talk. “Why don’t you say what you mean? You want to know how to take them out.”
“Maybe.”
Anthony laughed scornfully. “Well, what else would we do—start a Sunday school for them?”
“That’s for the White House to decide. Our job is to present options. You can give me some suggestions.”
Anthony maintained a show of indifference, but inside he was worried. He had no time for distractions today, and he needed all his best people to keep an eye on Luke. “I’ll see what I can do,” Anthony said, hoping Hobart might be satisfied with a vague assurance.
He was not. “My conference room, with all your most experienced agents, at ten o’clock—and no excuses.” He turned away.
Anthony made a decision. “No,” he said.
Hobart turned at the door. “This is not a suggestion,” he said. “Just be there.”
“Watch my lips,” said Anthony.
Reluctantly, Hobart stared at Anthony’s face.
Enunciating carefully, Anthony said, “Fuck off.”
One of the agents sniggered.
Hobart’s bald head reddened. “You’ll hear more about this,” he said. “A lot more.” He went out and slammed the door.
Everyone burst out laughing.
“Back to work,” Anthony said. “Simons and Betts are with the subject at this moment, but they’re due to be relieved in a few minutes. As soon as they call in, I want Red Rifenberg and Ackie Horwitz to take over the surveillance. We’ll run four shifts of six hours each, with a backup team always on call. That’s all for now.”
The agents trooped out, but Pete Maxell stayed back. He had shaved and put on his regular business suit with a narrow Madison Avenue tie. Now his bad teeth and the red birthmark on his cheek were more noticeable, like broken windows in a new house. He was shy and unsociable, perhaps because of his appearance, and he was devoted to his few friends. Now he looked concerned as he said to Anthony, “Aren’t you taking a risk with Hobart?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“He’s your boss.”
“I can’t let him close down an important surveillance operation.”
“But you lied to him. He could easily find out that Luke isn’t a diplomat from Paris.”
Anthony shrugged. “Then I’ll tell him another story.”
Pete looked doubtful, but he nodded assent and moved to the door.
Anthony said, “But you’re right. I’m sticking my neck all the way out. If something goes wrong, Hobart won’t miss a chance to chop my head off.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Then we’d better make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Pete went out. Anthony watched the phone, making himself calm and patient. Office politics infuriated him, but men such as Hobart were always around. After five minutes the phone rang and he picked it up. “Carroll here.”
“You’ve been upsetting Carl Hobart again.” It was the wheezy voice of a man who has been smoking and drinking enthusiastically for most of a lifetime.
“Good morning, George,” said Anthony. George Cooperman was Deputy Chief of Operations and a wartime comrade of Anthony’s. He was Hobart’s immediate superior. “Hobart should stay out of my way.”
“Get over here, you arrogant young prick,” George said amiably.
“Coming.” Anthony hung up. He opened his desk drawer and took out an envelope containing a thick sheaf of Xerox copies. Then he put on his topcoat and walked to Cooperman’s office, which was in P Building, next door.
Cooperman was a tall, gaunt man of fifty with a prematurely lined face. He had his feet on his desk. There was a giant coffee mug at his elbow and a cigarette in his mouth. He was reading the Moscow newspaper Pravda: he had majored in Russian literature at Princeton.
He threw down the paper. “Why can’t you be nice to that fat fuck?” he growled. He spoke without removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. “I know it’s hard, but you could do it for my sake.”
Anthony sat down. “It’s his own fault. He should have realized by now that I
“Maybe.”
Anthony laughed scornfully. “Well, what else would we do—start a Sunday school for them?”
“That’s for the White House to decide. Our job is to present options. You can give me some suggestions.”
Anthony maintained a show of indifference, but inside he was worried. He had no time for distractions today, and he needed all his best people to keep an eye on Luke. “I’ll see what I can do,” Anthony said, hoping Hobart might be satisfied with a vague assurance.
He was not. “My conference room, with all your most experienced agents, at ten o’clock—and no excuses.” He turned away.
Anthony made a decision. “No,” he said.
Hobart turned at the door. “This is not a suggestion,” he said. “Just be there.”
“Watch my lips,” said Anthony.
Reluctantly, Hobart stared at Anthony’s face.
Enunciating carefully, Anthony said, “Fuck off.”
One of the agents sniggered.
Hobart’s bald head reddened. “You’ll hear more about this,” he said. “A lot more.” He went out and slammed the door.
Everyone burst out laughing.
“Back to work,” Anthony said. “Simons and Betts are with the subject at this moment, but they’re due to be relieved in a few minutes. As soon as they call in, I want Red Rifenberg and Ackie Horwitz to take over the surveillance. We’ll run four shifts of six hours each, with a backup team always on call. That’s all for now.”
The agents trooped out, but Pete Maxell stayed back. He had shaved and put on his regular business suit with a narrow Madison Avenue tie. Now his bad teeth and the red birthmark on his cheek were more noticeable, like broken windows in a new house. He was shy and unsociable, perhaps because of his appearance, and he was devoted to his few friends. Now he looked concerned as he said to Anthony, “Aren’t you taking a risk with Hobart?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“He’s your boss.”
“I can’t let him close down an important surveillance operation.”
“But you lied to him. He could easily find out that Luke isn’t a diplomat from Paris.”
Anthony shrugged. “Then I’ll tell him another story.”
Pete looked doubtful, but he nodded assent and moved to the door.
Anthony said, “But you’re right. I’m sticking my neck all the way out. If something goes wrong, Hobart won’t miss a chance to chop my head off.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Then we’d better make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Pete went out. Anthony watched the phone, making himself calm and patient. Office politics infuriated him, but men such as Hobart were always around. After five minutes the phone rang and he picked it up. “Carroll here.”
“You’ve been upsetting Carl Hobart again.” It was the wheezy voice of a man who has been smoking and drinking enthusiastically for most of a lifetime.
“Good morning, George,” said Anthony. George Cooperman was Deputy Chief of Operations and a wartime comrade of Anthony’s. He was Hobart’s immediate superior. “Hobart should stay out of my way.”
“Get over here, you arrogant young prick,” George said amiably.
“Coming.” Anthony hung up. He opened his desk drawer and took out an envelope containing a thick sheaf of Xerox copies. Then he put on his topcoat and walked to Cooperman’s office, which was in P Building, next door.
Cooperman was a tall, gaunt man of fifty with a prematurely lined face. He had his feet on his desk. There was a giant coffee mug at his elbow and a cigarette in his mouth. He was reading the Moscow newspaper Pravda: he had majored in Russian literature at Princeton.
He threw down the paper. “Why can’t you be nice to that fat fuck?” he growled. He spoke without removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. “I know it’s hard, but you could do it for my sake.”
Anthony sat down. “It’s his own fault. He should have realized by now that I
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