was President Dilman, seated, features bunched in concentration as he licked a broad thumb and turned page after page of the pile of bound papers on the desk before him. The other was Montgomery Scott, standing over Dilman, watching and speaking, and when not speaking, dryly working his lips.
Edna had known Montgomery Scott since the day T. C. had appointed him Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. She had never been able to reconcile his appearance with his record. Scott’s silky brown hair was parted low and combed up and over his head to disguise a bald spot. Yet his Vandyke beard was full and pointed. In between, his pink, bland, ageless face, with little pulls and punctures for features, was innocent and noncommittal. His long frame, slouched, carried his familiar sports jacket and dark-gray slacks. His carved meerschaum, the gift of some Middle Eastern potentate, added to his sedentary, scholarly aspect. Yet, Edna remembered, Scott had once been an active cloak-and-dagger man for the OSS. Later, while with the CIA, he had been involved in the overthrow of the Arbenz government in Guatemala, the instigation of the U-2 espionage aircraft, the onetime invasion of Suez, the assassination of Trujillo. Except for the incisiveness of his speech, his incongruous braying laugh, the spade of a beard, there was nothing to indicate that Scott was unique, yet he was the Director of derring-do, with a half-billion dollars of funds (never publicly accounted for) and 15,000 employees (rarely publicly recognized) at his disposal in Langley, Virginia, and around the world. The reporters who admired him referred to him as “Great Scott,” and those who disliked him referred to him as “Great Scott!”
Edna Foster opened the door and entered the President’s Oval Office.
Not until she reached the desk did both men look up.
“Hello, Edna,” Montgomery Scott said to her. “Long time.”
“Yes, good to see you, Mr. Scott.”
Dilman pointed to the chair next to his desk. “Sit here, Miss Foster. I’m going to interrogate Mr. Scott. It’s important, so take down everything. Transcribe it and have it ready for me today. I may want to study it after dinner tonight.”
Edna sat, pulled down the hem of her skirt, pad and pencil waiting. “Any special security rating for this, Mr. President?”
“One copy, for me and no one else, stamped ‘Eyes Only’ and ‘Top Secret.’ ” Dilman indicated the chair on the other side of the desk. “Please sit down, Mr. Scott.”
“If you don’t mind, I will.” The CIA Director slumped into the chair and, propping himself in it like a fishhook, tugged at his short beard, then massaged the orange-stained meerschaum in his other hand.
“All right, Miss Foster,” Dilman said over his shoulder as his eyes remained upon Scott, and he finally swerved his leather chair to face him completely. “Mr. Scott, I’ll tell you why I wanted to see the original file of your daily reports, and why I wanted to see you. Shortly after one o’clock today, from a private source, I learned that the Vaduz Exporters, a Liechtenstein corporation with offices in Bethesda, is a Soviet Union Communist Front organization, operating illegally, shipping arms and ammunition through Liechtenstein to Iron Curtain countries, and from those countries to Africa. I have now found this confirmed in the FBI file on foreign subversive organizations in this area.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. President, we gave the FBI the lead on that two weeks ago, two weeks ago yesterday,” said Scott, with obvious satisfaction. “Unlike Amtorg, the Vaduz people are unregistered enemy agents. Lombardi told me they were already under surveillance, but what came in from our Barazan operative was the first concrete evidence of what was actually going on here. I think the FBI intends to crack down any day now.”
“Tomorrow,” said President Dilman. “The FBI is rounding them up and closing them tomorrow.”
Edna Foster’s mind, which had still been trapped by the mystery of George’s peculiar telephone call, now released itself to the new mystery she was recording in shorthand on the pad resting upon her knee. As her interest focused upon the two men in conversation before her, her pencil darted across the ruled lines, hooking, looping, scrawling.
“Excellent,” Montgomery Scott had said. Then he added, “Of course, that’s no longer strictly a CIA matter.”
President Dilman leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what is a CIA matter and a matter that seriously concerns me. How did you know that Vaduz weapons were pouring into Africa, the Baraza area, for native Communists?”
