can be friends.'
She stared at him a moment longer, seeing in his eyes the same churning conflict she felt in her heart. Then she looked away, took a deep breath, and got out of the car.
'Billie?' said Denny. 'For heaven's sake, what are you doing here?'
She crossed the yard, stepped on to the porch and fell into his arms. 'Oh, Denny,' she murmured. 'I love that man, and he belongs to some woman!'
Denny patted her back with a delicate touch. 'Honey, I know just how you feel.'
She heard the car move, and turned to wave. As it swung by, she saw Luke's face - and the glint of something shiny on his cheeks.
Then he disappeared into the darkness.
.
8.30 A. M.
Perched on top of the pointed nose of the Redstone rocket is what looks like a large birdhouse with a steeply pitched roof and a flagpole stuck through its centre. This section, about thirteen feet long, contains the second, third and fourth stages of the missile - and the satellite itself.
Secret agents in America had never been as powerful as they were in January 1958.
The Director of the CIA, Allen Dulles, was the brother of John Foster Dulles, Eisenhower's Secretary of State - so the Agency had a direct line into the administration. But that was only half the reason.
Under Dulles were four Deputy Directors, only one of whom was important - the Deputy Director for Plans. The Plans Directorate was also known as CS, for Clandestine Services, and this was the department that had carried out coups against left-leaning governments in Iran and Guatemala.
The Eisenhower White House had been amazed and delighted by how cheap and bloodless these coups were, especially by comparison with the cost of a real war such as that in Korea. Consequently, the guys in Plans enjoyed enormous prestige in government circles - though not among the American public, who had been told by their newspapers that both coups were the work of local anti-communist forces. - Within the Plans Directorate was Technical Services, the division that Anthony Carroll headed. He had been hired when the CIA was set up in 1947. He had always planned to work in Washington - his major at Harvard had been government - and he had been a star of OSS in the war. Posted to Berlin earlier in the fifties, he had organized the digging of a tunnel from the American sector to a telephone conduit in the Soviet zone, and had tapped into KGB communications. The tunnel remained undiscovered for six months, during which the COLA amassed a mountain of priceless information. It had been the greatest intelligence coup of the Cold War, and Anthony's reward had been the top job.
Technical Services was theoretically a training division. There was a big old farmhouse down in Virginia where recruits learned how to break into houses and plant concealed microphones, to use codes and invisible ink, to blackmail diplomats and browbeat informers. But 'training' also served as an all-purpose cover for covert actions inside the USA. The fact that the CIA was prohibited, by law, from operating within the United States was no more than a minor inconvenience. Just about anything Anthony wanted to do, from bugging the phones of union bosses to testing truth drugs on prison inmates, could be labeled a training exercise.
The surveillance of Luke was no exception.
Six experienced agents were gathered in Anthony's office. It was a large, bare room with cheap wartime furniture: a small desk, a steel filing cabinet, a trestle table and a set of folding chairs. No doubt the new headquarters at Langley would be full of upholstered couches and mahogany paneling, but Anthony liked the: Spartan look.
Pete Maxell passed around a mug shot of Luke and a typed description of his clothes while Anthony briefed the agents. 'Our target today is a middle-ranking State Department employee with a high security clearance,' he said. 'He's having some kind of nervous breakdown. He flew in from Paris on Monday, spent Monday night in the Carlton Hotel, and went on a drinking hinge on Tuesday. He stayed out all last night, and went to a shelter for homeless people this morning. The security risk is obvious.'
One of the agents, 'Red' Rifenberg, put up a hand. 'Question.'
'Go ahead.'
'Why don't we just pull him in, ask him what the hell goes on?'
'We will, eventually.'
Anthony's office door opened, and Carl Hobart came in. A plump, bald man with spectacles, he was head of Specialized Services, which included Records and Decrypting as well as Technical Services. In theory, he was Anthony's immediate boss. Anthony groaned inwardly and prayed that Hobart would not interfere with what he was doing, today of all days.
Anthony continued with his briefing. 'But before we tip our hand, we want to see what the subject does, where he goes - who he contacts, if anyone. A case like this, he may just be having trouble with his wife. But it could be that he's giving information to the other side, either for ideological reasons or because they're blackmailing him, and now the strain has gotten to be too much for him. If he's involved in some kind of treason, we need all the information we can get before we pick him up.'
Hobart interrupted. 'What's this?'
Anthony turned to him slowly. 'A little training exercise. We're conducting surveillance on a suspect diplomat'
'Give it to the FBI,' Hobart said abruptly.
Hobart had spent the war in Naval Intelligence. For him, espionage was a plain matter of finding out where the enemy was and what he was doing there. He disliked OSS veterans and their dirty tricks. The split went right down the middle of the Agency. The OSS men were buccaneers. They had learned their trade in wartime, and had scant respect for budgets and protocol. The bureaucrats were infuriated by their nonchalance. And Anthony was the archetypal buccaneer: an arrogant daredevil who got away with murder because he was so good at it.
Anthony gave Hobart a cool look. 'Why?'
'It's the FBI's job, not ours, to catch communist spies in America - as you know perfectly well.'
'We need to follow the thread to its source. A case like this can unlock a horde of information if we handle it right. But the Feds are only interested in getting publicity for putting Reds in the electric chair.'
'It's the law!'
'But you and I know it's horse shit.'
'Makes no difference.'
One thing shared by the rival groups within the CIA. was a hatred of the FBI and its megalomaniac director, J. Edgar Hoover. So Anthony said: 'Anyway, when was the last time the FBI gave us anything?'
'The last time was never,' Hobart said. 'But I've got another assignment for you today.'
Anthony began to feel angry. Where did this asshole get off? It was not his job to hand out assignments. 'What are you talking about?'
'The White House has called for a report on ways to deal with a rebel group in Cuba. There's a top-level meeting later this morning. I need you and all your experienced people to brief me.'
'You're asking me for a briefing on Fidel Castro?'
'Of course not I know all about Castro. What I need from you are practical ideas for dealing with insurgency.'
Anthony despised this kind of mealy-mouthed talk. 'Why don't you say what you mean? You want to know how to take them out?'
'Maybe.'
Anthony laughed scornfully. 'Well, what else would we do - start a Sunday School for them?'
That's for the White House to decide. Our job is to present options. You can give me some suggestions.'
Anthony maintained a show of indifference, but inside he was worried. He had no time for distractions today, and he needed all his best people to keep an eye on Luke. I'll see what I can do,' Anthony said, hoping Hobart might be satisfied with a vague assurance.
He was not 'My conference room, with all your most experienced agents, at ten o'clock - and no excuses.' He turned away.
Anthony made a decision. 'No,' he said.
Hobart turned at the door. 'This is not a suggestion,' he said. 'Just be there.'
'Watch my lips,' said Anthony.
