Palace Council (8 page)

The anger took him. Eddie was already shaking his head. Fiercely. “You have the wrong man.” He was surprised to find himself on his feet. “Even if I sympathized with your goals, which I do not, there is no possibility—”

“That you would ever work for us.” Hoover, voice perfectly calm, was back at his folders. “Isn't that right, Mr. Wesley? You would never work for the hated Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“I'm sorry if that offends you, but the record of the Bureau—”

“Of course, you already worked for us on Belt. You look surprised. Don't be. It's all in your file, Mr. Wesley.” Tapping the pages. “You were kind enough to give Mr. Stilwell a good deal of useful information on the traitor Belt, information that was crucial to the investigation. At the time of his suicide, he had already lost his security clearance and been questioned four times. The man knew what was coming. That's why he shot himself.” Hoover's round face was grim. “All because of you, Mr. Wesley. All because of the information you provided.”

“That's a lie! I never even met Stilwell until after Belt was dead!”

The director nodded. “You're suggesting that Mr. Stilwell has filed a false report. I fail to see why he would have done so. A false report is a very serious matter, Mr. Wesley. For a false report, a man gets fired.”

“For espionage, a man gets fried,” Eddie shot back.

“Yes, that is true, Mr. Wesley. Most countries of the world, civilized or uncivilized, ancient or modern, Communist or free, will execute you for turning their military secrets over to the enemy. Perhaps that is why you informed on the traitor Belt. You are a patriot. You informed on him for the good of your country, and he shot himself, and then you profited from your betrayal of a friend by turning the story into a novel.” Hoover turned a page. “Perhaps you are wondering how it is that you do not recall what it is that you told Mr. Stilwell about the traitor Belt. I cannot speak to the accuracy of your memory. But you are welcome to correct the record. We want no errors in the archives. I have your file right here.” Holding it up. “This is the only copy, Mr. Wesley. If I make a change, that change is permanent. Do you want me to make a change? Do you want to tell me how, in a courageous stand on principle, you refused to cooperate with Mr. Stilwell's investigation into the traitor Belt?” Hoover let the folder fall with a snap. “The choice is yours, Mr. Wesley. If you tell me you had nothing to do with what happened to the traitor Belt, or that you never spoke to Mr. Stilwell until after the traitor Belt was dead, I will make sure that the file reflects this.”

“In that case, you'd better get a long pencil—”

“Wait.” Holding up a soft, manicured paw. “Before you decide, Mr. Wesley, you should be aware that the gentlemen who brought you here tonight are prepared to take you into custody. We have considerable evidence of your role in the scheme, enough to put you in prison for the next thirty years.” As toneless as the weather report. “The only reason we are not prosecuting you for espionage, Mr. Wesley, is that you cooperated in the investigation.” He picked up the pencil, licked the point. “Now, Mr. Wesley, if you would like me to correct the record, this is the moment to ask.”

Eddie's fists were balled very tightly. He said, “You're very clever, do you know that?”

“Yes, Mr. Wesley. I know that.” Hoover closed the file and drew a fresh one from the stack. “I also know that you are a man of integrity and principle. I admire that. I would not want it any other way. We're not blackmailers, Mr. Wesley. We want you to help us voluntarily. Out of love for your country. Should you choose to say no, and face the consequences, we would certainly understand.” He opened the new file. The photograph, upside down, was of Aurelia. Eddie stared. Hoover gave him plenty of time to look, then opened another. Mona Veazie. A third. Margot, now Mrs. Lanning Frost. “Of course, Mr. Wesley, there is also the matter of your accomplices in your treason. The network of traitors who assisted you and the traitor Castle and the traitor Belt.” Eddie was, for once, speechless. “We at the Bureau are not philosophical men, Mr. Wesley. But we would naturally have to clear out the entire nest. A painful process. Now and then the innocent are harmed.” The Director shut the folders one at a time, giving Eddie a long look at each photo. “An occasional report, Mr. Wesley. Nothing more. Keep your eyes and ears open.” He drew a new file from the stack. This time the photograph was of Langston Hughes. “In particular, keep your ears open for any mention of an organization called the Agony, sometimes referred to, if our information is correct, as Jewel Agony.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“You haven't heard of it. You will. They might ring your doorbell. They do a lot of recruiting among your class of people. Educated people. Jewel Agony plans to do terrible things, Mr. Wesley. We plan to stop them.”

