After graduation with honors in 1949, he joined his father's prestigious law firm and began working with its international clients. He soon found himself immersed in the troubled sea of Cold War repercussions. As the battle to contain communism deepened, his former OSS colleagues began to yell for help for their fledgling Central Intelligence Agency. To Quinn, it had the sound of a bugle call to battle. About the time the Korean War sputtered to a close, he packed his law books away and slipped back into the secret world.
Now he took his irritation out on the gas pedal, which he stomped heavily. They roared out into the George Washington Memorial Parkway traffic and sped north toward I-395. As they swung around the Pentagon toward the back side of Arlington National Cemetery, he noticed Burke cinch his seat belt a little tighter with each burst of acceleration.
"I see your driving technique hasn't improved over the past few years," Burke said as they weaved in and out of traffic.
Quinn glanced around with a grin. "I have been known to push the speed limit a bit. I've developed a pretty good relationship with the cops around here, though. They don't bother me unless I get too close."
After a number of turns off the main artery, he nosed into a parking lot painfully close to a highly polished Mercedes. They had arrived at an out-of-the-way steak house located in a converted two-story white frame residence.
"The food isn't bad here, and they don't have much lunch trade," Quinn said. He headed for the entrance. "Nice quiet, obscure place. Several of the Agency guys use it for working luncheons with people they don't want to bring to Langley. I suspect they've quietly vetted the management and all the waitresses."
Dark and nearly deserted, the restaurant looked more like a movie set before the klieg lights came on. It apparently depended on dinner patrons to keep its doors open, as only two of its tables were occupied. Three youthful looking business types huddled around one, likely sharing the latest office rumors. At the other, on the opposite side of the room, a tall man in a tight-fitting navy blazer and gray slacks rose as they approached.
He glanced at his watch. "About time you got here, Quinn. I'm almost late for a meeting in the District."
The grumpy description fit, Burke thought. And he was certainly tall enough for a passing quarterback. Looked almost as fit as he might have been in his playing days.
"Burke Hill, this is Hawk Elliott," Quinn said with a nod.
Burke reached out and received a brief but firm handshake. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Elliott," he said.
Elliott dropped back into his chair. "Sit down and let's get this over with. Quinn thinks you're the man to help him out on this investigation, Hill. I've read your dossier. It's been quite awhile since you were active as an agent. Quinn claims you'll have no trouble adapting."
Burke shrugged. He was not so sure, but for Cam's sake, he wasn't about to admit it. "I don't anticipate any problems."
Quinn jumped in. "There won't be any problems, Hawk. I'll guarantee that. I've seen him in action enough to know what he can do."
"One thing I want to impress on you, Hill. You will not be considered an employee of the Agency, and you are not to indicate to anyone that you are."
"That's exactly as I want it," Burke said with complete honesty.
"You are being brought in for one particular operation, and that's all. You will be required to sign a security oath that will allow you access to classified information on a need-to-know basis."
How many times had he heard that phrase? Intelligence organizations were rigid on the theory of compartmentalization, so that only the men at the top could see the whole picture. Too often it meant the lowly agent on the street was denied information that might help him connect random threads of information, or, in worse cases, save his neck.
Burke was a bit irritated at the tone of Hawk Elliott's lecture, delivered as though for a class of neophytes at a training academy. "I'm well aware of the national security statutes. As you know from my dossier, I put in around a dozen years as a special agent for the FBI."
Elliott appeared to ignore the comment. "You will not be told anything until you have signed the oath. Should you reveal anything you learn about the Agency, its methods or operations, you can expect to be vigorously prosecuted." He paused as though waiting for that pronouncement to sink in, then continued. "You will take your instructions from Quinn. Should you ever need to reach anyone else, I'm your contact. He will give you a private number to call me on. Do you have any questions?"
Burke was tempted to ask what made him such a nasty bastard, but he caught the worried look in Cam Quinn's eyes and remembered his earlier comment. He forced a smile, but he couldn't keep the hint of sarcasm out of his voice. "I think you've explained everything quite adequately, Mr. Elliott. I'm sure I'll enjoy my non-employment immensely."
The CI chief rose from the table and stared down with an indulgent look. "I don't mind telling you, Hill, I think this thing stems from one obvious source. I’m sure our colleague, Mr. Quinn, disagrees. At any rate, there are too many unanswered, and seemingly unanswerable, questions. If you can help get to the bottom of it, I'm sure Kingsley Marshall would be grateful."
With that, he turned and left.
Chapter 11
As if on cue, a smiling blonde waitress approached the table. "Would you gentlemen like to order now?"
"I could certainly use something to cap off that sterling performance," Quinn said with mock seriousness. "How about you, Burke?"
They ordered sandwiches and the waitress retreated to the kitchen.
Burke frowned. "The sonofabitch doesn't trust me."
Quinn dismissed, the thought with the wave of a beefy hand. "Hawk Elliott doesn't trust anybody. I'm only a little better. It's endemic to the territory."
"Yeah, I remember working with counterintelligence types at the Bureau. They were all like Hoover, expecting to find commies under every rock. I thought maybe Elliott's problem was my FBI file."
Quinn cleared his throat and glanced at the ceiling. "To tell you the truth, I didn't see any need to resurrect that matter with Hawk. It would only serve to delay things, and we don't have enough time as it is. I took the liberty of removing a few pages from the file before passing it on to him."
"Do you think that was wise?"
"There's no way he'll ever find out about it. Why don't you give me the short and sweet version. "
Burke got a faraway look in his eyes. "It started back in the late sixties when I was summoned to Washington for a meeting in the Director's office. I found Hoover there with Assistant Director Bill Sullivan. After we sat down, Hoover got right to the point. He was unhappy that the FBI had never successfully infiltrated La Cosa Nostra, as he called it. The Mafia. Sullivan had proposed a scheme that might work. I would publicly resign from the FBI. Then I was to give the appearance of turning sour, pull off some crimes. I had to be careful not to get caught but obvious enough that my reputation would get around. Then I would work to get myself accepted by the mob."
Quinn leaned forward, obviously intrigued by this turn of events. "How were you to maintain contact?"
"By phone. Only to Sullivan, using a private number. He and Hoover would be the only ones to know the truth. There was to be absolute secrecy."
Quinn frowned. "Fine for them. Bad for you. That left you strictly out in the cold."
"That's how it worked out. In the first place, I had real problems going the crime route. My momma didn't raise her boy to be a crook. But since I had the utmost faith in Hoover's judgment, I went at it with a vengeance, robbing banks in Kansas City. It was so easy I hit one twice. Then I worked my way to Vegas and began nibbling away at the fringes of the mob. I met a few wiseguys and tried to get a toehold, but the lack of an Italian background was a major drawback. Despite trying every ploy I could come up with, I never managed to get on the inside. I finally gave up and came back in early 1972.”