The President plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his suit jacket and strolled through the French doors into the garden. There was the distant murmur of traffic and, curiously, the first unmistakable scent of spring in the air. Kennedy tramped off into the darkness, lost in thought as he tried to come to terms with the first political disaster of his life.

7.

WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY, MAY 5, 1961.

BOBBY KENNEDY, HIS SHIRTSLEEVES ROLLED UP, A LAMINATED SECURITY pa.s.s flapping on the outside of his breast pocket, was picking Leo's brain in the war room on the ground floor of Quarters Eye. The giant maps of Cuba and the overlays with tactical information had been removed. Enlarged U-2 reconnaissance photos of the beaches on the Bay of Pigs taken after the debacle were tacked to the walls in their place. They showed shattered tanks and trucks and Jeeps half-buried in drifts of sand, the wreckage of several LCUs awash in the surf off sh.o.r.e and an enormous Cuban flag streaming from the neon sign atop Blanco's Bar. Bobby had spent most of the last ten days at the CIA, trying to read into the culture. Jack Kennedy had abandoned the idea of having his brother run the Company, but he had decided it would be prudent if an emissary from the Kennedy clan took a closer look at its inner workings.

"My own feeling," Leo was saying, "is that we're in a Catch-22 situation. If we reach out for more opinions, what we gain in expertise we lose on security. When too many people know about an operation you can be certain it will leak."

"If you'd brought more people in on the Bay of Pigs, could the disaster have been avoided?" Kennedy wanted to know.

Leo shook his head. "Look, can I speak frankly?"

Kennedy nodded. "If you don't we're both in trouble."

Leo scratched behind an ear. "The big problem wasn't a lack of expertise-we had plenty of that even though we limited access drastically. There was dissent expressed, and vigorously, in this room. The big problem was that the President, having inherited an Eisenhower operation that he was then reluctant to cancel, was half-hearted. d.i.c.k Bissell, on the other hand was one-and-a-half hearted. The nature of the beast was that there would have to be compromises if the two visions were to be compatible. Compromises killed the operation, Mr. Attorney General. Moving the landings from Trinidad was a compromise. Using those old surplus B-26s was a compromise. Cutting back on the first air strike was a compromise. Cancelling the second air strike was a tragic compromise. I think I understand why the President was tailoring the operation; as the commander-in-chief, he's obliged to take a global view of the Cold War. If he committed American planes or ships in Cuba, Khrushchev might move against Berlin. Our problem here was that, at some point, someone should have bitten the bullet and said we've made one compromise too many. The risk-benefit scale has tipped in favor of the risks. The whole thing ought to be cancelled."

Bobby fixed his ice blue gaze on Leo; he thought he had tapped into the Company culture at last. "What stopped you?"

Leo considered the question. "There are two mentalities cohabiting under one roof here. There are those who think we've been put on earth to steal the other side's secrets and then a.n.a.lyze the secrets we steal. Implicit in this mindset is the belief that you can discover the enemy's intentions by a.n.a.lyzing his capabilities. Why would Hitler ma.s.s barges on the English Channel if he didn't intend to invade England? Why would the Chinese ma.s.s troops on the Yalu if they didn't plan to attack the Americans in North Korea? That sort of thing. Then there are others who want this organization to impact events, as opposed to predict them-rig elections, sap morale, promote rebellions, bribe officials in high places to throw monkey wrenches into the works, eventually eliminate political figures who frustrate us. The people holding this second view ran the show during the Bay of Pigs. Once the cards were dealt, once they drew a halfway interesting hand, they weren't about to fold."

"And which side do you belong to?"

Leo smiled. He had heard scuttleb.u.t.t that Bobby, during his ten-day short course, had become intrigued with clandestine operations; with the gadgets and the dead drops and the safe houses. "I have a foot in each camp," he finally told the Attorney General.

"Playing it safe?"

"Playing it smart. Why fight the Cold War with one hand tied behind your back?"

Bobbys eyebrows arched. "You've given me food for thought, Kritzty." He looked at the wall clock, then got to his feet and strolled across the hall to j0in several staffers who were watching a television set with the sound turned down low. Earlier in the day. Commander Alan Shepard had blasted off from Cape Canaveral in a Mercury capsule to become the first American in s.p.a.ce; a.s.suming that Shepard was recovered alive, the United crates-the Kennedy administration-could take credit for catching up with the Russians in the s.p.a.ce race. On the TV screen Walter Cronkite was reporting that Shepard had reached the apogee of the flight, a hundred and sixteen miles up. A wire ticker next to the television set was spitting out a long roll of paper. Bobby absently let it slip through his fingers, then, intrigued, leaned over the machine to read the text. The plain language message had been routed, using a secure intra-Company channel, from the communications center in another building on the Reflecting Pool, where the original cable had been deciphered.

