«Inspiring. What does it mean?»
«It’s supposed to describe a man who isn’t very nice. Probably because of a loused-up army record, or a divorce—I’m sure it’s the army thing—but in spite of that insurmountable handicap, is very well liked.»
«I like him already.»
«That’s my problem. I do, too.»
The two men fell into silence. It was clear that Cranston had been in the field long enough to realize when a fellow professional had to think by himself. Reach certain conclusions—or rationalizations—by himself. Most of the time, it was easy.
Ralph Loring thought about the man whose life was detailed so completely in his briefcase, culled from a score of data-bank sources. James Barbour Matlock was the name, but the person behind the name refused to come into focus. And that bothered Loring; Matlock’s life had been shaped by disturbing, even violent, inconsistencies.
He was the surviving son of two elderly, immensely wealthy parents who lived in handsome retirement in Scarsdale, New York. His education had been properly Eastern Establishment: Andover and Amherst, with the proper expectations of a Manhattan-based profession—banking, brokerage, advertising. There was nothing in his precollege or undergraduate record to indicate a deviation from this pattern. Indeed, marriage to a socially prominent girl from Greenwich seemed to confirm it.
And then things happened to James Barbour Matlock, and Loring wished he understood. First came the army.
It was the early sixties, and by the simple expedient of agreeing to a six-month extension of service, Matlock could have sat comfortably behind a desk as a supply officer somewhere—most likely, with his family’s connections, in Washington or New York. Instead, his service file read like a hoodlum’s: a series of infractions and insubordinations that guaranteed him the least desirable of assignments—Vietnam and its escalating hostilities. While in the Mekong Delta, his military behavior also guaranteed him two summary courts-martial.
Yet there appeared to be no ideological motivation behind his actions, merely poor, if any, adjustment.
His return to civilian life was marked by continuing difficulties, first with his parents and then with his wife. Inexplicably, James Barbour Matlock, whose academic record had been gentlemanly but hardly superior, took a small apartment in Morningside Heights and attended Columbia University’s graduate school.
The wife lasted three and a half months, opting for a quiet divorce and a rapid exit from Matlock’s life.
The following several years were monotonous intelligence material. Matlock, the incorrigible, was in the process of becoming Matlock, the scholar. He worked around the calendar, receiving his master’s degree in fourteen months, his doctorate two years later. There was a reconciliation of sorts with his parents, and a position with the English department at Carlyle University in Connecticut. Since then Matlock had published a number of books and articles and acquired an enviable reputation in the academic community. He was obviously popular—«mobile in the extreme» (silly goddamn expression); he was moderately well off and apparently possessed none of the antagonistic traits he’d displayed during the hostile years. Of course, there was damn little reason for him to be discontented, thought Loring. James Barbour Matlock II had his life nicely routined; he was covered on all flanks, thank you, including a girl. He was currently, with discretion, involved with a graduate student named Patricia Ballantyne. They kept separate residences, but according to the data, were lovers. As near as could be determined, however, there was no marriage in sight. The girl was completing her doctoral studies in archeology, and a dozen foundation grants awaited her. Grants that led to distant lands and unfamiliar facts. Patricia Ballantyne was not for marriage; not according to the data banks.
But what of Matlock? wondered Ralph Loring. What did the facts tell him? How could they possibly justify the choice?
They didn’t. They couldn’t. Only a trained professional could carry out the demands of the current situation. The problems were far too complex, too filled with traps for an amateur.
The terrible irony was that if this Matlock made errors, fell into traps, he might accomplish far more far quicker than any professional.
And lose his life doing so.
«What makes you all think he’ll accept?» Cranston was nearing Loring’s apartment and his curiosity was piqued.
«What? I’m sorry, what did you say?»
«What’s the motive for the subject’s acceptance? Why would he agree?»
«A younger brother. Ten years younger, as a matter of fact. The parents are quite old. Very rich, very detached. This Matlock holds himself responsible.»
«For what?»
«The brother. He killed himself three years ago with an overdose of heroin.»
Ralph Loring drove his rented car slowly down the wide, tree-lined street past the large old houses set back beyond manicured lawns. Some were fraternity houses, but there were far fewer than had existed a decade ago. The social exclusivity of the fifties and early sixties was being replaced. A few of the huge structures had other identifications now.
The House, Aquarius (naturally), Afro-Commons, Warwick, Lumumba Hall.
Connecticut’s Carlyle University was one of those medium-sized «prestige» campuses that dot the New England landscape. An administration, under the guidance of its brilliant president, Dr. Adrian Sealfont, was restructuring the college, trying to bring it into the second half of the twentieth century. There were inevitable protests, proliferation of beards, and African studies balanced against the quiet wealth, club blazers, and alumni-sponsored regattas. Hard rock and faculty tea dances were groping for ways to coexist.
Loring reflected, as he looked at the peaceful campus in the bright spring sunlight, that it seemed inconceivable that such a community harbored any real problems.
Certainly not the problem that had brought him there.
Yet it did.
Carlyle was a time bomb which, when detonated, would claim extraordinary victims in its fallout. That it would explode, Loring knew, was inevitable. What happened before then was unpredictable. It was up to him to engineer the best possible probabilities. The key was James Barbour Matlock, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.
Loring drove past the attractive two-story faculty residence that held four apartments, each with a separate entrance. It was considered one of the better faculty houses and was usually occupied by bright young families before they’d reached the tenure necessary for outlying homes of their own. Matlock’s quarters were on the first floor, west section.
Loring drove around the block and parked diagonally across the street from Matlock’s door. He couldn’t stay long; he kept turning in the seat, scanning the cars and Sunday morning pedestrians, satisfied that he himself wasn’t being observed. That was vital. On Sunday, according to Matlock’s surveillance file, the young professor usually read the papers till around noon and then drove to the north end of Carlyle where Patricia Ballantyne lived in one of the efficiency apartments reserved for graduate students. That is, he drove over if she hadn’t spent the night with him. Then the two generally went out into the country for lunch and returned to Matlock’s apartment or went south into Hartford or New Haven. There were variations, of course. Often the Ballantyne girl and Matlock took weekends together, registering as man and wife. Not this weekend, however. Surveillance had confirmed that.
Loring looked at his watch. It was twelve forty, but Matlock was still in his apartment. Time was running short. In a few minutes, Loring was expected to be at Crescent Street. 217 Crescent. It was where he would make cover-contact for his second vehicle transfer.