J. Edgar Hoover had had in his personal possession hundreds—perhaps thousands—of highly inflammatory dossiers. Files that contained devastating information about many of the nation’s most influential and powerful men and women.
Since Hoover’s death, however, nothing had been said about those files. There were neither demands to acknowledge their existence nor outcries for their destruction. It was as if no one wanted to be associated with bringing them to light. The fear of inclusion was too great; if nothing were said, perhaps they would fade into oblivion.
But that was not realistic; those files had to be somewhere. So Quinn had begun asking questions. He had started with the shredding rooms. Nothing had come down from Hoover’s office in months. He had checked the microfilm and microdot laboratories. There had been no reductions of dossiers made within memory. Then he’d scrutinized the entry ledgers—anything related directly to Hoover in the areas of authorized deliveries or pickups. Nothing.
He’d found his first clue in the security logs. It was a late entry, authorized by scrambler, on the night of May 1, the night before Hoover’s death. It had stunned him. Three field agents—Salter, Krepps, and a man named Longworth—had been admitted at eleven fifty-seven, but there had been no departmental clearance. Just authorization by way of the director’s private scrambler. From Hoover’s home.
It had not made sense. Quinn had then contacted the senior agent who had admitted the trio, Lester Parke. It hadn’t been easy. Parke had retired a month after Hoover’s death, drawing a minimum pension, but with enough money to buy a fair-sized condominium in Fort Lauderdale. That hadn’t made a hell of a lot of sense either.
Parke had clarified nothing. The senior agent had told Quinn that he had spoken with Hoover himself that night. Hoover, himself, had given specific and confidential instructions to admit the field agents. Anything else would have to come from them.
So Quinn had tried to find three field agents named Salter, Krepps, and Longworth. But “Salter” and “Krepps” were floating covers, names with biographies used by various agents at various times for clandestine operations. There was no record of the names having been assigned during the month of May; or if there was a record, Quinn was not cleared for it.
The information on Longworth had come in a little over an hour ago. It was so startling that Quinn had called his wife, telling her he would not be home for dinner.
Longworth had retired from the bureau two months before Hoover’s death! He was now living in the Hawaiian Islands. Since this was the confirmed information, what was Longworth doing in Washington, at the west entry desk, on the night of May 1?
O’Brien knew he had found serious, unexplained discrepancies in official logs, and, he was convinced they were related to the files no one talked about. Tomorrow morning he would go to the attorney general.
His telephone rang, startling him. He reached for it. “O’Brien,” he said, conveying his surprise; his telephone rarely rang after five in the evening.
“Han Chow!” The whisper seared over the line. “Remember the dead of Han Chow.”
Carroll Quinlan O’Brien lost his breath. His eyes had gone blind; darkness and white light replaced familiar images. “What? Who’s this?”
“They begged you. Do you remember how they begged you?”
“No! I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who is this?”
“Of course you know,” continued the cold whisper. “The Cong commander threatened reprisals—executions—if anyone at Han Chow escaped. Very few were capable of trying. They agreed not to for the sake of the others. But not you, Major O’Brien. Not you.”
“That’s a lie! There were no agreements! None!”
“You know perfectly well there were. And you disregarded them. There were nine men in your compound. You were the healthiest. You told them you were going, and they begged you not to. The next morning, when you were gone, they were taken out in the fields and shot.”
Oh, Christ! Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God! It wasn’t the way it was meant to be! They could hear the artillery through the rain in the distance. They’d never get another chance like that! So close! All he had to do was get through to the guns! To the American guns! Once he got through, he would pinpoint the Han Chow compound on a map, and it could be taken. The men—the dying men—would be freed! But the rain and the sickness and the night played horrible tricks on him. He never found the guns. And the men died.
“Are you remembering?” The whisper was soft now. “Eight men executed so the major could have a parade in Sacramento. Did you know Han Chow was taken less than two weeks later?”
Don’t, O’Brien! Don’t do it! If they’re this close, Charlie will run and leave us! They won’t move us. We’d slow them down! They won’t kill us either! Unless you give them an excuse. Don’t give it to them! Not now! That’s an order, Major!
The words had been spoken in the darkness by a half-starved lieutenant colonel, the only other officer in the hut.
“You don’t understand,” he said into the telephone. “You’ve twisted everything. It’s not the way it was!”
“Yes it is, Major,” countered the whisper slowly. “A paper was found on a dead Viet Cong months later. On it was written the last testimony of a lieutenant colonel who knew what faced the prisoners of Han Chow. Eight men were shot because you disobeyed a direct order of your superior officer.”
“Nothing was ever said.… Why?”
“The parades had taken place. That was enough.”
Quinn O’Brien brought his hand up to his forehead. There was a hollowness in his chest. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’ve involved yourself in matters that are no concern of yours. You will pursue them no further.”
