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THE CAT WILL MEW AND DOG WILL HAVE HIS DAY CHAPTER I
It
was in the springtime that Senator Peter Flatwood, Majority Leader of the
United States Senate, was “called to service.”
He had tried to convince himself over the past thirty-five years that
“they” would never really do it. They
did. Flatwood had sighed and said, “Right, Dart, right. I don’t want to go, but I will. I’ve been doing whatever you tell me to do for thirty years. I suppose there’s no point in stopping now.” The delegation ended its first day in London at a dinner given by the American Ambassador. After dinner, Flatwood found himself in the Ambassador’s private sitting room with a bottle of brandy and a most amiable and engaging gentleman who, over cocktails, had introduced himself as “Allgood of Scotland Yard.” They sat in large red leather chairs facing one another across a low coffee table. The windows were covered with heavy black drapes and the floor was covered wall to wall by a deep blue carpet. The fireplace was laid, but no fire. They agreed that the room was the closest thing to a morgue that either one of them had ever seen. In appearance the two men were quite different. Peter Flatwood was tall, six feet, three inches. He was full bodied and had to watch his diet or he slipped quickly into overweight. His eyes were dark blue and his hair full and gray. He looked—-and acted—-younger than his fifty-nine years. He was frequently described as a “born leader.” On the other hand, Gideon Allgood was squat and rotund, deceptively muscular. He was completely bald. People tended to avoid direct contact with his intense gray eyes. He was three years Flatwood’s senior, and for that reason their paths had not crossed at Oxford. They relived their adventures
at the “House,” as Toward the end of the bottle and
the evening, their conversation took a serious turn.
With Allgood and the brandy as a pair of resourceful motivators, Flatwood
gave Allgood a maudlin account of his love affair with Jane Wellright while
at Oxford, and his lasting and undying love for her.
He talked about her tragic death in an automobile accident shortly
before they were to be married. Tears
glistened in Flatwood’s eyes as he talked. Allgood listened intently. When Flatwood finished his story there was a long period of silence, finally broken by Allgood: “Would you—I’m just wondering out loud, you understand—would you, and I admit I’m a bit skeptical—-nothing personal, mind you—-would your love today really be strong enough after thirty-five years, strong enough, let’s just say, that you’d be willing to make sacrifices for Jane should she, let’s just say, suddenly walk into this room?” Flatwood squinted in his concentration on the laborious question. He answered it simply and seriously, “Yes, for Jane, yes.” Allgood held up his glass to the light and talked more to it than to Flatwood. “Good, good.” “What’s that supposed to mean, Gideon?” Allgood said, “Just that the answer is good.” With a belligerent note creeping into his voice, Flatwood asked, “And?” “Now I know, Peter. It’s important that both of us understand that.” “That what!” demanded Flatwood, becoming increasingly irritated at the obscure turn of the conversation. Allgood got to his feet, put his glass down and walked to the door. He stopped there, one hand on the door knob and answered, “Just that, Peter. When can you spare several hours before you return to Washington? It was more of a command than a question.” Flatwood thought for a moment before answering. “Tomorrow’s full. Wednesday I have to make a quick R712 turnaround flight to Washington for a White House meeting. Thursday’s tight. That's going to take several hours. I’ll have Friday free until mid afternoon or so. Why?” ”Because,” said Allgood, “you need to go to a meeting. I'll be in touch.” He opened the door and disappeared down the hall. Flatwood muttered, “Drunken slob,” and wove his way downstairs to the car waiting to take him back to his hotel. Three days later, Thursday afternoon, when Flatwood stopped at the hotel desk to pick up his key, the clerk gave him an envelope. It was addressed with a broad-stroked pen in vivid black ink to “P.F.” In the envelope was a single sheet of paper on which was written one sentence, also in heavy black ink: “Franklin will pick you up at 9 A.M. Friday and deliver you to a meeting.” The letter was signed “GA.” Flatwood shrugged. “Maybe I’ll go and maybe I won’t,” he muttered to himself. Then he thought about Friday. Free time. Everybody sightseeing and shopping, with wives. Better I go to Gideon’s meeting. It was one of those rare times when he almost regretted not bringing Veronica, who, at fifty-six, still merited her high school nickname, “The Texas Beauty.” They had long ago reached an armed truce, and one of its conditions was that she would not appear with him unless there was a clear and compelling reason that her presence would help his political career. On those occasions, she played her role of loving and supportive wife to the hilt. However, and she was abundantly clear on this, she did it, not for him, but for his career. She wanted to be the First Lady as much as he wanted to be President. He had no doubt that she would carry out her threat to destroy him if he tried to divorce her. They went to the White House together, or not at all. At precisely 9 A.M. the following morning