chapter 8 - Layout

Sammy showed up at the Washington Monument at precisely quarter to noon. He wanted to be able to scope out the situation and to determine whether or not there was any surveillance around the monument. He thought, correctly, that with Patterson leaving his stronghold he would undoubtedly be followed. He sat at one of the newly furnished benches surrounding the base of the monument, his eyes searching the grounds for Patterson's protectors. He didn't find them and, quite frankly, didn't expect to since Patterson surrounded himself with the best. He decided to use up his remaining time before the Director’s appearance by reading the latest on the presidential panel.

Unfolding the paper to page one, he read the headline,

FIRST APPOINTMENT MADE TO CIA PANEL


President Walter Jenkins' press secretary Roger Davies announced today that the first appointment to the now‑called CIA panel will be freshman Senator Joseph Humphreys (D‑NY). Senator Humphreys, a first term senator, was previously the District Attorney for Albany County, New York. Previous to his election as District Attorney, Humphreys was a third generation police officer with the Albany Police Department and it was during this time that he went to Albany Law School, graduated with honors and became an Assistant District Attorney, quickly rising through the ranks to head the homicide bureau and then running for election on his record. "We believe that this first appointment highlights the President's promise to the American people to investigate all acts of malfeasance within the CIA," Davies said in a prepared statement. "Senator Humphreys' able law‑enforcement background will enable the Presidential panel to focus its energies on investigating the activities of the CIA that has so concerned the President in a time‑efficient manner."

So, Sammy thought as he looked up to see if Patterson showed up yet, maybe he could find out information from his friend, Bill. He'd have to look into this. But not now. In good time. When the time was right. He continued to read and his eyes jumped out at the name in the next paragraph.

Senator Humphreys' office was ecstatic at the appointment. In a prepared statement from the Senator's offices in Albany, New York, Humphreys' top aide, William Williams, said, "While Senator Humphreys is only a first‑term senator, he feels he could retire tomorrow and be complete; however, to do so he would not fulfill his mandate to his constituents. Having spent most of his life in the law enforcement world Senator Humphreys will brook no compromise in uncovering any evidence of wrongdoing and bringing any wrongdoers to account for their crimes against the state."

So much for Bill helping out, he thought.

Many on Capitol Hill agree with this assessment; however, there are many detractors. Senior Senator Richard Cadbury (R‑Wy) often a critic of the President's, but one of the loudest supporters of the CIA panel said from his Washington office, "This is pure window dressing. A freshman senator. I don't think there is much that can be accomplished by this man, no matter how many years in law enforcement he has. If he doesn't know his way around Congress, he won't get anything done."

Sammy's reading was interrupted by a large shadow looming over the paper. He looked up to see the Director staring down at him.

"Punctuality," he said. "I like that. You never cease to please me." Despite the beautiful weather this late spring day, with clear skies and temperatures in the low seventies, the Director was bedecked in his usual outfit of dark wool suit, raincoat and hat. Nothing, Sammy thought sarcastically, like remaining inconspicuous. "Do you mind if I sit down with you on this lovely bench? You do know that this bench probably cost $10,000 given our government's antiquated bidding systems." He sat, without waiting for a response. "Do you know that in communist countries a bench like this would probably cost $200 to buy. That's the beauty of that system. Probably the only one. But think about it. Do you think that we would be in this position we find ourselves in if we were living in a truly prosperous country. I think not. The more prosperous we are the less critical the populous will be." Although the last thing Sammy wanted to hear was the incessant, incoherent ramblings of this man, he merely listened quietly in order to avoid an outburst, such as the one he had prompted earlier.

"How come people line up in communist countries for rolls of toilet paper that they pay $5 for?"

"That's because the government holds onto the supplies. If we cut the federal deficit we would have true supply and demand and we wouldn't be in the fix we're in today." He paused and lazily looked at the surroundings, his eyes finally resting upon Sammy. "Well, I could talk economics all day long with you but we have more important things to talk about. Let's walk."

