“I didn’t make any deal with him, Glenn.”
“Then why not tell me what he wanted?”
“Because it’s your job to find that out. Not mine, any more.”
“What am I supposed to do? Ask Yaskov?”
“Why don’t you? It might be fun.”
Follett put his hands on his knees preparatory to rising. “It’s not smart to alienate your friends. You might need us some day.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’ll have to report back to Langley. They’ll have to decide what to do about you. If they think you’ve made some tie-up with the other side they’ll probably cut orders to have you terminated. Although I wouldn’t recommend it, frankly. I don’t think you’d be worth the trouble. You don’t matter any more, Kendig. You’re washed up.” With an expansive gesture of dismissal and disgust Follett lurched from the chair and plodded away. Kendig got up and watched him go out to the street. Then he went over to the lift and returned to his room.
He got into bed and lay half-dresed staring at the ceiling. Everybody wants something. What do you want, Kendig? You’re no good to anybody. You don’t matter any more. You’re washed up.
Something was taking shape: an elusive thought, an unfamiliar emotion.
After a long while he dozed. When he came awake he found he had his arms around one of the pillows. He put it back where it belonged and switched off the light.
They’d got some mileage out of him and thrown him out like a used car. Yaskov had come along and kicked his tires and made an offer but when Yaskov had tried the ignition the key wouldn’t turn. Then Follett had come along and loked at the dilapidated rusty hulk and sneered: All used up. Throw it on the junk heap.
He drowsed but something kept him from falling asleep. He kept shifting position; he had to wipe the sweat off his face with the hem of the sheet.
Everybody wants something. What do you want, Kendig?
My dear Miles, I’m offering to put you back in the game. Back into action. Isn’t it what you want?
Isn’t it what you want?
Unfamiliar sensations rubbed against him. He began to descend uneasily into sleep but that was when the anger burst its housing and grenaded into him.
He sat up, switched on the light, reached for his watch. It was three in the morning.
Why not rub their noses in it?
The idea was as fully shaped as Minerva from the brow of Jupiter. “Hell,” he said aloud. “Why not?”
They’d take it to be a suicidal gesture-they’d look at the record and they’d have to reach that conclusion. It would take them a long time to realize he wasn’t inviting suicide. He was challenging them to the ultimate game and he meant to win it.
He padded to the desk and began to write quickly on the hotel stationery-a crabbed scrawl that looked like something unreeling from a seismograph.
They’d set the hounds on him for this. They’d come after him with raging vengeance. They’d set fire to the world if they had to: they’d drop everything else in the frantic rush to nail him.
He felt the race of his pulse and heard a sound he had forgotten: his own laughter.
— 3 -
The security man gave Leonard Ross a vague smile of recognition; all the same Ross had to run his card through the ID machine before it granted him the dubious asylum of the fourth floor.
As always Ross found it discomfiting. Myerson’s outer sanctum was as forbidding as a penitentiary: not the clean chill of sterile modernity but the grey austere drabness of nineteen-fiftyish technocracy, The chairs were tubular steel affairs with seats padded in Naugahyde and they looked civilized enough but there was no way to relax in them. Ross sat rigidly upright, buoyed a little by the fact that he was the only visitor waiting to see Myerson-perhaps he wouldn’t have to cool his heels too long.
The secretary opened the inner door. “Mr. Myerson will see you now.” The doctor will see you now-he went in as if to a dentist’s chair. The secretary preceded him, swinging smartly with a high-hipped stride; Ross hadn’t met her often enough to know her name although if she’d been ten years younger he’d have made a point of it. She rapped out a discreet code on Myerson’s door and pushed it open. Ross tried to march right in with some show of confidence but he wasn’t sure it was convincing. Myerson was in charge of his department but Myerson was also the Agency’s hatchet man. You were never quite sure that a summons to the fourth floor wasn’t going to be your last one.
Myerson was rummaging in a four-drawer cabinet built into the wall. “Sit down, Ross.”
The chairs had been arranged-two leather armchairs drawn up to make a triangle with the desk. So there was to be a third party to the meeting. Ross sat.
The file drawer slid shut like something in the morgue. Myerson brought a Top Secret folder to the desk, pulled his chair out, sat down and crossed his plump legs. He was twenty pounds overweight, a big-hipped man with the attitude of command, His pale tan suit nicely set off the mahogany sunlamp tan of his bald head. “We’re waiting for Cutter.”
“I thought he was in Kuwait?”
“Aden. I’ve pulled him out. He’ll have landed at Dulles by now-he should have been here. It may be the traffic. While we’re waiting for him have a look at this.”
It was a copystat, something typed, fourteen double-spaced pages. Conspiracy of Killers, it was headed. By Miles Kendig. He looked up and Myerson was smiling, anger bubbling visibly beneath it. “Go ahead-read it.”
He was on the fifth page when Cutter came into the office. Ross got to his feet. They’d never met but he’d heard a great deal; Cutter was a man who trailed legends.
Cutter’s handshake was quick and dry. He would remember Ross’s face twenty years from now. He had cunning eyes and a cynical mouth. He ran to a physical type: narrow and vain-dark, trim, long angular face, graceful. He had tiny teeth and beautiful dark womanly eyes: he looked the sort who’d race stock cars on dirt ovals in Appalachia. He was no rustic but he had that aura of raw primitive machismo.
Myerson wasn’t a man for polite preambles. “Take your coat off, sit down, read this. Then we’ll talk.”
Cutter absorbed the fourteen pages in the time it took Ross to read the last nine. Then Cutter sailed it onto the desk. It indicated something about him: he wouldn’t have to look at it again, he’d committed it to memory. “Where’s the original?”
“I imagine Kendig’s still got it.”
“Then where’d this come from?” The chilly precision of Cutter’s voice disquieted Ross.
Myerson reached for the big glass ashtray. It was the first time Ross had noticed the cigar. While they’d been reading Myerson had chewed it to shreds; he dumped the remains in the ashtray and licked his teeth distastefully. “It came from Bois Blanc in Paris.”
Cutter said drily, “Well then he’s picked the right publisher for it.”
“Can we stop them from publishing it?” Ross asked.
“Wouldn’t help,” Myerson said. “He went hog-wild on the Xerox machine. At least fourteen publishers in as many countries have received copies of this thing. Or at least that’s what Kendig claims in his covering letter to Desrosiers.”
Desrosiers was the iconoclastic publisher of the Bois Blanc series. He’d published all the clandestine samizdat best sellers that were smuggled out of the Soviet Union. Myerson said, “We don’t know who the other publishing houses are. We’ll find out in time of course but I’m not sure what good it will do us. We can’t burn them all to the ground.”
“We might persuade them not to buy it.”
“How?” Cutter shook his head. “They know it’s a multiple submission. Damned few of them will turn it down and risk missing out on their cut of the pie. It’ll sell of lot of copies.”