Read Online Atropos by William L. Deandrea - Free Book Online
Authors: William L. Deandrea
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forty-plus years of its existence, the Agency had operated like a guerrilla army, disappearing before anyone even started to look. The Congressman had had things arranged so that his headquarters (a couple of secure rooms for privacy, a John, and a linkup with the people who were actually doing the work) could be moved overnight. Things could still be done that way. The Congressman, as Director Emeritus, or on leave of absence, or however he chose to think of it, still had a hideaway in a basement somewhere. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen too much at the new, more permanent headquarters.
Today was an exception. Fenton Rines’s secretary buzzed him to let him know the Congressman and a Mr. Trotter were here. Rines said, “Send them in,” and sat looking at the door, waiting for them.
This door showed him nothing but woodgrain. The one that opened to the eighth-floor corridor outside read simply, FENTON RINES INVESTIGATIONS . The door didn’t lie, as far as it went. It just didn’t go very far. The Agency was behind that door, and it was a whole lot more than Fenton Rines. And there was a whole lot more going on than investigation, too. Disinformation, espionage, assassination, and things they didn’t have names for. Rines reflected that he had come a long way from the crew-cut ex-Marine who’d joined the FBI so many years ago.
It had been a Fenton Rines investigation that had gotten him into all this. Rines had been a staunch and loyal Bureau man. Some said that he might have been in line to be Director someday, if Watergate hadn’t happened. Rines didn’t know about that, didn’t care that much. He liked doing what he was doing.
But he chafed under the post-Watergate reforms. It bothered him that the Bureau should be hampered in its work because of some overzealousness in the past. Overzealousness, it should be added, in which Rines took no part. Still, it was annoying. And it was even worse because Rines’s practiced eye could see that somebody was doing something. Strange operations that looked like nothing a criminal in his right mind would want to do, but too well planned to be the work of a maniac.
When he brought his findings to the Congressional Committee that was supposed to oversee such things, he was patted on the head and sent away. That was when he decided somebody in the government was according somebody privileges that were denied the Bureau.
It all came to a head with the Liz Fane kidnapping. The Congressman had sent Trotter, who was then known as Clifford Driscoll, to straighten things out. Which he proceeded to do in an effective, if unorthodox, fashion. In the process, Rines had learned about the Agency, about the Congressman’s role in it, and the fact that Driscoll—now Trotter—was the old man’s son. The President didn’t know that. Jake Feder, who was also supposed to be coming this afternoon, had worked with the Congressman since the War, and he didn’t know it.
Trotter had arranged for him to learn all this so he might get out of his father’s clutches. Which he had, until he’d voluntarily walked back into them. Apparently, the Congressman had been right. The spy business was bred into every cell of Trotter’s body. To use the Congressman’s homey phrase, “That boy can no more walk away from this business than a buzzard can walk away from meat.”
But while Trotter had been freed to make up his own mind, Rines had found himself trapped. Since the old man no longer had any secrets from him, he trusted Rines with everything, told him things it scared the FBI man to know.
And he’d started using him. The Congressman would get messages to him suggesting that he assign a few Special Agents to investigate this building or that person, and let him know what turned up. Before long, Rines was doing more work for the Agency than he was for the Bureau.
Then the old man had had his stroke. It was obvious that Trotter should take over top position. No one else had the
Today was an exception. Fenton Rines’s secretary buzzed him to let him know the Congressman and a Mr. Trotter were here. Rines said, “Send them in,” and sat looking at the door, waiting for them.
This door showed him nothing but woodgrain. The one that opened to the eighth-floor corridor outside read simply, FENTON RINES INVESTIGATIONS . The door didn’t lie, as far as it went. It just didn’t go very far. The Agency was behind that door, and it was a whole lot more than Fenton Rines. And there was a whole lot more going on than investigation, too. Disinformation, espionage, assassination, and things they didn’t have names for. Rines reflected that he had come a long way from the crew-cut ex-Marine who’d joined the FBI so many years ago.
It had been a Fenton Rines investigation that had gotten him into all this. Rines had been a staunch and loyal Bureau man. Some said that he might have been in line to be Director someday, if Watergate hadn’t happened. Rines didn’t know about that, didn’t care that much. He liked doing what he was doing.
But he chafed under the post-Watergate reforms. It bothered him that the Bureau should be hampered in its work because of some overzealousness in the past. Overzealousness, it should be added, in which Rines took no part. Still, it was annoying. And it was even worse because Rines’s practiced eye could see that somebody was doing something. Strange operations that looked like nothing a criminal in his right mind would want to do, but too well planned to be the work of a maniac.
When he brought his findings to the Congressional Committee that was supposed to oversee such things, he was patted on the head and sent away. That was when he decided somebody in the government was according somebody privileges that were denied the Bureau.
It all came to a head with the Liz Fane kidnapping. The Congressman had sent Trotter, who was then known as Clifford Driscoll, to straighten things out. Which he proceeded to do in an effective, if unorthodox, fashion. In the process, Rines had learned about the Agency, about the Congressman’s role in it, and the fact that Driscoll—now Trotter—was the old man’s son. The President didn’t know that. Jake Feder, who was also supposed to be coming this afternoon, had worked with the Congressman since the War, and he didn’t know it.
Trotter had arranged for him to learn all this so he might get out of his father’s clutches. Which he had, until he’d voluntarily walked back into them. Apparently, the Congressman had been right. The spy business was bred into every cell of Trotter’s body. To use the Congressman’s homey phrase, “That boy can no more walk away from this business than a buzzard can walk away from meat.”
But while Trotter had been freed to make up his own mind, Rines had found himself trapped. Since the old man no longer had any secrets from him, he trusted Rines with everything, told him things it scared the FBI man to know.
And he’d started using him. The Congressman would get messages to him suggesting that he assign a few Special Agents to investigate this building or that person, and let him know what turned up. Before long, Rines was doing more work for the Agency than he was for the Bureau.
Then the old man had had his stroke. It was obvious that Trotter should take over top position. No one else had the
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