by Stuart Woods
If they, indeed, traced him to New York, they would have to deal with two possibilities: one, that he might have left the city by any number of means for any number of destinations; two, that he had chosen to disappear among the eight million inhabitants of the city. In the first case, they were bound to find at least dozens of men traveling alone to various destinations; in the second, they would start from what they knew about him, that he was a simple man who had always lived simply. It was for that reason that he had chosen an expensive apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Besides, it was fun not to live simply anymore. He doubted if they had been able to determine the extent of his financial resources, so it was unlikely that they would suspect him of high living.
He finished his dinner, put his tray table outside his door for collection, then turned to the New York Times, specifically to the Arts section, where he perused the schedule of the Metropolitan Opera. He had never had enough of the opera and the theater during his working days, and he intended to make up for it. He ordered tickets for half a dozen performances by phone, paying with a credit card, then turned to the book of Winston Churchill’s speeches he had been reading.
BOB KINNEY SAT in his first daily national security briefing with the president, the secretary of defense, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, the attorney general, the director of Central Intelligence and the national security advisor. The president heard reports from all of them, saving Kinney for last.
“Bob, what do you have for me today?” the president asked.
“Mr. President, following your instructions I have ordered a top-to-bottom survey of the Bureau’s security, and I expect to have written reports and recommendations from all the relevant people by the end of the month. As soon as I’ve had a chance to digest their reports, I’ll submit a written report to you outlining what steps I intend to take.”
“Excellent. Have you had an opportunity to look for housing yet?”
“The General Services Adminstration has put someone in touch, and my fiancée is screening them for me. I’ll let the final decision be hers anyway.”
“You’re a wise man, Bob. Have you made any personnel changes yet?”
“I’ve appointed Special Agent Kerry Smith to be my chief of staff, sir, but I intend to make other changes as part of a more sweeping revamping of the Bureau’s management. It will be some weeks before I’ll be ready to do that.”
“I understand. Well, that wraps it up for today. Thank you all for coming.”
As the group was shuffling out, Kinney stepped up to the president. “Mr. President, may I have a moment alone?”
“Of course, Bob.”
“And I’d like for the director of Central Intelligence to stay, as well.”
“Kate, hang on a minute, will you?” Lee said.
When the room had been cleared the president invited Bob and Kate Lee to sit down again. “Now, what is it, Bob?”
“Mr. President, I have to tell you that, at the time of my appointment, I inadvertently misinformed you about the disposition of the Theodore Fay case.”
“How so?”
“When I returned to the Bureau, after the press conference, I learned that evidence had surfaced, literally, indicating that Fay parachuted from the airplane and survived the explosion.”
The president grimaced. “And we’ve been telling the press that was resolved.”
“Yes, sir, I’m very sorry about that.”
“Well, if you didn’t have the information at the time, you couldn’t give it to me, could you? Tell me why you think Fay is alive.”
“There is incontrovertible physical evidence that the pilot’s door of the airplane was jettisoned prior to the explosion and that Fay made his way to a disused summer cottage, where he changed clothes, buried his parachute and stole a bicycle. He rode that to Kennebunkport, where he ditched the bicycle and got a Greyhound bus to Boston. From there he got another bus to Atlantic City, New Jersey, where he disappeared. We have so far been unable to trace his movements from there.”
“Do you think he may still be in Atlantic City?” the president asked.
“I think it’s more likely that he made his way to a major city—New York and Philadelphia are easily reached from there, but he could have backtracked and gone anywhere.”
“I suppose I’ll have to make an announcement to the press,” Lee said.
“Sir, I’d rather you didn’t, if that’s possible.”
Kate chimed in. “Bob has a good point, Mr. President. It would be better if we didn’t announce to Fay that we’re still after him, and even if you made the announcement and Bob made Fay number one on the FBI’s most-wanted list, I doubt if that would be of much help. Fay is far too slick to get spotted by an ordinary citizen from a wanted poster.”
“I see your point,” the president said. “All right, I’ll wait until you catch him, and then I’ll say I knew all along Fay was alive.”
“Mr. President,” Kinney said, “I have to be absolutely frank with you. It’s very unlikely that we will catch Theodore Fay, unless he commits another murder.”
“Bob is right,” Kate said. “Fay is an extremely resourceful man, and he knows how to disappear.”
“Well,” Lee said, “I’m not going to sit around hoping he murders somebody else. We’ll keep this knowledge among the three of us and whoever else in both your agencies needs to know.” He paused for a moment. “And I think I’d better share it with the ranking members of both parties on the senate intelligence and judiciary committees.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kinney said, standing up.
“And thank you, Bob, for telling me about this.”
As he and Kate Lee walked out to their cars, she tugged at his sleeve. “How can we help, Bob?”
“I think the only thing you can do right now is to comb the Agency’s files again for any information about Fay that might be useful to us. I’ll assign Kerry Smith to go over what you find.”
