The Old Man nodded in his absent way and explained: The President was hostile to R Section; even some congressmen grumbled at the expense of maintaining various espionage agencies which essentially served as checks on each other. If the CIA feud with R Section surfaced now, would the President use the incident to push for his single agency? Or could the CIA’s game against the Section be turned back to tarnish the Agency so badly that no one would trust a single espionage organization? Both were possibilities.
“So we must do nothing,” Hanley said with a trace of sarcasm.
Galloway raised an eyebrow at that. “We must proceed cautiously. If Devereaux handles the elimination of our mole, we keep the matter quiet, at least temporarily. We can use Green as a trump card against the Langley firm. Dead or alive. If Devereaux botches the job, the CIA will hardly reveal it.”
But the woman — this Elizabeth Campbell — might be killed.
“It might be better that way,” shrugged the old man. “She was a traitor to Langley; they want her dead. Might she not betray us as well? You cannot trust a traitor.”
It was useless to argue; Hanley knew the Chief was right, that he was playing a dangerous game on many levels at the same time and that the least important element in the game was the fate of Elizabeth Campbell.
And so Hanley had returned again to the grim, gray building off the Ellipse and had recalled Hallman from his bed back to the Section and to resume the careful hunt through the records for other traitors. He worked through the morning until he could no longer focus his eyes on the words dancing across the pieces of paper.
So tired.
He yawned and finally gave up. Going to the couch in his office, he stretched out on it, and in a moment, fell asleep. He did not even remove his shoes.
But his last waking thought was of Devereaux.
Call. Damn you. Call.
At the precise moment that Hanley had decided Green was the traitor, Green pushed through the door of The Orange Man public house in Wingate Crescent, off the Marylebone Road.
It was Sunday noon in London, five hours ahead of Washington.
The usual pleasant crowd was already there, stoking up on pink gins and pints of Bass Ale at the bar. They all smiled at the young American and they made way for him and he exchanged friendly sallies and pleasantries; copies of the Observer and Times and Sunday Express were scattered on the low tables. The atmosphere was like an American Sunday brunch but with more of a sense of celebration; these were the upper middle classes and Sunday in winter in London was a cozy, comfortable time.
Green ordered and the bartender, taking a beautiful, round, stemmed glass from the rack above the bar, held it beneath the upside-down bottle of Grant’s whisky. He pushed twice on the measure, letting the drams of amber liquid fall into the glass, then put the glass on the bar in front of Green and let the young man mix his own water. Green drank it without ice, in the English manner.
There were many things about Green that were in the English manner. He had only been in London nine months, but it had seemed longer to him; he had let his admiration for things English develop into a quiet mania. His clothes were from Savile Row, quiet dark pinstripes or smoothly fitting Harris tweeds, custom-made. He could not begin his mornings without thick, black tea and cold toast and the Times and the Telegraph. He even thought he might buy a bowler hat this winter, though he secretly feared he would look ridiculous in it.
This was the part of the assignment that had most pleased him. They had emphasized he must “keep up appearances.” There was a generous expense account, fortified with a gold American Express card that provided an “open sesame” to the whims of his purchases.
He was twenty-six years old, and had never been overseas before.
Green was the nephew of Senator Hubert Green of Ohio, a member of the Senate Agricultural Committee who, incidentally, oversaw part of the budget for R Section.
Green had been attracted to intelligence work while still in the Navy. His father had insisted on the Navy after college. A nice Midwestern college where Green did well enough; “the Navy,” his father had insisted, and he had gone along. Green was a mild man, really, and he had gone along with his father all his life. And with anyone else who had decidedly strong ideas about things.
The Navy had not worked out well. He had been a bit of a failure as an ensign, and by mutual agreement — with the aid of Uncle Hubert — he had been allowed to quietly resign. It wasn’t that Green was not conscientious; he was, almost too much so. But he could not seem to handle simple assignments in a simple manner. His very sense of duty seemed to get in the way of direct solutions to direct problems. Finally, even the Navy had come to realize it, especially when a series of blunders were laid down — coldly — in his 201 file and his last commander had read the file and then had begun to watch Green and then harass Green and, at last, drive Green a little crazy.
Not crazy, really. No. But a little nervous. Just a little bit overwhelmed by events.
But that was in the past, nearly three years ago. Uncle Hubert had understood when Green told him he wanted to continue in intelligence work.
Green had tried to get into the CIA. But the CIA was a special club and it was not particularly afraid of the Ohio senator on the Agricultural Committee.
Green did not know then that the CIA was staffed at the upper reaches almost exclusively by an “old boy” network every bit as closed and foolish as that which had pervaded British Intelligence in the years between — and immediately after — the Second World War. The Kim Philbys and Burgesses of the CIA were there and so were the Graham Greenes and other amateur patriots who “knew someone” from Yale or Groton or Harvard and dabbled at intelligence-gathering. The CIA drew heavily on members of the Establishment. The CIA was a club and Green could not get in.
At first.
Uncle Hubert had managed to get Green assigned to R Section, and he had routinely passed through the training program. Green was bright enough and his Midwestern education did not matter since his uncle was a powerful man on the subcommittee charged with overseeing R Section’s budget.
In fact, Green had done quite well and had been rapidly promoted within the Section. There had been a year with the African desk in which he had brilliantly coordinated a series of seemingly unimportant reports which first showed the Cuban presence in the Horn of Africa.
During the period in Washington, Green was happiest. His work was sufficient and it was interesting to him. A bit dull, but then, perhaps Green felt most comfortable with things that were a little dull. He was conscientious and when that quality of his character did not involve dealing with enlisted men or the vagaries of military life, it made him an outstanding worker in a limited way.
Green worked to the level of his capabilities.
He had an apartment in Georgetown and he had a pretty girlfriend. They had met one afternoon on the Ellipse while he took his lunch hour. She was friendly and pretty and not too demanding of him; Green was inherently shy and a little frightened of women.
After a while, he thought he was in love.
For a long time, almost up to the time he left for the London station job, he didn’t understand that she was part of it all. Part of the plan.
That hurt him at first, a little, but Green’s love was not so deep, he came to realize. She had genuinely liked him, she told him, and she still did. Perhaps they could see each other again when he was posted back to Washington.
In the meantime, she explained, there were certain things he would be expected to do.
Green said he could not be a traitor.
They had said he was not a traitor. After all, he had wanted to work for the CIA in the beginning; he must consider that he had always worked for the CIA.