The investigation was far from complete. The only thing that the Air Force, FBI and CIA men assigned to the case could agree on was that a secret document was missing.

The CIA had coordinated the document, a draft estimate of Soviet strategic bomber forces, and copies had been sent to the Pentagon for final review. One of the copies could not be accounted for, and a penetration of the security system by the Soviet intelligence service, the KGB, was suspected.

Traces through the classified document control system showed that the missing copy had been sent by special courier from the CIA Headquarters to the Air Force security office in the Pentagon, where it was logged in by the document control section. The copy of the estimate, in a sealed envelope, was held in a safe until picked up by the Air Force officer-courier assigned to handle delivery to the appropriate offices in the Pentagon.

Sometime and somewhere between the courier pickup and return of the document for storage in a steel file safe, something had happened. The safe had not been tampered with, but the document was missing.

The Air Force investigation was concerned with (and embarrassed by) the apparent breakdown in special-handling procedures in the courier system. The officer-courier involved, Lieutenant Marvin L. Sachs, was not one of their best. There were indications that Lt. Sachs did not take his duties seriously and could be accused of sloppy handling. Was he the weak point in the system? The investigation had to know a lot more about him.

The FBI had responsibility for counter-intelligence operations in the United States. Their principal investigator on the case was intrigued by the fact that a secretary in the office of the Assistant Secretary of the Air Force had resigned at about the time the document was reported lost. The Assistant Secretary had seen the document shortly before that, when Lt. Sachs delivered it to him.

The strange thing was that the FBI was now unable to locate the secretary, who had moved out of her apartment and not been heard from since. The FBI investigator wanted to question her, particularly about her relationship with Lt. Sachs, who seemed to have more than a casual interest in her.

Most concerned about the loss of the document was the CIA. Highly sensitive and vulnerable intelligence sources and methods could be compromised if, in fact, the KGB had gotten their hands on it. The Agency investigator was familiar with attempts by the KGB to involve U.S. citizens in espionage through relatives in, or from, East European countries. Polish-Americans had been vulnerable, and the missing secretary, Dorothy Polinski, had recently moved to the Washington area from a Polish community in Chicago.

Another aspect of the case that bothered the Agency man, and was very sensitive to his superiors, was the fact that one of the writers of the document was Christopher Williams, a young CIA military analyst. Williams shared an apartment with Sachs in Georgetown.

Hundreds of people pass through the main entrance of the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters building every day. Few of them notice, and outsiders are surprised to learn, that on the gray marble wall of the entrance hall is inscribed, in large, deep-cut letters, a verse from the Bible:

"...And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." John 8:32

Christopher Williams eventually noticed it, but it did not mean much to him; he seldom thought about scripture, just as he thought little about the meaning of his first name. Most people called him Chris, except for his mother.

Chris liked the Agency. He was young, considered bright and articulate by his colleagues, and some of the secretaries thought (or so he had heard) that he was "good looking." Chris liked being liked, especially by young women. He was career-minded, and thought that what he was doing was important. He liked the Washington scene, and he felt part of it.

Chris shared an apartment in Georgetown, near the University, with his friend Marvin, a young Air Force Lieutenant who worked in the Pentagon. They both enjoyed being near the campus, mostly because of the many young women who lived in the area.

Chris had met Marvin Sachs when both were newly commissioned second lieutenants in the Air Force. They had shared a room in the BOQ at Lowry Air Force Base near Denver, where they were trained to be Air Intelligence Officers. Marv, as his friends called him, had stayed in the Air Force and was now a first lieutenant. He described his service as "glorified office boy in the puzzle palace known as the Pentagon." Marv did not take his career too seriously; in fact, Marv did not seem to take anything too seriously, except contraceptives. Chris could never really understand him, but he was easy to live with and, sometimes, fun to be around.

Chris would never have chosen Marv to be his roommate; it just seemed to work out that way. He had left the Air Force after completing his service obligation and had become a military analyst at the Agency. He did not expect to see his raunchy service-buddy again. But Marv had somehow landed in the Pentagon and was enjoying the distinction of being one of the lowest-ranking officers there. There were relatively few young officers assigned to the Pentagon, and hundreds of young women working there. It was an ideal existence for Marv, or so he said, and he seemed to make the most of it.

Life, up to this point, had been mostly good to Chris and Marv. They had graduated from college, avoided the draft, and just missed the Korean War. They had not been accepted into flight school, their first choice, because at the time the Air Force had too many pilots. They were fortunate to get their second choice, Intelligence Officer. Fate had brought them together in Washington, which was a great bachelor town. Chris was more ambitious than Marv but certainly not obsessed with his work. He wanted to do a good job, to be respected by his peers, and to be recognized as talented, if not a comer, by his superiors. Marv, on the other hand, studied sex and 'show biz' as if they were an extension of his education and essential to his career. They got along, most of the time, largely because they knew their arrangement would not last long.

Although he would never talk about it and tried not to show it, Chris had a romantic, even poetic, spirit. He loved to walk along the towpath of the C&O canal, which paralleled the Potomac River at the foot of the scenic spires of Georgetown University. From here he would look out across the water at the gently sloping hills of Virginia. This spot was particularly beautiful in the fall when the leaves were turning. He often thought about the wooded hills of Bucks County in Pennsylvania, where he had roamed as a teenager. He was almost wistful when he remembered the many slow drives he had taken on the winding Delaware River Road, sometimes alone, and often with a girl friend.

The Potomac was almost as beautiful, he thought, but it was not the same, just as he was not the same. Still, on a brisk and clear October day, pacing easily alongside the canal, he could feel the emotions of the teenager stir within him. He could almost forget his work, the "real world" to which he must return on Monday. Chris was nearly twenty-seven, and grown to full maturity and manhood. Or so he thought.

Then Monday morning would come, with the daily traffic jams for which Washington is famous. The bridges across the Potomac were choke points in the system, with thousands of government employees in cars and busses moving slowly, bumper-to bumper, in what was commonly called "rush hour." Chris mused that this was a strange way to describe the crawling mess of motorized masses that barely moved across the bridges. This was not the Washington of tourists; this belonged to the everyday people who had to live and work there. The glamorous world of diplomats and Senators, depicted in novels and movies, eluded the average government worker. Chris was still young enough to consider himself above average in everything, but he too had to endure the Washington traffic. In a way though, this was his quiet time. He did a lot of thinking and daydreaming there in his car.

Marvin Sachs lived in a different world. Even Marv, who loved movies, thought some of his daily activities would make good material for a Jack Lemon comedy. Marv had a ready A smile and could grin like Burt Lancaster, but his eyes were usually a little sad, like Charlie Chaplan lost in the corridors of the Pentagon. Marv was not a wimp, just confused sometimes. He was even sensitive for a kid who grew up on the streets of Baltimore. He loved to party, and to imitate Lenny Bruce sometimes. Today he would imagine himself more like the actor Bill Murray. Marv was funnier when you didn't know him too well.

Marv never tried hard at being an officer and a gentleman; in fact he was kind of sloppy in both categories. For some reason that Marv's buddies could not understand, many women liked Marv, or some kind of women liked him; he was not frustrated sexually. He was a liberated man in a place full of women who thought they were liberated.

Marv's official duties were not difficult. He was used mostly as an 'officer-courier' in the Air Force headquarters complex in the Pentagon. Military regulations required that TOP SECRET documents and other highly classified material be carried between secure areas by officers designated as couriers. In the business world this chore would be handled by a trusted secretary or messenger, if not by an office boy. In the world of intelligence, secrecy and security are taken seriously, and so office boys and messengers become 'couriers'. Because an officer had to do it, and the closest thing to an office boy in the Pentagon was a Lieutenant, Marv got the job. So much for his Intelligence School training!

Being a special courier had certain advantages, however. Like access to the offices and staffs of all the Generals on E-Ring, where the executive suites are located. Marv regularly carried current intelligence reports and documents, some of which were marked "Eyes only," to the Chief of Staff and other General Officers on the Air Staff, as well as to the Secretary and Assistant Secretaries of the Air Force. He liked to do this. He would show up at the appointed time in the executive suite, chat with the receptionist, by-pass the executive officers (Colonels), and go directly to the 1principal', the senior officer designated to receive the material. If it was marked "Eyes Only" for the Chief of Staff, he delivered it directly to the Chief.

Sometimes, when Marv had the 'morning run', delivering the TOP SECRET Daily Intelligence Brief (DIB), he was invited to have coffee with the senior officer while he read the DIB. The DIB was not left in the office, but was 'handcarried' (intelligence term for tight control) by the courier to each of the senior officers. The courier would ordinarily sit quietly in the inner office while the General read the DIB, then take the document on to the next ranking officer.

At first Marv was extremely nervous in the presence of such powerful Air Force VIPs. He would sit on the edge of his chair, try to look officially alert (like the officers seen in recruitment posters, eyes forward or into the sky), and never smile. That lasted about a month. He soon found that most of the 'high brass' were human, although he still had doubts about some of the senior civilians on E-Ring. Except for the couriers, the Generals rarely had contact with young lieutenants. Some were reminded of their earliest days in the service, and were almost fatherly toward Marv. He was reminded of an older sergeant who told him, "You don't have to worry about the Generals; they are too big to be small; worry about the Lieutenant Colonels who are on the way up."

Marv tried not to worry about anyone, except himself. He was very familiar with the military doctrine known to all as ICYA,' cover your ass, and Marv's protective instincts were strong. He did take a few small risks, however. In the fall Marv delivered the football pool to the executive officers and secretaries along E-Ring. This was no big deal, except that he carried the forms in his locked courier case with the classified material. He also delivered a few copies of Playboy magazine to selected execs, who did not want to be seen picking it up at the Pentagon bookstore or drugstore, where it was kept under the counter in those days. These little services, and others (like handling special, personal messages between Colonels and secretaries in different offices), kept Marv on good terms with most of the people he encountered on his route. He even became sort of a 'booker' for arranging dates; he would find out if both parties were really interested in getting together, before an awkward situation might develop. Marv was very talented in the field of personal relations, and kept his mouth shut to those who did not "need to know." He did not boast of his contacts on E-Ring, even though his colleagues were envious. Lieutenant Sachs had become Marv to many very senior officers in Air Force Headquarters, and his immediate superiors knew it ... and were careful with this junior officer.

