General Palmer cocked his head. "You need a surveillance team or—"
"I don't think he means foot soldiers, General," said Elliott. "He's talking about another field man who can split the work."
The General frowned. "It would have to be one of yours, then. We're pretty strapped for bodies right now. Some of the stations are short-handed. To make it worse, Senator Barley says they're talking about slashing our budget by thirty percent or more."
"I'm stretched to the limit with this summit business," Elliott said. "Can we take anybody off that?"
The DCI shook his head. "That's priority A-One. The White House wants to know where every known terrorist hangs his hat, when he brushes his teeth, and what his plans are for the middle of June."
"The station chiefs are raising holy hell when I try to pull in any of their people," said Elliott, throwing his hands up in despair.
Marshall leaned forward, elbows on his desk, chin resting on folded hands. "With what we know right now, this thing is still rather nebulous. I'd like some answers, but not at the cost of any priority projects. Maybe we could let Cameron find some outside help."
Quinn looked around at the three faces, each focused on his own. True, the Agency had real problems, moneywise and personnelwise. But things were not so bad they couldn't pull in another field man where there was a real need. No, he didn't buy that argument. He smelled a smoke screen. In truth, this was a test. They wanted to know if the post-dryout Cameron Quinn could perform up to his old standards. If he could run a successful operation relying upon his own skills and instincts. He was being dangled on a fragile thread, all alone. It was sink or swim, with only an outsider of his choosing to assist.
That was when he thought of his old FBI buddy, Burke Hill.
Quinn put the meeting out of his mind and watched Burke's expression as he appeared to ponder a reply to that last statement.
"I was the man you were looking for for what?" Burke asked.
"To help with an investigation I'm working on."
"Hell, Cam, the CIA's bound to have better photographers than me. Not to mention the latest in high tech equipment."
"I'm not looking for a photographer. What I need is a sharp street agent."
Burke frowned. "I haven't been a street agent for twenty years."
"I know that," Quinn said, leaning forward in his chair. "But I also know you're the kind of guy who doesn't forget his lessons. Things haven't changed that much. Put you back in the field, I'd wager in no time you'd be just as much at home as an Irishman attending his first wake in twenty years."
"I don't know about that. I completely washed out on my last assignment for the Bureau. That’s haunted me for years. The fact is I don't have any desire to get back in the field. I spent a long time in limbo after that Bureau fiasco. Since I've been here, I've gotten my head screwed back on straight. I love these mountains, Cam. I get a real bang out of roaming around, photographing the animals, the scenery. I'm just not ready to leave."
Quinn squirmed in his chair, as if searching for just the right words. "I'm not talking a long term commitment, just help with a particular assignment. Actually, I'm facing a deadline that's only about three weeks off. This operation means a hell of a lot to me, Burke. I don't want to sound like I'm calling in a marker, but—"
"But you are. Is that what you're saying?"
Quinn shrugged. "Maybe I am."
Burke stood up and turned away, letting his gaze wander over the map of his beloved Smokies.
"I honestly don't know what we're up against at the moment," Quinn said. "It may be an effort to penetrate us with some new gimmick—the Agency is a little paranoid after the Year of the Spy. Or it may be a smokescreen, something to throw us off balance. Or maybe it's something entirely different. My gut feeling is that it's a lot more serious than anyone realizes."
Burke spun around, an intense look in his eyes. "You're talking about a looking glass world, Cam. Nothing's what it seems to be. Damn it. That's exactly why I don't want to get involved again. A life filled with lies, deceit, treachery. My mother was a history teacher. She used the lessons of history to teach us kids basic ethical values. She believed that honesty and integrity were the very essence of freedom. She contended that fairness and justice couldn't exist without 'em. Well, I got away from those lofty concepts, got caught up in the system. A man who set himself up as the self-appointed conscience of the nation said 'do this,' and I did it. I did things that weren't right, things I should have known weren't right. All because he said it would be for the good of the nation."