“I’ll give the orders as soon as I’m back in my office,” Kate said.
They shook hands and went to their respective cars. Kinney left feeling a little relieved that the president had taken the news as well as he had.
ELEVEN
HOLLY STOOD WITH A DOZEN other trainees in the smaller of the two gymnasiums at the Farm. An instructor with a clipboard walked into the room, counted the names on his clipboard, counted the trainees, then tossed the clipboard aside. Another sergeant, Holly figured, but this one a marine. He was fiftyish, her height, wiry and had a severe whitewall haircut. At his age, only an ex-marine would walk around with that. What was visible of his hair was black, except for a white streak over his forehead.
“Shut up,” he said, though everyone was already quiet. “You can call me Whitey, and when I talk, you listen.”
Holly looked up into the rafters and involuntarily sighed.
“Am I boring you?” Whitey asked.
Holly gazed at him but didn’t reply at once.
“No, sergeant,” she lied.
“I told you to call me Whitey.”
“No, Whitey.”
“You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?”
“Possibly.”
He glared at her for a moment, then turned back to the group. “This is a fighting class,” he said. “It is not a self-defense class; it is a hurting class, a maiming class, a killing class. As far as the Agency is concerned, the best opponent is a disabled or dead opponent. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the class replied as one man, except for Holly, who replied, “Yes, Whitey.”
Whitey heard this and glared at her again. He walked over and stuck his face in hers. “You don’t want to call me ‘sir,’ huh?”
“You asked me to call you Whitey,” Holly replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Harry One.”
He looked her up and down. “Yeah, ‘Harry’ is the perfect name for you.”
“Was that a reference to my sexual orientation
, Whitey?” Holly asked. She tried not to sound annoyed, though she was annoyed. She had put up with that sort of thing in the army for years.
“Take it that way, if you like.”
“I don’t like.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to demand an apology,” Holly said. “Right now.”
“Apology for what?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve read the manual we were given, Whitey, but I have. There is a clear prohibition in the manual against personal slurs, particularly of a sexual nature, and there is a prescribed procedure for dealing with them. Now, you can apologize, or I’ll subject you to that procedure.”
He was back in her face again. “You’d better be careful how you speak to your superiors in this place,” he said.
“I hold a field-grade commission in the reserves of a branch of the United States military,” Holly said. “What’s your rank, Whitey?”
“I’ll show you what my rank is,” Whitey said. He turned, walked two paces away, then faced her, his hands at his sides. “Come over here and hit me in the face,” he said.
Holly walked over and stood loosely and unthreateningly before him. “How hard, Whitey?”
“Just as hard as you can, Harry One.”
She knew he expected her to back down. Holly didn’t hesitate; she shot a straight left at the middle of his face and felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage. Whitey sat down hard on the mat, blood gushing from his nose, then he was on his feet and coming at her when somebody stepped between them.
“Hold it, Whitey!” the man said. He was in his late fifties, slim and dressed in khaki trousers and a polo shirt. He turned to Holly. “Why did you do that?”
“My instructor instructed me to hit him as hard as I could,” she replied. “I’m afraid I partly disobeyed.” She looked at Whitey, who was holding a bloody towel to his face. “I hit him, but not as hard as I could.”
Whitey started to move toward her, but the man put a hand on his chest and shoved him backward. “Go to the infirmary and get that fixed,” he said.
Whitey glared at Holly again, then turned on his heel and marched out of the gym.
The man turned back to Holly. “What’s your name?”
“Harry One,” she replied.
The man looked at the group. “This class is dismissed until same time tomorrow.”
The group left, but the man crooked a finger at Holly. “You stay.”
When everyone had left the gym, and he had watched them do so, he turned back to Holly. “What did he say to provoke you?”
“He insinuated that I was a lesbian.”
“Nobody here cares if you’re a lesbian,” the man said.
“Whitey does,” she replied. “He doesn’t like lesbians.”
“No, I guess he doesn’t. Why did that make you so angry?”
“I did twenty years in the army, and I heard that sort of thing a little too often.”
The man nodded. “I apologize, on behalf of the staff here.”
“Thank you,” Holly said. “And, just for the record, I’m not a lesbian.”
“I never thought you were. Your group will have a new instructor tomorrow, and you won’t see Whitey here again.”
“I didn’t want to get the man fired.”
“Call it the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Holly nodded.
“A word of advice: if you should ever encounter Whitey again outside this establishment, be very careful. He’s good at what he does, and he likes doing it a little too much.”
“I’ll remember that,” Holly replied.
“Go get some lunch,” the man said, and he turned and walked away from her and out a door.
Holly went to get some lunch.
TWELVE
LANCE CABOT WAS HAVING LUNCH in the Farm’s dining room, in the main house, when a woman approached and handed him an envelope. “Thank you,” he said to her retreating back. He put down his fork and opened the envelope. Inside was a summons to a meeting of the executive committee at two p.m. He glanced at his watch; he still had twenty minutes, so he ordered dessert and coffee.
