Chapter 124: A Phone Call
With the international situation heating up, Hoover had been practically living at the White House. As his deputy, Tolson's schedule was even more brutal.
Theodore didn't catch up with Tolson until the afternoon after he met with Hoover.
Tolson wanted to assign Theodore and Bernie to the Investigation Department's bullpen, alongside the other Bureau lawyers, and have them share desk space like everyone else.
But Theodore pushed for an independent workspace for his team.
The only option was the basement.
Theodore had already scouted the territory with Bernie, a forgotten storage room on the first basement level.
Seven hundred and fifty square feet split into two chambers, crammed with decades of cast-off furniture.
2He'd mapped it out: the inner room for case files, the outer space for operations.
The basement came with problems: no windows, wheezing ventilation, and fluorescent lighting that made everything look like a morgue.
But privacy had its price.
Once Tolson signed off, Theodore and Bernie threw themselves into renovation.
They hauled out bureaucratic debris, scrubbed surfaces that hadn't seen attention since the Eisenhower administration, and sweet-talked building engineers into installing proper phone lines and upgrading electrical systems.
After their eight hours upstairs, they'd cross the Potomac to house-hunt in Arlington.
The place they'd settled on was a three-story Colonial showing its age; twenty-three grand, perfect for Bernie's federal employee loan at four and a half per cent.
The real selling point was the neighbourhood: sixty per cent of the residents were FBI lawyers.
Bernie made the call to his wife that evening, long-distance charges ticking away. By the time they hung up, the decision was made.
The loan paperwork nearly broke Bernie's spirit. Employment verification, salary records dating back to his days as a beat cop in Felton, notarised asset statements.
Theodore had seen FBI case closure reports, monuments to procedural overkill. The mortgage application made them look simple.
While Bernie wrestled with banks and credit checks, Theodore squeezed in two more meetings with Tolson, pushing for additional personnel. P
Progress was measured in millimetres, not miles.
March 31st arrived grey and drizzling.
Their basement office was finally ready, four government desks, whiteboards on the walls, enough space to make voices echo. The inner room held two rows of filing cabinets with exactly two lonely case folders.
Through the walls came the rhythmic crack of gunfire from the Bureau's training range. The soundproofing was nonexistent.
Bernie stuffed tissue paper in his ears. "You think we'll accomplish anything down here?"
Theodore rolled notebook paper into makeshift earplugs. "Privacy has advantages."
At noon, blessed silence as the range called lunch break.
Theodore was reaching for his jacket when the phone rang.
Bernie grabbed the heavy black handset. "Investigation Department, Special Agent Sullivan—"
His face went rigid. The primitive speaker crackled, but Theodore caught every word of the flat, professional voice:
"Is this Mr. Bernie Sullivan? Your wife and child are with us. If you want them safe, at 3 PM, put $20,000 in a green Western Union envelope on the train to Pittsburgh. Car number three. After we get the money, we release your family."
A pause, letting poison sink in.
"Don't play tricks, Mr. Sullivan. Follow instructions exactly, and everyone stays safe. Twenty thousand for your family's lives, more than fair, don't you think?"
Bernie stood frozen, receiver pressed to his ear. This phone had been installed three days ago and used exactly once for this purpose.
"Call home," Theodore said quietly. "Verify."
Bernie's fingers worked the rotary dial with mechanical precision. The long-distance connection crawled through switching stations while seconds ticked away.
"AT&T Long Distance, where would you like to connect?"
"Felton, Texas. Madison 7-4521."
"Recipient paying, or are you?"
"I'm paying."
The line crackled across half a continent. Theodore scribbled notes: No relay station identifier when caller connected—local call, D.C. area. Male voice, practised, calm, slight Southern accent.
The phone rang thirty times. No answer. The operator offered to keep trying, but Bernie finally hung up.
He headed for the door without a word. Theodore followed, tucking his notebook away.
They had protocols in place for family emergencies and established proper channels for crisis response.
In the elevator on the way to the fifth floor, Theodore finished his analysis.
The caller had made one crucial mistake; no relay station announcement meant he was local, close enough for a D.C. call but demanding payment on a train to Pittsburgh.
Amateur mistake. However, amateurs with Bernie's family were still a danger.
The elevator doors opened onto the familiar chaos of the Bureau's main floor.
Bernie stepped out with his shoulders set, ready to follow procedure, even as his world was falling apart.
Theodore followed, wondering if their basement office would ever see them again.
[End of Chapter]
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Helloo everyone how are you ? Hope doing well and fine.
I was wondering about the title of this novel, i wonder what would convey the intent of the author directly having the current title [1960: My Uncle is Director of FBI] or a title with the J. Edgar Hoover in name.
Some thing like maybe [FBI 1960: J.Edgar Hoover is my Uncle] or maybe you can suggest something.
Becauase I believe people even outside America many know who Hoover is even I knew about him, and the readers will know that this involves him.
Just asking what do you say?
Also I got my hand on a "Band of Brothers" Fan-fic I was wondering if you guys would like to read to it.
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PLS: can we have a review form you pinky please, i would really love this novel having an official rating on site :)