Reluctantly, Hobart stared at Anthony's face.
Enunciating carefully, Anthony said: 'Fuck off.'
One of the agents sniggered.
Hobart's bald head reddened. You'll hear more about this,' he said. 'A lot more.' He went out and slammed the door.
Everyone burst out laughing.
'Back to work,' Anthony said. 'Simons and Betts are with the subject at this moment, but they're due to be relieved in a few minutes. As soon as they call in, I want Red Rifenberg and Ackie Horwitz to take over the surveillance. We'll run four shifts of six hours each, with a back-up team always on call. That's all for now.'
The agents trooped out, but Pete Maxell stayed back. He had shaved and put on his regular business suit with a narrow Madison Avenue tie. Now his bad teeth and the red birthmark on his cheek were more noticeable, like broken windows in a new house. He was shy and unsociable, perhaps because of his appearance, and he was devoted to his few friends. Now he looked concerned as he said to Anthony: 'Aren't you taking a risk with Hobart?'
'He's an asshole.'
'He's your boss.'
'I can't let him close down an important surveillance operation.'
'But you lied to him. He could easily find out that Luke isn't a diplomat from Paris.'
Anthony shrugged. 'Then I'll tell him another story.'
Pete looked doubtful, but he nodded assent and moved to the door.
Anthony said: 'But you're right I'm sticking my neck all the way out If something goes wrong, Hobart won't miss a chance to chop my head off.'
'That's what I thought'
'Then we'd better make sure nothing goes wrong.'
Pete went out. Anthony watched the phone, making himself calm and patient Office politics infuriated him, but men such as Hobart were always around. After five minutes the phone rang and he picked it up. 'Carroll here.'
'You've been upsetting Carl Hobart again.' It was the wheezy voice of a man who has been smoking and drinking enthusiastically for most of a lifetime.
'Good morning, George,' said Anthony. George Cooperman was Deputy Chief of Operations and a wartime comrade of Anthony's. He was Hobart's immediate superior. 'Hobart should stay out of my way.'
'Get over here, you arrogant young prick,' George said amiably.
'Coming.' Anthony hung up. He opened his desk drawer and took out an envelope containing a thick sheaf of Xerox copies. Then he put on his topcoat and walked to Gooperman's office, which was in P Building, next door.
Cooperman was a tall, gaunt man of fifty with a prematurely lined face. He had his feet on his desk. There was a giant coffee mug at his elbow and a cigarette in his mouth. He was reading the Moscow newspaper Pravdea he had majored in Russian literature at Princeton.
He threw down the paper. 'Why can't you be nice to that fat fuck?' he growled. He spoke without removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. 'I know it's hard, but you could do it for my sake.'
Anthony sat down. 'It's his own fault. He should have realized by now that I only insult him if he speaks to me first'
'What's your excuse this time?'
Anthony tossed the envelope on to the desk. Cooperman picked it up and looked at the Xerox copies. 'Blueprints,' he said. 'Of a rocket, I guess. So what?'
'They're top secret. I took them from the surveillance subject He's a spy, George.'
'And you chose not to tell Hobart that'
'I want to follow this guy around until he reveals his whole network - then use his operation for disinformation. Hobart would hand the case over to the FBI, who would pick the guy up and throw him in jail, and his network would fade to black.'
'Hell, you're right about that Still, I need you at this meeting. I'm chairing it But you can let your team carry on the surveillance. If anything happens they can get you out of the conference room.'
'Thanks, George.'
'And listen. This morning you fucked Hobart up the ass in front of a room full of agents, didn't you?'
'I guess so.'
'Next time, try and do it gently, okay?' Cooperman picked up Pravda again. Anthony got up to leave, taking the blueprints. Cooperman said: 'And make damn sure you run this surveillance right. If you screw up on top of insulting your boss, I may not be able to protect you.'
Anthony went out He did not return to his office right away. The row of condemned buildings that housed this part of the CIA filled a strip of land between Constitution Avenue and the mall with the reflecting pool. The motor entrances were on the street side, but Anthony went out through a back gate into the park.
He strolled along the avenue of English elms, breathing the cold fresh air, soothed by the ancient trees and the still water. There had been some bad moments this morning, but he had held it together, with a different set of lies for each party in the game.
He came to the end of the avenue and stood at the halfway point between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument This is all your fault, he thought, addressing the two great presidents. You made men believe they could be free. I'm fighting for your ideals. I'm not even sure I believe in ideals any more - but I guess I'm too ornery to quit Did you guys feel that way?
The presidents did not answer, and after a while Anthony returned to Q Building.
In his office he found Pete with the team that had been shadowing Luke: Simons, in a navy topcoat, and Belts, wearing a green raincoat. Also there were the team that should have relieved them, Rifenberg and Horwitz. 'What the hell is this?' Anthony said with sudden fear. 'Who's with Luke?'
Simons was carrying a grey Homburg hat, and it shook as his hand trembled. 'Nobody,' he said.
'What happened?' Anthony roared. 'What the fuck happened, you assholes?'
After a moment, Pete answered. 'We, uh...' He swallowed. 'We've lost him.'
*
PART 2
9 A. M.
The Jupiter C has been built for the Army by the Chrysler Corporation. The large rocket engine that propels the first stage is manufactured by North American Aviation, Inc. The second, third and fourth stages have been designed and tested by the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena.
Luke was angry with himself. He had handled things badly. He had found two people who probably knew who he was - and he had lost them again.
He was back in the low-rent neighbourhood near the gospel shop on H Street. The winter daylight was brightening, making the streets look more grimy, the buildings older, the people shabbier. He saw two bums in the doorway of a vacant store, passing a bottle of beer. He shuddered and walked quickly by.
Then he realized that was strange. An alcoholic wanted booze any time. But to Luke, the thought of beer this early in the day was nauseating. Therefore, he concluded with enormous relief, he could not be an alcoholic.
But, if he was not a drunk, what was he?
He summed up what he knew about himself. He was in his thirties. He did not smoke. Despite appearances, he was not an alcoholic. At some point in his life he had been involved in clandestine work. And he knew the words of 'What a Friend We Have in Jesus.' It was pathetically little.
He had been walking around looking for a police station, but he had not come across one. He decided to ask for directions. A minute later, as he passed a vacant lot fenced with broken corrugated-iron sheeting, he saw a uniformed cop step through a gap in the sheeting on to the sidewalk. Seizing the chance, Luke said to him: 'How do I get to the nearest precinct house?'
The cop was a beefy man with a sandy moustache. He gave Luke a look of contempt and said: 'In the trunk of my cruiser, if you don't get the fuck out of my sight.'
Luke was startled by the violence of his language. What was the man's problem? But he was tired of
