Flowers From Berlin

THIRTY-THREE

Hoover sat at the head of the table and glared when Cochrane entered. They were in the second-floor conference room again, arranged at proper intervals around the oval table, and if the last meeting had been a war party, this was to be the burning at the stake.

Lerrick was two seats away from Hoover to the right and Wheeler was three empty spaces to the left, almost suggesting that Cochrane take a seat directly across from the Chief.

"Come in! Sit down!" Hoover growled, drumming his fingers on the table, his round swollen face getting redder by the second. "Let's get on with it!"

Cochrane noted that he was ten minutes early and the other three men were already there. Usually Hoover was the last to enter. The door was still open.

Hoover glanced over his shoulder. "Where's Adam?" he asked. And suddenly an entire vista of disbelief overtook Cochrane.

Adam Hay padded softly into the room and closed the door behind him. He looked at Cochrane, then approached a seat directly next to Hoover, with Lerrick on his other side. Cochrane had the notion of watching a small boy called into a meeting of adults, taking up a position between his parents.

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."