The Brea File

by Louis Charbonneau

  “Who’s down there?” Landers asked.

  “Callahan. He has the Miami hostage unit and a SWAT team. The hijacker is a loner, about nineteen, a couple of minor arrests. Callahan already has most of the background, but he’s taking it slow, letting the kid calm down.”

  Landers nodded in satisfaction. Callahan was the best. He had been Landers’ number two man during the PRC Task Force operations, the designated chief negotiator. If only Callahan had been there in San Timoteo the day the shooting started, Landers had often thought, if he had had a chance to talk to those amateur revolutionaries, it might all have ended differently….

  “Good,” Landers said. “The longer it goes, the better our chances. I want reports every half hour until it’s over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the rest of the morning’s business had been discussed, Landers paused, picking up a memo from a stack on the long table in the small conference room. “This one I don’t like,” he said. It was the memo from Halbig concerning the missing Brea file. “According to this, Halbig, you’re raising the possibility that someone stole a sensitive file—and that someone could have been an FBI man.”

  “It’s only one possibility,” Halbig said carefully.

  “A lousy one,” Landers growled. “Go ahead, run through it. I want the others to hear the details.”

  Halbig was ready for the demand. Landers liked brief, organized reports. Halbig recalled the theft of an FBI vehicle ten days before. It appeared at the time that the thief had not specifically been after FBI documents—there was a good chance that he didn’t know he was stealing an FBI car. Nevertheless, he had opened one box of documents that were in the trunk of the car. That box as well as the others had been gone over minutely. All of the files had come from the San Timoteo RA’s office, which had been shut down in April, two months after the death of the Resident Agent, Vernon Lippert.

  “All of the files appear to be intact,” Halbig said, “except one. That folder is empty. It’s identified as the Brea file. Its contents are unknown.”

  “What about our dupes?” Caughey asked.

  “There are no duplicates. That was one of the first things that caught my attention. A copy of every piece of paper generated in any investigation is supposed to come to Headquarters, of course. Whatever his motive, Lippert did not send copies to the Sacramento Field Office, so we received none.” Halbig paused. “Lippert was carrying out the investigation without approval.”

  “There are no records at all?” Landers asked.

  “We have some.” Halbig had been saving this information for the meeting. “Lippert did request some lab work. Henry was very helpful in running those reports down.” Halbig nodded toward Szymanski. “One of Lippert’s lab reports concerned the presence of gunpowder residue on an old, rusty residential window screen. The report was positive. Another report covered voiceprint analysis of two separate tape recordings. The first recording was identified as a conversation between an agent from the San Francisco Field Office and an informant named Walter Schumaker, dated June 10, 1980. The second tape was of an anonymous telephone call to the Sacramento office on August 27, 1981… the day before the PRC massacre in San Timoteo. Voiceprint analysis confirmed that Schumaker made both calls. In the second one he used the code name Brea for an FBI agent to whom he wanted to report.”

  “Who was Brea?” the Director broke in sharply.

  “We have no record of any agent using such a code name.”

  “What about the agent who was running Schumaker earlier?”

  “There were two of them. Special Agents Charles Reese and Victor Pryor. Reese is still in San Francisco, Pryor has left the Bureau. Both have been contacted. Neither man knows anything about the second phone call or the Brea code name.”

  “You’ll check that.”

  “Of course.”

  There was a momentary silence. Caughey said, “It sounds like a private code between an agent and his informant.”

  “That’s my assumption, too,” Halbig said.

  “I want to hear those tapes,” Landers said. “Anything else? Your memo mentions a handwriting comparison.”

  “I was coming to that. Lippert asked the Handwriting Analysis Unit for a comparison of two handwriting samples. The first was of Walter Schumaker’s known origin, a letter to the two agents who were using him in 1979 and 1980 in Berkeley. The second sample was on the rental deposit for the house where the PRC were hiding out in San Timoteo. They were identical.”

  There was a stunned silence this time. It lasted a full ten seconds. The three Executive Assistant Directors grouped around the long mahogany table exchanged glances. Landers scowled at them. “What do we have?” he asked finally. “Szymanski?”

  “It appears that Lippert was investigating something about the PRC disaster. And those reports indicate that an FBI informant was inside the group. That wasn’t known before.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Landers said tersely. He had been in command of the task force that had spent a whole summer of frustration trying to catch the elusive band of terrorists. The possibility that an FBI informant—and the agent to whom he was reporting—had known all along where the People’s Revolutionary Committee were hiding brought a dark flush of anger to his stolid features. “I’d damned well like to know why.”

  He glanced at Caughey. “You see it the same way, Caughey?”

  “Yes, Director.” Caughey was visibly disturbed by what he had heard. “What it means is, the agent who called himself Brea had inside knowledge he kept to himself. But it brings up another question: What happened to Schumaker?”

  The four men exchanged glances. They were all remembering the massive explosion that brought an end to the PRC.

  Landers’ expression was grim. Russ Halbig found that his pulse had quickened. Now Landers had no choice, he thought. The Director’s next words confirmed his judgment.

