Mike said, in protest, "Holy smokes, do you check everybody like this?"
"That's right, everybody. Even the chief has to go through the whole routine every time he enters the building."
"It gets a little on the ridiculous side," Mike said. "You spend half your energies checking or being checked. And if you can't trust your bureau head, Bigelow, who can you trust?"
Frank Jones looked at him. "Suppose this happened. Suppose the Russkies, or whoever, rang in a spittin' image of Lawrence Bigelow. Suppose they kidnapped or killed the real Bigelow and substituted the dead ringer. Can you imagine how much damage such a substitute could do?"
"Cloak and dagger," Mike muttered.
They made their way through a forest of desks, clattering IBM machines, and other office equipment, in the long office room that extended before the inner offices of Lawrence Bigelow.
They eventually reached the Chiefs office, and the identity screen picked them up. The door opened and they filed on through into the largest office Mike Edwards could off hand ever remember being in.
Evidently, Lawrence Bigelow failed to stint himself. The massive furniture was of the best, you had to plow through the rug, and on the wall was a Rembrandt which was obviously original.
The espionage-counter-espionage head looked up at their entry.
He said, "Hello, Frank. And you must be Professor Edwards." He didn't bother to come to his feet for handshakes or any of the other amenities.
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He must have been at least in his middle sixties, Mike decided, and looked a damn sight better on his very seldom TV broadcasts than he did in person. He was a stocky, heavy jowled man, with unfriendly eyes and unfriendly manner. However, he seemed to have a certain rapport with Jones. Once again, Mike came to the conclusion that Frank was higher in the echelons than he had suspected.
"Sit down," Bigelow said.
They sat.
Lawrence Bigelow said, tapping a sheaf of papers on the littered desk before him, "I've been going through your dossier, Professor."
"Just call me mister, now," Mike demurred. "The professor is gone with the wind."
The head of America's top cloak and dagger bureau looked at him. "Don't crack wise with me."
Mike Edwards came to his feet and said, "Fuck you," turned and headed for the door. Obviously, he wasn't going to be able to work with this character.
Jones was shaking his head in gentle reproof, looking at his superior. He said mildly, "No… Chief."
Bigelow said^ "Come back here, goddammit."
"Screw you," Mike told him, still heading for the door.
Lawrence Bigelow said to Frank, "What's the matter with this stupid son of a bitch?"
Frank said mildly, "He's an honest man. I haven't seen one for years."
Mike's hand was on the doorknob. •
Bigelow, as though it killed him to say it, said, "Listen, for crissakes, you touchy son of a bitch, come back and at least argue with me."
"Screw you," Mike said, wrenching the door open. He was getting more sore by the minute at the way the other talked.
The other roared at him. "You're in my den, Buster. You come back here and sit down, or I'll have half a dozen of my heavies on you so fast you won't be able to count them. I'll have you stuck away somewhere so you won't get out until Panama freezes over.
Frank said, "Better come back, Mike. Just for the present, at least."
Mike Edwards turned around and returned to his chair. He said coldly, "I still say, fuck you, Bigelow.
Now speak your piece."
"Speak my piece?" The flabbergasted bureau head looked at Jones in amazement.
Frank had been going through this, legs crossed, in complete detachment.
"You guys ought to get to know each other," he said. You're both impossible. I wish the hell I'd become Page 47
a violin player, like my dear old mother wanted."
Lawrence Bigelow glowered at his subordinate, then again at Mike. He took several deep breaths and said, "All right. Let's start all over again." He grabbed a prehistoric looking briar pipe from a pipe rack on the desk and dragged a pound can of Sir Walter Raleigh toward him.
While he packed the pipe, he said to Frank Jones, "What the hell is up?"
Frank said, "Mike, here, thinks he has an answer to the Russkie tourist problem. He thinks he has a way of getting them to stay home."
His chief opened a box of kitchen matches and lit up, peering through the smoke first at Frank, then at Mike Edwards.
He looked back at Frank again. "And what do you think?"
"I think possibly he's got something. I think it's a long chance, but probably worth trying. God knows, nobody else has come up with anything at all."
Bigelow said to Mike, "Sorry I sounded off." He didn't look or sound as though he was sorry. "So what's the plan you've dreamed up?"
Mike Edwards had cooled down. At least to where he decided since he'd come this far, on top of resigning from his job, he might as well go into his song and dance.
He went over his scheme, elaborating upon it beyond the point he had with Jones. While he was talking, the other's pipe went out several times and he lit up over and over again. He was a match smoker, as could be seen by the pile of burnt out matches in his ash tray.
When Mike was finally through and had lapsed into silence, Bigelow ran his right hand over his fat jowls, grimaced and shook his head. "For Christ sakes," he growled. "A new religion."
Mike began to come to his feet again, his lips beginning to go pale.
Bigelow said hurriedly, "Sit down, sit down. I didn't say anything. Did you expect me to stand up and do a dance? Do you think it will work?"
"It's worth a try," Mike said sitting. "From what Frank says, you're clutching at straws and there aren't any others to clutch. From what I saw of those Russkies in Torremolinos, it stands a chance."
The other tried to relight the pipe, still once again, scowled and looked down into the bowl to check the tobacco level, and then put the briar back on the pipe rack.
He thought about it. Mike and Frank Jones sat there, wordlessly.
The bureau chief took in about a gallon of air, sighed and said, "Okay. I'll arrange a meeting with the President, Senator Murray, Freguson of the FBI, Smithers of the CIA, the British and French Ambassadors…"
Mike was shaking his head. "No," he said.
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Bigelow looked at him. "What do you mean, no? I can't make such a decision on my own."~
Mike said, "I mean no. The President and possibly the current chief of NATO whoever the hell it is. But on no account anybody else."
Bigelow looked at Jones. "Is he around the bend?"
Frank recrossed his legs. "Mike's got the idea that if the story spreads around it will leak to the Kremlin, then all bets will be off. He's probably right, but it doesn't make much sense to me. Thousands of people are going to have to be in on this before it's operational."
Mike was still shaking his head. "Nobody is going to be in on it except we three, the President and the head of NATO. And that's too goddamned many. You see, we're going to play it straight. It's something like the Manhattan Project during the Second World War. A thousand different manufacturing firms were working on this aspect, or that, but none of them had the vaguest idea what the end product was going to be. Only a handful of scientists at the very top had the whole picture. That's the way we're going to operate; only four or five people will have the full picture."
Chapter XIII
Mike Edwards and Frank Jones were quartered in the New Greater Washington Hotel, a swank hi-rise usually patronized by VIPs of the diplomatic corps, by American government bigwigs, and by wealthy businessmen in town to check matters out with their lobbyists, or whatever.