Edgar Hoover

The car left the tranquil wealthy district and returned to Washington along the road they had come by.

As they entered the city, Feilan suddenly said, "Mr. Carvalho, I don't want to go home right now. Could I trouble you to take me to the Department of Justice Building?"

Carvalho paused. He glanced at Feilan through the rearview mirror, then quickly looked away. "Of course, Mr. Feilan."

The Rolls-Royce turned at the next intersection and headed toward the Department of Justice.

The Department of Justice Building stood in downtown Washington.

It was a six-story gray granite building, constructed in the late nineteenth century. Its outer walls were already somewhat weathered.

The main entrance was in a typical academic style, with two stone pillars supporting a triangular pediment. Yet the pillars' surfaces had eroded, and the relief carvings on the pediment had become blurred beyond recognition.

Compared with the towering, magnificent Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building of later generations, it looked far too plain.

Feilan entered through the main doors. Security at the Department of Justice was lax at present; without facing any inspection, he made his way up to the fourth floor.

On the right side of the fourth floor, a brass plaque was nailed to a wooden door. Several words were engraved on it—Bureau of Investigation.

This was the predecessor of the Federal Bureau of Investigation that would make countless people tremble at the very mention of its name in later generations.

For now, it was merely an inconspicuous department under the Department of Justice.

It stood on equal footing with the Bureau of Prisons, Bureau of Internal Revenue, Immigration Bureau, and the rest.

It had no branches spread across the country, no records system that would later keep politicians awake at night, and no independent kingdom of overwhelming power.

The Bureau of Investigation's responsibilities were simple at present.

It investigated violations of federal law, mainly bank robberies, fugitives crossing state lines, and fraud targeting government officials.

It did not yet possess the all-pervasive intelligence network it would later have, nor the political influence that would make even presidents wary.

At present, the Bureau of Investigation was nothing more than an utterly ordinary government department.

But Feilan knew what it would become next.

Naturally, there was one man who could not be avoided when speaking of this.

Edgar Hoover.

It was he who, over forty-eight years, turned the Bureau of Investigation from an inconspicuous little department into an empire of immense power, one that was almost independent of the government.

The Hoover of later years was synonymous with power.

Congressmen feared him because he held their weaknesses in his hands.

Officials feared him because he knew their unspeakable secrets.

Do not think presidents could escape it. Presidents feared him too.

It was said that several presidents had wanted to remove him, but every time that thought had barely surfaced, Hoover would pay them a "friendly" visit and discuss certain topics unsuitable for public disclosure.

Then those thoughts vanished.

The underworld likewise trembled at the mention of his name.

In the film The Godfather, when the great director was threatened, his first reaction was: "I have Director Hoover's number."

A man whom even presidents had to fear.

A man who controlled the Bureau of Investigation for forty-eight years and remained unshaken through eight presidents.

A man who moved with ease in both the underworld and the respectable world.

"Sir?"

As Feilan was thinking, a voice came from behind him.

He turned around. A young clerk in an ordinary suit stood in the corridor, looking at him curiously. "This is the Bureau of Investigation. May I ask what business you have here?"

"I'm here to see your Director Edgar Hoover."

The clerk froze for a moment, then looked him over again. "May I ask who you are...?"

"Tell your director that my name is Feilan Roosevelt."

The clerk's expression changed. He gave Feilan a long, searching look, then turned and hurried away.

He walked to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked softly.

"Come in."

The clerk pushed open the door and entered.

The office was simply furnished: a wooden desk, several chairs, a filing cabinet, and a map of the United States hanging on the wall.

Thirty-eight-year-old Edgar Hoover was reading a report.

He did not yet possess that imposing aura that inspired fear without anger, nor those eyes that sent chills down one's spine.

Dressed in an ordinary white shirt, with his sleeves rolled to his wrists and his tie knotted with meticulous precision, he looked like a diligent mid-level bureaucrat.

"What is it?"

Hoover asked without looking up.

"Mr. Hoover, there is a... a man outside claiming to be Feilan Roosevelt. He says he wants to see you."

Hoover's movements instantly froze.

He abruptly raised his head and stared at the clerk, a flash of disbelief in his eyes.

Feilan Roosevelt.

Of course he had heard that name.

Recently, the hottest topic among Washington's upper ranks was this young man who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Whenever those Cabinet officials, who normally looked down their noses at everyone, mentioned him, their voices carried respect.

Word from the White House was that the President followed his every word.

Even the Attorney General, upon running into him in the corridor a few days ago, had deliberately stopped to exchange a few words.

If Feilan Roosevelt had come to see the Attorney General, Hoover would not have been surprised in the slightest.

But he had come to see him, the director of a tiny Bureau of Investigation?

Seeing him stare blankly, the clerk cautiously asked, "If you don't wish to see him, I can..."

"No!"

Hoover sharply cut him off. "Bring him to me immediately!"

He rose to his feet, tossed the report onto the desk, and casually straightened his shirt and tie.

The clerk nodded and hurried away.

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

The clerk stepped aside, and a young man walked in.

Feilan Roosevelt.

They said this man was only twenty-five, but he seemed even younger in person.

Yet as those eyes swept over the office, Hoover felt something strange: it was as though he was not being examined by a person, but weighed on a scale.

Hoover immediately went forward and extended his hand, humbling his manner. "Mr. Feilan, I have long heard of your great reputation. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, Director Hoover."

The tone was calm, but for some reason, Hoover felt there was something deeply meaningful hidden in those words.

"Mr. Feilan, if you needed anything, you only had to call me. I would have come to see you personally. There was no need for you to trouble yourself with a trip here."

Feilan smiled faintly. "It's fine. I just happened to be handling something nearby, so I stopped by on the way."

Hoover nodded and hurriedly stepped aside in invitation. "Please, have a seat."

Hoover personally poured Feilan a glass of water and placed it before him.

The two sat down across the desk from each other.

Feilan did not speak first. He merely looked at Hoover and began studying him carefully.

So this was Edgar Hoover.

A man who would make countless people tremble at the very mention of his name over the coming decades.

If one looked closely enough, one could indeed sense an indescribable aura about him.

Cold and shadowy, alert as a beast poised to pounce on its prey; and beneath it, an ambition buried deep, quietly swelling within this shabby office.