The First Team

9

From the day that his supposed death had been made public, Admiral Barney Haymarket had been by his own order a literal prisoner in the underground complex of Thomas Jefferson. He longed to go outside, to walk for an hour through the rough mountain country, to drink in the beauty of the sky, the land, and the air; but remote as the region was, the chance existed that he might encounter someone who would recognize him or wonder who he was and what he was doing there. That minimal risk could be avoided at a cost; without a second thought the admiral paid the price. He was asking, and would ask, far more of others.

As a substitute he paid a daily visit to the little gymnasium which had been set up, took a rubdown, and, if he had time, spent a few minutes with a putter and two or three golf balls on the carpet in his quarters. The admiral had never done anything by halves; he applied that principle in working to improve his game. Each night he slept six or seven hours if the situation permitted; the rest of the time he was on duty, turning the full scope of his abilities onto the fiendishly difficult problem with which he was confronted. It was characteristic of him that he did not allow it to oppress him; he remained alert and confident, a skilled commander engaged professionally in the greatest campaign of his career.

At the admiral’s expressed wish the other members of the First Team also remained close to the operating base. He wanted an absolute minimum of traffic of any kind to and from the facility; when the time came to move he would approve it, until then secrecy had to remain as close to absolute as possible.

He had been extraordinarily careful about that. The blasting crews who had made the original excavation had also prepared several others which had been subsequently, listed as “abandoned.” A massive amount of paperwork had been prepared and planted in the classified files to indicate that the entire job had been part of another canceled project, given up after millions had been invested in its development. There were even more than two hundred letters on file in case anyone authorized or in a position to do so decided to go through all of the correspondence. Not far from the concealed entrance there was a landing strip made of natural materials and so artfully concealed that an unsuspecting hunter could walk right across it without being aware that it was there.

The entrance itself was camouflaged as an abandoned mine shaft crudely boarded up and with a warning sign which, while apparently badly weather-beaten, was still clearly legible. There were also some loose strands of barbed wire to discourage the inquisitive. If anyone persisted beyond this point, delicate and invisible electronic equipment would report his presence immediately.

At the morning conference which he had called the admiral was, as always, brisk, efficient, and confident. “All right, gentlemen,” he began when everyone was present, “it’s time to compare notes. Stan, you first.”

Stanley Cumberland, the retired industrialist, wore an alleged sports jacket which had been conservatively cut to fit his narrow, six-foot-three frame. His lean, austere features suggested the Great Stone Face; there were those who had paid dearly for the privilege of learning that they were part of the equipment of one of the greatest poker players in recorded history. Not on visible display was a brilliant intelligence coupled with a profound knowledge of mechanics and ways of getting things done. Few people would have dared to call him Stan; the admiral did and Cumberland felt honored.

“Operation Low Blow is on schedule,” Cumberland reported. “They are watching the Magsaysay very closely but we are watching them.”

“Good,” the admiral said. “How about the supply problem?” “We’re working on that. The first job was to find a suitable vessel; we finally have one. She is a great big, lumbering old fishing craft designed to go to sea and to stay out there for long periods of time. I’m sure you know, sir, that the fishing industry is not being interfered with in any way — at least not until now. When the Nazis were in control of Europe they permitted fishing operations even out of the French ports opposite the channel for the sake of the food produced. I suspect that for the next six months, at least, fishing operations will be allowed to continue. After that we won’t be concerned.”

“How about getting the necessary quantities of supplies?” the Marine major asked. “It may be a little tough getting our hands on what well need without attracting attention.”

“That’s being attended to,” Cumberland answered him. “We were able to get hold of a very good man in the ship supply field. He has laid out a plan of action and will put it into operation as soon as we’re ready.”

The former high diver, whose muscular development was the envy of all present, was also carefully weighing the factors involved. “Where is our fishing vessel home ported?” he asked.

“At the moment San Pedro, but when we have completed taking her over she will be able to show up almost anywhere that there’s a fish market without any questions being raised. If we have to, we can shift the price structure a little to make San Francisco her obvious destination.”

