as one of Tennessee Ernie Ford’s coal miners. Frequently up before dawn,
commuting to work mainly by train from outlying suburbs, they worked in
crowded offices, worked hard and late, and went home most often to find
wives and children asleep. Despite what he’d learned from TV and research
before coming over here, it still came as a shock to Nomuri that the pressures
of business might actually be destroying the social fabric of the country, that
the structure of the family itself was damaged. It was all the more surprising
because the strength of the Japanese family unit was the only thing that had
enabled his own ancestors to succeed in an America where racism had been
a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.
“Expensive, yes,” Taoka agreed morosely, “but where else can a man
get what he needs?”
‘ ‘That is true,” another said on the other side of the pool. Well, not really
a pool, but too big for a tub. “It costs too much, but what is it worth to be a
man?”
“Easier for the bosses,” Nomuri said next, wondering where this would
lead. He was still early in his assignment, still building the foundation for
embarking on his real mission, taking his time, as he’d been ordered to do by
Ed and Mary Pat.
“You should see what Yamata-san has going for him,” another salary-
man observed with a dark chuckle.
“Oh?” Taoka asked.
“He is friendly with Goto,” the man went on with a conspiratorial look.
‘ ‘The politician-ah, yes, of course!”
Nomuri leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the hundred-plus-degree
water of the bath envelop him, not wanting to appear interested as his brain
turned on its internal tape-recorder. “Politician,” he murmured sleepily.
“Hmph.”
“I had to run some papers to Yamata-san last month, a quiet place not far
from here. Papers about the deal he just made today, in fact. Goto was enter-
taining him. They let me in, I suppose Yamata-san wanted me to have a look.
The girl with them …” His voice became slightly awed. “Tall and blonde,
such fine bosoms.”
“Where does one buy an American mistress?” another interjected
coarsely.
“And she knew her place,” the storyteller went on. “She sat there while
Yamata-san went over the papers, waiting patiently. No shame in her at all.
Such lovely bosoms,” the man concluded.
So the stories about Goto are true, Nomuri thought. How the hell do peo-
ple like that make it so far in politics? the field officer asked himself. Only a
second later he reproved himself for the stupidity of the question. Such be-
havior in politicians dated back to the Trojan War and beyond.
“You cannot stop there,” Taoka insisted humorously. The man didn’t,
elaborating on the scene and earning the rapt attention of the others, who
already knew all the relevant information on the wives of all present, and
were excited to hear the description of a “new” girl in every clinical detail.
“Who cares about them?” Nomuri asked crossly, with closed eyes.
“They’re too tall, their feet are too big, their manners are poor, and-”
“Let him tell the story,” an excited voice insisted. Nomuri shrugged his
submission to the collegial will while his mind recorded every word. The
salaryman had an eye for detail, and in less than a minute Nomuri had a full
physical description. The report would go through the Station Chief to Lang-
ley, because the CIA kept a file on the personal habits of politicians all over
the world. There was no such thing as a useless fact, though he was hoping to
get information of more immediate use than Goto’s sexual proclivities.
The debriefing was held at the Farm, officially known as Camp Peary, a CIA
training facility located off of Interstate 64 between Williamsburg and York-
town, Virginia. Cold drinks were gunned down as rapidly as the cans could
be popped open, as both men went over maps and explained the six weeks
in-country that had ended so well. Corp, CNN said, was going to begin his
trial in the following week. There wasn’t much doubt about the outcome.
Somewhere back in that equatorial country, somebody had already pur-
chased about fifteen feet of three-quarter-inch manila rope, though both offi-
cers wondered where the lumber for the gallows would come from. Probably
have to ship it in, Clark thought. They hadn’t seen much in the way of trees.
“Well,” Mary Patricia Foley said after hearing the final version.
“Sounds like a good clean one, guys.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ding replied gallantly. “John sure shovels out a
nice line of BS for people.”
“That’s experience for you,” Clark noted with a chuckle. “How’s Ed
doing?”
“Learning his place,” the Deputy Director for Operations replied with an
impish grin. Both she and her husband had gone through the Farm together,
Mild Clark had been one of their instructors. Once the best husband-wife
Icuin the Agency had, the truth of the matter was that Mary Pat had better
innlincls for working the field, and Ed was better at planning things out.
Under those circumstances, Ed really should have had the senior position,
bul Mary Pat’s appointment had just been too attractive, politically speak-
ing, and in any case they still worked together, effectively co-Deputy Direc-
lor*. though Ed’s actual title was somewhat nebulous. “You two are due
M»HIC lime off, and by the way, you have an official attaboy from the other
tide of the river.” That was not a first for either officer. “John, you know,
H’H really time for you to come back inside.” By which she meant a perma-
nent return to a training slot here in the Virginia Tidewater. The Agency was
iipM/.ing its human-intelligence assets-the bureaucratic term for increasing
the number of case officers (known as spies to America’s enemies) to be
deployed into the field. Mrs. Foley wanted Clark to help train them. After
•II, he’d done a good job with her and her husband, twenty years before.
“Not unless you want to retire me. I like it out there.”
“He’s dumb that way, ma’am,” Chavez said with a sly grin. “I guess it
comes with old age.”
Mrs. Foley didn’t argue the point. These two were among her best field
Icums, and she wasn’t in that much of a hurry to break up a successful opera-
lion. “Fair enough, guys. You’re released from the debrief. Oklahoma and
Nebraska are on this afternoon.”
“How are the kids, MP?” That was her service nickname, though not
everybody had the rank to use it.
“Just fine, John. Thanks for asking.” Mrs. Foley stood and walked to the
door. A helicopter would whisk her back to Langley. She wanted to catch the
game, too.
Clark and Chavez traded the look that comes with the conclusion of a job.
Operation WALKMAN was now in the books, officially blessed by the
Agency, and, in this case, by the White House.
“Miller time, Mr. C.”
“I guess you want a ride, eh?”
“If you would be so kind, sir,” Ding replied.
John Clark looked his partner over. Yes, he had cleaned himself up. The
black hair was cut short and neat, the dark, heavy beard that had blurred his
face in Africa was gone. He was even wearing a tie and white shirt under his
suit jacket. Clark thought of the outfit as courting clothes, though on further
reflection he might have recalled that Ding had once been a soldier, and that
soldiers returning from the field liked to scrape off the physical reminders of
the rougher aspects of their profession. Well, he could hardly complain that
the lad was trying to look presentable, could he? Whatever faults Ding might
have, John told himself, he always showed proper respect.
“Come on.” Clark’s Ford station wagon was parked in its usual place,
and alter fifteen minutes they pulled into the driveway of his house. Set out-
side the grounds of Camp Peary, it was an ordinary split-level rancher, emp-
tier now than it had been. Margaret Pamela Clark, his elder daughter, was
away at college, Marquette University in her case. Patricia Doris Clark had
chosen a school closer to home, William and Mary in nearby Williamsburg,
where she was majoring in pre-med. Patsy was at the door, already alerted
for the arrival.
“Daddy!” A hug, a kiss, followed by something which had become
somewhat more important. “Ding!” Just a hug in this case, Clark saw, not
fooled for a moment.
‘ ‘Hi, Pats.” Ding didn’t let go of her hand as he came into the house.
4
Activity
“Our requirements are different,” the negotiator insisted.
“How is that?” his counterpart asked patiently
‘ ‘The steel, the design of the tank, these are unique. I am not an engineer
myself, but the people who do the design work tell me this is so, and that
their product will be damaged by the substitution of other parts. Now,” he
went on patiently, “there is also the issue of commonality of the parts. As