“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Don’t be glib.” Jan sighed. “Tonight it seemed such a long time ago, those early years. Me and Mary and Elaine, all three of us with babies at about the same time, all of us learning how to cook hamburger a hundred ways, sharing our spaghetti recipes, wondering when you or Gordon or Russ, or all three of you, would be home again.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Everything’s changed. Gordon hasn’t,” she corrected herself with a short laugh. “But everything else has. I was thinking tonight, listening to Mary, that we’ve done it all, all the cliché things. Painted the Easter eggs, stayed up all night waiting for the doctor, wrapped the Christmas presents, sewed on the buttons, joined the PTA, watched the ball games. And scrubbed a thousand floors and cleaned up the vomit and trained the dog to go outside. And sometimes, a lot of times, I was so damned alone. I didn’t like that part of it, Paul, I never did. And I don’t like it now.”
“Jan-”
“Maybe what I’m saying is, I need more of you. Or…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought, either because she was afraid of the ending or was not yet sure what it was.
“Are you wondering if it was all worth it?”
“No! That’s not it at all! It was right for me then, for both of us. You’ve no right to say that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“To hell with you!”
Reaching for her impulsively, he discovered to his surprise that the pajama top was unbuttoned. His hand closed over the soft mound of her breast. He kept it there. She did not push him away.
After a moment her breathing had quickened. Still caressing one breast, he kissed the other. When she did not resist he let his hand flow down over the smooth, familiar curves of hip and belly. After a brief exploration his fingers stopped, as if surprised by what they found.
“Don’t ask me!” she said fiercely. “I don’t know why. Don’t ask–just don’t talk.”
He was left to wonder at the mystery of her moods. His own response to her was immediate as always. She clutched him almost cruelly, rose to engulf him. In the moment they were joined he thought that he had to send her away, that once again she would be alone.
16
From the Macimers’ patio off the family room, sheltered from the all-day Sunday rain, Gordon Ruhle watched a sudden squall drive the branches of a willow tree toward the ground, as if they had gone limp. The air was as warm and humid as a greenhouse. “Is it always like this?” he growled.
Macimer, standing behind him, laughed. “It stopped for Halbig’s party.”
“I suppose it had to.”
Macimer recalled Gordon’s old remark about Halbig’s ability to dodge the raindrops. It seemed to have held true throughout Halbig’s career, in spite of periods of turmoil within the agency. And now? When the Brea investigation was closed, would Halbig, as usual, be in the clear?
Would John Landers be untouched?
The two men turned back inside the house as a gust of wind blew rain across the patio. The family room was empty, Jan having taken Mary Ruhle with her on an unnecessary trip to the store—a maneuver Macimer had prearranged with her, postponing an explanation. Macimer had told her only that he wanted to talk to Gordon alone about FBI business. The three children had been treated to an after-dinner movie at the local theater.
Gordon Ruhle followed Macimer across the family room to the den. Near the doorway he stopped to inspect a number of framed photographs and other family memorabilia on the paneled wall next to the door. Gordon’s eye had been caught by the photo of Macimer in a handshake with J. Edgar Hoover. The picture had been fitted with new non-glare glass to replace the original glass maliciously broken by one of the three Latin intruders. Then Ruhle peered at a smaller photograph, a snapshot showing Macimer and Ruhle together, standing in front of the old post office building in Omaha—two men nearly twenty years younger, looking tough and efficient with their close-cropped hair, conservative suits, white shirts and ties. “What happened to those guys?” Ruhle asked.
“They let their hair grow,” Macimer said. “That’s all.”
“Yeah.” Ruhle grinned at him. “Okay, what about these bugs of yours?”
“Did you bring your toolbox?”
“Yeah. You want to tell me what it’s all about?”
