sonars, our sights. But we’ll never know. Two days later Sheila was killed in that alley in Georgetown. Next day Hal perished in that awful
‘.”
“So who would have murdered them?”
“That, my dear Ben, is exactly what Alexander Truslow would like to know.” The fire was dying, and Moore poked at it idly. “There’s turmoil in the Agency. Terrible turmoil. A dreadful power struggle.”
“Between—”
“Listen to me. Europe is in a frightful mess. Britain and France are in bad shape, and Germany’s virtually in a depression. The specter of feuding nationalist elements—”
“Yes, but what does that have to do—”
“The talk—it is only talk, I grant you, but it is from supremely well-connected Agency retirees—is that certain elements within the Agency have found a way to insinuate themselves into the chaos in Europe.”
“Ed, that’s awfully vague—”
“Yes,” he said, so sharply that it startled me. “Certain elements and insinuate … and all the other muzzy little phrases we employ when all we know are wisps. But the point is, old men who should be playing golf and enjoying bone-dry martinis are frightened. Friends of mine who used to run the organization speak of enormous sums of money changing hands in Zurich—”
“Meaning that we paid off Vladimir Orlov?” I interrupted. “Or that he paid us of for protection?”
“Money isn’t the point!” His too-even teeth were an unnatural yellow.
“Then what is?” I asked gently.
“Let me just say that the skeletons haven’t yet begun to emerge from the closet. And when they do, the CIA may well join the KGB on the ash heap of history.”
We sat for a long time in silence. I was about to remark And would that be so bad? when I glimpsed Moore’s expression. His face was now chalk-white.
“What does Kent Atkins think?”
He was silent for half a minute. “I don’t really know, Ben. Kent is scared to death. He was asking me what / I thought was going on.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That whatever these Agency renegades are trying to accomplish in Europe will not simply involve the Europeans. It will directly involve us as well. It will involve the world. And I shudder to think what sort of conflagration is in store for us all.”
“Meaning what, specifically?”
He ignored my question, gave a small, rueful smile, and shook his head.
“My father died at the age of ninety-one, my mother at eighty-nine.
Longevity runs in my family. But none of them fought in the Cold War.”
“I don’t understand. What sort of conflagration, Ed?”
“You know, in his last few months in office, your father-in law was quite obsessed with saving Russia. He was convinced that unless CIA took serious action, forces of reaction would take over in Moscow. And then the Cold War would be a sweet memory. Maybe Hal was onto something.”
He clenched his small liver-spotted fist, and pressed it against his pursed lips. “We take risks, all of us who work for Central Intelligence. The rate of suicide is quite high, you know.”
I nodded.
“And although it’s actually quite rare for any of us to be killed in the line of duty, it happens.” His voice softened somewhat. “You know that.”
“You’re afraid you’re going to be killed?”
Another smile, a shake of the head. “I’m approaching eighty. I don’t plan to live my remaining years with an armed guard beside my bed.
Assuming they’d provide one. I see no reason to live in a cage.”
“But have you received any threats?”
“None at all. It’s just the patterns that have me worried.”
“Patterns—?”
“Tell me this. Who knew you were coming to see me?”
“Just Molly.”
“No one else?”
“No.”
“There’s always the telephone.”
I peered at him closely, wondering whether the paranoia had closed in on him, as it had done on James Angleton in his last years. And as if he could read my thoughts, Moore said, “Don’t worry about me, Ben. I
‘.”
“So who would have murdered them?”
“That, my dear Ben, is exactly what Alexander Truslow would like to know.” The fire was dying, and Moore poked at it idly. “There’s turmoil in the Agency. Terrible turmoil. A dreadful power struggle.”
“Between—”
“Listen to me. Europe is in a frightful mess. Britain and France are in bad shape, and Germany’s virtually in a depression. The specter of feuding nationalist elements—”
“Yes, but what does that have to do—”
“The talk—it is only talk, I grant you, but it is from supremely well-connected Agency retirees—is that certain elements within the Agency have found a way to insinuate themselves into the chaos in Europe.”
“Ed, that’s awfully vague—”
“Yes,” he said, so sharply that it startled me. “Certain elements and insinuate … and all the other muzzy little phrases we employ when all we know are wisps. But the point is, old men who should be playing golf and enjoying bone-dry martinis are frightened. Friends of mine who used to run the organization speak of enormous sums of money changing hands in Zurich—”
“Meaning that we paid off Vladimir Orlov?” I interrupted. “Or that he paid us of for protection?”
“Money isn’t the point!” His too-even teeth were an unnatural yellow.
“Then what is?” I asked gently.
“Let me just say that the skeletons haven’t yet begun to emerge from the closet. And when they do, the CIA may well join the KGB on the ash heap of history.”
We sat for a long time in silence. I was about to remark And would that be so bad? when I glimpsed Moore’s expression. His face was now chalk-white.
“What does Kent Atkins think?”
He was silent for half a minute. “I don’t really know, Ben. Kent is scared to death. He was asking me what / I thought was going on.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That whatever these Agency renegades are trying to accomplish in Europe will not simply involve the Europeans. It will directly involve us as well. It will involve the world. And I shudder to think what sort of conflagration is in store for us all.”
“Meaning what, specifically?”
He ignored my question, gave a small, rueful smile, and shook his head.
“My father died at the age of ninety-one, my mother at eighty-nine.
Longevity runs in my family. But none of them fought in the Cold War.”
“I don’t understand. What sort of conflagration, Ed?”
“You know, in his last few months in office, your father-in law was quite obsessed with saving Russia. He was convinced that unless CIA took serious action, forces of reaction would take over in Moscow. And then the Cold War would be a sweet memory. Maybe Hal was onto something.”
He clenched his small liver-spotted fist, and pressed it against his pursed lips. “We take risks, all of us who work for Central Intelligence. The rate of suicide is quite high, you know.”
I nodded.
“And although it’s actually quite rare for any of us to be killed in the line of duty, it happens.” His voice softened somewhat. “You know that.”
“You’re afraid you’re going to be killed?”
Another smile, a shake of the head. “I’m approaching eighty. I don’t plan to live my remaining years with an armed guard beside my bed.
Assuming they’d provide one. I see no reason to live in a cage.”
“But have you received any threats?”
“None at all. It’s just the patterns that have me worried.”
“Patterns—?”
“Tell me this. Who knew you were coming to see me?”
“Just Molly.”
“No one else?”
“No.”
“There’s always the telephone.”
I peered at him closely, wondering whether the paranoia had closed in on him, as it had done on James Angleton in his last years. And as if he could read my thoughts, Moore said, “Don’t worry about me, Ben. I
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