The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [31]
“You don’t think this should be brought to the attention of the President?—two lines on a sheet of paper.”
“No. It’s not worth his time. If there is anything on paper, burn it. I don’t think you grasp the implications of what this nut is trying to get us to believe.”
“I see the implications,” Patchen said. “All of them. So does Christopher.”
“Who else is he going to go to with this?”
“No one.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“He lives in secret, Foley. He doesn’t talk to anyone but us.”
“You just told me he never gives up,” Foley said. “What if he decides not to give up on this, then what?”
“Then he’ll solve it, one way or another. He knows everybody in the world, and he’s a very senior officer. He requires no support. He’s what we call a singleton—he operates alone, goes where he pleases.”
“Then you’d better bring him back here and put him behind some nice, safe desk,” Foley said.
Patchen shook his head. “No. He’d resign. He doesn’t need us—he’s as well known as a journalist in the outside world as he is as an agent in ours.”
“What you’re telling me is that you have no control over him at all.”
“No, I’m not telling you that. Control is not necessary. He feels about the outfit the way you felt about John Kennedy. He’d do nothing to harm us, or the country. Of course, his idea of what’s harmful to the United States might not be the same as yours.”
Foley stared at Patchen, and then Patchen saw an idea being born behind Foley’s eyes.
“Has Christopher ever been like this before—hooked on something?” Foley asked.
“Lots of times. He’s usually been right.”
“He’s usually been right, or he’s usually come up with data that supported his theory?”
“It’s the same thing,” Patchen said.
“It’s not. When was the last time he saw a psychiatrist? Don’t you have regular psychiatric controls on guys like him?”
“Psychiatric controls? When a man breaks down, we take care of him, that’s all.”
Foley said, “I’ve seen this guy twice. Both times he’s been compulsive about something. It could be a pattern.”
Again Patchen said nothing. A pulse was beating in Foley’s temple; Patchen watched that.
“Christopher may have done great things in the past,” Foley said. “I don’t doubt it for a minute. But how long has he been out there—ten years, twelve? He’s showing it. He needs a rest, David. You must have a quiet place where he can recuperate.”
Patchen showed no surprise because he felt none. Foley, a much larger man, stood over him, giving off an odor of cologne and whiskey. Patchen understood how a woman about to be fondled by a man she does not want must feel. Foley, crude and emotional, seemed to him a ridiculous figure. Patchen’s lips parted in a smile.
“Why don’t you put that suggestion in writing,” he said, “and channel it to me through the Director?”
Foley departed, leaving his glass of water untasted. Ordering Patchen to fetch it for him had been a way of emphasizing the difference in their ranks. In Foley’s place, Patchen would have made the gesture at the end of the conversation, not at the beginning.
4
When Christopher came back into the house, Patchen played the tape recording of his conversation with Foley. Neither man said anything; the listening devices in Patchen’s living room were voice-activated transmitters that could not be switched off. They put on their coats and went outside.
“The bars must still be open,” Patchen said. “Let’s walk. “I’d like a beer.”
They were alone on the sidewalk, and when they reached Connecticut Avenue the broad street was empty of cars, though the automatic traffic signals went on working: the lights changed to red along its whole steep length, like cards falling out of a shuffler’s hand.
“What now?” Christopher said.
“It’s over. The problem is, Foley believes you. He doesn’t want your theory proved.”
“You’re willing to drop it?”
“Of course. If the White House doesn’t want it, we won’t do it.”
“Well, it would have been nice if we’d got some Texan instead of Foley to talk to,” Christopher