“But something happened,” continued the statesman, glancing absently back at the new director. “As Cons Op was changing, so was Brandon Scofield. The more vital those highly specialized defections were considered, the quicker the violence escalated. On both sides. Very early, Scofield requested commando training; he spent five months in Central America going through the most rigorous survival techniques-offensive and defensive. He mastered scores of codes and ciphers; he was as proficient as any cryptographer in NSA. Then he returned to Europe and became the expert.” “He understood the requirements of his work,” said Congdon, impressed.

  “Very commendable, I’d say.” “Oh yes, very,” agreed Winthrop. “Because, you see, it had happened: he’d reached his plateau. There was no turning back, no changing. He could never be accepted around a conference table; his presence would be rejected in the strongest diplomatic terms because his reputation was established. The bright young government major I’d recruited for the State Department was now a killer. No matter the justification, he was a professional killer.” Congdon shifted his position in the chair. “Many would say he was a soldier in the field, the battleground extensive, dangerous… never ending. He had to survive, Mr. Winthrop.” “He had to and he did,” concurred the old gentleman. “Scofield was able to change, to adapt to the new rules. But I wasn’t. When his wife was killed, I knew I didn’t belong. I saw what I had done: taken a gifted student for one purpose and seen that purpose warped. Just as the benign concept of Consular Operations had been warped-by circumstances that warranted those changes we spoke of. I had to face my own limitations.

  I couldn’t continue any longer.” “But you did ask to be kept informed of Scofield’s activities for several years. That’s in the file, sir. May I ask why?” Winthrop frowned, as if wondering himself. “I’m not sure. An understandable interest in him-even fascination, I suppose. Or punishment, perhaps; that’s not out of the question. Sometimes the reports would stay in my safe for days before I read them. And, of course, after Prague I no longer wanted them sent to me. I’m sure that’s in the file.” “Yes, it is. By Prague, I assume you refer to the courier incident.” “Yes,” answered Winthrop softly. “‘Incident’ is such an impersonal word, isn’t it? It fit the Scofield in that report. The professional killer, motivated by the need to survive -as a soldier survives, turned into a cold-blooded killer, driven solely by vengeance. The change was complete.” Again the new director of Cons Op shifted his position, crossing his legs uncomfortably. “It was established that the courier in Prague was the brother of the KGB agent who ordered the death of Scofield’s wife.” “He was the brother, not the man who issued that order. He was a youngster, no more than a low-level messenger.” “He might have become something else.” “Then where does it end?” “I can’t answer that. But I can understand Scofield’s doing what he did.

  I’m not sure I wouldn’t have done the same.” “With no sense of righteousness,” said the aging statesman. “I’m not sure I would have. Nor am I convinced that young man in Cambridge twenty-two years ago would have done so. Am I getting through to you, as is so often asked these days?” “Painfully, sir. But in my defense-and in defense of the current Scofield-we didn’t create the world we operate in. I think that’s a fair thing to say.” “Painfully fair, Mr. Congdon. But you perpetuate it.” Winthrop wheeled his chair to his desk and reached for a box of cigars. He offered the box to the director, who shook his head. “I don’t like them, either, but ever since Jack Kennedy we’re all expected to keep our supply of Havanas. Do you disapprove?” “No. As I recall, the Canadian supplier was one of President Kennedy’s more accurate sources of information about Cuba.” “Have you been around that long?” “I joined the National Security Agency when he was a senator…. Did you know that Scofield has recently begun to drink?” “I know nothing about the current Scofield, as you called him.” “His file indicates previous use of alcohol, but no evidence of excess.” “I would think not; it would interfere with his work.” “It may be interfering now.” “May be? It either is or it isn’t. I don’t think that’s such a difficult thing to establish. If be’s drinking a great deal, that’s excess; it would have to interfere. I’m sorry to hear it, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” “Oh?” Congdon leaned forward in the chair. It was ap-60 THE MATARESE CIRCLE parent that he thought he was about to be given the information he was seeking. “When you knew him as well as you did, were there signs of potential instability?” “None at all.” “But you just said you weren’t surprised.” “I’m not. I wouldn’t be surprised at any thinking man turning to alcohol after so many years of living so unnaturally. Scofield is—or was-a thinking man, and God knows he’s lived unnaturally. If I’m surprised, it’s only that it’s taken so long to reach him, affect him. What got him through the nights?” “Men condition themselves. As you put it, he adapted. Extremely successfully.” “But still unnaturally,” maintained Winthrop. “What are you going to do with him?” “He’s being recalled. I want him out of the field.” “Good. Give him a desk and an attractive secretary and have him analyze theoretical problems. Isn’t that the usual way?” Congdon hesitated before replying. “Mr. Winthrop, I think I want him separated from the State Department.” The creator of Cons Op arched his eyebrows. “Really? Twenty-two years is insufficient for an adequate pension.” “That’s not a problem; generous settlements are made. It’s common practice these days.” “Then what does he do with his life? What is he? Fortyfive… six?” “Forty-six.” “Hardly ready for one of these, is he?” said the statesman, fingering the wheel of his chair. “May I ask why you’ve come to that conclusion?” “I don’t want him around personnel involved with covert activities.

