Metzger's Dog Read Free Page A

and physics. It really is the Africa thing. The Latin America project is just getting too much scrutiny this year. And the smart money is saying the Africa thing is going to need the attention.”
    “All right, but I’m warning you. I have no idea what Baker can do for you, but he’s no scientist.”
    “It’s not my decision,” said Morrison. “I’m telling you, it’s not. I don’t make policy. Believe me, it sometimes makes me unhappy. Next year a tenth of my budget is already earmarked for linguistics research—specifically to develop quick ways of teaching Americans to speak languages like Somali, Bemba, Tswana, Luo, and Dinka.”
    “That’s absurd,” said Donahue. “I’m being cut loose to fund a project to teach a dozen unrelated languages of doubtful use? John, there are more Spanish-speaking people in Los Angeles than there ever have been speakers of Luo in the world.”
    “I know that, Ian. There are others who know it too. And I have connections with a few of them, people in private foundations that don’t have to rely on the whims of subcommittees for their existence. I have a few suggestions for you.” Morrison produced a card. “I think this one is your best bet,” he said. “The Seyell Foundation. You’ve heard of them?”
    “Of course,” said Donahue.
    “If I were you I’d give this man a call,” said Morrison, handing Donahue the card. “Benjamin Porterfield. I’ve known him for years. He’s the new president of the Seyell Foundation, and something of a specialist on Latin America himself. I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”
    Donahue took the card. All it had was the name and a telephone number, printed in raised black letters. “Thanks. You’re a real friend. Will you come out with me for dinner at Scandia? There’s someone I’d like you to meet—a graduate student who’s working with me on the final report. Her name is Grace Warner.”
    “Let me call you later on that, Ian,” said Morrison. He rose to leave. “I’m going to stop back at the hotel for an hour or two and see if I can get out of another appointment. It’s something I can probably take care of on the telephone.”
    As Morrison rode the elevator to the ground level he thought about Ian Donahue. In a week or two Donahue would collect himself and call Porterfield at the Seyell Foundation and be pleasantly surprised. The Seyell Foundation was now preparing to distribute the largest set of grants in its history for studies like Donahue’s. Ian would probably even like Ben Porterfield, a quiet, businesslike man in his late fifties who would appear to Donahue to be an answer to his prayers. The image struck Morrison as appropriate. That was what they called the investors in the theater, wasn’t it? Angels. In the old days when Porterfield had been the Company’s chief Special Operations officer in Guatemala, that had been the name his band of guerrillas had given him—El Ángel de Muerte. But Ian Donahue would never get to hear that. If Donahue tried to find out about Porterfield he’d be able to learn that he was a respectable business executive, a former president of a small airline, a former vice-president of a major food corporation who’d been on the board of directors of the Seyell Foundation for years. It would never occur to him that the Foundation had been converted, year by year, into one of the CIA’s client companies. Donahue might even feel some relief at the ease of dealing with private research funds after so many years of federal audits and on-site visits. Porterfield’s personality would probably be a relief too. He was hard headed and aloof. Donahue might even be able to get out of the business of finding female graduate students who didn’t mind spending an evening in the Beverly Wilshire with a middle-aged visitor from Washington. That part was a pity, Morrison thought, but it had to be. The orders were that the Latin America project was ready to go underground. From now on no