Briefly Macimer described the discovery of clandestine listening devices in the hall thermostat and master bedroom. “I can’t be sure, but my guess is there might be others. I figured you’re more of an electronics expert than I am, you might be able to find them.” Macimer did not try to tell Ruhle why he was being asked to find any other devices, rather than someone from the WFO. He wanted to find out what he was dealing with without having someone from the Washington Field Office involved—and without having a report go to FBI Headquarters.
Even admitting that much to himself left him unhappier than he could remember being in his twenty years with the Bureau.
“You think your three Latinos planted them?” Gordon asked.
“I don’t know who else.”
“This place isn’t Fort Knox. It wouldn’t be so hard to break into. It could’ve been done without your knowing.”
“But I know about those three. The logical assumption is they did it.”
“Why?”
Macimer shrugged. “I wish I could be sure….”
The answer was not completely frank. But there was no point in going into the Brea investigation with Ruhle, who had removed himself from involvement in it by his own choice. “Any other time, you know I’d jump at the chance to work with you, Paul,” he had said at Quantico after the bombing. “But I can’t walk away from this. Hell, I’ve been lecturing these kids about terrorism. Now we can all see what we’re talking about.”
Macimer unlocked a desk drawer and removed the two bugs he had found on Friday. Gordon Ruhle immediately identified the first as a simple wireless transmitter. It was this bug’s signal Aileen Hebert had overheard, since it worked by radio transmission in the FM frequency range. The second device, which had been attached to the telephone in the bedroom, was confirmed as a type that worked only when the phone was in use.
Gordon Ruhle had brought in from his car a small black leather case. He removed a portable instrument from the case, identifying it as an electronic field strength meter. “Your ever popular sniffer,” he said. “If there are any other radio transmitters in the house, this will sniff them out.”
He went through the house methodically, room by room. As he worked he began to sing in a rich baritone, watching the meter on the electronic sniffer, which he tuned continuously across the range of possible frequencies.
“Is that raucous moaning necessary?” asked Macimer.
Ruhle grinned. “If there’s a radio bug here, it’ll pick up my golden tones, naturally. This little meter will let out a howl when I hit the right frequency.”
The sniffer remained silent.
Macimer felt some relief when they returned to his den. But the search was not over. There was still the possibility of another kind of wiretap, a device intruded into the telephone lines or one of the instruments. From his leather case Ruhle removed another testing instrument, about the size and shape of a cigar box. “A telephone analyzer,” he said when Macimer raised an eyebrow. “It’s got a built-in VOM that reads the resistance in the telephone line.”
Ruhle disconnected the telephone line in Macimer’s den at the wall outlet and connected the line to the analyzer. After taking a reading, he plugged the telephone into the other side of the analyzer. After a moment he offered an unreadable grunt.
“Well?”
“The normal reading is just under a million ohms. That’s without your telephone in line. Look at it now.” Macimer peered at the dial. The reading was a little over half a million ohms. “That means you’ve got more trouble.”
Using the same test instrument, Ruhle then examined Macimer’s telephone, checking the volt
age reading. A high reading with the phone off the hook would indicate a series bug like the one Macimer had found upstairs. The reading, however, was normal.
When Ruhle took another measurement with the phone in its cradle, he gave a low whistle.
“You mind cutting the melodrama, Gordon?”
“First it’s my singing you don’t like, now it’s my whistling.” Ruhle’s tone was unruffled but his eyes were serious. “The reading is too low. My guess is you’ve got some kind of parallel device in there. I’ll have to check it out. Is there a public telephone anywhere close?”
“There’s one at the gas station on the corner.”
“Okay. You stay here. Make some noise—I don’t care what it is. Sing or whistle or use the typewriter. Wait about five minutes until I get to that phone, then go into your act.”
It was a long five minutes. Outside, the rain was still coming down steadily, drenching everything, not a downpour but a soaking rain. Gordon Ruhle seemed not to notice it as he ran out to his car. A few minutes after he drove off Macimer checked his watch. He began to whistle, feeling foolish.
