The Redhunter (19 page)

“Why not go for dinner,” Mary said. “For one thing, he’ll give you a drink at six, but he certainly wouldn’t at four.”

At 5:40 the car and driver were waiting for him at the designated spot. McCarthy hadn’t inquired where exactly they were going.
Some restaurant, probably. But he was driven to a modest brownstone in the Georgetown area. The driver parked the car, opened
the car door, and led him to the entrance, opening the door for him.

The director, in double-breasted navy blue blazer, a tiepin holding up his tie knot, his ebony cuff links conspicuous, extended
his hand to greet McCarthy. Hoover took his coat and led him into a small drawing room. The heavy door closed. “Can I get
you something from the bar, Senator?”

“Thanks. Maybe a bourbon and soda?”

Quickly the director got him the glass, bent down, and lit a fire. McCarthy stayed on his feet.

“Senator, you are onto the most important challenge in the history of the United States.”

The director went on through the cocktail hour, through dinner, and for an hour after dinner. He spoke of the loyalty/security
problem in the federal government. That was of course basic, he said. But it went beyond loyalty/security. “I can tell you
this right now, Senator—”McCarthy had not invited the director to address him as Joe. If he had, that would have implied a
reciprocal invitation to address Hoover as Edgar, and Joe could not imagine doing any such thing (like calling the pope Pius,
he told Jeanie the next morning). “What
was the incidence of Americans who voted for Henry Wallace, one in fifty? I’d wager a year’s salary that among federal employees
in the State Department it was one in five. What that suggests is an attitude. And it’s that attitude that’s killing us in
China, Korea, Germany, Turkey, Greece—and in Soviet nuclear-development laboratories.”

He looked McCarthy directly in the eyes. “You have the message. I felt it when I got the report this morning. Pickups on your
speech were placed on my desk throughout the afternoon. You’re going to have the ear of the American public. The people out
there know what’s at stake. They have a sense of what has happened to eastern Europeans, what goes on every day in the Soviet
Union. But
our leaders
don’t have that intuitive sense. Senator, you may be the critical man of this decade.”

Joe McCarthy was driven back to his apartment. When he got in the door he opened a bottle of bourbon. He sat at his desk and
closed his eyes. After a few moments, he got up and walked over to his briefcase, removing the text of his Wheeling speech
and Don Surine’s suggested revision for Reno. He opened the large research folder detailing information on the Bob Lee list
of 108 federal employees. He pondered the first on the list,
Esther Brunauer.
He ran his eyes over the data. His eyes traveled down to
Owen Lattimore.
Finally he lay down in his shorts and T-shirt. He recited his mother’s prayer. It closed, “… and make me, Lord, worthy of
thy designs. Amen.”

Wheeling Plus Two—for a while McCarthy and company used the term
Wheeling
as the military historians used
D-Day
—called for a speech in Reno. The night before, ABC News had made a brief mention of McCarthy’s speech at the Ohio County
Women’s Club two nights before. The national stir over the Wheeling speech was building. By the next day it was a large national
story. When Senator Joe McCarthy deplaned from United Airlines at Reno, Mac Duffie, his host, was at the gate with a telegram
received one hour before. He handed it to the senator at the baggage counter, where they stood waiting for his two bags. Joe
opened it. It was from Deputy Undersecretary of State John Puerifoy. He turned to his inquisitive host, who quivered with
curiosity.

“Department of State,” Joe said. “Puerifoy. He wants me to give him the
actual
names of the Communists I spoke about. I mean, the loyalty risks I spoke about. … You know—the people I talked about night
before last at Wheeling.”

The rhetorical shuffling missed Mac Duffie. From “Communists” to “loyalty risks.” Months and years of fighting would take
place: Which of the two terms had McCarthy used in his Wheeling speech, which had not been recorded. Mac Duffie didn’t much
care. “That was one hell of a speech, Senator.”

“Well, they had it coming.”

“How many Communists did you list in that speech? Was it two hundred?”

“God knows how many are there, Mac. There’s two sets of people we’re after, it’s not just ‘two hundred and five’ and ‘fifty-seven.’
It’s a complicated story. But I don’t blame John Puerifoy for being nervous about it. I’ll have to cable him a reply. … I’ve
got an hour or so in the hotel before the reception, right, Mac?”

“Yes, sure, Senator.”

“Call me Joe.”

“Sure, Joe.”

“I’ll need an hour or so. I’ll be sending a letter to the president.”

“A letter to President Truman?”

“Yes. I’ll dictate it to my office. It can be delivered to the White House.”

This was very big time, Mac Duffie told himself. He would call Tom Zurkin at the
Reno Gazette-Journal
the minute he dropped the senator off at the hotel.

Joe was taken to his suite, Mac left tactfully, and Joe placed the call to his office. The telephone call to Don Surine seemed
endless. Don Surine was a former FBI agent, in his early thirties, dark haired, sturdy in build, serious in manner. He had
just joined up with McCarthy. He was tenacious but also fastidious, and he wanted to know exactly how to handle, now, the
confusion over exactly what his employer had said at Wheeling. Surine knew that McCarthy often departed from texts, improvising
freely. He simply did not know exactly what figure he had used or the exact wording of his charge. The most stringent version
was that Secretary of State Dean Acheson continued to head up a State Department where 205 employees were
members of the Communist Party. The most moderate version was that 57 employees of the State Department were loyalty risks.

“We got to get it straight on the numbers. Let’s decide which of the lists you want to stick with, Joe. What’s the figure
you’re using in the speech tonight?”

“Fifty-seven.”

“Should we stick with that, Joe?”

McCarthy was a little irritated. “The place has got to be crawling with them. We’ve seen Bob Lee’s report. And he was talking
about just the State Department. My guess is they’re all over the place. We’ve just scratched the surface on this question.
We now—finally—have some idea why our side is losing all over the world. Because the let’s-go-easy-on-the-Communists people
are influencing policy.”

