As Luke watched, he lit a cigarette and took a long, satisfying drag.
He was a tall man, wearing a grey Homburg hat Luke realized he had seen him before.
.
7 A. M.
The launch pad is a simple steel table with four legs and a hole in the middle through which the rocket jet passes. A conical deflector beneath spreads the jet horizontally.
Anthony Carroll drove along Constitution Avenue in a five-year-old Cadillac Eldorado that belonged to his mother. He had borrowed it a year ago, to drive to Washington from his parents' place in Virginia, and had never gotten around to returning it His mother had probably bought another car by now.
He pulled into the parking lot of Q Building in Alphabet Row, a strip of barracks-like structures hastily erected, during the war, on parkland near the Lincoln Memorial. It was an eyesore, no question, but he liked the place, for he had spent much of the war here, working for the Office of Strategic Services, precursor of the CIA. Those were the good old days, when a clandestine agency could do more or less anything, and did not have to check with anyone but the President.
The CIA was the fastest-growing bureaucracy in Washington, and a vast multimillion dollar headquarters was under construction across the Potomac River in Langley, Virginia. When it was completed, Alphabet Row would be demolished.
Anthony had fought hard against the Langley development, and not merely because Q Building held fond memories. Right now the CIA had offices in thirty-one buildings in the government-dominated downtown neighbourhood known as Foggy Bottom. That was the way it should be, Anthony had argued vociferously. It was very difficult for foreign agents to figure out the size and power of the Agency when its premises were scattered and mixed up with other government offices. But when Langley opened, anyone would be able to estimate its resources, manpower, and even budget simply by driving past.
He had lost that argument The people in charge were determined to manage the CIA more tightly. Anthony believed that secret work was for daredevils and buccaneers. That was how it had been in the war. But nowadays it was dominated by pen-pushers and accountants.
There was a parking slot reserved for him and marked: 'Head of Technical Services', but he ignored it and pulled up in front of the main door. Looking up at the ugly building, he wondered if its imminent demolition signified the end of an era. He was losing more of these bureaucratic battles nowadays. He was still a hugely powerful figure within the Agency. 'Technical Services' was the euphemistic name of the division responsible for burglary, phone tapping, drug testing and other illegal activities. Its nickname was Dirty Tricks. Anthony's position was founded on his record as a war hero and a series of Gold War coups. But some people wanted to turn the CIA into what the public imagined it to be, a simple information-gathering agency.
Over my dead body, he thought.
However, he had enemies: superiors he had offended with his brash manners, weak and incompetent agents whose promotion he had opposed, pen-pushers who disliked the whole notion of the government doing secret operations. They were ready to destroy him as soon as he made a slip.
And today his neck was stuck out farther than ever before.
As he strode into the building, he deliberately put aside his general worries and focused on the problem of the day: Dr Claude Lucas, known as Luke, the most dangerous man in America, the one who threatened everything Anthony had lived for.
He had been at the office most of the night, and had gone home only to shave and change his shirt. Now the guard in the lobby looked surprised and said: 'Good morning, Mr. Carroll - you back already?'
'An angel appeared unto me in a dream and said: 'Get back to work, you lazy son of a bitch.' Good morning.'
The guard laughed. 'Mr. Maxell's in your office, sir.'
Anthony frowned. Pete Maxell was supposed to be with Luke. Had something gone wrong?
He ran up the stairs.
Pete was sitting in the chair opposite Anthony's desk, still dressed in ragged clothes, a smear of dirt partly covering the red birthmark on his face. As Anthony walked in he jumped up, looking scared.
'What happened?' Anthony said.
'Luke decided he wanted to be alone.'
Anthony had planned for this. 'Who took over?'
'Simons has him under surveillance, and Betts is there for back-up.'
Anthony nodded thoughtfully. Luke had got rid of one agent, he could get rid of another. 'What about Luke's memory?'
'Completely gone.'
Anthony took off his coat and sat behind his desk. Luke was causing problems, but Anthony had expected as much, and he was ready.
He looked at the man opposite. Pete was a good agent, competent and careful, but inexperienced. However, he was fanatically loyal to Anthony. All the young agents knew that Anthony had personally organized an assassination: the killing of the Vichy French leader Admiral Darlan, in Algiers on Christmas Eve in 1942. CIA agents did kill people, but not often, and they regarded Anthony with awe. But Pete owed him a special debt On his job application form, Pete had lied, saying he had never been in trouble with the law, and Anthony had later found out that, as a student in San Francisco, he had been fined for soliciting a prostitute. Pete should have been fired for that, but Anthony had kept the secret and Pete was eternally grateful.
Now Pete was miserable and ashamed, feeling he had let Anthony down. 'Relax,' Anthony said, adopting a fatherly tone. 'Just tell me exactly what happened.'
Pete looked grateful, and sat down again. 'He woke up crazy,' he began. 'Yelling 'Who am I?' and stuff like that I got him calmed down ... but I made a mistake. I called him Luke.'
Anthony had told Pete to observe Luke but not to give him any information. 'No matter - it's not his real name.'
'Then he asked who I was, and I said: 'I'm Pete.' It just came out, I was so concerned to stop him yelling.' Pete was mortified to confess these blunders, but in fact they were not grave and Anthony waved aside his apologies. 'What happened next?'
'I took him to the gospel shop, just the way we planned it. But he asked shrewd questions. He wanted to know if the pastor had seen him before.'
Anthony nodded. 'We shouldn't be surprised. In the war, he was the best agent we ever had. He's lost his memory, but not his instincts.' He rubbed his face with his right hand, tiredness catching up with him.
'I kept trying to steer him away from inquiring into his past. But I think he figured out what I was doing. Then he told me he wanted to be alone.'
'Did he get any clues? Did anything happen that might lead him to the truth?'
'No. He read an article in the paper about the space programme, but it didn't seem to mean anything special to him.'
'Did anyone notice anything strange about him?'
'The pastor was surprised Luke could do the crossword. Most of those bums can't even read.'
This was going to be difficult, but manageable, as Anthony had expected. 'Where is Luke now?'
'I don't know, sir. Steve will call in as soon as he gets a chance.'
'When he does, get back there and join up with him. Whatever happens, Luke mustn't get away from US.'
'Okay.'
The white phone on Anthony's desk rang, his direct line. He stared at it for a moment Not many people had the number.
He picked it up.
'It's me,' said Elspeth's voice. 'What's happened?'
'Relax,' he said. 'Everything is under control.'
.
7.30 A. M.
The missile is 68 feet 7 inches high, and it weighs 64,000 pounds on the launch pad - but most of that is fuel
