The First Team

3

Hewlitt sat in his office for the rest of the day waiting for a summons, but he received no messages of any kind. That in itself was highly unusual; normally his phone was reasonably busy and a day during which he was not called in for consultation was rare. Not that his opinions or judgments were that highly respected at thirty-two, but his language capability was. The questions usually revolved around what might be the implications and nuances of specific material which he had translated. Now the silence was disturbing.

When the normal working hours were over Hewlitt considered carefully whether he should remain overtime, as he had so often done. Zalinsky had told him to wait, but his manner of speaking had not implied that he would necessarily be wanted the same day. The decision was partly made for him when he noted that everyone else was going home. He solved the problem by arranging to be one of the last to leave. Just before going out he put a slip of paper on his desk with his home telephone number on it. It was on file, of course, but by doing that he at least indicated that he would be available if Zalinsky chose to summon him back. Satisfied that he had taken the best path, he went out through the gate and over to Frank’s cab, which was waiting for him in its usual spot. He climbed in, but refrained from saying anything until the vehicle was well out into the stream of traffic. He was still holding his peace when Frank asked over his shoulder, “How did it go?” “I honestly don’t know,” Hewlitt answered. “That’s the real truth.”

“ Did you see this guy, you know the one…?”

“Yes, I saw him — briefly.”

Frank abruptly changed the subject. “That was a twenty you gave me this morning. Make a mistake?”

“No. I wasn’t sure what might happen next and I thought that you might need it — that’s all.”

“That’s what I thought.” Frank turned his full attention to his driving and maneuvered his way proficiently, and illegally, out of a traffic bind. “The cops, they ain’t writing any tickets today,” he volunteered. “If you knock a guy down you might get one, otherwise most anything goes.”

“How is it working out?” Hewlitt asked.

“All right, I guess. Just as soon as we get more by ourselves, I’d like to talk to you a little.”

That called for another decision; Hewlitt weighed the odds and then, somewhat against his better judgment, committed himself. “Frank, I think you’d better be careful. You know how all of this happened; we let our defenses down. We talked a little too much, trusted too many of the wrong people. And they bugged us more than we ever dreamed that they could. They listened in on everything. This cab, for instance, it could be bugged right now.”

“Not likely,” Frank said.

“Of course not, but that’s what we thought about a lot of other things and we were caught dead asleep.”

Frank nodded, the back of his thick neck creasing and uncreas-ing. “I know what you mean, they had bugs in every can in town. Funny how when a guy goes to the john he figures that somehow he’s got more privacy. But did I ever tell you ’bout Davy Jones? Not the guy in the ocean, another one.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Davy’s a good friend of mine and he’s a genius with electronics, that man is. He built himself a little box with a light on it and some batteries inside. He keeps it in his car. Anytime any cop shines a radar signal at him, that little red light goes on — just like that.”

As he stopped to untangle another traffic problem Hewlitt carefully refrained from telling him that radar detectors were not new, there would be no point in it. When they were again free of the congestion Frank went on.

“Yesterday I went to see Davy to find out if he had any more news. He’s got radio equipment that he built himself and he can talk all over the world. He’s got his little place next to the garage where I do my work. I had this hack in, tunin’ her up just in case we might be going down to the mountains like I suggested. After I talked to Davy he came out and while I had the car up on the rack he went over it. He knows I carry you every day and how you work in the White House. When he got through he said that the cab was O.K. — no bugs. It was locked in the garage last night and I been in it ever since.”

That was evidence of a sort, despite the fact that Hewlitt had never heard of Davy Jones before and wasn’t inclined to trust him too much. When it was added to the fact that Frank’s cab would have a very low-priority interest to the enemy it resulted in a reasonably safe conclusion that the vehicle had not been tapped. The big remaining caution now was Frank. Hewlitt had known the man

I or years, but that did not constitute a security clearance. Far from

II — and that too had been vividly brought home. The United States had not been defeated as much as it had been betrayed.

“What happened today?” Hewlitt asked. “Did you see anything or pick up any news?”

Frank nodded again. “All day long, the planes they been coming in. Big turboprops, freighters, even some supersonic stuff — all from the other side. At National, Dulles, Andrews, all over the place. They had it all planned out; I took an air controller home and he told me they had it so well organized he could have stayed in bed. Most regular air traffic was cut off except for a few flights. It was all their stuff, full of men, troops, a lot of equipment. We just let them come in, but I guess there ain’t much we can do about it now.”

That made Hewlitt flush, and it took him a few seconds to recover his composure. “Not right now, anyway. Anything else?”

“Lots of stuff on the radio. All about the same, telling us to keep on with our regular jobs for a while, not to do anything out of the ordinary, and to remember that if we get in the way, or try anything, we’ll be ‘dealt with.’ Maybe I can pick it up now if you want to hear it.” He leaned over to turn on the set.

“Not now,” Hewlitt said. “I’d rather talk to you. How threatening were they?”

“Mighty damn threatening, take it from me. There was nothing polite about it — get out of line and right now you get shot — that was about the size of it. Listen to that fifty times over and you begin to believe it. It’s been on TV too, I hear. I can see it, the people are runnin’ scared.”

