in history. This man will not beat you. Slowly, steadily, Thornhill’s
breathing returned to normal.
It could be that Buchanan would simply use the tape as insurance. Why
spend the rest of his life in prison when he could quietly disappear?
No, it made no sense that he would take the tape to the authorities. He
had as much to lose as Thornhill, and he couldn’t possibly be that
vindictive. Thornhill had a sudden thought: Perhaps it was the
painting, the idiotic painting. Maybe that was what had started this
whole thing. Thornhill should never have taken the damned thing. He
would leave a message on Buchanan’s machine at once, telling him his
precious object had been returned. Thornhill left the message and
arranged for the painting to be brought back to Buchanan’s home.
As Thornhill sat back and looked out the window, his confidence was
restored. He had one ace in the hole. A good commander always held
something in reserve. Thornhill made another phone call and received
some positive news, a piece of intelligence that had just come in. His
face brightened, the visions of doom receding. It would be all right
after all. His mouth eased into a smile. The snatch of victory from
the jaws of defeat; it could either age a man several decades overnight
or give him bronze balls. Or sometimes both.
In another few minutes Thornhill was getting out of his car and going
up the sidewalk to his lovely house. His impeccably dressed wife met
him at the door and gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek. She had
just come back from a country club function. In fact, she was always
coming back from a country club function, he thought, muttering to
himself. While he agonized over terrorists sneaking into the country
with nuclear-bomb-making materials, she lounged at fashion shows where
young, vacuous women with legs stretching to their inflated bosoms
pranced about in outfits that didn’t even bother to cover their
derrieres. He was out every day saving the world, and his spouse ate
finger sandwiches and drank champagne in the afternoon with other
ladies of considerable means. The idle rich were as stupid as the
uneducated poor-more brainless than cows, in fact, was Thornhill’s
opinion. At least cows had a reasonable understanding that they were
the slaves. I’m an underpaid civil servant, Thornhill mused, and if I
ever let my defenses down, the only thing left of the wealthy and
powerful in this country would be the echoes of their screams. It was
a mesmerizing thought.
He barely heard his wife’s inconsequential ramblings on “her day” as he
put down his briefcase, mixed a drink and escaped to his study and
closed the door. He never told the woman about his day. She’d chat
about it to her one-name, oh-so-chic glorified barber, who would tell
another client, who would let it slip to someone else and the world
would stop tomorrow. No, he never talked shop with the wife. But he
did indulge her in just about everything else. But finger sandwiches
indeed!
Ironically, Thornhill’s home office was much like Buchanan’s. There
were no plaques, testimonials or souvenirs of his long career on
display. He was a spy, after all. Was he supposed to act like the
idiotic FBI and wear T-shirts and hats emblazoned with CIA? He almost
choked on his whiskey at the thought. No, his career had been
invisible to the public, but highly visible to those who mattered. The
country was far better off because of him, though the ordinary folk
would never know it. That was all right. To seek accolades from the
great and ignorant public was the vice of a fool. He did what he did
because of pride. Pride in himself, in his devotion to his country.
Thornhill thought back to his beloved father, a patriot who carried his
secrets, his distinguished triumphs to the grave. Service and honor.
That was what it was all about.
Soon, with a little luck, the son would notch another triumph in his
own career. When Faith showed up, she would be dead within an hour.
And Adams? Well, he would have to die too. Certainly Thornhill had