TOP SECRETWARNING NOTICE: SENSITIVE COMPARTMENTED INFORMATION Intelligence sources and methods involvedFROM: Mexico City StationTo: Kermit CoffinSUBJECT: Rumors from Castro-land1. Mexico City station has gotten wind of rumors circulating in left-wing circles in Latin America that Castro might be willing to trade prisoners captured at Bay of Pigs for $50 million, repeat, $50 million, worth of food and medicine.2. Cuban cultural attache here overheard on tapped phone line telling Cuban wife of left-wing publisher that deal could be negotiated with private humanitarian groups if this arrangement more palatable to Kennedy administration.

Excited by this nugget of intelligence, Bobby ripped the communique off the ticker and started toward the door.

Harvey Torriti, just back from one of his two-martini coffee breaks and in a foul mood, noticed the Attorney General heading for the exit with the top secret message in his hand. He planted his body in the doorway. "Hey, where you going with that?" he demanded.

Bobby, his eyes smoldering, stared at the obese man blocking the exit. "Who the f.u.c.k do you think you're talking to?"

The Sorcerer's jowls sagged into a sneer. "I'm talking to you, sport. Newspapers say you're the second most powerful man in the District of Columbia, which may or may not be true. Whichever, you're not getting out of here carrying paperwork crawling with Company indicators and operational codes. No f.u.c.king way, pal."

"I don't like your tone, Torriti-"

The Sorcerer duck-swaggered closer to Bobby, grabbed his wrist with one hand and pulled the message free with the other. Around the war room everybody froze in their tracks, mesmerized by the dispute. Leo came rushing across the floor. "Harvey, you're overreacting-the Attorney General knows the rules-"

"You and your brother f.u.c.ked up," Torriti snapped at Bobby. "The Bay of Pigs was your fault. The Cuban freedom fighters are rotting in Castro's prisons because of you."

Bobby's face had turned livid. "You're out," he snarled. He turned on Leo. "I want him out of this building, out of this city, out of the country."

"f.u.c.k you," the Sorcerer shot back. He waved five fat fingers in Bobby's direction as if he were trying to flag down a taxi. "f.u.c.k him," he told the staffers in the war room. He belched into his fist. Then, with his flanks sc.r.a.ping the sides of the jambs, he pushed through the doorway and lumbered off down the corridor.

"You ought to have seen it," Jack whispered to Millie. "It was like Moses catching a glimpse of the Promised Land he would never live in. Everyone understands Dulles's head has to be lopped off. All the same a lot of us felt bad for him."

Scabs had formed over the shrapnel wounds on Jack's thigh. Millie ran her fingers lightly over them in the darkness of the bedroom, then fitted herself against his lanky body. "I haven't slept through the night once since you're back," she whispered in his ear. "I keep waking up and checking to make sure you're actually here, and not a figment of my imagination."

Jack held her tightly. "I wasn't a figment of your imagination tonight, was I?"

She ran the tip of her tongue along the inside of his ear. "I love it when you're inside me, Jack. I wish you'd stay there forever."

"I want it to last forever. o.r.g.a.s.ms are the enemy. They remind me of the writing that flashes onto the screen when the movie's over."

"We can always start again."

"You can always start again. Mere mortals like me need to rest up for a few hours."

"There are things I can do to bring you to a boil sooner."

"Like what?"

Millie could feel him getting hard. "Like talking about the things I can do to bring you to a boil."

They laughed softly into each other's necks. Over the intercom Jack had strung between bedrooms they could hear Anthony tossing in his sleep. Millie said, "You started to describe Dulles."

"He put on a good show. He was the perfect gentleman. You'd never have known that he was about to be replaced by some rich Catholic shipbuilder friend of JFK's. He took Kennedy around the new digs, pointing things out with the stem of his pipe-"

"What's it like out at Langley?"

"Very modern, very elaborate. After all these years on c.o.c.kroach Alley we'll be able to spread our wings. Every division's going to have its own suite. Soviet Russia's on the fourth and fifth floors. Your office will be one flight down from the topsiders on the seventh floor." Jack snickered. "They like to keep the public relations folks close by."

"We're their security blanket," Millie said.

"Yeah. Although I don't know why. All you ever say on the record is "No comment."

"It's the way we say it, Jack."