“What kind of a name is—”

“You see, Mr. Wesley, Jewel Agony is run by philosophical men. They have ideology. They will use violent force to achieve their means. I think you and I can agree that a turn away from peaceful means would be a disaster for your people.”

Eddie sat there, fists clenching and unclenching. He felt trapped, and furious, and wishing he had somebody to punch.

“Please apologize to Mrs. Garland for me,” said Hoover, eyes on the pages once more. “It was not my intention to have her wait so long.”

“You can't do this.”

“We'll be in touch,” said the Director, not looking up again, and somehow the door was open and Eddie was out in the hall with his escort.

(IV)

B
ERNARD
S
TILWELL STOOD
at near-attention before the Director, admiration in his eyes. “Do you think he believed it?” the agent asked. “Do you think he suspects?”

Hoover was already pawing at another file. “That I don't give a rat's ass about that hydrogen-bomb rigamarole? Of course he suspects. Don't make the mistake of thinking Mr. Wesley is stupid just because he's a Negro, Mr. Stilwell. He's an intelligent man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He's intelligent, but he is also ambitious and envious and wants to stay out of trouble. Those are qualities to cherish in an informant.” He rolled the pencil between his fingers. “On the other hand, he ponders. He obsesses. These qualities make Mr. Wesley unpredictable. Be careful.”

“Yes, sir.”

The agent thought the interview was done, but the Director had a further point to make. “His book isn't bad. The novel. You should read it when you have the opportunity.”

“I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“This character of his. This Dyson Field. He risks everything for love.” The tone made affection sound like a vice. He turned a page. “If events turn as we expect, you'll have to keep a closer eye on our Mr. Wesley.”

“I'll have help,” said Stilwell.

Hoover never lifted his eyes. “The details I leave to you,” he said.

CHAPTER
12

The Junie Angle

(I)

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK,
Eddie went up to Cambridge to visit Junie. Her condition was obvious now, and he wondered how long she could keep avoiding her parents, and persuading her friends that she was simply fat. She had decided to skip the commencement ceremony, and in that way avoid the gathering of relatives whose gossipy eyes would spot the truth at once.

He took her out to dinner at a stuffy place both hated. “And is everything…arranged?” he asked nervously.

“Taken care of,” Junie confirmed, eyes aglow.

“And you're sure you wouldn't rather just…” He trailed off.

His baby sister laughed at him. “Too late for second thoughts. She's coming on into the world.”

“She?”

“Could be a he. But I'm hoping. There's enough men of our nation already.”

“Of our nation?” he echoed, smiling.

Junie smiled back. “I didn't like the phrase at first. But it's growing on me.”

“Thanks.” He took her hand. “And you won't tell me what arrangements you've made for the…ah, for my niece or nephew?”

She shook her head, eyes mischievous yet sad. “Come on, bro. If I have to go through life not knowing where she is—or he—well, you should be able to manage it, too.”

“Does it bother you? Giving up your…your baby?”

“Of course it bothers me.”

“Then why—”

Her voice was slow, perhaps with pain. “I'd like to have babies, Eddie. Maybe even a husband. But that's later. Much later. For now”—perky once more, but it seemed forced—“well, for now, the baby would only get in the way of my work.”

Eddie hesitated. “Have you thought about postponing your work?”

She touched his face. “I'm not a writer, Eddie. I don't get to set my own schedule. My work has to be done now, and I'm the one who's been asked to do it.”

