Allegiance (33 page)

“I've got this report,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Hall enthusiastically. “We finally got it out.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“What do you mean?”

“The facts it gives. These aren't things the Department has claimed before.”

“I know,” says Hall. “But now you can.”

“What?”

“Now you have the report to rely on.”

“Sure,” I say. The picture is getting clearer. The War Department wants a stronger brief from Justice this time. “Another thing. I see the main argument here is that there wasn't time to do individual hearings.”

“That's right.”

“Well, funny coincidence, I was just talking to Karl Bendetsen, and that's not what he said.”

There is a long moment of silence. “What?”

“He said there was plenty of time.”

Hall sounds less cheery. “What were you talking to him for? You're supposed to go through me, Cash. That's the way this works.”

“Why is this report telling me something he denied?”

“He's just one guy, Cash. This is the position of the War Department. Of the United States.”

“Actually, the Justice Department speaks for the United States. And I notice you had some things to say about us, too. Biddle's not going to like that.”

“Yeah,” says Hall. “Nothing personal, you understand.”

“Not such great liaison work there, John. Not necessarily going to make us more eager to cooperate.”

“That wasn't my call.” He sounds positively lugubrious now. “Really, I'm just trying to help. We're all on the same side here.”

“Right.” I hang up the phone. Here is my brief for
Korematsu
and
Endo
, written by the helpful folks at the War Department. It is the brief they wanted Rowe to file in
Hirabayashi
, no doubt, but he would not. And now he is on a destroyer in the Pacific. I carry the report to Edward Ennis's office. “John Hall sent this over.”

“What is it?”

“Justification for the evacuation,” I say. “Chock full of useful supporting facts.”

Ennis looks up. He is working something out; behind his eyes I can almost see gears turning. But all he says is, “Should make writing the briefs easier.”

“Yeah,” I say. “If it's true.”

His face is unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“It's just War Department say-so. Do you believe it?”

Ennis shrugs. “Not my decision. If you're worried about it, talk to Biddle.”

• • • • 

But I talk to J. Edgar Hoover instead. He smiles at me from behind his massive desk, the flags limp by his sides. “It's been too long, Mr. Harrison. I'm glad you've returned.”

“I'd like an investigation,” I say. “Into certain claims made by the War Department.”

“Indeed.”

“It's about the Japanese evacuation. They're claiming radio intercepts, signal lights. Subversive activity. Does the Bureau have confirmation of that?”

“We were intimately involved in securing the coast,” Hoover says. “We have the information you need.”

“Okay.” There is a moment of silence. “Great.”

“And now it is time to talk of what you can do for me.” Hoover stands behind his desk. “You are still familiar with Felix Frankfurter, I believe.”

“What?”

“You have been to see him. Last week, was it not?”

“I don't understand.”

“A record of his conversations could prove very valuable. A listening device—”

I interrupt. “You're asking me to bug Frankfurter's chambers?”

Hoover's face changes. As if it is a mirror, I can see myself, moving into another category, leaving the charmed circle. The confidantes, the protected. He licks his lips. “Have I been wrong about where your loyalties lie? I have been very helpful to you.”

“And I appreciate that. But I'm not asking a favor here. It's my job to represent the United States government, and I want to know what the facts are.”

Hoover's lips glisten. “I am not asking you a favor, either. I am asking you to serve your country. Felix Frankfurter is a very dangerous man. He is . . .”

I am out the door before he finishes. There is no way I can do what Hoover asks. But this is no impasse; already my mind is moving up the chain of command. Now it is time for Francis Biddle.

• • • • 

It takes surprisingly little work. Biddle needs no help to see that the Final Report is a personal attack on him and his department. He is sympathetic when I explain that I must verify the War Department's claims, and surprised that Hoover did not jump at the chance to assist me. “We will have a word with him,” he says.

Together we make our way downstairs. “How did you like Edgar's office?” Biddle asks me as we walk along the second-floor hallway, past the triumphant murals.

