Chapter 332: Storms In Both Camps
At four in the morning, Tolson’s private secretary discovered something unusual during a routine check.
The villa gate was ajar, and the air was filled with the smell of blood and gunpowder.
He pushed the door open and stepped on the first body, crying out, “Oh God!”
In the garden, the bodies of two police dogs lay twisted; the second-floor hallway was splattered with blood, Hoover lay in a pool of blood in the master bedroom, and the words “For JFK” on the wall stood out prominently.
The secretary’s mind collapsed: “Director… no, Hoover! Tolson will go mad.”
Just as Secretary Walker was about to search the villa for a telephone to notify Tolson, the telephone was missing.
The telephone was actually missing.
Only the cable traces remained, showing that this villa once had a telephone.
To add an explanation, with the current telephone system, the telephone company couldn’t save call records; telephone companies didn’t start saving call records until the 1970s.
But the telephone might have call records saved.
In other words, Dobrynin sent someone to take the telephone to avoid discovery that all the damn calls to Edgar Hoover before his death were from the Soviet Embassy.
Isn’t this asking for trouble?
Dobrynin seized the time gap between Hoover’s death and Secretary Walker’s discovery and took the telephone away.
Walker, trembling all over, returned to his residence and finally got through to Tolson on the telephone: “Sir, something terrible has happened! Hoover has been killed, all security personnel and police dogs are dead!”
The news spread like wildfire.
Tolson immediately sealed off the scene, but you can’t cover fire with paper.
At six in the morning, the first batch of reporters caught wind of it and gathered outside M Street.
Washington Post senior reporter Bob Woodward squeezed through the crowd, holding a notebook, squinting to observe the chaos behind the police line.
The environment was unusually noisy: police sirens blaring, FBI staff pulling up yellow caution tape, photographers’ flashes going nonstop, onlookers’ discussions rising and falling.
The entire M Street block had woken up; Edgar Hoover was a renowned big figure.
“This is retribution!” a Black protester shouted. “Hoover killed King, now it’s his turn!”
The second batch of reporters were from television stations, with broadcast vehicles arriving at the M Street scene one after another.
Television broadcast vehicles first appeared in the 1930s.
(1960 Seattle Volunteer Park television broadcast vehicle)
(1955 television broadcast vehicle responsible for broadcasting the Rose Bowl parade)
A New York Times reporter interviewed Tolson’s spokesperson on site; the other’s face was ashen: “Director Tolson is deeply shocked and grieved. Mr. Hoover is a hero of our country, and we will pursue the killer at all costs.”
The reporters clearly weren’t buying it, pressing relentlessly: “Mr. Tolson, why did such tight security fail completely? Was this an internal leak? And was it really V who did it? And regarding the assassinations of King and the professor, believed to be orchestrated by Director Hoover behind the scenes—is that true?”
The spokesperson struggled to respond: “Under investigation, no comment!”
The originally scheduled newspaper headlines were all urgently recalled; editors had been on standby in the office since five, waiting for frontline information to rewrite the front-page headlines.
“Hoover’s Death: Revenge or Conspiracy?”
“Blood Writing Mystery: What Does ‘For JFK’ Mean?”
“Who Exactly Is V?”
Television screens repeatedly played on-site photos: the bloodstained bedroom, the fallen police dogs, Hoover’s pale face.
Protesters outside the villa shouted: “Justice has arrived!”
Meanwhile, Tolson smashed a glass in his office, muttering: “V? Bullshit! It must be those Black radicals.
I’ll find you and make you pay the price.”
The entire country awaited the rise of the next day’s sun; the kindling had been lit, just waiting to boil over.
This assassination was not just a murder, but an eruption of collective discontent.
Because from Kennedy’s death to King’s death, then to the professor’s assassination and Robert Kennedy’s assassination, Hoover’s shadow loomed behind every incident.
These assassinations cast suspicion onto Hoover’s corpse.
Media reports poured in like a storm.
The rocket launch was at nine in the morning; when Lin Ran saw Lyndon Johnson in the restaurant, the other’s eyes were bloodshot, clearly showing he hadn’t slept well all night.
“Mr. President, good morning.” Lin Ran carried a plate with bread and bacon and sat across from Lyndon Johnson.
Lyndon Johnson gestured for him to sit on his side, then pointed at the television: “Am I cursed?”
On the television was a Victorian-style red-brick old house, now cordoned off by police lines, surrounded outside by cameras, reporters, and police.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received shocking news: former FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover has been assassinated at his Washington residence.
Six security personnel and two police dogs were found dead at the scene; Hoover himself was shot dead.
Even stranger, ‘For JFK’ was written in blood on the wall, signed V, suggesting a link to President Kennedy’s assassination case.
