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 U.S.A. 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 labelled 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 file 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 binge 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 horseshit."
"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.
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 backup 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 Cooperman'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 Pravda: 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 onto 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 anymore--but I guess I'm too ornery to quit. Did you guys feel that way?
The presidents did not answer, and after a while he returned to Q Building.
In his office he found Pete with the team that had been shadowing Luke: Simons, in a navy topcoat, and Betts, wearing a green raincoat. Also there was 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 gray 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 TWO
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 near 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 anytime. 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 onto 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 tramping the streets and he needed directions, so he persisted. "I just need to know where the station house is."
"I won't tell you again, shitbrain."
Luke was annoyed. Who did he think he was? "I asked you a polite question, mister," he snapped.
The cop moved surprisingly fast for a heavy man. He grabbed Luke by the lapels of his ragged coat and shoved him through the gap in the sheeting. Luke staggered and fell on a patch of rough concrete, hurting his arm.
To his surprise he was not alone. Just inside the lot was a young woman. She had dyed blonde hair and heavy makeup, and she wore a long coat open over a loose dress. She had high-heeled evening shoes and torn stockings. She was pulling up her panties. Luke realized she was a prostitute who had just serviced the patrolman.
The cop came through the gap and kicked Luke in the stomach.
He heard the whore say, "For Christ's sake, Sid, what did he do, spit on the sidewalk? Leave the poor bum alone!"
"Fucker has to learn some respect," the cop said thickly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw him draw his nightstick and raise it. As the blow came down, Luke rolled to one side. He was not quite fast enough, and the end of the stick glanced off his left shoulder, numbing his arm momentarily. The cop raised the nightstick again.
A circuit closed in Luke's brain.
Instead of rolling away, he threw himself toward the cop. The man's forward momentum brought him crashing to the ground, and he dropped the nightstick. Luke sprang up nimbly. As the cop got up, Luke stepped close to him, waltzing inside his reach so that the man could not punch him. He grabbed the lapels of the uniform coat, pulled the man forward with a sharp jerk, and butted him in the face. There was a snapping sound as the cop's nose broke. The man roared with pain.
Luke released his grip on the lapels, pirouetted on one foot, and kicked the man in the side of the knee. His battered shoes were not rigid enough to break bones, but the knee has little resistance to a blow from the side, and the cop fell.
A part of Luke's mind wondered where the hell he had learned to fight like this.
The cop was bleeding from the nose and mouth, but he raised himself on his left elbow and drew his gun with his right hand.
Before it was out of the holster, Luke was on him. Grabbing the man's right forearm, he banged the hand on the concrete once, very hard. The gun immediately fell from his grasp. Then he pulled the cop upright and twisted the arm so that he rolled onto his front. Bending the arm up behind the man's back, he dropped, driving both knees into the small of the man's back, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Finally, he took the forefinger and bent it all the way back.
The cop screamed. Luke bent the finger farther. He heard it snap, and the cop fainted.
"You won't beat up any more bums for a while," Luke said. "Shitbrain."
He stood up. He picked up the gun, ejected all the shells, and threw them across the lot.
The who
re was staring at him. "Who the fuck are you, Elliott Ness?" she said.
Luke looked back at her. She was thin, and under the makeup her complexion was bad. "I don't know who I am," he told her.
"Well, you ain't no bum, that's for sure," she said. "I never saw an alky that could punch out a big fat prick like Sidney here."
"That's what I've been thinking."
"We better get out of here," she said. "He's going to be mad when he comes round."
Luke nodded. He was not afraid of Sidney, mad or otherwise, but before long there would be more cops on the scene, and he needed to be elsewhere. He stepped through the gap in the fence onto the street and walked away quickly.
The woman followed him, stiletto heels clicking on the sidewalk. He slowed his pace to let her catch up, feeling a kind of camaraderie with her. They had both been abused by Sidney the patrolman.
"It was kind of nice to see Sidney come up against someone he couldn't push around," she said. "I guess I owe you."
"Not at all."
"Well, next time you're feeling horny, it's on the house."
Luke tried not to show his revulsion. "What's your name?"
"Dee-Dee."
He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Well, Doris Dobbs, really," she admitted. "But what kind of name is that for a good-time girl?"
"I'm Luke. I don't know my surname. I've lost my memory."
"Wow. That must make you feel, like . . . strange."
"Disoriented."
"Yeah," she said. "That's the word was on the tip of my tongue."
He glanced at her. There was a wry grin on her face. He realized she was making fun of him, and he liked her for it. "It's not just that I don't know my name and address," he explained. "I don't even know what kind of person I am."