a tall, lithe, sharp-featured man in his late thirties, dressed in a trim gray suit, appeared at the table where Flatwood and several other delegates were just finishing breakfast. The man leaned over and whispered in Flatwood’s ear, “Sir, my name is Franklin. Allgood of Scotland Yard sent me. I am your escort. My car is in front of the hotel. I’ll meet you in the lobby when you are ready to leave.” Without waiting for a reply, he returned to the lobby and took up a position just at the entrance to the dining room. The others at the table looked at Flatwood questioningly. Rather than try to explain, he stood up and made for the lobby. Without a word Franklin stepped out in front of him and led the way out of the hotel. Directly in front of the entrance was a maroon colored Rolls Royce. A doorman opened the rear door for Flatwood and Franklin took the wheel. In a matter of seconds the hotel disappeared behind them. Flatwood sat quietly studying the interior of the car. Nice, he thought, but overdone. The red leather seats were too soft, too sunken. With the television set and the well-stocked wet bar, he felt like he was in a high-priced saloon. He sunk further into his seat and wondered idly, I left without telling anyone where I was going. Not too bright, considering I’ve never even seen this guy before. Looks like a hood, too. He spoke into the spaciousness of the back seat, “Do you mind telling me where we’re going?” The window separating the two men came down silently. Not taking his eyes off the road, Franklin reached back and handed Flatwood an envelope. The window closed again. The envelope held a single typewritten sheet. He began to read:
Dear Peter, I apologize for the cloak and dagger bit,
but you will understand as your day progresses. You are on the way to Maidstone, about an hour. There you will meet Jane. You knew her as Jane
Wellright. The surname was an alias. Her death and funeral were faked. There it is, Peter, as brutally abrupt
as I can put it. I couldn’t think
of any way to sneak up on it. Jane
will try to make you understand that what was done was for a cause greater
than personal happiness, yours and hers. You and Jane will meet in All Souls church,
just the two of you. Nostalgic territory
for you, I understand. Your meeting
will last no longer than 70 minutes. The meeting will concern the things Sir
Joshua talked to you about thirty-five years ago. As I am sure you recall, he told you that in your life time there
would be one grand moment in history when we must strike decisively if we
are to survive into the farthest reaches of the future. He also told you that your role could well be central to success.
It is. You are, therefore, now called to service. Jane will tell you certain things you must
know and things you must do. Ask questions,
but, I repeat, do not prolong the meeting beyond seventy minutes.
Franklin will wait outside the church and bring you back to London
after your meeting. Jane will go her own way. Do not try to alter this. Another thing, a bit out of the ordinary:
Please eat this letter after you have digested it (not bad, what?).
It’s made of soluble paper and actually is quite tasty.
It will dissolve of its own accord after an hour, but it’s messy that
way. If you are not eternally angry with me,
perhaps we can share another bottle of brandy again. The letter was signed with the now familiar broad stroked “GA” in dark black ink. The senior senator from Texas sank even further into the luxurious seat. He was numb. He stared at the southern English countryside passing by, and ate his letter. ----------------- Elmore Brasted pulled his red Mercedes convertible off the narrow blacktop road he had been following for the past fifteen minutes and stopped at the snout of an old wooden mailbox. He squinted through the rain to read the name on the box: “Waightstill Avery, Route 2, Lincolnton, North Carolina.” Elmore smiled and muttered to himself, “Now, that’s a prestigious address if I’ve ever heard one.” He turned onto the gravel-rutted drive that curved up a steep hill and disappeared into a forest of great oaks and tall black pines. At the crest of the hill he broke into a cleared area. There was the house. He stopped the car and stared at it through the rain. It loomed at him, a big, tall two-story house. Two massive chimneys, one on each end, bracketed the oblong box-shaped house against the dark rain-soaked sky. It stood straight and true, squared like a soldier at attention. The rain slacked and he got out the car and walked up to front door of the house. The agent had told him it was made of the finest North Carolina pine, and in hot weather it still oozed tar. Elmore gathered that was good, though he had wondered vaguely if oozing pine tar would not mar the paint. Now, he knew his concern was needless. The house was not painted. Obviously it had never been painted since it was built two and quarter centuries ago. His thoughts were troubled as he looked at his house. Anybody who would buy a house unseen deserves what he gets, and I guess I got it. Elmore’s impatience with chitchat had done him in again. He had concluded the last of many calls to the agent with an injunction: “I’ll sum it up for you. Revolutionary era, within two hours of Charlotte, no neighbor within spittin’ distance, livable, furnished. When you find it, commit.” So, now he owned the big unpainted pine house. The rain had