The First Team

6

After the incredible news of defeat, which was still disbelieved in many parts of the country where the reality had not yet sunk in, the impact of Zalinsky’s announcement was dulled. It was extensively reported by every form of the news media, but it did not arouse a great reaction. In the minds of millions of Americans the impossible and unthinkable had already taken place; after that nothing that followed in the wake very much mattered. The national illusion of being and having the best of everything had been broken, and that calamity totally overshadowed everything else.

As Hewlitt rode home that night he discussed the matter openly with Frank. The idea of listening devices everywhere was beginning to wear thin, plus which the subject did not compromise the fledgling underground organization in any way. Hewlitt was having thoughts about that too. All that he had to go on was Bob Landers’ statement that such a thing existed, but he could very well have put it that way in order to generate at least some initial enthusiasm within his own little group — to build “morale.” It could very well be that later on Landers would have formed other little groups and thus might have brought his “organization” into actual being.

“You’re in the White House,” Frank said. “Can’t you do something about it? Not much, maybe, but something.”

Hewlitt shifted the subject to a safer tack. “Frank, I’ve been as confused as everybody else. Right now I haven’t a clear idea of what I ought to do. I don’t want to clear out of here, even the way things are. I don’t know where I’d go.”

“Switzerland is supposed to be a pretty nice place. And they keep out of wars and that sort of thing.”

“Yes, but we can’t all go there. We just kept out of a war, and lost it by default.”

“I carry Senator Fitzhugh every now and then,” Frank offered as he edged his way into a traffic circle. “He still thinks that we did the right thing. He told me that at least we can live with our consciences.”

“And with our enemies. I don’t imagine that he likes that too much.”

Frank dropped his voice to the confidential level. “I’ll tell you something about that: he thinks that he’s going to fix everything in a few days. He knows all the higher-ups overseas face to face, and he’s confident that he can be a one-man peace mission to put things back the way they were, more or less. Then he’s gonna run for President.”

“He hasn’t a hope in hell,” Hewlitt said.

“He thinks he can do it.” Frank took the cab around a corner. “Where do you get all this?” Hewlitt asked.

“I carry a lot of people. And you’d be surprised what they tell taxi drivers. Ask my advice and everything. This afternoon I had a young girl in trouble. She just got in and asked me to take her where she could get a safe abortion.”

“What did you do?”

Frank half-turned until he could partially look over his shoulder. “In your business there’s a lot of things you can’t talk about. On some things I keep my mouth shut too.”

Hewlitt appreciated that; if a few others had had the same attitude, it might have made an appreciable difference.

As he read the detailed reports of Zalinsky’s announcement for the second time, Marc Orberg found it difficult to contain his elation. His life, at that point, satisfied him enormously until it seemed to him that he had nothing more to ask of God or man.

Everything, absolutely everything, was the way he wanted it now. He looked about him simply in order to savor the great success that was his, success that his enemies despised, which made it sweeter still. The entire penthouse suite was strikingly decorated in crimson, black, and stark white. Great dramatic globules of color carved the walls into a Brobdingnagian jigsaw puzzle. The vastly oversized, ultrasoft lounge davenport displayed its black and white zebra stripes at tfie focal point of the room; scattered around it were huge, almost shapeless upholstered chairs done in dead black and a white imitation of angora fur. The carpeting, laid over a triple pad, was the most brilliant red the manufacturer had been able to achieve; the pile was more than an inch and a half thick.

Opposite the entrance doorway the wild ballet of colors gave way to white once more in order to provide a background for a display on the wall of the famous Marc Orberg album covers. Mixed in the pattern, like brass rings awaiting the patrons of a merry-go-round, were six gold-colored records made in metal; symbols of a sale of one million copies or more. In a corner of the ceiling a small spotlight illuminated the display with an artful circle of light.

On the opposite wall was an heroic, larger-than-life-size portrait of Orberg himself, standing hands on hips, accentuating the taut,' sinewy hardness of his body. He wore a suede leather shirt laced loosely up the front, a wide belt to define his lean middle, and jeans which fitted him with near skintightness. The outline of his groin was clearly visible. The photograph radiated a fierce pride of masculinity, a restlessness, an unsuppressed urge for action, the knowledge of conquest achieved while most others of his own age had barely seized hold of their graduation diplomas.

Off the spectacular living room there was a dimly lighted alcove with an elaborately-carved Chinese bar. Close to it was the seldom closed door of the single bedroom, the electric blue carpet defining its twenty-five-foot-square area. The two walls opposite the doorway were almost entirely of glass, giving a spectacular view of the city spread out below. The bed itself was circular, almost ten feet in diameter, and set on a slightly raised dais where another concealed spotlight bathed it in deep violet light when the shades were drawn. Several pieces of striking abstract art dramatized one wall; on the fourth a huge sumi-emural suggested romance and courtship in ancient Japan. The entire effect was sybaritically luxurious with a strong sense of detachment from any other world that might exist elsewhere.

