Shift: A Novel

Washington, DC

November 7, 1963

There was nowhere to hide in the Vault, so BC ran into the director’s office. It, too, was wide open. No closets, no nooks and crannies, not even a couch to scurry behind. The largest object in the room was the desk. If Hoover sat down, BC would be found instantly, but it was his only shot.

As he ducked behind the desk, he noticed the curtains on the window: thick blue muslin draperies that billowed all the way to the floor. Without giving himself time to think, he stepped behind the nearest one even as the key turned in the door to the Vault. As the curtain stilled around his body like a mummy’s bandages, he remembered the director’s story about Amenwah, although the truth is he felt more like Polonius. He hoped Hoover had left his sword at home that day.

The door opened and the director’s voice sailed into the room.

“Well, we’ll just have to put the squeeze on him tomorrow morning. A Junghans would be a rare prize indeed.”

Junghans? The name rang a bell, but BC couldn’t place it. German possibly, or Dutch, neither of which was the Bureau’s province. Perhaps a smuggling ring? BC tried to concentrate, but it was hard, with the director’s chair squeaking a few inches in front of him and dust tickling his nostrils. He bit back a sneeze. His hand was in his pocket, squeezing Naz’s ring as though, like the Ring of Gyges, it could make him invisible.

A drawer opened, papers rustled. “Billy was telling me about a little place in Oak Hill the other day.”

“Really?” the voice of Associate Director Tolson said. “The land of lawn jockeys and chipped chamber pots?”

“Billy says he found a John Pennington gravy boat there.”

“No!”

“He says he did. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I once saw a Pennington butter dish with a group of Chinamen fishing for carp, or whatever they fish for in China. I tell you, you could practically hear the wind rustle in the reeds.”

Now BC had to bite back a laugh as well as a sneeze. Here he was, a fly on the wall in the office of J. Edgar Hoover, and the director and his second in command were discussing gravy boats and butter dishes!

“Ah, here they are. Leave a note for Helen to order me another pair tomorrow, would you, Clyde.”

“Already did.” A pause, then: “Your dinner disagreeing with you, John?”

“What? No. Just”—an audible sniff—“someone used too much Lysol when they cleaned tonight.”

A chuckle. “I’ll have someone fired, okay, John?”

The chair squeaked as Hoover stood up. “Very funny, Clyde. I want them shot.” A guffaw, then: “Come on, let’s go home.”

Footsteps receded across the carpet.

“So’d you hear about Caspar?”

“The friendly ghost?”

“Just came back from Mexico City. Spent a few days trying to get a visa to Russia.”

“Didn’t he just come back from there?”

“Last year.”

“Interesting. I wonder what the Company’s cooking up now.”

“The Dallas office sent a man to his house twice, but he’s been conveniently out both times, so they’re going to pay him a visit where he wo—”

A sputtering motorcycle on the street below drowned out the director’s voice, and by the time it sped away the door to the Vault had closed. BC waited a moment to make sure they were gone, then let out the biggest sneeze of his life.