Hopscotch

“Farm labor division, may I help you?”

“My field number is four-three-three-eight,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Joseph Cutter. I don’t have his extension.”

– 5 –

WHEN THE PHONE rang Ross was nearer so he picked up. “Seven six two.”

“Who’s this?”

“Leonard Ross. Who’s calling?”

“Kendig. I’d like to speak with Joe Cutter.”

Ross’s jaw dropped. He turned and covered the mouthpiece. “It’s him.”

Cutter took the receiver and sat down on the edge of the desk. He held it an an angle against his ear so that Ross could listen in. “Miles. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m glad they put you on it, Joe. I was afraid they might not throw in the first team. I’m flattered. They still respect my talent—and yours.”

“And I got mine from you. I see what you mean. What can I do for you?”

“You’ve read my book?”

“The first chapter.”

“Desrosiers ought to have chapter two by now. You’ll probably hear from him today. I ought to mention there are a couple of pages missing from it. I withheld them on purpose. They contain the references to documentary sources and the names of the witnesses who are still alive.”

“Interesting,” Cutter said. Ross leaned closer to catch the tenor of Kendig’s voice. Cutter said, “Have you thought of putting a price on the exclusive worldwide rights?”

“What am I offered?”

“It appears to be a seller’s market, doesn’t it.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“Sure,” Cutter said. He changed the subject abruptly: “You could waste a lot of our time and energy, Miles. What are you trying to prove?”

“All I want is revenge.”

“I see. The spy who was thrown out in the cold wants to get even with the people who threw him out there. That what you mean?”

“That’s why I’m writing the book, Joe.”

“In a pig’s eye.”

Ross heard the chuckle on the phone. Cutter said, “That bullet in the head scrambled your brain. You can’t hurt the Agency—it’s like trying to knock down an elephant with a flyswatter.”

“An elephant can choke to death on a flyswatter, Joe.”

“You belong in a rubber room. What’s the real point? What will it take to call you off?”

“It’s too late for that. I’m just going to finish writing my book. I’ll be sending it out to the publishers a chapter at a time. I’ll be withholding a few evidential pages here and there—they’ll be mailed in along with the final chapter. If you haven’t nailed me yet, of course.”

Ross saw a quick grin flick across Cutter’s lips. “So it’s like that. The longer it takes us to catch you, the more damage you’ll do.”

“You’ve got the picture.”

“We’ll have you on toast, Miles.”

“Come off it. Don’t go making any funeral arrangements until you’re sure you’ve got my corpse.”

“None of us wants that.”

“Myerson would like nothing better.”

“Hell, Miles, we’ve already arranged to sell your body to science. But you can still call it off.”

“No point in that. You people need me like the axe needs the turkey. If I stopped writing now it wouldn’t change that.”

“You really want this fox hunt, don’t you.”

“It’s a way to pass the time.”

“Want to know what I think, Miles?”

“Avidly.”

“I think you’ve picked this game because it’s impossible. You’ll have plenty of excuses for your failure. It’s a hell of a cheap shot.”

“You’re talking into a dead phone, Joe. I’ll see you sometime.”

Click.

Ross leaned back. “Of all the—”

“Shut up.” Cutter was jiggling the phone cradle; then he put the instrument back to his mouth. “This is extension seven six two. A call just came in on this line. I want the log on it.”

Ross stood up and went back to his chair. The ashtray beside it was crowded with butts. They’d been waiting three days and every time he’d made a suggestion about taking some action or other Cutter had told him to go ahead if it would make him feel better. Cutter just sat by the phone and waited. It made Ross feel like an ass. He knew how Cutter regarded him: for Cutter people seemed to have glass heads. To Cutter he was a tall excitable kid, an overgrown precocious schoolboy. And the power of Cutter’s personality was such that he’d half convinced Ross he was right in his judgment. Ross was a six-year veteran of the Agency and Cutter was making him feel like a green recruit.

Cutter grunted into the phone and hung it up. He swiveled on the corner of the desk and said, “The son of a bitch.”

“What?”

“It was a local call,” Cutter said. “The son of a bitch is right here in Langley.”

“He must have the balls of a brass gorilla,” Ross said.

“There never was anybody like him.”

“No way to trace that call, is there. Well it’s not such a big town. Shouldn’t we scout around and see if we can spot him?”

“He’ll be halfway to the West Virginia line by now.”

“Then what the hell do you have in mind? Sit on our asses and diddle ourselves until he calls back?”

“He won’t call back,” Cutter said. “He’s said everything he had to say.”

“He didn’t say much of anything.”

“He’s waving a red flag, that’s all. All right, it’s time we got started.”

“Doing what?”

“Collect the composites from the second floor. Get us a conference room for eleven-thirty. And organize some transportation.” Cutter had the phone again. “It’s Cutter,” he said into it, and covered the mouthpiece to talk to Ross again: “I’ll be with Myerson. You chair the conference. You’ll have twelve men. Take them into town and blanket the pay phones. Take the composites. Find out where he made the call from, what he was wearing, what kind of car he’s driving, which way he went when he left.”

“You think we’ll find anybody who noticed?”

“Probably not. But we’ve got to cover it.”

Ross started gathering things together and putting them into his briefcase. Cutter had gone back to the phone:

“Kendig’s here somewhere. In Langley. I’ll want a few more men on it.… Nuts, he’s priority enough. He’s mailed a second chapter out to those publishers. He’s going to keep mailing chapters out until we get him. How long do you want it to take? … No. He says he wants revenge because he got ca

Cutter was still arguing with Myerson on the phone when Ross went out into the corridor.

– 6 –

HE DIDN’T USE the superhighways. There wasn’t any terrible rush and it was remotely possible they’d play the odds and cover the toll roads like the New Jersey Turnpike. The volume and concentration of traffic on those arteries was such that they might feel justified in using up manpower on stakeouts there. So he drove the old forgotten highways around the western suburbs of Philadelphia, up through New Hope and Lumberville, up the truck across the Delaware through Stockton and Flemington and Somerville, route U.S. 22 to Newark Airport. There as James Butler he turned in the rental car to the car agency. Then he took an airport bus into the West Side terminal in Manhattan.

A hunt built its own momentum. Later on they’d be close behind him with their noses to the ground and there wouldn’t be time to sit down and write. The thing to do was to write the whole thing and carry it along with him and post the chapters one at a time; he’d let Cutter’s actions dictate the intervals between mailings.