THE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE met in the paneled conference room two floors under the main house. Lance arrived at five minutes before the appointed hour and found no one in the room. He took a seat, rested his head against the back of the high-backed chair and closed his eyes. At one minute before two, half a dozen people filed into the room, among them the director of training, who was the on-site executive officer in charge of the Farm; the director of curriculum, who planned the courses and chose the instructors; and, to his surprise, the deputy director of Central Intelligence for Operations, Hugh English, who was either the number two or the number three man at the Agency, depending on whom you asked.
English nodded at Lance, and Lance nodded back. He and English had never been particularly fond of each other.
“Good afternoon,” said the director of training, Tom Harding, who was tall, slim and in his late fifties. “We had an incident this morning, and Jim Willis has called into question whether one of our trainees should remain at the Farm.” Willis was the director of curriculum, a short, thick man with a bald head and a perpetual scowl.
Since Lance had no overall duties at the Farm, he realized that Harding must be talking about one of his trainees. He sat up and became alert.
“Jim,” Harding said, “why don’t you tell us about it?”
“It’s the trainee Harry One,” Willis said. “I believe her to be unsuited to be in this program.”
Lance leaned forward. “Willis, I would be very interested to know specifically why you consider her unsuitable.”
Willis shrugged. “Background, experience, temperament.” He paused for effect. “And she attacked one of my instructors this morning.”
That caused a stir in the room, though no one said anything.
“I won’t put up with that from any trainee,” Willis said.
“Circumstances?” Lance asked.
“The circumstances don’t matter,” Willis said. “It’s a rule, and a hard and fast one.”
“All right, then, Jim,” Lance said. “You mentioned her background, experience, and temperament. Tell us what you find deficient in those areas.”
“She was an army MP, for Christ’s sake,” Willis said, his voice full of scorn. “The lowest kind of cop, in my opinion.”
“She commanded a company of MPs and finished as a deputy regimental commander,” Lance said. “She excelled at everything she did in the army, and she went through two very tough FBI courses at Quantico. Excelled in those, too.”
“Then she was a small-town cop,” Willis said, as if Lance had not spoken. “Traffic stops, that sort of thing.”
“She was chief of a force of three dozen officers and, on two occasions, broke cases the FBI said were of national importance.”
“That’s open to question,” Willis said.
“And temperament?” Lance asked. “What flaws have you detected in her temperament?”
“She doesn’t know how to follow orders,” Willis said. “Then there’s that fucking dog; she won’t go anywhere without it. It’s disruptive.”
Lance sat back. “She got through twenty years as a regular army officer with outstanding fitness reports and with no apparent problem following orders. And I wasn’t aware the dog was fucking anybody,” he drawled.
Laughs were stifled around the table.
“Then there was the incident of this morning.”
“Tell us about that, Jim,” Lance said.
Harding spoke up. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“Why not?” Willis demanded.
“Because I was there,” Harding said. “And because we have the incident on videotape.”
“We do?” Willis asked, nonplussed.
“We do.” Harding picked up a remote control. “I’ve had some adjustments made in the lighting, and the audio has been enhanced.�
�� He started the tape.
Lance watched the incident, which ran little more than a minute. Every word was crisply reproduced. When Holly made contact with her instructor’s nose, there was a collective groan of sympathy around the table.
Harding looked at Lance. “She’s yours, Lance; defend her.”
“Happy to,” Lance replied, resting his elbows on the table. “She’s an army brat; her father has a distinguished record of service in war and peace; she enlisted on graduation from high school and got her degree while in the service. She was promoted quickly, for a woman in the army, holding increasingly responsible posts.”
“She accused her superior of attempted rape,” Willis said. “It’s all in the record.”
“Not quite all of it,” Lance said. “The record doesn’t mention that the charges were true. I investigated them thoroughly, and it’s a disgrace that the man’s buddies acquitted him in the court-martial. He resigned from the service less than six months later.”
“She ruined a good man’s career,” Willis said.
“He was a lousy man, and she did her country a service by exposing a long pattern of behavior unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman.”
“That tape is an example of her insubordination,” Willis said.
“On the contrary,” Lance said. “The tape shows that she acted correctly in every respect and kept her temper. Well, perhaps pulling rank on Whitey wasn’t a good idea, but we all heard him invite her to hit him. No, order her to hit him.”
Hugh English spoke up for the first time. “She broke Whitey Thompson’s nose; that can’t be a bad thing.”
Everybody laughed but Willis.
“How do you expect him to continue instructing trainees?” Willis asked. “Word of the incident has already spread throughout the Farm. Whitey is now a laughingstock.”
“I don’t expect Whitey to continue,” Harding said. “I fired him twenty minutes ago.”
“Without consulting me?” Willis asked.