stopped and the sun was making an effort to appear. Elmore walked around the house and looked at the view. It was impressive. The hill on which the house set dominated the countryside. He mused aloud, "if this were Europe, there would be a castle here." He could see houses off in the distance, "but none that I can spit on from here. OK, now what else. Oh, yes, furnished and livable. I’d better check those.” His concern for the house was really part of a larger, pervasive problem that he had been wrestling with for the past year. Just the night before, he had asked his best friend, Caleb Wimberly, “What am I going to do with my life?” They had been sitting in Caleb’s backyard nuzzling a bottle of bourbon after dinner. “At fifty-seven,” he went on, “most people are established in their life pattern and have a pretty good idea where they’re going and who they’re going to end it with. I had a better idea about the future when we were in grade school and I wanted to be a forest ranger. Is there something wrong with me that I can’t manage my life like everybody else...?” ”Caleb interrupted: “I hate to break the flow of this brilliant pitty-pot discourse, but you’re concentrating on the negatives. What about the other side? You’ve got your health. And,” Caleb rubbed his thinning gray hair and patted a roll of fat at his waist, “you’ve got your hair and you still have the trim look of the high school football star who picked up a fumble and ran ninety-five yards with time gone to beat Catawba, and you are what I believe is called financially independent, even after the divorce lawyers worked you over, and let’s see....” “OK, OK, Cab,” Elmore said, his hands in the air defensively, “but none of that changes the fact that I feel down because I don’t know where I’m going. I have no goals, no challenges. I don’t know how to handle it.” “Christ, what a Jekyll-Hyde! Aren’t you the guy who told us at dinner tonight all about living in a pre-Revolutionary house that would be the inspiration for the great American novel? I’m hearing you with half my brain and comparing you with me with the other half, and, believe me, you’ve got a lot going for you.” “Oh, shit, Cab, I know you’re right. Maybe it’s the booze. It always makes me introspective. Let’s shift ground. How about you? I thought you were happy in retirement, but somehow on this visit I’ve gotten the impression that’s not so. You don’t miss all that crazy CIA stuff, do you?” “To tell you the truth, El, I do. I like the university atmosphere and all that. They’re easy to get along with. I can pretty much fix my teaching schedule to suit me, and the money makes the difference between living well and living better than well. But, I do miss the excitement of the Agency.” ”You know,” said Elmore, “I never did understand why you retired so early, especially since you obviously liked what you were doing.” Caleb sighed. “Had to, actually. It’s a young man’s game. You can’t hang around when your time is up. My time was up.” “Did somebody tell you that?” “Yeah,” said Caleb, “I did. It’s a hard message to get. Harder to send.” Elmore deliberately shifted the direction of the conversation: “You see more of Delphine now, don’t you?” “Well, yes, while she’s in Washington, except these days she’s so damn busy. And, her next overseas assignment will be coming up in a year or so—incidentally, an ambassadorship. Then, I don’t know how much I’ll see her.” “Holy shit!” exclaimed Elmore. “Ambassador Delphine Higgins! By god she’ll be hell and gone the most beautiful ambassador we’ve ever had. What to they call a female ambassador, anyway? Ambassalady? Or, Miss Bassassmissus...?” “Ambassadress,” interrupted Caleb, “but, El, don’t joke about it. She’s worked hard to get it, and she’s not getting it because they have some female quota to fill....” Elmore’s coal black eyes flashed. “Jesus, Cab, I know that. As far as I’m concerned, Del ought to be the Secretary of State, and one day she will be. I just don’t see what she sees in you.” Caleb laughed. “Thanks a lot.” Then, more seriously, “I worry about what’s going to happen when she gets that kind of rank, especially at a small post. I’m not sure it’ll be suitable to see her the way we have these past twelve years, off and on, as it has been. I’m afraid we’ll drift apart, or, more accurately, that she’ll drift. It worries me, El.” The two friends sat quietly for a few minutes, each with his own thoughts. Elmore spoke first: “There is an alternative, Cab.” “No, El, not really. She’s been successful—outstandingly so—thus far in her career. She wants to see how far she can go. I do too. Marriage would interfere.” “Why, what am I missing? You’ve had a relationship that lasted longer than a lot of marriages, and under more trying circumstances than most. What’s wrong with tacking on a piece of legality?” “You make a great case for marriage, El” “Touché. But, Cab, my experience isn’t a forecast of yours.” “Yes, I know, El, and I didn’t mean to flang it back at you like that. Anyway, both Del and I are both agreed for the moment to wait and see.” “Speaking of Del, where is she?” asked Elmore. Caleb pointed to the upper part of his house. “She’s upstairs packing. She has to leave early in the morning to make it back to Washington in time for her big show.” “Big show?” “Yeah, she’s briefing a White House task force on...well, it’s classified—highly classified—so I’m not supposed to