Employment. Strange how the unexpected was so often connected to the routine. It had been three months since that night on the Costa Brava, two months and five days since the end of his debriefing and formal separation from the government He had come up to Washington from the clinic in Virginia where he had spent twelve days in therapy. (Whatever they had expected to find wasn’t there; he could have told them that. He didn’t care anymore; couldn’t they understand?) He had emerged from the doors of the State Department at four o’clock in the afternoon a free man—also an unemployed, unpensioned citizen with certain resources hardly of the magnitude to be considered an annuity. It had occurred to him as he stood there on the pavement that afternoon that sometime in the future a job had to be found, a job where he could illuminate the lessons of—The lessons. But not for a while; for a while he would do the minimum required of a functioning human being.
He would travel, revisit all those places he had never really visited—in the sunlight. He would read—reread, actually—not codes and schedules and dossiers but all those books he had not read since graduate school. If he was going to illuminate anything for anybody, he had to relearn so much that he had forgotten.
But if there was one thing on his mind at four o’clock that afternoon, it was a fine dinner. After twelve days in therapy, with various chemicals and a restricted diet, he had ached at the thought of a good meal. He had been about to head back to his hotel for a shower and a change of clothes when an accommodating taxi drove down C Street, the sun bouncing off its windows and obscuring any occupants. It stopped at the curb in front of him—at the behest of his signal, Michael had assumed. Instead, a passenger carrying an attaché case stepped out quickly, a harried man late for an appointment, fumbling for his billfold. At first neither Havelock nor the passenger recognized each other; Michael’s thoughts were on a restaurant, the other’s on paying the driver.
“Havelock?” the passenger inquired suddenly, adjusting his glasses. “It is you, isn’t it, Michael?”
“Harry? Harry Lewis?”
“You’ve got it. How are you, M.H.?”
Lewis was one of the few people he ever saw—and he rarely saw Harry—who called him by his initials. It was a minor legacy from graduate school, where he and Lewis had been classmates at Princeton. Michael had gone into government, Lewis into academia. Dr. Harry Lewis was chairman of the political science department at a small, prestigious university in New England, traveling down to D.C. now and then for consultation chores at State. They had run into each other several times when both were in Washington.
“Fine. Still picking up per diems, Harry?”
“A lot fewer than before. Someone taught you people how to read evaluation reports from our more esoteric graduate schools.”
“Good Christ, I’m being replaced by a beard in blue jeans with funny cigarettes.”
The bespectacled professor was stunned. “You’re kidding. You’re out? I thought you were in for life!”
“The opposite, Harry. Life began between five and seven minutes ago when I wrote out my final signature. And in a couple of hours I’m going to be faced with the first dinner check in years I can’t take out of contingency funds.”
“What are you going to do, Michael?”
“No thoughts. Don’t want any for a while.”
The academician paused, taking his change from the taxi driver, then spoke rapidly. “Listen, I’m late for upstairs, but I’m in town overnight. Since I’m on per diem, let me pay for the dinner. Where are you staying? I may have an idea.”
No government per diem in the civilized world could have paid for the dinner that night two months and five days ago, but Harry Lewis did have an idea. They had been friends once; they became friends again, and Havelock found it easier to talk with a person who was at least vaguely aware of the work he had done for the government rather than with someone who knew nothing about it. It was always difficult to explain that something could not be explained; Lewis understood. One thing led to another, which in turn led to Harry’s idea.
“Have you ever given any thought to getting back to a campus?”
Michael smiled. “How would ‘constantly’ sound?”
“I know, I know,” Lewis pressed, inferring sarcasm. “You fellows—‘spooks,’ I assume, is the term—get all kinds of offers from the multinationals at damn good money, I’m aware of that. But, M.H., you were one of the best. Your dissertation was picked up by a dozen university presses; you even had your own seminars. Your academic record coupled with your years at State—most of which I realize you can’t go into specifically—could make you very attractive to a university administration. We’re always saying, ‘Let’s find someone who’s been there, not Just a theoretician.’ Damn it, Michael, I think you’re it. Now, I know the money’s not—”
“Harry, you misunderstood. I meant it. I constantly think about getting back.”
It was Harry Lewis’s turn to smile. “Then I’ve got another idea.”
A week later Havelock had flown to Boston and driven from there to the brick-and-ivy-and-white-birch campus on the outskirts of Concord, New Hampshire. He spent four days with Harry Lewis and his wife, wandering around, attending various lectures and seminars, and meeting those of the faculty and administration whose support Harry thought might be helpful. Michael’s opinions had been sought “casually” over coffee, drinks and dinners; men and women had looked at him as if they considered him a promising candidate. Lewis had done his missionary work well. At the end of the fourth day Harry announced at lunch:
“They like you!”
“Why not?” his wife said. “He’s damned likable.”
“They’re quite excited, actually. It’s what I said the other day, M.H. You’ve been there. Sixteen years with the State Department kind of makes you special.”
“And?”
“There’s the annual administration-trustees conference coming up in eight weeks. That’s when the supply-and-demand quotients are studied. Horseflesh. I think you’ll be offered a job. Where can I reach you?”