They got up and started walking along the boundary of the reflecting pool. They did not talk for several minutes as they admired the spring day. They appeared to be two friends merely out for a walk, even looked like father and son enjoying a special moment between themselves.

Sammy was the first to break the silence. "Why do you want me to do this?" he asked with a measure of chagrin in his voice.

Patterson's sneaky grin was all the answer Sammy needed but Patterson answered anyway. "Because my young friend, if this presidential panel is allowed to continue the CIA will cease to exist, plain and simple. Let me tell you what will be found. There are documents, mind you not many, but they do exist, that show the Company's complicity in many domestic operations."

"How could those things exist? Why would they be documented?"

"Because in many instances the operations were carried out with the full knowledge and consent of the President of the United States. Nixon and Johnson had an especially fruitful field day in this area. It came to be pattern and practice. While we maintained secret files, the staffs of the Presidents would cover their asses with memos regarding the operations in true Washingtonian fashion. True, no executive orders were ever issued but enough hard digging and the memos are found. And, due to my foresight the memos are carefully worded and have been placed in innocuous files, totally unrelated to operations. As has been explained to you the only thing that can stop the momentum of this panel is something of such epic proportion that the country's attention will be diverted."

"The President." It was a statement, nothing more.

"Yes. I wish there were some other way to do it. I personally like the President. He has something a President hasn't had for a long time, high moral character. He's squeaky clean. Personally, I'd rather have you terminate that fucking Lambert Wardeck. Never have I had the displeasure of knowing such a sneaky son of a bitch as that Chief of Staff. And I've known them all. Unfortunately, I do believe that the majority of the country feels the same thing about Wardeck. So, if we got rid of him nothing would change. There'd probably be parties here in Washington to celebrate." He started to cackle at this thought.

He continued. "From here on in, you are Paul Kalvin. We have established records going way back. I'm sure Connolly filled you in and gave you the appropriate documents to examine. You only have today to read the materials over. You have a meeting scheduled for nine in the morning with Lambert himself."

"Tomorrow morning? That's not enough time to memorize the file. It's gotta be three or four inches thick."

"Five inches, to be exact." He stared at Sammy, his coal black eyes gleaming. "Don't bullshit me now, Samuel." His voice was ice‑edged. "I've read your file. Yes, your file. Did you think we wouldn’t have a file on you. Did you think we just picked you up off the street. No, you were not approached until we had a full profile on you. When we were satisfied, Connolly called Armstrong and had him recruit you. But have a file on you we do. We have information from Dr. Feintuch, remember him. You only met him once but he thought you were something very out of the ordinary. He felt you had a computer for a brain that needed to be tamed. He felt that you were lying to gain attention and the very lies you even thought of showed great potential. When Bennett Armstrong first noticed your potential in college, we searched your room. We even found your notebooks."

Sammy sat speechless, uncomprehending. He knew what he was hearing but could not believe it. "What?"

"Haven’t you been listening to what I said? Did you think we take a recruit without doing a background investigation? Come on. Well, anyway, as I was saying, we found these notebooks, some obviously many years old, nothing current, but, oh boy, what did it show us. To the untrained eye, it showed a pathological liar in training. What our company psychs saw, however, was someone with a computer for a brain, someone with the ability to be a chameleon, change personalities and adapt to any situation. And that's something we hadn't had for a long time. We scooped you up faster than anyone before. Of course, we didn't rave about you before we signed you. Your asking price might've gone up.” He laughed aloud at his own joke. “Of course, we would have paid it, but you've made up the difference quite tremendously, haven't you?"

"Yeah, I guess I have."

"And I'm very glad that you've decided to stay on after this assignment. You won't regret it."

Sammy turned abruptly and faced Patterson. "Well, I'd better be going. I have some reading to do." With that, he turned and walked away. Patterson shouted something after him but he didn't hear it and couldn't care less.



Later that afternoon, as Sammy started to read his new dossier, he thought, morosely, that he would be unable to enlist the assistance of his friend Bill Williams. If Humphreys was as gung‑ho as the papers reported, even if Sammy wanted to turn state's witness, he might be unable to do so. No, he thought, Bill would have to wait. He turned to the file and opened it.

