But Evelyn looked at him now, forcing herself to really see her Uncle Wellington Lockridge. He was Bradford’s older son, a man in his middle forties, of average height, somewhat stocky build, his black hair receding slowly from his forehead. The distinctive Lockridge eyes and nose and shape of head, most prominent in Bradford, were least evident in Wellington, who seemed to have virtually no specificity or individuality in his face at all, as though it had been built from parts in one of those identikits the police use when trying to reconstruct a fugitive’s appearance from witnesses’ descriptions.
And his speech — except for this rare and out-of-character stalking horse — was a verbal equivalent of the identikit. It wasn’t that he was silent, he was worse than that. A silent man is noticeable simply because he doesn’t speak, whereas Wellington did speak, but his sentences were white bread, bland and tasteless and immediately forgotten.
The other brother, Bradford, Jr., called BJ, was just the opposite. A career Army man, now a major, he was the youngest of Bradford’s three children and the one who physically resembled him the most, though BJ was more burly in his build and ramrod straight in his posture. An Army man of an old-fashioned and almost extinct variety, BJ came close to being the family character. He had never married, the Army evidently being all the wife he needed, and he habitually spoke in a parade-ground bellow. He wore his uniform everywhere, and the first time Evelyn had heard Bradford characterize BJ as ‘shy’ she’d laughed, thinking he was joking. But he wasn’t; the Army had given BJ more than a uniform to hide inside, it had given him a full persona as well, and it was only with great difficulty that one could reach through to the incredibly shy and insecure man within.
Was Wellington also hiding inside a false persona? If so, who was he, down in there?
Stalking horse. What he had said, in response to a bitter wisecrack from Howard about the global ineptitude of the Central Intelligence Agency — “Girls in the steno pool have kept their engagement rings more secret.” — was that it was naïve to expect the United States government to survive with only the assistance of an admittedly bumbling and impulsive espionage agency. “Those fellows are only a stalking horse,” he’d said. “I’m surprised sometimes that isn’t obvious to everybody.”
It was Uncle Joe who responded, turning to Wellington and echoing, “Stalking horse?” His expression was thoughtful. “You mean you think there’s another agency behind the CIA?”
Evelyn was watching Wellington now much more closely than she had ever done before in her life, and she was sure she saw an expression of annoyance touch his anonymous face. Annoyance at Uncle Joe? Or annoyance at having for once in his life called attention to himself? Evelyn, watching him, realized that among all her relatives Wellington was the one she knew the least. He was a stranger sitting at lunch, her mother’s brother. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, not precisely. Only that he worked somehow in Washington, for the federal government.
He answered Uncle Joe with some hesitancy, his eyelids half-closed as though he hoped by masking his eyes to lose everyone’s attention more rapidly. “It just seems sensible to me,” he said. “Of course, it might not be true. I suppose they’d have trouble getting funded.”
“Not at all,” Howard said quickly. “If the CIA is a front for a more secret agency, it would be a funnel for the same group. CIA funds are never targeted in the budget, the appropriations are kept nice and vague.”
Wellington, who had suggested the idea with such conviction, now began to argue against it, saying, “But doesn’t that seem overly complicated? How would they decide which agency did which jobs? They wouldn’t say, ‘Here, this operation looks like it’ll fail for sure, let’s give it to the CIA.’ If it looked as though it would fail, they wouldn’t do it at all.”
“I would imagine,” Howard said, “that the routine espionage work would all be done by the CIA. But when something really difficult or important had to be done, it would be this other group. And if they goofed it, the CIA would step in and take the blame.”
“Now you’re going into sensational fiction,” Wellington told him, smiling slightly. Evelyn didn’t believe the smile at all. “Television programs, or James Bond movies.”
Uncle Joe said, “Still, it’s an interesting notion.” But not with much conviction.
“I suppose so,” Wellington said, carelessly.
Neither Howard nor Uncle Joe seemed to be ready with another comment immediately. Evelyn saw them glance at one another, and she felt that slight silent shifting that means a subject has died and is about to be replaced by another. But she didn’t want it to be replaced, she wanted them to keep talking about the same thing so she could keep studying Wellington. She was meeting this uncle, really meeting him, for the first time in her life, and she wanted to learn as much as possible right now.
So she kept it alive herself. “Bradford would know,” she said.
Everyone looked at her, and it seemed to her that something impatient — no, hostile — was in Wellington’s eyes briefly as he turned her way, but then it was gone and his expression was bland again.
Uncle Joe said, “He’d know what?”
“The President knows what organizations there are,” she explained, and leaned forward to look down the table at Bradford, who was somewhat glumly studying his plate. “Bradford,” she said, “you’d know for sure. Is there another agency?”
He looked up reluctantly, and his expression was indecisive. “I’m not sure the question can be answered,” he said. “Of course there are other agencies. Is the Central Intelligence Agency consciously a distraction for them? I should think not, not in any usual circumstances. But I suppose if one of the other agencies needed that sort of bailing out, the CIA would be the one to do it.”
Uncle Joe said, “What sort of other agencies do you mean, Brad?”
“Well, the services have their own espionage and counterintelligence groups, of course. The FBI does some counterintelligence work within the boundaries of this country. The Secret Service has some responsibilities in that area, particularly in guarding against assassination attempts. I suppose the service agencies. Army and Navy and Air Force, they’d be the most likely to have occasion to be bailed out by the CIA overseas. Though I don’t suppose it happens often, do you, BJ?”
BJ’s voice trumpeted out over the table. “Army Intelligence can take care of itself.” Though that would be merely automatic Army pride speaking, since BJ’s work was with the Quartermaster, in the Pentagon.
Wellington said quietly, “Still, I suppose there’s bound to be inter-service rivalry, just as there is in other departments. Wouldn’t you think so, BJ?”
“Not to a point of snafu,” BJ declared. “Not to where we’d need to be bailed out by the CIA. The Army takes the credit when it’s done well and accepts the blame when it’s failed. You remember, Bradford, that mess in Panama during your administration. The Army accepted its share of the blame on that without flinching.”
Bradford looked rueful. “I remember it, all right,” he said.
Wellington turned to Bradford, still interested. “How did that work itself out finally?”
Evelyn thought, I should say something. The subject has been changed, and I should say something. But Bradford was deep in an explanation of the complexities of the mess in Panama, everyone else was interested in that now, and the moment had somehow passed. And in any case, she doubted a return to the subject would add any more light. But she did try to keep watching Wellington — to keep seeing him — and for five minutes or so she managed, but the unvarying blandness of his expression, the gauzy invisibility of his speech, induced boredom and a straying attention. The stalking horse slip — if it had been a slip — was over now, and would not be repeated, and Evelyn at last, with some relief, allowed Wellington to ooze out of her attention.