Fraser rose from his desk and went to the shuttered window and pulled open the drapes. He stared down at the ants moving among the side streets of the city, then he turned away.
“And Kaiser. What did Kaiser say?”
“Sir?”
“Well? Did you make it clear to him we were prepared to act on the matter of his son?”
“Sir.” Vanderglass retreated into cop jargon. “Sir, we used maximum suasion on him and I took charge of the operation myself and I made assurances to him about the safety of the woman and—”
“And?” Fraser felt a strange, sick premonition.
Vanderglass looked down uncomfortably at his polished wing-tip shoes. “Sir, I’m sorry to have to report this but I believe we have minimalized any damage to us. But he killed himself, sir.”
Fraser’s voice was calm. “When?”
“Shortly after eight o’clock, sir. Last night. In his office. It was a point forty-five caliber automatic, Army issue, apparently some sort of a war souvenir.”
“And what about us? Was there… any trace… providing a link with us?”
“No, sir. We swept the office right away. We cleared it. Had a man in the building, sir, we were waiting for him to leave for the day because we were going to do a bag job on the place, to get the files on Miss Macklin.”
“And did you get them?”
“Negative, sir. He must have dumped them during the day, after I visited him. Nothing at all on Rita Macklin — employment record, W-two filing forms, possible whereabouts. The Agency had arranged a tap for us under the National Security charter but there was nothing, no telephonic contact at all.”
Fraser winced at the continued jargon. He realized that Vanderglass was nervous.
“One of our people swept her apartment, we found letters to a woman in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, that’s on the other side of the state from Green Bay. Examination and analysis conclude the letters were correspondence with Miss Macklin’s mother, this is Mrs. Thomas Macklin, a widow. Also on that, sir, this Thomas Macklin, deceased, was a member of the State Department from 1945 through 1951, part of the China crowd. Very interesting stuff on—”
“I don’t care a damn about Thomas Macklin,” Fraser said.
“Yes, sir. We put a tap on Mrs. Macklin’s phone last night but again, still no evidence of telephonic contact with the daughter, sir. We scanned appropriate records at the telephone company in Eau Claire as well, through the Agency connection—”
“Yes, yes.”
“Sir. We have three men right now in downtown Green Bay around the offices of the newspaper. The Press-Gazette. She worked there before her Washington job and I’m going on the theory that she might try to leak the journal to this—”
“My God, Vanderglass. This is a mess, this is a total mess—”
“Sir, I think we have contained the problem, it’s now a matter of waiting.”
“Yes. Everything has been done, everything is buttoned up, every exit is blocked but somehow this woman is still out there and she’s got that goddam journal. Do you understand? She’s a loose cargo in the hold and we’re in a storm.”
“Sir.”
“Rita Macklin is out of control,” Fraser said. “Out of control.”
“Sir, perhaps she doesn’t have the journal—”
“Goddam it, Vanderglass. That’s just wishful thinking. Why has she gone underground if she doesn’t have the journal?”
“Sir. You’re right, sir.”
“At least Florida is cleaned up. Is it?”
“Sir, we got our men out. Except for Petersen. They found him this morning in the ship channel near Sand Key. He had been garroted.”
“God.”
“Sir, it has to be this man. The one they never located. Devereaux. From R Section. When the Adviser called off the operation, he was unreachable.”
“Code name November.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn it. Vanderglass, I want you in Green Bay now. I want the operation personally overseen by you. And I think you should fashion a signal to the A.D. at the Agency. This is a purely legal matter now. There’s been a murder in Florida, one of our men, and both this Devereaux and this woman, this Macklin woman, are involved in it and they’ve fled the state to avoid inquiries. Let’s get this right through official channels, from the Agency to the state authorities in Wisconsin—”
Vanderglass permitted a smile to lighten the cobra features of his face. “Yes, sir. Good. I think this will be very, very good. And we can step in at the point of arrest of the Macklin suspect and retrieve the documentation—”
“The journal,” Fraser said. “We have to be certain, we have to have the journal. Without it, TransAsia — well, a lot of matters — can be threatened.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want her taken care of. Is that clear?” Fraser’s voice had dropped its burden of politeness. “I wanted this goddam woman taken care of and this… this agent, Devereaux. Both of them. Taken care of once and for all. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Today. Now. Tonight. I want no more guesses. I want you to be absolutely certain.”
“Sir.” Vanderglass stood very straight. “We’ve got everything now. Full authorization. The resources of the bank. Resources of the government. We’ll go right down to the local police level on this.”
When Vanderglass left the office, Fraser sat behind his large, empty desk and stared for a moment at the Picasso on the far wall. It was a line drawing in a simple chrome frame, a portrait of a woman surrounded by her children.
The portrait jogged his memory.
He pushed a button on the intercom. In a moment, his secretary was at the door.
“I want to see Wilson. Mr. Vanderglass has just reported to me on the theft of some moneys and securities from our commercial loans division. It involves one of our younger men. I want him to take care of it with the proper law enforcement agents.”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary said. He closed the door behind him.
Fraser leaned back in his chair. Kaiser no longer existed, he thought. Therefore, the reason for blackmail no longer existed; and the need to overlook the crime of Kaiser’s son no longer existed either.
The account would be settled by young Kaiser.
And the other accounts as well. All of them.
34
“Perhaps I should have been informed earlier.”
Hanley waited for the rebuke to subside in the silence. Neither man spoke for a moment.
Beyond the windows of the cold office tucked into the recesses of the Department of Agriculture building, the lights of Pennsylvania Avenue marched in empty, orange parade to the Capitol.
Nearly ten o’clock and the snug little city was already buttoned up for the night.
For the fifth time in the past hour, the Old Man lit his pipe. It was one of his props, along with the half-glasses he used to read memos and the old-fashioned pocket watch on the gold chain that he wore in his vest. Rear Admiral P. G. Galloway (USN Retired) had long ago learned the importance of appearances in the corridors of Washington power. It was part of the key to his success there and his survival as head of R Section.