Marv never fancied himself as handsome, although he knew he had a certain charm with women. Perhaps they liked his earthy directness, or intense eyes and pleading look when they caught him staring at them. Marv tried to affect the 'harmless good guy' approach in his initial contacts with secretaries, and never made a pass prematurely. When he thought they might be interested, he came on stronger but subtly. Marv was not shy, but he was not a hot shot either. He took his time. It's hard to explain why many young women liked Marv, but they did. And they usually parted friends.

When they were around each other for more than a half-hour, Chris and Marv would argue about something, anything. Marv had moved in on Chris without definite plans or really much thought, "Until I can find my own apartment." That was eight months ago!

They were not quite like the "odd couple" of the Neil Simon play, but they were beginning to grate on each other. Chris kept regular hours during the workweek, stayed around the apartment and read a lot in the evening, or listened to records and talked with friends down the hall. Occasionally he went to a movie on Wisconsin Avenue, or browsed the shops in Georgetown. No one ever accused Chris of being a swinger, and he did not like to frequent the many booze hangouts in the area. Marv was seldom 'home' until late at night or early morning. That was one of the things that bothered Chris.

Marv surprised Chris twice one evening; he came home early, and wanted to talk about himself. Something had to be amiss. Chris sensed that Marv was upset, more than he wanted to show, and listened quietly. Marv knew how to tell a joke and made fun of himself, but this was different. He was trying to be open, to really communicate, which was difficult.

"Do you think I'm a fool?" asked Marv.

"What! What's bugging you tonight?" Chris said, surprised.

'Remember when I told you about the new girl in Assistant Secretary Telford's office, the quiet one?" Marv had described so many women, particularly their physical attributes (focusing on T & A), that Chris was not sure.

"What about her?"

"I can't get through to her," said Marv, with a look of genuine concern. "I speak to her almost every morning and try to interest her, but she doesn't respond at all."

"You can't expect every broad in the Pentagon to tumble for you, Marv. Why let this one bother you?"

Marv sat quietly for a moment, then said, "She's not a broad, she's a beautiful woman. "

Marv began to open up. He waxed almost poetically about a beautiful "Rebecca" with sharp dark features and long, jet-black hair, bright eyes and full lips, and a soft smile that warmed him. He didn't talk about her body. Chris thought that she really must be different.

In truth "Rebecca" was not her real name, but a figure from Marv's past who had somehow mingled with his current fixation. Chris had never heard Marv fantasize like this before; it almost made him feel that his own yearnings for Sally Bradford were similar. But Chris had never mentioned Sally to Marv, or to anyone.

Who was this mysterious Rebecca? The image in Chris's mind developed by Marv's rambling was that of an aesthetic Jewish-American Princess with the expressions of young Ingrid Bergman cast as Joan of Ark. This was crazy. Marv must be falling in love. That was even crazier. Chris interrupted Marv's reverie.

"What are you trying to tell me? You see an attractive woman; she's polite; she's not turned on by you, but she treats you kindly; so what? You're finally letting your imagination get out of hand, or mind. I thought lust was your specialty." Marv looked hurt. "I'm sorry," Chris went on, "But the way you romanticize this Rebecca"

"Her name is Dorothy Polinsky." With this statement Marv seemed to admit the truth of what his friend was saying. "You wouldn't understand."

"Understand what? You conjure up this beautiful, dark-eyed Jewess, until you don't even know her yourself."

"She's not Jewish; she-'s Polish-American. Probably a Catholic, for all I know." Now Chris could not see her at all.

Marv had stopped dating. In subsequent evening chats with Chris the only talk about women, usually Marv's obsession, was that of his brief encounters with the mysterious Rebecca, known to others as simply Dottie Polinski. Marv had begun his special effort to interest Dottie by trying his casual, ever-smiling, Tony Curtis approach. He would give Chris status reports after work.

"I got to her office early this morning, before Colonel Bradford and Secretary Telford arrived. We were alone for ten minutes. We talked, and I called her Dottie!"

This was progress, in Marv's subtle campaign. The reports continued for days.

"She offered me a cup of coffee this morning, and she smiled at me!" To Marv, this was a breakthrough.

"What ever happened to good ol' get-em-in-the-sack as soon possible Marvin?" Chris said sarcastically. Chris sang to himself some of the lyrics of the Rodgers and Hainmerstein song from "South Pacific":

... Who can explain it who can tell you why; fools give you reasons wise men never try.

Chris could not really understand Marv, but he did envy him his perseverance and boldness, if not his approach to romance. Marv could do things that Chris could only daydream about. Marv once told Chris that he read too many books, that he was hung up on words and should try living. Marv was crude at times, with questions like, "When was the last time you got laid, Chris?"

In truth, though he kept this as a secret from his friends, most of whom would never have asked, Chris had never slept with a woman. Marv would not have believed this. Chris liked to be around young women and was not shy in a group. He was invited to cocktail parties in Georgetown frequently, and had a good circle of friends. He was chatty, some thought witty, and always pleasant. But he seldom paired off, and rarely took anyone home. Marv used to say that Chris was the kind of guy that secretaries living in Washington wanted their visiting parents to meet. "Jack Armstrong, the all-American boy," was one of Marv's putdowns for Chris. Women wanted to know Chris better, but few got the chance. Except for Sally Bradford.

Sally was too much like Chris, and this did not help communication. They worked in the same section, drank coffee from the same pot and usually at the same time, attended staff meetings, prepared papers, and respected each other's work. Sally had an open, expressive face and a sturdy, well-developed body. She was more athletic than Chris was, and this was another problem. Chris liked to be around Sally, and confessed to himself that he would like to touch her. He was jealous when Sally seemed to enjoy conversing with other young men in the section. But he never made a pass at Sally. He always thought she would be drawn to him someday, perhaps next week.

Chris was getting bored with Marv's evening reports of his pursuit of the "fair Rebecca", even though he no longer doubted Marv's sincerity. Marv had changed, and Chris wondered what was really going on inside him.

Chris was sensitive to Marv's feelings for Dottie, even if he could not understand what Marv was about these days.

Marv returned to the apartment one evening after work and went directly to his room. He did not speak to Chris, which was strange. When Chris called to see if he wanted something to eat, Marv muttered through the door, "Leave me alone." Chris waited for an hour before knocking on the door.

"What's happening. Marv., are you sick?"

"Get lost," was Marv's only reply." Chris opened the door and saw Marv lying on the bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

"Dirty old bastard. Dirty old bastard."

"Who? What are you bitching about?"

"Telford. "

"What about Telford? What's he done?"

Marv sat up. He looked awful. He gazed at the door, as if seeing past Chris.

"He wants me to stay away from Dottie. He told Colonel Bradford to speak to me, to straighten me out, to keep me away from Dottie."

Marv painfully recounted his private conversation with Bradford, in the Colonel's inner office. Bradford had sent for Marv, and Marv had assumed that he was to pick up some classified material for storage in a secure area of the intelligence control section. Marv was hoping to see Dottie on the way in, but she was not at her desk. Bradford asked Marv to have a seat, and began the mostly one-sided conversation.

Marv, this is about your career."

"What?"

"Your career, your future in the Air Force."

"What?"

"You're a lightweight now, Marv, but you've made a lot of friends around here and can easily swing an excellent assignment, a real step up."

"What's this about, Colonel?"

"You're in a little trouble, Marv, but nothing you can't fix."

"What!

"You've been hanging around Dottie too much, and Telford has noticed."

"So what!"

"Grow up, Marv; she's out of your league. You're tampering with Telford's Private stock."

"What the hell are you talking about? He doesn't own her!"

Cool down, Lieutenant."

"Did Telford ask you to talk to me?"

"Yes."

"What did Telford say; what's his problem?"

"You don't want to know, Marv. Just take my advice and keep away from Dottie until your headquarters tour is finished. Then we'll get you a good assignment in Europe."

"Tell me what Telford said!"

"Come on, Marv. Just do what you're told. I like you. I'm trying to help you."

"Tell me!"

"All right, Marv; have it your way. He told me to get rid of you, to keep that fuggin' jewboy away from Dottie.

He told me to transfer you to Thule or the polar ice cap until your balls freeze. He was not nice. Does that make you feel better?"

Marv was stunned; he could not speak; he felt hot; he had to get out of there. He turned away from Bradford, stood for a minute with his back to the Colonel, then walked out. Bradford shook his head slowly, and looked down at his hands.

Marv moped about for the next few days. Chris worried about his depression and tried to lighten things up. Although Chris was not devoid of humor, it did not come naturally to him. Still, he was genuinely concerned about Marv and tried to snap him out of his gloom. He even tried to rationalize Marv's position.

“What’s so special about Dottie? You act like you are sixteen and this is your first big crush. Grow up, Marvin.”

Marv stared at Chris but said nothing. One night

Chris heard Marv thrashing about in his bed, mumbling in his sleep, probably having a nightmare. The only word that was loud enough and clear enough for Chris to discern was “Rebecca.”

Marv tried to avoid Telford’s office suite, but he couldn’t. When he caught a glimpse of Dottie, his heard raced. He was like a schoolboy, pretending not to notice the girl that really drew his attention. He passed her in the corridor one day, looked away, then turned around. He could not stand it. He called to her, and she turned toward him. God, she is beautiful and I’m crazy, he thought.

“Dottie, I have to talk with you somewhere, anywhere, soon, but not here. Please.” She looked at him, a mixture of fear and sadness in her expressive eyes.