“God knows I agree with you, Joe. But what’re you going to do about Puerifoy? His telegram was leaked to the
Post.
”

“I’m going to reply directly to Truman.”

“What’re you going to say?”

“Put Mary on the line. I’ll dictate to her. I’ve got it written out here. She’ll show it to you. Send it by messenger to the
White House. Okay?”

“Okay. Here’s Mary.”

Joe began to dictate. He described his list and said, “This list is available to you, but you can get a much longer list by
ordering Secretary Acheson to give you a list of those whom your board listed as being disloyal and who are still working
in the State Department.” He went on to say that only 80 out of 300 State Department employees certified for discharge had
actually been let go. He added, “… presumably after a lengthy consultation with Alger Hiss.” He interrupted himself after
dictating that line.

“Like that, Mary?”

“Yeah, Joe. And the president will of course love it. What’s it been, three weeks since Hiss was convicted? Two years since
Truman said the Hiss case was a red herring?”

McCarthy finished his letter by requesting the president to revoke his 1948 order sealing the loyalty files. That famous presidential
order, issued under executive authority, forbade any interrogation of executive personnel by legislators. Truman had reacted
against efforts by the House Committee on Un-American Activities to probe
the security files of State Department and other personnel. If he refused to revoke that order, President Truman would be
labeling the Democratic Party “the protector of international Communism.”

“Why not make that ‘the bedfellow of international Communism,’ Joe?”

“Good. The ‘bedfellow of international Communism.’ Now put me back to Don, Mary.”

He came on. “Don? Look, the other side is playing pretty dirty. You knew about Puerifoy’s letter to me before I actually read
it. Let’s show them we can play that game too. Let’s release my letter to the press.”

“Anybody in particular?”

“We want instant action on it. AP.”

“I’ll give it to George Backer. Know Backer, Joe?”

“Hell, yes, he was in the marines.”

“Get wet crossing the equator?”

“Fuck you, Don.”

“Will do, Senator.”

At 9:45, carrying a bulky manila folder, Senator Joe McCarthy opened the door of his office to begin the long marbled walk
to the Senate chamber. The day had come, just eleven days after the Wheeling speech, when the full Senate would hear out “McCarthy’s
charges” and decide how to proceed. The august body seldom moved so fast, but there was a national clamor: Investigate McCarthy’s
charges. Majority leader Scott Lucas interrupted the calendar. McCarthy would make his charges to the entire body.

Don Surine and Mary walked with him as far as the elevator. There Surine extended his hand. “Give ‘em hell, Senator.” Mary
angled herself for a quick kiss on the forehead. She had sneaked a folded handkerchief into his vest pocket. “Try to dress
up our Joe just a little bit.”

“Never used one of these before, Mary. I was saving it for when I get married. Now they’ll confuse me with Cooper.” Joe’s
reference was to John Sherman Cooper, the picture-perfect solon from Kentucky, conspicuous as a natty dresser.

“No one will confuse you with Senator Cooper,” Mary said, backing away from the elevator door as it opened.

Waiting at the lobby were a half dozen photographers and as many reporters. One middle-aged woman in a long skirt, her hair
tightly contained in a bun, writing pad in hand, came to within a few feet of the senator, walking alongside to keep pace.

“What are you going to tell them, Senator? You got any new names?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve got to get to the chamber. You’ll hear everything I have to say.”

A voice from another reporter overrode. “You got anything on the White House, Senator? On President Truman?”

He succeeded in catching Joe’s attention.

“He’s made some mistakes. But—” Joe was rescued by his colleague, Senator Homer Capehart, approaching the chamber along with
a dozen other senators.

“Let’s get along, Joe. There’s plenty of time later.” Senator Capehart had had long experience with importunate reporters.
He smiled, brushed them to one side, and propelled Joe McCarthy down into the Senate subway.

A few minutes later, they entered the sacred chamber. It was very nearly full. Joe sensed genuine anticipation. The smell
of it brought both drama and spice. The constant routine, the aides in their neat jackets and ties buzzing about silently
with their folders and messages, the little drone from the press gallery, like an orchestra tuning up. He passed by the desk
of Senator Wherry, who caught his coat sleeve and said, “Let’s hear it all, Joe. I’m listening.” Joe smiled broadly, tapped
his manila folder. “See you later, Ken.”

A young newsman seated next to Sam Tilburn, veteran reporter for the
Indianapolis Star,
leaned over in the press gallery to his fellow reporter. “What I don’t
really
understand, Sam, is why so many senators are obviously on McCarthy’s side. Do they know he’s right about Communists in government?
Do they hope he’s right? What is it?”

“They like the sound of him, they like the national support he’s getting. They like it that Truman and Acheson and the liberal
bureaucrats are hurting. I mean, it’s only ten days since he gave that speech in Wheeling and he’s become a national celebrity.”

“So it’s got nothing to do with anything he’s proven?”

“Nothing. He hasn’t proven
anything
—yet.”

The aged vice president was in the chair and gaveled for the start of proceedings. The Senate chaplain said a prayer. It included
an
appeal for divine protection against the enemies of the state. Joe’s bowed head looked up, registering apparent surprise.
Vice President Alben Barkley then acknowledged the majority leader.

“Mr. Lucas has the floor.”

Senator Scott Lucas, senior senator from Illinois and Democratic majority leader, rose. He was tall, dignified in bearing.
That day he was in good humor, not always the case. He leaned heavily for expert opinion on how to conduct his high office
on Senator Russell of Georgia, the member most conversant with Senate business, lore, and indeed arcana. Senator Russell’s
desk was in the same row, a few desks removed. Russell eyed his protege expectantly.