say.” “But you know?” asked Elmore. “Yes, pillow talk,” admitted Caleb sheepishly. “It’s the one security gap no one’s ever been able to figure out how to plug completely. Anyway, it’s great stuff. She’ll be one on one with the President on this thing.” “One on one with Wisener,” said Elmore. “I hope she can draw cute pictures.” “Oh, come on, El, he’s not that bad.” “He ain’t all that good either.” ----------------- Standing in the foyer, Elmore hefted his 185 pounds. “Feels solid,” he said aloud. Methodically and in awe he made his way through the downstairs. The agent had said that most of the furnishings were pre-Civil War, and a few things going back to the Revolutionary period. Whatever the vintage, the house was tastefully and comfortably furnished. Clearly it had been the object of great love by the former inhabitants, an elderly couple who, the agent had said, died at nearly the same time almost two years earlier. Elmore stood just inside the sitting room door and looked through magnificent glass doors on the opposite side of the room to the now soggy hills and fields of the Piedmont. “My God,” he whispered as one does in a church, “this could indeed be home.” He explored the second floor with its four spacious bedrooms, each with its own bath. Obviously there had been some changes since the Revolution, for which Elmore was grateful. Each bedroom was furnished in exquisite taste, each in a different color. The master bedroom was in brown. The others were in blue, green, and, finally, to Elmore’s surprise, an orange one. The extreme contrast between the beauty and symmetry of the inside of the house and its unkempt exterior puzzled him. “Well, hell,” he said to himself, “that’s just the way it is.” There was a door off the second floor landing that opened to a flight of narrow, steep stairs to the attic. Elmore climbed the stairs and turned on the single overhead light that barely broke the darkness. The attic was filled with old suitcases, broken furniture, loose stacks of magazines and newspapers and assorted boxes of papers. Some other rainy day I’ll go through this stuff, vowed Elmore to himself. Suddenly and unaccountably, a shiver ran up his spine. “Damn spooky,” he muttered, and climbed down, hurriedly. -------------------- Peter Flatwood awoke with a start, still in the back seat of the Rolls. He was amazed at himself. I get the most shocking news of my life and I fall asleep? Then he recalled his Army paratrooper training. It was common for trainees to fall asleep in the airplane just before they were to go out the door of the airplane for their first jump, a kind of escape sleep that gives the mind a chance to adjust to radically new circumstances. He felt refreshed and clear-minded after his nap. Again, he spoke into space: “How much longer?” Franklin punched a button and a message appeared on the window separating the passenger and driver compartments: “Twelve minutes to Maidstone; another four minutes to All Souls Church.” Peter grunted. “Are you comfortable, Sir?” asked Franklin. Peter grunted again and returned to his thoughts. He had never been certain just when or where it had started. There was, of course, the mysterious meeting with Sir Joshua, but there was more to it than that. It had been gradual. Only years later did he fully appreciate how carefully he had been assessed and how skillfully he had been recruited. One thing was certain—it had happened. He had, like it or not, committed himself to a “Higher Cause,” as Sir Joshua called it thirty-five years ago. Anticipating Peter’s dilemma, he had added, “It cannot be disloyalty if what you do makes your country stronger and brings glory, power and wealth to it.” Nevertheless,
doubts about the wisdom of his commitment, whenever he allowed himself to
think about it, sent him into despair. He
had combated such despair with elaborate self-deception. The whole thing is a great
big practical joke that they’ll reveal at my fiftieth class reunion. It never really happened. It happened, but by now they’ve forgotten me. He
closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Of all the hundreds of people I know, there’s
never been anyone I could talk to about this. I’ve always been alone with this thing. I still am. God, help me. Often
he had thought about getting out, but the insane truth of it was that he simply
didn’t know how to go about it. Say
what to whom? No one had ever told
him to do anything. He didn’t report
to anyone. There was nobody he could
jump up and down in front of and yell, “Goddamn
you, I quit!” However, in all those years, “they” had been there. In his heart of hearts he had always known that, sensed it. There had been too many instances in the years since he graduated from Oxford when their hand showed, always to his interest and advancement. Peter had been a Rhodes scholar from Duke University. It was a high honor. He had worked hard for it. His selection brought joy to his anglophilic parents. He was happy about that, feeling in an ill-defined way that he had paid a debt. His father had been a successful land developer in Texas with business ties to England. He met and married Peter’s mother in London. It was not surprising then that by the time Peter enrolled in Oxford’s Christ Church he was as much at home in England as he was in the expanse of Texas. Oxford
held pleasant memories for him. The
two years at the “House” were full and rewarding.