Back at her apartment, they had coffee while Eddie told his sister about his encounter with Hoover. Junie listened gravely. Her apartment was cluttered: books, old newspapers, used crockery, dirty clothes. Eddie, who loved order, could not have lived here for two days. He wondered how Junie could stand it. But she did not share the family obsession with neatness. Her only obsession was her career. She also made coffee that was simply terrible: the burned taste of fried dregs. Eddie, who for reasons of solidarity took his coffee black and for reasons of machismo added no sugar, poured in everything she offered in an unsuccessful effort to drown the flavor. Junie seemed not to notice. When Eddie was done, she asked a couple of small questions to clarify the details, then told him what she thought, straight into his face, the way the two of them had always talked to each other.

“You know this is all fixable, right, brother of mine? And won't even be that hard.”

Eddie admired everything about his baby sister, but what he liked best was her innate confidence. There was nothing she considered impossible. At Harvard she had missed the Law Review by a hair, and missed magna cum laude by another. Now her secret heart was set on becoming the first woman and second Negro ever to clerk at the Supreme Court of the United States. Some of her professors ridiculed the idea, others were actively opposed, but a handful were pushing her suit. Chief Justice Warren, Junie said, had already taken an interest. As always, she cruised from strength to strength, buoyed along by an effortless cheeriness Eddie loved. And yet he could not guess where the conversation was going.

“Right now, the way it looks to me, I don't have much to fight with.”

Junie covered his hand with hers. Her apartment was on the ground floor, not two blocks from the campus. Windows were open to the loud and muggy night. One leg of the kitchen table was shorter than the other three, giving the surface a tendency to shift without warning. “Silly man. Different battles require different weapons.”

“What are you, a commando?”

“Maybe later. Right now I'm closer to being a lawyer.” She paused, and, for a moment, her face crumpled. It occurred to Eddie that his sister was very tired, and very frightened. She did not really want to give up the baby, and did not really see a choice. Her once-slim cheeks were puffy and full, along with the rest of her. Eddie marveled that nobody had guessed his sister's condition. Then he wondered why on earth he assumed nobody had.

“Are you okay?” he asked, gently.

She nodded, took a long breath. “Sooner or later you'll be turning this page, brother of mine. As you plan out your future, you might want to pay a little bit of attention to avoiding vulnerabilities.”

“Are you trying to run my life?”

“No, dear. J. Edgar is doing that. I'm a lawyer. Well, almost. You know what lawyers mostly do?” The table rocked back. Junie seemed not to notice. “Clean up the messes that could have been avoided had our clients consulted us before opening their stupid mouths.”

“So clean away.”

That knowing, frisky smile. Junie was herself again. She went to the chipped counter, poured herself another vile cup, then returned to the wobbly table to fix everything.

“I've always thought there are two ways to look at life, Eddie, disaster or Godsend. Right now, you're thinking disaster. You're thinking Hoover's got you, you'll have to spy on your own people, file reports for years, even track down this Perpetual Agony or whatever he called it—”

“Jewel Agony.”

“Right. Funny name.” Scrunching her nose. “Where was I? Right. You're worried that one day, somehow, even if all you ever give them is junk, even if you make up every word, sooner or later, it'll all come out, and then you'll be ruined. Nobody loves an informer, not even the people he informs to. You won't have a friend left in the world. Of course, I'll still love you, but I'm weirdly reliable that way. On the other hand, I'll be so famous and important by then that I'll probably be forced to disown you, whether I love you or not, because I'm not about to give up my power for the benefit of my big brother the snitch. That's what you're afraid of, right? Maybe doing the wrong thing—informing for the FBI, naming names—but, what's worse, being caught naming names. That's one interpretation. Disaster. The way the great Eddie Wesley always looks at the world. What we can call the Eddie Angle. Shut up.” Stirring her coffee. “Now let me tell you the way the great June Cranch Wesley looks at the world. The Junie Angle. Okay? You think Hoover has you by the balls? Wrong. You have Hoover by the balls. Know what he's done? He's admitted to you that his agents have filed false reports. He's left them in the files because it's helpful to him to have them there. You're thinking, so what, it's your word against his. Know what I say? As your lawyer, I mean? I say, so what? Does he really want to tangle publicly over this? What if it turns out that the worst he could pin on you is that you helped him break up a whole network of Soviet spies? Not kids who march for peace. Real spies, the kind who steal real secrets.”

