Not for nothing was he known across the nation as ‘Tricky Dickie’. This would be deeply embarrassing. If he had to be instructed in how to react to words that were supposed to be coming from the heart, what would America make of it? Charles was scribbling furiously, trying to get as much of it down as possible, and then the inevitable happened. The door to our little office burst open and a posse of red-faced Nixon staffers barged in.
‘Give it back!’ they shouted.
‘Not on your life!’ we shouted back.
Then they saw it on the table and made a grab for it. Charles got there first. They tried to snatch it from his hands and he threw it across the office. Chris Drake, one of my radio colleagues, caught it and they tried to grab it from him so he threw it to me and I threw it to someone else. The farcical scene must have lasted for a few minutes and Charles (by now holding it again) tried to make peace.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I am going to report this and there’s absolutely no way you are going to stop me. If you bring in security guards you’ll get it back in the end but there’s going to be an almighty stink. Freedom of the press remember? So leave it with me for another few minutes and I’ll give it back to you.’
What else could they do?
An hour later Charles was sitting in front of a BBC camera not just telling his audience what Nixon had to say at the convention, but also what his team did not want us to know. This was television gold.
Part of the problem for any journalist covering the Watergate story – let alone a new boy like me, taking over from the great Charles Wheeler, who was being sent to Brussels – was trying to come to terms with the notion that the president of the United States, with his vast experience of politics, could have been so breathtakingly stupid as to destroy everything he had spent his life trying to achieve. And in such a crass manner. This was a man who had been written off by most of America when he was defeated by John F. Kennedy in 1960 and who had fought back in the face of an often viciously hostile press. The Washington establishment, who worshipped the ground Kennedy had walked on, regarded Nixon as a lying, scheming lowlife and they made no attempt to conceal it. They treated him with contempt.
But he won the presidency in 1968 and again four years later. I followed him and the Democratic contender George McGovern around the country in 1972 from one rally to another and the result was never in doubt. McGovern himself knew he had no chance. It was one of the biggest landslides in American history. I remember one rally in a Midwestern state that removed any doubts I might have had. We filmed McGovern getting off his plane and walking through the obligatory, but pretty sparse, crowd of supporters. Most were cheering but one of them was clearly not a McGovern fan. He hurled some abuse at the candidate as he walked past. McGovern stopped, went back to him, and said something that left the man silent and looking stunned. Later I asked him what McGovern had said. ‘He told me: “Suck my cock buddy!”’ I swear he looked impressed. But a candidate who can do that knows he’s not going to be president.
It was clear even to a novice like me that as the Watergate saga rolled on Nixon was in deep trouble. Once we discovered that he had been secretly recording everything that was said in the Oval Office we knew how deep. So did he. For me the most telling moment – and certainly the most surreal – came when he made a trip to, of all places, Disney World in Orlando Florida. It was November 1973 and the country was being rocked by a relentless stream of accusations – mostly unearthed by the Washington Post reporters Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward – of endless clandestine and illegal activities by members of Nixon’s administration. What nobody had actually said, explicitly, was that Nixon himself was a crook. He was, after all, the president of the United States. ‘Crook’ was not a term to be used lightly – and certainly not without copper-bottomed proof. And yet Nixon used that word himself.
‘People have got to know whether their president is a crook,’ he declared. A slight pause and then he went on: ‘Well, I am not a crook. I have earned everything I’ve got.’
The room was silent. We journalists looked at each other open-mouthed. Had he really said that? Had he really invited the people of America to consider that he might be a crook but to take his word that he wasn’t? And then to add the bizarre line about ‘earning everything I’ve got’. It was as though someone had accused him of stealing the takings from a drug store. Instead, as we were about to learn over the coming months, what he had been trying to steal was the presidency of the United States.
I said earlier that the greatest blessing the gods can bestow upon a journalist is luck. My luck had already played a huge part in my getting the best story in the world by the time I was still in my twenties. But my biggest break was yet to come. And it happened because of yet another piece of luck.
When I first went to the States for three months to set up the New York bureau I left my family at home in Britain and lived in a small apartment in midtown Manhattan. But then, when I got the correspondent’s job, I had to find a house big enough for my wife and two young children to join me – preferably outside the city but not too far. It wasn’t proving easy. And then I fell into conversation with a wealthy businessman who told me that his mother had a house in the small, delightful town of Irvington just a few miles north of the city. Would I care to rent it? It sounds perfect, I told him. But then he described it. It was a mansion. The servants’ quarters were bigger than our house in England. It was fully furnished down to the Steinway grand piano in the library and the Tiffany silver in the butler’s pantry. The lawns ran down to the Hudson River.
I told him that not only could I not afford the rent, I couldn’t even afford the heating bills. He looked shocked. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘we’re not interested in making any money from it. Mother is living there alone with just the servants and we want to persuade her to move out for a year or so in the hope that she’ll agree to sell the wretched place. It’s just too big.’
So we did a deal there and then. He settled happily for my meagre BBC rent allowance and I rang my wife to prepare herself for a shock. That was pretty lucky. But the really big luck came when I met my neighbours. One of them just happened to be a Republican congressman called Peter Peyser. It may be overstating it a bit to say that I owe him my career, but not by much. The fact is that he was to give me the greatest gift a politician can bestow on a journalist: a tip-off. Not just any old tip-off. This was a gold-plated, diamond-encrusted tip-off that any journalist would have offered his soul for.
What Peter did was phone me on the morning of 9 August 1974 as the Watergate crisis seemed to be approaching some sort of climax to tell me he’d just come from a prayer breakfast at the White House. Would I perhaps be interested in what President Nixon had told him? I rather think I might be, I said. Well, he said, the president had told him he would be going on television this very evening to make an announcement.
With this president at this time there could be only one reason for it. Never in the history of the United States had a president been forced to resign but that is what Richard Nixon was planning to do before the sun had set over the White House. At least, that’s what I told my editor in London as soon as I’d hung up on Peter. ‘How can you be sure he’s going to resign?’ the editor asked me.
‘I can’t but …’
‘You know how much a satellite feed costs? Ten thousand dollars – that’s how much – and you can’t be sure?’
‘No, but it’s worth every cent if—’
He finished the sentence for me: ‘If you’re right, maybe. But if you’re not we’ll be ten grand out of pocket and the BBC will be an international laughing stock and your career will be toast before you’ve even hit thirty.’
‘And if we don’t do it and