“I don’t think that would be good for you Marvin,” she said softly, looking down.

“Please Dottie, I have to,” he choked out.

“Call me Saturday morning about nine, and …we’ll talk,” she said, then hurried away.

would ever know. He could not understand his feelings then; he could only feel. To be with her was joy, was the only world of peace in his turbulent youth. The chosen flower among the weeds of ghetto Baltimore. The flower that could be held but briefly, that would wither in the strange city. A flower to show God’s beauty for a fleeting moment, to give Marvin a glimpse of heaven. Rebecca returned to her Creator at the age of seventeen, and Marvin never understood why.

When Dottie looked up, she saw Marv turn and walk slowly up the path toward the car. She had tried to keep things light, but she knew it would not work with Marv. She had begun to feel good about herself, had really enjoyed the peaceful morning, and had wanted to be kind to him. She followed him to the car, not trying to overtake him on the path. During a brief phone conversation, precisely at nine on Saturday, Marv persuaded Dottie to take a Drive with him to the Great Falls Park, a beautiful spot on the Potomac, upriver from Washington. Marv, who was not one to go walking in parks, had remembered Chris’ description of the place and felt it would be a relaxing place to talk. He was right. Dottie seemed at peace there. They walked down a winding path along the river, which narrows and cascades over huge rocks and forms the scenic falls. The whole setting got to Marv’s movie imagination: the roaring falls, the trees turning reddish brown and gold and dropping leaves, the cool breeze and, in his mind’s eye, all framing Dottie in a scene of poetic grandeur. He had rehearsed some lines to get him started, to ‘get serious’ about his feeling for Dottie. But each time he looked into her eyes, he melted a little. He saw a glowing young woman smiling at him, happy to be in God’s creation and blending with the beauty of nature. Was he really there with her, he wondered for a moment. He could not say his lines.

Dottie moved ahead of him on the path, paused to look at some wildflowers, then knelt down like a child to pick a special flower. Marv froze! He saw a vision of Rebecca. In an instant his mind took him back to a time and place long suppressed in memory. Throbbing started in his chest, his throat tightened and ached, tears formed and flowed from his eyes. He was paralyzed with emotion. He saw Rebecca! Rebecca, the only real joy of his adolescence, the one who understood his real feelings, who did not laugh at him, who shared her beautiful vision with the strange, struggling, confused boy-man. Rebecca, who would race to the top of the hill to see a greater sunset, and who would shout, “hurry Marvin, before it dies.” He remembered her saying, “capture my spirit while it soars. Rise with me Marvin, before I disappear with the sun! Cling to my rays!”

Rebecca, who was unlike any teenager he had known, any woman he

Marv forced his wide grin and said, “Sorry, I must be daydreaming. Why am I here with you?”

Dottie said simply, “Let’s go home Marv.”

Assistant Secretary of the Air Force, Robert S. Telford III, was known to his friends as ‘Bobby.’ His father had been president of an aircraft company that still had major defense contracts. His uncle was a member of the House Armed Services Committee, a fourth term congressman. Bobby went to Princeton, where he did not distinguish himself in scholarship, but was an exceptional partygoer and jazz aficionado. After college he joined his father’s company, and went to work in their small Washington, DC office. He was a popular lobbyist and served the company and the aircraft industry well. He was a natural to eventually become Secretary of the Air Force.

As far as Bobby was concerned, his only big problem was his wife. She was from a well-to-do family, had a proper private school education, was considered popular in certain social circles, and liked to ride horses. She made a good impression on his contacts and was a definite asset in his career program. She also hated jazz, his few real friends, and his concept of a good time. When they were alone together, he was alone. She kept a busy social calendar, and was always ‘planning things’ when not doing them. At home, he was lonely. She was a great advocate of Planned Parenthood, but never got around to planning her own. They were always going to have a child someday, but the time had to be right. It never seemed to be. They always had important things to do.

Since becoming Assistant Secretary, Bobby spent a lot of time away from Washington on Air Force business. He did not miss his wife. His high-level contacts in the ‘military industrial complex’ gave him access to private retreats for hunting, fishing, and playing around with young women. The latter sport interested him more these days, and he was getting better at it. It was more difficult to be discreet about his playtime in Washington, but he managed.

Dottie was not the first attractive secretary to meet his specifications and move up to the executive suite, and to a more expensive apartment. But she was the first one to get pregnant in the process. This gave Bobby another big problem, and he did not like Dottie’s attitude towards it. When she gave him the word about her condition, he was not very sympathetic.

“Why didn’t you take care of yourself?” he complained. “I have been good to you. What are you trying to do to me? You know what to do about it,” he said unlovingly.

Dottie watched him squirm, and was not surprised by his reaction. She was more surprised by her own attitude. “I’m going to have a baby, and I want my child.”

Telford waited a few days, then tried again, this time in a more fatherly way. He tried to persuade Dottie to have an abortion. He would have a lawyer friend and confidante set it up in New Mexico. She would be well cared for, he assured Dottie. When Dottie looked up at him with her sad eyes, he almost could believe she was his daughter and that he was trying to protect her. Dottie did not cry. He had never seen her cry and wondered if she could.

“You are asking me to kill myself, and I won’t do it,” she said. “I will go away and stay away. I will not hurt you, but I need your help. You must support me until I can work again. That’s all I ask.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me, Dottie?” he replied.

“I satisfied your need; now I need you for a time, that’s all. You will help me,” she said calmly.

And he did.

* * *

About a month later, Dottie resigned and moved away from Arlington. She gave the address of her parents in Chicago for the return of her deposit on the apartment and forwarding of mail, but she never returned to Chicago, or to the United States.

Lieutenant Colonel Carlson, chief of the Pentagon unit of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations (OSI) had a theory about Dorothy Polinski and Lt. Sachs. He had investigated a peculiar case while on the west coast two years earlier, a case that involved a secretary in the front office of an Air Force contractor. His successful handling of that case had led to promotion and the assignment at the Pentagon.

The secretary involved in that case had had access to classified documents pertaining to defense contracts. She was single and lived alone. She was Polish-American. She was lonely. She drank. She met a man in what she thought was a casual encounter at the supermarket, and they met later for a drink. He was new in town, from Chicago, looking for work in the aircraft industry, he said. His name was Fred Norwicki, he said.

He lied. He was an agent of the Polish Intelligence service. The KGB had assessed the personnel of the front office, looking for weaknesses, a possible penetration. They thought they had an opening with the secretary, and brought ‘Fred’ into the operation. It almost worked.

Carlson believed that Dorothy Polinski had been ‘co-opted’ (recruited) by the Polish service for the KGB. His investigation showed that her standard of living was well above that of a GS-7 level secretary. Shortly after she was assigned to the office of the Assistant Secretary on E-Ring, she moved out of her modest apartment and into a much more expensive one. She dressed well, and drove a Porsche. Not your typical GS-7. She was not from a well-to-do family but obviously had another source of income.

The doorman at Miss Polinski’s apartment was questioned by the FBI about her comings and goings. He remembered her well because she was so good to look at, though she seldom smiled. He thought it peculiar that such a beautiful woman would stay at home in the evening so much, although he noticed that she occasionally had a visitor at night. A man.

The Bureau was beginning to share Carlson’s theory. They were more convinced when they found out that Miss Polinski had obtained passport and airline tickets to Munich. No one seemed to know where she was going, and for how long.

An item in the FBI report that caught Colonel Carlson’s immediate interest was a statement by the doorman regarding an unusual incident on a Saturday afternoon in mid-October. According to the doorman, Miss Polinski arrived at the apartment building about two in the afternoon. A man he had not seen before drove the car. He remembered the car because it was, “a rather beat-up Ford coupe, and did not seem appropriate for Miss Polinski.” The driver appeared to be distracted; he did not open the door and did not look at Miss Polinski as she emerged from the car. He remembered the incident mostly because Miss Polinski seemed to be crying and hurried into the building. When Colonel Carlson took over the case for OSI, he had had Lt. Sachs put under surveillance. Carlson knew that Sachs drove a “beat-up Ford coupe.”

Major Dunn, who was cooperating in the investigation that might implicate one of his officers, if not himself, warned Marv that he was in trouble. Information on some of Marv’s little errands on E-Ring had come out in the intensive interviews by OSI with civilian and military personnel with whom Marv had contact. Marv was in violation of Air Force security regulations, if nothing else. He made Major Dunn’s section look bad. It was all right when the higher-ups liked to have Marv around, but now he had become a pariah. The rumor circuit on E-Ring worked more efficiently than the sophisticated Air Force communication system, and the word was out that Marv was under investigation. CYA doctrine required that Marv’s contacts distance themselves from him.

Marv could not understand Major Dunn’s position when Dunn told him that his duties would be changed. Marv would no longer be a courier but would manage the classified mailroom. He would be under Major Dunn’s direct supervision and observation. Marv knew that he had done some dumb things but was surprised to see how quickly he had fallen from grace. The real blow came when Dunn informed him that his orders to Paris had been rescinded and that he had been put on ‘standby’ pending a new assignment. This made Marv sick. Working eight hours a day in a large vault did not help him to recover.

Colonel Carlson decided to drop the bomb on Lt. Sachs to see what would happen. Marv reported to Carlson’s office as instructed and tried to remain calm. Carlson offered him a cup of coffee and told him he could smoke if he wanted to. Carlson asked Lieutenant Sachs if he could call him Marv, and Marv said, “Sure.” In the conversation that followed, Marv addressed Colonel Carlson as ‘Colonel’ or ‘Sir.’ After polite chitchat about Marv’s career, the Colonel’s manner became somber.

“Do you know Dorothy Polinski?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know that she resigned?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No, sir.”

“What was your relationship with Miss Polinski?”

“What do you mean?” Marv said, looking down at the floor.

“Did you ever see her away from the office?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been in her apartment?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw her, uh, privately?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were alone with her, away from the Pentagon.”

