A thick silence had settled on the room.
Cass broke it. "Why don't I call Mr. Hoover?"
"Cass," Sean said quietly, a plea in his voice.
"Mr. Hoover likes me, Sean."
"Of course he likes you." Sean laughed, as if aware all at once of the absurdity of his situation. Unlike many Bureau wives, and many agents for that matter, Cass had no built-in awe for the men in power, not even Hoover. She had won him over at dinners in Chicago by drawing him out on his own childhood, a subject everyone else had treated as taboo. "We all like you, Cass."
Crocker too was laughing quietly. "That's right," he said. "We all do."
Cass could feel herself blushing. Were they mocking her? "Isn't it important to keep Mr. Hoover supportive? You want him at a distance, but you want him on your side, right?"
"That's right." Sean looked at Crocker. "I've learned over the years that the thing to do when the director makes a wrong-headed move is simply to deflect him. It never pays to poke a finger in his chest, much less his eye." Sean closed the distance to Crocker's desk and leaned over it. "I have nothing to prove in relation to Hoover, Mr. Crocker, whether you think I have or not. The way I intend to play it, he will be no problem to the OSI, but he will be very useful. My wife is exactly right."
"What are you saying?"
Cass knew: that Sean's independence as director of OSI would extend to J. Edgar Hoover and Randall Crocker both.
"I'm saying Cass has a good idea. Let her call him."
Crocker let his glance flow from one to the other, admiration in it. "I've never seen this before."
Cass understood what he meant. Sean Dillon's willingness to duck behind his wife was a sign not of the lack of manhood, but the fullness of it. To Crocker, it must have seemed that Sean had nothing to prove in relation to her either.
Without waiting for Crocker's leave, Sean indicated the telephone on her side of the large desk. "Turn on the charm, kiddo." He headed for the door. "I'll be right back." He left.
Cass got up and crossed to the desk. "Can you get Mr. Hoover for me?"
"I can try."
While Crocker directed his secretary and then waited with the phone by his cheek, Cass studied the pair of leather-framed photographs that stood just beyond the blotter's edge. A handsome, sandy-haired woman in sweater-and-collar, cuddling a dog, looked fondly out from one. She seemed about forty. Her eyes were pale but friendly. Her arm draped the dog's neck, but it had been the picture taker toward whom her affection flowed. Cass had never forgotten Mr. Crocker's simple statement at the Shrine that day: My dear wife died many years ago. My Hillary, he'd called her.
Cass wished that she could tell his Hillary what Mr. Crocker had done for Sean, what he was doing that very day for Berlin and for the world. Hillary Crocker would have been a person like her husband: privileged, of course, but decent and good. Cass had had no direct experience of patrician women, but the society pages made it seem that all they cared about, like worried little girls, was being invited to the best parties in the biggest houses. But not this woman. The center of her life would have been her home, her husband and her children.
Her child. Cass corrected herself as she looked at the second photograph, Crocker's son in uniform, saluting. In that picture he would be forever amused at himself, forever slightly embarrassed. His eyes were pale, like his mother's. Then Cass realized it wasn't paleness at all, but the color blue, which lost its vibrancy in black-and-white. The lad, she saw, was beautiful.
"This is Randall Crocker, Mr. Hoover."
Cass was startled to realize how easily she had been drawn away from what was happening. She glanced one last time at the image of Hillary Crocker and thought she was a capable woman who accomplished difficult things. Cass offered a quick prayer—her simple, habitual "Help me"—but as much at that moment to Hillary Crocker as to the Blessed Mother.
"Mr. Dillon still is not here, but Mrs. Dillon arrived, and she asked to have a word with you, sir."
Cass took the phone with one hand while removing her earring with the other. She felt the calm detachment of one of the airport-tower people guiding those transport planes into Berlin. "Hello, Mr. Hoover," she said with a bright lilt.
Her eyes remained fixed on Hillary Crocker's eyes while Hoover's brusque voice filled her ear.
"Hello, Cass. How are you?"