Marc Orberg had had it designed and executed exactly as he wanted it for two specific purposes: to satisfy his own incessant craving for the exotic and to offer an unparalleled setting for a continual variety of sexual experiences.

Although he was only twenty-six, he had been enjoying the pleasures of women for more than a decade. With the great surge in his popularity he had discovered that conquests became absurdly easy; he had only to make an announced personal appearance and hundreds of females would fight for the right to be closest to him when he emerged from the stage door. Through his narrowframed, uniformly successful business manager, Nat Friedman, he had seen to it that the word got out how any girl who wanted to could bring herself to his attention. All she had to do was to write her name, age, and telephone number on a small slip of paper and fold it to less than an inch square. Whenever Orberg made his way from a theater or concert hall to his waiting car, he would hold out his hands and accept the slips of paper placed in them. When his hands were filled, he would stuff the results into the pockets of his jacket and collect more. When he was asked the purpose of this, he always replied that it was so he could send them Christmas cards.

Only Nat knew that in this midst of plenty Orberg had a method for marking the slips he chose to select; as he gathered them in he would press the edge of his thumbnail into the offering of any face that caught his eye, or any figure that triggered his imagination.

Once he had erred; Nat had phoned a twenty-two-year-old (or so she had described herself) where the indentation had been particularly deep, made in all probability by the girl herself while she had been desperately waiting for the opportunity to offer herself. Marc had said, “Get me a woman,” which differed from his more usual request for a girl; following instructions Nat had chosen the twenty-two-year-old who properly answered the description. The usual tactful phone call had as almost always been successful and within an hour the subject presented herself. She proved to be plain, somewhat overweight, and adorned with practical glasses. Orberg was at first in a concealed rage of frustration, but when the girl had gotten her clothes off, her body had been riper than he had expected and the resulting experience far beyond his expectations. For some time he had avoided repeating himself, but for this particular person he had broken his rule not once, but four separate times. There was no form of sexual gratification that she was not prepared to offer to her idol, and that in itself was a considerable improvement over the often frightened, tightly thrilled youngsters who had described themselves in writing as eighteen and who were hesitantly willing to be laid, but nothing more. After a while these little virgins began to annoy him and he looked for more capable companionship.

The conquest of the United States he did not expect to hurt his popularity in the least. If the people who had taken over knew anything at all about the country, they would know what he had been doing for them. They had talked together often enough in Cuba, Hanoi, and Moscow; they had praised his good work and had promised him that when the day came he would not be forgotten. That was all right as far as it went; he would decide later on whether he wanted to cooperate with them or not. He had done the TV stint for them simply as an exercise in virtuosity; after building an enormous reputation as a dynamic leader of violent protest, after becoming the number one law-defying rebel symbol of the hard left, it had given him great satisfaction to put on the character of the inherently wholesome-after-all young man and con the whole damn country into believing in him. He could do anything to them that he wanted to, he had proven that; and they couldn’t do anything to him. They had been trying for years but his popularity in his own generation was too great.

For the lack of anything else to do he picked up a guitar, checked that it was reasonably in tune, and then turned on a tape recorder. He had several of them built in so that when he wanted one it would be available. The concealed one in the bedroom had produced some rare moments of interesting listening, but that did not concern him now. He was about to turn on what had been described once by a reviewer as his “outstanding talents as a composer.”

He seated himself on the edge of the zebra-striped lounge and picked purposelessly at the strings. He let his fingers do as they liked, searching for a possible bit of novel rhythm. He was only a rudimentary musician; his great talent lay in his way of manipulating audiences. His singing voice was only passable, but with it he could do remarkable bits of histrionics whenever he liked.

He decided to concentrate on what he was doing; he did not feel like composing very often and if he got something good right now, it could be another million-copy record. With no more income tax to pay, that would be a sweet addition to the considerable fortune Nat had already managed to stash away for him. He would never have to work again as long as he lived, which suited him precisely. He had never worked at all in the strict sense of the word; his personal appearances were only fun to him. The lack of experience in this area did not trouble him.

He had it! Somehow his fingers had traced out a little rhythmic pattern, first slowly, then faster, which had a beat to it. He leaned forward and plucked it out again: ti — da — de — dum; ti-da-di-dum. Ti — da — di — dum; ti-da-di-dum. He had a vague feeling that he might have heard it before someplace, but so what. He began to seek out words in his mind, then a pawky idea hit him. It would be a simple song about the farm on which he had grown up. Or so the song would say. He would be homesick for the farm. For the wind-polished twin hills to the north, for the little triangle of woods down in the hollow by the stream. And the old well in the yard. The old well — that would make the navel. How long, he wondered, would it be before the saps woke up to what he was really singing about.

