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  Kemper smiled. “Before I ‘quit,’ I snuck a look at Mr. Hoover’s private file on the McClellan Committee. I’m up-to-date on the Committee’s work, up to and including Sun Valley and your missing witness Anton Gretzler. I ‘quit’ because Mr. Hoover has the Bureau neurotically focused on harmless leftists, while the McClellan Committee is going after the real bad guys. I ‘quit’ because given my choice of monomaniacs, I’d rather work for you.”

  Kennedy grinned. “Our mandate ends in five months. You’ll be out of work.”

  “I have an FBI pension, and you’ll have forwarded so much evidence to municipal grand juries that they’ll be begging your investigators to work for them ad hoc.”

  Kennedy tapped a stack of papers. “We work hard here. We plod. We subpoena and trace money and litigate. We don’t risk our lives stealing sports cars or dawdle over lunch or take women to the Willard Hotel for quickies. Our idea of a good time is to talk about how much we hate Jimmy Hoffa and the Mob.”

  Kemper stood up. “I hate Hoffa and the Mob like Mr. Hoover hates you and your brother.”

  Bobby laughed. “I’ll let you know within a few days.”

  Kemper strolled by Sally Lefferts’ office. It was 2:30—Sally might be up for a quickie at the Willard.

  Her door was open. Sally was at her desk fretting tissues—with a man straddling a chair up close to her.

  She said, “Oh, hello, Kemper.”

  Her color was up: rosy verging on flushed. She had that too-bright I’ve-lost-at-love-again glow on.

  “Are you busy? I can come back.”

  The man swiveled his chair around. Kemper said, “Hello, Senator.”

  John Kennedy smiled. Sally dabbed at her eyes. “Jack, this is my friend Kemper Boyd.”

  They shook hands. Kennedy did a little half-bow.

  “Mr. Boyd, a pleasure.”

  “My pleasure entirely, sir.”

  Sally forced a smile. Her rouge was streaked—she’d been crying.

  “Kemper, how did your interview go?”

  “It went well, I think. Sally, I have to go. I just wanted to thank you for the referral.”

  Little nods went around. Nobody’s eyes met. Kennedy handed Sally a fresh tissue.

  Kemper walked downstairs and outside. A storm had fired up—he ducked under a statue ledge and let the rain graze him.

  The Kennedy coincidence felt strange. He walked straight from an interview with Bobby into a chance meeting with Jack. It felt like he was gently pushed in that direction.

  Kemper thought it through.

  Mr. Hoover mentioned Sally—as his most specific link to Jack Kennedy. Mr. Hoover knew that he and Jack shared a fondness for women. Mr. Hoover sensed that he’d visit Sally after his interview with Bobby.

  Mr. Hoover sensed that he’d call Sally for an interview referral immediately. Mr. Hoover knew that Bobby needed investigators and interviewed walk-in prospects at whim.

  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

  Ward J. Littell

  (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.

  The squadroom was noontime quiet—just a few agents standing around clipping teletypes. Littell found a note on his desk.

  K. Boyd called. In town en route to Florida. Pump Room, 7:00?

  Kemper—yes!

  Chick Leahy walked up, waving file carbons. “I’ll need the complete Katzenbach folder, with photo attachments, by December 11th. Mr. Tolson’s coming in for an inspection tour, and he wants a CPUSA presentation.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “Good. Complete with documents?”

  “Some. Mrs. Katzenbach caught me before I finished.”

  “Jesus. Did she—?”

  “She did not call the Chicago PD, because she knew who I was and what I was doing. Mr. Leahy, half the Commies on earth
know the term ‘black bag job.’ ”

  Leahy sighed. “Say it, Ward. I’m going to turn you down, but you’ll feel better if you say it.”

  “All right. I want a Mob assignment. I want a transfer to the Top Hoodlum Program.”

  Leahy said, “No. Our THP roster is full. And as special agent-in-charge my assessment of you is that you’re best suited for political surveillance, which I consider important work. Mr. Hoover considers domestic Communists more dangerous than the Mafia, and I have to say that I agree with him.”

  They stared at each other. Littell broke it off—Leahy would stand there all day if he didn’t.

  Leahy walked back to his office. Littell shut his cubicle door and got out his bar texts. Civic statutes went unmemorized—Kemper Boyd memories cut them adrift.

