– Adolph Hitler,
Final Munich speech before his arrest and execution by firing squad,1929 Chicago, Illinois The paper didn't have much more about the theft of the UBF dirigible. There had been a small article about how it was found abandoned in a field in Missouri the day before yesterday, but nothing new today. The headlines were mostly about the upcoming election, and FDR was talking about some New Deal, which just smelled a little too much like what the Marxists in Europe were shoveling for Sullivan's tastes. A group of his fellow veterans had gathered in Washington as what they were now calling the Bonus Army. Some anarchists were going on trial for something or other, but those assholes were always causing trouble. Besides that, the rest of the front page was about how the Bolsheviks had signed a new pact with the Imperium and the Siberian Cossacks to divide up Manchuria. The embargo was forcing the Japs to use hydrogen in their airships, but other than the inconvenience, they were busy as could be taking over everything in the Eastern hemisphere. The sports page was still going on about the baseball scandal, after the Yankees had been caught illegally using magic to hit more home runs, and the boxer he'd put $5 on to win last night had gotten knocked out in the second round. Figures…
The door opened. "We're ready for you."
Sullivan carefully folded the paper, put it back on the table, adjusted his tie, and entered the conference room.
"So, how are you feeling, Mr. Sullivan?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. Mostly he was feeling angry. Lied to, cheated, used… and that wasn't even counting the physical injuries he was still recuperating from. His back hurt, headaches were making it hard to sleep, his right hand still wouldn't close all the way, he had itchy stitches in his leg… and he was fighting a miserable cold. So overall, Jake Sullivan was in a lousy state, but when the man asking the question was also the man that had the power to put you back in prison, it did bring out a certain level of politeness.
"Fine, Mr. Hoover, sir. I'm doing fine," he lied. The bandage around his hand gave him an excuse not to shake J. Edgar Hoover's hand.
"Excellent," the Director of the Bureau of Investigation said as his assistant pulled a chair away from the table for Sullivan. It was at the far end of the conference room. "Have a seat. We were just discussing your actions in the Jones case."
Hoover was a stocky man. His eyes were quick and a little too crafty, and he spoke too well. Sullivan had never liked him, and had developed an instinctive distrust from the first time they'd met in Rockville.
Purvis looked uncomfortable. His arm was in a thick cast. The Fade had broken it in two places with that club. Cowley and the other four agents from that night were also present, as well as a couple members of Hoover's entourage and a grey-haired secretary who was poised to scribble some furious shorthand.
He was too much of a professional and a gentleman to speak badly about his superior to somebody like Sullivan, but it was obvious that Purvis didn't like Hoover much. It was understandable. Purvis worked his ass off and had busted some of the most dangerous Active criminals there were, but Hoover was always the big hero in all the papers. And now the special agent in charge of Chicago looked real uncomfortable since his boss had felt the need to hop a dirigible and fly all the way here from Washington to get a personal debriefing.
Sullivan had sat out in the hall for that part. He wasn't one of them. In fact, he was a convict, a low-class criminal dirtbag. He'd heard how some of these men spoke about him. They thought he was just a dim-bulb Heavy that they could bring in once in a while to smack around some Active hooligan they couldn't handle. Sure, there were a few Gs who treated him with respect, like Purvis and Cowley, or the Treasury guy Ness, but most of the others were openly hostile.
From the beaten feel of the Chicago agents, it looked like Hoover had given them a good ass chewing. "We were just telling the Director about your bravery-" Purvis started to speak, but Hoover scowled hard and Purvis shut his trap.
Hoover coughed politely before continuing. "These men were impressed by your actions, Mr. Sullivan, but I, on the other hand, am a bit let down."
Sullivan raised a single eyebrow. Oh, this ought to be rich.
"When you were released from Rockville early, you made an agreement that you would assist the government in capturing people like you… And my understanding is that you now wish to stop helping? Do I have that correct, son?"
Sullivan was pretty sure he was about the same age as Hoover, and he didn't cotton to being called son. "Yes, sir. That is correct, sir."
Hoover didn't like that answer, so he stopped and picked up a piece of paper and began to tap a golden pen on the table in front of him as he pretended to study it. His frown made the other agents shrink a bit. "You've been a valuable asset, one which Inot prepared to lose."
"With all respect, sir, my agreement with you and the warden was that I would help arrest five Active murderers." Sullivan held up his bandaged hand and began to count. "Tommy Gun Smith in Philly, Jim McKinley in Kansas City, the Crusher in Hot Springs, the Maplethorpe brothers in Detroit, which should count as two, and Delilah Jones was the last, and I did everything I could to catch her."
Hoover nodded. "So a Heavy can count. I see we've got us a jailhouse lawyer here, gentlemen…" The members of Hoover's entourage laughed. The Chicago agents knew better. "You want math, Sullivan? I'll give you math. Jones got away. So that makes four." Now Hoover held up his hand, thumb curled in. "And you did not manage to arrest the Maplethorpe brothers." Hoover lowered a chunky finger. "You gunned them down, in the streets, in broad daylight. Maybe you're right. They should count as two." He lowered another finger.
"They didn't leave us much choice, sir," Agent Cowley stated. "I was there. They came out shooting and-"
Hoover glared at the agent. Purvis shook his head angrily. Hoover had ended men's careers for far less than interrupting him. Cowley wisely backed down. Hoover turned back to Sullivan. "So by my calculations, that means you owe me three more arrests."
The big man's nostrils flared, but he kept his outward cool. "That wasn't the agreement."
Hoover leaned back in his chair. "Tolson." He opened his hand, held it out, and one of the functionaries immediately stepped forward and placed an open folder in it. "Thank you. This is your agreement, Mr. Sullivan. Let me educate you for a moment. An agreement is a contract between two men that is legally binding. Except that's the rub. You're not a man, you're a convict. So…" Hoover pulled out a sheet of white paper, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it at Sullivan. It fell short and rolled to a stop right in front of him. "The agreement says whatever I say it says. You will help arrest Delilah Jones, and you will do whatever else I tell you to do. Lincoln freed the slaves, but he never said anything about the convicts."
Sullivan just sat there, staring at that crumpled piece of typing paper. His anger fed the Power in his chest, and he thought about just reaching across the table and Spiking Hoover through the floor; then he could pull the pile of smashed guts and pulverized bones up out of there, launch it through the ceiling and spray it as a red rain over downtown Chicago…
But he didn't, because despite what the jury had said, Jake Sullivan was not a murderer. Sure, he was a killer, he'd lost count of how many lives he'd ended in the war and in fights in Rockville, but he wasn't a murderer. There was a difference.
He spoke very slowly. "You lied to me…"
"I work for the government, son. Deal with it." Hoover pushed away from the table and stood. He addressed the entire room. "Carry on, agents, and this time, when you let a felon escape, do not let it get in the papers. That will be all." One of his men opened the door, and Hoover turned to leave.