The Brea File (8 page)

“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 investigation 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?

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.”

Fortuitous indeed, Macimer thought.

“I suggested to the Director that you be named to head up the investigation of the Brea file,” Halbig said. “He agreed. You’re one of our most experienced people in dealing with terrorist activities—and, of course, you were part of the PRC Task Force, so you’re familiar with the background and circumstances Lippert was digging into.” Halbig rubbed his nose pensively. “Did you know Vernon Lippert? Yes, you must have.”

Macimer was still trying to absorb the implications of the missing Brea file. “Not well, but we met a few times.”

“He died in a boating accident last February. I’m sure you heard. Apparently he had been conducting an unauthorized investigation of the whole PRC affair up until his death. Why he made a secret of it, and what he found, we don’t know, except for the reports I’ve mentioned. We want to know as quickly as possible. Set up your own team—you can have anyone you want, within reason, of course. You’ll have to work out of your own office, I’m afraid; you have no idea how short of space we are here. The key to this one, Paul, is resourcefulness—quality, not quantity. We can’t use big manpower because we don’t want this investigation to be highly visible until we know what’s involved.” Halbig paused, and there was a glint in his eyes that Macimer couldn’t read. “Report directly to me. The Director will want to be right on top of this. I’m sure you’re aware that his confirmation hearings come up before the Senate in two weeks.”

For the first time Macimer had a feeling of uneasiness about his assignment. He remembered Jim Caughey’s warning:
It could be trouble. Watch your step
. Circumspect as he had been, Caughey had stuck his neck out making that phone call.

Trouble for whom? Macimer wondered.

What were the contents of the Brea file? And why had Vernon Lippert concealed them?

“The Director is listening to those two tape recordings this afternoon,” Russ Halbig told him. “Copies and transcripts will be on your desk in the morning. I suggest you take a look at our files on the People’s Revolutionary Committee to refresh your own memory. And,” he added, “to see if you can find what set Vernon Lippert off.”

* * * *

FBI files in the Records Management Division occupied nearly three complete floors of the FBI Building. There were more than 60 million cards in the General Index, for which the Automated Records Management System—called ARMS—provided automated index searching and name checks. The investigative files themselves numbered more than 7 million, and many of these were massive, containing thousands of forms and documents. Every piece of paper, or serial, in any Headquarters file was numbered, and there was a corresponding index card with an abstract of its contents. It was said that someone went to a file and consulted a record more than 60,000 times a day.

Not that anyone—even a Special Agent—was free to roam the seemingly endless corridors of file cabinets. Anyone doing so without specific authorization would be stopped and questioned. In the old days, Macimer remembered, messengers had been used to retrieve requested files or documents. Now there was a speedier telelift system with little plastic cars running along overhead rails, stopping at a network of 72 stations to drop off files and mail, like the dump cars of a miniature railroad set. Macimer wondered if a model-train hobbyist had designed the system.