“But I didn't help. Those reports were manufactured by—”

“You mean, you didn't help yet.”

“Yet?”

June nodded, rubbing her belly. “Mark. The illegal resident Hoover told you about. The one who got whatever poor Joseph Belt smuggled out of Los Alamos. You give them Mark, and they back off.”

“I don't know Mark.”

That marvelous brain had sailed on ahead. “I think you do. I think you met Mark after Castle was killed. I think he was desperate, and so he showed himself. I think he gave you his business card.”

Eddie blinked. Oh, but she was quick. “Emil. The German at the wedding.”

“Emil. That's correct, brother of mine. I think it must have been Emil. You don't need to tell them he showed up with Derek Garland”—protecting, as ever, the borders of the darker nation—“but that's not the point. The point is, you know who Mark is. You trade. You give them Mark, Hoover lets you off the hook on the Agony or whatever it is. You're thinking, that kind of trade just lets him get the hook in deeper. You're naming names. But it's not the same, brother of mine. It's not. Look. Do you really think J. Edgar Hoover gives a—what did he say?—gives a rat's ass about whether Eddie Wesley ever files a report? He might want to discredit the leadership, but, Eddie, dear, I'm sorry to tell you that you're not all that important. Sure, he'd be happy to have another ear out there. But, believe me, if you don't help him go after our leaders, he's got lots and lots of other people who'll do it happily. He won't want to fight this one out, Eddie. Not in public. Especially because it might cast light on his own sympathies. Hoover's been running the Bureau for something like three decades. I don't think he's ready to retire. And, believe me, Eddie, that might be the outcome, if it gets to be public knowledge that he's out to get the civil-rights leadership.”

She continued to march around the room, spinning theories. Her brother ached with pride. Junie would be a formidable lawyer.

“Don't get me wrong,” she resumed. “People won't turn against Hoover because they like us. They'll turn against him because he scares them. The same way McCarthy did. You wait and see. Hoover's not a fool. He doesn't want a fight. He wants to scare you into doing what he wants. So you get up in his face, Eddie. You work out a compromise, like I said. You give him Emil, and he lets you off the hook. And, yes, maybe you're right, maybe he won't ever let you off completely. But you'll have a tiny hook into him, too. That might not be a bad thing. One day you might need a way to get information to the top. You're going places, Eddie, and you're going to meet people. You never know. One day, believe it or not, you might actually like having a friend who's head of the FBI. This is the Godsend part. You keep the contact. You promise to keep it open. He promises to keep it open. You just keep him from pressuring you, because you have the power to pressure him back. And, just to make sure, you call up some of your funny friends on Hoover's own side of the street. You know who I mean. Aurelia's right-wing buddies. Nixon and those. Make them what we might call the guarantors of your little arrangement. They'll help. Know why? Because they also know you're going places, and they want you to owe them a favor. There. We're done. See? Not disaster. Godsend. The Junie Angle.”

He smiled back, and was about to say more, when the telephone rang. To Eddie's surprise, the fun ran out of his sister's face, and she looked, suddenly, droopy and old and unhappy. She excused herself snuffily and, turning her back, snatched up the heavy black receiver.

“Yes? Yes, operator…Hi…No…Not yet…I told you, I'm fine with it now…. Yes…No…You don't have to worry about…Not yet…He's here now, and…Okay…I can't…Okay…Okay…Yes.”

Hanging up without saying goodbye.