Marv remembered vividly the morning at Great Falls, and winced. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew he had to say something.

“I once took her for a ride along the Potomac. We wanted to see the fall colors.”

“When?” asked Carlson abruptly.

“On a Saturday morning in late October.”

“What else did you do that day with Miss Polinski?”

“We walked and talked, that’s all,” Marv said, looking directly at Carlson now.

“Did you say something to upset her?”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Colonel. We had a personal conversation. It had nothing to do with my job. It’s really none of your business.”

Marv became irritated and stopped trying to hide his displeasure with Carlson. He wondered if he had been followed that day, if someone had witnessed his moment of grief. Marv gritted his teeth, and fought back the urge to use foul language.

Without changing his expression, Carlson continued his questioning. “Are you in love with her?”

“What!”

“Did you have a romantic interest in Miss Polinksi?”

“I’ve known a lot of girls. You must know that. I haven’t tried to hide it.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“No!”

“Did you know she was a KGB agent?”

“What!”

“You’ve been had, Marvin. She used you.”

“What the hell are you talking about!”

“That’s all for now, Marvin.”

Lt. Colonel Carlson’s next big move was to interview the Assistant Secretary of the Air Force. This was a different procedure, however, from that used with the lieutenant. Permission had to be obtained from Carlson’s superiors and a request made through the General Staff. Eventually an appointment was arranged for him to meet with Mister Telford in the Assistant Secretary’s office. Telford was cordial, shook hands, and offered Carlson coffee or tea. Telford moved away from his desk and sat down in a large leather-upholstered chair. He asked Carlson to sit in the chair opposite him so they could talk across the coffee table. Carlson was very impressed with the inner office, the furniture, the rugs, the paintings, and even the silver service.

“Mister Telford,” he began slowly, “I need some information from you regarding Miss Polinski.”

“Certainly, Colonel.”

“What did you think of her performance?”

“What?”

“Her work in your office. Was she a good secretary?”

“Well, she didn’t work directly for me. She worked in the outer office, serving as a receptionist and clerical assistant to Colonel Bradford, my executive officer.”

“I have spoken with Colonel Bradford.”

“Good.”

“Was there anything peculiar about her that you noticed?”

“Not really. She seemed like a nice, quiet, refined young woman. She was always neat and presentable, made a good impression on visitors.”

“Did you know Lieutenant Sachs?”

“I knew of him. He delivered classified material to me now and then. Sort of an odd fellow, I thought.”

“Do you know of, or rather did you sense, any relationship between Lieutenant Sachs and Miss Polinski?”

“What do you mean?”

“Colonel Bradford indicated that Lieutenant Sachs and Miss Polinski were getting chummy.”

“Oh, I doubt it. She was pleasant with visitors. It was part of her job. Sachs might have thought she was interested in him.”

Telford folded his hands and brought them to his chin, as if posing for a photograph of him in deep thought.

“I recall speaking with Colonel Bradford about young Sachs. I noticed that Sachs seemed to be hanging around Miss Polinski a bit much during his routine deliveries here. I thought Miss Polinski was getting bored with this eager beaver, and I suggested to Bradford that he politely tell Sachs to limit his visits. I thought I was doing her a favor.”

“Mister Telford, why do you think Miss Polinski resigned?”

“Oh, she may have gotten homesick for Chicago. These Polish families are close knit, you know. She probably has a boyfriend there. I would not be surprised if we hear that she’s married soon. Polish girls start early, you know.”

Well, thank you for your time, Mister Telford.”

“By the way Colonel, How is OSI doing on the missing secret estimate case?”

“We’re working on it, sir.”

“Good. Sorry I can’t help.”

Chris Williams and Marv Sachs were never really close friends, until the investigation. Marv’s depression was increasing. The wisecracks and the putdowns ceased. Chris was concerned about Marv’s mental health and tried to shake him out of his melancholy. Marv gradually came around, began to talk about himself and his problem, and Chris listened. The real Marvin Sachs started to come out, slowly. When their defenses were down, Marv and Chris were like each other in many ways. Both had been hurt by emotional relationships that had been abruptly terminated. Both now had difficulty in “developing meaningful relationships,” as the psychologists call it. The “significant other person” in their youth had met an untimely death, and this had affected them for years in ways they could not comprehend. They took on different roles, personalities they used to keep from reliving that pain, to avoid getting hurt so much again. The brief episode at Great Falls had shaken Marv, but it also had let him release the grief he had smothered for years. He knew that he had been capable of deep human love, and that he could really love someone again.

Chris’s imagination was vivid and fanciful at times. He never quite got over Tolstoy’s War and Peace, which he had read in college. He sometimes thought of himself as Pierre, but in a Washington setting. He was sensitive to all that was happening around him, he believed, but no one really understood his feelings. He dreamed of doing work of historic proportions in government service to help bring peace to a troubled world. He was in the right place at the right time but at the wrong level. Still, he looked up to the leaders of his organization as men doing great things. He was helping, he thought. He also thought that his genius and dedication would eventually be recognized, and that then his self-esteem would rise and he would be a new man. He might even overcome his shyness.

As they began to confide in each other, to share their feelings, disappointments and hopes, Marv and Chris became true friends. In an honest, compassionate, selfless way they grew to love one another. Chris had found the brother he lost, the brother he needed. Only now they were both older.

Chris’s new bond of friendship with Marv was soon to be tested in a way even Chris could not imagine. In early November he was asked to come to the security office at CIA headquarters “for a routine interview.” He was ushered into a small, windowless room that was furnished with only a rectangular metal table and four straightback chairs, all in standard government grey. At the end of the table sat a stocky Agency security officer, whom he had never met, who rose and introduced himself as Jim Wilson. To his right was an Air Force officer, who was introduced officially as Lieutenant Colonel Charles Carlson of the Office of Special Investigations. On the table was a small tape recorder, which Wilson turned on before they started talking.

Thank you for coming, Christopher,” began Wilson, smiling slightly. “Colonel Carlson would like to ask you a few questions, and the Agency has agreed to let him talk with you on a need-to-know, confidential basis. You will not discuss Agency sources or methods.”

“Okay,” said Chris, looking directly at Carlson, not smiling.

“Do you know Lieutenant Marvin Sachs?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I should have asked, How well do you know him?”

“He’s my friend.”

“How long have you known him?”

“About four years, but I haven’t been in close contact with him all the time. We share an apartment now, since he moved to Washington.”

“Did he talk much about his work, what he did in the Pentagon?”

“Look, Colonel. I still see Marv Sachs almost every day. We’re good friends. We talk about a lot of things. Sure he talked about his job once in a while.”

“Do you know Dorothy Polinski.”

“No. But I know that Marv knows her.”

“How well?”

“He used to talk with her in the Pentagon. He knows a lot of secretaries. Marv isn’t shy.”

“Did he ever bring her to your apartment?”

“No. Not that I know of anyway.”

“Was he in love with her?”

“You should ask him that,” Chris replied quickly, beginning to get aggravated.

“Was he having an affair with her?”

“What are you after, Colonel? What business is this? Why are you digging into his personal life?”

“Didn’t you know that Sachs is involved in a security breach? This is serious business. He may have been recruited by a KGB agent.”

“What!”

“What if I told you, in confidence of course, that Polinski was recruited, that she seduced Sachs, that they provided classified information to the other side.”

“Nonsense! Pardon me, but you’re wrong, sir.”

“Your loyalty to Sachs is understandable, but loyalty to our country is more important now. Sachs has gotten himself into deep trouble. Polinski has fled the country. Secrets are missing. We don’t know the scope of their operation yet. It could be a major national security loss. We may be seeing only the tip of the iceberg. We must find out how Polinski used Sachs.”

“Have you asked him?”

“I thought you could help us.”

“Us? What do you mean?”

“You are a bright young man, Christopher. You have a good Air Force record and, I’m told, a good start on your Agency career. This is a national security matter.”

“You want me to spy on Marvin Sachs?” Chris asked in a tone of disbelief and irritation, shaking his head.

Wilson began to look uncomfortable. He apparently did not expect Carlson to go this far at a first meeting, particularly since Carlson had not discussed this with him beforehand. He was beginning to question Carlson’s professionalism but did not say so. He suggested that Carlson might want to clarify the matter. Carlson sensed that he may have moved too quickly, but he wanted to test Chris. He began again, slowly, but straightforward in manner.

“We must learn more about the relationship between Sachs and Miss Polinski. By helping us, you may be helping him. He may have been trapped, put in a blackmail situation. They probably assessed his weaknesses, knew his reputation as a womanizer and gambler, and set him up for a compromise. Polinski was the bait. He probably did not know what was happening to him. They take their time.”

“Colonel Carlson, sir, are you telling me that Marv Sachs is a spy? Are you saying that he has betrayed his country, has given secret information to a potential enemy?"

“I’m saying that Sachs was involved with Polinski, more than he is willing to admit. He claims he doesn’t know where she is, that he’s really not interested. We know that he spent a lot of time around her, that there was something going on between them. He’s covering up something.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you trying to protect him?”

“From what? Some document is missing, and you link him with the KGB and spooky business. What proof do you have? Anyone in the system could have taken the document.”

“You know all about the missing document then. He discussed this with you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Among other things, that he is being screwed. He’s being made the scapegoat for some breakdown in the system. He’s afraid you will destroy him.”

“I’m doing my job, my duty. I simply want to get to the bottom of this. Sachs is no angel. You must know that.”

“Very few of us are, Colonel.”

“You won’t help us then?”

“Marv Sachs is my friend.”

Colonel Carlson nodded his head slowly and then looked at Wilson, indicating the meeting was over. Wilson thanked Chris for coming and said simply, “We’ll be in touch.” He left the room with Carlson, leaving Chris standing there. When Chris got back to his desk, he began to wonder if there was anything to Carlson’s approach. He must know something, Chris thought.

