number. Just down the hall.”
“Do I know this person?”
Hooker replied, “I couldn’t say,” meaning exactly that.
The room was empty but the phone was ringing. It was my old boss, Harrington, the man who’d summoned me to New York.
When I recognized the voice, I said, “The gentleman who gave me the message. A new member of your staff?”
“No, just returning a favor. You sound irritated.”
I was, but it wasn’t because he’d used Hooker as a messenger. “I had a date tonight, but something pulled me away. Your people? I need the truth.”
Harrington said, “ Our people, you mean?”
“Depends on the answer.”
“Why do you think I called? You’re suspicious because of the timing. I would’ve been suspicious myself.”
I said, “As a general rule, I’m suspicious of anyone who invites me to lunch. Almost getting killed proves it’s a good rule.”
In the last week, Harrington and I had met several times, usually at the Lotos Club, but once at the Café Vivaldi, in Greenwich Village, where we’d interviewed a member of Alpha 66, a Cuban militant group. Fidel Castro’s personal possessions—the contents of a secret home, including his private papers—had been discovered, seized and shipped to Langley. That was the story leaked to the international press anyway. Castro Files was the phrase being used to underplay that more than three tons of personal effects, books, photos and papers had been confiscated.
Harrington had a personal interest in what the files contained. So did I. It was my main reason for coming to New York.
I changed my question to eliminate wiggle room. “Did you have any prior knowledge about what happened tonight? Even a hint?”
With the phone to my ear, I was searching the room, opening closets, switching on lights. Empty rooms make me nervous. So do telephones.
Harrington said, “Zero. No involvement. It’s not the way we operate. Even off the reservation, it would mean breaking all the rules. Can you think of an exception?”
He was talking about the kidnapping. Anywhere outside the United States was off the reservation.
I said, “The only rule is, there are no rules,” quoting one of the organization’s own maxims. But he was right. I couldn’t think of an exception.
“Besides, do you really think I would’ve okayed anything involving an exemption? How long have we known each other?”
An exemption was a noncombatant minor. Exceptions are exempt —another rule of a black ops team that had no rules.
I wanted to believe him. Harrington had a daughter. Like me, he had lived through a kidnapping. Plus, the man had changed in a way I’d yet to quantify. In our meetings, he’d been personable, not cold. He’d admitted past mistakes and made comments that were introspective, even philosophical—totally out of character. Maybe years of accumulated guilt had snapped some internal guy wire.
It happens. It has happened to stronger, smarter men than me, which is why I focus on the present, not the past. I am aware of the dangers of exploring murky demarcations between principles and morals, obligations and duty. I prefer sunnier places, like the Amazon.
A more compelling reason to believe Harrington was what Choirboy had told me while we were in the water. My second question was: Why kidnap the senator?
Choirboy’s answer had implicated a group of religious crazies. But even if he spoke the truth, it didn’t guarantee he knew the truth.
I said to Harrington, “If the tables were turned, wouldn’t I be your first suspect?”
He replied, “You’re right about the timing. Yes, I understand. But this is a business call, not social. Do you mind?”
Someone could be listening. A warning in his tone. I sighed, preparing myself for a code protocol that was outdated but still part of the game.
Harrington said, “I think what happened tonight has to do with the library collection we discussed. Are you with me?”
He gave me a moment to translate: Castro
“Do I know this person?”
Hooker replied, “I couldn’t say,” meaning exactly that.
The room was empty but the phone was ringing. It was my old boss, Harrington, the man who’d summoned me to New York.
When I recognized the voice, I said, “The gentleman who gave me the message. A new member of your staff?”
“No, just returning a favor. You sound irritated.”
I was, but it wasn’t because he’d used Hooker as a messenger. “I had a date tonight, but something pulled me away. Your people? I need the truth.”
Harrington said, “ Our people, you mean?”
“Depends on the answer.”
“Why do you think I called? You’re suspicious because of the timing. I would’ve been suspicious myself.”
I said, “As a general rule, I’m suspicious of anyone who invites me to lunch. Almost getting killed proves it’s a good rule.”
In the last week, Harrington and I had met several times, usually at the Lotos Club, but once at the Café Vivaldi, in Greenwich Village, where we’d interviewed a member of Alpha 66, a Cuban militant group. Fidel Castro’s personal possessions—the contents of a secret home, including his private papers—had been discovered, seized and shipped to Langley. That was the story leaked to the international press anyway. Castro Files was the phrase being used to underplay that more than three tons of personal effects, books, photos and papers had been confiscated.
Harrington had a personal interest in what the files contained. So did I. It was my main reason for coming to New York.
I changed my question to eliminate wiggle room. “Did you have any prior knowledge about what happened tonight? Even a hint?”
With the phone to my ear, I was searching the room, opening closets, switching on lights. Empty rooms make me nervous. So do telephones.
Harrington said, “Zero. No involvement. It’s not the way we operate. Even off the reservation, it would mean breaking all the rules. Can you think of an exception?”
He was talking about the kidnapping. Anywhere outside the United States was off the reservation.
I said, “The only rule is, there are no rules,” quoting one of the organization’s own maxims. But he was right. I couldn’t think of an exception.
“Besides, do you really think I would’ve okayed anything involving an exemption? How long have we known each other?”
An exemption was a noncombatant minor. Exceptions are exempt —another rule of a black ops team that had no rules.
I wanted to believe him. Harrington had a daughter. Like me, he had lived through a kidnapping. Plus, the man had changed in a way I’d yet to quantify. In our meetings, he’d been personable, not cold. He’d admitted past mistakes and made comments that were introspective, even philosophical—totally out of character. Maybe years of accumulated guilt had snapped some internal guy wire.
It happens. It has happened to stronger, smarter men than me, which is why I focus on the present, not the past. I am aware of the dangers of exploring murky demarcations between principles and morals, obligations and duty. I prefer sunnier places, like the Amazon.
A more compelling reason to believe Harrington was what Choirboy had told me while we were in the water. My second question was: Why kidnap the senator?
Choirboy’s answer had implicated a group of religious crazies. But even if he spoke the truth, it didn’t guarantee he knew the truth.
I said to Harrington, “If the tables were turned, wouldn’t I be your first suspect?”
He replied, “You’re right about the timing. Yes, I understand. But this is a business call, not social. Do you mind?”
Someone could be listening. A warning in his tone. I sighed, preparing myself for a code protocol that was outdated but still part of the game.
Harrington said, “I think what happened tonight has to do with the library collection we discussed. Are you with me?”
He gave me a moment to translate: Castro
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