Ross said, “I don’t understand that. Why?”
Myerson pointed at Cutter. “You know the man. What’s your judgment?”
Cutter’s index finger flicked toward the pages he’d tossed on Myerson’s desk. “‘If the peoples of the nations concerned find out what has been done, and is being done, in their name.…’” He was quoting it verbatim after the cursory reading he’d given it; Ross looked it up to make sure and Cutter had got it letter perfect.
Cutter said, “It’s got a phony ring to it. Kendig’s never suffered from the obvious brands of moral rationalizing. He never went in for sterile liberal dogmas. The only time I ever heard him get near the subject was once when Nixon was running in ’sixty-eight. He said he figured people got the kind of government they deserved. Nothing surprises him. He’s not the type to get indignant or bleat about injustice.”
“And?”
“The last I heard he was having fits of Gothic melancholia. Severe depressions. Bored to death.”
“So?”
Again Cutter pointed at the pages. “Maybe that’s his suicide note. He’s not the sleeping-pill type. He’d want to go down in flames. So he wants us to come and kill him.”
“Then you’d better do it,” Myerson said.
“He won’t sit and wait for it. He won’t make it easy.”
“I have every confidence in you.” Myerson turned a wholly fictitious smile toward Ross. “Cutter can find a man the way a dog can smell out a bitch in heat.”
Cutter raised one hand a few inches to acknowledge the tribute. “Kendig’s a professional. A professional is somebody who doesn’t make stupid mistakes. He had this planned ten moves ahead before he put that thing in the mail.”
“Don’t be defeatist.”
“I think we ought to ignore him,” Cutter said. “Why play his silly game? I doubt he’s got the patience to sit down and write the whole book. If he sees we’re not going to play with him he’ll give it up—he’ll stand in a highway somewhere and wait for a truck to run him down.”
Myerson said, “We’re not the only ones involved. If we don’t get to him somebody will. Most likely the Comrades. They’ll realize when they read this that he knows a lot more than they ever thought he knew. They’ll want him alive—at first. We don’t really want them to have him, do we.”
It was obvious Cutter didn’t like it but he had to concede the point. “Then we’ll get the son of a bitch. It’s a grisly waste, though.”
“Granted. Can’t be helped.”
“All right. The tedious details. Last known location?”
“He checked out of a hotel in Paris a week ago today. It’s all in the file. Hasn’t been seen since.”
“Anything on the type face?”
“We ran it through analysis. It’s a Smith-Corona portable. The type is called Presidential Pica. There must be a hundred thousand like it. He bought the paper and the manila mailing envelope—envelopes, actually—at a stationer in the boulevard Raspail. Three weeks ago.”
“Most recent known associates?”
“It’s all in the file. One interesting item—about a month ago Kendig had a meeting with Mikhail Yaskov in Paris. We keep tabs on Yaskov when we can.”
“A month ago. That’s before he bought the typing paper.”
“Yes.”
“Christ. There’s a connection then.”
“Maybe. Who knows. Follett interviewed him but he couldn’t get anything out of him. At any rate he hasn’t defected—we’d have known.” Myerson picked up the papers Cutter had tossed on his desk; he straightened them and put them into the file folder along with the thick sheafs that were already in it. Then he proffered it and Cutter got up to take it. It was evident the interview had ended; Ross got to his feet.
Ross’s office was a third-floor cubicle. They used it because Cutter, a field man, had no office of his own. Ross waited just inside the door, uncertain of his priorities. Cutter settled it for him by walking around behind the desk and occupying the position.
They shared out the contents of the file and read it. Ross felt useless in the knowledge that he wasn’t absorbing a fifth as much as Cutter was taking in. And for the last forty-five minutes Cutter leaned back in the tilt chair steepling his fingers and inquiring of the ceiling while Ross finished reading it all.
Then Cutter said, “Notice anything interesting?”
“Sure. He’s a hell of an odd bird.”
“About the file itself, I mean.”
“Oh that. You mean the absence of photographs and fingerprints.”
Cutter nodded slowly and gave him a brief glance that might have been approval. “He’s always had an allergy to cameras. We’ve got a few shots of the back of his head. That’s one reason Myerson put your name forward—you’ve met Kendig.”
“Only a few times—casual, around the building.”
“But you remember what he looks like, don’t you?”
“I’d know him if I saw him.”
“There you are, then.”
“I thought you said you were the one who asked for me.”
“I asked for a gopher. Myerson suggested your name. I agreed with him.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered?”
“No. I’ll run your ass ragged.”
“It’ll be a change at least.”
“Hold onto that thought when it gets dicey. Now you’d better know about the fingerprints. We haven’t got Kendig’s.”
“At all?”
“At some point he got into his own file. Removed the mug shots and dental records and substituted a phony fingerprint card. We didn’t get onto it until after he’d left us. Then I made a point of tracking it down—I’m not sure why. They belonged to a waiter in a dump out in Alexandria. Kendig paid him twenty dollars to put his fingerprints on the card.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“He’s never trusted anybody. He’s pathological about it.”
“Why?”
“You’ve read the backgrounding.”
It was phrased in dry officialese and you had to have a talent for deciphering that sort of thing. It had left Ross with quick impressions: Kendig’s search all through the 1940s for his father—trying to find out who his father had been. Gradually accruing a picture of a sad old man, a pessimist who’d tried to love everything, hated violence, had a kind word for the worst of men. Gentle, loving, a hapless hard-drinking drifter with a social worker’s illogical faith in goodness: the need to trust everyone, yet the knowledge that savagery was the nature of man. Kendig evidently had spent important chunks of his youth trying to track down the old man. Then he’d caught up. On a nightmare binge one morning in the fall of 1949 the old man had leapt from bed screaming and fled in panic from the monsters that swooped in his alcohol-invested sleep: he had shut his eyes and lept past the ring of monsters through a window, nine stories to his death. Miles Kendig had met him for the first time at the morgue. According to the psychiatrist’s report it had been the beginning of the great void in Kendig’s life.
“I’m not sure I believe too much of that psychological horse shit,” Ross said. “It’s always too pat. Do you buy it?”
“Until a better explanation comes along.” Cutter examined his fingertips. He seldom looked at the person he was talking to; Ross was learning that about him. Cutter’s eyes fixed themselves on a third person—he’d stared at Ross half the time he’d been talking to Myerson upstairs—or on an inanimate object.
It was said Cutter had a wife and sent her money at regular intervals but hadn’t seen her in years. It was said he was a loner, an old-fashioned derring-do type from the cloak-and-dagger tradition; but he couldn’t be more than thirty-eight or forty at the outside. The dimmer wits on the third floor had nicknamed him 007.
Still looking at his fingers Cutter said, “It’s something you learn when you’re in the field. Whenever you pick up a drinking glass or a piece of paper, whatever, you twist your fingers to smudge the prints. Kendig hasn’t left a clear print on anything he’s touched in the past thirty years. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t think anybody’s tracked down a man on the basis of fingerprints since Sherlock Holmes.”