  According to our latest information, he’s displayed hostile reactions to basic policy. He could be a negative influence.” Winthrop smiled. “Someone must have pulled a beaut. Bray never did have much patience with fools.” “I said basic policy, sir. Personalities are not the issue.” “Personalities, Mr. Congdon, unfortunately are intrinsic to basic policy.

  They form it. But that’s probably beside the point… at this point. Why come to me? You’ve obviously made your decision. What can I add?” “Your judgment. How will be take it? Can he be trusted? He knows more about our operations, our contacts, our tactics, than any man in Europe.” Winthrop’s eyes became suddenly cold. “And what is your alternative, Mr.

  Congdon?” he asked icily.

  The new director flushed; he understood the implication. “Surveillance.

  Controls. Telephone and mail intercepts. I’m being honest with you.” “Are you?” Winthrop now glared at the man in front of him. “Or are you looking for a word from me-or a question-that you can use for another solution?” “I don’t know what you mean.” “I think you do. I’ve heard how it’s done, incidentally, and it appalls me. Word is sent to Prague, or Berlin, or Marseilles that a man’s no longer in sanction. He’s finished, out. But he’s restless, drinks a lot.

  Contacts’ names might be revealed by this man, whole networks exposed.

  In essence, the word spreads: your lives are threatened. So it’s agreed that another man, or perhaps two or three, get on planes from Prague or Berlin or Marseilles. They converge on Washington with but one objective: the silencing of that man who’s finished. Everyone’s more relaxed, and the American intelligence community-which has remained outside the incident-breathes easier. Yes, Mr. Congdon, it appalls me.” The director of Cons Op remained motionless in the chair. His reply was delivered in a quiet monotone. “To the best of my knowledge, Mr.

  Winthrop, that solution has been exaggerated far out of proportion to its practice. Again, I’ll be completely honest with you. In fifteen years I’ve heard of it being exercised only twice, and in both… incidents… the agents out of sanction were beyond salvage. They had sold out to the Soviets; they were delivering names.” “Is Scofield ‘beyond salvage? That’s the correct phrase, isn’t it?” “If you mean do I think he’s sold out, of course not. It’s the last thing he’d do. I really came here to learn more about him, I’m sincere about that. How is he going to react when I tell him he’s terminated?” Winthrop paused, his relief conveyed, then frowned again. “I don’t know because I don’t know the current Scofield. It’s drastic; what’s he going to do? Isn’t there a halfway measure?” “If I thought there was one acceptable to us both, I’d leap at it.” “If I were you I’d try to find one.” “It can’t be on the premises,” said Congdon firmly. “I’m convinced of that.” “Then may I suggest somethingT’ “Please do.” “Send him as far away as you can. Someplace where he’ll find a peaceful oblivion. Suggest it yourself; he’ll understand.” “He will?” “Yes. Bray doesn’t fool himself, at least he never did. It was one of his finer gifts. He’ll understand because I think I do. I think you’ve described a dying man.” “There’s no medical evidence to support that.” “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Robert Winthrop.

