The Loves of Harry Dancer Read Free Page A

Stricken. Reaches to cover one of his hands with hers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I went through it six months ago. It’s hard, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. Hard.”
    “The worst thing,” she says, “the absolute worst, is that gradually the pain goes. You’re convinced you’re going to suffer for the rest of your life. But slowly the sorrow dulls. Even your memories fade. And that seems so shameful that you can hardly live with it.”
    “Yes,” he says. Looking at her wonderingly. “That’s the way it is.”
    He signs the check. Pays with plastic. While they’re waiting for the receipt, she decides to give him a final jolt.
    “By the way,” she says. Lightly. “I’m a tennis nut. Can you suggest a court? Some place nearby?”
    Before they part, they’ve made a date to play at his club in Boca the next day. Saturday. Heimdall gives him her address and phone number.
    “I’ll reserve as soon as I get back to the office,” he promises. “I’ll call you. I imagine everything is booked for the morning. If we play in the late afternoon, perhaps we could have dinner later.”
    “Love it,” she says. “How shall I dress?”
    “For dinner,” he says. Happy. “Bring your tennis things in a bag. You can change there. I’ll pick you up.”
    “Sounds like fun,” she says.
    He presses her hand.
    Back in the motel suite, Anthony Glitner debriefs her. Takes her over the entire meeting. What did he say? What did you say then? What cocktail did you order? What did he have? What did you eat? What did he? How did he look? What’s your take on him?
    “I like him,” Evelyn Heimdall says. Slowly. “Very much. Right now he’s vulnerable. It can go either way.”

6
    T he Department has two moles in Corporation headquarters in Washington, D.C. One is the night code-clerk. The Department turned him by getting him hooked on cocaine. Now on a daily ration. Enough to keep him wired, but not so much that he can’t function.
    When the transmission comes in from Leonard concerning Harry Dancer, the night code-clerk makes a duplicate of the transcription. Passes it along to his coke contact. He, in turn, hands it over to the Department’s Resident in Washington. That agent forwards it via microfilm to the Department’s headquarters in Cleveland.
    There the information is printed, evaluated, added to the computerized file. An alert is immediately sent to the Director of the Southeast Region in Fort Lauderdale.
    This process takes almost a week. By the time the Regional Director receives the intelligence, he knows the Corporation’s team of agents is already in place, zeroing in on Harry Dancer.
    That fact doesn’t disturb him half as much as the question of how the Corporation learned of the Department’s interest in Dancer. The only answer to that is a leak, a serious leak, within Regional headquarters. The Director calls in his Chief of Internal Security. Ted Charon.
    They huddle in the Director’s office, make a list of all personnel with knowledge of the Dancer operation: The Director himself. Secretary Norma Gravesend. Agent Sally Abaddon. Case officer Shelby Yama. And a dozen others: computer operators, file clerks, aides who set up Sally’s employment at the Tipple Inn.
    “And Jeremy Blaine,” the Director adds. “Don’t forget him. He tipped us to Dancer, but maybe he’s playing a double game. Check him out.”
    “Yes, sir,” Charon says. “I have a feeling the leak is at a low level, but we’ll cover everyone. Do you have any idea how large a team the Corporation has sent down?”
    “I’ve asked Cleveland to query our moles in Corporation headquarters. Nothing yet, but we’ll be getting names and numbers shortly. The Washington Resident knows his job. But while we’re waiting for intelligence, I’m bringing Briscoe down from Atlanta.”
    “Briscoe? Isn’t he the one who terminated the Corporation’s agent in the Miller case?”
    “That’s the man.”
    “I don’t know, Director,” the