He was popular with his British classmates and a leader among the foreign
students who gathered at the famous Rhodes House. It was there, at Oxford, that he fell in love, totally and eternally.
And, it was at Oxford that he faced the greatest tragedy of his life.
The lovely auburn-haired Jane with the liquid blue eyes was killed
in an automobile accident just before they were to marry. Or, as he now knew, he had been cruelly tricked into believing.
How in God’s name could they do such a thing. How could Jane do...? Several years later he went into politics as Sir Joshua had instructed him. He married, as “they” would have wanted him to, a beautiful girl from an influential Texas oil family. They had three children whom he loved deeply. But, in that special remote corner of his heart he cherished the memory of his first love. In time his marriage had wilted, held together only by a shared drive for power. They were now on the outskirts of Maidstone. Thirty-five years after her “death,” in his second year as Majority Leader of the United States Senate, he was about to meet Jane again. -------------------- Beulah Belle Frid walked briskly but carefully just at the edge of the rocky cliff. It was early May and the day was unseasonably hot and sultry. The sky was a faded blue. A damp warm breeze was beginning to pick up as the day drew to an end. It was the kind of day, she told herself, she should be strolling quietly on level ground so as not to raise a sweat and reflecting philosophically on the intricacies and goodness of life. Instead, she was seething, kicking stones off the cliff. She liked to see the stones bounce and clatter down the face of the cliff. Some of them simply fell straight down and landed with a thud at the bottom. Some, however, hit the rounded tops of boulders along the way down and ricocheted like bullets into the pasture that stretched across to the opposite mountain several miles away. Once before, last summer, one of her “bullets” hit a cow. Much to her surprise and secret delight, the cow had bucked and reared like a wild bronco. Today, she wished she could hit another cow. Then suddenly that awful sense of impending doom swept over her. It was distinctly unpleasant, depressing. It defied rational solution or explanation, which made it additionally depressing, which, in turn....She spoke to the cows in the pasture below, “Unlike you girls, I don’t have a herd of friends to graze with.” She felt a cool, dry breeze come across the mountain. It tousled her long blond hair. She shivered. Now the mountain did not seem so friendly. She felt apprehensive about the approaching evening, alone. One lone tear left one soft amber-colored eye, streaked down her cheek and was blown away by the rising wind. Her thoughts were jumbled: I’m halfway through my life and just maybe I’m headed off in the wrong direction. What a delightful thought. I need other interests, other people. But, what? Who? I’m doing too much introspection lately. She shrugged. Beulah Belle Frid was thirty-six years old. She had majored in history at the University of North Carolina and graduated with honors. Like many liberal arts majors, she went into a field she had not even thought about until she graduated. She started her own advertising business. By her late twenties she had built a solid and profitable home base in Charlotte and had branches in three other cities in North Carolina. By the age of thirty-two, she had made her first million dollars and had begun opening offices in cities along the Eastern Seaboard and in the Midwest. She was beautiful, successful, and unhappy. She reached the point where the cliff blended into the mountainside. Here she climbed down a path leading to a narrow black top road where her car was parked. She turned on the ignition and sat for a moment listening to the purr of the powerful Porsche and thinking: I simply can’t go back to that dinky motel tonight. Better to drive back to Charlotte. There’s almost an hour of light left and I can be home in two hours. Dinner, TV, book, and bed. Sounds good. With this resolved, she felt better and roared down the winding road which would take her to Route 321 and Charlotte. On the outskirts of Lincolnton she veered off on a narrow side road that would take her past the old Avery house, a sentimental gesture that would take her only a couple of miles out of the way. The house had been unoccupied since the deaths of Waightstill and Agnes Avery. Their deaths had been a special tragedy for her and her foster parents for they had been very close to the Averys. From childhood, Beulah Belle had come to love the Avery house with its dark old furnishings and high ceilings. It was like a sanctuary. She had thought about buying the house after Waightstill and Agnes died, but for the practical reasons that she liked to think governed her life, she decided not to. The dominating hill on which the Avery house was built came into sight. As she got closer she could see the house itself. She was stunned to see lights in the windows. A sense of dread flooded over her. Someone was in “her” house. She was racked by a pang of regret and another self-administered admonition about things she should have done differently. Beulah Belle was so deep in her thoughts that she misjudged her speed and