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wasn’t,” I said.
    “That’s not entirely true,” Baughman admitted. “As you discovered yourself, today, Drew Pearson’s people are actively, continually investigating, even hounding, Secretary Forrestal.”
    “Nate, we’d like your cooperation,” Wilson said.
    “Why?”
    “Let’s begin with you telling us what you’re doing for Secretary Forrestal. After all, we’ve been forthcoming with you.”
    And they had been.
    So I told them, since—what the hell—they’d figured it out anyway and just needed my confirmation. Then I complimented them on the Secret Service’s expertise, because I sure hadn’t seen any signs of their surveillance.
    “We thought perhaps you had,” Baughman said with a wry little smile.
    “Why?”
    Baughman laughed, once. “Because at one point you fell in right behind Daniels and Burnside, and seemed to be monitoring their conversation.”
    I frowned. “Who the hell are Daniels and Burnside?”
    “Male and female team of agents. They were posing as honeymooners.”
    “Yeah … yeah, I thought they seemed a little wrong.”
    “No you didn’t,” Wilson said.
    “No I didn’t,” I admitted. “Listen, could Forrestal really be in danger from, say, the Zionists?”
    “Unlikely,” Wilson said. “His anti-Israel stance becomes more or less irrelevant when he steps down from office.”
    “More or less?”
    “Well, he is a potential presidential candidate … but try to kill him? The Israelis are lobbying for American support, raising money, building an image. Would they risk an assassination of a respected, admired American like Jim Forrestal?”
    Baughman snorted. “It’s absurd.”
    I asked, “What about foreign agents?”
    “Reds, you mean.”
    “Yeah, or maybe American members of the Communist party, in bed with the Russians.”
    Baughman shook his head. “The secretary’s suspicions are unfounded. There’s very little evidence of espionage activity by the Russians in this country, and what there is certainly doesn’t include assassination. Again, Forrestal’s a moot point now—unless his political future should blossom.”
    I looked from Baughman to Wilson. “Is that Truman’s interest in Forrestal? As a potential political opponent in the next presidential election?”
    “No,” Baughman said firmly. “Truman doesn’t always agree with Forrestal, but he admires the man, and appreciates what he’s done for this country.”
    “Nate,” Wilson said, almost gently, “Secretary Forrestal has occupied … at this moment, still does occupy … an extremely rarefied position of power in our government. He is privy to information, secrets, knowledge that only a handful of living Americans share.”
    “And if he’s cracking up,” I said, finally starting to get it, “that makes him dangerous.”
    Baughman, speaking slowly, as if to a child, said, “This is a man who controls … or at least has controlled … weapons of enormous destructive capacity.”
    “You mean planes loaded with atomic bombs. Is this where you and the Atomic Energy Commission come in, Frank?”
    Wilson ignored that. “Secretary Forrestal is a great man. A public servant with few peers, a patriot of historic distinction. His government wants to help him, if in fact this is his hour of need.”
    Wilson seemed sincere, but I knew horse hockey when I heard it.
    “Mr. Heller,” Baughman said, “what we tell you stays in this room.”
    “Understood.”
    “Secretary Forrestal has become exceedingly nervous and emotional … afflicted with insomnia and loss of appetite.”
    “You’ve learned this from surveillance?”
    Baughman hesitated, glancing at Wilson, who shrugged and nodded; then Baughman said, “That maid … that same maid Jack Anderson was speaking to tonight, in Georgetown … also spoke to my people. She told us that Mr. Forrestal has become so overly suspicious that whenever the doorbell rings, he goes to a window and peers out secretly, to see who’s