A man from the enemy was approaching his desk; this time Hewlitt carefully catalogued him in his mind. Age about fifty-five, five feet ten, weight one eighty, face moderately intelligent, uniform better fitted, an officer. “Yes?” he asked.
“I am told that you speak our language.” The voice, educated but cool.
“Yes, I do.” He switched effortlessly into the other tongue.
“I have some instructions to give you. I am Major Barlov, commander of the security detail for this headquarters.”
Hewlitt started to say, “Pleased to meet you,” automatically, then he caught himself. He spoke his own name and then waited.
“I am informed that you are to be in charge of appointments and visitors for Mr. Zalinsky. Therefore you will be required to vouch for each person who applies to be admitted. That is to say, you will be called upon to confirm that he has an appointment and that Mr. Zalinsky has consented to see him. Each visitor will be searched. This is to be explained beforehand to save additional trouble for my men.”
“How about women?” Hewlitt asked.
“The same thing, but I do not believe that Mr. Zalinsky will have much time for any women. The point is, no one is to enter that office until we have given permission. Is that very clear to you?”
“Perfectly.”
“One more thing: I am specifically warning you against taking advantage of your position. You are never to walk in on Mr. Zalinsky without his prior knowledge. And you are never to carry anything, such as a letter opener, which could be used as a weapon. If any attempt is made upon Mr. Zalinsky, you will protect him with your life; if you fail to do this, you will be regarded as part of the attempt. That is all for the present.” The major nodded, turned on his heel and walked away.
It seemed to Hewlitt that precious few Americans would be asking for appointments to see Zalinsky — if they knew what was good for them. It was like calling on the Turkish sultans in the old days; give the slightest displeasure and your head was served up in the middle of a big platter, then and there. Zalinsky had already ordered one execution, which had been immediately carried put; the man was as trustworthy as a cobra and Hewlitt did not intend to forget that fact for a moment.
However, one American who clearly was not afraid to face the administrator callSd that same morning; the office of Senator Solomon Fitzhugh came on the line. The senator wanted to know, via his secretary, when it would be most convenient for Mr. Zalinsky to see him.
“Put him on,” Hewlitt said, and waited.
In a few moments the senators well-known voice came to him over the wire. “To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Hewlitt, senator. Raleigh Hewlitt.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, sir, weve never met. I’ve been on the White House staff for some time as a language specialist; now Mr. Zalinsky has assigned me this job.”
“You’re an American, then.”
“Absolutely, senator. I understand that you want to see Mr. Zalinsky.”
“That is correct, yes.”
“Hold the line, sir, and I’ll see what I can do.”
For the first time he made contact with the administrator without having been summoned first; he pressed the intercom button and the man inside answered almost at once. “Mr. Zalinsky,” Hewlitt said, “I have Senator Solomon Fitzhugh on the line. You know of him?”
“You are wishing to insult me?”
“Of course not, sir. Senator Fitzhugh would like to know what time it would be most convenient for you to see him today.”
“I have no wish to see him,” Zalinsky answered, and hung up.
Hewlitt turned to the other phone. “Fm sorry, senator, Mr. Zalinsky has just informed me that he has no time available.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Senator, I regret this very much, but he made it clear that he didn’t wish to see you at all. Might I suggest a letter, sir.”
“No you may not, Mr. Raleigh, or whatever your name is. He can’t treat me this way and he knows it, I know his boss too well. I intend to see Zalinsky in the immediate future and you can give him that message for me!” The line abruptly went dead.
Hewlitt typed up a memo slip. Mr. Zalinsky: Senator Fitzhugh was very upset by your decision. He asked me to inform you that he intends to see you in the immediate future. He added his initials and then put it aside; he would decide later whether to deliver it or not. If it got Fitzhugh into trouble, it would be the senator’s own fault for not waking up to the realities.
Ever since it had been forcefully, and ruthlessly, reorganized by the enemy, the Pentagon complex had been like a graveyard. The few people who remained on the job were largely clerks who were familiar with the files and a small number of junior officers whose level of responsibility had been limited.
One of the first of the enemy’s planes that had set down at Andrews Air Force Base had contained the Pentagon Reorganization Team and it had gone to work immediately with a vengeance. The initial occupying forces had had the buildings blocked off, and when the team arrived it was equipped with full sets of plans showing every office and facility together with its function or purpose. Supposedly secret information was found to have been hopelessly compromised, with the likelihood that some of the people who had cried “security” the loudest had been responsible.
Office by office, section by section, the Pentagon and adjacent buildings had been gone through. Some secret files had already been burned, some safety precautions had proven effective, but still a vast accumulation of data had fallen into enemy hands — enough to amount to uncounted tons of paper. When the job had been completed a few individuals had been selected to stay on while the enemy’s sentries constantly patrolled the corridors, likely to appear anywhere at any time to be sure that no one did anything other than what he had been specifically directed. Stunned, the skeleton staff of the Pentagon did the enemy’s bidding and silently prayed for help.
Things were therefore in order, by the enemy’s standards, when a very hard-faced man whose pudgy nose and squared-off jaw revealed his Slavic origin entered the Bureau of Naval Personnel with a pass which was immediately respected at the entrance. Once inside the building he did not require any direction; he walked rapidly to the precise area he desired and entered an office where the records for flag officers were stored.
A thin, nervous-appearing yeoman in white uniform took one quick look at his visitor and got to his feet as rapidly as he was able.
“The file on Admiral Haymarket,” the man demanded, his almost brutally direcf voice matching the cold hostility of his face and the demanding tension in his body.
“The admiral is retired,” the yeoman stammered.
The visitor jerked his arm back, then whipped it forward, smashing his palm across the face of the slender young sailor. The yeoman went reeling and fell, his body sliding several inches after it hit the floor. Silently he picked himself up and, avoiding looking at the man who had hit him, went to a row of filing cabinets, searched briefly, and extracted a folder.
Before he could turn around it was yanked out of his hand. It was a very thick service record, but the intruder had no interest in the accumulation of promotions, citations, and awards of decorations that it contained. He opened it from the back, found what he wanted, and extracted a regulation fingerprint card. Holding it in one hand he threw the rest of the papers with savage force across the room so that they were scattered widely among the desks and chairs. After that he stalked out.