to the Soviets; they were delivering names." "Is Scofield 'beyond salvage? That's the correct phrase, isn't it?" "If you mean do I think he's sold out, of course not. It's the last thing he'd do. I really came here to learn more about him, I'm sincere about that. How is he going to react when I tell him he's terminated?" Winthrop paused, his relief conveyed, then frowned again. "I don't know because I don't know the current Scofield. It's drastic; what's he going to do? Isn't there a halfway measure?" "If I thought there was one acceptable to us both, I'd leap at it." "If I were you I'd try to find one." "It can't be on the premises," said Congdon firmly. "I'm convinced of that." "Then may I suggest somethingT' "Please do." "Send him as far away as you can. Someplace where he'll find a peaceful oblivion. Suggest it yourself; he'll understand." "He will?" "Yes. Bray doesn't fool himself, at least he never did. It was one of his finer gifts. He'll understand because I think I do. I think you've described a dying man." "There's no medical evidence to support that." "Oh, for God's sake," said Robert Winthrop.
Scofield turned off the television set. He had not seen an American news broadcast in several years-since he was last brought back for an interoperations briefing-and he was not sure he wanted to see one again for the next several years. It wasn't that he thought all news should be delivered in the ponderous tones of a funeral, but the giggles and leers that accompanied descriptions of fire and rape struck him as intolerable.
He looked at his watch; it was twenty past seven. He knew it because his watch read twenty past midnight; he was still on Amsterdam time. ffis appointment at the State Department was for eight o'clock.
P.m. That was standard for specialists of his rank, but what was not standard was the State Department location itself. Attach6s-at-large for Consular Operations invariably held strategy conferences in safe-houses, usually in the Maryland countryside, or perhaps in hotel suites in down- town Washington.
Never at the State Department. Not for specialists expected to return to the field. But then Bray knew he was not scheduled to return to the field. He had been brought back for only one purpose. Termination.
Twenty-two years and he was out. An infinitesimal speck of time into which was compressed everything he knew-everything learned, absorbed and taught. He kept waiting for his own reaction, but there was none. It was as though he were a spectator, watching the images of someone else on a white wall, the inevitable conclusion drawing near, but not drawing him into the events as they took place. He was only mildly curious. How would it be done?
The walls of Undersecretary of State Daniel Congdons office were white.
There was a certain comfort in that, thought Scofield, as he half-listened to Congdon's droning narrative. He could see the images.
Face after face, dozens of them, coming into focus and fading rapidly.
Faces of people remembered and unremembered, staring, thinking, weeping, laughing, dying... death.
His wife. Five o'clock in the afternoon. Unter den Linden.
Men and women running, stopping. In sunlight, in shadows.
But where was he? He was not there.
He was a spectator.
Then suddenly he wasn't. He could not be sure he heard the words correctly. What had this coldly efficient undersecretary said? Bern, Switzerland?
"I beg your pardon?" "The funds will be deposited in your name, proportionate allocations made annually." "In addition to whatever pension I'm entitled to?" "Yes, Mr. Scofield. And regarding that, your service record's been predated. You'll get the maximum." "That's very generous." It was. Calculating rapidly, Bray estimated that his income would be over $50,000 a year.
"Merely practical. These funds are to take the place of any profits you might realize from the sale of books or articles based on your activities in Consular Operations." "I see," said Bray slowly. "nere's been a lot of that recently, hasn't there? Marchetti, Agee, Snepp." "Exactly." Scofield could not help himself; the bastards never learned. "Are you saying that if you'd banked funds for them they wouldn't have written what they did?" "Motives vary, but we don't rule out the possibility." "Rule it out," said Bray curtly. "I know two of those men." "Are you rejecting the money?" "Hell, no. I'll take it. When I decide to write a book, you'll be the first to know." "I wouldn't advise it, Mr. Scofield. Such breaches of security are prohibited. You'd be