“It's fine,” I say.

“Did you notice his flags?” We are approaching the antechamber, where the secretary sits and the agents lounge. “The Director is a man who likes his flags.”

“I did see that,” I say.

“Yes,” says Biddle. His voice has gained volume. “It brings to mind an argument I often have with Edward Ennis. Do you think that Hoover is a homosexual?”

I blink. “What?”

“Oh,” says Biddle, more loudly still. “I only mean a
latent
homosexual.”

The secretary has heard the conversation, if not the words; perhaps she has recognized Biddle's voice. She emerges with a troubled look. The Director is not expecting us, she says. Will we wait for him?

“The Attorney General will not wait for the Director,” says Biddle. “Even if he is not a latent homosexual.”

The secretary's face goes white, then red. She dashes off. I am staring at Biddle with my mouth open. “What?” he asks equably. “I said ‘if he is
not
.' ”

“We have to work with him,” I say.

“He works with you,” says Biddle. “He works for me. And I don't intend to let him forget it.”

Biddle is the first person I have seen who does not seem at least a little bit scared of Hoover. Perhaps he has nothing in his life that might go into a file. Or perhaps it is just that he is Francis Biddle, who can argue before the Supreme Court in white linen and think nothing of it. “Edgar should be very helpful,” he says. “Roosevelt has given him considerable power, and we may set him after anyone we want. He is a useful tool.”

The secretary returns and beckons us inside. Hoover sits at his desk and Tolson stands against the wall behind him. He glances up at our entrance, but says nothing. Biddle remains silent too, simply looking at him from the doorway. At last Hoover gets to his feet. “Mr. Attorney General,” he says. “An unexpected pleasure.”

It is plain that half of this phrase is true, and also plain which half. Standing, Hoover looks the same height as Tolson, presumably because Tolson is behind the raised platform on which the desk rests. But he is considerably shorter than the flags, which now do strike me as large for an office. With Biddle at my side, I am beginning to find the scene ridiculous.

“Edgar,” says Biddle. “Have you met my assistant, Mr. Harrison?”

“We are acquainted,” says Hoover.

“I should like you to assist him. We are in possession of certain claims made by the War Department, about activity on the West Coast prior to the evacuation. I have asked Mr. Harrison to ascertain whether they are well substantiated. He will need investigative support.”

“Of course,” says Hoover. “The Bureau is at your disposal.”

“Yes, it is,” says Biddle. “Mr. Harrison will let you know his requirements.”

Hoover looks at me intently. Tolson's face is dark with anger.

Biddle turns and walks out, and I follow. “Edgar will do what he is told,” says Biddle. “But you should not expect miracles. He cannot live up to his reputation as a supersleuth. He spends more time on the reputation than the sleuthing. And he can go off half-cocked, like anyone else. Before Pearl Harbor he drew up a list of people he wanted to detain. I told him to scrap it. He just needs a firm hand.”

I am glad that Biddle has his hand on Hoover. I would not like that job myself, and I wonder what will happen when there is a new Attorney General. But for now, the FBI is mine to command. Hoover sends Agent Miller to my office. “I want your information on the Japanese,” I say. “Anything you have. And I need some particular facts verified.” I give him the details of the Final Report, the contraband, the signal lights, the radio intercepts. He nods seriously and departs.

He is back surprisingly soon, pushing a cart. “That was fast,” I say.

Miller gives me a wide, white smile. “There's more work to do. But I think I got your facts. These are the reports that were generated already.”

“Already?” I don't understand. “For whom?”

“The Unit. Alien Enemies.” His smile is unchanged, but there is puzzlement in his voice now. “You.”

I sift the files. There is one from the FCC Radio Intelligence Division, another from the Office of Naval Intelligence, written by a Kenneth Ringle. They bear FBI processing stamps, and the name of the recipient. Alien Enemy Control Unit. Mr. James Rowe.

