Flowers From Berlin

SIXTEEN

On Saturday morning, a Bureau driver-a neat young man who said his name was Thomas Jenks-met Cochrane at Union Station and drove him to a green clapboard house on Twenty-sixth Street in Georgetown. The Bureau had owned it for Special Operations-this quite illegally-since 1934. The house was faded, small and accommodating. It had a front porch that squeaked at the first footfall. “And he leaves it this way to curtail unexpected company,” Cochrane mused.

Past the entrance foyer was a sitting room, equipped with some blue upholstered chairs, a sofa that matched the chairs in both pattern and wear, two matching oversized pink lamps that more than bracketed the sofa, and-the prize of the room-a large Philco console radio, presumably for tuning in Roosevelt or the Washington Senators, not necessarily in that order. Adjacent to the living room was a small dining room, furnished functionally with an oval mahogany table supported by thick, overdone legs and surrounded by five matching chairs and-Cochrane lamented immediately-one mismatching one. Cochrane sighed. The interior of the house appeared to have been decorated by the Racketeering Division of the Grand Rapids F.B.I. office. Why couldn't they have hired a vivacious young woman, Cochrane wondered.

"Anything wrong, sir?" young Jenks asked.

"Everything's just fine," Cochrane answered, whereupon Jenks led him to a small kitchen, which Cochrane found to be freshly stocked.

"Tell me, Jenks," Cochrane asked indulgently, "do you know why I'm in

Washington?"

"No, sir," said the younger man, breathing heavily through his mouth. "We're under instructions not to have such discussions, sir."

"Whose instructions?"

"Mr. Lerrick's, sir."

Cochrane wandered from the kitchen through the dining room, toward a flight of stairs. Jenks followed. Cochrane answered, after too long a pause. "Maybe you can tell me more about this house, then."

Jenks stammered slightly and as Cochrane listened, he noted the heavy cloth curtains, blocking any view of the interior from the outside.

"A woman comes in twice a week to clean up and sweep," Jenks explained, trailing Cochrane. "She'll also tend to the laundry, take care of any dirty dishes, and replenish the cupboards with fresh groceries," Jenks said.

Replenish: so Hoover was still hiring English majors as his errand boys, Cochrane thought to himself. It figured.

"Any special grocery requests or maintenance items," Jenks continued, "can be arranged by leaving a note on the kitchen table. She'll take care of it."

"Who will?"

"The woman, sir."

"Ever seen her?"

"Never, sir."

"Do you think she might be one of the Bureau's stable of nymphomaniacs?"

"A what, sir?" Then, realizing, Jenks exclaimed. "Oh, no, sir. Not a chance, sir! Why, to my knowledge, sir, there's no stable of-"

"Just show me the upstairs and all the escapes," Cochrane requested.

Humorless English majors from small, bad Midwestern colleges, Cochrane thought, refining his earlier appraisal.

There was an exit through the kitchen and an exit through the basement. Both led to an alleyway that connected with the street on both ends of the block. And all the downstairs windows opened wide.

Upstairs, a chain fire ladder was poised by a window in each bedroom and there was also one in the hallway. Each of the two bedrooms was furnished as sparsely as the downstairs room: a bed, a night table, one lamp, a dresser, and a chair. Each bed was a single. The Bureau brain trust-Morality Division-had anticipated everything, and did their best to discourage it. Bureau safe houses were not to turn into hotels for non-Bureau female guests. The rule wasn't stated, not surprisingly; it was just there. Cochrane opened a night-table drawer and uncovered the final Hooverism: a Holy Bible for light bedside reading. "And that's it?" Cochrane finally asked, downstairs again and shadowed diligently by Jenks.

"Not entirely, sir."

"What else could there be?"

"Mr. Wheeler wishes you to come straight to Bureau headquarters as soon as your bags are unpacked. I'm to wait."

"Of course," said Cochrane. "It's a workday, isn't it? Saturdays always are, aren't they, Jenks?"

"Usually we get Saturdays off, sir. Today is the exception."

“Wonderful,” said Cochrane.

Jenks drove him an hour later to the Justice Department. At the guard's desk in the lobby was a balding man who flicked through a list of special passes when Cochrane announced his name. Cochrane watched the gnarled, unsteady fingers twice pass his name before finding it.

