time.'
'But there was no question in your mind that he was coming back to the car.'
'None. I think he wanted to make a last call; even as he fell he reached up for the phone on the counter, but he was coming back.'
'Stay where you are. I'll call you right back.'
The pilot hung up and walked to a rear window overlooking the small pool and outside patio. His two children were splashing about and yelling at each other while his wife reclined in a lounge chair reading the Wall Street Journal, a practice for which he was grateful. Thanks to her, they were able to live somewhat beyond his salary. The phone rang; he returned to it. 'Jim?'
'Yes… John, I'll be as clear as I can and that's not going to be too clear. There's a fellow here on loan to us from Washington who's more familiar with these things than I am and this is what he wants you to do… Oh, boy.'
'What is it? Tell me?'
'Burn the note and forget about it.'
The CIA officer in the rumpled suit reached for the small yellow package of M&Ms, the telephone held to his left ear. 'You got all that?' asked Shapoff, otherwise known as Gingerbread.
'Yes,' replied MJ Payton, the word drawn out as if the information was both bewildering and startling.
'The way I read it, this guy, whoever he was, combined “urgent” with “maximum security”, reckoning that if he didn't make it this navy officer would have enough sense to call Base Security rather than the cops.'
'Which is exactly what he did,' agreed MJ.
'Then Security would reach the “relay contact” and deliver the message thinking it'd be channelled to the right people.'
'The message being that someone called code name S had been terminated.'
'We got an operation with a code-S?'
'No.'
'Maybe it's the Bureau or Treasury.'
'I doubt it,' said Payton.
'Why?'
'Because in this case the relay is the last stop. The message wouldn't have gone any farther.'
'How do you know that?'
'Area code three-zero-one is Maryland, and unfortunately I recognize the number. It's unlisted and very private.'
Payton leaned back in his chair, briefly understanding how alcoholics felt when they believed they could not get through the next hour without a drink, which meant a step away from reality. How ludicrously illogically logical! The voice heard by the ears of presidents, a man the nation's leaders knew had the nation's interests always in the forefront of his profound thinking, without fear, without favour, with constant objectivity… He had chosen the future. He had selected a little-known but outstanding congressman with a story to tell that would mesmerize the country. He had guided his anointed prince through the political labyrinth until the designated tyro emerged into the media sunlight, no longer a fledgling but a practitioner to be reckoned with. Then with the suddenness and audacity of a bolt of lightning, the story was told and the nation, indeed a large part of the world, was transfixed. A giant wave had been set in motion carrying the prince to a land he had never considered, a land of power, a royal house of awesome responsibility. The White House. Samuel Winters had broken the rules and, far worse, at an enormous loss of life. Mr. A had not dropped from the sky in a crisis. The blond European had worked solely for the august Samuel Winters.
The director of Special Projects picked up his phone and gently touched the numbers on his console. 'Dr Winters,' he said in response to the single word Yes. 'This is Payton.'
'It's been a terrible day, hasn't it, Doctor?'
'That's not a title I use any more. I haven't for years.'
'A shame. You were a fine scholar.'
'Have you heard from Mr. A since yesterday evening?'
