave his trust and loyalty to no one, and in personal and professional dealings (for a man like him the two were never separated), he was always on red alert: *Is this friend or enemy? What are his weaknesses, prejudices? Can he be flattered, neutralized?* Unsure of his place in the new world, he could theoretically understand its protections but could never entirely trust in them. This damage, however, only made him more brilliant, more interesting—and finally more devious. He could never relax or let down his guard. Despite the blessings of a free society, he could never entirely overcome the wariess of those whose childhoods have been lost in the totalitarian states they have left behind. (Though Kissinger has often denied that his childhood is in any way part of the psychic key to him, his longtime associates feel otherwise.)

254

> "I can do you more good if I am not public,"
> Kissinger told the Nixon people.

As his power within the Rockefeller organization grew, Kissinger began to think of himself as increasingly grand. When a press liaison who had an almost perfect ear for Rockefeller's speech patterns once tried to rewrite a Kissinger speech, Kissinger was not pleased. "When Nelson buys a Picasso, he does not get a housepainter to go and retouch it," he said. Inevitably, Emmet John Hughes, for many years the ranking Rockefeller intellectual and a man who watched Kissinger's rise with a combination of resentment and disdain, retaliated. In 1968, before the Rockefeller presidential run, frustrated by what he perceived as constant Kissinger undercutting, Hughes suggested that the Rockefeller people bring in Brzezinski as an adviser. Brzezinski, Hughes said, had a far better mind than Henry's. Soon there were rumors not only of a Brzezinski opening (playing the Polish card, one Rockefeller staffer called it) but also of sightings: Zbig and Emmet lunching at a place where rising stars were offered important jobs. Kissinger was appalled. He was heard to say that there was no need to bring Zbig into the campaign; there was already plenty of intellectual firepower. Rockefeller, however, was intrigued by Brzezinski; if two intellectuals were better than one, then certainly three were better than two, and they clearly cost a good deal less than Picassos. For a time, Brzezinski responded to the seduction: he was closer to Humphrey politically, but thought more highly of Rockefeller as an administrator. But by the time the Rockefeller offer

But Zbig remained something of a thorn. Years after the Rockefeller face-off, after Carter had given Brzezinski Kissinger's old job as national-security adviser, Kissinger was invited to a dinner at Kay Graham's in honor of Frank Wisner, who had just been named ambassador to Zambia. During the festivities, Kissinger had been extremely bothered by a photo on the mantel of a slim, handsome young man. "Kay," he asked, "how could you do it to me?"

256

Dick Allen was the first to learn that Henry Kissinger was not your average professor, ill-prepared to face the demands of the political bureaucracy. He quickly recognized the fact that standing before him was a superb and relentless bureaucratic enfrighter, a man for whom issues of power, down to the tiniest details, were always in play. Kissinger moved Allen, who was serving as his deputy in the Nixon White House, out of the action quite skillfully and almost im

257

foil. Lacking Kissinger's innate talent for the subtleties of infighting, Rogers seemed unable to grasp the fact that Kissinger intended to take him out as a player—using Vietnam as the instrument. In an entry in *The Haldeman Diaries*, dated March 3, 1971, Haldeman describes himself joking with the president (labeled here as “P”) about which of his two foreign-policy experts—Kissinger and Rogers—would, if need be, throw himself on a sword out of loyalty. The president repeatedly emphasizes that he realizes Kissinger is both more valuable and more *loyal* than Rogers. “The P made the point,” says Haldeman, “that if we got to the stage where somebody had to fall on a sword in order to save the P, Henry would do it, but Rogers wouldn’t. I made the point that I agreed with that, but that if Henry did it, he would do it with loud kicking and screaming and make sure that the blood spurted all over the place so he got full credit.”

Nixon's great policy problem was Vietnam and his pledge to end the war with peace and honor. Simply stated, this was not doable if the U.S. continued the process of troop withdrawal. Nixon could not adjust his rhetoric to the realities. The idea that the South Vietnamese ARVN—already a defeated army—could achieve what 500,000 Americans, backed by the most formidable assemblage of airpower in the history of mankind, could not was simply ludicrous. The war was over and the other side knew it. What was being debated was forms of withdrawal, fig leaves really. Peace would come only with defeat. No one, I suspect, had a better grasp of this than Henry Kissinger, master of realpolitik.