Director Tolson has ordered a full investigation, but public opinion is in an uproar.
Civil rights leaders call this ‘justice’s retaliation,’ while conservatives accuse it of being a commie plot.”
Honestly, it was really frustrating; for Lyndon Johnson, he was completely at a loss for what to do.
“Damn V! Damn Hoover!” Lyndon Johnson’s tone couldn’t hide his fury.
If Hoover had died four years ago, he would have been absolutely delighted; Hoover’s death would mean the FBI position was vacant, and he no longer had to worry about him.
But now, Hoover was no longer in position, and he died in such a brutal way, with all the FBI employees dead too.
The impact was truly too negative.
Hoover killed Kennedy, Kennedy’s supporters come out to kill Hoover—what has America become? Forget rule of law; even in Washington, there’s no safety guarantee. They finally entered the 1960s, and now it’s back to the 19th century, you stab me, I stab you?
More importantly, this highlighted his incompetence.
If his winning chance was 10% before, now it was estimated at only 5%.
Lin Ran said quietly: “Could it be the Soviets who did it? Silencing him?”
Lyndon Johnson said: “Possible, but where’s the evidence? How to find evidence?”
Lin Ran said no more; he looked at Lyndon Johnson like a rat in a bellows, blocked from both ends.
Want to find V? Impossible, because he was V.
Lin Ran had been in Florida all along—how could he fly to Washington D.C. in one night?
The pistol used was taken from the Soviet Embassy; even ballistic analysis wouldn’t trace back to him.
And the best scapegoat wasn’t the Soviets? Just brainlessly shift the blame to the Soviets.
But with anti-war sentiment so high now, the public plainly didn’t want trouble, just wanted peace; blaming the Soviets meant you didn’t want peace, and you couldn’t win the votes of the peace-craving public.
Anti-war and assassination were stuck at both ends; it was almost impossible to resolve both anti-war and assassination at the same time.
Lyndon Johnson was already in a dilemma.
His speech just released called for peace, called for no solving problems with violence, and then this greater violence hit, leaving no one alive—not even the dogs were spared.
What cruelty and violence; was this killing Hoover? This was viciously slapping the White House, slapping his Lyndon Johnson’s face.
Lyndon Johnson now felt fortunate for one thing: luckily he was at Cape Canaveral, not at the White House, not having to face those damn reporters.
But even here in Lin Ran’s home turf, at this point in time, the reporters wouldn’t let him go.
This Burning No. 1 launch succeeded as planned, sending two GPS nuclear-powered satellites into predetermined orbits, with the rocket’s first stage successfully returning to the predetermined track.
Richard Witkin and John Wilford were both New York Times reporters specializing in NASA news; the former had covered aerospace news since the 1950s until fully transitioning to aerospace editor in 1963, the latter full-time on aerospace news since 1965.
Both were senior reporters in the field of aerospace; Richard watched the rocket return to the ground and sighed: “No matter how many times I’ve seen it, this scene still excites me endlessly.”
John Wilford said: “Isn’t this only the second time? Just twice, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.”
Richard shook his head: “No, even the two hundredth time, my feeling would be the same; this represents humanity’s most advanced technology, turning the impossible into possible.
You don’t know, about reusable rockets, back in the 1950s when there was no NASA yet, the Air Force and Navy were saying we should do it, but scientists all said it was impossible.
The professor turned the impossible into possible.”
John Wilford said: “Yes, so no matter who the president is, as long as the professor is in the White House, our advantage in the field of aerospace will endure.”
What is prestige? This is prestige.
Richard laughed: “Looks like you think President Johnson has no chance of being elected.”
Wilford asked: “Elected? How to get elected? How many people have died this year, all prominent figures, and he hasn’t produced a single investigation result the public can trust. It’d be strange if he could get elected.”
At the press conference, questions didn’t focus on the GPS nuclear-powered satellites or the Star Wars Program; they were all about this morning’s explosive news, Hoover’s assassination.
“Mr. President, regarding Hoover’s assassination case, what is the White House’s investigation result?”
“We have currently entrusted Director Tolson with full investigation; once there is progress on specific results, the Bureau will hold a press conference at any time.”
“Consecutive assassination cases—does this prove America’s societal rift? From V’s appearance to now, it’s been a full five years; the White House still knows nothing about him. Does this show the White House’s incompetence?”
“The White House has some grasp of V’s true identity; I believe we will catch him soon.”
Lyndon Johnson’s words made Lin Ran think: No way, can you guess I’m V?
“Mr. President, some believe Hoover’s death is related to the Soviets, to commies; Director Tolson hinted in an external interview that it is indeed the case. Will this affect the Vietnam War temporary ceasefire agreement? Will it cause the Vietnam War to restart?”