"I'm very grateful, Mr. Hoover," she said. "That's how I am, grateful to you."
"To me? Why?"
"For everything, of course. But especially for what you did today. I wanted to thank you myself, before Sean could stop me. He knows better than I do how busy you are, and he would have told me to just write you a note. But I remembered how you told me one time in Chicago that I should never hesitate to call you." Cass paused. It seemed ominous to her when Hoover did not speak, and she felt the first curl of panic twisting her stomach. Was this a terrible mistake? Was she about to humiliate Sean? Cass hated the obvious tricks of womanly flirtation; Hillary Crocker would have hated them too. But when the time of Hoover's silence lengthened into a positive, chilling act of disapproval, she knew she had to turn it back upon itself. She said, "Unless you tell all the girls to call you."
Her thrust disarmed Hoover. He guffawed with delight, then protested, "Oh, come, come, Cass! What do you take me for?"
"For a good man, Mr. Hoover. That's all I called to tell you."
"You said 'today.' What did I do today?"
Cass relaxed. "Why, you made it possible for me to be here, Mr. Hoover. When Sean told me there wasn't to be a ceremony for his new job, I wanted to come anyway. I don't know if Sean told you, but I've stayed in Chicago, where my mother was sick."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
Cass retreated from the outright lie. "She died a while ago, but I've been attending to family matters."
"I'm sorry, Cass. Someone should have told me."
Cass wanted to smile, remembering that she had received a warm letter of condolence signed with Hoover's name. She had known better than to think he had written it. "But you know what Chicago's like, Mr. Hoover. Sean's friends all told me they were coming to Washington for the ceremony. Then the monsignor from our parish said he was coming. How could I say no to a monsignor? When I said there wouldn't be a ceremony, they all said there would be something. They are all so proud of him. You know better than anyone what Sean has achieved. They all just had to be here. What was I going to do?"
"But I don't—"
"It was only when I told them all that not even you would be here that they gave up. I don't understand these things, but Sean told me how important you felt it was to be—what was your word?—discreet."
"Well, it behooves us sometimes, you understand—"
"Now I do. Monsignor Barry, our friend from the Shrine, wanted to come this morning, but not even he is here at Mr. Crocker's office." Cass averted her eyes from Mrs. Crocker's. This was shameless of her, but she didn't care. "Monsignor said if J. Edgar Hoover can forgo the honor, then he could too. And that means that I can be here, for the proudest moment of my life."
"The honor is the Bureau's, Cass. Not mine. Your fine husband is a reflection on all of us over here. I didn't give him up to the air force without a mighty large qualm, I'll tell you."
"You didn't give him up, Mr. Hoover. You know how devoted Sean is to you. And how he always will be."
"I always say, it's the woman behind the man, Cass."
"I know you do, Mr. Hoover." Cass paused, then pushed in once more with, "You say it to all the girls."
Hoover laughed delightedly again.
"May I tell Sean you said you're proud of him?"
There was such a sudden silence in her ear that Cass thought for a moment he had left the line. She realized that he had not said that exactly. Hoover maintained his control over the souls of his agents more with threats than with rewards. His letters of commendation were rarely effusive. Had he ever told an agent he was "proud" of him? To Cass's knowledge, no.
So even she was impressed for Sean when at last Hoover said, "Yes, you can tell him that."
"Thank you."
Another silence, and then the director said, "Tell him to call me when he can."
"Yes, Mr. Hoover." When Cass looked at Crocker he was studying her across the tips of his entwined fingers.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye, Cass." Hoover hung up.
Cass replaced the phone on its cradle, aware that the time for her impersonation was not yet over. As she clipped her earring back on, she eased back on her breeziness just enough. "What is it you fellows say to each other? Mission accomplished?"
"Only in the movies. You handle him well."
Cass sensed his disdain for Hoover. She would not endorse it, and so said nothing.
It was only when Crocker had exhaled a long, steady lungful of air that she recognized the tension with which he had been listening. He might disdain Hoover, but he also understood his power.