"Don't lecture me, Burke." Quinn’s voice turned cold. He gripped the arm of the chair, his round face florid. "Evidently you've been hidden away in these mountains too damned long. You've lost contact with reality. The real world doesn't revolve around purity and perfection. We live in an imperfect world, boy, ruled by imperfect men. Some of them are dedicated to working toward those ideals of yours, but they're human and they're subject to stumbling along the way. Other people are dedicated to working against what your mother taught. Guys like me spend our lives trying to keep them off your back. We screw up a lot, sure. Sometimes we slip across that thin line that separates acceptable behavior and what some who haven't been there might call uncivilized. But without us, people like your mother wouldn't have been able to teach those cherished values." He pushed himself up from the chair and brushed past Burke. "I guess I mistakenly thought you were a man who shared my commitment."
"Cam, wait." Burke shook his head, apparently feeling the need to apologize. "I didn't mean to imply that you...look, I know we need intelligence agencies, law enforcement officers. Without 'em we'd be sitting ducks. I guess what I'm trying to say is we ought to do the right things for the right reasons. Maybe it's a poor analogy, but we need a little honor even among thieves."
"You're damned right it's a lousy analogy."
Burke planted his hands against his hips. "Well, I can't ignore what happened to me. I was...damn it, I was used. Sent out like a prostitute on the prowl. A hell of a lot of what I did wasn't for the good of the cause. It was simply to satisfy one man's inflated ego. I don't want to get caught in that whirlpool again."
Quinn stared his friend straight in the eye. "If you work with me, Burke Hill, you follow your own instincts, act as your own conscience dictates. I wouldn't want you under any other circumstance. Four days ago, I stood talking to a man, as close as I am to you, when he was blown away by a high-powered rifle shot. That tells me there's something damned important going down out there that I need to get to the bottom of. And conditions dictate that I use outside help. For lots of reasons I can't afford to fail on this one. I'd be grateful for your assistance, but I'm not begging."
Burke glanced back at the map, then at Quinn. He reached a hand up to stroke the gray-speckled thatch of beard. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.
Quinn's eyes snapped open wide. "You're in? You're sure about it?"
Burke's face softened into the beginnings of a smile. "In like Flynn. It might help to fill me in on some of the details."
"Hey, great." Quinn's broad mouth stretched into his best Irish grin. "You're getting a little ahead of me, though. There are a few minor points I need to clear up."
"Minor points? What the hell are you talking about?"
"My boss insisted that you be thoroughly vetted. I've had our Office of Security people digging into your background the last couple of days. During the time in Alaska and five years here, your record is spotless. But your FBI file leaves some questions after 1969."
Burke grimaced. "If you read that, I'm surprised you even bothered to come down here."
"I don't know if they sanitized it or not. I had difficulty getting it until our FBI liaison put the pressure on."
"Doesn't surprise me. I've thought about going through the Freedom of Information Act to get a look at it myself. How does it say I left?"
"There are some rather derogatory entries after you quit, but it only ind
icates you resigned from the Bureau in 1970. No reason given. There was a large print notice placed in the file there saying 'any inquiries regarding this file must be sent immediately to the Director or Associate Director-Investigative.'"
"That meant Hoover or Sullivan. I suppose you want to hear the story?"
"Let's save it until later. I think you'll pass muster with Hawk Elliott."
"Who?"
"Hawthorne 'Hawk' Elliott, chief of the counterintelligence staff. My boss. He wants to meet you before we seal the deal."
"I would be sort of a private investigator working on contract with the CIA?"
"Essentially."
"You know, I thought about giving the PI business a try several years ago. But I figured if I hung out my shingle, I'd be bombarded by jealous wives and divorce lawyers. I didn't want to get involved in that kind of messy affairs."
Quinn chuckled. "You won't have to worry about that. This will be a straight up investigative effort. Could you be in Washington tomorrow?"
