Kemper took the logical leap–
Mr. Hoover has Capitol Hill hot-wired. He knew that you broke up with Sally at her office–to forestall a big public scene. He picked up a tip that Jack Kennedy was planning the same thing– and took a stab at maneuvering you into a position to witness it.
It felt logically sound. It felt quintessentially Hoover.
Mr. Hoover doesn’t entirely trust you to forge a bond with Bobby. He took a shot at placing you in a symbiotic context with Jack.
The rain felt good. Lightning crackled down and backlit the Capitol dome. It felt like he could stand here and let the whole world come to him.
Kemper heard foot scrapes behind him. He knew who it was instantly.
“Mr. Boyd?”
He turned around. John Kennedy was cinching up his overcoat.
“Senator.”
“Call me Jack.”
“All right, Jack.”
Kennedy shivered. “Why the hell are we standing here?”
“We can run for the Mayflower bar when this lets up a bit.”
“We can, and I think we should. You know, Sally’s told me about you. She told me I should work on losing my accent the way you lost yours, so I was surprised to hear you speak.”
Kemper dropped his drawl. “Southerners make the best cops. You lay on the cornpone and people tend to underestimate you and let their secrets slip. I thought your brother might know that, so I acted accordingly. You’re on the McClellan Committee, so I figured I should go for uniformity.”
Kennedy laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks. And don’t worry about Sally. She likes men the way we like women, and she gets over the attendant heartaches pretty fast.”
“I knew you figured it out. Sally told me you cut her off in a similar fashion.”
Kemper smiled. “You can always go back occasionally. Sally appreciates an occasional afternoon at a good hotel.”
“I’ll remember that. A man with my aspirations has to be conscious of his entanglements.”
Kemper stepped closer to “Jack.” He could almost see Mr. Hoover grinning.
“I know a fair number of women who know how to keep things unentangled.”
Kennedy smiled and steered him into the rain. “Let’s go get a drink and talk about it. I’ve got an hour to kill before I meet my wife.”
3
W a r d J. L I t t e l l
(Chicago, 11/30/58)
Black bag work–a classic FBI Commie crib prowl.
Littell snapped the lock with a ruler. His hands dripped sweat– apartment-house break-ins always played risky.
Neighbors heard B&E noise. Hallway sounds muffled incoming footsteps.
He closed the door behind him. The living room took shape: ratty furniture, bookshelves, labor protest posters. It was a typical CPUSA member’s dwelling–he’d find documents in the dinette cupboard.
He did. Ditto the standard wall photos: Sad old “Free the Rosenbergs” shots.
Pathos.
He’d surveilled Morton Katzenbach for months. He’d heard scads of leftist invective. He knew one thing: Morty posed no threat to America.
A Commie cell met at Morty’s doughnut stand. Their big-time “treason”: feeding bear claws to striking auto workers.
Littell got out his Minox and snapped “documents.” He blew three rolls of film on donation tallies–all short of fifty dollars a month.
It was boring, shitty work. His old refrain kicked in automatically.
You’re forty-five years old. You’re an expert bug/wire man. You’re an ex-Jesuit seminarian with a law degree, two years and two months shy of retirement. You’ve got an alimony-fat ex-wife and a daughter at Notre Dame, and if you pass the Illinois Bar exam and quit the FBI, your gross earnings over the next X-number of years will more than compensate for your forfeited pension.
He shot two lists of “political expenses.” Morty annotated his doughnut handouts: “Plain,” “Chocolate,” “Glazed.”
He heard key-in-the-lock noise. He saw the door open ten feet in front of him.
Faye Katzenbach lugged groceries in. She saw him and shook her head like he was the saddest thing on earth.
“So you people are common thieves now?”
Littell knocked over a lamp running past her.
o o o
The squadroom was noontime quiet–just a few agents standing around clipping teletypes. Littell found a note on his desk.