‘How so, sir?’
‘Let’s just say their values are different.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘Well, I once asked Tony what he wanted out of life, and you know what he said? He looked at me and said, and he was dead serious, he said, “Happiness is a confirmed kill.” A Rhodes scholar!’
‘But doesn’t somebody have to do ii?’
‘Why? After a while it becomes self-serving. If I had my way, they’d ban intelligence the way they want to ban the bomb.’
Howe stared at the ceiling. ‘I suppose. But then we’d have all these spies running around with nothing to do.’
‘It’s not my problem anymore.’
‘And yet you were in the Game, as. you call it, for five, six years?’
‘I was snookered. I wasn’t a career man. Dobbs liked my style and arranged for me to get assigned to the Company. Then after I gave ‘em four good years, the bastard tried to have me killed, which is something else we need to talk about, how you got the Winter Man off my ass.’
‘The letter, sir. Read the letter.’
21 January
Dear Mr Howe:
I take pen in hand knowing full well that in all probability this letter will be promptly disposed of as the ramblings of one who is either deranged or has spent too many nights alone with a bottle. I assure you, sir, I am in full command of all my facilities, and drink is not one of my vices.
My reasons for addressing this to you are quite simple. You are noted for your aggressive news policy; and you have a passion to be first.
First of all, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anthony Virgil Falmouth. I retired six months ago, with Queen’s Honours, from Her Majesty’s Secret Service, after twenty-one years’ service. You may verify this by contacting Sir James Townsend, M16, 6 Chancery Lane, London. Telephone: 962-0000, extension 12.
For obvious reasons, I shall ask that you not discuss the contents of this letter with Sir James.
Because of my position, I have become privy during the past few years, but most particularly in the last few months, to the details of a story that is monstrous in concept and terrifying in potential. Its implications reach into the highest political offices of the world. Properly documented, this information would make the Watergate conspiracy seem like mere schoolboy pranks and, in comparison, even the assassination of President Kennedy will pale.
Mere knowledge of this story has put my life in jeopardy. I am on the run, possibly for the rest of my life. Here are my terms:
First, my price for this information is $250,000, to be paid only after your agent is satisfied that the information is true and worth the price.
Second, there is only one person I feel qualified to represent both you and me in this matter. His name is Frank O’Hara. O’Hara is disarmingly honest, he is a former member of the intelligence community, he is a recognized and respected news reporter, and he has known me for more than five years. For these reasons, I feel he is uniquely qualified not only to judge my veracity but to properly appraise the information.
I have not seen, talked to, or communicated in any way with O’Hara for more than a year.
There is an additional problem with respect to O’Hara. I am sure you will recall his series of articles two years ago, exposing a network of illegal covert actions conducted by the CIA in Africa and the Middle East. The stories resulted in the embarrassment, humiliation and demotion of O’Hara’s former CIA section chief, Ralph Dobbs, a,k.a. the Winter Man.
As a result, Dobbs sanctioned the assassination of O’Hara and offered a fee to several professionals to carry out the job.
I know, I was one of them. I refused the sanction.
O’Hara has been on the dodge ever since. To my knowledge, nobody has turned him up yet.
You will find, attached hereto, a notarized statement concerning Dobbs’s offer to me. Since this is a personal vendetta, and in no way officially concerns the CIA, you might threaten to publish the facts. This will neutralize Dobbs and force him to lift the sanction.
If you can find O’Hara and he is interested in the assignment, tell him to contact the Magician. If I have heard nothing by April 1, I will assume you are not interested.
Yours very truly,
Anthony V. Falmouth
The affidavit was attached by paper clip to the letter. O’Hara turned it over, checked out the envelope.
‘How was it delivered? There’s no stamp on it.’
‘One of my correspondents was in Jamaica. It was in his box when he came in from dinner one evening.’
O’Hara reread the letter and the affidavit, then put them on the table in front of Howe. He finished his coffee.
‘Well?’ said Howe.
‘Well what?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I’ll tell you what I don’t think. I don’t think I’m going to assume responsibility for your two hundred and fifty thou, or anybody else’s.’
‘We can get to that. What about the letter?’
O’Hara shrugged. ‘A toss-up. Falmouth’s either on to something or he’s trying a fast sting and he figures he can suck me into it with him or floss me. Either way, I don’t like it.’
Having finished his breakfast, Howe carefully put down his knife and fork and pushed his plate a few inches away with a finger. He leaned toward O’Hara and said, almost in a whisper, ‘What do you think it could be?’
‘Hooked ya, hunh?’
‘Enough to bring you in.,
‘And you put it to Dobbs, eh?’
‘Just as Falmouth suggested. We had lunch in my jet, flyin’ around over Washington. Dobbs fell apart very quickly. About the time the salad was served.’
‘Well, I owe one to Tony for that. And to you.’
‘I wouldn’t forget the young lady.’
‘Gunn? Yeah, she looked pretty good in there.’
‘I have a feeling about this, Lieutenant. My instincts’re buzzing. Have been ever since I got the damn letter.’
‘You must be on every mail-order list in the world.’ ‘Really, sir. You do me an injustice. Give me credit for something. I’ve been in the news business since I was twelve, setting type for my grandfather’s weekly up in Maine.’
‘I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I know the territory.’
‘It’s an adventure, by God. If I were twenty years younger and had two good legs under me, I’d be off with you.’
‘I told you, I won’t be responsible for your money, or anybody else’s, for that matter. Besides, it’s not an adventure, it’s madness. The whole damn Game is mad and the Players are all a bunch of fucking lunatics.’
‘Makes for a great story,’ Howe cried exuberantly.
‘You may be as nutty as they are,’ O’Hara said.
‘It’s my money, Lieutenant. So it’s my problem, right? Thus far, Falmouth has been on target. You said so yourself— if you could trust anyone, it would be him.’
‘One helluva big “if.”
‘What the hell, it’s a write-off, anyway. And I’ll meet your price. Name it.’
‘I told you I don’t want in.’
‘A thousand a week, with a guarantee of one year.’
‘I said no.’
· O’Hara got up and walked to one of the portholes and stared out at the ocean. The sky was darkening and thunderheads were rumbling down from Provincetown. He felt thunderheads roiling inside him, too.
They’re gonna get me into this, he thought, and the very idea made him angry and it was difficult to explain his feeling to Howe, this overwhelming sense of anger that was growing inside him. He knew the scenario before it was recited, knew the characters, the locations, could even recite a lot of the dialogue. It was not just the pervading sense of dishonour; not the excesses of a Game in which people kill, maim and steal with impunity, a blood sport in which the score was kept in head counts, not numbers. No, O’Hara’s anger sprang from acceptance. He was angry because he was accepted by the Players in this community of hyenas. He was part of it, like it or not. His escape had failed and subconsciously he was angry at Howe for reminding him of the fact. So when he blew up, it came so suddenly and without warning that Howe was stunned by the outburst.