The admiral smiled his approval of that. “A little manipulation of that kind may be right in order. Next, turning to the Magsaysay herself, let’s have a crew report.”

Major Theodore Pappas, USMC, responded. He opened a folder in front of him with his good hand and then spoke in a clear, decisive voice. “As of the present moment we have fourteen men aboard her under Chief Summers. They’ve been able to create enough feeling of personality conflicts to provide the atmosphere that we want.” He looked around the table for a moment. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that they are among the best that the Navy has got and that’s mighty damn good. None of them are tattooed and they have been given special indoctrination in avoiding Navy or sea-going language. When one of the top ratings hit his head on a hatch, he had the presence of mind to curse at the door.”

“Have you determined the exact number that should be on board when the operation begins?” General Gifford asked.

“Yes, sir, one hundred and two as things stand right now. That is subject to change if we lose anyone and don’t have time to position a replacement.”

“I think we should establish a deadline on that,” the admiral said. “Offhand I would put it at minus twenty days. After that if any personnel are lost we won’t replace them unless it’s in an area so vital that we must.”

“We have backups, sir, for every key slot, twenty-three all told.” The major paused and looked around the table once more. “I have to report one snag — a bad one. Our operational plans are pretty well worked out, but as they stand now we’ll have to sacrifice the crane operator. Maybe I’m not being tough enough, but I’d like to avoid that if I can. He’ll have to be a damn good man and we don’t have any to spare.”

“Have you any preliminary thinking on that at all?” the circus performer asked.

The major nodded. “Yes, Walt. If there isn’t any other way, I’m going to handle that part myself. That solves a lot of problems, including finding someone whom we can trust absolutely.”

Admiral Haymarket was silent for a moment. “I have a thought,” he said finally. “Let me develop it a little before we discuss it. Meanwhile I suggest that all of us apply ourselves to the screw problem, because at the moment that’s the crux of the whole thing. At least it’s a vital link.”

“Amen,” the major said. “If we can lick that one, we’ll be a helluva lot closer to home than we are now.”

“How about it, mama?” Moshe Glickman asked. “Do you think maybe we should tell him tonight already?”

Esther Glickman had been weighing the matter in her mind ever since the mail had been delivered. “I’m thinking that it would be a good idea,” she answered. “But for you, you shut up and let me do it. And on your face no expression either until we know what he says.” She turned to her other son. “And you, David, you’d better be there, but you’re saying nothing — nothing at all. Understand?” “Why not, mama? I can help.”

“Best you can help by keeping quiet. After papa comes home and we have dinner, then we’ll see.” She picked up the official notice and read it over once again although she could have recited it by heart. “So maybe this is the best thing that ever happened to us.” The last words stuck a little in her throat and she had difficulty giving them birth. She looked about her hurriedly, picked up a paper tissue, and wiped her eyes.

Moshe jumped up and went to her. “Don’t cry, mama. Like you said, maybe nothing so good happened to us before.”

David offered her a rumpled handkerchief. “Hell, mama, it’s no sweat,” he said. “If I can keep out of the damn Army we’ll be fine.”

Esther once more took command. “In the Army you’ll be going,” she retorted. “So here you followed that crazy man Orberg and when we needed you, where were you? In jail yet. Better you should have been in uniform; maybe there you could have helped.” “Mama, it’s too late for that now,” Moshe said. “When we get there, maybe we both join the Army; at least they’ll have kosher food.”

The door of the small Brooklyn apartment opened and Morris Glickman came in to greet his family. He kissed his wife and then asked almost casually, “Did it come today?”

Love welled up in Esther’s throat and for a moment she lost the power of speech.

“Yes, papa,” Moshe answered for her. “Today it came.”

A little awkwardly Morris embraced his wife. It was not an easy thing to do, at least it was not as it had once been when she had been dark-eyed, long-haired, and slender and he had married her. He reached far enough around her now ample girth to make his presence felt and patted her gently. “Now now, mama,” he said. “In a way the news is good. The waiting — the uncertainty, that’s all over. I was tired of teaching anyway. The kids, they’re worse every year. Now we can make plans.”