“All right, Gordon, damn it, stop showing off,” he said after a moment. “And where did you become such an expert, anyway?” He broke off, searching for something else to say. It was surprising how difficult it was to talk aloud without an audience. Feeling increasingly foolish, he began to sing “From the Halls of Montezuma…” That ought to be right up Gordon’s alley.
The telephone rang. Macimer snatched it up. “Gordon?”
“Yeah. To answer your question, the FBI taught me everything I know. As for your singing, I think you better confine it to the shower.”
Macimer stiffened. “You could hear me?”
“Loud and clear. You’ve got an Infinity Transmitter in place. It’s tone-activated, which means the listener can activate the transmitter by calling in from outside, using a specific tone to turn on the tap. What that does is prevent the phone from ringing at the time, and it turns the phone itself into a combination microphone and transmitter. Your eavesdropper just dials in and he might as well be in the room.”
“How did you turn it on?”
“My handy-dandy little wiretap finder can produce all the possible tones. I just ran up the scale until your IT was triggered.”
Three minutes later Gordon Ruhle was back at the house. He took the telephone apart carefully, inspecting everything. Macimer had done the same without finding anything that did not appear to be a normal component of the instrument, but Ruhle finally held out the circular mouthpiece in the palm of his hand. “That’s the culprit.”
“It looks like an ordinary mouthpiece to me.”
“It’s supposed to.” He glanced questioningly at Macimer. “You want to leave it where it was, or replace it?”
“Why would I leave it there?”
“If we remove it, whoever planted the device will know you found it.”
Macimer took the bug and rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers. At last he said, “I want him to know.”
Before Gordon could answer voices came from the adjoining family room. Gordon made a face, but there was tolerant acceptance in his eyes as they heard Mary Ruhle call out, “Gordon? Are you two still in there? Can’t the FBI wait till Sunday’s over?”
“Well, it’s your baby,” Gordon murmured. “I wish I could help some more, but…”
“You’ve helped a lot. Thanks, Gordon.”
“You want this just between us, right?” Gordon’s question was shrewd and to the point.
“For now,” said Macimer. “What about the other phones? You didn’t test them with your box.”
“That’s easy,” Gordon Ruhle said. “Get new ones.”
* * * *
The Ruhles left late, Mary obviously reluctant to have the evening end. She was flying back to the coast Monday night, and this was the last chance for these old friends to indulge in nostalgic reminiscence and family news and recycled gossip. When the two visitors finally left, the house seemed unnaturally quiet and empty. Kevin had long been asleep, Linda closeted in her own room. Chip, as usual, had gone out again after returning from the movie.
Macimer was heading for his den when Jan stopped him. “Let’s talk a little, Paul.”
She made some instant coffee and they sat in the family room, walled in by darkness and rain. “I always liked Gordon,” Jan said after a moment. “I don’t think I could take very much of him now.”
“Because he hasn’t changed like the rest of us?”
“I knew you’d defend him.”
“I’m not defending him, honey. I didn’t know he needed defending.” He knew, of course, what had set Jan off. Gordon’s remark about “bleeding-heart judges” had started it. “They’re out to clip our wings and let the Commies take over,” Gordon had said.
“Oh, really, Gordon,” Jan had said impatiently. “Maybe you people need to have your wings clipped. Especially if you still believe there are Communists hiding under every bed.”
Ruhle had stared at her in disbelief. “You think there aren’t any Reds in our government? Or even on the Atomic Energy Commission? Hell, Jan, just last year Ivan was kicked out of Norway, Sweden, Canada, Switzerland, France and West Germany for spying. You think he’s not here? That we don’t have our own Ivans right inside the government and our defense industries, calling themselves good old Joe or Brian or Jack Armstrong? What kind of Alice-in-Wonderland thinking is that?” Ruhle’s glare had switched suddenly from Jan to Paul. “What are you grinning at?”
“I was afraid you might have gone liberal on me.”
Fat chance, Macimer thought.
