even Crawford, could have told the difference.
The driver spoke the proper words into the dashboard microphone, and the huge steel doors of the entrance parted. The night guard saluted as the limousine passed through the concrete structure, with its three succeeding concrete doorways, into the small circular drive. A second Justice Department guard leaped out of the south entranceway,reached for the handle of the right rear door, and pulled it open.
Varak got out quickly and thanked the astonished guard. The driver and a third man—seated next to the driver—also stepped out and offered pleasant but subdued greetings.
“Where’s the director?” asked the guard. “This is Mr. Hoover’s private car.”
“We’re here on his instructions,” said Varak calmly. “He wants us taken directly to Internal Security. They’re to call him. IS has the number; it’s on a scrambler. I’m afraid it’s an emergency. Please hurry.”
The guard looked at the three well-dressed, well-spoken men. His concern diminished; these men knew the highly classified gate codes that changed every night; beyond that, they carried instructions to call the director himself. On the scrambler phone at the Internal Security desk. That telephone number was
never
used.
The guard nodded, led the men inside to the security desk in the corridor, and returned to his post outside. Behind the wide steel panel with the myriad wires and small television screens, sat a senior agent dressed not unlike the three men who approached him. Varak took a laminated identification card from his pocket and spoke.
“Agents Longworth, Krepps, and Salter,” he said, placing his ID on the couner. “You must be Parke.”
“That’s right,” replied the agent, taking Varak’s identification and reaching for the other two ID’s as they were handed to him. “Have we met, Longworth?”
“Not in ten or twelve years. Quantico.”
The agent looked briefly at the ID’s, returned them to the counter, and squinted in recollection. “Yeah, I remember the name. Al Longworth. Long time.” He extended his hand; Varak took it. “Where’ve you been?”
“La Jolla.”
“Christ, you’ve got a friend!”
“That’s why I’m here. These are my two best men in southern Cal.
He
called me last night.” Varak leaned ever so slightly over the counter. “I’ve got bad news, Parke. It’s not good at all,” he said, barely above a whisper. “We may be getting near ‘open territory.’ ”
The expression on the agent’s face changed abruptly; the shock was obvious.
Among the senior officers at the bureau the phrase
open territory
meant the unthinkable: The director was ill. Seriously, perhaps fatally, ill.
“Oh, my God …” muttered Parke.
“He wants you to call him on the scrambler.”
“Oh, Christ!” Under the circumstances it was obviously the last thing the agent wanted to do. “What does he want? What am I supposed to say, Longworth? Oh,
Jesus
!
”
“He wants us taken up to Flags. Tell him we’re here; verify his instructions and clear one of my men for the relays.”
“The relays? What for?”
“Ask him.”
Parke stared at Varak for a moment, then reached for the telephone.
Fifteen blocks south, in the cellar of a telephone-company complex, a man sat on a stool in front of a panel of interlocking wires. On his jacket was a plastic card with his photograph and, in large letters beneath it, the word
Inspector
. In his right ear was a plug attached to an amplifier on the floor; next to the amplifier was a small cassette recorder. Wires spiraled up to other wires in the panel.
The tiny bulb on the amplifier lighted up. The scrambler phone at the FBI security desk was in use. The man’s eyes were riveted on a button in the cassette recorder; he listened with the ears of an experienced professional. Instantly he pushed the button; the tape rolled, and almost immediately he shut it off. He waited several moments and once again pushed the
The driver spoke the proper words into the dashboard microphone, and the huge steel doors of the entrance parted. The night guard saluted as the limousine passed through the concrete structure, with its three succeeding concrete doorways, into the small circular drive. A second Justice Department guard leaped out of the south entranceway,reached for the handle of the right rear door, and pulled it open.
Varak got out quickly and thanked the astonished guard. The driver and a third man—seated next to the driver—also stepped out and offered pleasant but subdued greetings.
“Where’s the director?” asked the guard. “This is Mr. Hoover’s private car.”
“We’re here on his instructions,” said Varak calmly. “He wants us taken directly to Internal Security. They’re to call him. IS has the number; it’s on a scrambler. I’m afraid it’s an emergency. Please hurry.”
The guard looked at the three well-dressed, well-spoken men. His concern diminished; these men knew the highly classified gate codes that changed every night; beyond that, they carried instructions to call the director himself. On the scrambler phone at the Internal Security desk. That telephone number was
never
used.
The guard nodded, led the men inside to the security desk in the corridor, and returned to his post outside. Behind the wide steel panel with the myriad wires and small television screens, sat a senior agent dressed not unlike the three men who approached him. Varak took a laminated identification card from his pocket and spoke.
“Agents Longworth, Krepps, and Salter,” he said, placing his ID on the couner. “You must be Parke.”
“That’s right,” replied the agent, taking Varak’s identification and reaching for the other two ID’s as they were handed to him. “Have we met, Longworth?”
“Not in ten or twelve years. Quantico.”
The agent looked briefly at the ID’s, returned them to the counter, and squinted in recollection. “Yeah, I remember the name. Al Longworth. Long time.” He extended his hand; Varak took it. “Where’ve you been?”
“La Jolla.”
“Christ, you’ve got a friend!”
“That’s why I’m here. These are my two best men in southern Cal.
He
called me last night.” Varak leaned ever so slightly over the counter. “I’ve got bad news, Parke. It’s not good at all,” he said, barely above a whisper. “We may be getting near ‘open territory.’ ”
The expression on the agent’s face changed abruptly; the shock was obvious.
Among the senior officers at the bureau the phrase
open territory
meant the unthinkable: The director was ill. Seriously, perhaps fatally, ill.
“Oh, my God …” muttered Parke.
“He wants you to call him on the scrambler.”
“Oh, Christ!” Under the circumstances it was obviously the last thing the agent wanted to do. “What does he want? What am I supposed to say, Longworth? Oh,
Jesus
!
”
“He wants us taken up to Flags. Tell him we’re here; verify his instructions and clear one of my men for the relays.”
“The relays? What for?”
“Ask him.”
Parke stared at Varak for a moment, then reached for the telephone.
Fifteen blocks south, in the cellar of a telephone-company complex, a man sat on a stool in front of a panel of interlocking wires. On his jacket was a plastic card with his photograph and, in large letters beneath it, the word
Inspector
. In his right ear was a plug attached to an amplifier on the floor; next to the amplifier was a small cassette recorder. Wires spiraled up to other wires in the panel.
The tiny bulb on the amplifier lighted up. The scrambler phone at the FBI security desk was in use. The man’s eyes were riveted on a button in the cassette recorder; he listened with the ears of an experienced professional. Instantly he pushed the button; the tape rolled, and almost immediately he shut it off. He waited several moments and once again pushed the
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