An hour later he had it down on tape. When the pieces were all assembled, and he had added several other little touches to his liking, he started the tape once more and did the whole thing straight through. It took him two minutes and twenty-five seconds, enough for a forty-five single, or if he had to, he could add another verse.

When he had finished, he stretched out on his back, his arms thrown high, letting his head roll slowly from side to side in an exercise of pure animal delight. Inaction was beginning to weigh on him and he craved some of the excitement on which he thrived. He had promised to be the first to greet and welcome the invaders on American soil; he wondered if he should do something about that. He could go and call on that clown Zalinsky in Washington, but it might be better just to let him wait.

Zalinsky sent for Hewlitt at fourteen minutes after three. This time it was not by telephone. The messenger who had brought him the speech to translate appeared without warning at the door of the office, his broad face as wooden as ever. For a sharp instant Hewlitt wondered if the sudden arrival of the soldier meant that the time had come for him to be taken out on the South Lawn for the ending of his life. Then he received his instructions. He picked up pad and pencils and went to face the man who had summoned him.

One change in the office Hewlitt noticed at once — the framed portrait of a Slavic-looking foreign officer hung on the wall. As he noted it he made a quick decision not to enquire about it.

He sat down without being invited this time and waited to see what was in the wind. He could feel that he was less tight now, that his nerves were not as taut.

Zalinsky looked up from his work, studied Hewlitt for a moment, and then spoke. “You have for some time not been doing work to earn your pay.”

Hewlitt refused to be put on the defensive. “I have been available,” he answered.

“But you have done nothing.”

“The President and the Department of State kept me quite busy.” He kept his voice quiet and factual.

“So you blame me.”

Hewlitt decided not to press his luck any further. “When you have had a chance to become more familiar here, Mr. Zalinsky, you will probably have a greater need and use for the White House staff.”

Zalinsky pondered for a moment and then decided to break it off. “I have now an announcement for you,” he said. “The days you have been enjoying of nothing doing are over. You will move at once to the office just outside this one. There you will keep watch to the people who come and go. For this I select you because you can talk to my own people.”

“You mean that I will be your appointment secretary.”

Zalinsky showed him a palm. “Such names we do not employ in my country and I will not hire them here. If you wish a name, you will be watchdog. I will state to you who it is I wish to see. If others arrive, you will advise me and reverse those who I do not wish to allow. You understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Zalinsky.”

“It is good. Later I may wish you to do other things as I become aware of your abilities. I now say one thing more: do not try to make manipulations against what it is that I wish.”

Hewlitt ventured a probe. “If you believe that I will do that, why are you giving me this job?”

Zalinsky hardened for a moment, then Hewlitt thought he saw him relax. “It is not necessary that we discuss this. Only I warn you — do not get away from the line. That will get you nowhere, and it will get you there with rapidity.”

Hewlitt’s mind was racing. The stakes were being raised, he saw that clearly, and he responded to it. “I’ll start moving my office immediately, Mr. Zalinsky,” he said. “Understand what I say when I tell you that I am no mind reader and you will have to tell me what your program is each day.”

“It is not necessary to instruct me in the elementary,” Zalinsky responded. “Mind readers they perhaps possess in Tibet; you are not of this breed. You will be told.”

“Yes, Mr. Zalinsky.”

“You will go.”

As he cleaned out his desk and prepared to assume his new duties, Hewlitt was still unable to sort out all of his emotions. One, however, stood out — a subdued sort of elation. He felt as though he had been sitting on the bench as a substitute and now was being sent into the big game. He would henceforth be seeing Zalinsky constantly and the invisible battle would be joined for certain. Could he take the measure of the man? He did not know, but he knew that he was going to try.

Admiral Barney Haymarket was in civilian clothes, but that fact did not diminish the aura of his rank in the least. While not a word had been said on the subject by anyone, it was tacitly understood that the “retired” which had been attached after his name some time previously had been withdrawn. How valid this premise was remained a fact known to a very few people. As was the standard practice with all retired top officers, he had been briefed on a daily basis ever since he had stepped down as Chief of Naval Operations. He had gone through the motions of accepting a job as chairman of the board of a leading civilian company, one which did not directly supply the military establishment, and then apparently had settled down to the usual routine of occasional public appearances and the accepting of appropriate awards from such suitable organizations as the National Conference of Christians and Jews.