Meanwhile, the FBI completed its report on Dorothy Polinski. They knew she had left the country. They had traced her to Munich, but German authorities could not locate her there. An item that was deleted from the official report, but passed to the Director’s office, had to do with contacts between Miss Polinski and Robert S. Telford III. This was placed in a special file that contained derogatory information on high-level government officials, particularly political appointees. The Bureau was aware of the peccadilloes of many prominent people in government, including senators and cabinet officers. Telford was not a giant in the world of Washington gamesmanship, but he had good contacts at the highest levels and could move up. He was worth watching, and his folder was getting thicker. For the moment, he was just another “fat-cat” playing around. Dorothy Polinski was not the only woman he visited.

The Agency, on the other hand, was getting more interested in the relationship between Marvin Sachs and Christopher Williams. Wilson’s report to his superiors on the Carlson interview with Williams raised a few eyebrows. Was Carlson on to something they didn’t know about? After all, Williams had access to highly classified information. If the KGB had assessed Sachs, they must have known about Williams with whom he lived. And they must have known that Williams was a CIA officer. Would not that fact have given them pause in their attempt to target Sachs? Unless. Unless the real target was Williams! The KGB may have been using Sachs to get at Williams. This would be a real coup, a penetration of the CIA, a KGB first priority! The adrenaline of the security people began to flow. A KGB “mole” in the CIA was their worst fear. This had to be handled very carefully; a leak would cause a furor in the media. Jack Anderson would have a field day!

First things first. The Inspector General and the General Counsel must be advised of the situation (CYA principle). Both security and counter intelligence teams would undertake the Agency investigation. Williams must be put under surveillance. His phone must be tapped. Another background check would be made. And, he must know what was happening.

One veteran Agency operations officer present at a strategy session on “the Williams case” raised an interested question. If the KGB had penetrated the Air Force security system with someone “inside,” why would they keep a secret document? They could easily photograph it, microfilm the document, and leave it in place. They could copy pouches full of classified papers. Why steal one document and compromise their operation?

“Maybe they had threatened to expose Sachs, to force him into another operation,” said a senior security man. “The KGB agent, perhaps Miss Polinski, could have kept the document. This change in modus operandi would put Sachs in jeopardy, frighten him. He could be more easily manipulated.”

“But they knew the document would have to be accounted for eventually,” said another security man. “So why blow the whole operation?”

“What if the relationship between Sachs and Polinski was beginning to deteriorate? Instead of returning all the classified material after she copied it, she withheld one important document as insurance against the possibility that Sachs might balk at providing more. Then she felt she was losing control and ran off, leaving Sachs holding the bag. It has happened before, you know.”

“But what about Williams? Where does he fit in?” asked the operations man.

“That’s what we have to find out,” said the senior security man, looking slowly around at the other participants.

Marv was getting more isolated and depressed. He felt shunned by his fellow officers. He knew that he had been lax during the period in which the document disappeared, and this troubled him greatly. Instead of checking off the classified items on his pouch manifest when he returned them to the control section, he simply handed the stack of material to the airman clerk for sorting and filing or storage in the tall file safes. The safes were inside a secure area. Even if the clerk did not put the material in a safe immediately, there was no real security problem, assuming the clerks were doing their work in the area. The whole section was within a steel vault that was locked and electronically monitored at night. Nevertheless, Marv had relied on the airmen clerks to take care of the material he returned, and he did not bother to check his list for each item. He knew this was a mistake, and that he was responsible for control of any document he carried. The pouch manifest was typed by the airmen when they prepared the material for the courier, who in turn was supposed to check the contents of the pouch against the manifest. Sometimes Marv did, and sometimes he didn’t. In the case that was destroying his career, he had no idea what had happened, but he knew he had not done his job properly. He could not blame anyone but himself.

Chris had noticed another change in Marv. When Marv returned to the apartment after work, later than usual now, he was sullen. Instead of talking, he would pour a stiff drink and take it to his room. When he emerged, it was obvious that he had had too much to drink, that he had probably started before he got home. Chris tried to get through to him, but it was getting progressively more difficult.

One evening Marv seemed even more morose. He sat down opposite Chris and said he wanted to ask him something. Chris was surprised but smiled and said, “Sure, Marv, what is it?”

Marv looked at him coldly. “Are you spying on me?”

Chris no longer smiled. He looked sadly at Marv and shook his head. “No, Marvin, no. I am not spying on you. You are tired. You are upset. Why don’t you turn in early? We can talk in the morning.”

“Did you have a meeting with Colonel Carlson to talk about me?”

“You don’t understand, Marv.”

“Did you?”

“He came out to the Agency. He had requested a confidential meeting through our security people. He didn’t ask me first. I was told to go see a security officer, and there he was. I had nothing to do with the arrangement.”

“Did you talk about me?”

“Yes, but.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the meeting?”

“Because I couldn’t. I was told not to. It was a security matter.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I am.”

Marv’s eyes began to moisten. He left the room. What Marv could not say to Chris was that he could not believe what Colonel Carlson had said to him.

Earlier that day, in the Pentagon, Carlson had visited Marv. He spoke about the investigation openly, telling Marv that OSI had found many infractions in his performance of official duties. He even alluded to “conduct unbecoming an officer,” a line Marv remembered from some old war movie. In his mind, Marv could picture the movie court martial scene. Carlson said that OSI had interviewed many of Marv’s contacts and had done a background investigation update. There was sufficient derogatory information to revoke Marv’s security clearance, Carlson implied. When this did not shake Marv, at least visibly, Carlson decided on a stronger ploy.

“You know, of course, that I have met with Christopher Williams, and he has cooperated in the investigation.”

Marv looked at Carlson with contempt and did not flinch when Carlson said, “Lieutenant Sachs, you should resign for the good of the service.” Marv had heard that line before, but not in real life. He tried desperately not to show it, but he was deeply wounded.

“What am I charged with, Colonel?” he snapped.

Carlson looked at him sternly and said, “You know what this is all about. Don’t get legalistic with me. Either you are guilty or you are protecting someone. You are trying to tough it out, but it won’t work. If you cooperate with us, we can ease you out gently. We’ll find you a job somewhere, help you get a new start. You are a young man.”

Again, Marv could not believe what he was hearing. He was getting confused. His emotions were beginning to cloud his thinking. Carlson was really getting to him. He wanted to scream out with curses that he had done nothing. Marv knew in his gut that he had been a joke around headquarters, a real lightweight. He had done foolish favors for people, including “officers and gentlemen” of higher rank. But he was not a fool. He was hurt. The thought of Chris talking with Carlson wrenched his insides. Since he was eighteen, Marv had opened himself completely to only two people, and Chris was one of them.

Carlson remained silent for a while, expecting Marv to say or do something, perhaps even to break down. Marv looked down, around, up, but not at Carlson. Carlson finally said, “I guess that’s it for now.”

Marv said nothing.

An opportunity that Chris had fantasized finally came to pass. His boss, Mel Johnson, invited the office group for cocktail and buffet at his home in McLean, Virginia, a nice suburb of Washington. Although Chris was not comfortable at cocktail parties, this was an annual event at the Johnson’s place, and Mel was his boss, so Chris went. He was not disappointed, mostly because Sally Bradford was there and she looked great in a knit dress. Chris drank very little. Sally drank a lot, he noticed. Mel was a good storyteller and host, and the party warmed up fast. Soon the large living and dining area was alive with conversation and laughter. Chris was an inveterate people watcher and was amused at how some of his colleagues could really loosen up after a few drinks, and others began to stare into their glasses. Sally grew louder and more playful. She wanted to dance with everyone, and eventually draped herself around Chris. Chris was a little embarrassed at first because this was a first, and Sally turned him on. No one seemed to pay any attention to them, and the party and drinks continued to flow.

Then came the surprise, for Chris anyway. Sally, who had come to the party with one of the secretaries, asked Chris if he would mind driving her home. The secretary was getting along nicely with one of the men and wanted to continue the party elsewhere. Chris said, “Sure.”

When they left the Johnson’s’ home, Chris saw that Sally was having trouble negotiating the walkway. He guided her to his car and helped her in, gently. Chris knew where the Bradford house was. He had driven by the place a few times on weekends, thinking he might call on Sally; he never did. As they drove down the George Washington Parkway toward North Arlington, Sally slid over next to Chris. She was humming some show tune that he didn’t recognize. This is Marv’s territory, Chris thought. Then she touched him, down there.

Chris became very alert, physically as well as mentally. He drove on without saying anything, but the feeling grew stronger. What do I do now, he thought, wishing at the moment that he were more like Marv. But he wasn’t. He wanted to touch her, but he was afraid he would wreck the car. Sally relaxed and leaned her head on his shoulder. She seemed to be dozing off. “What a playboy I am,” Chris mused to himself.

When he roused her in the driveway of the Bradford home, Sally looked up at him and smiled softly, waiting. She then leaned back lazily on the car seat, her head tilted up, waiting. Chris’s pulse jumped. He looked down at her and wanted to say something romantic. She didn’t give him a chance. She pulled him toward her and began the longest, wettest kiss he had ever known, or imagined. Afterwards, Chris wondered what she would be like if she were sober. At least he had touched her, finally.

When Chris got back to the apartment he was surprised that Marv was not in his room. The door was open, and Chris could see that the room was even more disorderly than usual. Marv had been coming in early or staying at home more in recent weeks, and Chris was expecting him to be there. He wanted to tell Marv about his little adventure with Sally, the way Marv used to regale him with vivid descriptions of his latest encounter with some secretary from the Pentagon. That was before Dorothy and the security incident.

On the dinette table Chris found a note from Marv: “Going home. Sorry about us. I trusted you.” Chris was stung. He slumped into the chair and stared at the note. You crazy s.o.b., he thought, you just don’t understand. Looking back in the room, Chris noticed that Marv’s clothes were gone. All Chris now knew was that ‘home’ for Marv was somewhere in Baltimore, not too far away. He would see him again.

