Free The Matarese Circle by Robert Ludlum Page B

Operations had a new director. A career intelligence officer named Daniel Congdon had been shifted from a ranking position at the National Security Agency to the clandestine chair at State. He had replaced Winthrop’s successor and was finely attuned to the harsh decisions required by
Cons Op.
But he was new; he had questions. He also had a problem with a man named Scofield and was not sure how to handle it. He knew only that he wanted Brandon Alan Scofield terminated, removed from the State Department for good. His actions in Amsterdam could not be tolerated; they revealed a dangerous and unstable man. How much more dangerous would he be removed from the controls of Consular Operations? It was a serious question; the man with the code name, Beowulf Agate knew more about the State Department’s clandestine networks than any other man alive. And since Scofield had initially been brought to Washington years ago by Ambassador Robert Winthrop, Congdon went to the source.
    Winthrop had readily agreed to make himself available to Congdon but not in an impersonal office or an operations room. Over the years, the Ambassador had learned that men involved with covert operations too instinctively reflected their surroundings. Short, cryptic sentences took the place of freer, rambling conversations wherein a great deal more could be revealed and learned. Therefore, he had invited the new director over for dinner.
    The meal was finished, nothing of substance discussed. Congdon understood: the Ambassador was probing the surface before delving deeper. But now the moment had come.
    “Let’s go into the library, shall we?” said Winthrop wheeling himself away from the table.
    Once inside the book-lined room, the Ambassador wasted no time. “So you want to talk about Brandon.”
    “Very much so,” replied the new director of
Cons Op.
    “How do we thank such men for what they’ve done?” asked Winthrop. “For what they’ve lost? The field extracts a terrible price.”
    “They wouldn’t be there if they didn’t want to be,” said Congdon. “If, for some reason, they didn’t need it. But once having been out there and survived, there’s another question. What do we do with them? They’re walking explosives.”
    “What are you trying to say?”
    “I’m not sure, Mr. Winthrop. I want to know more about him. Who is he? What is he? Where did he come from?”
    “The child being the father of the man?”
    “Something like that. I’ve read his file—a number of times, in fact—but I’ve yet to speak to anyone who really knows him.”
    “I’m not sure you’ll find such a person. Brandon.…” The elder statesman paused briefly and smiled. “Incidentally, he’s called Bray, for reasons I’ve never understood. It’s the last thing he does. Bray, I mean.”
    “That’s one of the things I’ve learned,” interrupted the director, returning Winthrop’s smile as he sat down in a leather armchair. “When he was a child he had a younger sister who couldn’t say Brandon; she called him Bray. The name just stuck with him.”
    “That must have been added to his file after I left. Indeed, I imagine a great deal has been added to that file. But as for his friends, or lack of them. He’s simply a private person, quite a bit more so since his wife died.”
    Congdon spoke quietly. “She was killed, wasn’t she?”
    “Yes.”
    “In fact, she was killed in East Berlin ten years ago next month. Isn’t that right?”
    “Yes.”
    “And ten years ago next month you resigned the directorship of Consular Operations. The highly specialized unit you built.”
    Winthrop turned, his eyes leveled at the new director. “What I conceived and what finally emerged were two quite different entities. Consular Operations was designedas a humanitarian instrument, to facilitate the defection of thousands from a political system they found intolerable. As time went on—and circumstances seemed to warrant—the objectives were narrowed. The