“So what can we plan?” Esther asked miserably.

Her husband was equal to the challenge. “You know they need teachers badly in Israel. Here I don’t think we have a future. Later, maybe, we can come back when things are better. Already I’ve talked to Mr. Farkas; when we can come back, my job will be waiting.”

“Such a good man Mr. Farkas is. But will he be here to help us when we need it?”

Morris smiled and stepped back so that he could hold out his arms in confidence. “Of course! Didn’t you know, he works as a partner with a gentile. A WASP yet, but a good man too; I trust him.”

“Aw, quit your kidding,” David interjected. “Who the hell knows if we’re ever coming back. Or if we’ll want to. Everybody seems to think that in a little while this’ll all blow over.” He flung himself down onto the davenport. “Crap, we’re Jews and we’ve been taking it on the lam since Moses, so what do you expect to have happen now.”

Esther was shocked. “David, such language! And in your father’s presence. You should be ashamed!”

Morris Glickman rose above his son’s outburst. “Gather around,” he said. Obediently his wife and elder son drew up chairs close to his own when he sat down; after a few seconds David dragged in one of the dining chairs and reluctantly did as he had been bidden.

“It is time,” Morris began, “that we should count our blessings. First, no matter what these people do to our country, in two weeks we can be out of here and out of their reach. We will be safe. How many Polish Jews didn’t have that chance just before — excuse that I say the word — Hitler.”

He leaned back and placed his fingertips together. “Second, for thousands of years other Jews have had to move when they had no place to go. Now we have Israel — we are entitled to live there and to become citizens if we want.”

“And have to join the Army,” David concluded.

His father looked at him; his features hardened and there was no love in his voice when he spoke. “David, for the first time I say it; I am ashamed of you. You are a coward. You would not fight for the United States of America where we belong, now you want to escape helping the one country where we will be made welcome and offered everything we need — the Jewish homeland.”

“I’m no damned soldier,” David said.

“No, a soldier you’re not, but God willing where were going they’ll make you one. And a better man you’ll be for it. My brother Herman died for this country; if we had had more Hermans in our Army, maybe we wouldn’t have the trouble we’ve got now.”

“O.K., he died — how did that help him?”

Morris ignored that. When they reached Israel it would be different; they would straighten David out. “I think,” he said, “we ought to tell papa right away.”

“Before dinner?” Esther asked.

“Yes — now. And we all go, otherwise he might not believe it.” “All right,” David grumbled. “I know what you mean. I’ll come.” Bravely Esther led the way down the narrow corridor to the back room. She tapped lightly on the closed door, then opened it a small fraction and looked inside. “Daddy, it’s us,” she announced.

As she entered the room old Ishmael Goldblatt looked up in concern. His expression deepened as the whole family trooped in, first Morris, his son-in-law, then the two boys, Moshe and David. He sat defensively, hunched in his rocking chair, a shawl draped across his shoulders for comfort, his gray hair straggling out from under his yarmulke like a tonsured priest. His glasses were perched halfway down on his nose in defiance of the optometrist’s careful instructions because it suited his purpose better to wear them that way. As he stared at the assembling family, distrust deepened in his eyes: not of them, but of the thing, whatever it was, that had brought them to him in this manner. For he regarded every unknown thing, every unvouched-for person with a deep, ingrained, and perpetual suspicion.

“Daddy, we want to talk to you,” Esther said. The words flowed from her in Yiddish with an easy grace; she was proud of her English, but her father had disdained to learn the new tongue — he had no need of it.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” The old man’s sunken eyes narrowed as he spoke and he thrust his head out as though to peer into the face of adversity.

There were only two other chairs in the sparsely furnished room. Esther sank into one of them while her husband, a little gingerly, eased into the other.

“Daddy, nothing is wrong,” Esther assured. “We came to see you because this is a great day in our lives.”

The old man turned his mind inward, but he could think of nothing to celebrate and his face revealed his consternation.

“We’ve been saving our money,” Esther continued. She took a fresh grip on herself as the searching eyes of her father probed into hers, trying to read out whatever she might be concealing from him. It was hard for her, but she continued with a smile on her face. “Morris has been doing well, and the boys have contributed too.”