  “I want that missing file found. I want Schumaker found—if he’s alive. I want Brea identified.” Landers’ brown eyes speared Halbig. “You’re assuming the man who stole the FBI vehicle also took the file?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?” Sharply.

  “The nature of the file and… the nature of the theft. It couldn’t have been premeditated. Agent Stearns’s decision to stop at that particular store at that hour that night was pure happenstance—that he would have stopped at all could not have been anticipated. My assumption is that this was a random auto theft, spur-of-the-moment, amateurish. That’s also the opinion of the two agents in the Stolen Vehicle Unit at the Washington Field Office who are investigating. I have copies of their initial reports if you’d like to see them. The thief’s prints are all over the car but there’s nothing on record in Ident. Either he has no criminal record, which corroborates the amateur theory, or any record he has was as a juvenile and his records are frozen.”

  “But his prints are on the Brea folder?”

  “Yes, sir, on that and a number of other files. But he had no way of knowing the Brea file was important. What I cannot explain, Director, is why he would take that particular file.”

  Landers grunted, the expression noncommittal. “You have to allow for chance sometimes,” he said reflectively. “The random auto theft, the file opened at random, the random witness…”

  “Unfortunately we have none of those.”

  Landers didn’t smile and Halbig regretted the weak attempt at humor. “Your memo recommends a special investigation with the cooperation of the OPR.”

  Halbig nodded. The Office of Professional Responsibility, created in the aftermath of the Watergate scandals, came under Halbig’s direction as part of the Inspection and Planning Division. The OPR was charged with responsibility for investigating any accusations of misconduct or impropriety by an FBI agent or agents.

  “The OPR should receive complete reports, of course. And the Attorney General’s OPR should also be kept informed. But I think we should put someone in charge of the field in
vestigation of the Brea file who is familiar with that situation and with terrorist activities generally.”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  “The man I’m thinking of headed up Jim’s Internal Security Branch before his present assignment.” Halbig smiled at James Caughey, who returned a frown. “He also worked under you, Director, as part of the PRC Task Force. And he’s the man who recovered those stolen files ten days ago. I’m sure you remember him”—Landers had a legendary reputation for his photographic memory of names and faces—“the SAC of the Washington Field Office, Paul Macimer.”

  “Do you have any other reason for suggesting Macimer?” Was there something suspicious in the question? In Landers’ tone?

  “Yes, sir, I do. There’s a possibility that Macimer himself stole the contents of that file.”

  There was another shocked stillness in the room. Halbig fancied that it was reflected even in the eyes of the three men whose portraits were mounted side by side on one walnut-paneled wall—J. Edgar Hoover, Clarence M. Kelley and William H. Webster. L. Patrick Gray, who had resigned in disgrace before his appointment as Acting Director was confirmed, and William Ruchelshaus, who had served as Acting Director for only seventy-five days in 1973, were not present on the wall.

  James Caughey exploded. “That’s cow flop!” His circumlocutions for strong four-letter words were Bureau legend. “I know Macimer. He wouldn’t do it.”

  “I don’t say he did,” Halbig answered calmly. “I merely pointed out the possibility. After all, he did have possession of those stolen files before they reached Headquarters—and no one else other than the car thief did. Moreover, he reported that he had not examined or disturbed any of the files. Yet his thumbprint was found on one edge of the Brea file—and on no other file.” Halbig let the significance of that finding sink in before he added, “Macimer was also part of the PRC Task Force in California at the time Brea was there.”

  “So were about two hundred other agents, including myself,” Landers said. “If you think there’s any chance he might have taken the file, for whatever reason, why suggest putting him in charge of investigating its disappearance?”

  “If he’s part of a cover-up, he’ll try to sabotage the investigation. If not, he’s an excellent choice for getting to the bottom of this affair. Either way, we get our answer.”

  Landers scowled, weighing the recommendation. It was unorthodox, certainly, but Landers had been known to look with favor on unorthodox methods in the field when he was an SAC—providing they worked. Halbig had gambled that the idea would appeal to a man with a reputation as both a pragmatist and, when warranted, a gambler. And there was also the possibility that Landers might have private reasons for accepting the proposal….

  “All right,” the Director of the FBI said. “Put Macimer on it. Make this a ‘Special.’ But I want it under wraps. I don’t want to go public on this until we know what we have to deal with. Is that clear?”

  Halbig nodded, concealing his satisfaction.

  Landers’ hard gaze pressed against him, as if he were trying to look inside Halbig’s head to see what he might find there. He said, “And you watch Macimer.”

  * * * *

  Five minutes after the conclusion of the meeting of the Executive Assistant Directors and the Director, Paul Macimer received a short phone call from his former boss in the Investigative Division. “You’re being given a special investigation,” Jim Caughey said. “You’ll be hearing from Russ Halbig on it anytime now, if you haven’t already.”

  “He called earlier, said there might be something.” Macimer wondered why Caughey was telling him. “Big?”

  “Yeah. And it could be trouble. Watch your step.”

  “How so?”

  “There could be more to this than meets the eye.”

