Fall of the House Of von Kloberg

Impeccably dressed and groomed, Childs, 43, works in a Rockville office tower amid a bland field of identical cubicles. He handles asset distribution for a debt-acquisition firm. In a conference room he studies a pile of photos from the days when he served as von Kloberg's chief assistant -- "I was his aide-de-camp." His face brightens as he mines memories of the man he called EVK:

How von Kloberg meticulously matched the jewels in his pinky rings to the color of his suits. How he kept a "day car" for work, a white 1976 Lincoln Town Car, and a "night car" for parties, a black 1972 Cadillac Fleetwood.

Of von Kloberg advising him, during a 1990 trip to Liberia, "My dear boy, you don't take a check from a government that's falling." So they found themselves sprinting for the last flight out of Monrovia with $100 bills stuffed in their shirts, socks and underwear, part of a $300,000 retainer from the soon-to-be-executed president, Samuel Doe.

And Childs remembers the afternoon at a Georgetown doyenne's garden party when his boss quaffed a few bloody marys and jumped naked into the pool, proclaiming, "I'm Esther Williams!"

"He was the last great bon vivant in Washington," Childs says wistfully. "He was our Oscar Wilde.

"Edward said that life was about the characters you meet, and when a character's life goes out, you will notice a dimness. I told Edward, 'Don't take your life -- there will be a dimness for a lot of people.' "

His response: "I'm not worth anything anymore."

A 'Controversial' Clientele

During his long career here, von Kloberg's fortunes -- and reputation -- rose and fell dramatically. Detractors viewed him as the worst kind of Washington mercenary: an amoral bottom-feeder who'd push any agenda for the right price (in some cases, it was $5,000 a day). He weathered the criticism with a titanic ego and glib adage: "Shame is for sissies."

After flunking out of Princeton and later earning his degree at Rider College in New Jersey, von Kloberg came to Washington in the 1960s to take a master's in history and international relations at American University. He stayed at AU in administrative jobs through the '70s, leaving with an impressive title: dean of admissions and financial aid.

A natural schmoozer, he wore a meticulously trimmed beard and liked to circulate among the city's old-money cave dwellers, the Green Book socialites, the striped-pants diplomatic set. In 1981 he set up his own PR and lobbying shop.

Three years later he had a criminal record: To secure a $60,000 bank loan, von Kloberg faked letters of support from ambassadors. He called it a "desperate" act to keep his business afloat. He pleaded guilty and got five years' probation and 100 hours of community service.

He bounced back and prospered. He specialized in taking on clients whom others considered untouchable. "Controversial people," he said in the firm's promotional materials, "called 'dictators' or 'despots' by their adversaries." That would include Nicolae Ceausescu of Romania; Messrs. Mobutu, Doe and Hussein; the Myanmar regime and others.