Ennui was not a cocoon to be broken out of in one grand flapping metamorphosis. He sat on the plane watching the sunset take shape very slowly while they chased it across the Atlantic. He felt dejected. But he reasoned it was inevitable. The game hadn’t really begun yet; it had been announced but neither the stadium nor the time had been fixed.
Saint-Breheret could be relied on to be indiscreet; he would put them onto James Butler. In that respect the fun would be in deciding how long to keep Butler-how close to allow them to come. That was the key to his enjoyment of the game: and the enjoyment was chiefly his own; Cutter wouldn’t share in it to nearly the same extent because Cutter could afford to blunder all he wanted to. The game was far more taut for Kendig because he needed to make only one mistake and it would be ended.
It was bound to be anticlimactic; that was one thing that troubled him. The game had to be more enjoyable than the endgame: the chase was what had meaning, not the kill. Victory was never as heady as its anticipation had been. In a very real sense it wasn’t whether you won or lost; it was how you played to win.
For Cutter and his minions it would be a dreary business, wasteful and perhaps distasteful. Chickens would suspend their pecking order when there was a weak sick chicken in the coop: they’d all turn on it and peck it to death; but most likely they didn’t take much pleasure in it. Kendig didn’t see Cutter taking great glee from it; Cutter was a cold man but not a vindictive sort.
So Cutter must be primed. Make him mad, Kendig decided. Flaunt yourself. Embarrass him-insult him.
That was it then. Prolong the game. Stretch it until Cutter made a laughingstock of himself. Force it to the point where Cutter’s career was on the line. Make a fool of him and it had to turn out that way.
He smiled a little and was aware of it; the realization made him smile even more. It was infectious. The stewardess smiled back. “Is everything all right, sir? May I get you a drink?”
“I think I’ll go up to the lounge, thanks.”
He went up the self-conscious little spiral stair. They were Americans, most of them; no one else paid to travel first class. Each of them would have some “business” excuse for the vacation to make the fare tax-deductible. One of them was pounding the piano with more ferocity than skill. There was a lot of drinking and a lot of talk: poses struck, laughter forced. It wasn’t the sort of gaiety he could stand. He had one drink and went back down to his seat.
One of them had been a twin for Myerson, right down to the phony smile. He remembered the last summons to the office down the hall on the fourth floor. “I take it you don’t like it much up here. Or are there personal problems perhaps?”
“Has the man on the fifth floor registered displeasure with my performance?”
“You’ve been lackadaisical, you’ve got to admit that.”
“But not sloppy. I’ve done my job.”
“With all the enthusiasm and initiative of a typist third-class.”
“I wasn’t cut out for shifting bureaucratic rubble from one office to another.”
“We did offer you an alternative.”
“Filling out my time decoding telegrams over at NSA?”
“Assistant Deputy Director for Eastern European Affairs. That’s a responsible position, Miles.”
“A ringing title and a big salary and they’d never let me within a mile of action or policy. A nice faceless assistant to an assistant.”
“Miles, you’re fifty years old and by all the medical prognoses we had a year ago, you should have been dead. You had a God damned bullet in your head.”
“It hasn’t affected my brain. I’m still the best field man you’ve got.”
“We don’t get much call for those kinds of skills any more. You’re perfectly aware of that.”
“Sure.”
“Then what’s your beef?”
“Christ I don’t know. I’m just bored.”
“We’re all bored. It’s just another challenge to meet, Miles. We’ve still got to do the job.”
“Why?”
“Because-oh to hell with it.”
“Look-use me for a decoy. Anything.”
“Begging demeans you, Miles.”
“Not as much as being junked like an old car.”
“Damn it, I hate a man who doesn’t know when the party’s over. At least have the grace to know when to go home. If you can’t fit in behind that desk then give me your resignation. You’ll get a full early-retirement disability pension.”
“Wonderful.”
“Well?”
“You’ll have my resignation this afternoon. With parsley.”
“If that’s the way you want it… Let’s have lunch soon, what do you say?”
Alexandria was a strip town. The long main drag was crowded with impatient kids driving their souped-up cars uselessly about. He walked past a theater that advertised mature adult films. Beyond that was a string of advertising boards along the waiting-bench wall of a bus depot. One of the ads told young men they could get job-training for high-paying skills if they joined the Army. Another begged businessmen to hire unemployed veterans.
He rented a Mustang under the name James Butler and booked himself into a motel near the Interstate. He slept from midnight to nine in the morning and after the rush-hour traffic had dissipated he drove up to Langley and went into a drugstore phone booth and rang the number.
“Farm labor division, may I help you?”
“My field number is four-three-three-eight,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Joseph Cutter. I don’t have his extension.”
— 5 -
When the phone rang Ross was nearer so he picked up. “Seven six two.”
“Who’s this?”
“Leonard Ross. Who’s calling?”
“Kendig. I’d like to speak with Joe Cutter.”
Ross’s jaw dropped. He turned and covered the mouthpiece. “It’s him.”
Cutter took the receiver and sat down on the edge of the desk. He held it an an angle against his ear so that Ross could listen in. “Miles. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m glad they put you on it, Joe. I was afraid they might not throw in the first team. I’m flattered. They still respect my talent-and yours.”
“And I got mine from you. I see what you mean. What can I do for you?”
“You’ve read my book?”
“The first chapter.”
“Desrosiers ought to have chapter two by now. You’ll probably hear from him today. I ought to mention there are a couple of pages missing from it. I withheld them on purpose. They contain the references to documentary sources and the names of the witnesses who are still alive.”
“Interesting,” Cutter said. Ross leaned closer to catch the tenor of Kendig’s voice. Cutter said, “Have you thought of putting a price on the exclusive worldwide rights?”
“What am I offered?”
“It appears to be a seller’s market, doesn’t it.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“Sure,” Cutter said. He changed the subject abruptly: “You could waste a lot of our time and energy, Miles. What are you trying to prove?”
“All I want is revenge.”
“I see. The spy who was thrown out in the cold wants to get even with the people who threw him out there. That what you mean?”
“That’s why I’m writing the book, Joe.”
“In a pig’s eye.”
Ross heard the chuckle on the phone. Cutter said, “That bullet in the head scrambled your brain. You can’t hurt the Agency-it’s like trying to knock down an elephant with a flyswatter.”
“An elephant can choke to death on a flyswatter, Joe.”
“You belong in a rubber room. What’s the real point? What will it take to call you off?”
“It’s too late for that. I’m just going to finish writing my book. I’ll be sending it out to the publishers a chapter at a time. I’ll be withholding a few evidential pages here and there-they’ll be mailed in along with the final chapter. If you haven’t nailed me yet, of course.”