"Langley's going to be easier to work in," he went on. "The DCI suite has several waiting rooms so that visitors won't run in to each other. You can send doc.u.ments from one office to another through pneumatic tubes. They've set up a parallel phone system so we'll all have numbers with a State or Defense exchange-calls to these numbers will come in on an outside line, bypa.s.sing the regular Company switchboard; they'll be answered by operators pretending to be secretaries in other government offices." Jack mimicked a secretary. "I'm terribly sorry but Mr. McAuliffe is away from his desk. But I'd be glad to take a message?"

Millie listened to Jack's breathing for awhile; it occurred to her that this was the most rea.s.suring sound she had ever heard in her life. "That was a great homecoming barbecue this afternoon," she said. "It was really sweet of Adelle to go to all that trouble."

'Leo and I go back a long way," Jack said drowsily. "Leo and Ebby and you-this Bay of Pigs business really brought you closer together, didn't it?"

'We see eye to eye on a lot of things. Some people are starting to call us the 'Three Musketeers' because we hang out together so much. We work together. We break for lunch together. We party together weekends."

Jack was silent for a moment. "I like Ebby an awful lot-he's the best the Company has, the cream of our generation. He can wade into the thick of the action, like he did in Budapest, or he can hang back and think things out for himself. He's not afraid to speak his mind. He was the perfect choice to take over the Soviet Russia Division. Something tells me he's going to go a long way..."

"What did Adelle's father mean when he told you and Leo that he'd heard it from the horses mouth? And what did he hear?"

"Phil Swett gets invited to the White House pretty regularly. He said that all the Kennedy brothers could talk about at a lunch last week was Vietnam. Adelle picked up the same thing in the Vice President's office. Lyndon Johnson has her working up a position paper on Vietnam."

"What's going on in Vietnam, Jack?"

"So far, not much. There's a Communist insurgency but it's back burner stuff. After what happened in Cuba, Kennedy apparently feels he needs to convince Khrushchev he can be tough. Tough and unpredictable at the same time. And Vietnam is going to be the showcase. The Company is beefing up its station there. JFK's going to send over a few hundred Green Berets to help train the anti-Communist forces."

"He'd better be careful not to get sucked in. I don't think the American people will support a war in Asia."

"Vietnam's too far away." Jack yawned into a pillow. "n.o.body will notice."

The two newcomers and the two who had been living at the mansion for half a year were squatting in a circle on the parquet floor, playing jacks. None of the four wore a st.i.tch of clothing. "I am up to five-zees," announced the bony girl whose long golden tresses plunged halfway down her naked back. She tossed the small ball into the air, deftly scooped up the six-pointed pieces and s.n.a.t.c.hed the ball out of the air an instant before it bounced.

"You throw the ball so very high," one of the new girls complained, its no wonder you manage to win all the time."

"There is no regulation about how high one can throw it," the golden-haired girl maintained.

"There is," insisted another.

"Is not."

"Is."

"Do come over. Uncle, and decide which of us is correct," called the girl with the golden hair.

"Too busy right now, girlies," Starik muttered from across the room.

"Oh, pooh," fumed the new girl. "If you don't set things straight she'll only go on winning."

At the worktable, Starik sipped scalding tea through a sugar cube wedged between his teeth as he reread the text of the latest code from SASHA. One of his newcomers, a scrawny thing who walked with her toes turned out like a ballet dancer's, came across the room and draped herself over Starik's shoulders. "What an awfully pretty book you have there, Uncle," she murmured into his ear.

"It is called a world atlas," he instructed her; he prided himself on the fact that his nieces, when they left him, were more educated than the day they arrived.

"And what in the world is an atlas?" inquired the girl, slipping a thin hand over his shoulder and down under the front of his rough peasant shirt.

"The atlas is the world. Look here-on every page there are maps of all the different countries."

"Are there enough countries in the world to fill a book, then?"

"More than enough, dearie."

"And what country is on the page open before you. Uncle?"

"Why, it is called Vietnam."

The girl giggled into his ear. "I have never heard anyone speak of a country with the name of Vietnam."

"Rest a.s.sured, you will," Starik said.

The Sorcerer's tour as Chief of Station, Rome, began on a mortifying note when he dozed off during his first round-table with the American amba.s.sador. The emba.s.sy's political officer, a myopic John Hopkins Ph.D. with the unfortunate habit of sniffling whenever he came to the end of a sentence, was droning on about the latest nuance in the speeches of the Italian Communist Party chief, Palmiro Togliatti; according to the political attache, Togliatti had started down the slippery slope of independence from Big Brother in the Kremlin, and this breach between the Italian and Soviet Communists ought to be encouraged and exploited. The political officer was midway through the presentation when the Sorcerer's head nodded onto his chest and he slumped to one side in the seat. His checkered sports jacket flapped open, the pearl-handled revolver slipped out of the shoulder holster and clattered to the floor.

