'Why?'
Cochrane paused. 'The reason given was rudeness to a subordinate.' He explained about Adam Hay. Otto Mauer enjoyed the story. Otto Mauer, for that matter, enjoyed havinga visitor. He poured a brandy for each of them as Cochrane spoke. He walked the drink to Cochrane and stepped past two large crates of books.
Cochrane finished speaking.
'So you were impertinent to this gremlin, who is a file clerk, and for this J. Edgar Hoover dismisses you from his F.B.I.?'
'That's correct.'
Mauer sipped his brandy as visions of his own bureaucratic nightmares flashed through his mind. 'In Germany,' he finally said, 'it is the burden of inferiors to be polite to their superiors. Not the other way around. Prosit.'
Mauer sipped and replenished his own glass. 'Prosit,' Cochrane answered. Mauer set down his brandy. 'Do you think this was the only reason you were dismissed from the F.B.I.?' the German asked.
'I have my doubts.'
Several thoughts went through both men's minds and all were unspoken and contained by a long silence. 'I see,' Mauer said at length. Then he cocked his head in a peculiar manner, as if to examine Cochrane in a new light.
'So,' Mauer finally asked, 'why then have you come to see me again? You are no longer looking for your spy. You no longer have any authority. You cannot help me and I cannot help you. We are both in exile, my friend, and exiles are eunuchs.'
'Well,' Cochrane started slowly, 'my plans will move me to New York to take a private job. I wanted to reassure you that there are other good men in the F.B.I.. I'm asking two friends from the Newark office to remain apprised of your case. Concerning your family, that is. If it's possible to move your wife and son here, they will expedite things for you.'
'You're very kind,' said Mauer flatly.
Cochrane wasn't sure how much cynicism laced the remark. But he continued.
'Second, there's one thing I cannot comprehend,' Cochrane said.
'And what's that?'
'The code system,' said Cochrane. 'If the F.B.I. knew Siegfried's five-digit additive, they could break the German naval code. You must know how such systems work.'
'And so?'
'Why didn't the F.B.I. ever ask you about the additive?'
'They did ask me.'
'And?'
'And until my family is returned I cannot help.'
'Then you know more than you told them?'
'I only know that they lied to me. I do not have my family.'
There was cautious ambiguity in Mauer's reply. It was the same sort of charade that had transpired between the two men in Germany.
'Is that what you told them?' Cochrane asked.
'That's what I told them,' he said, sipping again, 'and that is what I now tell you.'
Mauer watched Cochrane. 'You look puzzled,' Mauer suggested airily.
'I am.'
'Why?'
Thinking of Hunsicker, Cochrane answered, 'They have new methods. The Bureau badly wants the code broken. I'm surprised you were not subjected to-'
'Coercion?'
'Yes.'
'I'm surprised, also,' said Mauer. 'Perhaps they are not as anxious to break the code as they maintain.'
'I can't believe that,' Cochrane said instinctively. It dawned on him also that he couldn't believe he had been dismissed merely for the contretemps with Adam Hay.
'My friend,' Mauer said, finishing his second shot of brandy, 'we are entering an age in which much happens that we cannot believe. Look at Germany again,' he said with a sigh. 'Who can believe that Hitler is the chosen leader? But he didn't seize power. His party was elected to a majority. Hindenburg asked him to form a government. The world is an insane place. May I pour you another drink? Cognac makes reality less harsh.'
'Thank you, I'm fine,' demurred Cochrane, who wasn't fine at all.
Mauer poured himself another drink. 'We live in an age of unreality,' the German expanded philosophically. 'Why was Germany allowed to rearm? Who financed Hitler? Why does the capitalistic West align itself with the Soviets? Will America allow Germany to conquer all of Western Europe? Who else will stop the Wehrmacht? Will America risk joining a much greater war than the one a generation ago? I ask you, young man, does any of this flirt with reality? Yet it happens.'
Mauer rambled on for half an hour, then tossed down his third cognac with one enthusiastic gulp. Cochrane knew it was time to think about departure.
'I'll pass along the details about your family,' he said again. 'That's all I can do. Good luck.'
Mauer answered with a complacent, resolute shrug and raised an eyebrow as if to wish Cochrane good fortune, also.
'Need anything to read?' Mauer asked as he switched into English. He motioned to two cartons of books and explained that this seemed to be part of an F.B.I. program to keep him amused and, presumably, out of trouble. 'Duplicate copies from the library of the U.S. Congress,' said Mauer, picking through the top copies of two corrugated cartons of books.
'Foreign copies, originals, and in translation,” Mauer said. “I once complained to your Bureau that I couldn't find anything to read. Now they send me five dozen books every four weeks.'
Cochrane could see the grim humor of some bureaucrat somewhere in the headquarters building.
'Honest. Take anything you like,' said Mauer. Mauer stood and weaved slightly from the cognac.
Graciously, Cochrane stood and leaned over to see what Mauer offered. Most were translations of technical manuals. Others dealt with butterfly collecting in Bohemia or beekeeping in Austria.
One large volume caught Cochrane's eyes immediately, The Fighting Liners of the Great War. Published in London five years earlier, it recounted in text and pictures the re-outfitting of the luxury cruise ships of the mid- teens as troop transports. Cochrane flicked it open.
'Take it,' insisted Mauer. It was a fresh copy.
'You're serious?' Cochrane asked.
'Just bring me my family in return,' Mauer said, switching back to German. 'Before I turn the shotgun on myself.'
Cochrane reiterated: no promises, but he had see what he could do.
The parking spaces were filled in front of the ramshackle house on Twenty-sixth Street, so Cochrane parked down the block. He was halfway to his house when he saw two visitors on his front porch, and at first he thought someone had to be mistaken. Who would visit him? He was a professional leper this afternoon, received only by brooding expatriates.
He was several steps closer when he recognized Reverend Fowler's wife. Laura saw him at the same time. She stood, and so did the tall man who was with her. Cochrane stopped on the sidewalk before them. As he looked up, she gazed down at him. Bill Cochrane sensed trouble.
'I didn't think I'd see you again so quickly,' he said.
'Nor I, you,' Laura answered. Then after an awkward moment: 'Oh, sorry,' she said. 'This is Peter Whiteside. He's been a friend of my family all my life.'
Cochrane offered a hand, reaching upward. Whiteside took it and shook.
Then Cochrane turned back to Laura. 'Look,' he said, 'I should tell you something.'
'I know,' she said. 'The F.B.I. dismissed you.'
A pause for a second. 'Oh. I get it. You tried me there first?'
She nodded. 'I made a pest of myself,' Laura said. 'Pretended that my interest was romantic. Finally a young