Late in the previous administration, while he still had been wearing the four stars on his shoulder boards, he had been summoned for a very* private conference with the President. It had been unusual in that only the two of them had been together. When the coffee cups had been set down and the door firmly closed, the President had spoken his mind.

“Barney, I don’t need to tell you that I don’t like the look of things at all. I don’t think that any man who has ever sat here was really happy, but you know what the score is.”

“I do, Mr. President, and believe me, I don’t like it either.”

“All right, then, let me give you this: in my judgment we are on a course which could conceivably lead to the first military defeat in our history.”

“I agree, sir, that is my conclusion also.”

“Then we don’t need to waste time in rhetoric.” The shadow of his heavy responsibilities had crossed the President’s face. “Suppose now, Barney, that Fitzhugh and the others like him make their point, have it their way, and we more or less tear down our military structure. After that we take a pasting. Where do we go from there?”

The admiral had leaned forward to deposit cigar ashes in a tray before he had given his answer. “We would have two alternatives then: either we swallow it and do what we’re told for the indefinite future, or else we go underground and fight back one way or another.”

“Do you think that could work?”

“Mr. President, as I see it we would have to try. If we take it on the chin, then there’s nobody left and the commies will have what Napoleon, Hitler, and all the rest were denied — total world domination. And you know, sir, how they play the game. Personally I’d rather fight back and lose my life in the attempt than to knuckle down to their way of doing things. You know the reports we’ve been getting for years about the horrors the Chicoms have been dishing out. I’ve seen pictures, Mr. President, that damn near made me vomit, and I don’t have a weak stomach.”

The President had considered that in the light of his decision. “Barney, I’m going to give you a job. It’s a tough one, but you are the man for it. Your term as CNO will be over in five months; I want you to retire and go through all the motions of returning to civilian life. But what I really want you to do is to get together with a team of your own choosing, military, civilian, or both, and put together a plan for just such a resistance operation in the event of our defeat. I’ll see that it’s financed and also that you get whomever and whatever you want. But it has got to be totally secure; I’d suggest a special clearance level for anyone who even knows of the plan’s existence.”

“Mr. President, don’t we have something like this already?”

“Yes, but not to my satisfaction. I’m going to keep the other plan going, if for no other reason than to cover up what you’ll be doing. Not even the joint chiefs are going to know about this unless you approve it first. And I’m going to give you a deadline: I have a pretty good idea who my successor is going to be and I don’t at this moment have too much confidence in him.”

“I know the man you mean, sir,” the admiral had said, “and once more I agree with your conclusion. I don’t question his integrity, but in plain language he lacks guts.”

“That he does. So you have until I step down to get the job done. After that I can’t promise you a thing; so you’d better stash away whatever you’ll need now. Let me know how you’re getting on. Do you trust Colonel Gifford?”

“Totally.”

“Then I’ll see that he makes BG more or less immediately to give him a little more muscle and turn him over to you. He’s one of the most resourceful men I’ve ever met. I’ll set him up with a cover job and let him be the liaison man between us.”

At that point the admiral had gotten to his feet. “Time’s a wastin’, Mr. President, and I have an awful lot to do. I’ll send you my requisitions, personnel and otherwise, through Gifford. Have you a suggestion for a code name?”

The President had looked out of the window for a few moments while he thought. “Politics aside, there’s one American I've always admired tremendously. He was way ahead of his time and I’m not sure that he isn’t ahead of us right now. Thomas Jefferson.”

“Tom Jefferson it is, then, sir.” He had shaken hands and left. As he had climbed into his waiting staff car with the starred plate out front, his mind had already been busy planning, considering, sifting, and projecting.

All that had been a while ago, but not a long enough while for Barney Haymarket to accomplish everything that he would have liked to have done? Ten years would not have been enough, but he had put first things first and he had been helped by some of the best planning brains the country had had available. As a result he had been able to stuff enough aces up his sleeve to be in a position of some strength, although it was pitiful when compared with the total military posture of the enemy who now stood on the nation’s shores.

As he walked into the command post he had provided for the operation which would now go into effect, he knew that it was totally secure from any kind of eavesdropping activity. Delicate electronic devices in duplicate monitored the premises with a ceaseless vigil. For a bare moment he looked at General Gifford and the few others who had assembled at his bidding and who were waiting for him, on their feet, around a plain, functional table.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” he invited. “It’s time to put Tommy Jefferson to work.”

Some thirty-nine hours later the body of retired Admiral Barney Haymarket, one of the most colorful and efficient Chiefs of Naval

Operations that the service had ever known, was found in the wreckage of his car where it had gone off the road during a heavy night rainstorm in the Rocky Mountains.