  Late ’53: they corner a kidnapper in L.A. The man pulls a gun; he shakes so hard he drops his. Some LAPD men laugh at him. Kemper doctors the report to make him the hero.

  They protest the disposition of Tom Agee’s pension—Mr. Hoover wants to award it to Tom’s floozy wife. Kemper talks him into a surviving-daughter disbursement; Helen now has a handsome sinecure.

  They arrest Big Pete Bondurant. He makes a gaffe: ribbing Pete in Québecois French. Bondurant snaps his handcuff chain and goes for his throat.

  He runs. Big Pete laughs. Kemper bribes Bondurant into silence on the matter—catered cell food does the trick.

  Kemper never judged his fearful side. Kemper said, “We both joined the Bureau to avoid the war, so who’s to judge?” Kemper taught him how to burglarize—a good fear tamper-downer.

  Kemper said, “You’re my priest-cop confessor. I’ll reciprocate and hear your confessions, but since my secrets are worse than yours, I’ll always get the better end of the deal.”

  Littell closed his textbook. Civil statutes were dead boring.

  The Pump Room was packed. A gale blew off the lake—people seemed to whoosh inside.

  Littell secured a back booth. The maître d’ took his drink order: two martinis, straight up. The restaurant was beautiful: colored waiters and a pre-symphony crowd had the place sparkling.

  The drinks arrived. Littell arranged them for a quick toast. Boyd walked in, via the hotel lobby.

  Littell laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re staying here.”

  “My plane doesn’t leave until two a.m., and I needed a place to stretch my legs. Hello, Ward.”

  “Hello, Kemper. A valedictory?”

  Boyd raised his glass. “To my daughter Claire, your daughter Susan and Helen Agee. May they do well in school and become better attorneys than their fathers.”

  They clicked goblets. “Neither of whom ever practiced law.”

  “You clerked, though. And I heard you wrote deportation writs that saw litigation.”

  “We’re not doing so badly. At least you’re not. So who’s putting you up here?”

  “My new temporary employer booked me a room out by Midway, but I decided to splurge and make up the difference out of my pocket. And the difference between the Skyliner Motel and the Ambassador-East is pretty steep.”

  Littell smiled. “What new temporary employer? Are you working Cointelpro?”

  “No, it’s something a good deal more interesting. I’ll tell you a few drinks down the line, when you’re more likely to get blasphemous and say, ‘Jesus Fucking Christ.’ ”

  “I’ll say it now. You’ve just effectively killed small talk, so I will say it fucking now.”

  Boyd sipped his martini. “Not yet. You just hit the jackpot on the wayward-daughter front, though. That should cheer you up.”

  “Let me guess. Claire’s transferring from Tulane to Notre Dame.”

  “No. Helen graduated Tulane a semester early. She’s been accepted at the University of Chicago law school, and she’ll be moving here next month.”

  “Jesus!”

  “I knew you’d be pleased.”

  “Helen’s a courageous girl. She’ll make a damn fine lawyer.”

  “She will. And she’ll make some man a damn fine consort, if we haven’t ruined her for young men her own age.”

  “It would take a—”

  “Special young man to get by her affliction?”

  “Yes.”

  Boyd winked. “Well, she’s twenty-one. Think of how the two of you would upset Margaret.”

  Littell killed his drink. “And upset my own daughter. Susan, by the way, says Margaret is spending weekends with a man in Charlevoix. But she’ll never marry him as long as she has my paycheck attached.”

  “You’re her devil. You’re the seminarian boy who got her pregnant. And in the religious terms you’re so fond of, your marriage was purgatory.”

  “No, my job is. I black-bagged a Commie’s apartment today and photographed an entire ledger page devoted to doughnuts. I honestly don’t know how much longer I can do this kind of thing.”

  Fresh drinks arrived. The waiter bowed—Kemper inspired subservience. Littell said, “I figured something out in the process, right between the chocolate and the glazed.”

  “What?”

  “That Mr. Hoover hates left-wingers because their philosophy is based on human frailty, while his own is based on an excruciating rectitude that denies such things.”

  Boyd held his glass up. “You never disappoint me.”

  “Kemper—”

  Waiters swooped past. Candlelight bounced off gold flatware. Crêpe suzettes ignited—an old woman squealed.