“So what do you want to spend it on?” Ishmael asked. His shoulders stiffened and he became as shrunken hard as a walnut shell.

Morris came to his wife’s rescue. “Daddy,” he said, “all of us, we have been having a dream. For this we have saved our money and for this we have worked.”

“What kind of a dream? I don’t like dreams, they’re expensive.” “Expensive, yes,” Morris continued, “but for what is money anyway? We want to move, daddy, and now we have enough so that we can.”

The old man began to rock in very short arcs, as though to emphasize the manner in which his mind was working. “So why should we move?” he asked. “Here it isn’t too good, but not too bad either. Morris, he has his work. To move to a better place just to live higher in society, it would be a throwaway — foolishness. We are happy here, we should stay here.”

“Daddy, you don’t understand,” Esther said. Her voice became soft as though she were about to bestow a loving gift. “We aren’t going to move just to another part of town. Brooklyn is Brooklyn. We’re going to move — to Israel!”

At first the old man did not believe her. He did not believe anything until it had been proven to him, he accepted only the words of the threadbare Talmud which lay, as it almost always did, on his lap. “Israel?” He almost croaked out the word.

“Yes,” Esther answered. “Yes!”

“Israel.” The word seemed to stun him. He considered it, then sat silently, trying to think.

Morris knew him well. “Daddy,” he said. “We have the reservations already. In two weeks we go. One day after we leave we will be in Jerusalem. Then, daddy, you can go to the Wailing Wall. All Jerusalem you can visit now. Our homeland.”

Old Ishmael Goldblatt retreated within himself. As they watched him the arcs of his rocking began to lengthen and his bony thin hands loosened their tension on top of the book in his lap. At one time in his youth he had dreamed of helping to free the Holy Land and restore it to his people. He had never seen it with his own eyes, but it had been a vivid image in his mind for fifty years.

“Maybe they won’t let us go,” he said. The words seemed to form automatically on his lips.

Morris spread his hands palms up. “So why not?” he asked. “We’ve got the money, we can pay. I’ve spoken for the tickets already. A special flight; lots of Jewish people are moving to Israel because business has not been good lately. With them we go cheaper.”

“Flight?” the old man questioned. “An airplane yet? No.” He shook his head defiantly.

“Daddy,” Esther said, “if you are wanting to go by boat, then we go by boat. But it costs a lot more; we’ll have to wait and save more money.”

Her father looked at her in suspicious disbelief. “The boat costs more?”

Esther nodded vigorously. “Yes, daddy, so many more meals they have to serve, so much longer they have to take care of you. And bedrooms for everybody yet.”

He could not dispute that evidence, but for the moment he remained unconvinced. “We came on a boat,” he said.

“Yes, daddy, and you were seasick most of the time, remember?”

“Besides,” Morris added, “they don’t have boats like that any more. Only very fancy ones for the rich, with lots of expensive servants.”

“The meals on the airplane are all free,” Moshe contributed. “You pay your fare and that’s it. That’s one reason the railroads went broke hauling passengers — too much for meals and too many tips.”

At last the things they had been telling him began to penetrate into old Ishmael’s consciousness. He sat up a little straighter and looked around the barren room in which he had lived for more than ten years. He saw its bleakness and the four walls which had shut him in for so long from an alien world he had refused to accept.

Then the first germ of a long dormant anticipation stirred deep within him. “Palestine,” he said, addressing no one.

Morris nodded; he had read the symptoms. “Daddy, we’re going home,” he said.

Esther was a little startled; for the first time in her memory she saw a tear form in her father’s eye; she rushed to embrace him so that they might share their joy together.

The Senate Office Building was curiously quiet. Technically Congress was still in session, but the President was not available to sign legislation, which would have been largely meaningless in any event. Some senators and congressmen made it a point to stay on the job, but they were largely standing by awaiting whatever future developments might come.

It was a little like walking through an elaborate play set, Hewlitt thought, as he went down the corridor toward Senator Fitzhugh’s office. All of the fixtures of reality were there, but it was now nothing but an elaborate fagade. Someday, perhaps, it would again be a center of genuine policy making, but that future time was not visible now.

