Four minutes later he stood in front of a well-kept brown-
stone house, its muted, rich design in concert with those around it in the tree-lined street. It was a quiet street, a monied street -old money. It was the last place in Manhattan a person would suspect of housing one of the most sensitive intelligence operations in the country. And as of twenty minutes ago, Major Gordon Webb was one of only eight or ten people in the country who knew of its existence.
Treadstone Seventy-one.
He climbed the steps, aware that the pressure of his weight on the iron grids embedded in the stone beneath him triggered electronic devices that in turn activated cameras, producing his image on screens inside. Beyond this, he knew little, except that Treadstone Seventy-one never closed; it was operated and monitored twenty-four hours a day by a select few, identities unknown.
He reached the top step and rang the bell, an ordinary bell, but not for an ordinary door, the major could see that. The heavy wood was riveted to a steel plate behind it, the decorative iron designs in actuality the rivets, the large brass knob disguising a hot-plate that caused a series of steel bolts to shoot across into steel receptacles at the touch of a human hand when the alarms were on. Webb glanced up at the windows. Each pane of glass, he knew, was an inch thick, capable of withstanding the impact of .30 calibre shells. Treadstone Seventy-one was a fortress.
The door opened and the major involuntarily smiled at the figure standing there, so totally out of place did she seem. She was a petite, elegant-looking, grey-haired woman with soft aristocratic features and a bearing that bespoke monied gentility. Her voice confirmed the appraisal; it was mid-Atlantic, refined in the better finishing schools and at innumerable polo matches.
'How good of you to drop by, Major. Jeremy wrote us that you might Do come in. It's such a pleasure to see you again.'
'It's good to see you again, too,' replied Webb, stepping into the tasteful foyer, finishing his statement when the door was closed, 'but I'm not sure where it was we met before.'
The woman laughed. 'Oh, we've had dinner ever so many times.'
'With Jeremy?'
'Of course.'
'Who's Jeremy?'
'A devoted nephew who's also your devoted friend. Such a nice young man; it's a pity he doesn't exist.' She took his elbow as they walked down a long hallway. 'It's all for the benefit of neighbours who might be strolling by ... Come along now, they're waiting.'
They passed an archway that led to a large living-room; the major looked inside. There was a grand piano by the front windows, harp beside it; and everywhere - on the piano and on polished tables glistening under the spill of subdued lamps were silver-framed photographs, mementos of a past filled with wealth and grace. Sailing boats, men and women on the decks of ocean liners, several military portraits ... and yes, two candid shots of someone mounted for a polo match. It was a room that belonged in a brownstone on this street.
They reached the end of the hallway; there was a large mahogany door, bas-relief and iron ornamentation part of its design, part of its security. If there was an infra-red camera, Webb could not detect the whereabouts of the lens. The grey-haired woman pressed an unseen bell; the major could hear a slight hum.
'Your friend is here, gentlemen. Stop playing poker and go to work. Snap to, Jesuit.'
'Jesuit?' asked Webb, bewildered.
'An old joke,' replied the woman. 'It goes back to when you were probably playing marbles and snarling at little girls.'
The door opened and the aged but still erect figure of David Abbott was revealed. 'Glad to see you, Major,' said the one-time Silent Monk of Clandestine Services, extending his hand.
'Good to be here, sir.' Webb shook hands. Another elderly, imposing-looking man came up beside Abbott.
'A friend of Jeremy's, no doubt,' said the man, his deep voice edged with humour. 'Dreadfully sorry time precludes proper introductions, young fellow. Come along, Margaret. There's a lovely fire upstairs.' He turned to Abbott 'You'll let me know when you're leaving, David?'
'Usual time for me, I expect,' replied the Monk. I'll show these two how to ring you.'
It was then that Webb realized there was a third man in the room; he was standing in the shadows at the far end, and the major recognized him -instantly. He was Elliot Stevens, senior aide to the President of the United States - some said his alter ego. He was in his early forties, slender, wore glasses and had the bearing of unpretentious authority about him.
'... it'll be fine.' The imposing older man who had not found time to introduce himself had been speaking; Webb had not heard him, his attention on the White House aide. I'll be waiting."
Till next time,' continued Abbott, shifting his eyes kindly to the grey-haired woman. Thanks, Sister Meg. Keep your habit pressed down.' 'You're still wicked, Jesuit.'
The couple left, closing the door behind them. Webb stood for a moment, shaking his head and smiling. The man and woman of One-four-zero, Seven-one East belonged to the room down the hall just as that room belonged in the brownstone, all a part of the quiet, monied, tree-lined street. 'You've known them a long time, haven't you?'
'A lifetime, you might say,' replied Abbott. 'He was a yachtsman we put to good use in the Adriatic runs for Donovan's operations in Yugoslavia. Mikhailovich once said he sailed on sheer nerve, bending the worst weather to his will... and don't let Sister Meg's graciousness fool you. She was one of Intrepid's girls, a piranha with very sharp teeth." 'They're quite a story.'
"It'll never be told,' said Abbott, closing the subject. 'I want you to meet Elliot Stevens. I don't think I have to tell you who he is. Webb, Stevens. Stevens, Webb.' -
'That sounds like a law firm," said Stevens amiably walking across the room, hand extended. 'Nice to know you, Webb; Have a good trip?'
'I would have preferred military transport. I hate those damned commercial airlines. I thought a customs agent at Kennedy was going to slice the lining of my suitcase.'
'You look too respectable in that uniform,' laughed the Monk. 'You're obviously a smuggler.'
'I'm still not sure I understand the uniform,' said the major, carrying his briefcase to a long hatch table against the wall and unclipping the nylon cord from his belt.
'I shouldn't have to tell you,' answered Abbott, 'that the tightest security is often found in being quite obvious on the surface. An army intelligence officer, prowling around undercover in Zurich at this particular time could raise alarms.'
'Then I don't understand, either,' said the White House aide, coming up beside Webb at the table, watching the major's manipulations with the nylon cord and the lock. 'Wouldn't an obvious presence raise even more shrill alarms? I thought the assumption of undercover was that discovery was less probable.'
'Webb's trip to Zurich was a routine consulate check, predated on the G-Two schedules. No one fools anybody about those trips; they're what they are and nothing else. Ascertaining new sources, paying off informants. The Soviets do it all the time; they don't even bother to hide it. Neither do we. frankly.'
'But that wasn't the purpose of his trip,'' said Stevens, beginning to understand. 'So the obvious conceals the unobvious.'