The Painted Messiah by Craig Smith Page B

eyes. The first time Malloy had met Whitefield was in Paris shortly after the new station chief had summoned him to a meeting. Malloy recalled every word spoken that afternoon. Whitefield was not a man for small talk. He had told Malloy that Charlie Winger wanted all western European field personnel reporting directly to Paris, meaning to Whitefield himself. When Malloy complained, pointing out that he had been reporting to Jane Harrison with some success for a number of years, Whitefield told him, 'You get with the programme, T. K., or you go home.'
    Malloy had answered in conciliatory tones. He understood, he said. That was the way you worked in the agency. Agree, cook the books, file reports with discrete omissions, and do what was necessary. According to Jane Harrison, whom he had contacted at once, the arrangement was temporary. In her vocabulary that meant Charlie Winger was riding for a fall. It was one of the few times Jane had failed to come through for him, but in retrospect completely understandable. Charlie Winger had stormed the citadel like a man with friends above and below. What he wanted, he was going to get. Jane Harrison still had enough of a budget to run her own private war, but she was suddenly reporting to the director through Charlie. With hindsight, Malloy realized it was the beginning of the end of his career.
    Malloy's second meeting with Bob Whitefield was every bit as memorable. Whitefield had told him his expertise was needed at Langley. 'I suppose congratulations are in order,' he had added without the slightest hint of irony.
    This would be their third meeting. This time, at least, there would be no surprises.
    'T. K., good to see you,' Whitefield announced pleasantly, as if Malloy had come for a visit. 'Care for a glass of your Scotch?'
    Malloy settled comfortably in a reading chair and took the Scotch. 'I would have thought a station chief had better things to do than run errands for the big boys.'
    Whitefield presented his patented watery smile. That depends on how big the boy is. I'd say helping out a friend of the President is worth it. I have to tell you, T. K., I was surprised to hear you agreed to slip back into the harness. I really was. I was under the impression you'd had enough of us.'
    'I always thought it was the other way around.'
    Whitefield seemed more relaxed suddenly. 'As I understand it, Charlie wanted you to have some different experiences so he could bring you up a few rungs on the food chain, and you got a little huffy about it.'
    'I was inside every major bank in Switzerland, Bob. How are we doing now?'
    Whitefield grimaced. 'We're getting up to speed, but it's been tough. With the new treaty in place, the Swiss promise all the cooperation in the world and deliver when they feel like it. When we need to know things, we go to the same people you used in the banks, but they won't work with us, or if they do they give us yesterday's news at tomorrow's prices.' Most of Malloy's contacts, the ones he listed in his reports, were cutouts, not people providing the real information. They looked good on paper, and they took a salary for the tidbits they handed out, but they didn't know very much and provided even less. The people with real information were too critical to risk including in his reports. Beirut had taught him the folly of writing things down.
    'It's a matter of trust,' Malloy answered. 'They'll stick their necks out only if they know what kind of person they're dealing with.'
    Whitefield's expression showed skepticism, but he didn't respond.
    Wanting to change the subject, Malloy stood up, walked across the room, and looked out his window. 'I've been reading some of your reports from this summer,' he said.
    'About Julian Corbeau?'
    'Corbeau is one of my personal hobbies.'
    'Corbeau is everyone's hobby, T. K, at least until we can prove something.'
    Living now in Switzerland with a one million dollar bounty on his head, Corbeau had left America a decade ago under