An Honorable Man Read Free Page B

United States Government Printing Office. It was a silly holdover from the Agency’s early days, and taxi drivers weren’t fooled; even tour bus guides took pleasure in pointing out what really went on inside the three-story Federal-style building. Who were they kidding? To Mueller the printing office sign fit into the larger pattern of being out of touch, the Agency believing the myths about itself.
    Mueller was shown into the corner office by Rose, the director’s longtime secretary, who put Mueller on a leather sofa that anchored a sitting arrangement at one end of the room, across from a ponderous wood desk. There was no clutter of paper, only stacked file folders, and the director was absorbed in reading a letter. A cold draft filled the room, carrying with it the musty odor of a stodgy Ivy League club. Mounted antelope and mountain lion heads hung on one wall above a shelf of stuffed game birds, and an antique double-barrel shotgun was cocked open on the coffee table by the sofa. Everywhere were framed photos of the director with smiling dignitaries and elegant women. Mueller knew it was unusual to be in the director’s office. An invitation meant a rare commendation or a private dressing down. One never knew which.
    â€œYou hunt?” the director said, crossing the room letter in hand.
    â€œQuail.”
    â€œGood man. We should go one day. I know a spot on the bay. Before the season opens.”
    The director sat opposite Mueller in a high-backed wing chair covered in chintz and tatted antimacassars on the arms. He wore a crimson house robe open at the neck to show necktie, and tan slippers adorned at the toes with floppy dog ears. His hair was thinning, gray, eyes a keen blue, cheeks flush with drinker’s weight, and his snaggletooth bit on a pipe, which he removed and tapped on an ash tray, and said, almost to himself as much as to Mueller, “You have to have a few martyrs. Some people have to get killed. It’s part of this business. I wouldn’tworry about Leisz. He knew what he was getting into when he signed up with us.”
    He waved his hand in the air at nothing, like the pope. “He’s not on my conscience. None of them are. We are not in the conscience business. The Soviets don’t play the game that way.”
    The director added fresh tobacco to his pipe and applied a match, drawing air to brighten the coals. He looked over his rimless spectacles perched on the end of his thick nose. “I need you to see this through to the end.” He drew on the pipe, releasing quick puffs. Hints of licorice reached Mueller.
    â€œTake some time off if you need to see your son. If you think it’s important. I believe in letting the mind rest so it doesn’t fight against the will. . . . This is a grubby business we’re in. Someday we’ll both get back to the classroom, you and I. It’s that fondness for thinking that makes us good at what we do here. The professor finds satisfaction in sorting through details and he feels superior when he passes along knowledge. The spy is the same. The daily grind, the mounds of information, the hours of boredom poking around the mounds of information, punctuated by ecstatic moments of discovery. Good researchers hold no beliefs, make no judgments. Evidence declares itself. Am I lecturing too much?”
    Mueller shook his head.
    â€œKind of you, George, but I know when I’m going on. People sit on that sofa and say nothing because I’m the man in charge, but sometimes I see they’re bored. I saw it with my students. Well, to finish the thought. We use intelligence to solve problems and when we look at evidence against our colleagues, our friends,we need to be rigorous and neutral, so our feelings about the men don’t corrupt our judgment. Yes?”
    The director rose. He stretched with a grimace. “Gout is a terrible thing. Awful. I don’t know what I did in my past life to deserve