  “Any suggestions?” Macimer didn’t like the thought that Caughey might be asking him to soft-pedal an investigation.

  “The same one I’ve always given you and every other agent.

  Play it straight, right down the line. Just keep your eyes open. You don’t want to be blind-sided.”

  Macimer smiled. “I’ll try to stay awake. And thanks, Jim.”

  “I never talked to you.”

  Afterward, Macimer thought about the enigmatic implications of Caughey’s comment.

  Who might want to blind-side him? And why?

  5

  The J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building sits, massive and uncompromising, on the north side of Pennsylvania Avenue between 9th and 10th streets, occupying a large city block. The exterior of the building seems forbidding and closed, and the upper levels protrude over the floors below like a scowl. But the building, completed in 1975 at a cost of $126 million, is less massive and closed than it appears, for the interior opens onto a huge court. At ground level the courtyard is accessible from the street, and nearby office workers often bring their lunches to sit in the sun and eat within sight and sound of the fountain, looking up at the windows of Bureau offices.

  Paul Macimer did not even glance at the building itself as he turned off 9th Street down the ramp to the basement garage. Even when he had been working at Headquarters he had thought little about the building’s architectural appeal or lack of it. He remained impressed with its functional efficiency, the sophisticated equipment, the laboratories and data banks housed behind the thick walls.

  The call from Halbig’s secretary had come just as Macimer returned from an abbreviated lunch hour. “Mr. Halbig would like to see you in his office, Mr. Macimer. Would two o’clock be convenient?” The question was rhetorical.

  The secretary was waiting for him when he arrived at two. She indicated that he should go right in. A handsome, leggy blonde with a face whose bones belonged on a Vogue cover, she reminded Macimer of Halbig’s wife Erika. Careful, conservative Russ was capable of surprises.

  The office was large, the carpet thick, the paneling a rich dark walnut. There was even a large window offering a view of the inner courtyard. Framed portraits of Hoover, Kelley and Webster were centered on the wall behind Halbig’s huge walnut desk. John L. Landers hadn’t made it yet, Macimer noted. American and FBI flags were planted in opposite corners of the wall behind the desk.

  “Paul! Good to see you. You’ve had lunch, of course.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “How about some coffee? I have some fresh brewing. Let me have Helen bring us a cup.” Without waiting for a response he signaled his secretary.

  After the sleek young woman had brought the coffee and left, having offered a provocative display of shapely legs and swiveling hips, Halbig raised his cup as if in a toast. “Old times, eh, Paul? Those were the best.”

  Macimer wondered if Halbig really thought that. The Executive Assistant Director set his cup down, leaned back and smiled across the broad expanse of thick glass over polished walnut. He looked in that moment like any successful, satisfied and slightly smug business executive. His gray suit was a custom-tailored tropical worsted, his shirt white-on-white, his tie by Countess Mara. The unfinished image had been there twenty years ago, Macimer decided, waiting for this fulfillment. It seemed no accident that Halbig had served less than five years in the field before being permanently assigned to Headquarters. He had been born for the bureaucracy. A great many field agents believed that there were too many in FBI Headquarters like Halbig, men who had been so long away from the real work of the street agent that they were making decisions without hard personal knowledge of their implications.

  Russell Halbig was a neat, tidy man. In spite of the volume of paper that must cross his desk each day, it was tidy. Of average height but comparatively slender, he had small, neat features, and the slim straight nose, brown eyes set close together, narrow face and ears close to the skull combined to reinforce the impression of a neat, precise and careful man.

  “We have a problem, Paul,” Halbig said abruptly. “The Director has made this one a ‘Special.’ You know what that means. It means he wants it wrapped up yesterday.” From
a black plastic case Halbig extracted an empty manila file folder and held it up.

  Macimer stared at it, startled as he recognized the name on the tab. “Recognize this, Paul?”

  “It was in that box of stolen files I brought in ten days ago, the open one. I remember the name. It was empty.”

  “You did examine it, then? I’d understood you reported that you hadn’t touched the documents.”

  Macimer frowned, puzzled. “I didn’t examine it. It was raining, I wanted to close the lid of the carton, and that folder was sticking up a little. I pushed it down, that’s all.”

  “I see… there are water marks on the file.” Halbig appeared to drop the question. “Did it occur to you to wonder what an empty file was doing in that box of documents shipped to Headquarters? I’m sure it did.”

  “Yes, it did,” Macimer admitted.

  “It bothered me, too, when it came to my attention. I’ve looked into it and brought what I found to the Director’s notice.” Briefly Halbig went over the details he had presented to Landers that morning, citing the lab reports Vernon Lippert had asked for. “The Director agrees with me that the documents missing from this Brea file must be found as an urgent priority.”

  “The kid who stole the car could have taken them,” Macimer said thoughtfully.

  “You thought that unlikely at the time of recovery,” Halbig pointed out. “I still do. It’s possible, of course, and that avenue should be vigorously pursued. But it seems a bit too fortuitious that a random auto thief should steal that particular file. The Brea file appears to be the only one in all four cartons of documents that was at all unusual or sensitive.”