As he went through the motions of installing himself in his new office, Hewlitt kept forgetting where he wanted to put things because of the many thoughts which were seething in his brain. He was beginning to awake to an uncomfortable realization, and he did not like it at all. He was thirty-two years old, by any reasonable calculation his life was at least one-third over, and he had never as yet made a conscious decision as to what he wanted to do or what he hoped ultimately to accomplish.

His collegiate career had been appropriately distinguished, particularly since he had been born with a quick ear and a gift for languages. He had studied for a year abroad; after that the suggestion had been gently made to him that now that his education in the formal sense had been concluded, it was time for him to go to work. It pained him now to realize that he had not made a decision then either — he had simply taken the path of least resistance. A job had been available in the State Department, it had been offered to him, and he had accepted it. Every move he had made after that had been decided for him. While up until a few weeks ago most of his various friends had agreed that he had “made good,” he was now beginning to be conscious of the fact that all he had really done was go where he had been pushed.

He adjusted the reading light on the desk and set his typewriter where it would be conveniently at his elbow. Now, he knew, from that minute forward he would have to lead a very different life. He would be right under Zalinsky’s nose, his every word and action subject to scrutiny and analysis. He could play it two ways: he could do as he was told and keep his nose clean, or he could go for higher stakes with his life on the line. That was a helluva lot different, he thought, from being on the collegiate tennis team, where a victory or a defeat meant very little when you came right down to it.

As he put a supply of freshly sharpened pencils into the center desk drawer, he wondered just how much chance he would have of accomplishing anything if he did elect to try to fight back. The entire American military establishment had been overcome by swift, brilliant, almost bloodless action. Billions of dollars in defense preparation had proven ineffective. Now he proposed to try to reverse that outcome with a team which so far consisted of two stenographically skilled, reasonably willing girls. Bob Landers had tried it and Bob Landers had lost his life within a matter of days.

But, dammit, that kind of defeatist attitude was what had beaten the country in the first place! It had not been overcome on the field of battle or by warfare at sea, it had been outmaneuvered from without and within. Leftist subversion and the attitudes of people like Fitzhugh, the peace-at-any-price boys, had caused the military to be in an understaffed, demoralized posture when the enemy had hit. Hewlitt was not a militarist, and he had never served in any branch of the armed services. But now his spirit cried for action. Bitterly he knew that it was too late; he should have felt that way before instead of filling out his deferment papers as he had done. Of course if this disaster had not overtaken the country, a military career would not have appealed to him at all.

When his desk was finally in order, he sat down to think. He didn’t want to leave things as they were — he wanted for the first time in his life to make a decision — probably the most important one he would ever face. He had to make it to establish his own self-respect. He was aware that his position was unique in the country; he was sitting at the nerve center of Zalinsky’s administration, that meant that he would be in an invaluable position to help any bona fide underground movement. It also meant that he would be exposed to far greater jeopardy than would be the case almost anywhere else.

He was startled when he looked up and found Zalinsky himself at his elbow. Without thinking, he rose to his feet. “You have of everything you need?” he was asked.

“Everything, Mr. Zalinsky. As far as I know now.”

“It is good. You will soon become very busy. When I wish to call you, what is the name you employ?”

Hewlitt thought rapidly, but he could not find the words he needed. “My friends call me ‘Hew,’ ” he said. He was reluctant to put Zalinsky in that category.

“But that is not your initial name.”

“No, my first name is Raleigh; I never use it.”

Zalinsky considered the information. “I have not yet the fullest awareness of this country, but that name I have never heard before.”

“Our family is distantly related to the Raleighs of Virginia. When I was born, my mother evidently decided to make me the connecting link. So she gave me that name.”

“It was a bad idea,” Zalinsky said.

Hewlitt nodded. “I agree; I don’t like it either.”

“So there is one thing about which we are not enemies.” With that Zalinsky disappeared into the Oval Office.

Perhaps the man had been trying to be friendly, but Hewlitt doubted it; more likely it had been an invitation to him to let his guard down.

Then, quite simply, he made his decision; he would fight back. He was in it all the way — to do the best that he could. A surge of fierce pride took hold of him; he was not doing now merely what was expected of him, he was not reacting automatically, he was undertaking something with his eyes open, on his own initiative, and God willing, they would know that he had been in the battle before it was through.

A man from the enemy was approaching his desk; this time Hewlitt carefully catalogued him in his mind. Age about fifty-five, five feet ten, weight one eighty, face moderately intelligent, uniform better fitted, an officer. “Yes?” he asked.

“I am told that you speak our language.” The voice, educated but cool.

“Yes, I do.” He switched effortlessly into the other tongue.

“I have some instructions to give you. I am Major Barlov, commander of the security detail for this headquarters.”