10
The immense figure of Daniel Sutherland stood at the far end of his chambers, in front of the bookshelves. He was in profile, tortoise-shell glasses on his enormous head, a heavy book in his massive black hands. He turned and spoke; his voice deep, resonant, and warmly pleasant.
“Precedents, Mr. Chancellor. The law is all too often governed by precedents, which in themselves are all too often imperfect.” Sutherland smiled, closed the book, and replaced it carefully in the shelf. He walked to Peter, his hand extended. In spite of his age he moved with assurance, with dignity. “My son and granddaughter are avid readers of yours. They were most impressed that you were coming to see me. It’s my loss that I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read your books.”
“I’m the one who’s impressed, sir,” replied Peter, meaning it, his hand enveloped. “Thank you for granting me an appointment. I won’t take up much of your time.”
Sutherland smiled, releasing Peter’s hand, putting him immediately at ease. He indicated one chair among several around a conference table. “Please sit down.”
“Thank you.” Peter waited until the judge had selected his own chair three places away at the end of the table. They both sat.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Sutherland leaned back, the expression on his dark face was kind and not without a tinge of humor. “I admit to being fascinated. You told my secretary it was a personal matter, yet we’ve never met.”
“It’s difficult to know where to begin.”
“At the risk of offending your writer’s sense of cliché, why not at the beginning?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know the beginning. I’m not sure there is one. And if there is, you may feel strongly that I have no right to know about it.”
“Then, I’ll tell you, won’t I?”
Peter nodded. “I met a man. I can’t say who he is or where we met. He mentioned your name with respect to a small group of influential people here in Washington. He said this group had been formed several years ago for the express purpose of monitoring the activities of J. Edgar Hoover. He said he believed you were the man responsible for this group’s existence. I’d like to ask you if it’s true.”
Sutherland did not move. His large da
rk eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, were expressionless. “Did this man mention any other names?”
“No, sir. Not related to the group. He said he didn’t know of anyone else.”
“May I ask how my name surfaced?”
“Are you saying it’s true, then?”
“I’d appreciate your answering my question first.”
Peter thought for a moment. As long as he did not name Longworth, he could answer the question. “He saw it on something he called a tracer. Apparently it meant that you were to receive specific information.”
“About what?”
“About him, I imagine. Also about those people known to have been placed under negative surveillance by Hoover.”
The judge breathed deeply. “The man you spoke with is named Longworth. A former field agent, Alan Longworth, currently listed as an employee of the State Department.”
Chancellor tensed the muscles of his stomach in an effort to conceal his astonishment. “I couldn’t comment on that,” he said inadequately.
“You don’t have to,” replied Sutherland. “Did Mr. Longworth also tell you that he was the special agent in charge of this negative surveillance?”
“The man I spoke with made reference to that. But only a reference.”
“Then, let me amplify.” The judge shifted his position in the chair. “To answer your initial question. Yes, there was such a group of concerned individuals, and I stress the tense. Was. As to my participation, it was minor and limited to certain legal aspects of the issue.”
“I don’t understand, sir. What issue?”
“Mr. Hoover had a regrettable fecundity when it came to making unsubstantiated charges. Worse, he often cloaked them in innuendo, using provocative generalities against which there was little legal recourse. It was an unforgivable lapse of judgment, considering his position.”
“So this group of concerned men—?”
“And women, Mr. Chancellor,” interrupted Sutherland.
“And women,” continued Peter, “was formed to protect the victims of Hoover’s attacks.”
“Basically, yes. In his later years he could be vicious. He saw enemies everywhere. Good men would be let go, the reasons obscured. Later, often months later, the director’s hand was revealed. We were trying to stem this tide of abuse.”
“Would you tell me who else was in this group?”
“Of course not.” Sutherland removed his glasses and held a stem delicately between the fingers of his hand. “Suffice it to say, they were people capable of raising strong objections, voices that could not be overlooked.”
“This man you spoke of, this retired field agent—?”
“I didn’t say retired.” Again Sutherland interrupted. “I said former.”
Peter hesitated, accepting the rebuke. “You said this former field agent was in charge of surveillance?”
“Certain specific surveillances. Hoover was impressed with Longworth. He placed him in the position of coordinating the data on individuals with proven or potential antipathy to the bureau, or Hoover himself. The list was extensive.”
“But he obviously stopped working for Hoover.” Once more Chancellor paused. He was not sure how to ask the question. “You just said he was now employed by the State Department. If so, he was separated from the bureau under very unusual circumstances.”
Sutherland replaced his glasses, letting his hand drop to his chin. “I know what you’re asking. Tell me, what’s the point of your visit this afternoon?”
“I’m trying to make up my mind whether there’s a basis for a book on Hoover’s last year. On his death, frankly.”
The judge’s hand dropped to his lap; he sat completely still, looking at Peter. “I’m not sure I understand. Why come to me?”
It was Peter’s turn to smile. “The kind of novels I write require a certain credibility. They’re fiction, of course, but I try to use as much recognizable fact as I can. Before I start a book, I talk to a great many people; I try to get a feeling for the conflicts.”
