Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the snow-covered woods, and for a moment McGarvey stopped to think how many decisions had been made from this room some of them good, even brilliant, others incredibly stupid all of them affecting the lives of someone somewhere in the world. Now it was his turn if he wanted to run the gauntlet in the Senate. Something he still wasn’t sure that he wanted to do. There were a couple of Wyeth prints on the walls, bookcases along one, couch, leather chairs and a coffee table along another; a private bathroom and, directly off his office, a small private dining room that he often used for small conferences. A door connected directly with the office of the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence. Underlined in red was the meeting with Carleton Paterson. The patrician former New York corporate attorney had a respect for McGarvey that just bordered on the grudging, but he had done his best to pave the way for the hearings.
“Hammond will try to embarrass you and the Agency at every possible turn,” Paterson kept warning. “His aim is to get you to withdraw of your own accord; short of that he’ll want to prejudice public opinion so badly against you that the President will be forced to pull your nomination. It’s happened before.”
“Maybe Hammond is right,” McGarvey told him. “About you being the wrong man for the job?” Paterson asked. He shook his head, took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. “The CIA has been run by political animals for too long.” McGarvey started to object, but Paterson held him off. “In the end the general became your friend, I understand your feelings. But Murphy was primarily a politician. Something you are not.” Paterson put his glasses back on.
“When someone cuts open my chest I don’t want it to be the president of the hospital board. I want it to be the surgeon who’s gotten his hands bloody; someone who’s done a thousand heart transplants, the last dozen of which he did just last week.” He inclined his head. “You, my scholar with a gun, are just that man.” He chuckled. “The problem will be getting you confirmed. Hammond’s not your worst enemy. You are.” Ms. Swanfeld set his coffee down. “You’re free after lunch, the four professors from Harvard canceled, and the pool is yours at six.” “Where’s my daughter?” “She and Mr. Van Buren are still at the Farm. They’re scheduled to come back later this morning.” McGarvey took off his jacket and loosened his tie. “Have Carleton up here at two sharp, I think I can give him two hours.” “Yes, sir.” Dick Adkins, the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence came from his adjoining office with a newspaper. “You’ll need every bit of those two hours, and then some,” he said. He nodded to Miss Swanfeld. “Will that be all, sir?” she asked. “Let’s do letters after lunch.” “Yes, sir.” Miss Swanfeld turned and left the office, softly closing the door behind her. “She’s priceless.” “I’d be lost without her.” “Have you seen the Port?” “Not yet.” Adkins laid the Washington Post in front of McGarvey. “Apparently we tried to recruit the good senator right out of college in ‘69, but he couldn’t make it through the confidence course. He ended up getting himself drafted and sent to “Nam.” The headline read: CIA WANNA-BE GUNNING FOR NATION’S TOP SPOOK.
“Maybe this will quiet him down.”
“Not likely. Nobody likes us right now, and Hammond didn’t dodge the draft. There’s talk about putting him up for President in three years.” McGarvey sat back. “We’ve survived worse.” “Name one,”
Adkins shot back. He was a little irascible this morning, his eyes red. He was a short man, a little paunchy and usually diffident; this morning his cheeks were hollow, and he looked like he wanted to bite something. “Bad weekend?” “Ruth is sick again.” His eyes narrowed.
“Every god dammed doctor we’ve taken her to says the same thing; it’s in her head. There’s nothing physically wrong with her.” His jaw tightened. “But they don’t have to hold her shoulders while she’s heaving her guts out in the toilet bowl at three in the morning for the fifth time that night.” “What about a psychologist?” “She won’t see one,” he replied bitterly. He had changed over the past months. They had two girls, but they were away at school. It was for the best, but it left Dick alone to handle the tough situation. “Maybe you should get out of here for a couple of weeks,” McGarvey suggested. “Take her someplace warm. Hawaii.” “After the hearings.” Adkins cracked a smile. “God only knows what I’d come back to if I left now.”
“Seriously, Dick, there’s no job in the world worth your wife. Anytime you want to pull the pin, say the word and you’re out of here.” Adkins nodded tiredly. “I appreciate it. But for now she doesn’t seem to be getting any worse same old same old. We’ll go after the hearings.” “I was thinking about that over the weekend.” “I know, I talked to Carleton on Friday. He’s worried that you’re going to tell the President no thanks, and hang on here only until someone else can be confirmed.” “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.” “True. But the general picked you for the job, and he’s a pretty good judge of character. At least stick it out for a couple of years. This place has never been run so well.” “Did you read the over nights An idiot could do this job.” “And some have,” Adkins said. “Lots of grass fires out there, any one of which could start a forest fire.” “Haynes has other people he can name who’d get past Hammond without a problem.”
“Need we say more?” Adkins asked. “This place would go back to being run like a Fortune 500 company, or worse, like a political constituency. I for one don’t think that would do the country any good. And I’m not alone in that opinion. But it’s your call. Take your own advice; if you want to pull the pin, just say the word. But don’t screw around, Mac. Don’t bullshit the troops. Either do the job, or get the hell out right now and save us all a lot of trouble.”
Adkins was right, of course. Lead, follow or get out of the way.
Harry Truman had a sign on his desk that said THE BUCK STOPS HERE. The sign on McGarvey’s desk could have read, THE BULLSHIT STOPS HERE. He had a hell of a staff; the right people at the right time; professionals who were willing, like Adkins was this morning, to tell the boss the way it really was without fear of repercussions. The CIA had not been run that way for years, if it ever had. He looked up. “I want to see the in-depths on the over nights especially the India-Pakistan situation. I think it’s going to heat up even faster than anyone believes, and we’ll have to play catch up over there.”
“I’ll set up an Intelligence Operations briefing this afternoon.”
“Let’s put it on the nine o’clock agenda. I want something for USIB at ten. But first I want to see a file summary of everything we know.”
“Will do.” “Now, what do we have on the situation in Havana? Do you know who the guy was?” “Navy lieutenant commander Paul Andersen, stationed at the Naval Intelligence unit at Guantanamo Bay. He flew up to Miami on Thursday, picked up a new identity, and Friday flew to Havana with a delegation of travel agents and cruise ship reps. He’d apparently set up a meeting with Hector Sanchez, the second-in-command in Cuban Military Intelligence Internal Affairs. Something is supposedly going on in Castro’s private security detail. Sanchez was going to talk to Andersen in trade for asylum and presumably a stack of cash.” “Was it a setup?” “Naval Intelligence is still working the problem. Havana police found his naked body in the alley behind his hotel. He’d been beaten up and then took a dive, or was thrown, out his tenth-floor window. That was about ten minutes after the prostitute he’d hired left the room.” “What about our people on the ground?” “They’re working on it. But they’ll have to burn a couple of assets to get anywhere.” “Do it,” McGarvey said.