"He's a creep," Wheeler would announce with a contemptuous grin to Cochrane in a later, lighter moment. "Over at State they refer to him as 'Rabbit.' Went to Penn State University and took the right exams. What can you expect? He's second-string. If there's such a thing as simultaneously honest and untrustworthy, he's it. Big ears, get it? Mouth to match."
"Okay, okay," said Hoover waspishly after the introductions. "Let's get started." It was ten of eight. Hoover nodded toward Cochrane, who was expected to summarize activity since the previous meeting.
"A great deal of positive progress," Cochrane began.
"Have we made an arrest yet?" Hoover demanded.
A pause, then Cochrane answered, "We have a portrait emerging of a key suspect." For several minutes, he provided details.
There followed a long glacial silence with which no one seemed inclined to tamper.
"We cannot arrest a profile, young Agent Cochrane," Hoover scolded. "How many more targets do we allow this man? How many ships do we lose?" Without stopping, the director shifted his own gears. "How long have you been on this case?"
"Six weeks, sir."
"Six weeks," Hoover repeated flatly. "And in six weeks you've managed to draw a profile." Cochrane held his own indignation in check as Hoover bore ahead. "You were taken off a relatively easy assignment in Baltimore. You should have been well rested. Do you know that I have a meeting with the President early this very afternoon? Mr. Roosevelt is going to ask me for a progress report. Apparently there isn't one."
Hoover glared, set down a pencil across the table with a loud clack, and let go with his characteristic low, whining curses. His eyes bulged, his cheeks rouged and his lips tightened. Ruddy-faced and angry, he looked like a deranged Mr. Toad of Toad Hall. His puffy eyes darted to each of the other men at the table for help or sympathy.
Dick Wheeler, who knew better than ever to interrupt, had been waiting for just such a silence to rescue Cochrane.
"I think, Mr. Director," Wheeler suggested mildly, "that the President will be very impressed with the Bureau's progress over the last few days. I've reviewed it myself," emphasized Wheeler, who hadn't reviewed it at all. "I think a written summation of Bureau progress should be represented to the President. I think we can also safely state that we're extremely close to the key arrest."
Cochrane shot Wheeler a beseeching glance but Wheeler's eyes were upon Hoover.
"Are we? Are we?" asked Hoover in his rushed, clipped voice. He looked at Cochrane without allowing him to answer. "Well, all right. Much better." He looked back to Wheeler.
"I think we have enough to please the President," Wheeler said.
"Who'll make the report?" Hoover asked. "I want this agent"-he indicated Cochrane with a sharp nod of the skull-"still out in the field. No point to take a field man to the White House."
"I'd be happy to make the presentation," Wheeler offered. Frank Lerrick looked at Wheeler with vexation.
"All right," Hoover agreed. "A report. Something in writing that we can both present verbally and submit." Lerrick's small intense eyes still glowed like simmering charcoal in Wheeler's direction as Hoover spoke. Hoover turned to Lerrick and the red glow vanished.
"That sounds good to you, Frank? One o'clock."
"Very good, Mr. Director," Lerrick said with enthusiasm.
"I think this field agent, Mr. Cochrane, has done excellent work," Wheeler continued, soothingly. "I'd stake the reputation of my own office upon Mr. Cochrane's work."
Hoover seemed pleased by, or at least content with, the endorsement. His mood now mellowed considerably. Undersecretary Middlebrook was taking short, precise notes-much to Cochrane's unease-and Frank Lerrick watched and listened with his arms folded. J. Edgar Hoover looked absently to Lerrick and then across to Wheeler. Everyone in the room knew the director had something on his mind. J. Edgar Hoover had, as Dick Wheeler had once termed it privately, "his own cute ways of doing things."
"I think some arrests should be made," Hoover announced portentously.
A silence held the room. Hoover spoke from the throne:
"Yes. I think maybe a dozen or so arrests should be made. German-Americans. Hit the Bunds in New York and Chicago. Let them know we're alive." He turned back to Lerrick. "Can CAR Division come up with a dozen to twenty names by noon?" he asked. "I want the President to know that we're making a sweep."
"It can be done," Frank Lerrick answered, making note of it.
"Sir?" Cochrane interrupted. Hoover looked his way. "With all due respect, I think any arrests at this time would be a particularly bad idea."
"You think that, do you?" Hoover retorted, his eyes tightening. "I've been through Central Alien Registry myself," Cochrane explained. "No names stand out. I'd even guess that the man we want is not in CAR Division's files. Random arrests will only alert the other side."
Hoover's fingers were drumming the table. Persistent tapping in the same spot. The Director’s little eyes darted around the room. "Other opinions?" Hoover challenged.
"The arrests can be made by, uh, this evening," Frank Lerrick chimed in solidly.
Hoover looked to Dick Wheeler, whose eyes narrowed dreamily as he worked his pipe between clenched teeth. A slight sucking noise emanated from the briar. "I think some arrests might be in order," Wheeler agreed. "Flex a little muscle. Show Old Glory to the swastika set. Read them the riot act."
Cochrane felt the conversation exclude him. "Wasn't there a Portuguese or Spanish operation out of Yorkville?" Hoover asked. "Did not I see a report on that recently?"
"That's correct, sir," Wheeler answered.
"Well, that's one that we can roll up for starters," Hoover commanded. "Then see what else is around."
"Done, Chief," Lerrick said.
"Now," the Director concluded, "if there isn't anything else… I have another meeting this morning."
The seat of Hoover's suit had just taken leave from his chair when Cochrane again interrupted.
"Yes, there is one thing, sir," Cochrane said.
Half-up, Hoover eased back down. "What?" Hoover inquired tartly.
"I need permission from the Director to use a source currently unavailable to me."
Hoover frowned. Cochrane forged on.
"This Bureau apparently repatriated a German defector. A man named Otto Mauer, whom I used as a source in Germany."
"A German?" Hoover asked with an odd blend of xenophobia and surprise. "A German?" he repeated. There was a stark, telling silence after Hoover's second exclamation.
"We have Mauer in the relocation program, Mr. Director," Wheeler said flatly. "There's a red tag on his file, meaning it's inaccessible to field agents."
"Inaccessible without specific permission of the director of the F.B.I.," Cochrane added. "Which is what I'm requesting."
"You're requesting permission to break the rules?" Hoover asked with the intonation of a statement. "Permission denied."
"Sir," Cochrane tried again, "the infor-"
Hoover's eyes shot upward from the desk. "Permission denied!" Hoover blurted again.
"Did you fail to hear me the first time? Rules are rules!"
"It is absolutely vital," Cochrane answered, "that I find out everything possible on Abwehr or Gestapo structure within the United States. We have no other trustworthy defectors. Mauer will talk. He's been a solid, unimpeachable source since the first day I-"
Hoover looked like a hammer in search of an anvil. "Agent Cochrane," Hoover interrupted. "I run the cleanest, most honest police agency in the world. I'll not have it rely on a… a"-Hoover sputtered slightly and searched for just the right word-"a German," he concluded. Then, nodding toward Cochrane, he issued his instructions to Dick Wheeler. "Special Agent Cochrane may leave now," J. Edgar Hoover said.