overshot the turn at the bend in the road just below the Avery house. She slammed on the brakes. Tires screaming, the Porsche skidded off the road, jumped a shallow ditch and plowed into the brambles in the adjoining field. Her car came to a stop inches from a large oak tree. She sat for several minutes not moving. At first she was angry with herself for being so inattentive, then stunned by the realization that she had almost been killed. A man came running down the steep wooded hill. He moved with the surefooted assurance of the natural athlete. When he reached the car, he leaned in her open window and asked, “Are you all right?” Still staring at the oak tree that could have ended her life, Beulah Belle nodded and said in a voice that she found hard to control, “Yes, I’m OK.” Beulah Belle turned her head and looked straight into his dark, black eyes. Her eyes, now a rich ocher, reflected the setting sun. My God, the man breathed to himself, she’s incredibly beautiful. Then, realizing he was staring, he quickly said, “I’m Elmore Brasted. I live in that house up there on top of the hill. You had a close call. Maybe you’d better come in and sit for a spell, you know, till you get hold of yourself.” -------------------- Delphine Higgins arrived at the White House briefing room twenty minutes before the Green Angel briefing was to begin. A White House staff assistant escorted her. He explained the procedures: “The President will come in last. When he is seated, you begin talking. Always speak to the President, unless you are responding to a direct question from some one else. When you have finished your prepared briefing, ask for questions. Any questions?” “No, no questions,” Delphine said. He flipped the pages on his clipboard. “OK, let’s compare our lists of players. I’ve got five besides the President. Senate Majority Leader Peter Flatwood, Secretary of State Levi Whittenburg, Attorney General Anabel Craighead, National Security Advisor Credulous Raper and Director of Central Intelligence Coxheath Lamberhurst. OK?” “Check,” said Delphine. “All right, I guess we’re set,” he said. As he turned to leave he stopped and added, “Miss Higgins, I know this is your first time in here.” He hesitated. “I should mention something. It can—and usually does—get damn rough in here and the one who usually gets kicked to hell and back is the briefer. You know the old thing about killing the messenger. So, stay loose.” ”Anybody or anything in particular to watch for?” she asked. The man glanced over his shoulder. Then in a low voice said, “Yes, Credulous Raper. He’s the hatchet man in briefings for the President, and apparently he's good at it. At least Wisener must think so because he seldom tries to restrain him. Just be ready when it comes.” He turned abruptly and walked away. She was left alone in the briefing room. This encounter caused her a twinge of guilt as the thought flitted across her mind that last weekend she had told her lover, Caleb Wimberly, about Green Angel. He had tried to comfort her afterwards when she became despondent about such a gross violation of security. “And on top of that,” she had said trying to hold back tears of frustration and anger, “I have doubts—-I mean serious doubts—-about the morality the whole thing.” “Of course you do, Del. Only an idiot would not, but you've got to stop asking if it’s right. All that’s been hammered out, and it’s been decided that it’s right, so it’s right. Go with it. Don’t fight it.” ”Cab, do you realize what you just said?--it’s right because it’s been ‘decided’ that it’s right. Do you know who decided it’s right? People like you and me who just aren’t qualified to be God. You want to know why they decided it was ‘right”—-I mean the real reasons? I’ll tell you why: Because of the sheer adventure and grandeur of the thing. Also, Cab, just think, the President who pulls this off...well...it’s obvious where his place in the history books will be. And, of course, don’t forget, about the national recognition for those on a big and successful operation....” He had kissed her quiet and stroked her dark hair and whispered in her ear, the way she liked. He told her how much he loved her big brown eyes that lighted up when she smiled, and how cute her pert little nose was, and how much he marveled at her long beautiful legs. He caressed her breasts and kissed her gently and longingly. Then he cradled her in both his arms, and both fell silent. Caleb dozed off. This annoyed her, as it always did. This time, however, she passed it off with a small frown because she was still mentally keyed to Green Angel. What if, she wondered apprehensively as she disengaged herself from Caleb’s arms, Coxheath Lamberhurst learned she had talked to Caleb as freely as she had about Green Angel? She shuttered. Delphine remembered most vividly her first meeting, over a year ago, with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. She had just been appointed the executive officer for Green Angel and her appointment with Lamberhurst was to learn from the horse’s mouth just what Green Angel was and how she should administer “His Baby,”as he called Green Angel. He received her cordially. He was a short man, physically symmetrical, dapper. He was conventionally handsome but lacked that special attraction to women that handsome men usually have. He was wittily self‑deprecatory. She felt vaguely uncomfortable with him. Unconsciously, she realized later, she had deliberately tried to irritate him. “For some reason, Mr. Lamberhurst, I hate the name, ‘Green Angel.’ It sounds...well, sacrilegious. Or, maybe it’s just that I don’t understand its significance.” He smiled at her naivete and said, “Oh, there is none. You may sure of that. You see, the computer randomly selects operational names so that the human temptation to assign cute and easy-to-remember, and, therefore potentially revealing names is precluded. We don’t want to question the computer, do we?” That answer, concluding in that characteristically CIA question form, still troubled her. At that point the door opened and a slight man wearing an Ivy League brown suit and horn-rimmed glasses came in. He was in his late thirties, already with a prominently receding hairline. Lamberhurst introduced them simply as Delphine and Thurston. She never learned whether Thurston was his first or last name, or whether he even had another name. Lamberhurst looked straight at Thurston: “Delphine is a Foreign Service Officer. She has just been appointed a special assistant to Secretary of State Whittenburg for Operation Green Angel. You knew it as ZBUPTOWN when it was exclusively an Agency project. Her job will be to coordinate operational developments with Green Angel Committee members. You are to provide her with alias documentation, money, backstopped cover stories, secure communications and anything else she needs to administer Green Angel. Today, you are to brief her completely on Green Angel, including the existence of the CAUs and their role, but no names. I repeat no names. If you have any questions about her support requirements, you are to ask me personally, no one else. Do you have any questions?” Thurston, his eyes locked on the Director's face, replied, “No, Sir.” Lamberhurst looked at Delphine and asked, “Questions?” She started to ask him what a CAU was but realized in time that his question was purely ritualistic. “No. No, Sir,” she replied. “Good. Thank you for coming by, Delphine. Thurston, take her with you.” He swirled in his chair and began to read the messages on his terminal. In his office, Thurston had been more relaxed and easy to talk to. He briefed her on the history and purpose of Green Angel. He described in frank terms its progress and successes and its shortcomings and flaws. She learned what the CAUs were, but not who they were. She left Thurston’s office aghast and subdued at what she had heard. After that, Delphine talked to Thurston three or four times a week. She never failed to reach him on one of the four telephone numbers he gave her. If she had a problem with the bureaucracy, he solved it in short order. She gave him her expense vouchers and he paid them in cash on the spot, quite different from the State Department’s plodding methods. Green Angel was so sensitive that it had its own security classification, “Encased Secret.” Security was strict. The full committee never met. The telephone was prohibited, even the “secure” lines. The effect of this was that Delphine had to do all the Green Angel business by face to face meetings with the Committee members. Thurston provided her with cover stories to plausibly explain her presence wherever the meetings ware held. Every inquiry she made for information about the target had to be filtered out and back through the indefatigable Thurston. Lamberhurst himself had designed the stringent security rules. They were burdensome, especially on Delphine. Frequently, she let herself become impatient with her never ending skirmishes with cutouts, cover stories, and outright lies to her colleagues. At such times she had only to reflect on what Green Angel was all about to make the most tedious effort to protect its security seem worth while. Green Angel totally absorbed her. Whatever doubts she had about the wisdom and morality of the operation, it never ceased to fascinate her. And, having direct access to the Secretary of State was heady stuff. She “had arrived.” The hours were long. The only vacation she had since her assignment to Green Angel more than a year earlier had been the recent long weekend visit with Caleb in Chapel Hill. That had been good. Delphine had one assistant, Sally-Lou Rittenhouse, a bright, pretty platinum blond secretary. Though she had lived in Washington for five years, her soft Tennessee accent showed through, especially when she was excited or angry. She and Delphine shared a windowless vault as their office. No one was allowed to enter the vault unless cleared for Encased Secret, which meant that they got very few visitors. Since Delphine spent so much of her time hustling around Washington to her meetings with the Green Angel principals, Sally Lou ran the office. In spite of his authoritative manner, Delphine’s relationship with Secretary of State Whittenburg was good. He was a tall, slender man with dabs of gray in his hair. Because of his bearing and conservative dress, he was often compared to Anthony Eden. He was on loan from Dangsbell Enterprises, Ltd., a relatively unknown but prosperous Atlanta company that specialized in financing international trade. He brought power with him to the office of