by Paddy Kelly
“I know his god-damned aliases, Meyer! I want to know what he’s doing!”
“Well, sir, ah… according to this report dated last night at midnight sir… ah… subject has not left the Fulton Street Fish Market in three days, sir.”
“Three days?”
“According to the field report, Mr Hoover.”
“You make a note that I called. You tell those field agents to stay on it and call me the minute he leaves that building. You got that, Meyer?”
“Absolutely, sir!”
Hoover buzzed Rollins again and this time he was in, and five minutes later he was briefing Hoover on the day’s schedule of events.
“Sir, the Chicago agents will be in at ten o’clock, the lab says bugs are to be tested Monday and the Attorney General will see you in his office at three this afternoon.” Rollins read from his carefully prepared notes.
“Change in plan. Have my car ready at ten, I’m going to meet the AG at the station. Get back to the lab and tell them I want a preliminary report on those bugs by five o’clock Monday afternoon. I’ll speak to the Chicago agents at nine-thirty in the briefing room. What am I forgetting?”
“I have the info on the representative for San Francisco, but we won’t get anybody on the coast until eight o’clock Western Pacific. About another two hours.” Rollins began to pack up his notebook as Hoover came out from behind the desk and walked towards the door.
“You stay here and get them on the phone. I’ll call you from the train station. Also call Sacramento, see if anything came across Warren’s desk.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”
Hoover was opening the door as he asked, “Did you call the New York office yet?”
“No, sir. I’ll go and do it now.”
“Forget it. I already called them.” Rollins could not understand why his boss frequently did that. It made him feel undermined and annoyed.
At ten o’clock sharp Hoover was boarding his car to go to the station in back of the building. This time he did use the secret entrance, and since Rollins was not making the twenty minute trip, and no one else was in on this, Hoover was alone in the vehicle with his driver.
“Where to, sir?”
“Union Station.”
About five minutes into the ride, Hoover’s attention was caught by the interview in progress on the car radio. He asked the driver to turn it up and listened as they drove.
The speaker spoke slowly and passionately to his audience, and with great conviction.
“… and, when dealing with the Caucasian race, we have methods that will determine loyalty. But when we deal with the Japanese, we are in an entirely different field!” Applause followed the sign-off.
“You have just heard from the California State Attorney General, Earl Warren, his comments defending the relocation camps where thousands of Japanese-Americans…” The radio announcer’s voice slowly faded as the driver lowered the volume at Hoover’s order.
The Afro-Caribbean driver was careful, however, to leave the volume just high enough to allow himself to hear the rest of the broadcast as he manoeuvred the vehicle onto Louisiana Avenue and headed straight for the train station.
“John, pull it around on Second Street and wait for me there. And don’t forget to change the sticker.”
“Yes, sir, Mr Hoover.
After parking, John opened the glove box, removed an ‘E’ ration sticker, for emergency, and changed it with the ‘B’ sticker sitting in the special slot in the windshield.
A time-tested tactic to foster people’s faith in their governments is to instill a sense of permanence. Which fosters confidence in the leadership. Anyone entering Union Station immediately felt that sense of stability and permanence its architects clearly intended.
The Neo-Classical/Art Deco building was a unique architectural hybrid, peculiar to America. In the heyday of the Work Projects Administration and the other assorted federal aid projects, LOC’s, or lines of communication, such as roads and rail lines, held the highest priority. The largest, enduring benefit of this prioritisation, were the beautiful edifices which were either built or renovated as a result of these initiatives. Union Station, Penn Station and Central Station all stood as tributes to an era of craftsmanship which was now quietly fading into history.
Hoover made his way into the great hall past the marble, granite and bronze accoutrements, and stopped under the big black schedule board and saw that the 10:45 from Baltimore was arriving on time on track 29. He was early, so he went for a shoeshine.
Afterwards, Hoover found his way to the bank of phone booths on the west wall and called Rollins. The assistant informed him that he still had no luck contacting anyone in California. Hoover then made for the platform.
There were some oak wooden benches in front of a rank of billboards, and Hoover sat facing the exit turnstile of the track. The train was already unloading, and as the dark-haired, well-groomed Robert H. Jackson, former Nuremberg prosecutor and now the highest law enforcement authority in the country, came through the gate, he spotted his unexpected one man welcoming party standing in front of a Big Ben advertisement.
That week was his birthday, he would turn 59, and he was feeling pretty good about himself and the general direction of the way things were going. Until he looked at the benches by the billboards.
Jackson was anything but pleased to see J. Edgar.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jackson walked over to the benches and stood in front of Hoover.
“We have something to talk about.”
“We have a couple of things to talk about,” Jackson retorted.
“You want to go back to my office? My car is outside,” enquired Hoover. The last place any politician in DC would ever feel comfortable discussing business was in J. Edgar Hoover’s office. Jackson resigned himself to conducting their meeting in the station. He dropped his suitcase and sat down on the bench.
“No. What’s so important you had to come all the way the hell over here to talk about?”
Hoover sat down. “There’s something going on with the unions.”
“Fer Christ’s sake, Edgar! Not this union shit again!”