Jan peered at him over the edge of her coffee mug. It was an ancient mug, now chipped and stained, he had got in a gas station years ago as a giveaway premium. Talk about songs of yesterday…
“What were you two up to?” Jan asked quietly. “You had a special reason for wanting Gordon over—and the house to yourselves.”
“It was our last chance to see both of them. With Mary going back so soon—”
“Stop stalling, Paul. If something is going on that affects us, I want to know what it is.”
Sooner or later she had to be told about the bugs. Even if Macimer hadn’t wanted to tell her, Aileen Hebert was certain to say something to Jan. And Jan had been an FBI wife long enough to know what that overheard conversation might mean.
Jan rose abruptly, interpreting his silence as a refusal to talk. Without another word she carried her battered mug up to the kitchen, left it on the counter and went up the stairs. Macimer winced as the bedroom door slammed.
He sat unmoving in the troubled silence. From somewhere nearby a dog barked in protest at being left outside in the rain. Another bark answered him. He remembered something Jan had once said about people who left their dogs out in the rain. If they wanted something to decorate the yard, why not plant a tree?
It was the coincidence of Carey McWilliams and Timothy Callahan both being killed by bombs, and their link to the PRC affair three years ago, that bothered him.
And the way the threads kept leading back to John L. Landers…
Macimer shook off the troubling speculations. Don’t borrow trouble, he reminded himself.
He routinely checked the door locks, left a light on for Chip and started up the stairs. The phone rang.
Wondering who could be calling at this hour on a Sunday—it was improbable that Collins or Garvey would be phoning him tonight—Macimer went back down the stairs and detoured to his den. At least he knew his private phone was now clean.
“Macimer?” The voice was clipped, arrogant, unfamiliar.
“Yes, who is this?”
“You son of a bitch,” the answer came like a warning rattle. “If you think you can get away with what your goons did last night, you don’t know Oliver Packard!”
Macimer came alert like an animal sensing danger, his weariness dropping away. Not only was Oliver Packard a name to be reckoned with in Washin
gton; he was also Joseph Gerella’s boss. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Packard. Maybe you should calm down—”
“You put one of my people in the hospital! I’m going to crucify you for that!”
“You’ll have to be a little clearer, Mr. Packard. Who are you talking about?”
“You know damned well,” Packard snapped. “Joe Gerella was attacked last night outside his apartment. He’s in intensive care in Georgetown. He has a broken jaw, fractured ribs and God knows what manner of internal injuries. It was an expert working over, Macimer. Very professional.”
“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to suggest,” Macimer replied evenly. “I’m sorry about Gerella, but what makes you so certain he wasn’t simply mugged? It happens every day.”
“Not this time. I’ll tell you what makes me so certain, Macimer. Joe won’t be doing any talking for a long time—someone made sure of that. But before he passed out in the ambulance after he was picked up he managed to write something down. The paramedics had to pry the sheet of notepaper from his fist. It had only one word on it.” The columnist paused significantly. “Your name, Macimer. Just your name.”
Macimer held the phone away from his ear as if the instrument itself were to blame for the shock generated by Packard’s disclosure. What had Gerella been trying to say? Had he simply had Macimer’s name on a piece of paper in his pocket? If not, why, in the last seconds before slipping into unconsciousness, write down Macimer’s name?
“You still there, Macimer?”
“I’m listening, Mr. Packard. But I have no idea why Gerella would have been holding such a note. I did talk to him recently—he thought I might have a story for him. I told him he was wrong.”
“I don’t believe you,” Packard said tersely. “And if I can prove you had anything to do with what happened to Gerella, believe me, I’ll make you and the FBI think Nikita Khrushchev was Santa Claus. I’ll bury you, Macimer!”
“You have the shovel for it!” Macimer lashed back angrily, suddenly fed up with Oliver Packard’s arrogant assumptions. “You seem to make a career out of shoveling dirt. I can’t stop you printing whatever you want, but this time you’d better be damned sure you can back up your dirt with facts!”
The Brea File Page 20