Hewlitt started to say, “Pleased to meet you,” automatically, then he caught himself. He spoke his own name and then waited.

“I am informed that you are to be in charge of appointments and visitors for Mr. Zalinsky. Therefore you will be required to vouch for each person who applies to be admitted. That is to say, you will be called upon to confirm that he has an appointment and that Mr. Zalinsky has consented to see him. Each visitor will be searched. This is to be explained beforehand to save additional trouble for my men.”

“How about women?” Hewlitt asked.

“The same thing, but I do not believe that Mr. Zalinsky will have much time for any women. The point is, no one is to enter that office until we have given permission. Is that very clear to you?”

“Perfectly.”

“One more thing: I am specifically warning you against taking advantage of your position. You are never to walk in on Mr. Zalinsky without his prior knowledge. And you are never to carry anything, such as a letter opener, which could be used as a weapon. If any attempt is made upon Mr. Zalinsky, you will protect him with your life; if you fail to do this, you will be regarded as part of the attempt. That is all for the present.” The major nodded, turned on his heel and walked away.

It seemed to Hewlitt that precious few Americans would be asking for appointments to see Zalinsky — if they knew what was good for them. It was like calling on the Turkish sultans in the old days; give the slightest displeasure and your head was served up in the middle of a big platter, then and there. Zalinsky had already ordered one execution, which had been immediately carried put; the man was as trustworthy as a cobra and Hewlitt did not intend to forget that fact for a moment.

However, one American who clearly was not afraid to face the administrator callSd that same morning; the office of Senator Solomon Fitzhugh came on the line. The senator wanted to know, via his secretary, when it would be most convenient for Mr. Zalinsky to see him.

“Put him on,” Hewlitt said, and waited.

In a few moments the senators well-known voice came to him over the wire. “To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Hewlitt, senator. Raleigh Hewlitt.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, sir, weve never met. I’ve been on the White House staff for some time as a language specialist; now Mr. Zalinsky has assigned me this job.”

“You’re an American, then.”

“Absolutely, senator. I understand that you want to see Mr. Zalinsky.”

“That is correct, yes.”

“Hold the line, sir, and I’ll see what I can do.”

For the first time he made contact with the administrator without having been summoned first; he pressed the intercom button and the man inside answered almost at once. “Mr. Zalinsky,” Hewlitt said, “I have Senator Solomon Fitzhugh on the line. You know of him?”

“You are wishing to insult me?”

“Of course not, sir. Senator Fitzhugh would like to know what time it would be most convenient for you to see him today.”

“I have no wish to see him,” Zalinsky answered, and hung up.

Hewlitt turned to the other phone. “Fm sorry, senator, Mr. Zalinsky has just informed me that he has no time available.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Senator, I regret this very much, but he made it clear that he didn’t wish to see you at all. Might I suggest a letter, sir.”

“No you may not, Mr. Raleigh, or whatever your name is. He can’t treat me this way and he knows it, I know his boss too well. I intend to see Zalinsky in the immediate future and you can give him that message for me!” The line abruptly went dead.

Hewlitt typed up a memo slip. Mr. Zalinsky: Senator Fitzhugh was very upset by your decision. He asked me to inform you that he intends to see you in the immediate future. He added his initials and then put it aside; he would decide later whether to deliver it or not. If it got Fitzhugh into trouble, it would be the senator’s own fault for not waking up to the realities.

Ever since it had been forcefully, and ruthlessly, reorganized by the enemy, the Pentagon complex had been like a graveyard. The few people who remained on the job were largely clerks who were familiar with the files and a small number of junior officers whose level of responsibility had been limited.

One of the first of the enemy’s planes that had set down at Andrews Air Force Base had contained the Pentagon Reorganization Team and it had gone to work immediately with a vengeance. The initial occupying forces had had the buildings blocked off, and when the team arrived it was equipped with full sets of plans showing every office and facility together with its function or purpose. Supposedly secret information was found to have been hopelessly compromised, with the likelihood that some of the people who had cried “security” the loudest had been responsible.

Office by office, section by section, the Pentagon and adjacent buildings had been gone through. Some secret files had already been burned, some safety precautions had proven effective, but still a vast accumulation of data had fallen into enemy hands — enough to amount to uncounted tons of paper. When the job had been completed a few individuals had been selected to stay on while the enemy’s sentries constantly patrolled the corridors, likely to appear anywhere at any time to be sure that no one did anything other than what he had been specifically directed. Stunned, the skeleton staff of the Pentagon did the enemy’s bidding and silently prayed for help.