“I’ll be traveling. I’ll call you.”
He had called Harry from London two days ago. The conference was still in progress, but Lewis thought there would be an answer momentarily.
“Cable me AX, Amsterdam,” Michael had said. “And thanks, Harry.”
He saw the glass doors of the American Express office swing open just ahead. A couple emerged, the man awkwardly balancing the shoulder straps of two cameras while counting money. Havelock stopped, wondering for a moment if he really wanted to go inside. If the cable was there, it would contain either a rejection or an offer. If a rejection, he would simply go on wandering—and there was a certain comfort in that; the floating passivity of not planning had become something of value to him. If an offer, what then? Was he ready for it? Was he prepared to make a decision? Not the kind of decision one made in the field, where it had to be instinctive if one was to survive, but, rather, a decision to commit oneself. Was he capable of a commitment? Where were yesterday’s commitments?
He took a deep breath, consciously putting one foot in front of the other, and approached the glass doors.
POSITION AVAILABLE VISITING PROFESSOR OF GOVERNMENT FOR PERIOD OF TWO YEARS. ASSOCIATE STATUS PENDING MUTUAL ACCEPTANCE AT THE END OF THIS TIME. INITIAL SALARY TWENTY-SEVEN-FIVE. WILL NEED YOUR REPLY WITHIN TEN DAYS. DON’T KEEP ME HOLDING MY BREATH.
EVER, HARRY.
Michael folded the cable and put it in his jacket pocket; he did not go back to the counter to write out his own cable to Harry Lewis, Concord, New Hampshire, U.S.A. It would come later. It was enough for the moment to be wanted, to know there was a beginning. It would take several days to absorb the knowledge of his own legitimacy, perhaps several days thereafter to come to grips with it. For in the legitimacy was the possibility of commitment; there was no red beginning without it.
He walked out onto the Damrak, breathing the cold air of Amsterdam, feeling the damp chill floa
ting up from the canal. The sun was setting; briefly blocked by a low-flying cloud, it reemerged, an orange globe hurling its rays through the intercepting vapors. It reminded Havelock of an ocean dawn on the coast of Spain—on the Costa Brava. He had stayed there all night that night, until the sun had forced itself up over the horizon, firing the mists above the water. He had gone down to the shoulder of the road, to the sand and the dirt …
Stop! Don’t think about it. That was another life.
Two months and five days ago by sheer chance Harry Lewis had stepped out of a taxi and started to change the world for an old friend. Now, two months and five days later, that change was there to be taken. He would take it, Michael knew, but something was missing: change should be shared, and there was no one to share it with, no one to say, What will you teach?
The tuxedoed waiter at the Dikker en Thijs ground the lip of the flaming brandy glass into the silver receptacle of sugar; the ingredients would follow for café Jamique. It was a ridiculous indulgence, and probably a waste of very good liqueur, but Harry Lewis had insisted they each have one that night in Washington. He would tell Harry that he had repeated the ritual in Amsterdam, although he probably wouldn’t have if he had realized how bright the damn flames were and the degree of attention they would draw to his table.
“Thank you, Harry,” he said silently once the waiter had left, raising his glass inches off the table to his invisible companion. It was better, after all, not to be completely alone.
He could both feel the approaching presence of a man and see an enlarging darkness in the corner of his eye. A figure dressed in a conservative pinstriped suit was threading his way through the shadows and the candlelight toward the booth. Havelock angled the glass and raised his eyes to the face. The man’s name was George; he was the CIA station chief in Amsterdam. They had worked together before, not always pleasantly but professionally.
“That’s one way to announce your arrival here,” said the intelligence officer, glancing at the waiter’s tray table, the silver sugar bowl still on it “May I sit down?”
“My pleasure. How are you, George?”
“I’ve been better,” said the CIA man, sliding across the seat opposite Michael.
“Sorry to hear that. Care for a drink?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether I’ll stay long enough.”
“Aren’t we cryptic,” said Havelock. “But then you’re probably still working.”
“I wasn’t aware the hours were that clear-cut.”
“No, I guess they’re not. Am I the reason, George?”
“At the moment, maybe,” said the CIA man. “I’m surprised to see you here. I heard you retired.”
“You heard correctly.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Why not? I’m traveling. I like Amsterdam. You could say I’m spending a lot of accumulated severance pay visiting all those places I rarely got to see in the daytime.”
“I could say it, but that doesn’t mean I believe it.”
“Believe, George. It’s the truth.”
“No screen?” asked the intelligence officer, his eyes leveled at Michael. “I can find out, you know.”
“None at all. I’m out, finished, temporarily unemployed. If you check, that’s what you’ll learn, but I don’t think you have to waste channel time to Langley. I’m sure the centrex codes have been altered where I was concerned, all sources and informers in Amsterdam alerted as to my status. I’m off-limits, George. Anyone dealing with me is asking for a short term on the payroll and quite possibly an obscure funeral.”
“Those are the surface facts,” agreed the CIA man.
“They’re the only facts. Don’t bother looking for anything else; you won’t find it.”
“All right, say I believe you. You’re traveling, spending your severance pay.” The agent paused as he leaned forward. “It’s going to run out.”