“There’s something going on, and there’s some higher-ups in on it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What are the unions doing?”
“It’s the New York crowd. They’re cookin’somethin’up on the waterfront. There’s dozens of new faces all over the place and Lanza hasn’t left Fulton Street for three days.”
“You got people on him?”
“Of course!” Hoover couldn’t believe Jackson would consider him to be so unprofessional.
“Well, then maybe that’s why he’s not coming out. He knows you’re there.”
“That’s bullshit! How the hell could he know we’re there?”
“Because they own New York, Edgar! Every time a rat farts they know about it. They know about your surveillance, they know about your tails and they know about your wire taps. The guy is under indictment, fer cryin’out loud. You think he ain’t got his antennae up?”
Hoover was becoming less patient and more frustrated. He saw this as the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the illegal and immoral world of the unions.
“Look, if we don’t keep our finger on the pulse of crime in this country, especially now that there’s a war on, they’ll be linin’ up to take advantage. And when it’s all over and the dust settles, we’ll wake up one mornin’ to find this country is bein’ run by all those Commie politicians who are comin’ up through the ranks right now in those god-damned unions!”
“Hoover, why in God’s name do you have such a hard-on for the unions?” Jackson twisted around in his seat so he could watch Hoover’s expression, straight on, as he answered the question. Hoover hated theses smart-assed college guys. Even though Jackson had never gone to college.
He leaned forward and made direct eye contact with the AG.
“Because they’re hotbeds of Com
munist activity, god-damn it! That’s why we need files on every person in this country!”
Jackson looked back into Hoover’s eyes and understood why most of Washington was scared shitless of the little man.
“Every man and woman, J. Edgar?”
“Absolutely!”
“And child too, I suppose?”
Hoover sat back against the message on the billboard for Big Ben Clocks. It read, Time won’t wait for the nation that’s late!
“From the day they’re born! Best time to start. Hell, we could use this Social Security thing. Everybody has a number, and it’s tied to their money. We’ll always know where they are and what they’re doin’!”
Jackson gazed at Hoover in wonderment. He realised there was not a chance in hell of deterring him from this union obsession. On the other hand, if he were tied up with it, perhaps it would keep him out of the way for a while so that the rest of Washington could get on with fighting the war.
“I haven’t heard anything about it here, but I’ll put out some feelers and ask around. I could send out a memo to the state AG’s to keep us informed. Meanwhile, I want to know about anything you come across.” Technically, the Attorney General was Hoover’s boss. However, after twenty-five years of entrenchment in the job, and the transient nature of the elected offices, Hoover never really considered himself to have a boss since his father gave the appointment back before WWI.
“I’ll keep you on top of everything I find out.” Jackson fought back a smirk.
“Edgar, there’s something else we need to discuss.”
“What’s that, Bob?”
“This business about Joe Kennedy’s kid.”
Hoover’s change of expression did not go unnoticed. He resented Kennedy for more than one reason. “What business?”
“This Inga Arvad stuff.”
“Refresh my memory.”
Nice move, thought Jackson. He pretends he’s ignorant, and I have to tell him what I know.
“These charges of espionage. They’re unfounded.”
“She’s a spy for the Krauts, with a DC cover and she’s probably reportin’ to the Commies on the side! You know it, I know it and everybody and his God-damned brother knows it!” Hoover’s face was slowly turning red.
“She’s not a spy, she’s not workin’ for the Axis powers and she is, as far as we can tell, a legitimate reporter for the Times-Herald. She’s not even German, for cryin’ out loud. She’s a Dane.”
“Dane, German, Swede, all the same!” His face was now gradually transitioning from beet red to a light purple as he spoke, trying not to shout.
“She’s gonna walk.”
“WHAT?” Hoover shouted.
“I’m dropping the charges. Lack of evidence. She’s gonna walk.”
“You want evidence? I’ll get you evidence!”
“Drop it! So what if JP’s kid had a roll in the sack with her? That doesn’t make her a spy. I’m sorry about the bad blood between you and Joe Kennedy, but every freakin’ editorial board in the country is on my ass for suppressing free speech. And we don’t have any evidence. Besides, the kid has already paid for the scandal. They’re talkin’ about drummin’ him out.”
“Good! He could’ve leaked sensitive information to the enemy and cost American lives.”
“Knock it off, will ya? Jack Kennedy is no more involved in espionage than Eleanor Roosevelt’s fucking dog! He was handpicked to work at Naval Intelligence, fer cryin’out loud!” Jackson decided to try the slim possibility of reason. “Look, J. Edgar, Joe Kennedy says he considers you a friend. Now, whatever it is you’ve got on Jack, photos, tapes, why don’t you do us all a favour and get rid of them?”
“What makes you think I have anything?” Hoover was fishing again.
“Whatever you have won’t be of any use. You know we got our tit in a wringer with the shipping issue. The Maritime Commission says the Germans are sinkin’ them almost as fast as we can build them. And that Normandie thing in New York scared the hell out of everybody. FDR wants Joe Kennedy’s help building more ships, and because of that Frank Knox is probably gonna get involved to see that the kid doesn’t go down too hard.”