"Hey, that's sort of pushing it. I've got some things to wind up here." He smiled. "How about day after tomorrow?"
"Let me know when. I'll meet you at National Airport."
"Can you tell me a little about the case now?"
"Sorry. Not until you talk to Hawk."
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Chapter 10
As the 737 made its final approach along the Potomac, Burke got a brief glimpse of the rounded facade of the Watergate complex and the angular profile of the majestic Kennedy Center. It was a gentle reminder of the contrasts that marked this impulsive center of world leadership, the ugliness of power politics juxtaposed with the beauty of classic art. Old memories came crushing in on him, recollections not altogether pleasant.
When he had moved from one phase of his life to another, it was like pulling a curtain on the past. He rarely looked back. But since Cameron Quinn's surprising visit to his Smoky Mountain hideaway, past hopes and past failures had intruded mercilessly on his conscience. Maybe he had as much to gain from this as Quinn, he thought, a chance to redeem himself in the field, where he’d spent the better part of his adult life.
When he strode off the jetway just after eleven, Burke found an agitated Cam Quinn waiting in the crowded concourse. Having long ago learned to travel light, he avoided the baggage claim area.
"I'm facing a damned deadline three weeks off, and what do I get?" Quinn growled like the bear his build resembled. "I waste half my morning getting the runaround from some gray-haired bitch over a simple requisition."
"What were you after, an M-1 tank?"
"A real desk," he said. "One with drawers and all, for that ratty little cubbyhole I euphemistically call an office. I was fed up with using a computer stand. I'd get more respect from the KGB."
As they headed through the exit, the impassioned Irishman ranted on, lamenting in his colorful Boston brogue the frustrations of butting heads with an obstinate federal bureaucracy.
Outside the clamor of the terminal, the sun bore down in a merciless preview of what the summer would soon bring in earnest. Quinn appeared to conclude there was no use complaining further about matters impossible to change. He lapsed into silence after summing up, "You'd have thought I was asking for an increase in the national debt limit."
He had left his jacket in the car and now loosened his tie as they headed into the nearby parking lot reserved for government officials.
"I hope your boss doesn't object to my attire," Burke said. He wore a blue-striped knit shirt, gray poplin slacks, and gray pigskin loafers. "Photographers aren't famous as snappy dressers, you know."
"Hell, you're well coordinated. The pants match your beard.”
Quinn stopped beside a blue-trimmed white Cutlass Supreme of indeterminate age. Burke dropped his travel-weary soft-side bag into the back seat. "Thanks, buddy," he said as he slid into the seat.
"Listen, Hawk Elliott is anything but a clothes horse. He thinks dress up means to put your pants on before your shirt. Glad you got a haircut, though. That will probably help. Hawk’s a grumpy bastard who was once a star quarterback."
"Where'd he play?"
"Princeton. He would probably have made it in the pros if the military hadn't wanted him for the Korean War. A family friend saved his ass by recruiting him into the Agency first."
"That means he's been around about as long as you. Right?"
Quinn nodded as he checked the traffic and pulled out of the parking lot. "I guess Hawk was a little smarter than me. He kept his mouth shut, and they moved him up the ranks. You know I never was one to let my sentiments go unspoken. He probably won't have a whole lot to say today, but what he does say, it will probably rub you the wrong way. Just don't let him frustrate you."
Frustration was something the chunky Irishman had learned to deal with early on. Afraid he might miss out on the war, he volunteered for the Army at the end of his sophomore year at Harvard in 1943. His father, a prominent Boston attorney, was a close friend of General William Donovan. As a result, the young Quinn was quickly tapped for service in the clandestine Office of Strategic Services. By the end of the war, not yet twenty-one, he was a master at the tricks of the spy trade, but Donovan and his father prevailed on him to head back to Harvard and law school.
