The Matarese Circle (9 page)

“I’m not sure you’ll find such a person. Brandon.…” The elder statesman paused briefly and smiled. “Incidentally, he’s called Bray, for reasons I’ve never understood. It’s the last thing he does. Bray, I mean.”

“That’s one of the things I’ve learned,” interrupted the director, returning Winthrop’s smile as he sat down in a leather armchair. “When he was a child he had a younger sister who couldn’t say Brandon; she called him Bray. The name just stuck with him.”

“That must have been added to his file after I left. Indeed, I imagine a great deal has been added to that file. But as for his friends, or lack of them. He’s simply a private person, quite a bit more so since his wife died.”

Congdon spoke quietly. “She was killed, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, she was killed in East Berlin ten years ago next month. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“And ten years ago next month you resigned the directorship of Consular Operations. The highly specialized unit you built.”

Winthrop turned, his eyes leveled at the new director. “What I conceived and what finally emerged were two quite different entities. Consular Operations was designed
as a humanitarian instrument, to facilitate the defection of thousands from a political system they found intolerable. As time went on—and circumstances seemed to warrant—the objectives were narrowed. The thousands became hundreds—and as other voices were heard, the hundreds were reduced to dozens. We were no longer interested in the scores of men and women who daily appealed to us, but only in those select few whose talents and information were considered far more important than those of ordinary people. The unit concentrated on a handful of scientists and soldiers and intelligence specialists. As it does today. That’s not what we began with.”

“But as you pointed out, sir,” said Congdon, “the circumstances warranted the change.”

Winthrop nodded. “Don’t mistake me, I’m not naive. I dealt with the Russians at Yalta, Potsdam, Casablanca. I witnessed their brutality in Hungary in ’56, and I saw the horrors of Czechoslovakia and Greece. I think I know what the Soviets are capable of as well as any strategist in covert services. And for years I permitted those more aggressive voices to speak with authority. I understood the necessity. Did you think I didn’t?”

“Of course not. I simply meant.…” Congdon hesitated.

“You simply made a connection between the murder of Scofield’s wife and my resignation,” said the statesman kindly.

“Yes, sir, I did. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that the circumstances.…”

“ ‘Warranted a change,’ ” completed Winthrop. “That’s what happened, you know. I recruited Scofield; I’m sure that’s in his file. I suspect that’s why you’re here tonight.”

“Then the connection?…” Congdon’s words trailed off.

“Accurate. I felt responsible.”

“But surely there were other incidents, other men … and women.”

“Not the same, Mr. Congdon. Do you know why Scofield’s wife was selected to be the target that afternoon in East Berlin?”

“I assume it was a trap meant for Scofield himself. Only she showed up and he didn’t. It happens.”

“A trap meant for Scofield? In
East
Berlin?”

“He had contacts in the Soviet sector. He made frequent penetrations, set up his own cells. I imagine they wanted to
catch him with his contact sheets. Her body was searched, her purse taken. It’s not unusual.”

“Your assumption being that he’d use his wife in the operation?” asked Winthrop.

Congdon nodded. “Again, not unusual, sir.”

“Not unusual? I’m afraid in Scofield’s case it was impossible. She was part of his cover at the embassy, but never remotely connected to his covert activities. No, Mr. Congdon, you’re wrong. The Russians knew they could never spring a trap on Bray Scofield in East Berlin. He was too good, too efficient … too elusive. So they tricked his wife into crossing the checkpoint and killed her for another purpose.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“An enraged man is a careless man. That’s what the Soviets wanted to accomplish. But they, as you, misunderstood their subject. With his rage came a new determination to sting the enemy in every way he could. If he was brutally professional before his wife’s death, he was viciously so afterwards.”

“I’m still not 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 don’t like them, either, but ever since Jack Kennedy we’re all expected to keep our supply of Havanas. Do you disapprove?”

“No. As I recall, the Canadian supplier was one of President Kennedy’s more accurate sources of information about Cuba.”

“Have you been around that long?”

“I joined the National Security Agency when he was a senator.… Did you know that Scofield has recently begun to drink?”

“I know nothing about the current Scofield, as you called him.”

“His file indicates previous use of alcohol, but no evidence of excess.”

“I would think not; it would interfere with his work.”

“It may be interfering now.”

“
May
be? It either is or it isn’t. I don’t think that’s such a difficult thing to establish. If he’s drinking a great deal, that’s excess; it would have to interfere. I’m sorry to hear it, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Oh?” Congdon leaned forward in the chair. It was apparent
that he thought he was about to be given the information he was seeking. “When you knew him as well as you did, were there signs of potential instability?”

“None at all.”

“But you just said you weren’t surprised.”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t be surprised at any thinking man turning to alcohol after so many years of living so unnaturally. Scofield is—or was—a thinking man, and God knows he’s lived unnaturally. If I’m surprised, it’s only that it’s taken so long to reach him, affect him. What got him through the nights?”

“Men condition themselves. As you put it, he adapted. Extremely successfully.”

“But still unnaturally,” maintained Winthrop. “What are you going to do with him?”

“He’s being recalled. I want him out of the field.”

“Good. Give him a desk and an attractive secretary and have him analyze theoretical problems. Isn’t that the usual way?”

Congdon hesitated before replying. “Mr. Winthrop, I think I want him separated from the State Department.”

The creator of
Cons Op
arched his eyebrows. “Really? Twenty-two years is insufficient for an adequate pension.”

“That’s not a problem; generous settlements are made. It’s common practice these days.”

“Then what does he do with his life? What is he? Forty-five … six?”

“Forty-six.”

“Hardly ready for one of these, is he?” said the statesman, fingering the wheel of his chair. “May I ask why you’ve come to that conclusion?”

“I don’t want him around personnel involved with covert activities. According to our latest information, he’s displayed hostile reactions to basic policy. He could be a negative influence.”

Winthrop smiled. “Someone must have pulled a beaut. Bray never did have much patience with fools.”

“I said
basic
policy, sir. Personalities are not the issue.”

“Personalities, Mr. Congdon, unfortunately are
intrinsic
to basic policy. They form it. But that’s probably beside the point … at this point Why come to me? You’ve obviously made your decision. What can I add?”

“Your judgment. How will he take it? Can he be
trusted? He knows more about our operations, our contacts, our tactics, than any man in Europe.”

Winthrop’s eyes became suddenly cold. “And what is your alternative, Mr. Congdon?” he asked icily.

The new director flushed; he understood the implication. “Surveillance. Controls. Telephone and mail intercepts. I’m being honest with you.”

“Are you?” Winthrop now glared at the man in front of him. “Or are you looking for a word from me—or a question—that you can use for another solution?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. I’ve heard how it’s done, incidentally, and it appalls me. Word is sent to Prague, or Berlin, or Marseilles that a man’s no longer in sanction. He’s finished, out. But he’s restless, drinks a lot. Contacts’ names might be revealed by this man, whole networks exposed. In essence, the word spreads: your lives are threatened. So it’s agreed that another man, or perhaps two or three, get on planes from Prague or Berlin or Marseilles. They converge on Washington with but one objective: the silencing of that man who’s finished. Everyone’s more relaxed, and the American intelligence community—which has remained outside the
incident
—breathes easier. Yes, Mr. Congdon, it appalls me.”

The director of
Cons Op
remained motionless in the chair. His reply was delivered in a quiet monotone. “To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Winthrop, that solution has been exaggerated far out of proportion to its practice. Again, I’ll be completely honest with you. In fifteen years I’ve heard of it being exercised only twice, and in both … incidents … the agents out of sanction were beyond salvage. They had sold out 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.”