The chair squeaked as Adam Hay pulled it out and tucked himself into the table. Dick Wheeler made a comical sour face, and even Frank Lerrick turned his head away to mask a grin. Cochrane, confronted with the absurd, was not smiling. Seated, the small archivist was the same height as when he had been standing.
Hoover was all business.
"Listen to me very carefully, Special Agent Cochrane. This is an unpleasant meeting, but you deserve your own say before any departmental action is taken."
Meaning, it's already decided, Cochrane thought bitterly.
"Mr. Hay," Hoover began, "has been a very valuable member of this Bureau since 1931. I dare say, Special Agent Cochrane, that our archives would not function without him. Yet, Mr. Hay has reported to Personnel"-Cochrane's eyes shifted to Lerrick, who seemed to be memorizing something invisible on the table- "that you've been engaged in bullying, abusive behavior toward him. What have you to say?"
"Behavior of what sort?" Cochrane asked.
Hoover stared at him, then, with evident displeasure, opened a file in front of him. He read a thorough account of Cochrane's efforts to pry Otto Mauer's name, town, and state from him. The account mentioned Arlington Park, the hours up in the archives, and visits from various unnamed other members of the Bureau, i.e., the Bluebirds.
"What have you to say?" Hoover asked.
"Substantially accurate," Cochrane answered.
Hoover flipped the file shut. "Any explanation?"
"Yes, indeed," said Cochrane, his anger rising. "I'm trying to catch a man who is intent on killing President Roosevelt. The info-"
"Cochrane!" Hoover raged, hitting a fist on the desk and turning violet. "There are rules in this Bureau! Do you understand that? Rules have to be followed! This was explained to you once before!"
"There is no way," Cochrane began defenselessly, "that I could humanly complete the job I've been assigned without talking to the one defector who-"
"The German," agreed Hoover in a flash. "That's what makes your behavior all the less pardonable. You were distinctly forbidden to contact Mr… Mr…"
"Mauer," Lerrick interjected, helping the Chief.
"Mauer. But you attempted anyway. Did you find him?"
"With Mr. Hay's help, yes. Yes, I did."
"What was the nature of your discussions with Otto Mauer?" Hoover asked as Mr. Hay belched softly.
Cochrane paused before answering. An entire kaleidoscope of distrust was before him now. He began to edit his own answers.
"I wanted to know how he had reached America."
"He reached safely. That was all you needed to know."
Cochrane felt Lerrick's eyes and Wheeler's eyes boring in on him.
"I needed to know about Abwehr structure."
Wheeler summoned the nerve to interrupt. "Bill," he said sorrowfully, "your German isn't a reliable source. Don't you think we would have let you use him if we considered him reliable?"
"He is reliable!" Cochrane shot back. "And why you don't want me to use him raises more questions than I can count."
Wheeler's bushy eyebrows lowered severely. "Now, what in hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"It doesn't-"
"And, uh, one other thing"-Frank Lerrick speaking suddenly-"these other 'Bluebirds' who helped you torment our friend here. Would you care to give us the names?"
"No," Cochrane answered, "I wouldn't care to. Does Roosevelt know there's a man stalking him?"
Silence all around. Cochrane turned squarely back toward Hoover. "You haven't even alerted the Secret Service, have you?"
"Gentlemen," Hoover cut in sharply, "we're getting far afield. There are certain facts before us."
Briefly, Hoover's tongue emerged from his mouth, moistened his pink lips, then withdrew like the head of a turtle. "Special Agent Cochrane does not deny the abusive and bullying behavior imparted toward another employee of this Bureau. Similarly, Special Agent Cochrane admits to having disobeyed the orders of this particular office by contacting a proscribed source."
Cochrane leaned back in his chair and waited for the hammer to fall. Lerrick and Wheeler fixed their gazes elsewhere. Cochrane looked Hoover in the eye, but his peripheral vision caught a gloating dwarf. Suddenly the preposterousness of it all weighed heavily.
And meanwhile, Siegfried is out there, Cochrane cursed to himself. While we're discussing table manners, Siegfried is stalking Roosevelt.
Hoover held Cochrane in a long stare, and finally Cochrane, as he returned the gaze, reached the end of his patience. "Should I stand for sentencing?" he asked.
Hoover let the remark pass. "Agent Cochrane," he finally said, "your letter of resignation from this Bureau would be greatly appreciated. It should be dated the end of this month: effective November 30, 1939."
Resentment, anger, perplexity: Cochrane clung to them all in ample amounts. But there was, of course, no court of appeal. Not here. And in a strange way, exhilaration finally swept over him. It was done. His job was finished here. Hoover had fired his final shot and Cochrane still lived and breathed and saw a future in front of him-peacefully in a bank somewhere in another city.
"That's just splendid," Cochrane answered, surprising everyone in the room with the calmness of his reply. "Fact is, Mr. Hoover, sir, I've an excellent letter already written. All I need to do is change the date."
"I'm placing Frank Lerrick in charge of this investigation," Hoover concluded softly. Then he turned to his dismissed employee: "Special Agent Cochrane," he said. "I am deeply disappointed in you."
THIRTY- FOUR
Laura was noticing the little things.
Her husband had been home for two days and had again become the moody, uncommunicative Stephen that she did not like. He had hardly spoken to her. The least he could have done was tell her about his trip. To her, New York was an exciting, bustling exotic city. She wished he would at least excite her with stories of what he had seen, people he had met.
But nothing. No talk. And heaven knew, he hadn't much been interested in touching her, either. What was she to think? She was a woman of twenty-five with the physical desires of a woman of twenty-five. Why couldn't they make love when he came home? Why wasn't he interested?
Little things, she repeated. She sat in the living room of their home and stared out the window, through the rain, across the lawn to St. Paul's. Her husband had disappeared into the church two hours ago, citing the need to work on Sunday's sermon. Little things, like ignoring her as if she wasn't there.
She caught herself thinking the unthinkable: maybe, long-range, this marriage wasn't destined to work. If Stephen was going to neglect her, well, she could see her reflection in the mirror. She was an attractive woman. She took care of her body and groomed herself well. If this man couldn't love her and appreciate her, maybe another man would.
She dismissed the idea, but with effort.
Then there were the big things. There were the tales told by Peter Whiteside, suggestions and accusations that grew upon Laura like a series of cancers. Combined with Stephen's behavior, Peter's insinuations nurtured suspicion within her. She sought to acquit him. But when she compared his time of return by train two days earlier from New York, she found that no New York train had stopped at Liberty Circle at that hour. There had only been the train that connected with Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington.
“Wrong cities, wrong timetable, Stephen,”she thought.
Wrong husband, wrong wife? She wondered.
There were too many questions. Too much unexplained behavior. Laura rose from the window and went to the closet. She pulled on her raincoat. It had been raining hard that day, a cold wet downpour which did nothing to elevate her mood and much to trigger a residual dissatisfaction and homesickness. A wife could be expected to tolerate only so much. It was time to discuss things. Now.