Appalled by the low standard of the students at the university and bored by the social life, Scott began to fill his hours by attending courses on everything from the Islamic religions to the history of the Middle East. When three years later the university offered him the Chair of American Law, he knew it was time to return to the United States.
A letter from the dean of the law faculty at Georgetown suggested he should apply for a vacant professorship at Yale. He wrote the following day and packed his bags when he received their reply.
Once he had taken up his new post, whenever he was asked the casual question, “What do your parents do?” he would simply reply, “They’re both dead and I’m an only child.” There was a certain type of girl who delighted in this knowledge — they assumed he would need mothering. Several of them entered his bed, but none of them became part of his life.
But he hid nothing from the people he was summoned to see twelve times a year. They couldn’t tolerate deception of any kind, and were highly suspicious of his real motives when they learned of his father’s criminal record. He told them simply that he wished to make amends for his father’s disgrace, and refused to discuss the subject any further.
At first they didn’t believe him. After a time they took him on his own terms, but it was still to be years before they trusted him with any classified information. It was when he started coming up with solutions for problems in the Middle East that the computer couldn’t handle that they began to stop doubting his motives. When the Clinton administration was sworn in, the new team welcomed Scott’s particular expertise.
Twice recently he had penetrated the State Department itself to advise Warren Christopher. He had been amused to see Mr. Christopher suggest on the early-evening news a solution to the problem of sanctions-busting by Saddam that he had put to him earlier that afternoon.
The car turned off Route 123 and came to a halt outside a pair of massive steel gates. A guard came out to check on the passenger. Although the two men had seen each other regularly over the past nine years, the guard still asked to see his credentials.
“Welcome back, Professor,” the uniformed man finally offered before saluting.
The driver proceeded down the road and stopped outside an anonymous office block. The passenger climbed out of the car and entered the building through a turnstile. His papers were checked once again, followed by another salute. He walked down a long corridor with cream walls until he reached an unmarked oak door, he gave a gentle knock and entered before waiting for a reply.
A secretary was sitting behind a desk on the far side of the room. She looked up and smiled. “Go right in, Professor Bradley, the Deputy Director is expecting you.”
Columbus School for Girls, Columbus, Ohio, is one of those establishments that prides itself on discipline and scholarship, in that order. The director would often explain to parents that it was impossible to have the second without the first.
Breaking school rules could, in the director’s opinion, only be considered in rare circumstances. The request that she had just received fell into such a category.
That night, the graduating class of ’93 was to be addressed by one of Columbus’s favorite sons, T. Hamilton McKenzie, Dean of the Medical School at Ohio State University. His Nobel Prize for Medicine had been awarded for the advances he had made in the field of plastic and reconstructive surgery. T. Hamilton McKenzie’s work on war veterans from Vietnam and the Gulf had been chronicled from coast to coast, and there were men in almost every city who, thanks to his genius, had been able to return to normal lives. Some lesser mortals who had trained under the Nobel Laureate used their skills to help women of a certain age appear more beautiful than their Maker had originally intended. The director of Columbus felt confident that the girls would be interested only in the work T. Hamilton McKenzie had done for “our gallant war heroes,” as she referred to them.
The school rule that the director had allowed to be waived on this occasion was one of dress. She had agreed that Sally McKenzie, head of student government and captain of the lacrosse team, could go home one hour early from afternoon class and change into clothes of a casual but suitable nature to accompany her father when he addressed the class later that evening. After all, the director had learned the previous week that Sally had won an endowed national scholarship to Oberlin College to study chemistry.
A car service had been called with instructions to pick Sally up at four o’clock. She would miss one hour of school, but the driver had confirmed that he would deliver father and daughter back by six.
As four chimed on the chapel clock, Sally looked up from her desk. A teacher nodded and the student gathered up her books. She placed them in her bag and left the building to walk down the long drive in search of the car. When Sally reached the old iron gates at the entrance to the drive, she was surprised to find the only car in sight was a Lincoln Continental stretch limousine. A chauffeur wearing a gray uniform and a peaked cap stood by the driver’s door. Such extravagance, she knew only too well, was not the style of her father, and certainly not that of the director.
The man touched the peak of his hat with his right hand and inquired, “Miss McKenzie?”
“Yes,” Sally replied, disappointed that the long winding drive prevented her classmates from observing the whole scene.
The back door was opened for her. Sally climbed in and sank into the luxurious leather upholstery.
The driver jumped into the front and pressed a button and the window that divided the passenger from the driver slid silently up. Sally heard the safety lock click into place.
She allowed her mind to drift as she glanced out of the misty windows, imagining for a moment that this was the sort of lifestyle she might expect once she left Columbus.
It was some time before the seventeen-year-old girl realized the car wasn’t actually heading in the direction of her home.
Had the problem been posed in textbook form, T. Hamilton McKenzie would have known the exact course of action to be taken. After all, he lived “by the book,” as he so often told his students. But when it happened in real life, he behaved completely out of character.
Had he consulted one of the senior psychiatrists at the university, the psychiatrist would have explained that many of the anxieties he’d kept suppressed over a long period of time had, in his new circumstances, been forced to the surface.
The fact that he adored his only child, Sally, was clear for all to see. So was the fact that for many years he had become bored with, almost completely uninterested in, his wife, Joni. But the discovery that he was not good under pressure once he was outside the operating room — his own little empire — was something he could never have accepted.
T. Hamilton McKenzie became at first irritated, then exasperated and finally downright angry when his daughter failed to return home that Tuesday evening. Sally was never late, or at least not for him. The journey by car from Columbus should have taken no more than thirty minutes, even in the rush-hour traffic. Joni would have picked Sally up if she hadn’t scheduled her hair appointment so late. “It’s the only time Julian could fit me in,” she explained. She always left everything to the last minute. At 4:50 T. Hamilton McKenzie phoned Columbus School for Girls to check that there had been no late change of plan.
Columbus doesn’t change its plans, the director would have liked to tell the Nobel Laureate, but satisfied herself with the fact that Sally had left school at four o’clock, and that the car service had phoned an hour before to confirm that they would be waiting for her at the end of the drive by the main school gates.