Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [100]
McQuaid’s expression said he expected an affirmative response from Pauling. He received nothing.
“Perhaps Assistant Secretary Wick will be able to better explain,” Barton said, looking to Wick, who straightened from the slouch he’d been in and locked eyes with Pauling.
“Mr. Pauling, as of this moment, no one outside this agency knows about your claims that the Jasper Project was not behind the missile attacks on the aircraft. That’s good, and we intend to keep it that way until there’s been ample opportunity to evaluate what you say—in a formal, official way, I mean.”
“That reporter sure poked holes in that plan, didn’t he?” Pauling said.
“I’m sure the Bureau will get to the bottom of his claims,” Zweibel, the Russian expert, said.
McQuaid chimed in: “In the meantime, Mr. Pauling, the president has issued a firm and unambiguous directive: There is to be no public discussion of any aspect of State’s involvement until all the facts are known. Do you have any questions about that?”
“Sure,” Pauling said, “but I doubt if I’ll get any answers here.” He looked at Hoctor, whose wan smile was that of a parent exhibiting patience with a petulant child.
Barton said, “Max, as I said at the start of this meeting, you’ve done an outstanding job. Of course, I never doubted for a minute that you would. I’m relieving you of your duties here at State, for an indeterminate period of time. Give you a chance to rest up and get over the ordeal you’ve been through. I understand there was gunfire involved. We’re all thankful you managed to come through it unscathed.”
Pauling remained stoic, expressionless.
Tom Hoctor, who’d been silent, now spoke. “You’re coming home, Max, back to the Farm. Do some instructing on covert operations, slide back into the Puzzle Palace’s way of doing things.” “The Farm” was slang for the CIA’s training facilities on a handsome estate two hours south of Washington; the Puzzle Palace, CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
Pauling considered challenging the decision to transfer him back to the Central Intelligence Agency. He didn’t, for two reasons. First, he’d be happy to get away from State and Colonel Walter Barton. Second, it would have been a wasted exercise. Besides, it might simplify his life, reporting to people at the agency to which he was actually assigned.
Barton stood, came around the table, and extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working with a consummate professional, Max. Don’t worry about paperwork. I’ll take care of everything. I wish you well.”
Pauling gave a limp handshake, said nothing.
“Let’s go, Max,” Hoctor said, smiling. “Good to have you back in the fold.”
Hoctor and Pauling waited until the others had left the room.
“I’m going to my apartment, Tom,” Pauling said. “I need a shower.”
“Is that an editorial comment?”
“No. When do I report?”
“Immediately.”
“In a day or two?”
“Max, let’s take a walk.”
They exited onto C Street, went to the corner, and headed up Twenty-third, passing Jessica Mumford’s apartment building on their left. Pauling looked across the street and wondered what she was doing at the moment, whether he should simply tell Hoctor that his girlfriend lived there and that he was going to see her. He decided against it. He had questions, and Hoctor presumably had answers.
Hoctor talked about everything but the meeting from which they’d just come, the events of the past twenty-four hours, and the imbroglio that had developed over the deadly assault on the Jasper ranch. When they came abreast of a Chinese restaurant, the Magic Gourd, Hoctor asked, “Drink, Max?”
“Sure, and something to eat. I just remembered I’m hungry.”
The restaurant was empty and they