“Sorry, I haven’t received news on that yet; I don’t know if it’s related to the Soviets, so I can’t give you an accurate reply.”
Clearly, the first press conference successfully shifted reporters’ attention from the professor to himself; this time, the reporters downstairs didn’t ask a single question about the professor—all questions focused on him. It should have been something to be happy about, but why was he being grilled so miserably? Lyndon Johnson thought, feeling another layer of inner exhaustion.
Lin Ran was happy with this; Cape Canaveral Launch Site not being the news center was too rare.
None of the reporters present knew that this launch was far more important than Hoover.
Hoover’s death was just a small episode in history, its ripples fading instantly, but the cornerstone of Starlink—that was the earth-shattering event; the changes it brought would sweep every corner of the world like a tsunami.
In Lin Ran’s favorite description, this was called igniting the whole world.
Of course Lin Ran hated Hoover; from the first time in Washington when he was scrutinized by the other’s gaze, he disliked this white old man, but if he were still in the FBI position, Lin Ran felt he could let him linger, linger under Moscow’s shadow.
Now that he had lost power and couldn’t cause trouble, Lin Ran felt it was best to send him on his way; the old man had lived long enough, and physical elimination was the most appropriate method.
As for where Lin Ran learned his marksmanship, Redstone Arsenal’s predecessor was a US Military base; playing with guns there was just recreation.
From Florida back to Washington D.C., Hoover’s death lingered around Lyndon Johnson and wouldn’t dissipate.
In the White House East Room press briefing room, Lyndon Johnson’s new press secretary Pierre Salinger was pale as paper; he finally understood why his predecessor Joe Christian quit.
Whoever loves this job can have it.
The hall was packed with over a hundred reporters; flashes went off like machine guns, the scratching of pens on notebooks was so clear.
The nation was boiling; civil rights protesters chanted slogans outside the White House, while reporters were like hyenas, ready to tear into this president doomed to lose the election.
Now in some conservative newspapers, the Elephant Party candidate contest was called the real presidential election; whether Nixon or Fred wins, they would defeat Lyndon Johnson without bloodshed.
Salinger said: “Ladies and gentlemen, President Johnson is deeply shocked and grieved by Mr. Hoover’s assassination.
We have mobilized all resources to investigate this case, including Director Tolson’s FBI team.
Preliminary indications show this was an isolated revenge action, possibly related to civil rights extremists.
We promise to apprehend the killer as soon as possible.”
No sooner had he spoken than the hall erupted in noise.
“Mr. Secretary, Hoover’s security was arranged by Tolson—why was the tight defense line so easily breached? Isn’t this a display of the president’s incompetence? Even the professor’s security team had assassins infiltrate; our country is so chaotic—shouldn’t President Johnson take responsibility?”
He barely squeezed out a smile: “Sir, this is not the time for blame; we should focus on the facts themselves.
No one can erase Mr. Hoover’s contributions; his death is a loss to the nation.”
Dodging the question was a classic spokesperson tactic: you ask A, I answer B; whether you get the answer you want is none of my business.
The reporters clearly weren’t buying it.
“Secretary! The ‘For JFK’ and V left at the scene clearly point to the Kennedy assassination conspiracy.
After President Johnson took office, he turned a blind eye to Hoover’s investigations.
Now Hoover is dead, security wiped out—six elite FBI agents, two police dogs! Isn’t this because of the president’s incompetence, leading to laxness inside the FBI? The civil rights movement’s anger should have been extinguished early, but under Johnson’s appeasement policy, it burned to Hoover; who V really is remains unanswered, allowing public controversies to rage!”
Murmurs of agreement rose in the hall.
“Everyone, the president will issue a statement at the appropriate time.
Now, please allow me to end the press conference; we have work to do.”
Reporters surged forward, questions like US Military cannonballs on the Vietnam War frontline.
“When will Johnson’s incompetence end?”
“Is this the start of a new round of the civil rights movement?”
Salinger retreated hastily, flashes sweeping behind him.
In the White House corridor, he leaned against the wall, muttering to himself: “God help us, this storm will swallow us all.”
And on the lawn outside, protesters’ slogans echoed: “Johnson step down! Justice is awake!”
Hoover’s death was no longer just a murder; it had lit the fuse of the political powder keg, the entire nation teetering amid accusations of incompetence—more precisely, the White House under Lyndon Johnson.
And at the distant Leipzig Autumn Trade Fair, China’s version of System 360 would bring a storm to the entire socialism camp, from Moscow, Poland, East Berlin to Kiev, Budapest—this storm wouldn’t easily stop either.