“I can’t blame them too much.”

Frank lifted his shoulders as he had in the morning and let them fall. “I’m no hero, but I was in the Marines once.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Nothin’ to talk about. But I still hate to see us just lie down and play dead. You’d think that somebody’d do somethin’.”

“It’s pretty early in the game,” Hewlitt said carefully.

Frank pulled up to the curb in front of Hewlitt’s place. No one was visibly within earshot. “Sure, but that’s a good time to score some points if you can, ain’t it?” he asked. Then he changed his tone. “Never mind about the fare, you’ve got a lot in the bank yet.”

For a long time after he had let himself into his apartment Hewlitt sat in the gathering darkness. He had a little more data to go on now, but there was nothing even approaching a clear picture in his mind. He had tried to think before; now in surroundings which were more personally his own he tried again, with strengthened determination.

First he had the uncomfortable knowledge that he had been named at the briefing and had been told to hold himself in readiness. Since he was only one of the many on the White House staff, he accepted the conclusion that it was his language capability which had made him stand out. He remembered Frank’s statement that there had been a heavy influx of aircraft bearing troops and other personnel. He could talk to them, give them instructions if need be, read their communications. All this might make him useful as an errand boy. His nature rebelled against that kind of an assignment, but his good sense told him that it would be far better to survive in such a capacity than to accept a possibly severe alternative. He did not draw the alternative out of the shadows, he simply acknowledged to himself that it would be totally unacceptable and left it at that.

There was one possible advantage to such a position — he would to some degree at least know what was going on and if Bob Landers got something started, his position could be a useful one. He did not expect Landers to work any miracles, but he was a highly resourceful man. If there were enough more like him, and if they did have resources hidden away, there was always the possibility that something could be done.

He was interrupted when a newspaper was shoved under his door. It was thin and, Hewlitt decided, frightened. Probably the editors should have been praised for getting out anything at all; it was hardly a time to be taking a position on public issues, or even to be distributing factual information which the new masters of the country would prefer not to have broadcast. The front page was a curious mixture of “safe” news items and an obvious, massive restraint. Traffic accidents received a half column. The weather report was expanded to several times its normal size. One cautious, careful item did state that a steady inflow of air traffic “from overseas” had been landing at the principal Washington airports. But there was no indication whatever of the pay loads that had been carried.

Quickly Hewlitt leafed through the paper to check on certain specific things. The editorial page was missing entirely and there was no reference to its absence. The sports page was relatively normal; some big-league games had been played and the scores and team standings were reported as always.

The financial section had been reduced to a half page with the remainder of the space occupied by contract ads which had been booked some time ago. The lead item announced, in cautiously controlled language, that the directors of the New York and American stock exchanges had decided to close their floors for an indefinite period. Almost as a gesture of defiance the final prices of a selected few stocks were given; General Motors headed the list at 18 %.

The rest of the financial news was skimpy and had an aura of the unreal. A few belated reports of earnings during the last quarter were published dutifully in the usual place. The only other major item was a fairly lengthy follow-up story on the collapse of Polar Aircraft from a high of 167 toward a bottom which had not been found. When trading had stopped it had stood at 22 and there had been no buyers. In an insert box it was reported that Seymour Brown, the industrialist who controlled Polar, was still in Washington where he had been summoned to testify before the military preparedness subcommittee. The hearings were not now expected to take place.

From what Hewlitt knew, that was just as well. It would have probably ended up as a far juicier and more revealing fracas than the Bobby Baker scandal had been. Now Brown would get off, as he would have anyway.

Boxed prominently on page three was the official statement that had been on the radio throughout the day. It was harsh, unyielding, and totally specific. In essence it said, “Do what you’re told and nothing else. Stay in line or take the consequences.” The type was strong and bold, a hard border set it off. But, Hewlitt noted, it was on page three. It belonged on page one. Perhaps that was a little bit of defiance on the part of the editor too; he had run it, he had run it prominently, but the front page of his paper was his to control and no one else’s.

By the time he had finished reading, Hewlitt was beginning to feel hunger. He had no real desire for any of the things he had stocked on his shelves or in his refrigerator; he wanted to go out, to have at least that much freedom of movement while he could enjoy it. A steak, he decided, would be inappropriate; he didn’t want one. Then he remembered a small Chinese place where he ate occasionally. It was only four blocks away and he decided to walk.

When he pushed open the door the restaurant was still relatively empty, as he had hoped it would be. He could not remember ever having been there when the place had been even moderately full. How it managed to stay open he did not know, unless it was the late hours and the many bowls of noodles that it served long after other cafes were dark and still. He chose a booth where he liked to sit simply because of the framed needle painting that decorated it. Something about the scene and the colors used touched him; he always felt better when he could sit and look at it.

When a waiter shuffled up with a pot of tea and a glass of water, Hewlitt ordered without looking at the menu. Then he simply sat there, one hand closed into a fist, the other wrapped around it. Presently a bowl of hot soup was set in front of him. He picked up the porcelain spoon and felt the pleasant sensation as the hot liquid ran down his throat. He finished it all and then looked at the several well-filled bowls which had been placed on the table. He ate a full plateful of food and then helped himself to more, washing it all down with cup after small cup of hot tea.