Hewlitt was not happy about his errand, but he almost welcomed it as a change from the inaction which had been forced upon him. He had joined the underground to do something; now he was under strict injunction to look and listen, but to do no more until he was directed. This kind of passive role did not agree with him: it was too much like the casual life he had been living prior to the sudden outbreak of hostilities and their almost unbelievably swift result. He felt much more sure of himself now, and he wanted to put his powers to the test. The job which confronted him at the moment might be a measure of his diplomacy, but little more.

He found the door that he wanted, opened it, and discovered that the senator’s receptionist was still on the job. “Are you Mr. Hewlitt?” she asked as he approached her desk.

“Yes, I am.”

“Please sit down; the senator will be with you in a few minutes.”

Hewlitt sat and looked through a newspaper; it was close to meaningless. Censorship had closed over all of the news media and what filtered through was almost entirely devoid of interest. The receptionist waited until he had laid the thin paper aside and then offered a morsel for his consumption. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” she said, “but the Brown hearings are off.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Seymour Brown was in here just a little while ago,” the girl went on. “He told the senator that the Air Force simply didn’t know how to fly the Ramrod, and that that was all that was wrong.”

“I don’t believe it,” Hewlitt retorted. “In the first place, the Air Force can fly anything that can be flown. Secondly, if the airplane can’t be handled by the average, properly qualified combat pilot, then it’s the plane’s fault, period.”

“I think you’re right about that,” the girl agreed. She looked at her intercom where a light had just come on. “You may go in now,” she said.

Senator Solomon Fitzhugh was almost exactly as Hewlitt had expected to find him; he was older-looking than his pictures suggested, but his familiar features were unmistakable. His manner was a bit weighty as he rose to shake hands; the government might have fallen, but Senator Fitzhugh clearly had decided not to join in the debacle. He was a United States senator and that fact had not just been impressed on his mind, it had been molded there.

“Sit down, sir,” he invited, waving toward a chair. He used the word “sir” as a convenient tool with which to demonstrate his humility. It often greatly impressed casual visitors, particularly those from his home state, and he had learned its value. “Now tell me what I can do for you.”

“I didn’t come to ask anything of you, senator,” Hewlitt said. “Mr. Zalinsky has directed me to call on you personally to discuss a matter which should not be committed to paper.”

Fitzhugh nodded with understanding. “I take it that he would like to tender his regrets for his rudeness to me the other day. Please tell him that I consider the incident closed.”

“The matter, senator, is considerably graver than that.”

“I’m sorry. Suppose you go on.”

“All right, sir. With your permission I’ll come right to the point.” “One moment before you do: I don’t quite understand your role here. Are you representing Mr. Zalinsky?”

“Not by any desire of mine, sir. As I believe I told you on the phone, I’m a government language expert on the White House staff. When Zalinsky moved in he tapped me because I’m fluent in his language and his English is somewhat limited.”

“Is that why he declines to see anyone?”

“No, senator, that seems to be a policy with him.”

“Thank you for the explanation. Please go on.”

“I believe, sir, that not too long ago you wrote to the premier —”

Fitzhugh raised^a hand and stopped him before he could continue. “Of course, I understand now. I did write a highly confidential letter two or three weeks ago and I’ve been very anxiously awaiting a reply. In fact I have a couple of bags packed in the event I might have to leave on short notice for overseas.” His tone became a little more confidential. “You understand, of course, that if the President had been available…”

“Entirely, sir.”

“It may be,” Fitzhugh continued, “that the President, wherever he is, is already in communication with the premier. If you know this to be a fact, please tell me.” He looked up, the question framed in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Hewlitt answered. “I have no idea where the President is or what he is doing. In the past some traffic between the President and the premier did cross my desk, but now I’m entirely out of the picture.”

Senator Fitzhugh laid his arms on his desk and leaned forward. The lines in his face seemed to deepen and his voice reflected his concern. “Since you have been in that position,” he said, “you can be a great help to me now.” He looked at Hewlitt, almost pleading with him. “If you could give me — just a resume — of what went on just prior to the outbreak of the — the war. I have very urgent reasons for asking this of you.”