Not only Crocker had been listening.
Cass turned to see Sean standing by the door. He was looking at her with pride in his eyes, and no wonder. He had changed from his suit into the tan uniform of an air force officer. Its sharp creases, its brass buttons, the curving flaps of its tunic pockets, the subtle stripe on each sleeve—she stared at him as if she'd never seen such clothing. A peaked hat was riding between his side and his upper arm, the visor just visible. She saw its elaborate silver braid forming thunderbolts and clouds.
This was Sean?
For the first time Cass understood what a transformation was about to be worked in his life, or thought she did.
Pride in his eyes, yes. But what really surprised her then was the sharp recognition, what she had not experienced in a long time, that the pride he felt at that moment was not in himself, but in her.
"It becomes you, Sean," Crocker said, then he smiled at Cass. "Don't you agree? Doesn't a uniform do wonders for a man?"
Cass knew he was thinking of his son, and she could not answer.
Crocker said, "You are going to have to help him." His voice was so soft, it occurred to Cass he might not want Sean to hear. "He's going to need you. He won't have many allies in this building. He'll have many enemies."
"Sean can do it," she said.
The door behind Sean opened and Mr. Crocker's receptionist appeared. "General Eason is here, sir."
"Splendid, splendid." Crocker hoisted himself up from his chair. "Hello, General."
A slim, gray-headed man even taller than Sean entered the room, ignoring both Sean and Cass as he crossed to shake hands with Crocker. He was dressed like Sean, Cass saw, but with a striking difference. His uniform flashed with reflected light and colors, a dramatic winged badge on one side of his chest above a wallet-sized square of ribbons, and on each shoulder four silver stars which sparkled like a woman's sequins.
"Mr. Secretary," he said formally.
"How is it proceeding?"
"Very good, sir. The first group is already off-loaded and in the air again. We will have the second out of Tempelhof before dark."
"And out of the zone?"
"In fifty minutes. The first day will be buttoned up by"—he flashed his wristwatch—"fifteen hundred."
Crocker abruptly shot his arm toward Cass, where Sean had joined her. "General Eason, say hello to Mrs. Dillon. Mrs. Dillon, General Eason, our chief of staff."
Two strides took Eason back to her.
Cass would have had to be made of wood not to mark the man's coldness. She would perhaps have attributed it to a natural resentment at being pulled away from urgent duties, but when Eason pointedly ignored Sean, turning back to Crocker, she realized that his resentment had nothing to do with Berlin.
Eason said, "Shall we proceed?" and he once more pulled his sleeve back, checking the time.
Cass glanced at Sean, who met her eyes with that stark neutrality of his. For once his stolid reserve seemed admirable to her, the thick wall off which the general's insult bounced. Crocker had promised enemies, but Cass knew she was right: Sean could handle them.
"Indeed so," Crocker said. He came out from behind his desk and took up a position immediately in front of the staffed American flag by the large window. Just his standing there transformed the space between the window and the furniture, giving it a slight aura of sanctuary, so that as Cass and Sean approached she felt relieved. Ritual solemnity always rescued her from jumbled feelings, and did so now.
Eason remained where he was, but he adjusted his posture, a subtle coming to attention that indicated his acquiescence.
"Oh, I forgot the Bible," Crocker said and moved toward his desk.
"I have it." Cass opened her shoulder bag and drew out Richard's. "This one is special to us," she said, and when she looked at Crocker, her eyes burned with gratitude.
Crocker touched her hand. "No wonder we all like you."
Without any further elaboration, they observed in its barest version the form of the rite of Sean's military initiation. With his hand firmly enough on his baby's Bible that his wife could feel its weight, repeating after the secretary of the air force, with the chief of staff as solemn witness, Sean Dillon swore to God that he would defend the Constitution of the United States of America as an officer in its air force.
