The prodigal spy

“A legat found out about it and ran with it, all the way back to the Bureau, where they started ringing bells so loud even you heard them. Is that about right so far? But he didn’t come back. He killed himself. I found him. The Czech police thought I did it, or caused it somehow, or whatever. Who knows what they think? I wasn’t going to hang around to find out. I got out as fast as I could, only to come home and get the same treatment from you. Which I would like you to stop.”

Hoover looked at him for a moment. “I know all that,” he said finally. That doesn’t tell me anything.“

“What do you want to know?”

“Why he thought he could come back.”

“I don’t know that he did think it. He just said he wanted to.” Nick paused. “He didn’t know you had the lighter.”

Hoover said nothing, stone-faced.

“I’d like it back, by the way. It’s mine now. It’s not evidence anymore. He’s dead.”

“You’re talking about Bureau property.”

“No, I’m not. The Bureau doesn’t officially have it. You do. You’ve always had it. In one of your special files. Just in case. But you can’t get him anymore. He got away again.”

“You think you know all about it.”

“No. Just that it was you. All along. You fed Welles. You fed McCarthy. That was your little war. Years of it.”

“You think it wasn’t a war? You’re too young to know, all of you. The only reason you’re walking around free today is-” He stopped. “It was a war. And we won it.”

“Well, you did anyway. You’re still here.” Hoover glared at him. “And so is the lighter. The one time you really had somebody and he slipped through your fingers. But at least you could always get him for something he didn’t do-if he came back.”

“He did do it.”

“Your agents don’t think so. Neither did the police.”

Hoover looked at him steadily, his voice low. “But I did. Naturally you don’t want to.”

“It doesn’t matter what we think anymore, does it?”

“Then why are you bothering Lapierre? Nosing around where you don’t belong? What are you really doing in Washington?”

“Research. Not your kind. History, that’s what it is now. It’s important to talk to who was there while they’re still around.”

Hoover’s eyes widened as if he’d been personally insulted. “Research,” he said sarcastically. “For who? That pink in London you’ve been working with?”

“Yes, that pink.”

He snorted. “Not far from the tree. Well, not with my agents, you’re not. Don’t expect any help from this office. And keep the Bureau out of it.” Hoover held up a finger. “I mean that. I’m not interested in history.”

And Nick saw suddenly that it was true, that all the stagecraft was there not to trick the future but to keep things going now, attorney general after attorney general, Hoover still at the desk. The only idea he’d ever had was to hold on to his job.

“Then it won’t matter,” he said.

“You know,” Hoover said, more slowly now, “a lot of people come into this office just set on showing me they’re not afraid of me. It’s a thing I’ve noticed. Smart talk. They don’t leave that way.”

“How do they leave?”

“With a little respect for this office and what we’re doing. They find it’s better to be a friend of the Bureau.” The eyes so hard that Nick had to look away.

“Would you tell me something?” he said.

“For your research?” Almost spitting it.

“No, for me. Just one thing. It can’t possibly matter to you anymore.”

Hoover looked up, intrigued.

“Who told you about Rosemary Cochrane? You told Welles, but someone told you.”

“What makes you think I told Welles?”

“Because he told me you did. He didn’t intend to, but he told me.”

Hoover twitched, annoyed. “Well, that’s not what I would call a reliable source. Ken doesn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. Never did. Did a lousy job with your father, too.”

“Despite all the help.”

Hoover said nothing.

“You knew about her. How? It can’t matter anymore.”

“It always matters. That’s Bureau business. We never divulge sources-wouldn’t have them, otherwise.” He paused. “But in this case, since it matters to you.” He glanced up. “It was an anonymous tip. A good one, for a change. We never knew who.”

“Yes, you did,” Nick said.

“You’re sure about that,” Hoover said, toying with him.

“Yes.”

Hoover glanced away. “I don’t remember.”

Nick stood, waiting.

“I don’t think you understand how things work here,” Hoover said, looking back at Nick. “Information, that’s like currency to us. We don’t spend it. We don’t trade for it.”

“Yes, you do.”

For the first time there was a trace of a smile. “But you see, you’re not a friend of the Bureau’s.”

Nick stared at him, stymied.

“Now I’ll ask you something,” Hoover said. “Why you? All those years, and you’re the one he sends for, says he wants to come home. Why not just go to our people in the embassy?”

“Would you trust them? Every embassy has informers. If the Russians had found out-”

“Well, they did, didn’t they?” A shot in the dark.

“If they did, Mr Hoover, then they got it from you. Only the Bureau knew. Is that what you think happened, a leak in the Bureau?”

“No, I do not,” he said, steel again. “We don’t have leaks.”