3
I HAD A FEW PROBLEMS OF MY OWN. THE FIRST WAS TO DECIDE ON THE next step in my career. Every time I considered cutting loose from father and godfather, recollections came back of early days in the Snake Pit. There were hours when I did not feel ready to get anywhere on my own.
In any event, the question persisted: What was I to do next? Before he left for Japan, my father had indicated that some kind of operation was going to continue against Castro, but did I wish to go back to a Miami that would be bereft of Modene?
I could apply, of course, for Paris, Rome, Vienna, or London Station. They might, however, be too prestigious; I could end up as a flunky at such posts. Besides, my preference did not have to be honored. I could also find myself in Iceland or Palma de Mallorca.
Whether I was well regarded in the Agency or not had to be, of course, the salient question, and the answer was not automatic. Despite all his obvious abilities, Porringer must have finally irritated Howard a little too much, because, last I heard, Porringer had chosen to apply clear across the Branches, the Divisions, and even the Directorate of Plans, and was now buried in the Directorate of Intelligence. It was what happened, in effect, if you had to apply to Personnel for assignments.
In the circumstances, I decided to seek Howard out. My father’s eminence was, after all, under a cloud, and Harlot had been noncommunicative. I did not know what kind of job Howard might be able to offer, but who else was there? I did not wish to go to David Phillips, and Richard Bissell was not only in disfavor, but too high for me to make a call upon his time. If I had been wise in these matters, I might have approached Richard Helms. The word (as I could have learned by calling Arnie Rosen) was that Helms would be DDP once Bissell walked the plank. Helms, after all, had stayed clear of the Bay of Pigs.
Well, I was not witting. I did not understand that Richard Helms might right now be selecting his cadres of young officers for that powerful future. Rosen would have known, Rosen would have been ready for Helms if willing to engage the risk that Harlot might be permanently offended.
These were, however, subtleties beyond my modest instincts for advancement. I had to content myself with inviting Howard Hunt to a drink after work.
His immediate tasks for Dulles now completed, Howard was out at the Domestic Operations Division on Pennsylvania Avenue performing “interesting initiatives” for Tracy Barnes. When I responded that this sounded “unclarified,” he said, “Let me put it that the Domestic Operations Division was established only after a considerable internecine struggle.”
“Can you tell a fellow more?”
He could. The DOD was ready to take on projects that “are unwanted elsewhere in the CIA. I am the Chief of Covert Action in the DOD.”
“I don’t know if I’m getting much picture of the working day.”
“Small-fry stuff. Support for books and publishers we think are in need of a helping hand.”
When I was silent, he added, “Milovan Djilas’ The New Class, for instance, put out by Praeger.”
“It sounds easy,” I said.
“It is. I have time these days for family, for friends, and for a second career. You see, I’ve been approached by Victor Weybright who, in case you don’t know, is the editor in chief of the New American Library. He wishes me to write an American counterpart to the James Bond novels that New American Library already publishes. I took up the idea with Helms and he agrees this might not be disadvantageous in the vein of public relations. I’m starting what I will call the Peter Ward series. Under a nom de plume, of course. David St. John.”
“A good name.”
“It’s taken from David and St. John Hunt. My sons.”
“Of course.” I swallowed my drink. “That is all you do down at DOD?”
“For now.”
Were we to order two more drinks? I would be paying, and I wanted value. “One is tempted to ask what you are waiting for.”
“I can only repeat,” said Howard, “that we take on the projects unwanted elsewhere in the CIA.”
We left on that. It was only when I woke up in the middle of the night that it became absolutely clear to me that Hunt had passed on no more than his cover story. The Domestic Operations Division, if I was to take my guess, must be engaged in special activities concerning Cuba.
Two days later, a telegram came to my apartment. It said: SIGN UP ON NO STRANGE SHIPS. GLOBETROTTER.
It occurred to me that Howard had spoken to Tracy Barnes, who, in turn, must have discussed my merits with Montague. I hardly knew whether to be pleased or wary that not all interest had been lost in Herrick Hubbard.
If I have been giving a portrait of the kind of low ruminations my mind, when unhappy, is capable of producing, I will say that the inanitions of my mood, which had lasted through all of this despondent spring and summer, were relieved at a stroke—I am tempted to call it a coup—by one phone call, make it two.
The morning after receiving the telegram from GLOBETROTTER, my phone rang just as I was on my way to Langley, and the voice of a woman, mechanically muffled by several thicknesses of handkerchief, spoke into my ear. I could not be certain I knew her, not instantly; the voice was as blurred as a record turning too slowly. Besides, the conversation was finished before my ear was ready.
“Call me in twelve minutes at the following number: 623-9257. Please repeat.”
“623-9257.” I could not believe it, but I saw an orange wall in front of which was a green table bearing a blue lamp. A man with a black jacket, green pants, and red shoes was sitting in a brown chair. “623-9257,” I said again.
“It is now 7:51. You will call me at 8:03. You will employ Bell hygiene.”
“Message received,” I said. “8:03. Bell hygiene.”
“Ciao.” The phone clicked.
I could not believe it. In training, it had been one’s dream to be ready, always ready, for such a moment.
I began to laugh. The woman could be no one other than Kittredge.
I had not felt as merry since the bulletin on the uses of Langley shrubbery had crossed my desk.
There was a bank of pay phones two blocks from the apartment, and at two minutes and fifty seconds past eight, I put in my dime. The voice that responded no longer came to me through a handkerchief.
“Harry?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Kittredge.”
To my small horror, I could say no more than, “Yes.”
“Harry, have you ever heard of a girl named Modene Murphy?”
“Why do you ask?” But now my larynx was hardly loyal to me.
“Oh, Harry, you’re FIELD, aren’t you?”
“I choose not to answer that.”
“I knew it all the time. Harry, like it or not, Hugh has chosen me as your replacement. I’m up on your reports.”
“All of them?”
“All, and more. You don’t know the ensuings.”
Well, if it had been something like a year and a half since we had been in any kind of communication, this was a hell of a way to start up.
“Kittredge, can I see you?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to meet you behind Hugh’s back, and I certainly don’t want to have to look at the two of you en famille at dinner.”
“How is Christopher?”
“Divine. I would perish for that child.”
“I would like to see him. I am, after all, his godfather.”
She sighed. “Do you have a post office box?”
“Well, yes, I do.”
“Give me the number,” she said, and as soon as I did, she added, “I think we’re back in business again. I’m going to send you a long letter.”
“How soon?”
“By tomorrow it should go out. It’s written in my mind already.”
“And how do I reach you?”
It developed that Kittredge had a post office box as well.
“You sound wonderful,” I said.
“Patience,” she said, and hung up.