It was a moment before she could turn around, and Eddie was not about to make her.

“I'm sorry,” she said, face pinched.

“Was that—”

“You'd better go.”

“Is he coming over?” Eddie demanded, feeling oddly fierce.

Junie laughed. “Coming over? Eddie, he's never coming over again. Believe me. He wouldn't want to. And I wouldn't want him to.” The smile vanished. “I don't know why I ever—” She stopped, rephrased the point. “He's evil, Eddie. Just plain evil.”

Suddenly she was in her brother's arms. Her belly bumped awkwardly against him, and there was laughter in the tears. At the door she offered him more advice.

“You think evil is obvious, Eddie. It usually is. But be careful, brother, dear. Sometimes evil is invisible, except to God alone.” Then the mischief was back. “Now, get yourself a lawyer and fix your life.”

She shut him out.

(II)

I
T TOOK SOME FANCY FOOTWORK.
As his sister had directed, Eddie got himself a real lawyer. He sought a recommendation from Oliver Garland, the crisp Wall Street attorney who was Kevin's cousin. Oliver sent him to one of the top litigators in Manhattan, a slim, courtly man named Lloyd Garrison, who had represented Oppenheimer. Sitting in his spacious Park Avenue office, Garrison heard Eddie out. Let me make some calls, he said. A week later, without making a point of it, Garrison took his new client to lunch at a club known to admit no Negroes. Nobody wanted to argue with the lawyer, because he was likely to sue or, worse, resign. Garrison explained the deal. Following his sister's counsel, Eddie sat and listened. He did not argue or question. He just nodded. Eddie spent two days meeting a pair of agents, neither of them Stilwell, one of them obviously very senior in the Bureau. The meetings took place in an apartment in Riverdale. His lawyer and a court reporter were present. When they ran out of questions, the agents thanked him gravely. The next day, they had his statement ready for signature. Eddie hesitated. The document would come back and bite him, he was sure of it. The senior agent held out a pen. Garrison whispered encouragement. Eddie knew that the mess was of his own making and that this was the only way out but still found that he was scared. He heard Junie's confident words:
Hoover doesn't want a fight. He wants to scare you into doing what he wants.
Garrison asked if Eddie needed a minute. Eddie shook his head, took the pen, and, boldly, signed.

Three days later, very quietly, the Federal Bureau of Investigation arrested an artist and photographer named Emil Goldfus who had his apartment and studio in a ritzy building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and stored his equipment in a warehouse in Brooklyn. They charged him with espionage. Within a week, the arrest was public knowledge. Eddie saw the picture on the front page of the paper. The caption said that he was a colonel in the KGB, that he had operated under a pseudonym, and that his real name was Rudolf Abel.

(III)

T
HE CELEBRATION,
such as it was, remained muted, because almost nobody knew what was going on. Aurelia, whose husband had still not returned from abroad, found an excuse to go up to Boston to visit a sorority sister, and joined Eddie for lunch at Junie's apartment in Cambridge while supposedly out shopping. Junie disliked the women of the Negro sororities of that day, even though her mother and big sister were in one. Fortunately, she hit it off with Aurelia, who could charm the snow off Everest. The two women spent more time laughing and chattering with each other than either did celebrating with Eddie. Eventually, he decided to take himself off for a walk through Cambridge, a town whose vibrancy he loved. The afternoon was sultry. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. He strolled down to the Square to buy a couple of overseas papers and listen to the street music and the odd undiscovered poetic genius declaiming on the sidewalk for pennies. The madcap afternoon energy seized him. He felt freer than he had in years. He was spending time with Aurelia and loving the risk. They never even touched. They did nothing but enjoy each other's company. Eddie did not know what his behavior meant. He wandered into a bookstore and found a couple of copies of
Field's Unified Theory.
He was about to track down the manager and offer to autograph them when he glanced up and saw, attacking the vast mountain of travel guides, Margot Frost.