The Second Saladin

46

Lanahan’s moment of terror was approaching fast now. He ran a raspy tongue across leather lips; he looked at his watch, the water glass before him, then at Sam Melman’s water glass across the table. His mouth and throat begged his brain for water, but he had sworn to himself to yield nothing to the men in this room — all of them older by at least ten and more likely fifteen years, none particularly friendly, the Operations Directorate elect at the weekly division-head meeting at Langley — and so he would not take any more water than his mentor over there. But Melman had a notoriously high discomfort threshold and could do without water for hours. He had not touched his, not at all. The guy next to him must have blown a couple of networks to the Russians that very morning, because he’d already tossed away a glass and a half. And there had to be bad news due from Soviet Bloc too, because that man was really sucking the fluid down while looking about with a kind of abstracted horror seen only in meetings — a wash of pallor and a mad flittiness of the eyes, a radiant and all-encompassing fear.

But Sam, across the table, sat in calm splendor. He reached across the polished wood, showing a quarter-inch of cream-colored French cuff, and idly caressed the glass. Lanahan watched his fine fingers on the cool vessel, then diverted his gaze to his own glass, just a few inches from his fingers. It stood under a rectangular fluorescent light whose glow made the glass seem impossibly vivid.

Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. The line rattled around in his skull idiotically, something remembered from parochial school; it would not go away. He concentrated to drive it out.

At the other end of the table a studious fellow off the European desk was detailing at tedious length a recently completed transaction with a Soviet naval attaché in Nice. It was a pointless and self-serving narrative, full of allusions to people and events Lanahan had no knowledge of. Hearing classified stuff like this had long ago lost its titillating charm and the speaker’s loquacity was agonizing; for Lanahan knew that after Europe stood down, it was Far East’s turn; and then came Special Projects. And Melman, among so many other things, was Special Projects. He looked again at the agenda in pale, blurred mimeograph before him as if to make certain and saw, yes, yes, under the Special Projects rubric, it was still there:

He reached and touched the glass. He touched it with one stumpy finger, felt its smoothness. He knew mystically, out of a private bargain with himself, that if he gave in to the temptation and drank the water, catastrophe would follow inevitably. It was foreordained; ii was certain. Yet, suicidally, that only made the water more attractive. His throat ached for it. He looked at his watch. Thirty seconds had passed.

Lanahan was in a real jam. He could not find Chardy. Chardy had disappeared on him. He’d shaken his two babysitters and not been seen since early the previous afternoon. He had not been at his apartment. And Miles had been under special instructions to keep watch on Chardy. And he knew Melman would ask about Chardy. And that if he tried to lie, he’d blow it. And that if he told Melman that Chardy had something going with Trewitt in Mexico, he was in deep trouble. And he knew that if Chardy had gone to the Russians, he was in desperate trouble.

Miles’s tiny hands formed fists. Why had those guys let Chardy get away! How could he be expected to run things with third-raters like those two! It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have been responsible for both Chardy and Danzig. It was too much, especially with Danzig acting up too.

Far East had the floor. A rear admiral — though he’d worked in the Agency for years now, he still wore his uniform, his vanity — he spoke in austere, oblique phrases, reading through half-lenses from a typewritten page before him on a topic so obscure Lanahan had no chance of comprehending. Yet almost as he began, he finished, and sat back blankly.

“Discussion?”

“Walt, on the Hong Kong apparatus? Are those the same people Jerry Kenny used back in ’fifty-nine?”

“Some. Old Li, of course — he’s been around since the war. But the real energy is from the younger people, the post-Chiang generation.”

Who the fuck is Jerry Kenny? Lanahan wondered.

“Okay. Just wanted clarification. I don’t think Jerry was terribly fond of Li.”

“Li has his uses.”

“I suppose.”

“More?”

Oh, Lord, Lanahan thought; and then he thought, Chardy, you motherfucker — and was astonished at himself for uttering, even in his own mind, such a filthy word.

“Sam. Aren’t you next?”

Melman was talking. He had them, Lanahan could tell. He had them, was lulling them, rolling them this way and that: the operation in synopsis, high points, low points, fates of some long-gone participants, status of the survivors, constant flattering references to his Number 1 right-hand man and field supervisor, Miles Lanahan, at which Miles could only nod and smile tightly.

He’s setting me up, Miles thought He knows I’ve screwed up — he must have his sources; he’s just setting me up.

Miles patrolled tongue along lips again. Oh, Christ, it was hot. He hoped the perspiration hadn’t beaded up on his forehead; he wished he could get to the John; he was dying for a sip of water.

Where was Chardy?

Why didn’t I give him to Melman earlier. I had a scoop, good stuff. I had to play it too fine, push it too hard, shoot for an even bigger …

He could still hand over Chardy. It wasn’t too late. He owed Chardy nothing. He remembered guys like Chardy from high school and college: jocks, heroes, they thought they owned the world; they thought they deserved more space. The priests loved Chardys; they’d barely nod to a bright but tiny boy like Miles. Chardy carried the glory of the faith; Miles only did his job.

Where was Chardy?

