Free Exile Hunter by Preston Fleming Page A

him?
Linder could not form a clear answer. He might have known better, but
had done it anyway.
    Denniston used the
momentary break in conversation to reach into his breast pocket and
pull out a multi-page typed document.
    “Here,” he said,
presenting the document to Linder. “We’ll need you to sign this
before the detainees begin their interrogation.”
    Linder scanned it
rapidly. It was a criminal confession that admitted to a broad range
of subversive activities. He leafed forward to the end, where he
found an appendix listing the names of nearly every exile contact he
had reported to Headquarters over the past year. He returned to the
signature page, where his name was shown both as Joseph Tanner and as
Warren Linder.
    “You’ve got my true
name in there, you nitwit. Take it out and print a new one.”
    Linder tore the paper
in half, then doubled it and tore it again before handing the pieces
back to Denniston.
    “Now why would you do
a thing like that?” Denniston asked as if he had been insulted. “We
need your signature both ways: in true name and in alias. It’s not
what you think it is.”
    “The hell it isn’t.
Don’t take me for an idiot. Now get out of here and don’t come
back till you’re ready to set me free.”
    Denniston clenched his
teeth, turned abruptly to face the steel door, and pounded his fist
on it three times to be released.
    * * *
    Linder spent the next
two hours pacing back and forth along the narrow passage beside his
cot. What had happened was unfair, he thought. How could his career
have come to this after so many years of dues paying and risk taking
to distinguish himself from the fakers, four-flushers, and wannabes?
How could he not have seen it coming? Or had he?
    In his tiny cell in the
bowels of the American Embassy, Warren Linder had to acknowledge that
the Department of State Security did not value his services as highly
as he had believed. The powerful and prestigious institution with
which he had cast his lot now seemed to consider him expendable. And
the man he had thought was his colleague and friend, rather than risk
disfavor with those higher up, appeared ready to sell him down the
river to preserve the DSS’s illusion of infallibility. Only
individuals made mistakes, not institutions, and if any mistakes were
made, they were not going to be Denniston’s.
    Linder was at heart an
individualist who believed in free will and rejected determinism and
its derivative notion of victimhood. To feel sorry for himself and
play the victim, while consistent with Unionist doctrine, was beneath
his dignity. He was a professional intelligence officer, a highly
trained predator and a charter member of the Big Boys Club who was
well aware that he had committed more sins than any mortal could
atone for in a lifetime. If his personal worldview made any sense, he
understood that he would likely be held accountable for at least some
of those misdeeds one day, and perhaps that time had come.
    But to be held to
account by scoundrels like Denniston and Bednarski offended his sense
of natural order. How could one expect to extract truth or justice
from distortions and mistruths concocted by professional liars?
Perhaps because he did not know the answer and he sensed an
inconsistency or two in his reasoning, his head began to ache and he
decided to lie down again. An hour or more later, he awoke to the
sound of footsteps in the corridor.
    This time, when the
door rolled open, his visitor was Bob Bednarski. The man’s eyes
were bloodshot, his hair disheveled, and the armpits of his shirt
stained with perspiration. Linder guessed that he had been working
non-stop since the events at Eaton’s apartment. Linder smelled
alcohol on his breath and in his acrid sweat.
    “That was the lamest
undercover performance I’ve ever heard!” Bednarski exploded the
moment the cell door clanged shut. “You rolled over at Eaton’s
first objection! You didn’t even make an effort! Do you realize
that, by