The next day Chris tried to call Marv at the Pentagon. He was told that Lieutenant Sachs had not come in. What Chris did not know, and was not told, was that Marv had not taken leave and was suspected of being AWOL.

When Major Dunn reported the absence to Colonel Carlson by phone (CYA), Carlson took secret satisfaction in this item of information. Carlson looked out the window at a flag flapping in the breeze and thought, He’s on the run, I’ve broken the case.

Meanwhile, Chris was getting more worried. He didn’t even notice when Sally smiled at him that morning. He could not concentrate on his work.

Chris became enmeshed in the heavy traffic trying to move across Key Bridge. He hated this, particularly when he was tired at the end of a workday. He turned on the radio to catch the five o’clock news, a regular habit to break the monotony of rush hour. He heard something about an accident in the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel. Since he had thought about going to Baltimore that evening, he listened more carefully. The newsman told of the crash of a Ford Coupe into the back of a stalled moving van. The driver of the small car was crushed. Traffic in the Washington bound lane of the tunnel was backed up. At first Chris thought only about the traffic situation. He would be going in the opposite direction, so it shouldn’t be a problem. It crossed his mind that Marv once said that he used the tunnel to get to his mother’s house in a northern section of Baltimore.

Then Chris began to get upset. He pictured Marv in his Ford coupe speeding through the tunnel and slamming into the huge van. “I must be tired,” he said aloud to himself. But the thought persisted. Marv had to get away for a little while. He went to see his mother. He was coming back. He was hurrying. He wanted to talk with me. He understood. He’s dead.

After what seemed an unbearable delay, getting into Georgetown, getting the right phone number, getting control of his anxiety, Chris finally got through to the Sachs’ house in Baltimore. A woman answered the phone.

“Mrs. Sachs,” Chris blurted out.

“This is Chris Williams, a friend of Marvin’s.”

There was a pause, then the woman said, “This is Marvin’s Aunt Marcia. Marvin’s mother cannot be disturbed now.”

“Is Marv there?”

There was another pause, followed by, “Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t know. Marvin was killed in an accident today.”

Chris’s body tensed. He could not talk. He put the phone down and walked into Marv’s room. He sat on Marv’s bed and looked at the empty closet. At first he could feel nothing. Then the emptiness began to fill slowly with memories of the vibrant Marv, the sad-eyed Marv, the crazy Marv, the laughing Marv, the misunderstood Marv. And now the crushed Marv. Chris did not want to cry, but he did. He put his head down on the pillow and felt as though he could not lift it again. "“Why Marv?” he sobbed. “Why?” Eventually, he fell asleep.

The next morning Chris was awakened by the phone ringing. He was still dressed. The phone rang several times before Chris got to it. It was his boss, Mel Johnson.

“Are you all right, Chris?” asked Johnson in a deeper than usual voice.

“What time is it?” said Chris haltingly.

“It’s about nine o’clock. Are you OK?”

“Yes,” said Chris in a sleepy tone. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“I’ll put you on sick leave, Chris. I just wanted to make sure you were home and OK. I heard about Marvin Sachs. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”

About an hour later, the pone rang again, shaking Chris out of his maudlin reverie. The caller identified himself as Colonel Bradford. Chris said simply, “Yes, sir.”

Bradford spoke harshly, “I want you to stay away from my daughter. I know about you and Sachs, you pervert.”

The funeral was a simple affair. A few brief remarks by a rabbi, condolences for family and friends, and a short prayer. Chris found himself praying silently that Marv be at peace now. Other than saying, “Oh, Christ, why me?” a few times lately, Chris had not prayed in a long time. One thing that Marv would like, Chris thought, was the flag draped over the coffin. Marv died while in the Air Force. He had not quit. He may not have been the best, but he was a loyal officer. The thought of betraying his country would never have occurred to Marvin Sachs.

At the graveside, Chris was struck by the odd assortment of people. Marv’s mother, whom he had always pictured as a plump Moll Goldberg Jewish-mother stereotype, was thin and had sharp features. She was calm, more in control of her emotions than the other relatives present were. The only strong resemblance to Marv was in her sad eyes. There were a few young secretaries looking on awkwardly, wondering if they should have come but feeling that they had to. What Chris noticed most was that there were no young Air Force officers present. Several airmen from Marv’s section were there, following the lead of Major Dunn. Then Chris saw Colonel Carlson, in civilian clothes, standing at the back of the group. Chris’s contemplative mood was shattered. He wanted to shout at Carlson, to vent his anger and frustration, to curse him. But he didn’t. With difficulty, he kept his mouth shut tight, and clenched his fists. He looked again at Mrs. Sachs, then up to the sky, and remembered a passage from scripture: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Chris had not met Mrs. Sachs and decided to visit her after the services. She lived in a simple brick row house, with the white steps up from the sidewalk common to most old Baltimore homes in the area. Surprisingly, there were very few callers, and the relatives drifted away shortly after Chris got there. He had simply wanted to tell her who he was and how he had come to know Marvin well. She sat in the small living room, in a dimly lit corner, and looked very grandmotherly to Chris. She said that she was pleased that he had come, that she had noticed him at the service and assumed this was the Chris of whom Marvin had spoken. Her voice was clear and soft, and she looked directly at Chris. Chris felt very much at ease with her. The tensions of the day began to fade.

They chatted for a while about Chris, where he came from, how he met Marvin, some of the things they did together. Chris knew in his heart that he had never really known Marv until recently, but this was no time for an analysis of their relationship. His mother seemed to appreciate his remark about how Marv cheered up everyone with his stories, jokes, and showbiz routine at parties---the laughing Marv.

When Chris was beginning to wonder about what else to say before leaving, she looked at him sadly and said, “Marvin had so little happiness when he was a boy and in high school. I’m so glad he found friends like you.” She wanted to talk more, and Chris listened.

Mrs. Sachs told of Marvin’s childhood, the little Jewish boy in a neighborhood full of Irish Catholic kids, the loss of his father when he was ten, the trauma that followed the accident in high school. “Marvin became very isolated,” she said.

“Each time he reached out, tried to make friends, tried to please his father, something happened to hurt him. His shyness as a teenager was painful, until he met Rebecca.” Chris heard the magic name that had had such an effect on Marv’s personality.

“Who was Rebecca?” he asked, showing more than a casual interest.

Mrs. Sachs knew that Chris would want to hear about Rebecca. What Chris did not know at the moment was what Marvin had told his mother during his last and final visit. Marvin had been talking about his life, something he rarely did. He said that, other than his parents, he had only been able to really love two people, Rebecca and Chris. His mother had replied, “To be able to love deeply is a gift from God. Cherish it, Marvin.”

Chris listened intently as Mrs. Sach describe the frail girl who moved into the neighborhood when Marvin was fourteen. Rebecca Feldman, alone even when she was with her quiet, hard working parents, was a dreamer. Although it was easier for her to get along with Irish Catholic girls who seemed to be everywhere in that part of the city, she spent most of her hours by herself, reading and drawing. In the summer, when the boys would be playing in the street, she would sit at the top of the white steps and watch. Marvin wanted to say hello, to talk with her, but he could not, particularly with the other boys around. It was tough enough being accept by them, and sometimes that didn’t last long. To be seen with this frail nobody, a girl, the one who reads all the time, would ruin what little position he had in ‘the gang.’ He was careful, but he managed to meet her in her back yard by throwing a ball over the board fence and asking if he could get it. She said she would open the back gate for him. Marvin was no Tom Sawyer, but this was Baltimore.

Rebecca offered him a glass of water, and something he had never experienced before, a conversation with a girl who was just a year younger than he. He stayed an hour, not knowing what time it was. He could actually talk with this person, and she listened to him! After that, they spent many hours together, first just talking, then sharing thoughts, then feelings, then dreams. Marvin learned that there was someone else in the world who was like him. And best of all, she liked him! They survived adolescence in row house Baltimore together, no mean feat. Of course, they both changed. Nature was much kinder to Rebecca than to Marvin. She developed into a truly beautiful person, in mind, body and spirit. Heaven’s only real gift to Marvin at eighteen, other than his mother, was Rebecca. She still cared for him. He wondered about their relationship, often when he looked in the mirror. But she was his best friend.

Mrs. Sachs did not dwell on the tragedy of Rebecca’s death in an auto accident, but began to weep as she said, “Poor Rebecca, poor Marvin, they even died in the same way.” When she composed herself, she looked up at Chris and said, “He loved Rebecca in a way few young men would understand.” Then she added, “He loved you, Christopher.”

Chris looked down for a minute, then stood up, moved close to Mrs. Sachs and put his arms around her. After another minute, he left quietly.

Things at the office were not the same. Even Sally was cool to him now, although he caught her glancing at him tenderly when he looked up abruptly from his work. Most of the men were businesslike; the camaraderie was gone. Security officers had interviewed all of Chris’s colleagues. The days were getting longer. Mel Johnson asked Chris to go to lunch with him, his first invitation in a week, and not a regular thing with Mel.

Some of the younger officers in the division thought that Mel was too paternalistic and a bit behind the times. Chris always found him to be fair and balanced in his professional judgments, though he had a tendency to delay estimates until more information was available. Sometimes they barely made the publication deadlines. Mel had been a combat intelligence officer as a young man in World War II. No one doubted his courage. With his combined military and Agency service, Mel could retire early. But he liked the intelligence community; this was his life work.

“Chris, we have a problem,” he said directly. “No one has accused you of anything, but your name has surfaced in connection with an OSI investigation of Marvin Sachs.”

“Sachs is dead,” replied Chris sternly.

“I know, Chris, and I think I know how you feel about it. But the case is not closed.”

Chris was angry but not at Mel.