Hewlitt shook his head. “I’m genuinely sorry, senator. You understand that I could not reveal that to anyone without the President’s own authorization.”

The senator played another card. “Please consider the present circumstances. You realize, of course, that our… opponents… have full and complete knowledge of what I’m asking. I don’t want to have to aim in the dark.”

“I do understand, senator, as you appreciate my position. May I tell you, sir, why I’m here?”

Fitzhugh sat back, disappointed, but undefeated. “Very well, Mr. Hewlitt, please continue.”

“Senator, Mr. Zalinsky informed me just before I phoned you that your letter had been received and read. I profoundly regret to tell you this, sir, but it was not regarded with the gravity that it deserved. It is the premier’s position right now that we have been defeated and are not in a position to negotiate concerning anything. According to Mr. Zalinsky, he has no present intention of meeting with you or continuing a contact in any way. This may change later, of course, but as of right now I have the most unwelcome task of advising you that the premier wishes you to discontinue all contact.”

The senator sat like a man transfixed, his visitor forgotten. His lips moved unconsciously as they shaped words which were not to be spoken; his eyes focused on something an infinite distance away. He struggled to regain his composure. “I find this very hard to believe,” he said.

“I well understand that, sir.”

“How sure are you of your facts? I don’t know you at all and I have never heard of you before.”

“If I had any different facts to lay before you, senator, I would not have chosen these. My personal reputation doesn’t enter into it.”

Fitzhugh’s voice acquired an edge. “You could be trying to take advantage of me. My positions in regard to important public issues are well known and some of them are highly unpopular with the militarists.…”

That was a challenge Hewlitt refused to ignore. He was doing his best to be considerate of Fitzhugh, but personal abuse was beyond what he was willing to accept. He put a bite into his own voice to let the senator know precisely that. “Sir, if I must declare myself personally, I am in total disagreement with your announced position on the matter of the armed forces, but this has nothing whatever to do with the distasteful job before me now. Whether you have heard of me or not, the fact remains that I am not careless with the truth and in my position, which was one of high responsibility within certain limits until recently, the greatest accuracy was constantly required.”

Fitzhugh spoke in a different tone. “If I offended you, I’m sorry. You must understand that I find your message incredible. The premier is my close personal friend.”

Hewlitt held onto the advantage. “May I ask how often you have seen him, sir?”

“Only once, face to face, but we had a very clear and basic understanding…”

Hewlitt recrossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap; he was in the driver’s seat now and knew that he would have to stay there. “Senator, I have some very specific information concerning your meeting with the premier; it comes directly through Mr. Zalinsky. I will leave it to you whether you wish to hear it or not.”

“Yes, of course. I find no virtue in ignorance.”

“On that point, sir, we are in complete agreement. You will have to accept my word that I did not invent this: Mr. Zalinsky told me very plainly that the premier saw you when you were in his country for only one reason. He wanted you to gain face from the meeting so that you would be reelected.”

“I find that very farfetched.”

It was a definite thrust in the old Fitzhugh manner; Hewlitt answered with one of his own. “It is exceedingly farfetched, sir, to find our country conquered and ourselves in the hands of victorious enemies. These people do not do things by the rational set of rules that we try to follow.”

The toughness which had long characterized Fitzhugh on the

Senate floor refused to let him yield. “Mr. Hewlitt, I will confide in you a little since I see that you are worthy of trust: the premier did not just grant me an audience for the sake of the news value, we had an extremely warm and very candid meeting of considerable duration. We share many views in common.”

“I don’t question that impression, senator; the premier is rather famous for his technique under such circumstances. Do you know what they call him in his own country?”

“No.”

“Literally translated, ‘the Actor.’ ”

Fitzhugh considered that and weighed it against the unpleasant realities he could no longer deny. When he had faced up to it, he looked at Hewlitt squarely and said, “In other words…”

“Man to man, sir, and American to American, you were had.”

