The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(35)

“There is some truth to that. We worked in a vacuum with no oversight from the executive or legislative branches. That wasn’t intentional. It simply happened over time, thanks to Hoover’s longevity and the reputation he forged as someone who didn’t require supervision.”

“A big mistake.”

“Yes. It was. Hindsight is always twenty/twenty.”

“As long as it’s not viewed through a filter.”

“Again. I agree. Hoover became dangerously autonomous. None of us challenged him. And for good reason. He convinced Congress to exempt the FBI from civil service laws. So every agent’s future rested entirely in his hands. Disagreeing with Hoover was the worst thing you could do. Believe me, I know.”

“That’s why you rewrote the report?”

He nodded. “My career would have been over. Hoover believed King to be an immoral, lying hypocrite. He hated the man. So everyone else within the FBI was required to hate him, too. I knew what he wanted to hear. Once a policy was set by Hoover, it could not be undone. You either played ball or went home. Your choice. I chose.”

“The whole ‘I was just following orders thing’ went by the wayside at Nuremberg.”

“This country was different then. The public supported the FBI. They loved Hoover. He was their hero. There was a respect for law enforcement that’s gone today.”

“All thanks to people like J. Edgar Hoover, who certainly did his part to make people distrust the police.”

“Again, I can’t disagree with those conclusions. Hoover built an empire. He worked mainly in secret and masked his actions behind a totally crafted public image that he went to great lengths to create. But you’re right, he waged a war on civil liberties and, unfortunately for Martin Luther King, by the time the civil rights movement came into existence, Hoover was at his zenith.”

My anger was growing. This guy was no moralistic saint. Repentant. I knew his type. Official vigilantes. Self-appointed Boy Scouts of the heartland with their perfect suits and brush-cut hair, possessed of values and beliefs that could justify anything, telling you precisely what you wanted to hear while driving a knife into your back.

“You personally knew there was no connection between communism and King, yet you went ahead and tried to destroy him.”

“We tried to destroy a lot of people. But Hoover and King’s relationship was different. King had the audacity to openly question the FBI’s own civil rights record. He pointed out there were no black agents and he leveled that there was a southern bias, on our part, with investigations. He was right on both counts, by the way. Hoover forbid the hiring of blacks and we did cater to southern law enforcement. We could not have functioned without good relationships with the local police. Those southern cops hated King and everything he stood for. When it came to choosing between civil rights protestors and the cops, that was no choice at all.”

I was going to enjoy kicking this old man’s butt. And I intended on doing just that. I was rapidly becoming real comfortable with a devil-may-care attitude. But the presence of Foster and the Perrys added a level of complication. So I decided to keep fishing while this guy was still nibbling at the hook.

“In ’64 King attacked Hoover again on the communist angle,” Oliver said. “His quote was that there were as many communists in the civil rights movement as there were Eskimos in Florida. That’s when Hoover held his famous press conference and called King the most notorious liar in the country. After that it was total war for Hoover. My marching orders were clear. Destroy King.”

“What was your role in COINTELPRO?”

“I was head of domestic intelligence. I ran the entire counterintelligence operation under Hoover. Then I headed its dismantling, after he died.”

At least I was speaking to the man at the top. “Only it’s not dismantled, is it?”

“That depends. As far as active and current? It’s gone. Times have changed.”

“Yeah. People actually try to follow the law now.”

“But as to guarding against threats from the past? We must remain vigilant to those.”

I motioned to the case. “Like what’s in there?”

He glanced at the waterproof case. “I truly believed that Juan Lopez Valdez was dead. He hasn’t been heard from in over twenty years. Instead, he’s not only alive, but went to the Dry Tortugas to meet with Benjamin Foster’s daughter and bring her documents that should no longer exist. I assure you, Lieutenant Malone, nothing good would have come from anyone seeing what’s inside there.”

“Then it’s lucky for you I came along and screwed everything up.”

He gestured with the pipe. “There is an element of fortuitousness in your presence.”

“Along with a pain in the ass?”

He chuckled. “Oh, yes. Jansen wants to kill you.”

“Let him try.”

“You’re an interesting man. A young naval officer. Fighter pilot. Law school graduate. JAG lawyer. Now a special operative with the Justice Department, whatever that means. And all before you turn thirty.”

“I’m having my résumé printed, can I include you as a reference?”

I could see I was getting to him. This guy was accustomed to giving orders, then people bowing as they backed from the room to follow them. But he’d heard two words that he hadn’t wanted to hear.