do? He has no experience in this kind of work. He’s not trained. Use one of
your own men.”
“There isn7t time. There’s no time for one of our men. H&II be protected;
you can help.”
“I can stop youl”
“No, you can’t, Sam,” said Matlock from the chair.
“Jim, for Christ:s sake, do you know what he’s ask- THE MATLOCK PAPM 35
ing? If therd’s any truth to what he!s said, he’s placing you in the worst
position a man can be in. An informer.’
“You don’t have to stay. My decision doesn’t have to be your decision. Why
doet you go home?” Matlock rose and walked slowly to the bar, carrying his
glass.
nafs impossible now,” said Kressel, turning toward the government agent.
“And he knows it~”
Loring felt a touch of sadness. This Matlock was a good man; be was doing
what he was doing because he felt be owed a debt. And it was coldly,
professionally projected that by accepting the assignment, James Matlock
was very possibly going to his death. It was a terrible price, that
possibility. But the objective was worth it. The conference was worth it.
Nimrod was worth it.
That was Loring’s conclusion.
It made his assignment bearable.
4
Nothing could be written down; the briefing was slow, repetition constant
But Loring was a professional and knew the value of taking breaks from the
pressures of trying to absorb too much Wo rapidly. During these periods, he
attempted to draw Matlock out, learn more about this man whose life was so
easily expendable. It was nearly midnight; Sam Kressel had left before eight
o’clock. It was neither necessary nor advisable that the dean be present
during the detailing of the specifics. He was a liaison, not an activist.
Kressel was not averse to the decision.
Ralph Loring learned quickly that Matlock was a private man. His answers to
innocuously phrased questions were brief, thrown-away replies constituting
no more than self-denigrating explanations. After a while, Loring gave up.
Matlock had agreed to do a job, not make public his thoughts or his
motives. It wasn’t necessary; Loring understood the latter. That was all
that mattered. He was just as happy not to know the man too well.
Matlock, in turn-while memorizing the complicated information-was, on
another level, reflecting on his own life, wondering in his own way why
he’d been selected. He was intrigued by an evaluation that
THE MATLOCK PAPM 37
could describe him as being nwbile, what an awful word to have appliedl
Yet he knew he was precisely what the term signified. He was mobile. The
professional researchers, or psychologists, or whatever they were, were
accurate. But he doubted they understood the reasons behind his . . .
mobility.a
The academic world had been a refuge, a sanctuary. Not an objective of
long-standing ambition. He had fled into it in order to buy time, to
organize a life that was falling apart, to understand. To get his head
straight, as the kids said these days.
He had tried to explain it to his wife, his lovely, quick, bright,
ultimately hollow wife, who thought he!d lost his senses. What was there to
understand but an awfully good job, an awfully nice house, an awfully
pleasant club, and a good life within an awfully rewarding social and
financial world? For her, there was nothing more to understand. And he
understood that
I But for him that world had lost its meaning. He had begun to drift away
from its core in his early twenties, during his last year at Amherst. The
separation became complete with his army experience.
It was no one single thing that had triggered his rejection. And the
rejection itself was not a violent act, although violence played its role
in the early days of the Saigon mess. It had begun at home, where most
.life-styles are accepted or rejected, during a series of disagreeable
confrontations with his father. The old gentleman-too old, too
gentlemanly-felt justified in demanding a better performance from his first
son. A direction, a sense of purpose not at all in evidence. The senior
Matlock belonged to another era-if not
38 Robert Ludlum
another century-and believed the gap between father and son a desirable
thing, the lower element being dismissible until it had proved itself in the
marketplace. Dismissible but, of course, malleable. In ways, the father was
like a benign ruler who, after generations of power, was loath to have the
throne abandoned by his rightful issue. It was inconceivable to the elder
Matlock that his son would not assume the leadership of the family business.
Businesses.
But for the younger Matlock, it was all too conceivable. And preferable. He
was not only uncomfortable thinking about a future in his father’s nw-rket-
place, he was also afraid. For him there was no joy in the regimented
pressures of the financial world; instead, there was an awesome fear of
inadequacy, emphasized by his father’s strong–overpoweringcompetence. The
closer he came to entering that world, the more pronounced was his fear.
And it occurred to him that along with the delights of extravagant shelter
and unnecessary creature comforts had to come the justification for doing
what was expected in order to possess these things. He could not find that
justification. Better the shelter should be less extravagant, the creature
comforts somewhat limited, than face the prospects of continuing fear and
discomfort
He had tried to explain that to his father. Whereas his wife had claimed
hed lost his senses, the old gentleman pronounced him a misfit
Which didn7t exactly refute the army’s judgment of him.
The army.
A disaster. Made worse by the knowledge that it was of his own making. He
found that blind physical discipline and unquestioned authority were
abhorrent
THE MATLOCK PAPM 39
to him And he was large enough and strong enough and had a sufficient
vocabulary to make his unadJustable, immature objections known-to his own
disadvantage.
Discreet manipulations by an uncle resulted in a discharge before his tour
of service was officially completed; for that he was grateful to an
influential family.
And at this juncture of his life, Jaynes Barbour Matlock III was a mess.
Separated from the service less than gloriously, divorced by his wife,
dispossessedsymbolically if not actually~by his family, he felt the panic
of belonging nowhere, of being without motive or purpose.
So hed fled into the secure confines of graduate school, hoping to find an
answer. And as in a love affair begun on a sexual basis but growing into
psychological dependence, he had married that world; he’d found what had
eluded him for nearly five vital years. It was the first real commitment
he’d ever experienced.
He was free.
Free to enjoy the excitement of a meaningffil challenge-, free to revel in
the confidence that he was equal to it He plunged into his new world with
the enthusiasm of a convert but without the blindness. He chose a period of
history and literature that teemed with energy and conflict and
contradictory evaluations. The apprentice years passed swiftly; he was
consumed and pleasantly surprised by his own talents. When he emerged on
the professional plateau, he brought fresh air into the musty archives. He
made startling innovations in long-unquestioned methods of research. His
doctoral thesis on court interference with English Renaissance
hterature–news manage-
4o Robert Ludluin
ment-blew into the historical ashcan several holy theories about one
benefactress named Elizabeth.
He was the new breed of scholar: restless, skeptical, unsatisfied, always
searching while imparting what he’d learned to others. Two and a half years
after receiving his doctorate, he was elevated to the tenured position of
associate professor, the youngest instructor at Carlyle to be so
contracted.
James Barbour Matlock U made up for the lost years, the awful years.
Perhaps best of all was. the knowledge that he could communicate his
excitement to others. He was young enough to enjoy sharing his enthusiasm,
old enough to direct the inquiries.
Yes, he was mobile; God, was hel He couldiA, wouldfet turn anyone off, shut
anyone out because of disagreement–even dislike. The depth of his own
gratitude, the profoundness of his relief was such that he unconsciously
promised himself never to discount the concerns of another human being.
‘Any surprises?” Loring had completed a section of the material that dealt
with narcotics purchases as they’d been traced.
“More a clarification, rd say,” replied Matlock. Me old-line fraternities
or clubs-mostly white, mostly rich-get their stuff from Hartford. The black
units like Lumumba Hall go to New Haven. Different sources.”
‘Exactly; that’s student orientation. The point being that none buy from
the Carlyle suppliers. From Nimroc1L”
“You explained that. The Nimrod people don’t want to be advertised.”
“But they’re here. They’re used.”
By whom?- TBE mATLOcK PAM 41
‘Faculty and staff,” answered Loring calmly, flipping over a page. This nwy
be a surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Archer Beeson . . .”
Matlock immediately pictured the young history instructor and his wife.