The senator drummed his fingertips slowly on his desk. “Did Mr. Zalinsky say that in so many words?”

“Substantially so, yes, sir.” This time he felt that he had to add a bit more. “Let me say something on my own: I told you that I didn’t agree with all of your policies, but at no time have I ever questioned your patriotism. It would be impossible to do so now. You’ve attempted something fine for all of us and, speaking as one individual, I profoundly appreciate it.”

The senator had his thoughts elsewhere. “There is no possible doubt that Mr. Zalinsky has been instructed to advise me to attempt no more communications with his government.”

“That is it, sir, precisely.”

“You could not have misunderstood him.”

“No, senator, I can guarantee that.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because of the precise words which he used.”

“I would like to know what they were.”

“I would prefer not to repeat them, senator, I have too much respect for you for that.”

“Nevertheless, I want to know. I want to be absolutely certain in my mind.”

“Very well, sir. Mr. Zalinsky said that if you didn’t stop, it might be necessary to take your toys away from you.”

“In those exact words.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

A pause hung in the air, then the senator found his dignity. “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Hewlitt.”

Hewlitt rose to his feet. “Thank you for receiving me, senator.” That was not the moment to say anything more and he knew it. He shook hands formally and left. As he walked down the nearly empty corridor toward the exit, his relief at having the unpleasant interview behind him was overshadowed by a new opinion of Fitz-hugh. Politically he still considered the senator a near disaster, but he had taken a tough one right on the chin and he had taken it like a man.

Walter Wagner was the finest athlete that his Pennsylvania high school had ever known. He was not particularly tall, but he had a phenomenal physique, extraordinary reflexes, and an agile brain. For three years he was a superb principal quarterback on the football team; he displayed an almost unerring ability to call the right play in a crucial situation and to scramble for yardage with dazzling changes of direction that kept the opposing linebackers in a state of sustained frustration. He was too short for basketball, but in the pole vault he took the state championship with a display of form that attracted the attention of the Olympic Committee. As his graduation neared, college athletic scouts descended en masse; he could have had a scholarship at almost any school he chose. Unfortunately he was not able to accept any of these offers; a critical situation at home complicated by a drawn-out final illness of his father forced him to abandon his plans for a higher education and go to work.

His first job after graduation was as a lifeguard. He had excelled at that, so much so that the manager of the pool where he worked had conceived the idea of featuring him in a diving exhibition every weekend as a means of attracting more patrons. After a few weeks he received an offer to join a water circus troupe in Atlantic City. The salary offered was not a great deal more than he was already making, but after the season closed, there was a possible tour of South America in the offing. That was tempting, because he had had a sustained interest in seeing the world for as long as he could remember.

Three weeks after he arrived in Atlantic City the featured high diver with the troupe was injured in an automobile accident, not seriously but badly enough so that he could not perform for at least two weeks. Walter Wagner had climbed his rigging on the day that the news had come in and had looked down at the tiny-appear-ing circle of water in the eight-foot-deep tank. Having watched the diver many times, he knew exactly how he let his body turn in the air and how he hit the water to avoid injury. Coming down the ladder to the twenty-foot level he had made a practice dive and found it easy. He dove several more times that same day from ever greater heights, but he was still far short of the tiny platform at the very top.

The manager of the troupe had warned him not to hurt himself; then with his conscience properly salved he waited and watched. It took three days for Walter Wagner to work his way up to the top, but he did not falter at any point along the way. Each time he knew that he was ready he went a little higher and tried it again; when he had mastered that step he moved up once more.

Three years after that the Great Cordova had become one of the standard and dependable attractions throughout much of the free world. He had added many features to his act to give it more color; he dove with lighted torches in either hand at night, he dove in a cape in the daytime which he discarded halfway down in his plunge. He had lighted rings installed on the side of his rigging and timed his revolving falls to pass through them with apparently almost no space to spare.

He had also discovered a new talent — a remarkable ear for languages. He learned with great speed and almost flawless accent. He found it fascinating, and delighted in learning the reactions of people around him by listening to their scraps of conversation.