“Marv was not a spy! This whole thing is ridiculous. They are looking for a scapegoat, just because a sensitive document got lost in the bowels of the Pentagon and they don’t know what to do about it. The Air Force is embarrassed, OSI gets the case, and Carlson is a fool. Poor Marv was an easy target.”

“It’s not that simple, Chris. We worked on the estimate. The missing draft originated in our division. You are one of the few people who knew it was completed and ready for coordination with the Air Force.”

“What are you saying, Mel? That I tipped off someone in the control system that it was on its way, that it was worth stealing? It would have been a lot easier for me to just make a copy and take it home.”

“Call it a strange coincidence. Call it fate. Call it whatever you want. But three people who knew one another personally, perhaps intimately, have been linked to the disappearance of the document. Sachs had a close relationship with Dorothy Polinski. You knew about it. Sachs was your friend. He lived with you. The document disappears. Then Dorothy disappears. Then Sachs goes AWOL and gets killed. That leaves you, Chris.”

“Leaves me? Where do I fit into this alleged conspiracy?”

“You don’t see it yet, Chris, but you soon will, I’m afraid.”

“See what, Mel? What’s going on?”

“Let me try a scenario for you, whether or not it makes any sense.”

“Please do. None of this makes sense to me now.”

“Let’s say that Dorothy Polinski was co-opted by a foreign intelligence service. She was living pretty high for a secretary, you know. She had a security clearance and access to people and information flowing around E-ring. She knew, as did her case officer, that she did not see the really sensitive or highly classified material that was brought by officer-courier to key people. She knew how the system worked but did not have access to it. Along comes Marvin Sachs. He is smitten with the beautiful Dorothy, and she knows it. Sachs has a reputation as a womanizer. She probably knows this too. Then begins the classic entrapment, with Dorothy in the Mata Hari role.”

“Aw, come on Mel! You make it sound like Marv was a complete idiot. He wasn’t that naïve.”

“Let’s just say then that he had an affair with Dorothy. Maybe he grew to love her. Then she confided to him that she was in trouble, told him about her contacts wit the foreign case officer, said she needed help. They would leave her alone if she would use Sachs to get some sensitive documents. She saw this as a way out. Marv was hooked. He had to help her."

“Why?”

“Because she was pregnant with his child.”

“Oh my god! Now I know this is crazy!”

“Simmer down, Chris. Just listen for a minute. Dorothy had few friends in the Washington area. One of these was her former roommate in the small South Arlington apartment she shared when she first came to the area. Before leaving town, Dorothy could not resist telling her of the situation, since she would probably not see her again. When the FBI got into the act, trying to trace Dorothy’s whereabouts, they checked out her former addresses. They found the roommate. She is a government secretary. She was appalled that Dorothy was being sought in connection with a security matter. She thought this was a big mistake. She wanted to defend her friend, so she told the Bureau about the pregnancy.”

Chris felt very tired. He had not eaten much, and now he couldn’t. Poor Marv, he thought. Will he ever rest in peace? He watched Mel eat a little, then said, “Why are you telling me this?” Mel resumed the earnest conversation in a fatherly way.

“Tom Blackwell, the Chief of Security, came to see me yesterday. His people have interviewed most of our division’s officers and a few secretaries. Blackwell has also talked with Carlson’s boss in OSI. He wanted my personal assessment of you.”

I’m sorry you were put on the spot Mel.”

“You know how concerned they are about any possible penetration of the Agency. Well, Blackwell does not have much to go on, but he thinks we should be prudent. He wants to suspend your security clearances until this whole matter with Sachs is cleared up.”

“You mean I can’t work here anymore? You’re putting me on the shelf?”

“We’ll find you an unclassified project to work on, something in the library maybe. Just until this thing blows over.”

“What have I done, Mel? Do they think that Marv set it up so that Dorothy could seduce me? A menage a trois in espionage?”

“That’s not what they think, Chris.”

“Then, what?”

“They think that you may have been used, perhaps unwittingly, at first. They don’t know, but they suspect.”

“How? Suspect what?”

“That you had a homosexual relationship with Marv.”

Chris felt sick. He stared blankly at Mel. Mel looked at his plate, then cleared his throat.

“I think you ought to take the afternoon off, Chris.” Chris nodded, got up, and walked away slowly.

Leaving CIA Headquarters in early afternoon was a lot quieter than at close of business. There was no line at the security checkpoint, and the guard was relaxed. He motioned for Chris to pass through. Chris was glad there were no delays. He wanted to get out of there. Before he left the main lobby, however, he looked up at the inscription on the marble wall, the one he had passed by hundreds of times. “…And the truth will set you free.” Maybe, he thought.

Chris felt a little better when he walked outside and breathed the fresh, cool autumn air. The smaller trees that dotted the parking area were almost completely turned, and leaves had fallen on the cars. The larger trees that had been part of the natural landscape long before Allen Dulles built his monument in this magnificent setting were ablaze in color. The grey building seemed strangely out of place amid such natural beauty, but Chris was glad he worked there and not in the District of Columbia. The drive home should be pleasant today, no heavy traffic, and no back up at the bridge; God is merciful, he thought.

The short drive down the parkway along the Potomac was truly spectacular at this time of year. It calmed Chris. The God who created such natural beauty could sure play tricks on His human creatures, he mused. Why did his life have to be so complicated? He was getting into his’Pierre mood,’ as Marv would say when Chris was getting melancholy.

“Why not?” muttered Chris to himself. “Pierre never had to contend with the nuclear age, the KGB, the CIA, or Marvin Sachs.”

Self-pity was not characteristic of Chris, even when he was down, but his self-esteem had been blown away today. He could even hear Marv saying, “Snap out of it, Chris,” followed by some old saw like, “Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.” It was strange, he thought, how people who worried a lot would tell others, “Now, don’t worry, everything will be all right.” His mother was like that.

When he got into the apartment and looked around, he felt very lonely. He missed Marv. He really did. Chris stretched out on his bed and wondered what he was going to do. His dad would say, “Don’t be a quitter!” His mom would say, “Don’t worry.” His older brother would say, “Don’t mope around. Do something!” The never did say much about what to do though, he remembered. Poor Dave. He got himself killed in the Korean War, so he’s not going to say anything to anyone anymore, except maybe his Maker. And dad, he’ll always be proud of Dave. Dave was a marine, a real man, and his son who died for his country. What will dad think of me now? Chris fell asleep when these thoughts finally drifted away.

When he awakened, it was about sundown, and the autumnal golden glow was enveloping Georgetown. The old townhouses were sharply in the slanted rays of the sinking sun. How many generations had felt the warmth and charm of this place at twilight? He was one in spirit with them all, he thought. For a brief moment, he fancied himself a poet, a Robert Browning in Georgetown, waiting for Elizabeth. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” What a lucky guy, that Robert. Chris remembered when Judy Taylor, the girl of his dreams in high school, gave a dramatic reading O Elizabeth Barrett Browning'’ poem in English class. Had she spoken those words to him alone, he would gladly have died. She didn’t, and he lived.

Soon it was dark, and Chris felt even darker. Praying was something he did not do regularly, and it was difficult for him now. He still had the small Bible his mother had given him when he was commissioned in the Air Force. She assumed he was going into combat, like Dave. Mothers rarely see the differences in military roles. Dave wore a uniform. Chris was in uniform. Dave died. Chris was in danger. He should carry the Bible with him. Chris promised his mother that he would keep the Bible with him, and he did, but he never read it. It was somewhere in his boxes of books, stacked in a corner of his room. He was always going to set up bookshelves someday.

Rummaging through the boxes, he came across some of the books from college that he was going to read completely when he had time. Among them was The Development of Western Civilization. How far had we really come, Chris wondered? He set aside Art in the Western World and remembered how fascinated he was by the slides and lectures that opened up this world to him. Then he saw The Enjoyment of Music. He was glad the author had not called this The Study of Music or The History of Music. He enjoyed the course, particularly the concerts that were part of it. Chris did appreciate the humanities, as these courses were then called.

He finally found the Bible at the bottom of one of the boxes. When he opened the cover—he had to begin somewhere—he read for the first time what his mother had written on the inside:

“To my own Christopher. Your name is the

reminder of who you are. Like Him, I will

love you forever.”

Chris sat amid the books on the floor. He leaned his back and head against the wall and just let the tears flow.

After a few minutes, Chris decided it was about time he looked at John 8, since the last line of verse 32 was very much on his mind:

“If you live according to my teaching, you

Chris had never read this passage in context before. Verse 32 took on a new meaning. He scanned the rest of the chapter. His eyes were drawn to verse 12:

“I am the light of the world. No follower

Chris read more of scripture that night. He slept well.

Chris did not know what to expect when he walked into the division the next day. Would someone else be sitting at his desk? Sally looked at him for a few seconds, then said, “I’m sorry, Chris.” She turned away. He was pleased that she had spoken to him. He would like to know her better someday. When Mel saw him, he motioned with his head that Chris should come to the front office. Mel noticed that Chris looked a lot better and said so to him. Over coffee and after a few pleasantries, Mel told Chris that Security wanted him to take a special polygraph examination. The polygraph, or “lie detector,” as it was commonly known, was referred to in Agency jargon as “the box.” Chris had been “on the box” a long time ago in connection with routine Agency clearance procedures. Mel had just said that this was a special examination, and this troubled Chris.

He reported to the designated room as instructed and tried to relax. He knew that he could not hide his stress from the sensitive monitors of the polygraph. The operator, who resembled a Savings & Loan officer in a three-piece suit, tried to be casual. He told Chris to sit down and relax. He placed the various sensors on Chris’s arm, chest and fingers and wired him to the box. He calibrated the recording instruments and immediately noticed Chris’s high blood pressure and pulse rate.

“O.K., Christopher, we’re about ready.”

“For what?”

“Well, let’s begin anyway. You know what this is about, more than I do.”

“Maybe.”

“Please just answer yes or no to the questions I ask. Do not qualify your answers or comment, at least until I ask you to. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Is your name Christopher Williams?”