  Scofield turned off the television set. He had not seen an American news broadcast in several years-since he was last brought back for an interoperations briefing-and he was not sure he wanted to see one again for the next several years. It wasn’t that he thought all news should be delivered in the ponderous tones of a funeral, but the giggles and leers that accompanied descriptions of fire and rape struck him as intolerable.

  He looked at his watch; it was twenty past seven. He knew it because his watch read twenty past midnight; he was still on Amsterdam time. ffis appointment at the State Department was for eight o’clock.

  P.m. That was standard for specialists of his rank, but what was not standard was the State Department location itself. Attach6s-at-large for Consular Operations invariably held strategy conferences in safe-houses, usually in the Maryland countryside, or perhaps in hotel suites in down-town Washington.

  Never at the State Department. Not for specialists expected to return to the field. But then Bray knew he was not scheduled to return to the field. He had been brought back for only one purpose. Termination.

  Twenty-two years and he was out. An infinitesimal speck of time into which was compressed everything he knew-everything learned, absorbed and taught. He kept waiting for his own reaction, but there was none. It was as though he were a spectator, watching the images of someone else on a white wall, the inevitable conclusion drawing near, but not drawing him into the events as they took place. He was only mildly curious. How would it be done?

  The walls of Undersecretary of State Daniel Congdons office were white.

  There was a certain comfort in that, thought Scofield, as he half-listened to Congdon’s droning narrative. He could see the images.

  Face after face, dozens of them, coming into focus and fading rapidly.

  Faces of people remembered and unremembered, staring, thinking, weeping, laughing, dying… death.

  His wife. Five o’clock in the afternoon. Unter den Linden.

  Men and women running, stopping. In sunlight, in shadows.

  But where was he? He was not there.

  He was a spectator.

  Then suddenly he wasn’t. He could not be sure he heard the words correctly. What had this coldly efficient undersecretary said? Bern, Switzerland?

  “I beg your pardon?” “The funds will be deposited in your name, proportionate allocations made annually.” “In addition to whatever pension I’m entitled to?” “Yes, Mr. Scofield. And regarding that, your service record’s been predated. You’ll get the maximum.” “That’s very generous.” It was. Calculating rapidly, Bray estimated that his income would be over $50,000 a year.

  “Merely practical. These funds are to take the place of any profits you might realize from the sale of books or articles based on your activities in Consular Operations.” “I see,” said Bray slowly. “nere’s been a lot of that recently, hasn’t there? Marchetti, Agee, Snepp.” “Exactly.” Scofield could not help himself; the bastards never learned. “Are you saying that if you’d banked funds for them they wouldn’t have written what they did?” “Motives vary, but we don’t rule out the possibility.” “Rule it out,” said Bray curtly. “I know two of those men.” “Are you rejecting the money?” “Hell, no. I’ll take it. When I decide to write a book, you’ll be the first to know.” “I wouldn’t advise it, Mr. Scofield. Such breaches of security are prohibited. You’d be prosecuted, years in prison inevitable.” “And if you lost in the courts, there just might follow certain extralegal penalties. A shot in the head while driving in traffic, for example.” “The laws are clear,” said the undersecretary. “I can’t imagine that.” “I can. Look in my FourZero file. I trained with a man in Honduras. I killed him in Madrid. He was from Indianapolis and his name was-” “I’m not interested in past activities,” interrupted Congdon harshly. “I just want us to understand each other.” “We do. You can relax, I’m not… breaching any security. I haven’t the stomach for it. Also, I’m not that brave.” “Look, Scofield,” said the undersecretary, leaning back in his chair, his expression pleasant. “I know it sounds trite, but there comes a time for all of us to leave the more active areas of our work. I want to be honest with you.” Bray smiled, a touch grimly. “I’m always nervous when someone says that.”… Vnat?” “That he wants to be honest with you. As if honesty was the last thing you should expect.” “I am being honest.” “So am 1. If you’re looking for an argument, you won’t get it from me.

