Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [34]
Cammanati displayed a rare smile. “Commerce marches on, Joe,” he said ruefully. “Tell me about this ongoing investigation.”
“No can do, at least not yet. Too much at risk.”
“Christ, how much more could be at risk than what we’ve got now? Talk to me, Joe. I’m here because the president of the United States wants answers.”
“And maybe a dead undercover agent, too?”
“You have someone undercover with some of these groups?”
Harris nodded.
“Which ones?”
“Compromise our agents, Tony, and you compromise what might be the answer to this. If the president wants a briefing, I’m sure Justice will oblige.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“That’s necessary.”
“I assume Justice approved these undercover operations.”
“Assuming anything in this town is a tricky exercise, but you know that as well as anyone. Things okay with you, Tony?”
“They were until yesterday. I’ll get back to you.”
Joe Harris went outside to Pennsylvania Avenue before returning to his office in the Hoover Building. He was a smoker other smokers envied, able to limit himself to five or six cigarettes a day, none on some days. He lit up and walked to the corner of E Street, where hundreds of tourists were lined up for the FBI tour, one of the most popular in Washington. Not long ago, the tour had been suspended after the Bureau received what it considered to be credible threats against the facility. But it resumed when security, already tight, was further beefed up, and thousands of visitors filed through every day, learning that G-man stands for Government Man, and that the FBI stands for Federal Bureau of Investigation but also that the F stands for Fidelity, the B for Bravery, and the I for Integrity. The tour always ended with a dazzling firearms demonstration by a Bureau sharpshooter. Always a bull’s-eye. A shame things didn’t work that smoothly in real life.
Harris agreed with most Washingtonians, at least those who cared about such things, that the buff-colored, concrete-aggregate building named after J. Edgar Hoover ranked high on the city’s list of ugly edifices, a prime example of the school of architecture known as New Brutalism.
He snuffed the cigarette out, dropped it in a trash container on the corner, and cast a final glance at the tourists. Everyone in Washington, DC, was hot in summer, but there was no hotter-looking creature on earth than a tourist waiting in line for a tour.
He welcomed the blast of air-conditioning as he entered the building and went to his office, where his secretary told him that the director wished to see him. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“Outside for a smoke.”
“It sounds urgent. Why don’t you just quit?”
“This place?” He laughed.
“You know what I mean.”
FBI Director Russell Templeton was in his spacious office with top aides when Harris walked in. Harris liked working for Templeton better than he had for his predecessor, a much older man who, as far as Harris felt, was more of a political hack than a dedicated law enforcement officer worthy of leading the Bureau. What he especially admired was Templeton’s willingness to stand up to the attorney general, whom Harris lumped in with the former FBI director as but another of the previous administration’s misguided appointments.
“How’d the meeting go?” Templeton asked once Harris had joined the others in a circle of chairs around the director’s desk.
“All right. Nothing new. I gave Tony Cammanati the information about the missiles.”
“What did he say?”
Harris ran his hand over his head, on which stubble was reappearing. “He’s taking it to the president who, no surprise, wants this solved yesterday. I mentioned to him—general terms only—the ongoing investigation into right-wing hate groups.” Harris turned to the special agent to his right: “Scope?”
The agent looked to Templeton for a signal that he could respond. Instead, the director gave the answer. “Scope is due to report in tonight.” He raised his eyebrows at the agent to Harris’s right, a silent call for affirmation.
“That’s right, sir.”
“How long