“We can’t just dump him here,” Robert had protested. “They’ll kill him.”
“That’s his problem,” Thornton had replied. “Your orders are to come back home.”
Screw you, Robert thought. I’m not going to abandon him. He had called a friend of his in M16, British Intelligence, and explained the situation.
“If he goes back to East Germany,” Robert said, “they’ll chop him. Will you take him?”
“I’ll see what can be done, old chap. Bring him along.”
And the scientist had been given haven in England.
Dustin Thornton never forgave Robert for disobeying his instructions. From that point on, there was open animosity between the two men. Thornton had discussed the incident with his father-in-law.
“Loose cannons like Bellamy are dangerous,” Willard Stone warned. “They’re a security hazard. Men like that are expendable. Remember that.”
And Thornton had remembered.
Now, walking down the corridor toward Dustin Thornton’s office, Robert could not help thinking about the difference between Thornton and Whittaker. In a job like his, trust was the sine qua non. He did not trust Dustin Thornton.
Thornton was seated behind his desk when Robert walked into his office.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Sit down, Commander.” Their relationship had never reached the “Robert” phase.
“I’ve been told you’ve been temporarily transferred to the National Security Agency. When you come back, I have a—”
“I’m not coming back. This is my last assignment.”
“What?”
“I’m quitting.”
Thinking about it later, Robert was not sure exactly what reaction he had expected. Some kind of scene. Dustin Thornton could have shown surprise, or he could have argued, or been angry, or relieved. Instead, he had merely looked at Robert and nodded. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”
When Robert returned to his own office, he said to his secretary, “I’m going to be away for a while. I’ll be leaving in about an hour.”
“Is there some place where you can be reached?”
Robert remembered General Hilliard’s orders. “No.”
“There are some meetings you—”
“Cancel them.” He looked at his watch. It was time to meet Admiral Whittaker.
They had breakfast in the center yard of the Pentagon at the Ground Zero Café, so named because it was once thought that the Pentagon was where the first nuclear-bomb attack against the United States would take place. Robert had arranged for a corner table where they would have a degree of privacy. Admiral Whittaker was punctual, and as Robert watched him approach the table, it seemed to him that the admiral looked older and smaller, as though semiretirement had somehow aged and shrunk him. He was still a striking-looking man with strong features, a Roman nose, good cheekbones, and a crown of silvered hair. Robert had served under the admiral in Vietnam and later in the Office of Naval Intelligence, and he had a high regard for him. More than a high regard, Robert admitted to himself. Admiral Whittaker was his surrogate father.
The admiral sat down. “Good morning, Robert. Well, did they transfer you to the NSA?”
Robert nodded. “Temporarily.”
The waitress arrived, and the two men studied the menu.
“I had forgotten how bad the food here was,” Admiral Whittaker said, smiling. He looked around the room, his face reflecting an unspoken nostalgia.
He wishes he were back here, Robert thought. Amen.
They ordered. When the waitress was out of earshot, Robert said, “Admiral, General Hilliard is sending me on an urgent three-thousand-mile trip to locate some witnesses who saw a weather balloon crash. I find that strange. And there’s something else that’s even stranger. ‘Time is of the essence,’ to quote the general, but I’ve been ordered not to use any of my intelligence contacts abroad to help me.”
Admiral Whittaker looked puzzled. “I suppose the general must have his reasons.”
Robert said, “I can’t imagine what they are.”
Admiral Whittaker studied Robert. Commander Bellamy had served under him in Vietnam and had been the best pilot in the squadron. The admiral’s son, Edward, had been Robert’s bombardier, and on the terrible day their plane had been shot down, Edward had been killed. Robert had barely survived. The admiral had gone to the hospital to visit him.
“He’s not going to make it,” the doctors had told him. Robert, lying there in agonizing pain, had whispered, “I’m sorry about Edward…I’m so sorry.”