am right. He agrees, but will never acknowledge it; he cannot afford to. He simply wonders whether it is he or the American President who will be in the gunsight." "I understand." "Leave me now," said the dying Krupskaya. "Do what you must do, Taleniekov. I have no more breath. Reach Beowulf Agate, find the Matarese. It must be stopped. The Corsican fever can spread no further." "The Corsican fever?... In Corsica?" "The answer may be there. It is the only place to starL Names. The first council! Many years ago."
A coronary inefficiency had made it necessary for Robert Winthrop to use a wheelchair, but in no way did it impair the alertness of his mind, nor did he dwell on the infirmity. He had spent his life in the service of his government; there was never any lack of problems he considered more important than himself.
Guests at his Georgetown home soon forgot the wheelchair. The slender figure with the graceful gestures and the intensely interested face reminded them of the man he was: an energetic aristocrat who had used his private fortune to free himself from the marketplace and pursue a life of public advocacy. Instead of an infirm elder statesman with thinning gray hair and the still perfectly clipped moustache, one thought of Yalta and Potsdam and an aggressive younger man from the State Department for- ever leaning over Roosevelt's chair or Truman's shoulder to clarify this point or suggest that objection.
There were many in Washington-and in London and Moscow as well-who thought the world would be a better place had Robert Winthrop been made Secretary of State by Eisenhower, but the political winds had shifted and he was not a feasible choice. And later, Winthrop could not be considered; he had become involved in another area of government that required his full concentration. He had been quietly retained as Senior Consultant, Diplomatic Relations, Department of State.
Twenty-six years ago Robert Winthrop had organized a select division within State called Consular Operations. And after sixteen years of commitment he had resignedsome said because he was appalled at what his creation had become, while others claimed he was only too aware of the necessary directions it had taken, but could not bring himself to make certain decisions. Nevertheless, during the ten years since his departure, he had been consistently sought out for advice and counsel.
As he was tonight.
Consular Operations had a new director. A career intelligence officer named Daniel Congdon had been shifted from a ranking position at the National Security Agency to the clandestine chair at State. He had replaced Winthrop's successor and was finely attuned to the harsh de- cisions required by Cons Op. But he was new; he had questions. He also had a problem with a man named Scofield and was not sure how to handle it. He knew only that he wanted Brandon Alan Scofield terminated, removed from the State Department for good. His actions in Amsterdam could not be tolerated; they revealed a dangerous and unstable man. How much more dangerous would he be removed from the controls of Consular Operations?
It was a serious question; the man with the code name, Beowulf Agate knew more about the State Department's clandestine networks than any other man alive. And since Scofield had initially been brought to Washington years ago by Ambassador Robert Winthrop, Congdon went to the source.
Winthrop had readily agreed to make himself available to Congdon but not in an impersonal office or an operations room. Over the years, the Ambassador had learned that men involved with covert operations too instinctively reflected their surroundings. Short, cryptic sentences took the place of freer, rambling conversations wherein a great deal more could be revealed and learned. Therefore, he had invited the new director over for dinner.
The meal was finished, nothing of substance discussed. Congdon understood: the Ambassador was probing the surface before delving deeper.
But now the moment had come.
"Let's go into the library, shall we?" said Winthrop wheeling himself away from the table.
Once inside the book-lined room, the Ambassador wasted no time. "So you want to talk about Brandon." "Very much so," replied the new director of Cons Op.
"How do we thank such men for what they've done?" asked Winthrop. "For what they've lost? The field extracts a terrible price." "They wouldn't be there if they didn't want to be," said Congdon. "If, for some reason, they didn't need it. But once having been out there and survived, there's another question. What do we do with them?