Hoover was shocked at the fire power behind Kennedy. He had forgotten about Kennedy’s influence in the industrial sector, and was compelled to resign himself to the obvious fact he was not going to hold any leverage against the kid. At least not now.
“All right. I’ll see if there is anything and see what I can do about it,” Hoover told him.
“Thank you. You’ll make life lot easier for all of us.”
“Miss Tully, could you please come in? And bring your stenographer’s pad with you, thank you.” The President slowly reclined in his high-backed chair, dramatically backlit with the mid-afternoon sun of a clear winter’s day flooding in through the picture window behind his desk in the Oval Office.
“I don’t know what I would do without her, John.” Franklin Delano Roosevelt, now in his ninth year as president, spoke to long time friend and confidant, Captain John L. McCrea.
McCrea was selected special Naval Aide-de-Camp by FDR above many other senior officers. In the natural political pecking order, a Captain would, at best, be aide to an Admiral. However, with his selection McCrea skipped all the Admirals, as well as all the other Washington posts including the Joint Chiefs and went straight to the top. There were no shortage of sore toes at his appointment.
FDR held up a two page report he had received that morning from Secretary of the Navy, Frank Knox.
“I’m impressed by this action, John. You have to give it to those Italians, they can certainly think outside the box. What’s your assessment?”
“Damned impressive, sir. But scary as hell, too! If those little bastards start turning themselves into… human torpedoes, they’re gonna be mighty hard to keep track of!”
“Is it accurate that they disabled both HMS Valiant and the Queen Elizabeth?” FDR spoke with a blend of concern and curiosity.
“Although we’re not releasing it for security reasons, sir, best case scenario is they’re both out of action until the mid to late spring.” McCrea, sitting on the sofa to FDR’s right, spoke with a combination of resignation and embarrassment.
Miss Tully, a middle-aged, grey-haired woman ever professional in appearance, entered the Oval Office. Captain McCrea stood as she entered.
“Yes, sir?” FDR gestured and Miss Tully took a seat to his right.
“Is there anyone outside for me, Miss Tully?”
“Yes, sir. The Attorney General is due for two o’clock.”
“Very well, as soon as we’re finished here please show him “Very well, as soon as we’re finished here please show him in.” He began to dictate as he casually swivelled around in his chair. “The White House, February seventeenth, nineteen hundred and forty-two. Memorandum for Admiral Stark. The action by those little Italian boats in the Eastern Mediterranean on… December twenty-second was pretty good. I would say damned good. If they can do it, why can’t we do it? I wish you would turn loose your most imaginative people in War Plans to tell me how you think the Italian Navy can be effectively immobilised by some tactics similar to, or as daring as, those utilised by the Italians. I can’t believe we must always use the classical offensive against an enemy who seems never to have heard of it. FDR.”
McCrea smiled at the last line in the memo.
“Send that to Admiral Stark post-haste, will you please Miss Tully?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like me to send in the Attorney General?”
“Do we have a hint as to Mr Jackson’s problem, Miss Tully?” “No, sir. He said it was a matter of national security.”
“Isn’t everything these days? Show him in please. Thank you.”
FDR called after her, “Oh, and Miss Tully, you’d better give us some time.”
Jackson came in through the west entrance as the secretary exited.
“Good morning, Robert.” FDR always spoke to everyone in the
Oval Office as if they were old friends on a social visit. “I believe you know John McCrea. John, Robert Jackson, my top cop.”
They shook hands and Jackson was a little surprised. He had assumed that since he had labelled his visit ‘a matter of national security’, he would be alone with the President.
“Sir, we might want to discuss this in private.” McCrea smiled behind Jackson.
“Is this of a political nature or of a military nature, Robert?”
“Well, sir, to be perfectly frank, I don’t know.”
“Okay, Robert, you have the floor.” The Attorney General, although rarely lost for words, found it difficult to find a starting point.
“Sir, I realise I’m not privy to all the goings on of the war effort, or the White House. Nor do I expect to be.” FDR knitted his brow as Jackson continued. “But, if you have something going on with the unions, maybe you should let me in on it.”
“What in blazes are you talking about, Robert?” FDR was genuinely lost.
“Sir, any type of activity or operation to do with the war? Maybe something that most people might not consider to be completely above board?”
“Robert, I think you need to come to the point.”
“Sir, when I arrived from Baltimore this morning, J. Edgar Hoover was waiting for me at the station.”
“Is J. Edgar driving a taxi now?” FDR and McCrea chuckled, but Jackson maintained his serious tone.
“Sir, he’s on to something.”
“Such as what?”
“I don’t know, sir, but whatever it is it has something to do with the unions in New York and he’s pretty upset about something that happened up there.” FDR sat back in his chair and turned towards McCrea.
“John, any of this make any sense to you?”
“No, sir. Nothing the Navy is in on, as far as I know.” Like a child determined to relay something but hindered by a limited vocabulary, Jackson became increasingly frustrated as he spoke.
“He kept on about higher-ups being in on ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ is.” Jackson juggled his Fedora in his hands as he spoke while looking down. “And something about the waterfront.” McCrea looked at the President who quickly returned his glance.
