appreciably speed up the process. Groves and Oppenheimer already had hundreds of his best officers and technical specialists. Indeed, the
That thought led naturally to his next meeting, an altogether more informal affair. He’d driven across the San Fernando Valley, with an escort, a Navy SEAL, ghosting him in a black Packard, watching for tails. Hoover’s men were everywhere, but their field-craft hadn’t been honed in a vicious twenty-year holy war. Chief Petty Officer Vincente Rogas was more than capable of seeing them off.
It hadn’t been necessary, however. Kolhammer had driven through the flatlands north of Ventura, through remnant beet fields and walnut groves, past vast tracts of dry, coarse grassland and abandoned orchards, all staked out and fenced off for housing development in the coming months. He’d swung through the established settlements of Encino and Woodland Hills, tracked the whole time by both Rogas and a high-altitude surveillance drone that scanned for patterns in the thin traffic on the valley floor that might indicate he picked up a tail.
There was nothing.
They drove up through the foothills, weaving in and out of wild oaks and patches of sycamore and eucalyptus. He couldn’t be sure, but Kolhammer felt that as they climbed the range he could taste clean air coming off the Pacific. He felt strung out and a little stale from overwork and lack of sleep. Even the hint of an ocean breeze was enough to revive him, although it fired memories of his wife and left him feeling sad and a little bewildered, an echo of the wild confusion he remembered from the first hours after the Transition.
He heard Rogas in the small earbud speaker he wore. “We weren’t followed,” the man reported. “But I’ll keep an eye out, just in case.”
“Thanks, Chief,” replied Kolhammer.
They pulled off the main road into a canyon where millionaires did not yet tread. The road jinked back and forth a few times, overlooked by steep, crumbling hills that seemed to be held together with nothing but sagebrush and manzanita. The road curved left one last time and died at the base of a small, hard cliff.
His contact was waiting there. With blueprints spread out on the bonnet of his car, he looked more like an architect than a builder.
Kolhammer strode up to him. “You Donovan’s man?” the admiral asked, referring to the Office of Strategic Services Chief.
“Uh-huh. Mitch Taverner’s the name.”
“Okay, why are we here, Mr. Taverner?”
The man picked up a roll of blueprints and waved it back up the canyon. “You guys have a lien over this land. You’re going to build a signal relay station here, in time. But you’ve got problems with L.A. over it. Or specifically, with the local rich folks. So it gives you a reason to come up here for a meeting with your builder.” He tapped himself on the chest. “And the long drive gives your man Rogas over there a lot of visible ground, to check whether or not you’ve been followed.”
Kolhammer suppressed his irritation and forced himself to speak slowly, in a reasonable tone. “Okay, so you’ve proved to me that Wild Bill has almost as many feelers inside the Zone as Hoover. Is there any other reason for you to be dragging me up here?”
Taverner, a barrel-chested man with what sounded like a Texas accent, grinned broadly. “Admiral Kolhammer, Mr. Donovan is a friend. He’s not like the others.”
“Wonderful. Imagine my relief. But I still don’t see the need for subterfuge. If you’re as good as you think you are, Mr. Taverner, you’ll know that I don’t much care for spooks, and I definitely don’t have time for this sort of bullshit. So tell me, exactly what are we doing here?”
But the Texan refused to be bullied out of his role. He reminded Kolhammer of somebody.
“Mr. Donovan wanted you to have this, but he had no reliable way of getting it to you. It’s a list of all Hoover’s agents, informants, and sources within your area, as best as we can tell.”
Taverner handed over a couple sheets of paper. They seemed to be full of typing. A freshening breeze stirred the leaves of the Cyprus pine and eucalyptus that bordered the road.
Kolhammer took the list and pocketed it with barely a glance. “You tell Wild Bill I’m much obliged, but if he and Mr. Stephenson think I’m going to crank up a war against J. Edgar Hoover, then I’m afraid they should prepare themselves for disappointment. He’s simply not my concern,” Kolhammer said firmly.
Taverner pushed himself off the door of the Packard. Kolhammer saw Rogas start moving toward him in the reflection of the car’s windscreen. He waved the SEAL back.
Taverner moved in close. The man smelled of cheap soap and breath mints. “He should be your concern,” said the OSS agent. “That asshole has a lot of congressmen in his pocket. Roosevelt got the bill through, setting you up here, but he had to twist a lot of arms harder than he’d ever had to before. You know why? Because there was a little fairy flitting around, pouring poison into the ears of our honorable legislators. And he’s still doing it.
“You got your Zone, Kolhammer, but the money to pay for it still comes out of Washington, and you do
Taverner didn’t wait for a reply. He turned around and opened his car door, then looked back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and personally, I think the P-Fifty-one is a
Kolhammer watched the car disappear around the bend.
Rogas wandered over, his eyes scanning the area. “You know, boss,” he said. “I’ve never known happy news to come out of these sorts of meetings.”
Kolhammer essayed a tired grin. “Would you feel happy about a trip East, Chief?”
Rogas turned his palms out in a “whatever” gesture.
“Then pack your bags. And put together a team: two men, two women. Covert entry and prolonged surveillance. Full-spectrum coverage. Draw whatever kit you need from the Quiet Room. I’ll authorize it when we get back to Fifty-one.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Mission brief tonight?”
“When you’ve chosen your team, bring them over to my office. I’ll be working late.”
They both turned and walked back to the cars.
Kolhammer decided to wait until he was alone, but he was itching to open the papers Taverner had given him.
He was certain he’d spotted Dan Black’s name on the first page.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Five nights a week, without fail, J. Edgar Hoover and Clyde Tolson dined at Harvey’s Restaurant on the 1100 block of Connecticut Avenue. A little dais, which raised them slightly above the other patrons, was blocked off for their private use. Hoover always sat with his back to the wall, while Tolson always faced the door.
They paid two bucks fifty for all they could eat. They were supposed to cover their own tab at the bar, but a local businessman took care of that unpleasantness in their behalf. It was a healthy tab, too. Pooch Miller, the maitre d’, poured six shot glasses of Old Granddad and club soda every night as soon as the director arrived.
Hoover nearly always had a medium rare steak, but would occasionally go wild and order green turtle soup. He was a demon in the restaurant’s oyster-eating competitions, too, rarely failing to win. Every night when they left, the manager would provide him with a bag of ham and turkey for his pet dogs.
J. Edgar Hoover was a creature of habit.
On this night, however, things were different. They had two guests joining them for dinner. Two somewhat reluctant guests: Congressmen Gentry and Summers.
Very few newspapers or magazines had published a word of the rumors that were flying around Washington about the director. Certainly none dared do so openly, preferring instead to play up Hoover’s love of delicate china, the expensive cologne, and his fastidious dressing. No tittle-tattle had ever been aired on the wireless by the likes of Walter Winchell and his peers. But that didn’t mean the city wasn’t alive with venemous gossip.