After graduation with honors in 1949, he joined his father's prestigious law firm and began working with its international clients. He soon found himself immersed in the troubled sea of Cold War repercussions. As the battle to contain communism deepened, his former OSS colleagues began to yell for help for their fledgling Central Intelligence Agency. To Quinn, it had the sound of a bugle call to battle. About the time the Korean War sputtered to a close, he packed his law books away and slipped back into the secret world.
Now he took his irritation out on the gas pedal, which he stomped heavily. They roared out into the George Washington Memorial Parkway traffic and sped north toward I-395. As they swung around the Pentagon toward the back side of Arlington National Cemetery, he noticed Burke cinch his seat belt a little tighter with each burst of acceleration.
"I see your driving technique hasn't improved over the past few years," Burke said as they weaved in and out of traffic.
Quinn glanced around with a grin. "I have been known to push the speed limit a bit. I've developed a pretty good relationship with the cops around here, though. They don't bother me unless I get too close."
After a number of turns off the main artery, he nosed into a parking lot painfully close to a highly polished Mercedes. They had arrived at an out-of-the-way steak house located in a converted two-story white frame residence.
"The food isn't bad here, and they don't have much lunch trade," Quinn said. He headed for the entrance. "Nice quiet, obscure place. Several of the Agency guys use it for working luncheons with people they don't want to bring to Langley. I suspect they've quietly vetted the management and all the waitresses."
Dark and nearly deserted, the restaurant looked more like a movie set before the klieg lights came on. It apparently depended on dinner patrons to keep its doors open, as only two of its tables were occupied. Three youthful looking business types huddled around one, likely sharing the latest office rumors. At the other, on the opposite side of the room, a tall man in a tight-fitting navy blazer and gray slacks rose as they approached.
He glanced at his watch. "About time you got here, Quinn. I'm almost late for a meeting in the District."
The grumpy description fit, Burke thought. And he was certainly tall enough for a passing quarterback. Looked almost as fit as he might have been in his playing days.
"Burke Hill, this is Hawk Elliott," Quinn said with a nod.
Burke reached out and received a brief but firm handshake. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Elliott," he said.
Elliott dropped back into his chair. "Sit down and let's get this over with. Quinn thinks you're the man to help him out on this investigation, Hill. I've read your dossier. It's been quite awhile since you were active
as an agent. Quinn claims you'll have no trouble adapting."
Burke shrugged. He was not so sure, but for Cam's sake, he wasn't about to admit it. "I don't anticipate any problems."
Quinn jumped in. "There won't be any problems, Hawk. I'll guarantee that. I've seen him in action enough to know what he can do."
"One thing I want to impress on you, Hill. You will not be considered an employee of the Agency, and you are not to indicate to anyone that you are."
"That's exactly as I want it," Burke said with complete honesty.
"You are being brought in for one particular operation, and that's all. You will be required to sign a security oath that will allow you access to classified information on a need-to-know basis."
How many times had he heard that phrase? Intelligence organizations were rigid on the theory of compartmentalization, so that only the men at the top could see the whole picture. Too often it meant the lowly agent on the street was denied information that might help him connect random threads of information, or, in worse cases, save his neck.
Burke was a bit irritated at the tone of Hawk Elliott's lecture, delivered as though for a class of neophytes at a training academy. "I'm well aware of the national security statutes. As you know from my dossier, I put in around a dozen years as a special agent for the FBI."
Elliott appeared to ignore the comment. "You will not be told anything until you have signed the oath. Should you reveal anything you learn about the Agency, its methods or operations, you can expect to be vigorously prosecuted." He paused as though waiting for that pronouncement to sink in, then continued. "You will take your instructions from Quinn. Should you ever need to reach anyone else, I'm your contact. He will give you a private number to call me on. Do you have any questions?"
Burke was tempted to ask what made him such a nasty bastard, but he caught the worried look in Cam Quinn's eyes and remembered his earlier comment. He forced a smile, but he couldn't keep the hint of sarcasm out of his voice. "I think you've explained everything quite adequately, Mr. Elliott. I'm sure I'll enjoy my non-employment immensely."
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 5