"Are we keeping you up?" the amba.s.sador inquired as the Sorcerer jerked awake.

"I'm resting my eyes but not my brain," Torriti shot back, leaning over to retrieve the hand gun. "I was hanging on his every word."

"How much more convincing you would be if you could manage to hang on his every word with your eyes open," the amba.s.sador remarked dryly.

"Why Rome?" the amba.s.sador cabled back to Foggy Bottom in Washington when, a few days later, Torriti turned up drunk at an emba.s.sy reception for the Italian foreign minister. "There are dozens of emba.s.sies around the world where he could be hidden away from Bobby Kennedy."

The Sorcerer, for his part, had been dragged into exile kicking and complaining. "Torriti, the patriot, is deported to Italy while the Cosa Nostra p.r.i.c.ks, Rosselli and Giancana, get to live in America," he had muttered into the microphone at the discreet farewell party the outgoing DD/0, d.i.c.k Bissell, organized for him in the executive dining room on the eve of his departure for Rome. There had been a ripple of laughter from the handful of people who knew what Torriti was talking about. Angleton, thinner and darker and more brooding than anyone remembered, had emerged from the polar-darkness of his counterintelligence shop to give a going-away present to the man everyone knew he detested. It was a leather holster he had personally handcrafted for Torriti s'.38 Detective Special.

"Jesus, James, I don't know what to say," sputtered the Sorcerer, for once at a loss for words.

"It's not Jesus James," Angleton, scowling, corrected him. "It's James Jesus." Torriti had peered at James Jesus Angleton to see if the counterintelligence chief had stepped out of character to make a joke. It was obvious from the cantankerous expression on his face that this was not the case. "Sorry, sorry," the Sorcerer had said, nodding obsequiously as he fitted his ankle gun into the holster. "James Jesus. Right."

In Rome, the Sorcerer made a stab at actually running the Station for several months but the situation gradually deteriorated. A colonel in the carabinieri took him on a tour of the Yugoslav frontier only to discover Torriti snoring away in the back seat of the Fiat. There were all-night binges that were hushed up, a fling with an Italian actress that found its way into the gossip columns of several Roman newspapers, a very public clash with the amba.s.sador that wound up on the desk of the Secretary of State. There were two minor traffic accidents, one involving an emba.s.sy car, the second involving an automobile that a used car dealer swore had been stolen and Torriti claimed to have bought, though he was unable to put his hand on the receipt for the cash payment he claimed to have made. The matter was hushed up when some unvouchered Company funds changed hands. By the time July rolled around, the Sorcerer had taken to flying off for sentimental weekend visits to Berlin. Accompanied by one or two old hands who had served under him when he was the head of Berlin Base, he'd make the rounds of the bars where his name was still a legend, then wander through the shadowy side streets near Checkpoint Charlie to get a whiff of the action, as he put it. On one memorable occasion he drank whiskey at a pub in the British Sector and had to be forcibly restrained from strolling into the Soviet zone for a chaser. At two in the morning one Sunday during the second week of August, he trudged with his old Mossad pal, Ezra Ben Ezra, to the roof of an apartment building to watch as Soviet tanks wheeled into position and East German troops strung barbed wire blocking the frontier between the two Germanies. Behind the tanks and troops came an armada of bulldozers, their headlights tunneling through the dust and darkness as they cleared a broad no-man's land that would later be mined. "This rates a nine on my Richter scale," the Rabbi told his old friend. "My sources tell me this is Khrushchev's answer to the Bay of Pigs-they are going to build a Great Wall of China across Germany, sealing off the Communist zone from the free world." The Sorcerer pulled a hip flask from a pocket and offered the Rabbi a swig. Ben Ezra waved away the alcohol. "There is nothing here to celebrate," he said mournfully. "It will be next to impossible to get Jews out now."

Returning to Rome that night, Torriti found a bottle of cheap whiskey and two kitchen tumblers set out on his desk and Jack McAuliffe stretched out on the couch waiting for him. A table lamp in a corner etched shadows onto the cafe-au-lait walls as the two sat drinking and reminiscing into the early hours of Monday morning. The Sorcerer, his eyes puffy, pulled out his pearl-handled revolver, spun the cylinder and set the weapon on his knees, with the barrel pointing directly at Jack's stomach. "I wasn't born yesterday, sport," he grumbled. "You weren't sent all this way to chew the fat. What aren't you saying to me?"

"What I'm not saying, Harvey, is you're an embarra.s.sment to the Company."

Who says so?"

"The American amba.s.sador to Rome says so. The new DD/0, d.i.c.k Helms, agrees with him. The new DCI, John McCone, also."