Read Online The Disposable Man by Archer Mayor - Free Book Online
Authors: Archer Mayor
Tags: USA
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squinted up at the monolith across from me, I was struck by its IBM-gothic harshness—all brutal, straight cement lines and jutting angles, punctuated by row upon row of blank, characterless windows.
To one side, in startling contrast, was a statue of Nathan Hale—the twenty-one-year-old Revolutionary spy caught on his first time out—standing with a rope around his neck under some shade trees. Either the guys behind that choice had seen patriotism and nobility where I also saw amateurism and failure, or someone with a wicked sense of humor had been given too much leash.
Through the wide bank of glass doors, I entered an enormous marble lobby, freezing cold and soaring high, buttoned in place by the CIA’s oversized seal, mounted like a religious icon into the floor before me. The reverent tone was picked up by a lone statue of founder William “Wild Bill” Donovan, a glassed-in honor book of CIA dead, and a wall-mounted excerpt from St. John’s famous gospel, “The truth shall make you free.” There was a certain majesty to all this self-esteem, along with a sense that perhaps too much was being made of it.
A small woman, her graying hair in a tight bun, stepped forward from a distant row of elaborate turnstiles to greet me. “Lieutenant Gunther?” she asked pleasantly, extending a hand. She didn’t introduce herself.
“You step in past the first barrier,” she explained, escorting me up to one of the turnstiles and entering what looked like a cow pen for humans, “and place your visitor’s badge into the slot,” whereupon the bar behind her rose to lock her in. “After the computer has processed the badge’s information,” she continued as the bar before her ducked out of the way, “you can proceed. But,” she smiled broadly, turning on her heel and holding up her identification, “don’t forget your badge.”
I followed suit indulgently, half wondering how much coded information I was sharing, and joined her on the other side.
She tapped my breast pocket. “Great. Just clip it there for the rest of your stay, and follow me.”
We climbed a flight of four steps, and turned left into a broad hallway.
“Impressive lobby,” I commented.
She laughed. “A little like a mausoleum, if you ask me. There’s a newer entrance that’s much friendlier. I can show it to you later, if you like.”
“Far from Nathan Hale?”
“Right—the bearer of mixed messages. Still, I suppose there’s a lot of truth to that, if you think about it.”
She was right, of course, which made me feel a little guilty about my instinctive first reaction.
“You work with Mr. Snowden?” I asked as we turned right into a second hallway.
“Off and on. I’m sort of a go-fer—more fun than being a secretary.”
“And what does he do, exactly?”
She gave me a bright, disarming smile. “We don’t often get people this far into the building who don’t know why they’re here.”
Touché, I thought, and dropped it.
We were now walking alongside a long row of large oil portraits.
She noticed my interest. “All the past directors.” She pointed to Richard Helms. “That’s where I came in, under the last of the patricians—or the last of them that acted the part.”
“Is that good news or bad?” I asked.
She shrugged and answered freely, showing none of the coyness she’d just displayed. “Neither, I suppose. Like all bosses, they’ve varied in quality. Casey loved the job too well; Turner hated it. Bush was my favorite. He was the nicest.”
We entered an elevator at the end of the corridor and rode to the seventh floor. When the doors slid open, I was surprised at the cheerfulness of the decor—pleasant lighting, soothing carpeting and walls. And every door we passed was painted a different color.
Again, my guide anticipated my question before I asked it. “It all used to be battleship gray, as you’d expect. This happened almost overnight. Scuttlebutt has it someone was paid a fortune to
To one side, in startling contrast, was a statue of Nathan Hale—the twenty-one-year-old Revolutionary spy caught on his first time out—standing with a rope around his neck under some shade trees. Either the guys behind that choice had seen patriotism and nobility where I also saw amateurism and failure, or someone with a wicked sense of humor had been given too much leash.
Through the wide bank of glass doors, I entered an enormous marble lobby, freezing cold and soaring high, buttoned in place by the CIA’s oversized seal, mounted like a religious icon into the floor before me. The reverent tone was picked up by a lone statue of founder William “Wild Bill” Donovan, a glassed-in honor book of CIA dead, and a wall-mounted excerpt from St. John’s famous gospel, “The truth shall make you free.” There was a certain majesty to all this self-esteem, along with a sense that perhaps too much was being made of it.
A small woman, her graying hair in a tight bun, stepped forward from a distant row of elaborate turnstiles to greet me. “Lieutenant Gunther?” she asked pleasantly, extending a hand. She didn’t introduce herself.
“You step in past the first barrier,” she explained, escorting me up to one of the turnstiles and entering what looked like a cow pen for humans, “and place your visitor’s badge into the slot,” whereupon the bar behind her rose to lock her in. “After the computer has processed the badge’s information,” she continued as the bar before her ducked out of the way, “you can proceed. But,” she smiled broadly, turning on her heel and holding up her identification, “don’t forget your badge.”
I followed suit indulgently, half wondering how much coded information I was sharing, and joined her on the other side.
She tapped my breast pocket. “Great. Just clip it there for the rest of your stay, and follow me.”
We climbed a flight of four steps, and turned left into a broad hallway.
“Impressive lobby,” I commented.
She laughed. “A little like a mausoleum, if you ask me. There’s a newer entrance that’s much friendlier. I can show it to you later, if you like.”
“Far from Nathan Hale?”
“Right—the bearer of mixed messages. Still, I suppose there’s a lot of truth to that, if you think about it.”
She was right, of course, which made me feel a little guilty about my instinctive first reaction.
“You work with Mr. Snowden?” I asked as we turned right into a second hallway.
“Off and on. I’m sort of a go-fer—more fun than being a secretary.”
“And what does he do, exactly?”
She gave me a bright, disarming smile. “We don’t often get people this far into the building who don’t know why they’re here.”
Touché, I thought, and dropped it.
We were now walking alongside a long row of large oil portraits.
She noticed my interest. “All the past directors.” She pointed to Richard Helms. “That’s where I came in, under the last of the patricians—or the last of them that acted the part.”
“Is that good news or bad?” I asked.
She shrugged and answered freely, showing none of the coyness she’d just displayed. “Neither, I suppose. Like all bosses, they’ve varied in quality. Casey loved the job too well; Turner hated it. Bush was my favorite. He was the nicest.”
We entered an elevator at the end of the corridor and rode to the seventh floor. When the doors slid open, I was surprised at the cheerfulness of the decor—pleasant lighting, soothing carpeting and walls. And every door we passed was painted a different color.
Again, my guide anticipated my question before I asked it. “It all used to be battleship gray, as you’d expect. This happened almost overnight. Scuttlebutt has it someone was paid a fortune to
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