Free Code to Zero by Follett Ken

only insult him if he speaks to me first.”
    “What’s your excuse this time?”
    Anthony tossed the envelope onto the desk. Cooperman picked it up and looked at the Xerox copies. “Blueprints,” he said. “Of a rocket, I guess. So what?”
    “They’re top secret. I took them from the surveillance subject. He’s a spy, George.”
    “And you chose not to tell Hobart that.”
    “I want to follow this guy around until he reveals his whole network—then use his operation for disinformation. Hobart would hand the case over to the FBI, who would pick the guy up and throw him in jail, and his network would fade to black.”
    “Hell, you’re right about that. Still, I need you at this meeting. I’m chairing it. But you can let your team carry on the surveillance. If anything happens, they can get you out of the conference room.”
    “Thanks, George.”
    “And listen. This morning you fucked Hobart up the ass in front of a room full of agents, didn’t you?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Next time, try and do it gently, okay?” Cooperman picked up Pravda again. Anthony got up to leave, taking the blueprints. Cooperman said, “And make damn sure you run this surveillance right. If you screw up on top of insulting your boss, I may not be able to protect you.”
    Anthony went out.
    He did not return to his office right away. The row of condemned buildings that housed this part of the CIA filled a strip of land between Constitution Avenue and the Mall with the reflecting pool. The motor entrances were on the street side, but Anthony went out through a back gate into the park.
    He strolled along the avenue of English elms, breathing the cold fresh air, soothed by the ancient trees and the still water. There had been some bad moments this morning, but he had held it together, with a different set of lies for each party in the game.
    He came to the end of the avenue and stood at the halfway point between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. This is all your fault, he thought, addressing the two great presidents. You made men believe they could be free. I’m fighting for your ideals. I’m not even sure I believe in ideals anymore—but I guess I’m too ornery to quit. Did you guys feel that way?
    The presidents did not answer, and after a while he returned to Q Building.
    In his office he found Pete with the team that had been shadowing Luke: Simons, in a navy topcoat, and Betts, wearing a green raincoat. Also there was the team that should have relieved them, Rifenberg and Horwitz. “What the hell is this?” Anthony said with sudden fear. “Who’s with Luke?”
    Simons was carrying a gray homburg hat, and it shook as his hand trembled. “Nobody,” he said.
    “What happened?” Anthony roared. “What the fuck happened, you assholes?”
    After a moment, Pete answered. “We, uh . . .” He swallowed. “We’ve lost him.”

9 A.M.
    The Jupiter C has been built for the Army by the Chrysler Corporation. The large rocket engine that propels the first stage is manufactured by North American Aviation, Inc. The second, third, and fourth stages have been designed and tested by the Jet Propulsion Laboratory near Pasadena.
     
    Luke was angry with himself. He had handled things badly. He had found two people who probably knew who he was—and he had lost them again.
    He was back in the low-rent neighbourhood near the gospel shop on H Street. The winter daylight was brightening, making the streets look more grimy, the buildings older, the people shabbier. He saw two bums in the doorway of a vacant store, passing a bottle of beer. He shuddered and walked quickly by.
    Then he realized that was strange. An alcoholic wanted booze anytime. But to Luke, the thought of beer this early in the day was nauseating. Therefore, he concluded with enormous relief, he could not be an alcoholic.
    But, if he was not a drunk, what was he?
    He summed up what he knew about himself. He was in his thirties. He did not smoke. Despite