Paul Kalvin was 23 years old, grew up on Long Island, where his parents still lived. Edith and Charles Kalvin were real people. He called information for the 516 area code and sure enough they lived in Cedarhurst, New York, the hub of Long Island's fabled Five Towns. They were most likely Company fronts used for deep background. Charles was a stockbroker for the huge investment firm of Perry, Hobson & March. He was 55 years old and had been with the firm since he graduated from Brooklyn College 34 years earlier in 1948. He made over one million dollars a year and lived in the back of town on the water in a sprawling ten bedroom Tudor style house that he purchased in 1958 for $200,000. It was now estimated to be worth over $5,000,000. His wife, Edith, lived to spend his money in the exclusive shops that lined Central Avenue, the main thoroughfare of Cedarhurst, and lucky for Charles, she couldn't spend all of what he made, so successful he was. But she came close once or twice.

Paul had a sister, Emily, aged twenty, who would be entering her senior year of college in the fall. She was a business major at the State University's Buffalo campus and hoped to go into retail management when she graduated.

Paul, for his own part, had eschewed attempts by his father to get him with a position with Perry Hobson upon his graduation from Georgetown University, where he double majored in Political Science and Business. Rather, he decided to take a position as a government research analyst with the National Security Agency. His acumen led him to a group leader position in intelligence, monitoring activities of the intelligence community worldwide.

Kalvin had no need for his father's line of work because of the trust fund his father established when he was an infant. Some twenty plus years later he was financially independent and did not need to work at all.

Charles Kalvin, despite his financial status, sent his children to public schools as he felt that this was where the best education was obtained. Paul and his sister went to the Number 5 school on Cedarhurst Avenue, the Lawrence Middle School on Broadway and Lawrence High School off Peninsula Boulevard. He drove to high school in a restored 1970 Mach 1 Mustang that he found rotting in a junkyard. He still drove that car to work from his apartment in Georgetown, having maintained it in excellent condition since having it restored in 1978. After graduating high school, Paul attended Georgetown University where he was a double major in Political Science and Business.

He had three aunts, one of whom he maintained constant contact as she also lived in the Five Towns. The other two aunts, on his father's side, lived in Brooklyn and he really didn't have the time to visit them; however, he was close to his father's brother, who lived three thousand miles away in Pomona, a suburb of Los Angeles. His cousins also lived on Long Island and when he was in town his mother would set up dinner inviting his aunt, her sister, and the cousins, her sister's children. His cousins were older than him and sometimes treated him as they would a younger brother. This pissed him off to no end. Many times he'd fight with his mother about her inviting them to dinner. When he came home, he'd tell her, he wanted to spend time with his parents, especially his father, whose sense of humor and overall lack of seriousness Paul had inherited.

His uncle, that is his father's brother, the one who lived in Pomona, worked in his own business selling silk flowers, which sold nowhere in the world except Southern California, La-La Land, in which it was a cottage industry. He had previously worked in swap meets, where he sold everything from cowboy hats (which sold phenomenally well since J.R. Ewing was shot) to used records, a market that his uncle knew would never die, despite the invention of cassettes.

His other uncle, the one married to his mother's sister, recently retired from the garment industry where he sold, of all things, boxes. "Fashions may come and go," he'd say, "and I've seen some doozies, but everybody will need boxes no matter what people are wearing." As goofy as he was, he was right and made a fortune selling boxes.

Paul's interests lie primarily with playing basketball and watching movies. If someone cared to check the computer records of the video store near his apartment, Vinnies's Video, they would see that he rented two or three videos a night, primarily action movies or comedies, although he had nothing against a good drama. Never, though, had he rented a musical, not even a good one like Guys and Dolls.

He played basketball at a local schoolyard every few days with some guys from the neighborhood. Just a quick game of pickup but he enjoyed it especially as it had a slightly different cast of characters every time he played.

