the block, on the left, was the faded red brick house belonging to the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. One or both residences were continuously upgrading communications facilities.
And every once in a while unmarked vans patrolled the area, antennas protruding from their roofs. It was said that John Edgar Hoover ordered such patrols to check out any unwanted electronic surveillance that might have been planted there by inimical foreign governments.
Frequently complaints were registered with the State Department by the Peruvian ambassador. It was embarrassing; there wasn’t anything State could do about the situation. Hoover’s private life was an extension of his professional barony.
Peru wasn’t very important anyway.
The telephone truck drove down the street, made a U-turn, and retraced its route back to Thirtieth Street, where it turned right for fifty yards, then right again into a row of garages. At the end of the garage complex was a stone wall that bordered the rear grounds of 4936 Thirtieth Street Place, Hoover’s residence. Above and beyond the garages were other houses with windows overlooking the Hoover property. The man in the telephone truck knew that in one of those windows was an agent from the bureau, one of a team assigned to twenty-four-hour surveillance. The teams were secret and were rotated every week.
The driver of the truck was also aware that whoever was in one of those windows beyond the garage would place a routine call to a special number at the telephone company. The inquiry would be simple, asked above a strange hum on the line: What was the problem that brought a repair truck into the area at that hour?
The operator would check her call sheet and reply with the truth as it had been given to her.
There was a short in a junction box. Suspect: an inquisitive squirrel invading rotted insulation. The damage was responsible for the noticeable buzz on the line. Didn’t the caller hear it?
Yes, he heard it.
Varak had learned years ago, in his early days with theNational Security Council, never to give too simple an answer to questions raised by area surveillance. It would not be accepted, anymore than an overly complicated one would be accepted. There was always a middle ground.
The high-frequency radio phone in the truck hummed: a signal. An inquiring call had been made to the telephone company by an alert FBI man. The driver stopped the small van, once more turned around, and drove thirty-five yards back to the telephone pole. His sightlines to the residence were clear. He parked and waited, blueprints spread on the front seat as if he were studying them.
Agents often took late-night walks in the vicinity. All contingencies had to be covered.
The telephone truck was now eighty yards northwest of 4936 Thirtieth Street Place. The driver left his seat, crawled back into the rear of the van, and switched on his equipment. He had precisely forty-six minutes to wait During that time he had to lock in on the flows of current being received in Hoover’s residence. The heavier loads defined the circuits of the alarm system; the lesser ones were lights and radios and television sets. Defining the alarm system was crucial, but no less important was the knowledge that current was being used in the lower right area. It meant that electrical units were switched on in the maid’s room. It was vital to know that. Annie Fields, Hoover’s personal housekeeper for as long as anyone could remember, was there for the night.
The limousine made a right turn off Pennsylvania Avenue into Tenth Street and slowed down in front of the far west entrance to the FBI. The limousine was identical to the one that daily brought the director to his offices—even to the slightly dented chrome bumper Hoover had left as it was, a reminder to the chauffeur, James Crawford, of the man’s carelessness. It was not, of course, the same car; that particular vehicle was guarded night and day. But no one, not
And every once in a while unmarked vans patrolled the area, antennas protruding from their roofs. It was said that John Edgar Hoover ordered such patrols to check out any unwanted electronic surveillance that might have been planted there by inimical foreign governments.
Frequently complaints were registered with the State Department by the Peruvian ambassador. It was embarrassing; there wasn’t anything State could do about the situation. Hoover’s private life was an extension of his professional barony.
Peru wasn’t very important anyway.
The telephone truck drove down the street, made a U-turn, and retraced its route back to Thirtieth Street, where it turned right for fifty yards, then right again into a row of garages. At the end of the garage complex was a stone wall that bordered the rear grounds of 4936 Thirtieth Street Place, Hoover’s residence. Above and beyond the garages were other houses with windows overlooking the Hoover property. The man in the telephone truck knew that in one of those windows was an agent from the bureau, one of a team assigned to twenty-four-hour surveillance. The teams were secret and were rotated every week.
The driver of the truck was also aware that whoever was in one of those windows beyond the garage would place a routine call to a special number at the telephone company. The inquiry would be simple, asked above a strange hum on the line: What was the problem that brought a repair truck into the area at that hour?
The operator would check her call sheet and reply with the truth as it had been given to her.
There was a short in a junction box. Suspect: an inquisitive squirrel invading rotted insulation. The damage was responsible for the noticeable buzz on the line. Didn’t the caller hear it?
Yes, he heard it.
Varak had learned years ago, in his early days with theNational Security Council, never to give too simple an answer to questions raised by area surveillance. It would not be accepted, anymore than an overly complicated one would be accepted. There was always a middle ground.
The high-frequency radio phone in the truck hummed: a signal. An inquiring call had been made to the telephone company by an alert FBI man. The driver stopped the small van, once more turned around, and drove thirty-five yards back to the telephone pole. His sightlines to the residence were clear. He parked and waited, blueprints spread on the front seat as if he were studying them.
Agents often took late-night walks in the vicinity. All contingencies had to be covered.
The telephone truck was now eighty yards northwest of 4936 Thirtieth Street Place. The driver left his seat, crawled back into the rear of the van, and switched on his equipment. He had precisely forty-six minutes to wait During that time he had to lock in on the flows of current being received in Hoover’s residence. The heavier loads defined the circuits of the alarm system; the lesser ones were lights and radios and television sets. Defining the alarm system was crucial, but no less important was the knowledge that current was being used in the lower right area. It meant that electrical units were switched on in the maid’s room. It was vital to know that. Annie Fields, Hoover’s personal housekeeper for as long as anyone could remember, was there for the night.
The limousine made a right turn off Pennsylvania Avenue into Tenth Street and slowed down in front of the far west entrance to the FBI. The limousine was identical to the one that daily brought the director to his offices—even to the slightly dented chrome bumper Hoover had left as it was, a reminder to the chauffeur, James Crawford, of the man’s carelessness. It was not, of course, the same car; that particular vehicle was guarded night and day. But no one, not
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