Things were therefore in order, by the enemy’s standards, when a very hard-faced man whose pudgy nose and squared-off jaw revealed his Slavic origin entered the Bureau of Naval Personnel with a pass which was immediately respected at the entrance. Once inside the building he did not require any direction; he walked rapidly to the precise area he desired and entered an office where the records for flag officers were stored.

A thin, nervous-appearing yeoman in white uniform took one quick look at his visitor and got to his feet as rapidly as he was able.

“The file on Admiral Haymarket,” the man demanded, his almost brutally direcf voice matching the cold hostility of his face and the demanding tension in his body.

“The admiral is retired,” the yeoman stammered.

The visitor jerked his arm back, then whipped it forward, smashing his palm across the face of the slender young sailor. The yeoman went reeling and fell, his body sliding several inches after it hit the floor. Silently he picked himself up and, avoiding looking at the man who had hit him, went to a row of filing cabinets, searched briefly, and extracted a folder.

Before he could turn around it was yanked out of his hand. It was a very thick service record, but the intruder had no interest in the accumulation of promotions, citations, and awards of decorations that it contained. He opened it from the back, found what he wanted, and extracted a regulation fingerprint card. Holding it in one hand he threw the rest of the papers with savage force across the room so that they were scattered widely among the desks and chairs. After that he stalked out.

At almost precisely the same time, in a small town in the western half of Colorado, the local mortuary had an unexpected visitor at a quite early hour. For a moment or two the manager who answered the door was concerned that the obviously foreign gentleman who had rung the bell was in a very upset frame of mind. He was quickly disillusioned; in poor, but understandable English, the visitor stated, “I wish to see a body.”

The manager was politely considerate. “I’m very sorry, sir, but our slumber rooms have not been prepared as yet. If you could return…” He stopped when he saw the look on the face of the man to whom he was speaking; for the first time he grasped that this was one of the enemy.

The man quickly pushed his way inside and looked once about him. “Where is the workroom?” he demanded.

Despite his mounting concern, the manager immediately became firm. “That is impossible, sir, the state law prohibits it. No one is ever allowed — ” A hand against his chest pushed him aside, then the unwelcome visitor began opening doors and peering inside. He discovered a showroom with several empty open coffins on display, a small chapel, and then the door he wanted. Although there was a firmly-worded notice posted on it, without hesitation he opened it and went inside.

The embalmer at work looked up, startled, and knew in a moment what the intruder was. He was a veteran of the Vietnam conflict and he had seen that kind of man before. He also knew which of the four bodies in the room would most likely be of interest to him.

The cadaver of Admiral Haymarket lay covered by a sheet; the nature of his fatal injuries had dictated a closed coffin service from the beginning. Close by the body, leaning against the wall, was a fine enlarged portrait of the admiral showing him at the height of his career; the impressive array of decorations above his left breast pocket matched by the neat row of four stars displayed on the right side of his collar. It was intended for display next to the sealed coffin and the flowers which would be placed around it so that those who came to pay their last respects would feel the presence of the man they had come to honor. The portrait had been flown in from Coronado and had been delivered only a short time previously.

The intruder pulled the sheet off the body. He looked at it for a moment and then began to change color; the embalmer waited to see if he would keel over.

After a few seconds the man recovered himself somewhat and pulled an ink pad and a thin piece of coated cardboard from his coat pocket. Proceeding with a duty he knew that he had to complete, he pressed the stiff fingers of the corpse against the ink pad and then, somewhat clumsily, pushed their cold tips onto the paper. He did it methodically; when he was not satisfied with the results from the right hand, he did the distasteful task once more to be sure. When he had finished he turned quickly away from the disfigured body and left the room as rapidly as he was able. Once outside of the funeral home he took a deep breath or two of fresh air, then jumped into a Mercedes-Benz sports car which was waiting at the curb and drove off with an abrupt, angry burst of speed.

Some seven hours later the fingerprints he had taken were delivered to the dignified Washington building which before the war had been the conqueror’s embassy. Because the premises were known to be totally secure, and were readily available, they had been taken over by the secret police — so designated only to distinguish them from the regular authorities. They were anything but secret and derived much of their strength from the combination of awe and terror in Which they were held in their own homeland.

In his office Colonel Rostovitch received the prints from Colorado. He adjusted the light on his desk for close work and then placed under it the fingerprint card he had obtained personally that same morning at the Pentagon. With the aid of a magnifying glass he compared the two sets of prints; he was not an expert, but in this instance he did not need to be. There was no doubt whatever; despite the inadequacy of the work done in Colorado, the two sets were clearly identical.