A few minutes' reading is enough to reveal their substance. Rowe has done my work for me. There were no unauthorized radio signals, the FCC reports. The Army radio operators were incompetent, picking up stations in Tokyo and reporting them as Oakland. There were no signal lights from the coast. Ringle, writing in early 1942, says there is no Japanese problem at all. There are some individuals who might be dangerous, but they are already in FBI custody. The evidence of disloyalty is manufactured: raids seize dynamite
that farmers use to clear tree stumps, ammunition from sporting goods stores. The loyalty questionnaire I know about already.

The pieces are falling into place. Rowe had these reports. That is the meaning of his marginalia.
FCC-RID 42-107. ONI Ringle.
He knew the War Department claims were false. He would not put them in his brief, and he was drafted for his pains.

But something still does not fit. Rowe sent these files back to the FBI; he encoded his notes. And Ennis, who should have known about all of this, just asked me to take the War Department's word with no mention of contradictory reports.

Ennis is their man. That has to be it. Rowe knew; he kept his research secret; he did what he could knowing that his boss was in War's pocket. And when he went too far and they moved against him, he left clues so that his successor might have a better chance.

Now I am exactly where he was, sitting at the same desk, reading the same reports. Faced with the same War Department lies. But Bendetsen was right to call me new and improved. I know more than James Rowe did, and I have more powerful friends. I summon Agent Miller back. “New assignment,” I say. “I want you to follow someone. See who he talks to. Tap his phone if you have to.”

He does not seem surprised. I take it surveillance is within his job description. “Who?”

“Edward Ennis.”

“THE WAR DEPARTMENT
is trying to influence the Japanese cases,” I tell Frankfurter.

He nods, looking up at the ceiling of his chambers. “I'm sure they are. But that is the way government works, my friend.”

“No, they issued a report about the evacuation that's not true, and they have a man at Justice who's working for them.”

“Who is sympathetic, maybe. I do not think he takes their orders.”

I hesitate. I do not, I realize, know that Ennis is actually in contact with the War Department. It is what I hope to learn from Miller. “What about the certificates?”

“Intriguing,” says Frankfurter. “But that is not the War Department. I believe Karl Bendetsen on that point. There may well be people trying to take advantage of the Japanese. But I doubt there is a connection to our concerns.” He turns his gaze down toward me. “A yeoman's efforts. But I do not think they bring us closer to our quarry.” My mood sinks. Frankfurter touches his lapel. For a reason he has not explained, he sports a white carnation in his buttonhole. “I have been making progress, though.”

“You have?”

“Murphy's new clerk has departed. Mr. Gressman's replacement.”

“Why?”

“He was caught leaving the building with draft opinions in his bag.”

“So he was leaking information?”

“Not necessarily.” The eyes are bright in the bullet head, sparkling behind his pince-nez. “I put them there.”

“Why would you do that?”

“He was acting suspiciously. I misliked the people he was meeting with.”

“Drew Pearson?”

Frankfurter's wave is dismissive. “Others. It does not matter.”

“But then you didn't know.”

“I knew enough. The next man will surely be loyal.”

“But you've ruined his career.”

“No,” says Frankfurter. “It was handled quietly. There will be no permanent harm.” I look at him in silence. The meeting is depressing me. Frankfurter has rejected my contributions, and his own reveal an alarming ruthlessness. “I have removed a potential threat,” he says. “And I have other interesting news for you.”

“What else?”

“About your friend Clara Watson.”

The name deflates me further. “I told you, she's clean.”

“Perhaps,” says Frankfurter. “She lied to you, though.”

“About what?”

“She is not living at the YWCA. At least, that is not where she goes when she leaves work.”

“Where, then?”

“Dupont Circle.”

“An apartment?”

He shrugs. “My men lose her. She seems concerned to evade pursuit. And as you noticed, they are not professionals. You might do better.”