He was seeing a girl that he had met at a Baltimore Orioles game. Her name was Betsy Rowan. She was twenty‑two years old and graduated from Duke University in December of 1981, having completed her studies in less than the allotted time. It turned out that she was a low‑level researcher at the NSA, who got her job through an uncle who worked in the State Department. She and Paul had being seeing each other exclusively for two months and considered themselves a couple. They had gone away for a week to a resort in Cancun. That week had been glorious. They made love, swam, laid in the sun, drank and made more love. Betsy was pushing for a commitment this early in the relationship and Paul was seriously considering it.



Sammy stopped reading. He'd wing the rest of it, like he'd done in the past. He shook his head. Betsy Rowan. He couldn't be lucky enough to have his own Betsy, could he. Well, he didn't want to think about it. He got up to pee. When he returned to his reading, he laid his head down to rest and shifted into a confused slumber.

Chapter 7 - Patterson

Sammy did not remember passing through the sales floor and only had a dim recollection of hailing a cab. His first coherent thought came when he awoke from a deep sleep upon his bed still clad in the clothes he wore in his meeting with Connolly. Christ, he thought, what time is it. Looking over at the red numeral digital clock on his nightstand he saw that it was nine in the morning. 9 am. Dammit, that was the time of his meeting with Connolly which lasted until nearly three in the afternoon. Shit, assuming he got home around 4 p.m., which he wasn’t sure of at all, he probably slept close to seventeen hours.

He got out of bed still groggy from a combination of stress, jet lag and oversleep. He stripped off his clothes as he walked around his apartment leaving little piles of garments in the bedroom and hallway. He noticed that his suit was unusually wrinkled and made a mental note to bring it in to be dry cleaned. He put on a full pot of coffee and decided that he would go to the corner video store for a little while so that he would have movies to watch to pass the time until tomorrow.

He stepped into the shower and turned the water on. He set both taps equally so that the initial burst of water would be cold but not freezing. This, he always felt, was a better tonic than coffee to disperse the mental cobwebs that covered his brain. And, invariably, as it did today, the water shocked him out of his groggy mood. Once sufficiently awakened, he increased the hot water to a comfortable level and began to lather up. Soaping his body was a cleansing experience in more ways than one. While making his body presentable he also used the opportunity of his showering solace to think. Today, he thought about the orders the Chief had given him. He simply did not believe he could accomplish it. The target was totally out of the realm of reason and the probability odds were certainly not in his favor. The President. He shuddered at the thought of it. Chesterton, DePasquale and Eastman were hard enough and they did not have the security detail afforded to Jenkins. Even if he could do it he would not get out of there alive. He had no idea what to do and he had no one to whom he could turn. All of his close friends, as well as his parents thought he worked part time for a sales company at night and was a government researcher by day, making decent money, but nothing great. Little did they know that he was paid very well for each of his assignments and could boast (if there was anyone he could even talk to) that he was able to retire right now and not work another day in his life. In fact, this job alone would pay him $5,000,000 if accomplished successfully. That was the key. Accomplished Successfully. If the job’s not done, no payment is made. Of course, if the job was not done, he’d probably be dead. He felt as though he was nothing more than a cheap Mafia thug. Except hit men in the Mafia just followed orders and did not care whom the target was. Why couldn’t he? Why did he have to have a conscience all of a sudden.

He stopped thinking and let the water course all over his body. Turning the shower massage on, he turned his back to the nozzle in the hopes that the pulsating streams of water would ease the tension in his neck and back. He didn’t think it would. Nevertheless, he stayed under the spray for fifteen minutes, decreasing the cold water and letting the now very hot water ease his tension. He stayed that way until the water started to cool off of its own volition.