One day he heard something that could have been meaningless, but on the other hand, perhaps not. He had stopped in at the American consulate that same afternoon where he was listened to with care. He left with the feeling that he might have made a fool of himself. Subsequent events established the fact that his call had been of some importance.

Two weeks after that he had visitors. The Central Intelligence Agency had done a fast and efficient job of checking his background, and the possibility that the information he had supplied had been deliberately planted had been considered and discarded. The visitors talked to him a little and thanked him for his cooperation. When they had done their homework a little more thoroughly they came back, this time with a proposition. They were well aware that a circus performer could travel almost anywhere that his bookings took him without arousing suspicion, and few people ever saw or took note of the face of a high diver.

He had handled relatively minor matters after that for some time, the Agency arranging bookings for him as it became necessary. Then a big one had turned up and he had been assigned the job. The problem at hand concerned the United States Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean. Before that one was over he had had a fight to the finish in a cul-de-sac in Port Said and had left a dead man behind him who would be sorely missed by an unfriendly foreign government. It had also brought him to the attention of the then commander of the Sixth Fleet, Vice-Admiral Barney Haymarket.

The fertile brain that he had displayed in high school had developed additional resourcefulness: at his request the Agency had located the high diver whom he had replaced in Atlantic City. Usually it was Walter Wagner who dove, but from time to time his invisible partner became the Great Cordova and thereby provided him with an unquestioned alibi. That had worked for almost two years before someone had finally stumbled onto the stunt. After that there had been other devices, but the cover had been exceptionally well maintained so that not more than a handful of men in Europe and Africa were aware that the Great Cordova was one of the CIA’s most reliable operators. Since it had been a suspicious British agent who had unmasked the two-diver gambit, and since he had kept his discovery strictly within the home team, certain hostile forces had remained unenlightened despite the fact that the fearsome Colonel Rostovitch had devoted himself for weeks to trying to penetrate the identity of the man who had outwitted him in a particularly critical operation. He had been told only that his enemy was an Israeli agent, which was of no help to him because there were too many Jews and as it happened Walter Wagner was not one of them.

Knowing all of this, and in addition the highly restricted details of many other operations in which the Great Cordova had been concerned, Admiral Haymarket had tapped him very early in the game as one of the men he most wanted. From the outset Wagner had proved his value and the admiral had the utmost confidence in him. Therefore when the word reached him that Wagner had some ideas concerning Low Blow, the admiral was more than ready to hear them. All members of the First Team had access to him at all times, and when they came, he listened.

Wagner sat down in the admiral’s office and asked, “How much have we got in photo coverage of the area where the Magsaysay is docked?”

“Plenty,” the admiral answered. “We had this one cooked up quite a while ago and we did all that we could to prepare for it.”

“In that case, I’d like to see the best detail shots you have of the immediate dock area, the sheds, and the access routes in particular. I might have an alternate idea that would spare the crane operator. We can’t let Ted sacrifice himself, obviously, or anyone else if we can help it. I think that maybe we can.”

They spent the next hour together going over the photographs that the admiral had assembled. They revealed every detail, even to the distances between certain of the buildings and the protective concrete-filled steel posts that had been installed to safeguard their corners where roadways passed by. After satisfying himself that it was still feasible, Wagner unveiled his plan; shoulder to shoulder with the admiral he went over certain of the photographs once more and sketched out an overlay.

“I think that it might work,” the admiral said when they were through. For him that was a strong endorsement.

“Then in that case,” Wagner said, “I have a small request to make of you.”

“You want to handle it.”

“That’s right, and I want to go into the field because I’ll have to be on the spot to pull it off. Ted Pappas will hate me for this, but I have the necessary experience and he doesn’t — not in this area. And he can be too easily identified.”

The admiral noted again the remarkable physique of the man beside him. “You aren’t exactly invisible yourself,” he commented.

“I’ve dealt with that before,” Wagner answered dryly. “I’m your best bet and you know it.”

The admiral could not deny that. “All right, Walt, it’s yours. Frame up the whole thing, then let me see it. By the way, can you handle the screw problem? That’s the real stinker, you know.”

“I think so,” Wagner said.