Hugo pretended to search for it. ‘I don’t think that’s in this file.’
‘So you can’t prove Levison is a Communist.’
‘We don’t need proof,’ Hugo said, showing irritation. ‘We’re not going to prosecute him. We’re simply informing the Attorney General of our suspicions, as is our duty.’
George’s voice rose. ‘You’re blackening Dr King’s name by claiming that a lawyer he consulted is a Communist – and you offer no evidence whatsoever?’
‘You’re right,’ said Hugo, surprising George. ‘We need more evidence. That’s why we’ll be asking for a wiretap on Levison’s phone.’ The Attorney General had to authorize wiretaps. ‘The file is for you.’ He proffered it.
George did not take it. ‘If you wiretap Levison, you’ll be listening to some of Dr King’s calls.’
Hugo shrugged. ‘People who talk to Communists take the risk of being wiretapped. Anything wrong with that?’
George thought there was something wrong with that, in a free country, but he did not say so. ‘We don’t know that Levison is a Communist.’
‘So we need to find out.’
George took the file, stood up, and opened the door.
Hugo said: ‘Hoover will undoubtedly mention this next time he meets with Bobby. So don’t try to keep it to yourself.’
That thought had crossed George’s mind, but now he said: ‘Of course not.’ It had been a bad idea anyway.
‘So what will you do?’
‘I’ll tell Bobby,’ George said. ‘He’ll decide.’ He left the room.
He went up in the elevator to the fifth floor. Several Justice Department officials were just coming out of Bobby’s office. George looked in. As usual, Bobby had his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled, and his glasses on. He had evidently just finished a meeting. George checked his watch: he had a few minutes before his next meeting. He walked in.
Bobby greeted him warmly. ‘Hi, George, how are things with you?’
It had been like this ever since the day George had imagined Bobby was about to hit him. Bobby treated him like a bosom pal. George wondered if that was a pattern. Maybe Bobby had to quarrel with someone before becoming close.
‘Bad news,’ George said.
‘Sit down and tell me.’
George closed the door. ‘Hoover says he’s found a Communist in Martin Luther King’s circle.’
‘Hoover is a troublemaking cock sucker,’ said Bobby.
George was startled. Did Bobby mean that Hoover was queer? It seemed impossible. Maybe Bobby was just being insulting. ‘Name of Stanley Levison,’ George said.
‘Who is he?’
‘A lawyer Dr King has consulted about tax and other matters.’
‘In Atlanta?’
‘No, Levison is based in New York.’
‘It doesn’t sound like he’s really close to King.’
‘I don’t believe he is.’
‘But that hardly matters,’ Bobby said wearily. ‘Hoover can always make it sound worse than it is.’
‘The FBI say Levison is a Communist, but they won’t tell me what evidence they have, though they might tell you.’
‘I don’t want to know anything about their sources of information.’ Bobby held up his hands, palms outwards, in a defensive gesture. ‘I’d be blamed for every goddamn leak for ever after.’
‘They don’t even have Levison’s party card number.’
‘They don’t fucking know,’ Bobby said. ‘They’re just guessing. But it makes no difference. People will believe it.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘King has to break with Levison,’ Bobby said decisively. ‘Otherwise Hoover will leak this, King will be damaged, and the whole civil rights mess will just get worse.’
George did not think of the civil rights campaign as a ‘mess’, but the Kennedy brothers did. However, that was not the point. Hoover’s accusation was a threat that had to be dealt with, and Bobby was right: the simplest solution was for King to break with Levison. ‘But how are we going to get Dr King to do that?’ George asked.
Bobby said: ‘You’re going to fly down to Atlanta and tell him to.’
George was daunted. Martin Luther King was famous for defying authority, and George knew from Verena that in private as well as in public King could not easily be talked into anything. But George hid his apprehension behind a calm veneer. ‘I’ll call now and make an appointment.’ He went to the door.
‘Thank you, George,’ Bobby said with evident relief. ‘It’s so great to be able to rely on you.’
*
The day after she went swimming with the President, Maria picked up the phone and heard the voice of Dave Powers again. ‘There’s a staff get-together at five-thirty,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come?’
Maria and her flatmates had plans to see Audrey Hepburn and the dishy George Peppard in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But junior White House staffers did not say ‘No’ to Dave Powers. The girls would have to drool over Peppard without her. ‘Where do I go?’ she said.
‘Upstairs.’
‘Upstairs?’ That usually meant the President’s private residence.
‘I’ll pick you up.’ Dave hung up.
Maria immediately wished she had put on a more fancy outfit today. She was wearing a plaid pleated skirt and a plain white blouse with little gold-coloured buttons. Her hairpiece was a simple bob, short in the back with long scimitars of hair either side of her chin, in the current fashion. She feared she looked like every other office girl in Washington.
She spoke to Nelly. ‘Have you been invited to a staff get-together this evening?’
‘Not me,’ said Nelly. ‘Where is it?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Lucky you.’
At five-fifteen Maria went to the ladies’ room to adjust her hair and make-up. She noticed that none of the other women were making any special effort, and she deduced that they had not been invited. Perhaps the get-together was for the newest recruits.
At five-thirty, Nelly picked up her handbag to leave. ‘You take care of yourself, now,’ she said to Maria.
‘You, too.’
‘No, I mean it,’ said Nelly, and she walked out before Maria could ask what she meant by that.
Dave Powers appeared a minute later. He led her out of doors, along the West Colonnade, past the entrance to the pool, then back inside and up in an elevator.
The doors opened on a grand hallway with two chandeliers. The walls were painted a colour between blue and green that Maria thought might be called eau de nil. She hardly had time to take it in. ‘We’re in the West Sitting Hall,’ Dave said, and led her through an open doorway into an informal room with a scatter of comfortable couches and a large arched window facing the sunset.
The same two secretaries were here, Jenny and Jerry, but no one else. Maria sat down, wondering whether others were going to join them. On the coffee table was a tray with cocktail glasses and a jug. ‘Have a daiquiri,’ Dave said, and poured it without waiting for her answer. Maria did not drink alcohol often, but she sipped it and liked it. She took a cheese puff from the tray of snacks. What was this all about?
‘Will the First Lady be joining us?’ she asked. ‘I’m longing to meet her.’