Stepping out of the shower he grabbed the towel, which hung from a cheap plastic hook attached to the back of his bathroom door, and began to towel his now pinkish skin off. Still slightly wet he padded down the hallway to his bedroom, leaving little wet footprints to mark his trail, and went to the bureau to get out his clothes. After putting on his Jockey underwear, he walked back through the hallway into the kitchen and poured himself some coffee from the full pot he made. While drinking his coffee and reading one of his Newsweeks, he realized that he had no food in the apartment. Shit, he thought, he’d have to stop and get some food when he went for videos. He nevertheless went to the refrigerator, this time to see if it needed cleaning. Opening the door he was surprised not only to find it cleaned, but stocked with milk, bread, eggs, cream cheese, butter, american cheese and peanut butter and jelly. He didn’t remember asking Mrs. Gettinger, his landlady, to get his groceries for him. Usually he’d give her a few days’ notice that he was coming home on a particular day and she would stop off and get the food he wanted. “Strange,” he thought aloud. “I don’t remember calling her. Well, I must have. That’s the only way it could have got there. I guess the last couple of days have been hairy and I must have forgotten. I gotta remember to keep my head on straight.”

Deciding to throw caution to the forewinds he prepared himself a four egg cheese omelet with toast and cream cheese. The eggs went down deliciously with the tall glass of milk he poured for himself. Still feeling unusually hungry he prepared himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The peanut butter was the crunchy kind that he preferred. He poured himself another glass of milk to drink with the pb&j as, in his opinion (but he believed it to be scientific fact), milk was the only solvent known to man that would dissolve peanut butter from the roof of his mouth.

After eating, he poured his third cup of coffee and looked at the clock on the wall above the sink. Ten-thirty, it read. He figured that he get dressed in a little while and go out about eleven o’clock to get some videos when the store opened. He figured he’d be able to rent about five movies to get him through the day and evening. He was thinking about what to rent when the phone rang. That’s odd, he thought. No one knows I’m here. Maybe its Mrs. Gettinger calling to see if the groceries were okay.

He picked up the receiver of the cordless phone he possessed, a luxury that even his parents could not afford. “Hello,” he said.

“Sammy Johnston, please,” the male voice on the other end of the line replied.

“Speaking.”

“Good Morning, Samuel.” Only one person called him Samuel and got away with it.

“Mr. Patterson.”

“Yessir. Can’t fool you. You’re the best. I know. I picked you. I only picked the best.” The voice was pure New York. Rapid fire delivery, with the full blown New York accent that one automatically assumes is appended to each person from the New York Metro area. James Lee Patterson was no exception to the rule. A third generation New York City policeman, he took an opportunity to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation shortly after World War II ended. This was the time of Hoover and the Bureau, he envisioned, would offer him further advancement than his patriarchal hometown police force. He worked closely with the agent in charge of the office and participated in many sensational arrests. To his credit, he was seen as a man whose dogged persistence got the job done. Unlike many of the others in the Bureau that did not have his “cop’s nose” as he liked to call it, if he felt that someone was guilty of a crime and he knew it, yet didn’t have the evidence to arrest, he’d find it, whether real or manufactured, and make it stick. This ability, which was shunned by most of his colleagues, brought him to the attention of J. Edgar himself, who felt that this was a person he wanted in the top hierarchy of his Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Patterson quickly found himself put in charge of the Omaha, Nebraska field office, then the Dallas Texas field office and then back to the New York office, only this time as Special-Agent-in-charge. After ten years as S-A-C, he was summoned to Washington, D.C. where Hoover personally offered him the Deputy Director position. Not being married ( and never having done so) made the decision very easy to make. He immediately accepted the position and moved to Washington, where he served as the Deputy Director for two years. When the then head of the CIA, Nelson Broils, died of a heart attack while engaging in connubial joy with his secretary on his desk. Hoover, wanting to have his own man running the sister agency so he could, in fact, run both, recommended to President Eisenhower that Patterson be named to the post. Eisenhower readily agreed (leaving some to wonder whether or not Hoover had anything on the President in his secret files) and Patterson was reluctantly but readily confirmed by the Senate.