When he had finished he picked up the check and took his time walking toward the front where the cash register was next to a modest display of packaged teas, fortune cookies tied up in small bundles, and boxes of almond cakes. He paid for his dinner with a sense of gratitude for the fact that the restaurant was an island, apparently immune to the events which went on outside its door.

“You haven’t been in for a while.”

Hewlitt looked up and recognized the man who had just taken his money. He was a young Chinese dressed in a severely plain dark suit and a simple black tie.

“No, I guess not.” He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.

Although no one was close by and the nearer tables were all empty, the Chinese dropped his voice until he was barely audible. “I have the impression that you work in the White House.”

The alarm bell rang, silently but sharply, in Hewlitt’s mind. He thought very rapidly before he answered. “At present I do.” That committed him to nothing and supplied only public information.

“Let us know if we can help,” the Chinese said. “We’re Americans too, you know.” His face gave no hint of the words he had just spoken.

When Hewlitt arrived at the West Wing Entrance the following morning, the familiar security people were still on hand, but there were now also others. Their clothes, and the set of their faces, betrayed them immediately for who and what they were. They were taking over, and there was no room for the least doubt. The one who looked at Hewlitt’s credentials was surrounded by an almost visible cloud of hostility. His narrow eyes were hard and cold, he was a machine that had somehow mistakenly been born a human being and who was determined to correct that error. Hewlitt maintained a stony silence until he was waved through with a minimum gesture. He had been allowed in, but it was made clear that the license he had been given did not extend beyond that bare fact.

He went to his office soberly, wondering what the day would bring — trying to anticipate and then having to admit to himself that he could not do so. The appearance of Zalinsky had misled him a little; that such a comic opera character had been sent to administer the United States of America did not speak very highly of the capabilities of those who had dispatched him — or so it had seemed. Now the atmosphere was very different; the reality was beginning to take shape.

When he reached his office he found himself face-to-face with the same frustration that had plagued him the day before; he had nothing to do except to translate old material for the benefit of decision makers who were no longer in a position to decide anything except when they would have to go to the bathroom. He had a sudden urge to escape, to go somewhere far away, where this monstrous thing which was taking place in Washington, D.C., would be far removed and impotent. He remembered Frank and his offer, but before he could even review it in his mind his sense of reality told him that it would be futile. Possibly he might have gotten away with it the day before, but now he had been pointed to and told to stay. The faces he had seen at the portal that morning had told him that he was trapped. He looked up at the picture of the Ramrod fighter and for a brief moment his jaw tightened in frustration.

He did not choose to do any translating that morning. He had a typewriter available, but whatever he wrote would be read by cold unfriendly eyes and he did not want to give them even that limited satisfaction. On the back of his desk he had a few reference books and one or two others that he had put there to read when he might have the chance. He picked one of them out, adjusted the lamp on his desk, and prepared himself to concentrate.

He had been reading for a little more than an hour when he was sharply interrupted. Without ceremony or any respect whatever for his privacy, two men came into his office. They were not the same ones who had been on the gate, but they had been stamped out by the same machine — hard, insensitive briquets of men, fashioned for utility purposes only. Before Hewlitt could adjust himself to their sudden appearance, one of them, with a flip of his hand, gestured him to his feet.

Hewlitt drew breath to speak, but then the strong sense of caution that had been growing within him like an onrushing tide told him to keep his mouth shut. In his own language the man who had motioned him up said, “We will search your office.”

There was no choice but to comply. Hating it intensely, he would be a futile gesture and he had resolved that there would be no more of those. From there on in everything, no matter how small or unimportant, would have to be made to count. He waved his own hand in an equally economical gesture giving them free access to his limited cubicle.

As they went through his desk he saw that they were thorough, they took nothing for granted. He had given up smoking; when they found an old package of cigarettes in his desk they emptied out the contents and checked for anything that might be concealed inside. When they had finished with the desk and had examined the few fixtures, the leader of the two motioned to Hewlitt to turn around.

There was no choice but to comply. Hating it intensely, Hewlitt permitted himself to be searched. The hands were steely that prodded his body, that even felt up into the crotch of his trousers.

Rage began to mount in him and he had to fight hard with himself to force it down.

When the ordeal was over, there was a pause while the man who had searched Hewlitt consulted a notebook. “You are an expert in the art of karate,” he declared.

Hewlitt found a bit of savage satisfaction in proving him wrong. “No,” he answered. “That is a Robert Hewlitt. I don’t know him — I’ve seen his name in the papers.”

The man wrote. “Your name is not Robert?”

“No, it isn’t.”

Another note went into the book, then the writer spoke to his companion. “He has no weapons,” he said, and there was almost a suggestion of contempt in his tone.

The hell I haven’t, Hewlitt thought. I’m not your karate expert, but I have a brain in my head that you can’t feel or take apart to see what’s inside. And you are a numbskull lout because you speak like a peasant and you’re not even comfortable in your own language.

That was what went on in his mind. But externally, on his face, he betrayed nothing. His insides were knotted and his spirit cried for action, but he knew that for the moment he could do nothing.