When the day was at last over and he was able to escape from the confines of his new job, Hewlitt congratulated himself that he had come through unscarred. He had, on this day at least, done everything that had been asked of him and had risked nothing. It would probably be a week or two before he could begin to probe for the cause of Bob Landers’ betrayal. By that time they might have him down as an ordinary employee prepared to do as he was directed and no more. That would suit his own plans perfectly.

He made his way out past the enemy’s security men and climbed into Frank’s cab with a sense of relief. He had a compelling desire to go somewhere away from the city where he could think his own thoughts or enjoy the simple luxury of talking to someone without having to feel that every word he spoke was being weighed and every idea he expressed judged.

“You look tired,” Frank said when they were well out into the traffic.

“I am,” Hewlitt admitted. “It’s a strain.”

Frank appeared to consider that answer as he edged his way into position for a turn. When he had completed it he seemed ready to say something, but before any words came out he evidently changed his mind.

“What is it?” Hewlitt asked.

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t,” Frank said.

“Go ahead, it’s all right.”

The muscular man behind the wheel still hesitated, then decided to try his luck. “I was just wonderin’ if you’d care to do me a real big favor.”

“If I can. Are you short on cash?”

Frank raised a hand and waved that off. “Nothin’ like that. You’ve heard me tell you about my friend Davy Jones — the electronics guy. Well, I’ve told him about you, working in the White House and all that, and he’d sure like to meet you.”

“I’d be glad to.”

Frank half-turned to show his appreciation, then his driving took over his full attention for the next two or three minutes. When he had broken out into the clear once more, he reopened the conversation. “Davy’s giving a little party tonight,” he said. “He’s got a big old house where you can let your hair down and enjoy yourself a little without havin’ to worry that someone’s listening all the time. Just five or six guys. We was wondering if you’d like to stop by for a little while. I’ve known you long enough to know that you aren’t concerned with color. There’ll be plenty of beer, Scotch, whatever you like, and one of the guys has got some nice film of pretty girls with no clothes on. You haven’t got anything against that, have you?”

“Hell no,” Hewlitt answered. For no good reason he thought of Barbara.

“Care to come?”

“How about for a little while? I’ve got some other things to do too.”

Frank turned his head and nodded. “How about if I pick you up a little after eight?”

“Fine.”

Having committed himself, Hewlitt remained silent for the rest of the trip. Once inside his apartment he showered, dressed in informal sports clothes, and turned on the news. He had no desire to go out for dinner; instead he chose a packaged meal from the stock he kept in his refrigerator and put it in the oven.

While the food heated he watched the news and gained nothing from it. The principal item was an obituary of Admiral Haymarket; with the aid of film clips his career was retraced without any reference to the disaster which had overtaken the Navy, and the rest of the armed forces, as well as everyone else. The enemy probably wouldn’t like it, but it was presented in such a way that it would be difficult to take exception to anything that had been said. Hewlitt took careful note and decided that there might be a contact worth making at the Washington station that had produced the program.

When his doorbell rang at eight-fifteen Frank was there, turned out as he had never seen him before, in well-cut sports clothes, very much the man about town. For just a moment Hewlitt wondered if the ladies who were to entertain would all be on film or not.

The cab, as usual, was outside. Frank ushered him in back and dropped the flag as he was pulling away from the curb. “That’s just for show,” he explained, “in case somebody gets nosy.”

Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a rambling old house in a neighborhood which was living on its memories. As he climbed out, Hewlitt noted the preponderance of Negro faces in the vicinity.

The man who admitted them was unusually tall, very slender, and urbane; a pencil-line mustache set off his features.

“Davy,” Frank said, “meet Mr. Hewlitt.”

The tall Negro smiled his welcome and held out his hand. “Please come in,” he invited. “I’m very glad you could make it. Frank has told me about you many times.”

Hewlitt liked him. He expressed his pleasure as he shook hands and followed his host inside. “Frank tells me that you’re an electronics expert,” he said.

“Expert is a rather strong word, Mr. Hewlitt,” Jones said. “I make my living fixing radio and TV sets, and do a little dabbling on the side. One thing: after what’s been going on, you might like to know that this house is free of listening devices — I can guarantee that.”

“Good,” Hewlitt acknowledged. He followed Jones down a short hallway and into a living room where four more men, all Negro and all moderately well dressed, were gathered. He was introduced around and offered a drink by a volunteer bartender. He would have been a little more comfortable if he had not been the only Caucasian present, but the warmth of his welcome was evident and he responded to it.

Someone turned on a stereo and presently the voice of a blues singer filled the room. Drink in hand, Frank rejoined him and led him to a corner where they could talk. “Mr. Hewlitt…” he began.

“My friends call me ‘Hew.’ ”

Despite his complexion, Frank appeared to flush slightly. “Thanks, I really appreciate that, Hew. I’m Asher.”