Much to the chagrin of Hoover, however, Patterson became his own boss shortly after taking charge of the Central Intelligence Agency, rebuffing any attempts by the head of the FBI in meddling in his agency’s affairs. In addition, while many knew, or suspected, of Hoover’s secret files, no one knew of Patterson’s. And Patterson, while emulating his mentor in the gathering of compromising information that could prove useful later on, took it a step further and raised it to an art form. However, unlike Hoover, Patterson never made any veiled threats about using the information nor did he ever actually use the information. He gathered it in case he needed to use it but had never done so. In fact, he developed the moniker “Gentleman Jim” because while most people knew of his ability to gather information, all knew that he wouldn’t use it unless pressed. No one had dared to press him and, therefore, he strove to be as courteous to as many people as possible, even those who dared criticized him. When the CIA was subject to minor Congressional hearings in the late sixties and Patterson himself got into a heated debate with the Senator questioning him, he was later quoted as saying “Well, he has his job to do and I mine. As long as we shake hands at the end of the day, that’s all that matters to me.” But no one ever doubted that Patterson was ruthless enough to go all the way to do some act so outrageous that everyone would stand up and take notice. I was this background that Sammy was dealing with.

Confused, Sammy asked, “Sir, may I ask a question?”

“Certainly, Samuel.”

“Weren’t you supposed to call me tomorrow?” This question was met with a loud bray of laughter.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Samuel?” More laughter.

“Why are you calling me today instead of tomorrow?”

When the laughter subsided, Patterson replied, deadly serious, “Because, Samuel, today is tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about, Sir?” Why the hell, Sammy thought, does this asshole always have to talk in riddles?

“Did you think you could stay in your apartment for forty-eight hours straight? We didn’t think so. In fact, we think that you were going to leave your apartment and take in some of this lovely weather we’re having, weren’t you?”

Sammy didn’t reply. “Weren’t you,” Patterson shouted, startling Sammy.

“As a matter of fact, I was going to go down to the corner, rent some videos and be back within thirty minutes.”

“So you can’t be trusted, can you?” Patterson’s voice was lyrical and sarcastic.

“Yessir, as a matter of fact I ca be trusted. I just thought it would be good therapy to get my mind off the next assignment by getting some diverting entertainment. In fact, the Chief recommended it.”

“You thought so, did you? Well, let me tell you. When we, when I, give an order I expect it to be obeyed without question to the letter. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yessir.” Timidly.

“That’s better, Samuel. Don’t disappoint me again, like your old chief, Richardson, did. Splendid man. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

Well, that answers that question, Sammy thought ruefully.

“Samuel, now I’m surprised at you,” Patterson said sardonically.

“Sir, I don’t follow.”

“‘Today is Tomorrow.’ Don’t you know what that means?”

“Yes sir, that you’ve moved the schedule up a day.”

“No. Think again,” was the reply.

Sammy froze. Today is tomorrow. He walked with the cordless phone into the bedroom and looked at his watch which had not only a date function but told the day of the week as well. Shit. He didn’t sleep for fourteen hours. He slept for close to forty-one hours. “Today is tomorrow” he said numbly into the phone.

“There you go, Samuel. Bet you had to look at that Rolex we bought you before you were sure. See, we can’t take chances. We didn’t want anyone to know you were in town.”

Sammy knew then that he had been drugged. “The coffee in Connolly’s office.”

“You got it, Samuel. I knew you were good.”

“Why? And what about the groceries my landlady left? Did you leave them? Why?”

“Because we know you better than you think. We knew you’d disobey orders and we wanted to prevent an infraction, no matter how minor. The assignment you will be going on is so sensitive that the rules must be followed. Usually, the punishment is more sever, but we do like you Sammy. You are an extraordinary asset and I’m not going to let one infraction ruin your career.” Patterson paused for effect. “Of course, you’re not going to let this happen again.”

“No sir.”

“As far as your groceries are concerned, consider it with our compliments for jobs well done.”

“Thank you sir. I’d been trying to catch up on my sleep anyway.” He had to move the receiver away from his ear because of the now near hysterical laughter from the other end.

“That’s the spirit, Samuel. Now that we’re friends again I want to see you at precisely noon at the base of the Washington monument.” He hung up.

“Thank you and fuck you Gentleman Jim,” Sammy replied to the closed line.



Several miles away, in Patterson’s office, the lab technician reported Sammy’s last comment. Patterson just smiled, thanking himself for giving Sammy that Rolex.