When he had finished, Cass expected the men to shake hands, but instead Crocker extended his hand toward Eason. General Eason efficiently handed over a small black box. A ring box? Was this a wedding? The thought of the self-important Eason as a ring bearer made Cass want to giggle. One incongruity after another. One absurdity ... Was this a dream?
Crocker shocked Cass by giving the box to her. He took the Bible and waited while she opened the lid.
Why did she know so little of these things? A dream? If she awoke now, she would remember none of this.
The box held a pair of silver stars. Now she understood. This was what wives did for their general-husbands. She touched the perfectly faceted five-pointed stars, felt their weight, recognized each one for the wrought sterling piece it was. She looked at Sean, Sean who had never worn jewelry. He was waiting for her.
In the sacraments of the Church, the ritual act itself accomplished the saving ontological change, and now Cass felt that her presenting his stars was what would effect the change in Sean's life. Nothing he had ever asked of her had made her feel like this before, not that she was a part of his remarkable destiny, but that somehow she was actually helping to shape it.
Cass Dillon was famous throughout Canaryville, and even the FBI, as the unawed woman who was never at a loss. But now, as she stood on her tiptoes to pin each silver star on its epaulet, her hands shook. Her full heart overflowed, like both her eyes.
Cass would not have been surprised if, after the ceremony, Sean had told her he had to go to work now, he'd see her later. Indeed, as they walked out of the Pentagon toward the line of taxis on one of the ramps leading up from the river boulevard, she decided yes, he's going to put me in a cab.
But they stopped on the curb, short of the taxis.
Now that he was outdoors, Sean had donned his hat, and the sight of him so completely decked out heightened her former feeling of unreality—that dream!
Soldiers of all ranks hustling toward the Pentagon, the very men who had failed even to see him only an hour before, now snapped brisk salutes.
The further marvel was the way in which Sean returned those salutes, his flat hand hitting his brow with complete naturalness.
"Where did you learn that?"
Sean grinned. "You won't tell?"
"Of course not."
He leaned to her ear. "I've been practicing in front of my mirror for a week."
She started to laugh. "You do it great. You really do." And finally her true amazement at the house of chills and thrills into which he'd dragged her poured out in the form of laughter. She leaned against him.
He held her, laughing too. He ignored the passing military men, who were looking for his eye, to salute.
It felt like being kids again, larking on the Oak Street Beach, having pulled one off on the swells from Lake Street.
Cass just knew there was nothing left that could surprise her.
But then the long, blue Lincoln pulled up to the curb and stopped. Above the license plate was another plate that displayed a silver star.
The driver hopped out of the car and rushed around to stand before Sean at brisk attention. There were blue stripes on the sleeve of his tan belted jacket.
Sean pulled himself together, returned the man's salute. "Cass, this is Sergeant Hewitt. Sergeant, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Dillon."
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am." He opened the door for them.
Cass got in, and then Sean did.
In the seconds before Sergeant Hewitt resumed his own seat, Cass whispered, "What is this?"
"It's my car!" Sean blurted out with unfettered amazement of his own. "He's my chauffeur!"
Hewitt got in.
Sean and Cass, holding hands, had to look away from each other to keep from screeching.
As they drove across the city, Cass gradually returned to herself. At first, like a schoolgirl salvaging her self-control, she watched the monuments and becolumned buildings for the focus. But then, as if she'd never seen them before, the sights of Washington—Jefferson's temple, Smithson's castle, Mellon's gallery, Grant's equestrian statue—began to thrill her. A schoolgirl's happiness filled her, and she felt free as any tourist. It struck her then, as they cruised along the Mall, that the tourists were pointing at their car. Hot-dog vendors and balloon men waved at her, and policemen touched their hats. The golden city seemed to be opening itself in ways it never had before, and as Cass sat back in the spacious plush seat, an unprecedented exhilaration buoyed her, as if the official car itself were magic.
Soon they came to Boiling Field, the air base on the Potomac just south of the Anacostia. This was a part of Washington Cass had never visited, and the airfield had registered only vaguely in her mind as the busy second airport across the river from National.
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