"Popov," said Kolhammer, who'd downloaded Intrepid for a skim-through before he'd first met Stephenson.
The Canadian rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Popov. You know, I can never get used to the idea that the world is full of people who know all my secrets now. Anyway, Popov was sent to New York by his Abwehr controller, this guy Auenrode. This is before Pearl Harbor, right? The Japs wanted to know all sorts of things about the defenses in Hawaii. The exact location of ammo and fuel dumps, which hangars are where, what ships and subs anchor at what piers.
"Hoover did nothing. He let this guy cool his heels for two weeks while he took off on a holiday with his boyfriend, with the mob probably picking up the tab. When he finally does get back, Hoover explodes, screeching at Popov to get out of his office."
Kolhammer knew the story. He even vaguely recalled that Popov had described Hoover as looking like "a sledgehammer in search of an anvil," although he hadn't seen that phrase when he quickly reread the book about Stephenson. He thought it was apt.
"Well, this is a pain, but I can live with it," Kolhammer said, twirling the antique listening device around his finger.
"I don't think you can, actually," Stephenson countered.
Kolhammer took a sip on his cold cup of coffee. It needed more rum. He was tired, and looking forward to a few hours' sleep on the cot he kept in the room next door. But he'd come to respect Churchill's spymaster as much as anyone he'd ever met, and if Stephenson was concerned enough to fly all the way out to California, it probably meant he had some real concerns.
"How so?" he asked.
Stephenson leaned forward as if to impart a secret, an unconscious gesture, given that this room was probably one of the most secure places on Earth.
"You know he's got agents crawling all over the Zone," he said. "And he's probably paying more for informants here than he is throughout the rest of the United States, and probably even in South America, too."
Kolhammer shrugged. "There's no secrets for him to dig up out here. The Zone operates under twenty-first century U.S. law and custom. He could set up a love shack with Tolson and start selling medical marijuana tomorrow, if he wanted to. No one would stop him. And likewise, he can't interfere with or stop what goes on out here. It's not his turf anymore."
"No, it's not," conceded Stephenson. "But underestimate him at your peril. Bill Donovan has OSS keeping very close tabs on Hoover, and he says the strain of the last few months is eating the man up. If he lashes out when he goes down, it's you he'll be aiming at and believe me, for a fairy, he hits hard. It's a laydown that he's behind this Un-American Activities bullshit. Donovan says a Bureau car picked up Dies and ferried him to dinner with Hoover and Tolson the night before the committee announced its new investigations. They've been all over one another like cheap Chinese suits for weeks, and remember, not everybody wants to publicly snuggle with Hoover nowadays."
Kolhammer snorted at the image and put his empty mug aside. A shaded lamp threw a small circle of light onto his desk. He peered into the gloom that lay just beyond. He could just make out a picture of his wife hung on the wall in the shadows on the far side of the room. She was lost to him now. He knew that, and the pain of their separation was never-ending.
"Bill," he said, "I don't doubt that you're right, and I'll give some thought to whatever precautions might be necessary. But my own comfort is a tenth-order issue right now. I have real enemies trying to kill my people, even as we speak.
"If I have to deal with Hoover, I will. Trust me."
Stephenson was not convinced. "You want to follow this HUAC thing very closely, Admiral. Every dollar you spend out here is raised in Washington. And they can cut you off, just like that. Dies isn't the only person Hoover is talking to, and the director is not the only one who wants to jam you back into your wormhole, or whatever it was."
Kolhammer made a rueful face at that. "Believe me, Bill, there are days I'd love nothing more. But the reality is, we're here. We fucked things up royally by coming here, and now it's my job to set them as right as I can. I know enough politics to watch my back, and if I have to kick someone's head, it'll get kicked. But I'm not going to pick fights for the sake of it. You're right. Our position here is tenuous. Bringing home those POWs generated a lot of goodwill. I get a couple of hundred letters a week thanking me for bringing home somebody's son or husband or brother. But in the end, we don't belong here. Not yet. Not for a fucking long time. And muscling up to somebody like Hoover, who enjoys genuine support-well, that's just dumb."
Stephenson poured another tot of rum into his empty coffee cup. "That day is coming, Admiral, whether you want it or not."
"I know. But a smart man chooses his battles. And he doesn't lash out at a strong enemy."
"Hoover's not as strong as he once was. None of the quality press have moved on him yet, but those pulpy biographies keep turning up like bad pennies, and the yellow press have been running with them. It's hurting him."
Kolhammer was as still and quiet as a bronze Buddha.
Stephenson smiled. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"I think," replied Kolhammer, "that it would be a mistake to personalize everything in terms of Hoover. Not all politics are personal."
Stephenson nodded, before changing the topic. "So, how are you settling in here, Admiral? I see you're still sleeping in that damned army cot. Couldn't you at least have requisitioned some kind of inflatable superbed from your own stores?"
Kolhammer smiled sadly and rubbed at his eyes. "I don't mind. A big bed would just remind me how empty it is every night."
"Excuse me, I'm sorry," said Stephenson, glancing at the picture of Marie Kolhammer on the desk. "It must be very difficult for you."
"And millions of others," said Kolhammer. "There's nothing special about me. Listen, Bill," he said suddenly, "would you like the grand tour? I normally can't get to sleep right away anyhow. I like to take a drive before turning in. I could show you the manor, as the Brits say, and drop you into town afterwards."
"Sure," said Stephenson, finishing his drink. "If you don't mind the drive."
Kolhammer called through to his PA to lock down the office and tell security he'd be sleeping at home for a change.
"You'll need your coat," he told Stephenson. "It gets chilly this time of year."
A female sailor was waiting by his Humvee out in front of the building. "It's been swept, sir. No bugs."
"Thank you, Paterson."
"I didn't think Admirals drove themselves anywhere," the Canadian quipped as he swung himself into the front passenger seat. "Or is this just another example of creeping socialism from the future."
Kolhammer shrugged. "It's like I said. I like to drive. It helps me wind down."
The campus was laid out around winding roads that had once been sheep and cattle tracks, when the land was owned by a grazing company. It was one of the few areas in the whole Valley not laid out on a grid system. The complex was still small, although large areas of land had been set aside for later expansion. They drove out through the checkpoint at the front gates within two minutes of Kolhammer starting the engine.
"I thought we'd run over to Sun Valley first," he said. "A lot of the aerospace companies are setting up there. It's close to Glendale airport, and there are good rail links."