in the use of the Lupo. The Matarese wanted Beowulf Agate to understand clearly bow far and how wide the Corsican fever had spread, into what rarefied circles of power it had reached.
He finished his drink, left his money on the bar with the two newspapers, and looked around for a telephone. The name that had come into focus, the man he wanted to see, was Dr. Theodore Goldman, a dean of the Harvard School of Business and a thorn in the side of the Justice Department. For he was an outspoken critic of the Anti-Trust Division, incessantly claiming that Justice prosecuted the minnows and let the sharks roarn free. He was a middle-aged enfant terrible who enjoyed taking on the giants, for be was a giant himself, cloaking his genius behind a facade of good-humored innocence that fooled no one.
If anyone could shed light on the conglomerate called Trans-Communications, it was Goldman.
Bray did not know the man, but he had met Goldman's son a year ago in the Hague-uader circumstances that were potentially disastrous for a young pilot in the Air Force. Aaron Goldman had gotten drunk with the wrong people near the Groote Kerk, men known to be involved in a KGB infiltration of NATO. The son of a prominent American Jew was prime material for the Soviets.
An unknown intelligence officer had gotten the pilot away from the scene, slapped him into sobriety and told him to go back to his base. And after countless cups of coffee, Aaron Goldman had expressed his thanks.
"If you've got a kid who wants to go to Harvard, let me know, whoever you are. I'll talk to my dad, I swear it. What the hell's your name anyway?" "Never mind," Scofield had said. "Just get out of here, and don't buy typing paper at the Coop. It's cheaper down the block." "What the.
"Get out of here." Bray saw the pay phone on the wall; he grabbed his luggage and walked over to it.
He picked up a small wet piece of newspaper on the rain-soaked sidewalk and walked to the MPTA subway station in Harvard Square. He went downstairs and checked his soft leather suitcase in a locker. If it was stolen that would tell him something, and there was nothing in it he could not replace. He slid the wet scrap of paper carefully under the far right corner of the bag. Later, if the fragile scrap was curled or the surface broken, that would tell him something else: the bag had been searched and be was in the Matarese sights.
Ten minutes later he rang the bell of Theodore Goldman's house on Brattle Street. It was opened by a slender, middle-aged woman, her face pleasant, her eyes curious.
"Mrs. Goldman?" "Yes?" "I telephoned your husband a few minutes ago-" "Oh, yes, of course," she interrupted. "Well, for heaven's sake, get out of the rain! It's coming down like the fortyday flood. Come in, come in.
I'm Anne Goldman." She took his coat and hat; he held his attach6 case.
"I apologize for disturbing you." "Don't be foolish. Aaron told us all about that night in... The Hague.
You know, I've never been able to figure out where that place ly. Why would a city be called the anything?" "It's confusing." "I gather our son was very confused that night; which is a mother's way of saying he was plastered." She gestured toward a squared-off, double doorway so common to old New England houses. "Theo's on the telephone and trying to mix his stinger at the same time; it's making him frantic. He hates the telephone and loves his evening drink." Theodore Goldman was not much taller than his wife, but there was an expansiveness about him that made him appear much larger than he was. His intellect could not be concealed, so he took refuge in humor, putting guests -and, no doubt, associates-at ease.
They sat in three leather armchairs that faced the fire, the Goldmans with their stingers, Bray drinking Scotch. The rain outside was heavy, drumming on the windows. The recapping of their son's escapade in The Hague was over quickly, Scofield dismissing it as a minor night out on the town.
"With major consequences, I suspect," said Goldman, "if an unknown intelligence officer hadn't been in the vicinity." "Your son's a good pilot." "He'd better be; he's not much of a drinker." Goldman sat back in his chair. "But now, since we've met this unknown gentleman who's been kind enough to give us his name,