The Matlock Paper
For Pat and Bill—
As the ancient Bagdhivi proverb says:
When giants cast shadows, hope for the shade.
The «Due Macellis» are giants!
1
Loring walked out the side entrance of the Justice Department and looked for a taxi. It was nearly five thirty, a spring Friday, and the congestion in the Washington streets was awful. Loring stood by the curb and held up his left hand, hoping for the best. He was about to abandon the effort when a cab that had picked up a fare thirty feet down the block stopped in front of him.
«Going east, mister? It’s O.K. This gentleman said he wouldn’t mind.»
Loring was always embarrassed when these incidents occurred. He unconsciously drew back his right forearm, allowing his sleeve to cover as much of his hand as possible—to conceal the thin black chain looped around his wrist, locked to the briefcase handle.
«Thanks, anyway. I’m heading south at the next corner.»
He waited until the taxi reentered the flow of traffic and then resumed his futile signaling.
Usually, under such conditions, his mind was alert, his feelings competitive. He would normally dart his eyes in both directions, ferreting out cabs about to disgorge passengers, watching the corners for those dimly lit roof signs that meant this particular vehicle was for hire if you ran fast enough.
Today, however, Ralph Loring did not feel like running. On this particular Friday, his mind was obsessed with a terrible reality. He had just borne witness to a man’s being sentenced to death. A man he’d never met but knew a great deal about. An unknowing man of thirty-three who lived and worked in a small New England town four hundred miles away and who had no idea of Loring’s existence, much less of the Justice Department’s interest in him.
Loring’s memory kept returning to the large conference room with the huge rectangular table around which sat the men who’d pronounced the sentence.
He had objected strenuously. It was the least he could do for the man he’d never met, the man who was being maneuvered with such precision into such an untenable position.
«May I remind you, Mr. Loring,» said an assistant attorney general who’d once been a judge advocate in the navy, «that in any combat situation basic risks are assumed. A percentage of casualties is anticipated.»
«The circumstances are different. This man isn’t trained. He won’t know who or where the enemy is. How could he? We don’t know ourselves.»
«Just the point.» The speaker then had been another assistant AG, this one a recruit from some corporation law office, fond of committee meetings, and, Loring suspected, incapable of decisions without them. «Our subject is highly mobile. Look at the psychological profile, ‘flawed but mobile in the extreme.’ That’s exactly what it says. He’s a logical choice.»
«‘Flawed but mobile’! What in heaven’s name does that mean? May I remind this committee that I’ve worked in the field for fifteen years. Psychological profiles are only screening guidelines, hit-and-miss judgments. I would no more send a man into an infiltration problem without knowing him thoroughly than I would assume the responsibility for NASA mathematics.»
The chairman of the committee, a career professional, had answered Loring.
«I understand your reservations; normally, I’d agree. However, these aren’t normal conditions. We have barely three weeks. The time factor overrides the usual precautions.»
«It’s the risk we have to assume,» said the former judge advocate pontifically.
«You’re not assuming it,» Loring replied.
«Do you wish to be relieved of the contact?» The chairman made the offer in complete sincerity.
«No, sir. I’ll make it. Reluctantly. I want that on the record.»
«One thing before we adjourn.» The corporation lawyer leaned forward on the table. «And this comes right from the top. We’ve all agreed that our subject is motivated. The profile makes that clear. What must also be made clear is that any assistance given this committee by the subject is given freely and on a voluntary basis. We’re vulnerable here. We cannot, repeat cannot, be responsible. If it’s possible, we’d like the record to indicate that the subject came to us.»
Ralph Loring had turned away from the man in disgust.
If anything, the traffic was heavier now. Loring had about made up his mind to start walking the twenty-odd blocks to his apartment when a white Volvo pulled up in front of him.
«Get in! You look silly with your hand up like that.»
«Oh, it’s you. Thanks very much.» Loring opened the door and slid into the small front seat, holding his briefcase on his lap. There was no need to hide the thin black chain around his wrist. Cranston was a field man, too; an overseas route specialist. Cranston had done most of the background work on the assignment which was now Loring’s responsibility.
«That was a long meeting. Accomplish anything?»
«The green light.»
«It’s about time.»
«Two assistant AGs and a concerned message from the White House were responsible.»
«Good. Geo division got the latest reports from Force-Mediterranean this morning. It’s a regular mass conversion of source routes. It’s confirmed. The fields in Ankara and Konya in the north, the projects in Sidi Barrani and Rashid, even the Algerian contingents are systematically cutting production. It’s going to make things very difficult.»
«What the hell do you want? I thought the objective was to rip them out. You people are never satisfied.»
«Neither would you be. We can exert controls over routes we know about; what in God’s name do we know about places like … Porto Belocruz, Pilcomayo, a half dozen unpronounceable names in Paraguay, Brazil, Guiana? It’s a whole goddamn new ballgame, Ralph.»
«Bring in the SA specialists. CIA’s crawling with them.»
«No way. We’re not even allowed to ask for maps.»
«That’s asinine.»
«That’s espionage. We stay clean. We’re strictly according to Interpol-Hoyle; no funny business. I thought you knew that.»
«I do,» replied Loring wearily. «It’s still asinine.»
«You worry about New England, USA. We’ll handle the pampas, or whatever they are—it is.»
«New England, USA, is a goddamn microcosm. That’s what’s frightening. What happened to all those poetic descriptions of rustic fences and Yankee spirit and ivied brick walls?»
«New poetry. Get with it.»
«Your sympathy is overwhelming. Thanks.»
«You sound discouraged.»
«There isn’t enough time…»
«There never is.» Cranston steered the small car into a faster lane only to find it bottlenecked at Nebraska and Eighteenth. With a sigh, he shoved the gearshift into neutral and shrugged his shoulders. He looked at Loring, who was staring blankly at the windshield. «At least you got the green light. That’s something.»
«Sure. With the wrong personnel.»
«Oh … I see. Is that him?» Cranston gestured his head toward Loring’s briefcase.
«That’s him. From the day he was born.»
«What’s his name?»
«Matlock. James B. Matlock II. The B is for Barbour, very old family—two very old families. James Matlock, B.A., M.A., Ph.D. A leading authority in the field of social and political influences on Elizabethan literature. How about that?»
«Jesus! Are those his qualifications? Where does he start asking questions? At faculty teas for retired professors?»
«No. That part of it’s all right; he’s young enough. His qualifications are included in what Security calls ‘flawed but mobile in the extreme.’ Isn’t that a lovely phrase?»