“We’re all bored. It’s just another challenge to meet, Miles. We’ve still got to do the job.”
“Why?”
“Because—oh to hell with it.”
“Look—use me for a decoy. Anything.”
“Begging demeans you, Miles.”
“Not as much as being junked like an old car.”
“Damn it, I hate a man who doesn’t know when the party’s over. At least have the grace to know when to go home. If you can’t fit in behind that desk then give me your resignation. You’ll get a full early-retirement disability pension.”
“Wonderful.”
“Well?”
“You’ll have my resignation this afternoon. With parsley.”
“If that’s the way you want it.… Let’s have lunch soon, what do you say?”
Alexandria was a strip town. The long main drag was crowded with impatient kids driving their souped-up cars uselessly about. He walked past a theater that advertised mature adult films. Beyond that was a string of advertising boards along the waiting-bench wall of a bus depot. One of the ads told young men they could get job-training for high-paying skills if they joined the Army. Another begged businessmen to hire unemployed veterans.
He rented a Mustang under the name James Butler and booked himself into a motel near the Interstate. He slept from midnight to nine in the morning and after the rush-hour traffic had dissipated he drove up to Langley and went into a drugstore phone booth and rang the number.
“Farm labor division, may I help you?”
“My field number is four-three-three-eight,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Joseph Cutter. I don’t have his extension.”
– 5 –
WHEN THE PHONE rang Ross was nearer so he picked up. “Seven six two.”
“Who’s this?”
“Leonard Ross. Who’s calling?”
“Kendig. I’d like to speak with Joe Cutter.”
Ross’s jaw dropped. He turned and covered the mouthpiece. “It’s him.”
Cutter took the receiver and sat down on the edge of the desk. He held it an an angle against his ear so that Ross could listen in. “Miles. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m glad they put you on it, Joe. I was afraid they might not throw in the first team. I’m flattered. They still respect my talent—and yours.”
“And I got mine from you. I see what you mean. What can I do for you?”
“You’ve read my book?”
“The first chapter.”
“Desrosiers ought to have chapter two by now. You’ll probably hear from him today. I ought to mention there are a couple of pages missing from it. I withheld them on purpose. They contain the references to documentary sources and the names of the witnesses who are still alive.”
“Interesting,” Cutter said. Ross leaned closer to catch the tenor of Kendig’s voice. Cutter said, “Have you thought of putting a price on the exclusive worldwide rights?”
“What am I offered?”
“It appears to be a seller’s market, doesn’t it.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“Sure,” Cutter said. He changed the subject abruptly: “You could waste a lot of our time and energy, Miles. What are you trying to prove?”
“All I want is revenge.”
“I see. The spy who was thrown out in the cold wants to get even with the people who threw him out there. That what you mean?”
“That’s why I’m writing the book, Joe.”
“In a pig’s eye.”
Ross heard the chuckle on the phone. Cutter said, “That bullet in the head scrambled your brain. You can’t hurt the Agency—it’s like trying to knock down an elephant with a flyswatter.”
“An elephant can choke to death on a flyswatter, Joe.”
“You belong in a rubber room. What’s the real point? What will it take to call you off?”
“It’s too late for that. I’m just going to finish writing my book. I’ll be sending it out to the publishers a chapter at a time. I’ll be withholding a few evidential pages here and there—they’ll be mailed in along with the final chapter. If you haven’t nailed me yet, of course.”
Ross saw a quick grin flick across Cutter’s lips. “So it’s like that. The longer it takes us to catch you, the more damage you’ll do.”
“You’ve got the picture.”
“We’ll have you on toast, Miles.”
“Come off it. Don’t go making any funeral arrangements until you’re sure you’ve got my corpse.”
“None of us wants that.”
“Myerson would like nothing better.”
“Hell, Miles, we’ve already arranged to sell your body to science. But you can still call it off.”
“No point in that. You people need me like the axe needs the turkey. If I stopped writing now it wouldn’t change that.”
“You really want this fox hunt, don’t you.”
“It’s a way to pass the time.”
“Want to know what I think, Miles?”
“Avidly.”
“I think you’ve picked this game because it’s impossible. You’ll have plenty of excuses for your failure. It’s a hell of a cheap shot.”
“You’re talking into a dead phone, Joe. I’ll see you sometime.”
Click.
Ross leaned back. “Of all the—”
“Shut up.” Cutter was jiggling the phone cradle; then he put the instrument back to his mouth. “This is extension seven six two. A call just came in on this line. I want the log on it.”
Ross stood up and went back to his chair. The ashtray beside it was crowded with butts. They’d been waiting three days and every time he’d made a suggestion about taking some action or other Cutter had told him to go ahead if it would make him feel better. Cutter just sat by the phone and waited. It made Ross feel like an ass. He knew how Cutter regarded him: for Cutter people seemed to have glass heads. To Cutter he was a tall excitable kid, an overgrown precocious schoolboy. And the power of Cutter’s personality was such that he’d half convinced Ross he was right in his judgment. Ross was a six-year veteran of the Agency and Cutter was making him feel like a green recruit.
Cutter grunted into the phone and hung it up. He swiveled on the corner of the desk and said, “The son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“It was a local call,” Cutter said. “The son of a bitch is right here in Langley.”
“He must have the balls of a brass gorilla,” Ross said.
“There never was anybody like him.”
“No way to trace that call, is there. Well it’s not such a big town. Shouldn’t we scout around and see if we can spot him?”
“He’ll be halfway to the West Virginia line by now.”
“Then what the hell do you have in mind? Sit on our asses and diddle ourselves until he calls back?”
“He won’t call back,” Cutter said. “He’s said everything he had to say.”
“He didn’t say much of anything.”
“He’s waving a red flag, that’s all. All right, it’s time we got started.”
“Doing what?”
“Collect the composites from the second floor. Get us a conference room for eleven-thirty. And organize some transportation.” Cutter had the phone again. “It’s Cutter,” he said into it, and covered the mouthpiece to talk to Ross again: “I’ll be with Myerson. You chair the conference. You’ll have twelve men. Take them into town and blanket the pay phones. Take the composites. Find out where he made the call from, what he was wearing, what kind of car he’s driving, which way he went when he left.”
“You think we’ll find anybody who noticed?”
“Probably not. But we’ve got to cover it.”
Ross started gathering things together and putting them into his briefcase. Cutter had gone back to the phone:
“Kendig’s here somewhere. In Langley. I’ll want a few more men on it.… Nuts, he’s priority enough. He’s mailed a second chapter out to those publishers. He’s going to keep mailing chapters out until we get him. How long do you want it to take? … No. He says he wants revenge because he got canned but that’s not it. He’s like a bicycle, when it stops moving it falls down. He’s rolling again, that’s all. There’s no point to it beyond the movement itself. As long as he keeps rolling he stays upright, you follow? … Hell I’m not wasting your time. You asked me. Now he’s got to be traveling on phony papers. I’m going to need authority to call on some of the overseas stringers. We’ll have to canvas the dealers. He must have bought papers from somebody, probably before he left Europe.…”