button, and once again the reels spun.
Fifteen blocks north Varak listened to Parke. The words had been lifted, edited, and refined from a number of tapes. As planned, the voice on the other end of the line would be louder than a normal voice; it would be the voice of a man wanting to not acknowledge illness, fighting to appear normal, and in so doing, speaking abnormally. It not only fit the subject psychiatrically, it had a further value. The volume lent authority, and the authority reduced the possibility that the deception would be spotted.
“Yes, what is it?” The gruff voice could be heard clearly.
“Mr. Hoover, this is senior agent Parke at InternalSecurity. Agents Longworth, Krepps, and—” Parke stopped, forgetting the name, his expression bewildered.
“Salter,” whispered Varak.
“Salter, sir. Longworth, Krepps, and Salter. They’ve arrived, and they said I was to call you to verify your instructions. They said they’re to be taken upstairs to your offices, and one is to be cleared for the relays—?”
“Those men,” came the harsh, unrhythmic interruption, “are there at my personal orders. Do as they say. They are to be given complete cooperation, and nothing is to be said to anyone. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Senior Agent Lester Parke, sir.”
There was a pause; Varak tensed his stomach muscles and held his breath. The pause was too long!
“I’ll remember that,” came the words finally. “Good night, Parke.” A concluding click was heard on the line.
Varak breathed again. Even the use of the name worked; it had been lifted from a conversation the subject had had during which he had complained about the crime rate in Rock Creek Park.
“He sounds awful, doesn’t he?” Parke replaced the telephone and reached underneath the counter for three night passes.
“He’s a very courageous man,” said Varak. “He asked for your name?”
“Yeah,” replied the agent, inserting the passes into the automatic timer.
“If the worst happens, you might find yourself with a bonus,” added Varak, turning his head away from his two companions.
“What?” Parke looked up.
“A personal bequest. Nothing official.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not supposed to. But you heard the man; I heard him, too. Keep your own counsel, as the book says. You’ll answer to me if you don’t.… The director’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Parke stared at Varak. “La Jolla,” he said.
“La Jolla,” answered Varak.
A great deal more was conveyed than the name of a California seacoast town. Stories had circulated for years—the grand designs of a retired monarch, a mansion overlookingthe Pacific, a clandestine government housing the secrets of a nation.
The sad-faced middle-aged woman watched the second hand of the clock on the wall in the small studio. Fifty-five seconds to go. The telephone was on the table, in front of the tape machine she had used to rehearse the words. Over and over again, a full week of rehearsals aimed for a single performance that would last no more than a minute.
Rehearsal. Peformance
.
Terms of a nearly forgotten lexicon.
She was no fool. The strange, blond-haired man who had hired her had explained very little, but enough to let her know that what she was about to do was a
good
thing. Desired by far better men than the man she would talk to on the telephone in … forty seconds.
The woman reminisced as she watched the hand on the clock move slowly toward the mark. They had once said her husband was a fine talent; that’s what everyone had said. He was on his way to becoming a star, a
real
star, not a photogenic accident. Everyone had said so.
And then other people came along and said he was on a list. A very important list that meant he was not a good citizen. And those on the list were given a label.
Subversive
.
And the label was given legitimacy. Tight-lipped young men in dark suits began
Fifteen blocks north Varak listened to Parke. The words had been lifted, edited, and refined from a number of tapes. As planned, the voice on the other end of the line would be louder than a normal voice; it would be the voice of a man wanting to not acknowledge illness, fighting to appear normal, and in so doing, speaking abnormally. It not only fit the subject psychiatrically, it had a further value. The volume lent authority, and the authority reduced the possibility that the deception would be spotted.
“Yes, what is it?” The gruff voice could be heard clearly.
“Mr. Hoover, this is senior agent Parke at InternalSecurity. Agents Longworth, Krepps, and—” Parke stopped, forgetting the name, his expression bewildered.
“Salter,” whispered Varak.
“Salter, sir. Longworth, Krepps, and Salter. They’ve arrived, and they said I was to call you to verify your instructions. They said they’re to be taken upstairs to your offices, and one is to be cleared for the relays—?”
“Those men,” came the harsh, unrhythmic interruption, “are there at my personal orders. Do as they say. They are to be given complete cooperation, and nothing is to be said to anyone. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Senior Agent Lester Parke, sir.”
There was a pause; Varak tensed his stomach muscles and held his breath. The pause was too long!
“I’ll remember that,” came the words finally. “Good night, Parke.” A concluding click was heard on the line.
Varak breathed again. Even the use of the name worked; it had been lifted from a conversation the subject had had during which he had complained about the crime rate in Rock Creek Park.
“He sounds awful, doesn’t he?” Parke replaced the telephone and reached underneath the counter for three night passes.
“He’s a very courageous man,” said Varak. “He asked for your name?”
“Yeah,” replied the agent, inserting the passes into the automatic timer.
“If the worst happens, you might find yourself with a bonus,” added Varak, turning his head away from his two companions.
“What?” Parke looked up.
“A personal bequest. Nothing official.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not supposed to. But you heard the man; I heard him, too. Keep your own counsel, as the book says. You’ll answer to me if you don’t.… The director’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Parke stared at Varak. “La Jolla,” he said.
“La Jolla,” answered Varak.
A great deal more was conveyed than the name of a California seacoast town. Stories had circulated for years—the grand designs of a retired monarch, a mansion overlookingthe Pacific, a clandestine government housing the secrets of a nation.
The sad-faced middle-aged woman watched the second hand of the clock on the wall in the small studio. Fifty-five seconds to go. The telephone was on the table, in front of the tape machine she had used to rehearse the words. Over and over again, a full week of rehearsals aimed for a single performance that would last no more than a minute.
Rehearsal. Peformance
.
Terms of a nearly forgotten lexicon.
She was no fool. The strange, blond-haired man who had hired her had explained very little, but enough to let her know that what she was about to do was a
good
thing. Desired by far better men than the man she would talk to on the telephone in … forty seconds.
The woman reminisced as she watched the hand on the clock move slowly toward the mark. They had once said her husband was a fine talent; that’s what everyone had said. He was on his way to becoming a star, a
real
star, not a photogenic accident. Everyone had said so.
And then other people came along and said he was on a list. A very important list that meant he was not a good citizen. And those on the list were given a label.
Subversive
.
And the label was given legitimacy. Tight-lipped young men in dark suits began
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