"Cochrane. Cochrane, William. There!" the man looked up and smiled. "Of course."

He handed Cochrane his pass.

Cochrane proceeded to one of three new elevators, swift, smartly polished and chrome, and a black elevator man in a verdant uniform deposited him at Wheeler's sixth floor where yet another assistant was waiting for him.

Hoover was doing a fine job on the Senate Appropriations Committee, Cochrane concluded. Hoover had the F.B.I. wing all polished, modernized, and shining, a veritable temple to America's only federal policy agency. Hoover always knew where bodies were buried, Cochrane reminded himself.

Cochrane was announced and stood for a moment in a reception area, studying a collection of framed photographs on the wall, each depicting J. Edgar Hoover's personal role in the apprehension of various American bandits. Then Cochrane heard something midway between a bellow and a roar.

"Bill! Fine to see you! Thanks for being so prompt, though I knew you wouldn't be anything but."

Cochrane turned away from a portrait of J. Edgar Hoover with a granite-faced President Coolidge to see Big Dick Wheeler hulking massively into the reception area, his hand extended in greeting, a huge smile across his face.

Wheeler, all five foot fifteen inches of him, clad in a gray suit, white shirt, and tie, lumbered to Cochrane's side. He took Cochrane's hand into his paw, crushed it with a welcoming pump, and wrapped his other arm around Cochrane's shoulders.

"Very good of you to come by on a Saturday morning," Wheeler said. "You saw your house? Your new residence for the duration?"

"Your driver took me there. Yes. Thanks."

"I know it's not a home, but it will have to do," Wheeler said. "Tell you what. One of these nights the missus and I will have you over for a roast chicken. How's that? A man's got to live, doesn't he?"

Predictably, Dick Wheeler was louder, more garrulous, and more of a dominant force on the sixth floor, his own, than on the second, Hoover's.

"Why am I here today?" Cochrane asked.

"I want to show you through Section Seven," Wheeler said. "Much easier on a Saturday. Fewer interruptions."

"What is Section Seven?"

"Espionage and Counterespionage," Wheeler said, plucking a Missouri meerschaum pipe from a breast pocket. "Call it 'Spying' if you want to use the current profanity."

"I didn't know we actually had such a division."

"Officially, we don't. Fact is, we've been turned down six times since 1935 for congressional funding for it. The money comes out of General Appropriations." Wheeler stuffed tobacco into his pipe with his thumb and struggled to get a fire started. They walked down a hall, closing doors behind them. "You'll feel at home here. I read your reports from Germany last night. Fine work! I'm surprised you're still alive."

"So am I," said Cochrane.

"My office first," said Wheeler, leading Cochrane into the largest quarters on the floor. A picture window looked toward the Capitol. "Have a seat," Wheeler said. "We need to chat first." Cochrane chose an armchair, and Wheeler did likewise, staying away from his desk.

"Just out of curiosity," Cochrane asked, "what are Sections One through Six?"

"They don't exist."

"Then what's this seven?"

"Seven is everyone's lucky number. The number seven symbolizes God's perfection, doesn’t it? His sovereignty and holiness. God created earth in seven days. One seven-day week is a reminder of our Creator. And God blessed the seventh day, making it holy. So. ‘Section Seven.’ Good luck. That's what you're going to need, you know. Luck. Just like J.E.H. to toss a good capable man into an impossible situation. But, come on. It beats banking fraud in Bored-All-The-More, doesn't it? I'll give you the grand tour anyway. You're going to need all the help you can get. Someone's here all the time, of course. That's another reason for the name. 'Section Seven' seven days a week." Wheeler mustered a groan. "One of those assignments. Like Racketeering in the Kansas City office. You remember?"

Cochrane nodded.

Wheeler foraged through a drawer of his desk and produced a bottle of twelve-year-old bourbon. "Want a drink before we start?"

"No, thanks."

Wheeler poured himself a taste of Tennessee's best in a small glass. "You're sure? You and me? We have worked together three times now and I'm in charge here, you know."

"It's all right," Cochrane reaffirmed.

"Okay then," said Wheeler, sipping and positioning himself massively in his chair. "Just remember this is top-secret stuff. You don't even discuss this with any other agent. Only the people you see here."

Cochrane nodded.

"Let me explain," said Wheeler.