  “Kemper—”

  “Mr. Hoover had me infiltrate the McClellan Committee. He hates Bobby Kennedy and his brother Jack, and he’s afraid their father will buy Jack the White House in ’60. I’m now a fake FBI retiree on an indefinite assignment to cozy up to both brothers. I applied for a job as a temporary Committee investigator, and I got the word today that Bobby hired me. I’m flying to Miami in a few hours to look for a missing witness.”

  Littell said, “Jesus Fucking Christ.”

  Boyd said, “You never disappoint me.”

  “I suppose you’re drawing two salaries?”

  “You know I love money.”

  “Yes, but do you like the brothers?”

  “Yes, I do. Bobby’s a vindictive little bulldog, and Jack’s charming and not as smart as he thinks he is. Bobby’s the stronger man, and he hates organized crime like you do.”

  Littell shook his head. “You don’t hate anything.”

  “I can’t afford to.”

  “I’ve never understood your loyalties.”

  “Let’s just say they’re ambiguous.”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/2/58. Official FBI telephone call transcript: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Kemper Boyd.

  JEH: Mr. Boyd?

  KB: Sir, good morning.

  JEH: Yes, it is a good morning. Are you calling from a secure phone?

  KB: Yes. I’m at a coin phone. If the connection seems weak, it’s because I’m calling from Miami.

  JEH: Little Brother has put you to work already?

  KB: Little Brother doesn’t waste time.

  JEH: Interpret your rapid hiring. Use names if you must.

  KB: Little Brother was initially suspicious of me, and I think it will take time to win him over. I ran into Big Brother at Sally Lefferts’ office, and circumstances forced us into a private conversation. We went out for a drink and developed a rapport. Like many charming men, Big Brother is also easily charmed. We hit it off quite well, and I’m certain he told Little Brother to hire me.

  JEH: Describe the “circumstances” you mentioned.

  KB: We discovered that we shared an interest in sophisticated and provocative women, and we went to the Mayflower bar to discuss related matters. Big Brother confirmed that he is going to run in 1960, and that Little Brother will begin the campaign groundwork when the McClellan Committee mandate ends this coming April.

  JEH: Continue.

>   KB: Big Brother and I discussed politics. I portrayed myself as incongruously liberal by Bureau standards, which Big Brother—

  JEH: You have no political convictions, which adds to your efficacy in situations like this. Continue.

  KB: Big Brother found my feigned political convictions interesting and opened up. He said that he considers Little Brother’s hatred of Mr. H. somewhat untoward, although justified. Both Big Brother and their father have urged Little Brother to strategically retreat and offer Mr. H. a deal if he cleans up his organization, but Little Brother has refused. My personal opinion is that Mr. H. is legally inviolate at this time. Big Brother shares that opinion, as do a number of Committee investigators. Sir, I think Little Brother is ferociously dedicated and competent. My feeling is that he will take Mr. H. down, but not in the foreseeable future. I think it will take years and most likely many indictments, and that it certainly won’t happen within the Committee mandate time frame.

  JEH: You’re saying the Committee will hand the ball to municipal grand juries once their mandate expires?

  KB: Yes. I think it will take years for the Brothers to reap real political benefit from Mr. H. And I think a backlash might set in and hurt Big Brother. Democratic candidates can’t afford to be viewed as antiunion.

  JEH: Your assessments seem quite astute.

  KB: Thank you, Sir.

  JEH: Did Big Brother bring my name up?

  KB: Yes. He knows about your extensive files on politicians and movie stars you deem subversive, and he’s afraid you have a file on him. I told him your file on his family ran to a thousand pages.

  JEH: Good. You would have lost credibility had you been less candid. What else did you and Big Brother discuss?

  KB: Chiefly women. Big Brother mentioned a trip to Los Angeles on December 9th. I gave him the phone number of a promiscuous woman named Darleen Shoftel and urged him to call her.

  JEH: Do you think he has called her?

  KB: No, Sir. But I think he will.

  JEH: Describe your duties for the Committee thus far.

  KB: I’ve been looking for a subpoenaed witness named Anton Gretzler here in Florida. Little Brother wanted me to serve him a backup summons. There’s an aspect of this we should discuss, since Gretzler’s disappearance may tie in to a friend of yours.