“Obviously you’re very successful with the approach. My son approves of your conclusions; he was very firm about that last night.” Sutherland leaned forward, his forearms on the conference table. The trace of humor returned to his eyes. “And I approve of my son’s judgment. He’s a fine lawyer, albeit a little strident in the courtroom. You do respect confidences, don’t you, Mr. Chancellor?”
“Of course.”
“And identities. But of course again. You won’t admit you talked to Alan Longworth.”
“I would never use a person’s name unless he gave me permission.”
“Legally I’d suggest that you not.” Sutherland smiled. “I feel as though I’m part of a creation.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Neither would the Bible.” Again, the judge leaned back in his chair. “Very well. It’s past history now. And not particularly extraordinary; it’s done every day in Washington. An inherent part of the checks and balances of our government, I sometimes think.” Sutherland stopped and raised his right palm delicately toward Peter. “Should you use any part of what I tell you, you must do so with discretion remembering that the objective was a decent one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Last March Alan Longworth was offered early retirement from one branch of the government, and under cover he was shifted to another. The shift took place in such a way as to remove him from the bureau’s scrutiny altogether. The reasons were self-evident. When we learned that Longworth was the coordinator of this negative surveillance—a very apt phrase, by the way—we showed him the dangers of Hoover’s abuses. He cooperated; for two months he pored over hundreds of names, recalling which were included and what the damaging information was. He traveled extensively, alerting those we thought should be warned. Until Hoover’s death Longworth was our deterrent, our defensive weapon, as it were. He was very effective.”
Peter was beginning to understand the strange, blond-haired man in Malibu. There had to be conflicting loyalties in the man; the agent must have been torn with guilt. It explained his odd behavior, the sudden accusations, the abrupt retreats.
“When Hoover died, this man’s job was finished, then?”
“Yes. With Hoover’s sudden, and I must say, unexpected death there was no further need for such a defensive operation. It ended with his funeral.”
“What happened to him?”
“It’s my understanding that he’s been compensated handsomely. The State Department transferred him to what I believe is referred to as soft duty. He’s living out his tenure in pleasant surroundings with a minimum work load.”
Peter watched Sutherland closely. He had to ask the question; there was no reason not to now. “What would you say if I told you my informant questioned Hoover’s death?”
“Death is death. How can it be questioned?”
“The way he died. By natural causes.”
“Hoover was an old man. A sick man. I’d say Longworth—you won’t use his name, but I will—might be suffering from intense psychological pressures. Remorse, guilt—it wouldn’t be unusual. He had a personal relationship with Hoover. Perhaps he now feels he betrayed him.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Then, what troubles you?”
“Something this man I talked with said. He said Hoover’s private files were never found. They disappeared with Hoover’s death.”
There was a flash of something—Chancellor did not know what; anger, perhaps—in the Negro’s eyes. “They were destroyed. All of Hoover’s personal papers were shredded and burned. We’ve been assured of that.”
“By whom?”
“That information I can’t possibly give you. We are satisfied; that much I can tell you.”
“But what if they weren’t destroyed?”
Daniel Sutherland returned Peter’s gaze. “It would be an extraordinary complication. One I would not care to dwell on,” he said firmly. Then the smile returned
. “But it’s hardly a possibility.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’d know about it, wouldn’t we?”
Peter was disturbed. For the first time Sutherland did not sound convincing.
He had to be careful, Peter reminded himself as he walked down the steps of the courthouse. He was not looking for concrete facts, merely credibility. That’s what he was after. Supportive events ripped out of context and used to bridge the inevitable gap between reality and fantasy.
He could do it now. Daniel Sutherland had given him the answer to the basic enigma: Alan Longworth. The judge had explained the federal agent with perceptive simplicity. It was contained in the single word remorse. Longworth had turned against his mentor, the director who had awarded him the most confidential of assignments and written personal commendations on his service record. It was natural for Longworth to feel guilty, to want to strike back at those who had induced his betrayal. What better way than to question that death?
Knowing this freed Peter’s imagination. It removed whatever obligation he might have felt toward Longworth. The concept could be accepted for what it was: a fascinating idea for a book. Nothing more was needed. It was a game, a goddamned game; and the writer in Chancellor was beginning to enjoy it.
He stepped off the curb and hailed a passing cab. “The Hay-Adams Hotel,” he directed.
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s an unlisted number,” said the telephone operator in that peculiar condescension the Bell System reserved for such information.
“I see. Thank you.” Peter hung up and leaned back on the pillows. He was not surprised; he had not been able to find MacAndrew’s name in the Rockville, Maryland, directory. A Washington reporter he knew had told him the retired general lived in a rented house far out in the country, had lived there for several years.
But Chancellor was not a newspaperman’s son for nothing. He sat up and opened the telephone book at his side. He found the name he was looking for and dialed nine and then the number.