  I’ll quietly fade away.” “But we don’t want you to do that,” said Congdon, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk.

  “Oh?” “Of course not. A man with your background is extraordinarily valuable to us. Crises will continue to arise; we’d like to be able to call upon your expertise.” Scofield studied the man. “But not in-territory.” A statement. “Not in-strategy.” “No. Not officially. Naturally, we’ll want to know where you’re living, what trips you make.” “I’ll bet you will,” said Bray softly. “But for the recA:)rd, I’m terminated.”

  “Yes. However, we’d like it kept out of the record. A FourZero entry.” Scofield did not move. He had the feeling that he was in the field, arranging a very sensitive exchange. “Wait a minute, let me understand you. You want me officially terminated, but no one’s supposed to know it.

  And although I’m officially finished, you want to maintain contact on a permanent basis.” “Your knowledge is invaluable to us, you know that. And I think we’re paying for it.” “Why the FourZero then?” “I’d have thought you’d appreciate it. Without official responsibilities you retain a certain status. You’re still part Of us.

  “I’d like to know why this way.” “I’ll be….” Congdon stopped, a slightly embarrassed smile on his face. “We really don’t want to lose you.” “rhen why terminate me?” The smile left the undersecretary’s face. “I’ll call it as I see it. You can confirm it with an old friend of yours if you like. Robert Winthrop.

  I told him the same thing.” “Winthrop? What did you tell him?” “rhat I’don’t want you around here. And I’m willing to pay out of budget and predate records to get you out. I listened to your words; you were taped by Charles Englehart in Amsterdam.” Bray whistled softly. “Old Crimson Charlie. I should have known it.” “I thought you did. I thought you were sending us a personal message.

  Nevertheless, we got it. We have a lot to do here and your kind of obstinacy, your cynicism, isn’t needed.” “Now, we’re getting somewhere.” “But everything else is true. We do need your expertise. We have to be able to reach you anytime. You have to be able to reach us.” Bray nodded. “And the FourZero means that my separation is top secret.

  The field doesn’t know I’m terminated.” “Precisely.” “All right,” said Scofield, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. “I think you’re going to a lot of unnecessary trouble to keep a string on me, but, as you said, you’re pay-ing for it. A simple field directive could accomplish the same thing: issue clearance until rescinded. Special category.” “Too many questions would be asked. It’s easier this way.,, “Really?” Bray lit the cigarette, his eyes amused. “All right.” “Good.” Congdon shifted his weight in the chair. “I’m glad we understand each other. You’ve earned everything we’ve given you and I’m sure you’ll continue to earn it…. I was looking at your file this morning; you enjoy the water. God knows your record’s filled with hundreds of contacts made in boats at night. Why not try it in the daylight? You’ve got the money. Why not go to someplace like the Caribbean and enjoy your life?

  I envy you.” Bray got up from his chair; the meeting was over. “Thanks, I may do that.

  I like warm climates.” He extended his hand; Congdon rose and took it.

  While they shook hands, Scofield continued. “You know that FourZero business would make me nervous if you hadn’t called me in here.” “What do you mean?” Their hands were clasped, but the movement stopped.

  “Well, our own field personnel won’t know I’m terminated, but the Soviets will. They won’t bother me now. When someone like me is taken out-of-strategy, everything changes. Contacts, codes, ciphers, sterile locations; nothing remains the same. They know the rules; they’ll leave me alone. Thanks very much.” “I’m not sure I understand you,” said the undersecretary.

  “Oh, come on, I said I’m grateful. We both know that the KGB operations in Washington keep their cameras trained on this place twenty-four hours a day. No specialist who’s to remain in sanction is ever brought here.

  As of an hour ago they know I’m out. Thanks again, Mr. Congdon. It was considerate of you.” The Undersecretary of State, Consular Operations, watched as Scofield walked across the office and let himself out the door.