He dipped the fingertips of his right hand into his water glass, as if it were a fingerbowl, and then raised the fingers to his lips, moistening them gently.

Then he said, “My phones are tapped. Electronic bugs all through my house.”

This wasn’t making sense to me; I sat forward. “Why bring me in from Chicago? Why don’t you call some of your friends in from the FBI or intelligence or something, and do a sweep?”

“That’s who probably planted them.”

I sat back. “Oh.”

He began to shake his head, slowly, his eyes glazed. “We won the war, Nate, but we’re going to lose the peace.”

“What are you talking about, Jim?”

“I’m talking about Communists in government.”

“Communists. In our government.”

He nodded gravely.

“And that’s who’s ‘after’ you.”

His eyes flared. “If I knew who wanted me dead, why would I hire you?”

“Who else could it be, Jim? Besides the Communists.”

His whiskey sour glass was empty. He lighted up his trademark pipe, having to work a little to get it going. I was about to repeat the question when he said, “That prick Pearson, for one.”

Lowering his pipe, which was in his left hand, he again dipped the fingertips of his right hand in his water glass and remoistened his lips.

“The S.O.B. made me out a coward, Nate.” He was trembling; I’d never seen Forrestal tremble before, and I couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or rage. “Told a pack of damn lies that made me out a yellow weakling who ran from danger when his wife was threatened! I wasn’t even there, when that robbery occurred….”

“Jim … Pearson’s a newspaperman. All he’s after are stories.”

Forrestal’s hand was clenching the bowl of the pipe as if it were a hand grenade he was preparing to lob. “Pearson is not a mere newspaperman. He’s a crusader-a misguided one-and a pawn of the Communists. Hell, he may be a damn Russian agent; certainly it’s no great stretch of the imagination to see him on Stalin’s payroll.”