“I understand.” As he said this, the younger man managed not to shake
his head in bewilderment. Everyone in this room other than Robert
Thornhill knew that the FBI and CIA actually got along well. Though
they could be ham-handed at times in joint investigations because they
had more resources than anyone else, the FBI was not on a witch hunt to
bring down the Agency. But the men in this room also understood quite
clearly that Robert Thornhill believed the FBI was their worst enemy.
And they also knew that Thornhill had, decades ago, orchestrated a
number of Agency-authorized assassinations with cunning and zeal. Why
cross such a man?
Another colleague said, “But if we kill the agent, don’t you think the
FBI will go on a crusade to find out the truth? They have the
resources to scorch the earth. No matter how good we are, we can’t
match their strength. Then where are we?”
Some grumbling rose from the others. Thornhill looked around warily.
The collection of men here represented an uneasy alliance. They were
paranoid, inscrutable fellows long used to keeping their own counsel.
It had truly been a miracle to forge them together in the first
place.
“The FBI will do everything they can to solve the murder of one of
their agents and the chief witness to one of their most ambitious
investigations ever. So what I would propose doing is to give them the
solution we desire them to have.” They looked curiously at him.
Thornhill sipped water from his glass and then took a minute to prime
his pipe.
“After years of helping Buchanan run his operation, Faith Lockhart’s
conscience or good sense or paranoia got the better of her. She went
to the FBI and has now begun telling them everything she knows. Through
a little foresight on my part, we were able to discover this
development. Buchanan, however, is completely unaware that his partner
has turned against him. He also doesn’t know that we intend to kill
her. Only we know.” Thornhill inwardly congratulated himself for this
last remark. It felt good, omniscience; it was the business he was in,
after all.
“The FBI, however, may suspect that he does know about her betrayal or
may find out at some point. Thus, to the outside observer, no one in
the world has greater motivation to kill Faith Lockhart than Danny
Buchanan.”
“And your point?” the questioner persisted.
“My point,” said Thornhill tersely, “is quite simple. Instead of
allowing Buchanan to disappear, we tip off the FBI that he and his
clients discovered Lockhart’s duplicity and had her and the agent
murdered.”
“But once they get hold of Buchanan, he’ll tell them everything,” the
man quickly responded.
Thornhill looked at him as a disappointed teacher to pupil. Over the
last year, Buchanan had given them everything they needed; he was now
officially expendable.
The truth slowly dawned on the group. “So we tip the FBI about
Buchanan posthumously. Three deaths. Correction, three murders,”
another man said.
Thornhill looked around the room, silently gauging the reaction of the
others to this exchange, to his plan. Despite their protestations
about killing an FBI agent, he knew that three deaths meant nothing to
these men. They were from the old school, which quite clearly
understood that sacrifices of that nature were sometimes necessary.
Certainly what they did for a living sometimes cost people their lives;
however, their operations had also avoided open war. Kill three to
save three million, who could possibly argue with that? Even if the
victims were relatively innocent. Every soldier who ever died in
battle was innocent too. Covert action, quaintly referred to as the
“third option” in intelligence circles, the one between diplomacy and
open war, was where the CIA could really prove its worth, Thornhill
believed. Although it was also at the heart of some of the Agency’s
worst disasters. Well, without risk there was never the possibility
for glory. That epitaph could be put on his tombstone.
No formal vote was taken by Thornhill; none was needed.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Thornhill said. “I’ll take care of
everything.” He adjourned the meeting.
CHAPTER 2 \
THE SMALL, WOOD-SHINGLED COTTAGE STOOD ALONE at the end of a short,