the Secretary of State. Delphine had once asked Whittenburg why Lamberhurst had volunteered to make a multiagency operation out of so juicy a plum as Green Angel. “Because Cock—did he ask you to call him Cock?” “Yes, he did.” “And did you?” “No,” she said, it just didn’t seem...appropriate.” ”Good. Anyway, the answer is that the son-of-a-bitch is scared of it and wants to share the blame if it blows up. And, if by some wild chance it should succeed, he’s still going to get credit because he started it, which is why he continues to control it.” Emboldened by this confidence, Delphine asked, “You don’t like him very much, I gather.” “More accurately, Del, I don’t trust him.” He looked at her reflectively for a moment before adding, “He’s a beguiling shit. Watch yourself.” Despite what Whittenburg said, she had to agree that Lamberhurst made a very persuasive case for giving Green Angel its broader base in the government. At their first meeting, he told her, “Green Angel is more of a foreign policy matter than foreign intelligence that I am responsible for. With that rational he had argued to make the State Department responsible for Green Angel. However, she found that what Whittenburg once told her about control was true, that is, Lamberhurst never really relinquished any of it. She remembered vividly the startled, hunted look that came over his face when once she suggested that she be put in direct contact with the CAUs. This he had flatly rejected. She looked at the six names again. After thirteen months she was still puzzled and intrigued with the widely divergent views and attitudes that these power figures took toward Green Angel. How their complex and competing concerns would finally coalesce into a decision to continue or cancel Green Angel mystified Delphine. She would soon find out, for that was the purpose of this first full gathering of the Green Angel Committee. She continued down her list. Credulous Raper and Levi Whittenburg were open enemies, partly because of widely divergent personalities, partly because of a fiendish design of American government that put two men in charge of foreign policy—one the Secretary of State and the other the National Security Advisor. Presidents, including Wisener, seemed enjoy this guaranteed conflict. With Raper and Whittenburg the enmity went deeper. Raper, a New Yorker and Wall Street Banker, was well aware of Whittenburg’s not so secret goal while in office of completing the transfer of the nation’s financial power center to the South. In her periodic meetings with Raper, Delphine had found him rudely abrupt. He looked like what she pictured as a has-been prizefighter. He was short and bulky, his nose skewed to the left, apparently broken at some time and not set. He had green brownish eyes set deep in surrounding red-streaked whites. From appearances, Delphine put him down as boozer, though she had never heard anything to confirm that. As far as Green Angel was concerned, Raper’s position was simple. If it would advance the political fortunes of Wisener, then he was for it. His was her first encounter with a fully functional Machiavellian mind. Delphine smiled ruefully at the next name on the list, Anabel Craighead. Craighead as Attorney General was a vote-getting deal that Wisener had blatantly held out to women. “Vote for me and I’ll give women the Justice Department.” Wisener honored his commitment. The selection of Craighead was widely acclaimed by women militants. Craighead had credentials. She had been a successful lawyer for thirty years. She had argued and won three women’s rights cases before the Supreme Court. It was not, however, easy to like her. Whittenburg had once told Delphine that “Anabel is one of those very few people in the world who thrive on making and having enemies.” On Green Angel matters, Delphine found Craighead to be evasive and intellectually ill disciplined. She told Delphine at their first meeting, “If we—I mean you and me—don’t watch these assholes called men they are going to set this whole fucking continent aflame.” Craighead, however, had not taken a position on Green Angel, always closing their meetings with assurances that she was “still studying the legal and constitutional aspects.” Delphine’s thoughts turned next to the lone Republican, Texas Senator Peter R. Flatwood, the Senate Majority Leader. He was articulate, popular and ambitious. He could be overwhelming in debate. In their meetings, she had become aware that behind all that bravura worked a brilliant mind with a finely honed sense of history. She admired him and was awed by him, but for reasons she couldn’t define she was just a little afraid of him. His avowed purpose in life was to become President of the United States in the next election, and, in so doing deprive Wisener, his personal and political enemy, of a second term in the White House. It was a near certainty that Flatwood would get the Republican nomination. He believed in Green Angel. Delphine
checked her watch. Two minutes of
eleven. Doomsday coming up, she said to herself. Oh, Del, don’t be so damn
melodramatic. In this room there will
be the best this country can put up. It’ll
be all right. She rearranged her
notes on the lectern. Then, she looked
to the door and said to the empty room, OK, you bastards, get in here.” |