During his fifteen years in the government, slowly and imperceptibly his enemy had shifted from the Big Bear, the Russkies, the Reds, the ChiComs - to his fellow Americans. That was his job now, and he hated it. It was tapping telephone transmissions and competing with other agencies; it was value judgements and it was very, very political.
Nothing was clean and direct any more. And Graves didn't like it. Not any more.
Graves had been planning to quit State for a long time, ever since his domestic work had become distasteful. But he hadn't quit.
What kept him was partly inertia and partly the fear that he might be unable to teach Slavic or mathematics. At least, that was what he told himself. He was reluctant to admit the real reason, even to himself.
The fact was that he took a genuine pleasure in his work. The pleasure was abstract, the pleasure of a compulsive jigsaw puzzle worker who will fit the pieces together without caring what the puzzle really means. It was a game he loved to play, even if it was fundamentally nasty.
He also liked the notion of an opponent. In the foreign division he had been up against institutions -embassies, foreign press corps, political groups of various kinds. In the domestic division, it was most often a single individual.
Graves had long ago discovered his skill at poker, backgammon, and chess - games which required a combination of mathematical insight, memory, and psychological daring. To him the ideal was chess -one man pitted against another man, each trying to calculate the intentions of the other in a game of enormous complexity with many alternatives.
That was why he had agreed to leave Washington in order to follow the activities of John Wright. In the realm of puzzles and games, nothing was more challenging than John Wright.
He and Wright were well matched: the same intelligence, the same mathematical background, the same fondness for games, particularly chess and poker.
But now after three months, Phelps was rolling him up. Wright would be arrested; the game would be called off. Graves sighed, trying to tell himself that this did not represent a personal defeat. Yet it was; he knew it.
With a low whine the plane began its descent towards San Diego, skimming in over the roofs of the highest buildings. Graves didn't much like San Diego. It was a utilitarian town dominated by the needs of the Navy, which ran it with a firm, conservative hand. Even its sins were dreary: the downtown area was filled with bars, pool halls, and porno movie houses which advertised `Beaver films - direct from Frisco!' as if San Francisco were six thousand miles away and not just an hour up the coast. Fresh-faced sailors wandered all over the downtown area looking for something to do. They never seemed to understand that there was nothing to do. Except, possibly, to get drunk.
Despite the early hour San Diego was hot, and Graves was grateful for the car's air conditioning. Lewis drove away from the airport, glancing occasionally at Graves. `The marshals checked in with us an hour ago.'
`So you know?'
`Everybody knows. They're just waiting for you to say the word.'
As they left the airport they passed beneath a banner stretched across the road: WELCOME REPUBLICANS. Graves smiled. `I'm going to hold off for a while,' he said. `At least until this afternoon.'
Lewis nodded and said nothing. Graves liked that about him, his silence. He was young and enthusiastic - characteristics Graves severely lacked - but he knew when to keep his mouth shut. `We'll go directly to his apartment,' he said.
`All right,' Lewis said. He didn't ask why.
`What time did Wright quit last night?'
`Nine. Lights out at nine.'
`Rather early.' Graves frowned. It was rare for Wright to go to bed before midnight.,
`Duly noted on the time-clock sheets,' Lewis said. `I checked them myself this morning.'
`Has he ever done that before? Gone to bed at nine?'
`July fifth. He had the flu then, you remember.'
`But he's not sick now,' Graves said, and tugged at his ear. It was a nervous habit he had. And he was very nervous now.
There were a lot of cops stationed on the road from the airport to the city. Graves commented on it.
`You haven't heard?' Lewis said.
`Heard what?'
`The President's coming in today.'
`No,' Graves said. `When was that decided? This is only the second day. I'm surprised he'd show before he's nominated.'
`Everybody's surprised. Apparently he intends to address the Convention delegates before the balloting.'
`Oh?'
`Yeah.' Lewis smiled. `It's also apparently true that there are some squabbles in the rules committee and the platform committee. He's going to straighten that out.'
`Ah.' It was making more sense. The President was a practical politician. He'd sacrifice the drama of a grand entrance if he had to get a political job done earlier.
`We just got the word a couple of hours ago,' Lewis said. `Same with the police. They're furious. The Chief has been making statements about how hard it is to provide security…' He gestured at all the wait- ing cops. They were stationed every thirty yards or so along the road. `I guess he managed.'
`Looks like it. What time is he due?'
`Around noon, I think.'
They drove on in silence for a while, leaving the coast road and heading into the centre of town. Graves noticed that Broadway had been dressed up, its honkytonk glitter subdued a little. But there were a lot of tough-looking girls around.
Lewis commented on it. `The City Fathers are going crazy,' he said: `About that.' He jerked his thumb towards one spectacularly constructed girl in a tightly clinging pants suit.
`I thought it wasn't allowed.' Traditionally San Diego was free of hookers despite the large sailor population. Tijuana was just twenty minutes away; those services were usually provided across the border.
`Nothing they can do about it,' Lewis said. `Just in the last few hours they've all been coming in. Every damned hooker for a thousand miles is here. All the girls from Vegas and Reno and Tahoe. It's the Convention.'
`But the City Fathers don't like it.'
`The City Fathers hate it,' Lewis said, and grinned. It was a youthful grin, the grin of a person who still found sin amusing, risque, fun.
Graves could no longer find the fun in prostitution. Why not? he wondered. Was it age - or was it striking some uncomfortable chord in himself?
But he didn't pursue the thought. Lewis turned left, going up into the hilly section of town towards Wright's apartment.
HOUR 9
Lewis slowed as they approached a dry cleaning van advertising 24 HOUR SERVICE AT NO ADDITIONAL CHARGE and PLANT ON PREMISES.
`You want to talk to 702?' Lewis said.
`Yeah, for a minute,' Graves said.
Lewis pulled over. Graves got out. The driver in the van wound down his window.
`I hear you're rolling it up,' the driver said.
`That's right,' Graves said.
`When?'
`Later today.'
`What's proto until then?' Proto was slang for protocol.
`Business as usual,' Graves said. `Where's 703?F
'Off duty today.' The driver shrugged.
`Call them in. I want them to pick up the girl this morning.'
`Oh?'
`Yeah.'
`Anything else?'
`Yeah. You got some coffee in there?F
'Sure. Two cups?'
Graves looked into the sedan at Lewis. `You want coffee?'
Lewis shook his head.
`Just one,' Graves said. `Black with four sugars.'
The driver sighed and looked into the interior of the dry cleaning van. `Give the boss his usual,'.he shouted. A moment later a styrofoam cup was passed out to Graves.
`You're going to catch diabetes,' the driver said.
`This is breakfast,' Graves said, and walked back to his car. In the background he heard the van driver saying, `702 to 703. Over. 702 to 703. Over.'