field, assisted into the second cockpit; the canopy was closed, and within minutes the plane was airborne back to England. Three hours after his arrival in the U.K." the exhausted deep-cover agent was driven under guard to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square, his reception committee consisting of three high-ranking members of the Central Intelligence Agency, British MI-6, and France's equivalent, the French Service d'Etranger.
"Hey, it's great to have you back, Harry!" said the American.
"Damn fine show," said the Englishman.
"Magnifique!" added the Frenchman.
"Thank you, gentlemen, but can't we postpone the debriefing until I get some sleep?"
"The valley," said the American, "where the hell is it? That can't wait, Harry."
"The valley doesn't matter anymore. It's gone, the fires were started two days ago. Everything's destroyed, and everyone's out of there."
"What the hell are you talking about?" persisted the man from Central Intelligence.
"It's our key."
"My American colleague's quite right, old chap," pressed the MISixer.
"Absolument," said the man from the [email protected]
"We must destroy it!"
"Hold on, just hold on!" countered Harry, looking wearily at the intelligence tribunal.
"It may be the key, but the lock isn't there anymore. However, it doesn't matter." To the astonishment of the others around the table, Latham began ripping apart the lining of his jacket, then proceeded to get up and remove his trousers, turning them inside out, and doing the same with the interior linings of his pockets. Standing in his jacket and shorts, he slowly, carefully, removed dozens of handwritten scraps of paper and piled them across the conference table.
"I brought out everything we need.
Names, positions, agencies, and departments, the whole ball of wax, as my brother' Would phrase it. Incidentally, I'd appreciate-"
"It's been done," interrupted the CIA station chief, anticipating the request.
"Sorenson at Cons-Op told him you came out. He's in Paris."
"Thank you.. .. If you have a totally secure secretarial pool among you, get all of these typed up using relays-no one person should be aware of what the others are doing. Regarding the coded pieces, I'll put them together later."
"What are they?" asked the Englishman, staring at the scattered pieces of paper, many torn.
"An influential army behind the Briiderschaft, powerful men and women in each of our countries who either for greed or warped beliefs support the ncos. I warn you, there are a number of surprises, both in our governments and the private sectors.. ..
Now, if someone will find me A decent hotel and buy me some clothes, I'd like to sleep for a day or two."
"Harry," said the man from Central Intelligence, "put on your trousers before you walk out of here. "
"Good point, Jack. You always were observant."
Harry Latham lay in bed, the quasi-insulting and therefore caring telephone call from his brother, Drew, over with. They would meet in Paris by the end of the week, or as soon as Harry completed his debriefing, including the deciphering of the information he brought out of Germany. The older brother did not describe his immediate agenda, nor did he have to, the younger sibling understood the unspoken. The only pieces of information the latter offered were the following.
"With you back as a whole person, we can really move into high gear. We've got the ident of a car driven by a couple of scum buckets .. Incidentally, reach me at my office or the Meurice hotel on the rue de Rivoli."
"What happened to your flat? The management throw you out for indecent behavior?"
"No, but someone else's indecent behavior makes it currently unlivable."
"Really? The Meurice is pretty high living, little brother."
"Bonn's paying for it."
"My goodness, I can't wait to hear. I'll call you when I'm flying over. By the way, I'm at' the Gloucester under the name of Moss, Wendell Moss."
"Very classy.. .. Glad you're back, bro."
""So am I, bro." Harry had closed his eyes, sleep rapidly enveloping him when there was a soft, steady knocking on his hotel door. Shaking his head in irritation, he flipped off the covers, unsteadily climbed out of the bed, and reached for the hotel provided bathrobe draped over a chair. He walked, half lurching, to the door.
"Who is it?" he called out.
"It's Catbird from Langley," came the quiet reply.
"I have to talk to you, Sting."
"Oh?" Bewildered, but knowing the maximum secrecy attached to his field code, Harry opened the door. In the corridor stood a relatively short man with a pleasant, rather pale, forgettable face, dressed in a dark business suit and wearing steel-rimmed glasses.
"What's a catbird?" asked Latham, gesturing for the emissary from Central Intelligence to come