wife's death, he was viciously so afterwards." "I'm still riot sure I understand." "Try, Mr. Congdon," said Winthrop. "Twenty-two years ago I ran across a government major at Harvard University. A young man with a talent for languages and a certain authority about him that indicated a bright future.
He was recruited through my office, sent to the Maxwell School in Syracuse, then brought to Washington to become part of Consular Operations. It was a fine beginning for a possibly brilliant career in the State Department." Winthrop paused, his eyes straying as if lost in a personal reverie. "I never expected him to stay in Cons Op; strangely enough I thought of it as a springboard for him. To the diplomatic corps, to the ambassadorial level, perhaps. His gifts cried out to be used at international conference tables.
"But something happened," continued the statesman, glancing absently back at the new director. "As Cons Op was changing, so was Brandon Scofield. The more vital those highly specialized defections were considered, the quicker the violence escalated. On both sides. Very early, Scofield requested commando training; he spent five months in Central America going through the most rigorous survival techniques-offensive and defensive. He mastered scores of codes and ciphers; he was as proficient as any cryptographer in NSA. Then he returned to Europe and became the expert." "He understood the requirements of his work," said Congdon, impressed.
"Very commendable, I'd say." "Oh yes, very," agreed Winthrop. "Because, you see, it had happened: he'd reached his plateau. There was no turning back, no changing. He could never be accepted around a conference table; his presence would be rejected in the strongest diplomatic terms because his reputation was established. The bright young government major I'd recruited for the State Department was now a killer. No matter the justification, he was a professional killer." Congdon shifted his position in the chair. "Many would say he was a soldier in the field, the battleground extensive, dangerous... never ending. He had to survive, Mr. Winthrop." "He had to and he did," concurred the old gentleman. "Scofield was able to change, to adapt to the new rules. But I wasn't. When his wife was killed, I knew I didn't belong. I saw what I had done: taken a gifted student for one purpose and seen that purpose warped. Just as the benign concept of Consular Operations had been warped-by circumstances that warranted those changes we spoke of. I had to face my own limitations.
I couldn't continue any longer." "But you did ask to be kept informed of Scofield's activities for several years. That's in the file, sir. May I ask why?" Winthrop frowned, as if wondering himself. "I'm not sure. An understandable interest in him-even fascination, I suppose. Or punishment, perhaps; that's not out of the question. Sometimes the reports would stay in my safe for days before I read them. And, of course, after Prague I no longer wanted them sent to me. I'm sure that's in the file." "Yes, it is. By Prague, I assume you refer to the courier incident." "Yes," answered Winthrop softly. "'Incident' is such an impersonal word, isn't it? It fit the Scofield in that report. The professional killer, motivated by the need to survive -as a soldier survives, turned into a cold-blooded killer, driven solely by vengeance. The change was complete." Again the new director of Cons Op shifted his position, crossing his legs uncomfortably. "It was established that the courier in Prague was the brother of the KGB agent who ordered the death of Scofield's wife." "He was the brother, not the man who issued that order. He was a youngster, no more than a low-level messenger." "He might have become something else." "Then where does it end?" "I can't answer that. But I can understand Scofield's doing what he did.
I'm not sure I wouldn't have done the same." "With no sense of righteousness," said the aging statesman. "I'm not sure I would have. Nor am I convinced that young man in Cambridge twenty-two years ago would have done so. Am I getting through to you, as is so often asked these days?" "Painfully, sir. But in my defense-and in defense of the current Scofield-we didn't create the world we operate in. I think that's a fair thing to say." "Painfully fair, Mr. Congdon. But you perpetuate it." Winthrop wheeled his chair to his desk and reached for a box of cigars. He offered the box to the director, who shook his head. "I