“What is?”
“The severance pay.”
“Inevitably. At which time I expect I’ll find gainful employment. As a matter of fact, this afternoon—”
“Why wait? I might be able to help you there.”
“No, you can’t, George. I haven’t anything to sell.”
“Sure, you do. Expertise. A consultant’s fee paid out of contingency. No name, no records, untraceable.”
“If you’re running a test, you’re doing it badly.”
“No test. I’m willing to pay in order to look better than I am. I wouldn’t admit that if I were testing you.”
“You might, but you’d be a damn fool. It’s third-rate entrapment; it’s so awkward you’ve probably done it for real. None of us want those contingency funds scrutinized too carefully, do we?”
“I may not be in your league, but I’m not third-rate. I need help. We need help.”
“That’s better. You’re appealing to my ego. Much better.”
“How about it, Michael The KGB’s all over The Hague. We don’t know who they’ve bought or how far up they go. NATO’s compromised.”
“We’re all compromised, George, and I can’t help. Because I don’t think it makes any difference. We get to square five, pushing them back to four, so they jump over us to seven. Then we buy our way to eight; they block us at nine, and no one reaches square ten. Everyone nods pensively and starts all over again. In the meantime we lament our losses and extol the body count, never admitting that it doesn’t make any difference.”
“That’s a crock of shit! We’re not going to be buried by anyone.”
“Yes, we are, George. All of us. By ‘children yet unborn and unbegot.’ Unless they’re smarter than we are, which may very well be the case. Christ, I hope so.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“ ‘The purple atomic testament of bleeding war.’ ”
“What!”
“History, George. Let’s have that drink.”
“No, thanks.” The CIA station chief slid back across the seat. “And I think you’ve had enough,” he added, standing up.
“Not yet.”
“Go to hell, Havelock.” The intelligence officer started to turn away.
“George.”
“What?”
“You missed. I was about to say something about this afternoon, but you didn’t let me finish.”
“So what?”
“So you knew what it was I was going to tell you. When did you intercept the cable? Around noon?”
“Go to hell.”
Michael watched as the CIA man returned to his table across the room. He had been dining alone, but Havelock knew he was not alone. Within three minutes the judgment was confirmed. George signed his check—bad form—and walked rapidly through the entrance arch into the lobby. Forty-five seconds later a youngish man from a table on the right side of the room got up to leave, leading a bewildered lady by the elbow. A minute passed, and two men who had been in a booth on the left side rose as one and started for the arch. Through the candlelight, Michael focused on the plates in the booth. Both were piled with food. Bad form.
They had been following him, watching him, employing intercepts. Why? Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
So much for Amsterdam.
The noonday sun in Paris was a blinding yellow, its quivering rays bouncing off the river Seine below the bridge. Havelock reached the midpoint of the Pont Royal, his small hotel only blocks away on the Rue du Bac, the route he followed being the most logical one from the Louvre. He knew it was important not to deviate, not to let whoever it was behind him think he suspected his or her presence. He had spotted the taxi, the same taxi, as it made two swift turns in traffic to keep him in sight. Whoever was directing the driver was good; the taxi had stopped for less than two or three seconds at a corner, and then had sped away in the opposite direction. Which meant that whoever was following him was now on foot on the crowded bridge. If contact was the objective, crowds were helpful, and a bridge
even more so. People stopped on bridges over the Seine simply to stare absently down at the water; they had been doing so for centuries. Conversations could be had unobtrusively. If contact was the objective, and not surveillance alone.
Michael stopped, leaned against the chest-high stone wall that served as a railing, and lighted a cigarette, his eyes on a bateau mouche about to pass under the bridge. That is to say, if anyone was watching him, it would seem as if he were looking at the tourist boat, waving casually at the passengers below. But he was not; pretending to shield his eyes from the sun, he concentrated on the tall figure approaching on his right.
He could distinguish the gray homburg, the velvet-collared overcoat, and the glistening black patent-leather shoes; they were enough. The man was the essence of Parisian wealth and elegance, traveling all over Europe and gracing the salons of the rich. His name was Gravet, and he was considered the most knowledgeable critic of classical art in Paris—which meant the Continent—and only those who had to know knew he also sold far more than his critical expertise. He stopped at the railing seven feet to the right of Havelock, and adjusted his velvet collar; he spoke just loud enough to be heard. “I thought it was you. I’ve been following you since the Rue Bernard.”
“I know. What do you want?”
“The question is, What do you want? Why are you in Paris? We were given to understand you were no longer active. Quite frankly, you were to be avoided.”
“And reported immediately if I made contact, right?”
“Naturally.”
“But you’re reversing the process. You’ve approached me. That’s a little foolish, isn’t it?”
“A minor risk worth taking,” said Gravet, standing erect and glancing about. “We go back a long time, Michael. I don’t for a moment believe you’re in Paris for your cultural rebirth.”
“Neither do I. Who said I was?”
“You were at the Louvre for exactly twenty-seven minutes. Too short a time to absorb anything, and too long to relieve yourself. But quite plausible for meeting someone inside a dark, crowded exhibit—say, at the far end of the third floor.”