exception.
Six experienced agents were gathered in Anthony’s office. It was a large, bare room with cheap wartime furniture: a small desk, a steel file cabinet, a trestle table, and a set of folding chairs. No doubt the new headquarters at Langley would be full of upholstered couches and mahogany paneling, but Anthony liked the Spartan look.
Pete Maxell passed around a mug shot of Luke and a typed description of his clothes while Anthony briefed the agents. “Our target today is a middle-ranking State Department employee with a high security clearance,” he said. “He’s having some kind of nervous breakdown. He flew in from Paris on Monday, spent Monday night in the Carlton Hotel, and went on a drinking binge on Tuesday. He stayed out all last night and went to a shelter for homeless people this morning. The security risk is obvious.”
One of the agents, “Red” Rifenberg, put up a hand. “Question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why don’t we just pull him in, ask him what the hell goes on?”
“We will, eventually.”
Anthony’s office door opened, and Carl Hobart came in. A plump, bald man with spectacles, he was head of Specialized Services, which included Records and Decrypting as well as Technical Services. In theory, he was Anthony’s immediate boss. Anthony groaned inwardly and prayed that Hobart would not interfere with what he was doing, today of all days.
Anthony continued with his briefing. “But before we tip our hand, we want to see what the subject does, where he goes—who he contacts, if anyone. A case like this, he may just be having trouble with his wife. But it could be that he’s giving information to the other side, either for ideological reasons or because they’re blackmailing him, and now the strain has gotten to be too much for him. If he’s involved in some kind of treason, we need all the information we can get before we pick him up.”
Hobart interrupted. “What’s this?”
Anthony turned to him slowly. “A little training exercise. We’re conducting surveillance on a suspect diplomat.”
“Give it to the FBI,” Hobart said abruptly.
Hobart had spent the war in Naval Intelligence. For him, espionage was a plain matter of finding out where the enemy was and what he was doing there. He disliked OSS veterans and their dirty tricks. The split went right down the middle of the Agency. The OSS men were buccaneers. They had learned their trade in wartime and had scant respect for budgets and protocol. The bureaucrats were infuriated by their nonchalance. And Anthony was the archetypal buccaneer: an arrogant daredevil who got away with murder because he was so good at it.
Anthony gave Hobart a cool look. “Why?”
“It’s the FBI’s job, not ours, to catch communist spies in America—as you know perfectly well.”
“We need to follow the thread to its source. A case like this can unlock a horde of information if we handle it right. But the Feds are only interested in getting publicity for putting Reds in the electric chair.”
“It’s the law!”
“But you and I know it’s horseshit.”
“Makes no difference.”
One thing shared by the rival groups within the CIA was a hatred of the FBI and its megalomaniac director, J. Edgar Hoover. So Anthony said, “Anyway, when was the last time the FBI gave us anything?”
“The last time was never,” Hobart said. “But I’ve got another assignment for you today.”
Anthony began to feel angry. Where did this asshole get off? It was not his job to hand out assignments. “What are you talking about?”
“The White House has called for a report on ways to deal with a rebel group in Cuba. There’s a top-level meeting later this morning. I need you and all your experienced people to brief me.”
“You’re asking me for a briefing on Fidel Castro?”
“Of course not. I know all about Castro. What I need from you are practical ideas for dealing with insurgency.”
Anthony despised this kind of mealy-mouthed
Six experienced agents were gathered in Anthony’s office. It was a large, bare room with cheap wartime furniture: a small desk, a steel file cabinet, a trestle table, and a set of folding chairs. No doubt the new headquarters at Langley would be full of upholstered couches and mahogany paneling, but Anthony liked the Spartan look.
Pete Maxell passed around a mug shot of Luke and a typed description of his clothes while Anthony briefed the agents. “Our target today is a middle-ranking State Department employee with a high security clearance,” he said. “He’s having some kind of nervous breakdown. He flew in from Paris on Monday, spent Monday night in the Carlton Hotel, and went on a drinking binge on Tuesday. He stayed out all last night and went to a shelter for homeless people this morning. The security risk is obvious.”
One of the agents, “Red” Rifenberg, put up a hand. “Question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why don’t we just pull him in, ask him what the hell goes on?”
“We will, eventually.”
Anthony’s office door opened, and Carl Hobart came in. A plump, bald man with spectacles, he was head of Specialized Services, which included Records and Decrypting as well as Technical Services. In theory, he was Anthony’s immediate boss. Anthony groaned inwardly and prayed that Hobart would not interfere with what he was doing, today of all days.
Anthony continued with his briefing. “But before we tip our hand, we want to see what the subject does, where he goes—who he contacts, if anyone. A case like this, he may just be having trouble with his wife. But it could be that he’s giving information to the other side, either for ideological reasons or because they’re blackmailing him, and now the strain has gotten to be too much for him. If he’s involved in some kind of treason, we need all the information we can get before we pick him up.”
Hobart interrupted. “What’s this?”
Anthony turned to him slowly. “A little training exercise. We’re conducting surveillance on a suspect diplomat.”
“Give it to the FBI,” Hobart said abruptly.
Hobart had spent the war in Naval Intelligence. For him, espionage was a plain matter of finding out where the enemy was and what he was doing there. He disliked OSS veterans and their dirty tricks. The split went right down the middle of the Agency. The OSS men were buccaneers. They had learned their trade in wartime and had scant respect for budgets and protocol. The bureaucrats were infuriated by their nonchalance. And Anthony was the archetypal buccaneer: an arrogant daredevil who got away with murder because he was so good at it.
Anthony gave Hobart a cool look. “Why?”
“It’s the FBI’s job, not ours, to catch communist spies in America—as you know perfectly well.”
“We need to follow the thread to its source. A case like this can unlock a horde of information if we handle it right. But the Feds are only interested in getting publicity for putting Reds in the electric chair.”
“It’s the law!”
“But you and I know it’s horseshit.”
“Makes no difference.”
One thing shared by the rival groups within the CIA was a hatred of the FBI and its megalomaniac director, J. Edgar Hoover. So Anthony said, “Anyway, when was the last time the FBI gave us anything?”
“The last time was never,” Hobart said. “But I’ve got another assignment for you today.”
Anthony began to feel angry. Where did this asshole get off? It was not his job to hand out assignments. “What are you talking about?”
“The White House has called for a report on ways to deal with a rebel group in Cuba. There’s a top-level meeting later this morning. I need you and all your experienced people to brief me.”
“You’re asking me for a briefing on Fidel Castro?”
“Of course not. I know all about Castro. What I need from you are practical ideas for dealing with insurgency.”
Anthony despised this kind of mealy-mouthed
Similar Books