Cambodia tore Kissinger's staff apart, not unlike the country itself. "The bleeding hearts," as he liked to call them, these young men whom he had cherished and admired, were appalled. The move into Cambodia was to them a disastrous move in terms of domestic politics; it would imply a wider, not smaller, war. The Americans, Kissinger's staff realized, would never be able to locate the COSVN, the Communist headquarters in Cambodia, and they felt the invasion would drive the Khmer Rouge westward toward Phnom Penh. It was, at least one of the staffers believed, the needless sacrifice of a small, powerless nation to a flawed, indeed failed, military policy.

SONJA MOSKOWITZ

258

"I became a handmaiden of Kissinger's drive for power,"
said Richard Allen. "I had my zipper wide open."

When Tony Lake and Roger Morris decided to resign as well, the three men spoke at great length about whether or not to go public in a press conference on Cambodian policy. They now saw Kissinger as being an essential part of the Nixon policy on Vietnam, more hawkish than they had wanted to believe, a critical part of the darkness they saw around them. In the end, they decided not to go public; they decided that Kissinger, despite the Cambodian invasion, might still be the one redeeming force in the government. In Morris's words, "His intellectual quotient and potential for policy was still somehow greater than his megalomaniacia. . . . If we had gone public with our description of the real Henry whom we knew, and of Nixon's drinking as we knew it and as it was reported to us by Henry, and of the horrendous tenor and tone of the White House in general . . . we knew he would be destroyed." They decided they needed to save him and they did not hold a press conference. Morris now regards the failure to go public as the single biggest mistake of his career. The invasion was, of course, a disaster. The COSVN headquarters was not found. (Watts had once asked a friend in the C.I.A. about COSVN, and the friend had laughed: "There's nothing to find. It's not a fixed place. It's a state of mind.") Watts and the others realized that the invasion brought Cambodia full force into the war with catastrophic consequences. "Because of what we did, we made Pol Pot, we

As the Nixon White House came apart during Watergate, Kissinger's longtime courtship of the media proved invaluable. As a friend to the faithful in Georgetown, he was a Good Guy, "Our Henry" to their Nixon, their Haldeman, their Ehrlichman. He was—or so it appeared to some—the last vestige of legitimacy in a government near collapse, and there was an active and determined effort to protect and save him from the spreading stain of Watergate. A number of prominent media figures participated in this effort, either actively or by their silence. Very few reporters pursued the Kissinger angle. For a time, it appeared that he might eventually escape the larger morass unscathed.

260

First, Scotty Reston wandered by and asked what Hersh had. "Henry seems very upset," said Reston. Hersh showed him; Reston nodded his head. "Fine," he said. "No wonder he's upset." Then a call came from Clifton Daniel, Washington-bureau chief for the *Times*, who also checked out the story. Finally a call came from Abe Rosenthal, the managing editor in New York. No one tried to stop Hersh, in part because the *Times* was playing catch-up with *The Washington Post* on Watergate. Then, around five o'clock, a call came from General Alexander Haig, who had replaced Haldeman as White House chief of staff.

As always, he seemed ever ready to shift alliances. A former aide remarked that he still made his way through life "like Eliza moving across the ice floe." As he had once been a man of Cambridge and the Rockefellers, of Harvard and Georgetown, he was now close to the instant tycoons of the exurban Connecticut countryside, the semi-beautifule people: men such as Wall Street mogul Henry Kravis, men wealthy and grand enough to require their own secretaries of state. He enjoyed the privileges of their wealth, particularly their private jets. After one incident when Kissinger commandeered the Kravis jet for a trip to Japan, the amused millionaire was heard to tell friends that he hoped to go to China soon himself, "if I can get the use of Henry Kissinger's plane."

In his new world of celebrity, he courted the famous as assiduously as ever. Or almost as assiduously. My friend the novelist John Gregory Dunne once met him at a party in Los Angeles given by the late agent Irving "Swify" Lazar. "I am a great admirer of your work," Kissinger politely told Dunne, who received the compliment with a degree of skepticism. Later in the evening, Kissinger spoke of a

262

*The Two Mrs. Grenvilles*, Kissinger replied, referring to a novel by Dunne's brother Dominick. "You've got the wrong brother," Nancy Kissinger hissed into her husband's ear.

"No," said Kissinger, pausing just long enough, "but it is true that I am getting very lonely." ☐

264

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