agreed with most Washingtonians, at least those who cared about such things, that the buff-colored, concrete-aggregate building named after J. Edgar Hoover ranked high on the city’s list of ugly edifices, a prime example of the school of architecture known as New Brutalism.
He snuffed the cigarette out, dropped it in a trash container on the corner, and cast a final glance at the tourists. Everyone in Washington, DC, was hot in summer, but there was no hotter-looking creature on earth than a tourist waiting in line for a tour.
He welcomed the blast of air-conditioning as he entered the building and went to his office, where his secretary told him that the director wished to see him. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“Outside for a smoke.”
“It sounds urgent. Why don’t you just quit?”
“This place?” He laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
FBI Director Russell Templeton was in his spacious office with top aides when Harris walked in. Harris liked working for Templeton better than he had for his predecessor, a much older man who, as far as Harris felt, was more of a political hack than a dedicated law enforcement officer worthy of leading the Bureau. What he especially admired was Templeton’s willingness to stand up to the attorney general, whom Harris lumped in with the former FBI director as but another of the previous administration’s misguided appointments.
“How’d the meeting go?” Templeton asked once Harris had joined the others in a circle of chairs around the director’s desk.
“All right. Nothing new. I gave Tony Cammanati the information about the missiles.”
“What did he say?”
Harris ran his hand over his head, on which stubble was reappearing. “He’s taking it to the president who, no surprise, wants this solved yesterday. I mentioned to him—general terms only—the ongoing investigation into right-wing hate groups.” Harris turned to the special agent to his right: “Scope?”
The agent looked to Templeton for a signal that he could respond. Instead, the director gave the answer. “Scope is due to report in tonight.” He raised his eyebrows at the agent to Harris’s right, a silent call for affirmation.
“That’s right, sir.”
“How long has it been since he last gave a report?” Harris asked.
“A week,” the agent replied in a pinched voice, leaning to his left to come closer to Harris. He was a small man with a narrow face and disproportionately large ears. “The Elephant Man,” they called him when comparing notes over a beer or on the golf course. He was a Bureau “handler,” responsible for training and maintaining special agents who worked underground, infiltrating groups of interest to the Bureau because of possible criminal activity. “He reports on a weekly basis.” He sounded defensive, as though Harris were challenging the reporting schedule.
“Tonight,” Harris said.
The Elephant Man nodded.
“When do we bring the other agencies into the loop on the missiles?” Harris asked.
“That’s not our call,” Templeton said. “I had a confirmation from the attorney general that we’re to release nothing about the missiles until directed to by her. She’ll get the word from the president.”
Harris turned to his right again. “Has Scope reported anything in previous contacts that indicates he might know something about these missiles and whose hands they fell into?”
“No.”
Harris didn’t believe him.
Templeton stood and stretched, straining the buttons on his blue button-down shirt. “I assume that by tomorrow, we’ll be getting together with the Company’s people and State. Naturally, we’ll cooperate fully with whatever agency the president dictates, but that doesn’t include Scope’s activities. Unless, of course, we’re ordered to from up top. We’ll meet here at seven tomorrow morning.”
A representative from public affairs said, “The press? They know it was missiles that brought down the planes. The
He snuffed the cigarette out, dropped it in a trash container on the corner, and cast a final glance at the tourists. Everyone in Washington, DC, was hot in summer, but there was no hotter-looking creature on earth than a tourist waiting in line for a tour.
He welcomed the blast of air-conditioning as he entered the building and went to his office, where his secretary told him that the director wished to see him. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“Outside for a smoke.”
“It sounds urgent. Why don’t you just quit?”
“This place?” He laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
FBI Director Russell Templeton was in his spacious office with top aides when Harris walked in. Harris liked working for Templeton better than he had for his predecessor, a much older man who, as far as Harris felt, was more of a political hack than a dedicated law enforcement officer worthy of leading the Bureau. What he especially admired was Templeton’s willingness to stand up to the attorney general, whom Harris lumped in with the former FBI director as but another of the previous administration’s misguided appointments.
“How’d the meeting go?” Templeton asked once Harris had joined the others in a circle of chairs around the director’s desk.
“All right. Nothing new. I gave Tony Cammanati the information about the missiles.”
“What did he say?”
Harris ran his hand over his head, on which stubble was reappearing. “He’s taking it to the president who, no surprise, wants this solved yesterday. I mentioned to him—general terms only—the ongoing investigation into right-wing hate groups.” Harris turned to the special agent to his right: “Scope?”
The agent looked to Templeton for a signal that he could respond. Instead, the director gave the answer. “Scope is due to report in tonight.” He raised his eyebrows at the agent to Harris’s right, a silent call for affirmation.
“That’s right, sir.”
“How long has it been since he last gave a report?” Harris asked.
“A week,” the agent replied in a pinched voice, leaning to his left to come closer to Harris. He was a small man with a narrow face and disproportionately large ears. “The Elephant Man,” they called him when comparing notes over a beer or on the golf course. He was a Bureau “handler,” responsible for training and maintaining special agents who worked underground, infiltrating groups of interest to the Bureau because of possible criminal activity. “He reports on a weekly basis.” He sounded defensive, as though Harris were challenging the reporting schedule.
“Tonight,” Harris said.
The Elephant Man nodded.
“When do we bring the other agencies into the loop on the missiles?” Harris asked.
“That’s not our call,” Templeton said. “I had a confirmation from the attorney general that we’re to release nothing about the missiles until directed to by her. She’ll get the word from the president.”
Harris turned to his right again. “Has Scope reported anything in previous contacts that indicates he might know something about these missiles and whose hands they fell into?”
“No.”
Harris didn’t believe him.
Templeton stood and stretched, straining the buttons on his blue button-down shirt. “I assume that by tomorrow, we’ll be getting together with the Company’s people and State. Naturally, we’ll cooperate fully with whatever agency the president dictates, but that doesn’t include Scope’s activities. Unless, of course, we’re ordered to from up top. We’ll meet here at seven tomorrow morning.”
A representative from public affairs said, “The press? They know it was missiles that brought down the planes. The
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