Scott sat straighter. “It’s in the special daily report I sent you-as I said, I remember the day-two weeks ago yesterday.”
“Mr. Scott, I received no such report from you,” said President Dilman grimly. “It’s not in my file here. Miss Foster brought my file in before you came, and I was able to see what I had overlooked before. One day’s report is missing from my file. As you said, the one dated two weeks ago yesterday. How is that possible?”
Montgomery Scott had shoved the meerschaum into one capacious pocket, and was entirely erect in his chair now. “I can’t imagine, Mr. President,” he said. Then he poked his forefinger at the second mound of sheets before Dilman. “In any case-”
“It should be in your original CIA file that you just brought in,” said President Dilman, finishing the Director’s sentence. “Well, sir, it isn’t. You saw me go through your original reports a few minutes ago. That one daily report is missing from there, too.” He leafed the sheets backward, and then said, “I find only a blue memorandum slip inserted, with the date, and the note, ‘Talley/Eaton to return.’ ” He looked up. “What does that mean?”
Scott, who had become increasingly disturbed, suddenly rapped the desk. “Of course. I remember. Following our usual procedure, that morning I sent out two copies from Langley, one to Governor Talley for you, and the other to Secretary of State Eaton. Later in the day Talley telephoned me that both you, Mr. President, and Secretary Eaton were concerned about the report, and wished our entire file, including the original from which the two copies had been made.”
“Wasn’t that unusual, Mr. Scott?” asked President Dilman.
Scott pulled at his Vandyke. “Why-yes-reconsidering it, I suppose it was. But I saw no reason not to comply. After all, President Truman established our Central Intelligence Agency primarily as a source to supply him, and future Chief Executives, with vital foreign data and information, unedited, unslanted, uninterpreted.” He bent forward, eyes narrowing. “Are you telling me, Mr. President, that although Governor Talley and Secretary Eaton sent for every scrap of that daily report on Baraza in your name, you saw neither our direct copy nor the original?”
“I saw nothing,” said President Dilman, “and until two hours ago I knew nothing. That is why I brought you here.”
“Well, I don’t understand,” said Scott, scratching his jaw through a portion of his beard. “Of course, I can’t become involved in politics, but speaking on a purely factual level, there can be a simple and quite understandable explanation of why your aide and the Secretary of State acted as they did.”
He appeared to be considering what he would say next. At last he spoke. “On occasion, a Secretary of State or some other Department head will withhold information from the President until it is fully confirmed or simply because, at that point, the Department head believes it to be unimportant.
“I can’t vouch for this, but I am told that during the Eisenhower administration the American Ambassador to Mexico learned that Fidel Castro had long been a Communist and had been trained to take over Cuba and convert it into a satellite of the Soviet Union. The top-secret report went to Washington. For some reason it was put aside, never shown to President Eisenhower. As a result, the President and his aides knew too little of Castro’s Red leanings. They blessed him as a democratic rebel, as did most Americans in those early days-only to learn later that he was, in truth, a puppet of the Soviet Union. The original warning report to Eisenhower? Who knows? Maybe somebody thought it was too idiotic and untruthworthy to be treated seriously.”
President Dilman held up his hand. “Mr. Scott, this missing report on Baraza, the one that has been kept from me-do you feel it was such as could be justifiably regarded as idiotic and untrustworthy, or not fully confirmed?”
The Director of the CIA was, in Edna Foster’s eyes, definitely uncomfortable. “Mr. President, I really feel I should not get involved. We are a fact-finding organization. We dredge up the facts, evaluate the source, and present them to you for consideration, and you decide what happens after that.”
“Very well,” said President Dilman, “then you dredge up the facts in that missing report on Baraza. You evaluate the source for me, and I shall do the judging. Since I prefer not to go to Talley or Eaton for the actual report just yet, I must depend upon someone else for the information it contained. Do you have that information in your head?”
“Yes, I have, Mr. President.”