He’d had a team there all night. Nothing. He now had people at police stations, at hospitals. They could reach him still, in seconds, even though he had only seconds remaining until he was up, only seconds —

The hell with it, thought Lanahan.

He took a swallow of water, and another; it was gone. He’d finished it in one shot. He could feel horrified eyes on him; had he made some gross gulping noise? Had a tradition been shattered, his career ruined? It turned on such small things, after all: not on who your dad was or where you went to school, but how much water you drank and whether your socks were right and did you know when to laugh and what to laugh at?

He rubbed his nose, where a blemish throbbed.

“Miles?”

“Ah!”

Not listening.

“Your status?” Sam looked at him with great kindness and expectation.

“Well” — his voice a pitch too high; he brought it down — “well, Sam and gentlemen” — the wrong note, didn’t mean to seem obsequious; the trick here was presence — “it’s currently a holding situation. Dr. Danzig is to some degree cooperating with us by staying put, and we’ve got that house sealed up.”

“Miles, what kind of liaison are you working with the FBI?”

“Extremely low-level. One of their supervisors offered me a blank check but I thanked him and backed off. I didn’t see any point in involving them any more than necessary. They wanted to ship over bodies, but you never know who is reporting to whom.”

“What about Secret Service?”

“I consulted with them on setting up my perimeters; they were quite helpful. But they didn’t offer people and I didn’t ask for people. We’ve got our own men in the house and grounds; in addition, we’ve got vehicular patrols orbiting the house, as well as an emergency CP in a house down the block. It’s very tight. They almost arrested me.”

“They did arrest me,” said a well-known acquaintance of Joseph Danzig’s, to much laughter.

Miles began to hope that —

“And what’s Danzig’s status?”

“Ah. He’s under great strain. It’s a very difficult time for him, and for us. He’s bearing up, although not without his little outbursts.”

“How are your people doing?”

“I’ve no problems to report. They seem to be doing well. They’re professionals; they know what’s expected.”

“Anything else, Miles?” asked Sam.

“That’s it. Nothing more to say.”

“Well, unless there’s any discussion—”

“Isn’t Chardy on this one?”

“Yes,” said Miles.

“Now, Paul was a fieldman. Talk about pros. One of the real cowboys.” The voice was warm with nostalgia, with dewy memories for what some of the men in this room must have thought of still as the Good Old Days.

And fuck him. Fuck him to hell. Out of nowhere, out of a sweet weakness for a dreadful past, had Chardy’s ugly name come up and onto the table. Miles looked quickly to the far end of the room but could not identify the speaker. They all looked the same anyway: gray, pleasant, bland men in suits, vaguely aloof, prim smiles, calm eyes.

“Danzig likes him, I’ve heard,” somebody else said curiously.

“He seems to have conceived an affection for Chardy. The strain, I suppose,” said Miles. “I don’t think it’s—”

“Didn’t Chardy do some time in a Soviet prison? Miles, do you think it wise, considering—”

But Melman cut in swiftly:

“David, we’re all aware of Paul’s flamboyant — and checkered — past. It was my decision to bring him into this, because he was linked to Ulu Beg. In all frankness, one of our first thoughts was that he would be the Kurd’s target; we wanted to make him more visible, in that case. It didn’t work out. Now he’s important because—”

“I know he’s important. Is he reliable?” The voice was ugly.

“It’s a risk I think we should be willing to run. We are monitoring him carefully.”

“I say any man who beat up Cy Brasher deserves a medal,” somebody new said, again to a great chorus of laughter.

“I’m not shedding any tears for Cy Brasher, Sam, but that’s exactly the kind of wild-eyed, out-of-control behavior that this Agency can no longer afford. That’s why I ask if he’s reliable. And that’s why—”

“So far, Paul has done his work diligently,” said Sam.

“Except for Boston,” said David, whoever David was. “If I read those reports right, if he’d stayed on station, the whole mess—”

“Or again, it might have been worse. And if he had panicked, and not thought to move that suicidal woman’s body away from the scene, a minor catastrophe might have exploded into a major scandal. Paul cuts both ways. He can help you in a way nobody else can, and he can hurt you to just the same extent. So you’ve got to keep him on a very short chain. Miles wouldn’t have the job he’s got if I weren’t satisfied he’s a good man with a chain. Miles, what have you got him doing now? Is he still at the house?”

Sam certainly had mastered the techniques of blandness. This was the question that would destroy Miles right now, before all these division heads, and it had been asked in the softest, the most reasonable tone Miles had ever heard. Sam sounded again like a cardinal.

“Well, he’s—” Miles began, wondering where he would end, at the same time enchanted, fascinated, by the catastrophe of the moment. But exactly as his mind purged clean of words, some factotum — Miles hadn’t ever seen him enter — leaned and placed before him a message, which Miles proceeded to read in a confident voice as though he’d known it all along, despite the fact that he was as amazed as any of them to discover that late last night Chardy had been playing basketball with some inner-city kids on a lit playground in Anacostia and some rough words had been exchanged and poor Paul had been beaten rather severely.

“He’s in Saint Teresa’s, in Southeast.”

He smiled at Sam.

“Is there any more water?”