HOOD WAS ON vacation and Cohan was acting SAC. He’d taken over Hood’s corner office and made a point of calling people in to see him. When it was Nessheim’s turn he found Cohan gazing out the window towards the San Gabriel Mountains, which were picture-sharp this morning and snow-peaked. He swivelled in his chair and Nessheim saw that Cohan had his suit jacket buttoned and his tie pulled up tight in a Windsor knot. He looked like he was going to a funeral, or about to conduct one.
But he spoke cheerfully enough, saying, ‘You had a phone call earlier today. One of the girls took the message – I got it somewhere here.’ He fumbled with the papers on his desk, then handed a pink phone slip to Nessheim. It had a number and the Please Call box was ticked. The caller’s name was written down as Mrs M.
Cohan said, ‘So how are we doing on the visit to the studio?’
‘I spoke to Dedway – no problem there. Let me talk to Pearl. I know he’ll want you to have the VIP tour.’
Cohan seemed satisfied by this. ‘Well, I checked out your friend Mo. There’s nothing in the file.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s clean,’ said Cohan emphatically. ‘I even called Cleveland for you. Nothing there.’
‘Cleveland have never heard of him?’
‘Oh they’ve heard of him – he was a big shot there until he came West. But the businesses were all legit.’
‘I thought he was in booze.’
‘He was for a while, after Prohibition. He had a little trouble at one point with the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms folks, but they never charged him with anything. And while nobody’s saying this guy’s a fairy godmother, he’s white as far as the Bureau’s concerned.’
Cohan looked down at the papers on his desk to indicate that they were through. But there was another question Nessheim wanted to ask. ‘Tell me something. You know this guy I was using, Osaka?’
‘What about him?’ Cohan said warily.
‘What does Hood have against him?’
Cohan shrugged. ‘Osaka was supposed to help us with our list of who’s who among the Nips in LA. That way if war breaks out, we’ll be ready to nab the important ones right away. Though if it was up to me,’ he added, making Nessheim grateful it wasn’t, ‘I’d round them all up.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Osaka kept making excuses and not giving us any names. Finally Hood got fed up and took his retainer away. I don’t think Osaka was ever going to help us.’
‘Maybe he didn’t want to be a pigeon for his own people.’
Cohan looked at him scornfully. ‘When you start thinking that way you’re no use to the Bureau.’
Nessheim took the cue this time and left.
His desk didn’t have a phone, but the agent sitting closest to him was away so he used his. He tried Guttman first and got his secretary Marie, who explained he was out of the office – Nessheim was leery of leaving a message. There was a telex in the field office, but he distrusted it – a copy of what he sent would be retained and could be read. On the drive home he could stop at Western Union in Hollywood and send a wire instead.
Then he looked at the slip Cohan had given him and dialled the number.
After three rings a woman answered.
‘Hello, I had a message to call a Mrs M,’ he said.
‘Is that Mr Nessheim?’ The voice was mildly familiar.
‘Yes. Who’s that?’
‘It’s Elizaveta Mukasei.’
It sounded like a garble of consonants. ‘Yes,’ he said tentatively.
‘You know, the lady standing next to “Bruiser” at the benefit the other night?’
He laughed. ‘Otherwise known as the wife of the Soviet Vice-Consul.’
‘I believe you found my husband a little verbose.’ Her English was excellent – accented to be sure and with the elocution of someone taught the language, but surprisingly idiomatic.
‘Don’t mind me: I was just itching for a drink.’
A chuckle came over the phone. ‘You amuse me, Agent Nessheim. I enjoyed our little talk. It would be nice to meet up with you some time.’
‘Well sure,’ he said, taken by surprise. ‘I’m a little busy right now, but I could meet for a coffee maybe,’ he added, feeling slightly awkward.
‘I had something more formal to offer.’
‘Right,’ he said neutrally.
‘Show some enthusiasm, Agent Nessheim,’ she said, struggling with the ‘th’ – it came out as ‘entusiasm’.
‘Okay, I’ll do my best.’ What did this woman want?
‘My husband and I are hosting a weekend at a ranch near Santa Barbara. Have you been there?’
‘Never.’ He found himself wondering how the workers of the world could run to a Santa Barbara ranch.
‘Before you say anything, you should know that it doesn’t belong to us. It belongs to a friend of our country, and he’s lent it to us. The weekend after next I would like you to come.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, along with other friends from LA. Before you politely say no, let me explain. You see, there’s something in it for both of us. It will let me try and convince you that America is a natural ally for the Soviet Union. And in turn you can see the kind of company the Russians are keeping in Los Angeles.’
‘What do you mean?’
She gave another low chuckle. ‘I know something about the FBI, Mr Nessheim. Your Mr Hoover is no friend of ours. But I am sure he believes in that old saying “know your enemy”. I am coming to you as a friend, but if I have to entertain you as an enemy, that’s all right too. You will be able to tell your superiors all about the Soviet plans for world domination, even if the presence of the German army in my country would suggest the foolishness of that view.’ This time she gave a full-throated laugh.
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m not sure how I’m fixed that weekend. I may be working.’
‘At the weekend? Some of our guests are coming out Friday evening, but if you prefer come Saturday. Bring trunks and some warm clothes – it gets cold up in the hills when the sun goes down. And you’ll want to spend the night I hope. It’s a long drive after all. Believe me, I know you would not find it a waste of time. And I think you would enjoy yourself.’
‘I’m sure I would,’ he said mechanically.
‘So you will do your best to come? I think we have a lot to talk about, Agent Nessheim. You might be surprised.’
‘Okay, I’ll let you know,’ he said.
‘I’ll send you directions. Do svidaniya,’ she said and hung up.
He sat for a minute, puzzled by the call. Hadn’t the Russians better things to do right now, with their backs against the wall? It wasn’t as if Nessheim was looking for company – at least not the artsy Communist sort. If Hood didn’t like Nessheim’s imaginary source Fifi, God knows what he would make of the real Red thing.