“Yes.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take any medication or tranquilizer this morning?”

“No.”

“Did you know Marvin Sachs?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love him?”

“What!”

“Please Christopher, just answer yes or no. I’ll repeat the question. Did you love Marvin Sachs?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have sexual relations with him?”

Chris was livid. At first he did not move. The pen-like instruments scratched erratically on the moving graph paper. The operator looked like he was expecting to get punched in the mouth. Then, Chris stood up, stretching the wires that connected him to the machine. He ripped off the sensors and threw them at the terrified operator who was trying to get out the door.

Chris put his jacket on and straightened his tie. He looked at the mess on the floor and shook his head. His anger subsided. He picked up the note pad the operator had dropped. He wrote across the pad: “The answer to your last question is NO.”

Chris surprised the guard at the checkpoint in the main lobby when he handed him his badge instead of just showing it as usual. He walked on, leaving the guard holding the badge and wondering what to do. The expression on Chris’s face told the guard that this was not a mistake, that he should not call after him. Before passing through the main door for the last time, Chris paused and looked up at the now familiar inscription. He knew the truth, and he felt free.

Chris wanted to go home to Bucks County. Winter was coming. The cold drizzle-rains that make the Washington area a gloomy place had begun. Chris was gloomy enough, and the weather didn’t help. The exhilaration he had felt when he walked out of the Agency had evaporated. This was the morning after, and he had no place to go. As he stared out the window of his apartment, Georgetown now appeared to be a small, damp place, a strange enclave in a peculiar city. The townhouse and apartment dwellers had gone off to work, school, play, or whatever they did during the day. It was very quiet, and the stillness main the rain seen even heavier. This was not a good day to be alone with your thoughts. Chris was beginning to feel very anxious and, rare for him, afraid. He missed Marv even more. He was getting depressed. Sometimes a loner gets really lonely, and Chris was now both. Yet, like Thomas Wolfe, he knew that “you can’t go home again.”

Chris felt much older than twenty-seven. He knew he had wrecked his career, recently lost his best friend, was a “suspect” in a security case, and sorely doubted his wisdom at the moment. Even he thought this was heavy stuff for a young, single guy, who might not be able to pay the rent next month. At least he could buy food and survive for a couple of weeks, or until he got a job, or something. He must not panic, he thought, but he must do something before he went crazy. Fortunately, the phone rang and distracted him. He knew it would be Mel Johnson, and it was.

“What the hell are you doing Chris?” Who do you think you are? You can’t just walk out of the Agency and call it quits,” said Mel in a harsh tone Chris had not heard before.

Chris waited a moment, then spoke slowly, “I did what I had to do.”

“What do you think this is Chris, a movie? You make a grand exit, head held high, and the audience cheers. Wake up, you dreamer!”

“What do you want Mel?”

“Now you listen to me Chris. You are going to stay put until we get this mess straightened out. I don’t know whom you have been talking to or listening to, but I’m beginning to think you have your head screwed on wrong. I will arrange it so that you are officially on annual leave, until you use up your accrued vacation time. You will be paid until then. After that you will take leave without pay, until the security matter is resolved.”

“What am I supposed to do Mel? The security guys never let go. I’m guilty until they can satisfy themselves that they are on the wrong track. That could take forever.”

“You are to keep your mouth shut, period! We are trying to limit the damage here. This is really an Air Force problem, but we must protect the Agency’s reputation. We don’t want personnel problems leaked outside. OSI has already talked to too many people, and the FBI is delighted that we are on the defensive. They would like to show Congress that we are incapable of handling our own security.”

“But what about me, Mel? Do I sit around the apartment and go nuts, waiting for something to happen? The few friends I have around here are all in the intelligence business. How can I explain my status to them? What about my family? Do I just vegetate until the system corrects itself?

“I don’t have all the answers now, Chris. Just keep your mouth shut. I’ll get back to you later.”

Chris hung up. He stared out the window some more. It was raining harder.

Chris did what he was told for about a week. He read a lot, walked around Georgetown, browsed the bookstores and art galleries, thought about life, and even prayed a little. He could stand the solitude for about a week. Then he called Sally Bradford. He had to talk with somebody he liked, even at the risk of being rejected.

Sally was cautious but did not hide her interest in Chris. She wanted to see him, she said, when it could be arranged carefully. She was concerned about him, but also about herself. She did not want her parents or the “office crew” to know of her interest in Chris. She explained this to him as tactfully as she could, which was not easy for her. The important thing to Chris was that she wanted to see him, that she cared. They agreed to meet on Saturday morning at a small coffee shop near the canal at the foot of old Georgetown. After breakfast they could stroll along the towpath and, most important to Chris, just talk.

Sally was waiting outside the shop. Chris could see her in the early sun as he hurried down the narrow street that ended at the river. The closer he came, the better she looked. Her brownish tweed skirt and soft tan turtleneck sweater accentuated her good figure and added to Chris’s genuine pleasure at seeing her again. In the crisp, cool morning air, she radiated a warmth of being that Chris could sense in the distance. As he approached her, she smiled, and he knew his senses were functioning well even if his mind might not be. She moved toward him, then stopped. He longed to hold her, to hug her, to kiss her, but he didn’t. They looked at each other tenderly for a moment while Chris tried to compose himself. He finally realized that he looked awful.

“What have they done to you, Chris? What have you done?”

“Nothing. The whole thing is crazy. It’s really getting to me. I don’t know what will happen next!” Chris blurted out. He wanted to appear calm, but he couldn’t. He had tried to control his emotions for too long, and now, with Sally, he simply could not. He choked up, and looked away.

She took his hand and said, “Let’s walk, Chris.” She led Chris down the steps to the towpath, and they strolled along a section of the pathway very familiar to Chris. But this time, for the first time, he was not alone. This time he could share his thoughts and feelings with someone. Sally was actually there, walking and talking with him, in a special place where he had spent much time alone with his dreams, hopes and fears. Now he was sharing them with Sally, and she really cared.

The morning sun moved higher in the sky, and its rays glistened on the water of the canal and river. Chris was at peace for the first time in weeks. He fantasized he could walk on forever with Sally, leaving the world in the shadow behind. Chris now understood how Marv felt with the young Rebecca. At that moment he could have run to the top of Georgetown hill with Sally, shouting, “I love you, I love you!” But he didn’t.

Sally broke into his dream by saying gently, “I have to go now, Chris.” She kissed him, then turned away slowly and walked back into the other world.

Colonel Carlson needed something. He thought he had broken the case, but the people who counted, his superiors, were beginning to question his performance. A phone call from the Director of Security of the CIA to the Chief of Air Force OSI, also questioning Carlson’s activities, did not help his position. He had gotten the attention of many senior people, including the Assistant Secretary of the Air Force, but the recognition he wanted—he deserved, he thought—was elusive. They knew he was on the case. But what had he really accomplished? Now he had the CIA on his back. His two principal suspects were gone, one forever. He needed something solid, a better piece of the jigsaw puzzle. He knew he needed somebody to take the rap. Christopher Williams was a possibility, but his boss, Mel Johnson, a respected CIA senior officer, continued to support him. The Agency polygraph examiner was convinced that Williams had answered the key question truthfully. The Agency wanted something more substantial to go on, and was pressing OSI. Carlson needed something.

Marvin Sachs was gone, but his belongings were not. Carlson had searched Sach’s desk in the Pentagon shortly after his death. Only one thing seemed to interest him, other than old copies of Playboy and football pools. In a bottom drawer Carlson had found a small spiral notebook. At first he thought it was just Sach’s “little black book,” a list of women Sachs had dated or wanted to date. Carlson was not surprised that Sachs had such a book; he was surprised that Dorothy Polinski’s name was not in it.

Next to each name listed was a phone number and space for a brief notation. Carlson was intrigued by what appeared to be Sachs’ simple code or evaluation system. Next to some of the names was a check mark; next to others was a question mark; and next to a few were the letters OK. There were also terse comments beside some of the names, but these did not make much sense to Carlson. One that he did understand made him grin; it read “Be careful, her father is a Colonel.”

Something really puzzled him about Sachs’ list. In addition to dates, times and places, which you would expect to find in such a book, there were other names written next to some of the women’s names. A few of the women on the list had several names next to theirs in the margin. Carlson wondered what kind of a “dating game” Sachs played.

The “black book” was not much. But it was something, and Carlson needed something. A little detective work in the personnel offices of the Pentagon verified his assumption: most of the women listed worked in the Pentagon, most as secretaries, and all were single, some divorced. The names in the margin were harder to trace. Most of these were surnames only, and there were no addresses or phone numbers connected with them. Carlson alphabetized the “margin names,” and then went through the Department of Defense Directory to see how many of the names were listed there. All of them were. Some of the names appeared more than once; the Pentagon is a big place. As he studied the groups of names, he noticed that at least one in each group was an Air Force officer attached to a headquarters component in the Pentagon. Carlson knew he had found something useful, but it frightened him.

The more Carlson thought about it, the more troubled he became. He slowly realized that he had evidence that could cause a major scandal in the Air Force if it leaked out. Was Sachs running a call-girl operation in Air Force Headquarters, using security channels? What a headline that would make! A number of officers noted in the book were Colonels, including one that Carlson recognized immediately; it was Colonel Bradford, Executive Officer to the Assistant Secretary of the Air Force. Carlson had found something all right, something he could use to build his case. But he could also destroy himself in the process. He had to be very, very careful.

Colonel Bradford was not a happy man. For him, the best time of life had been his "flying days" when he was a young fighter pilot. His wife Catherine had shared the wild side of his nature at first. She enjoyed the travel, parties, and good fellowship of Air Force life. After a while, flying became his release from the tensions of routine military service, and an unhappy wife. He could get away periodically, fly away to another part of the country or the world. Moving around had been exciting to her in the early years of their marriage, but not any more. When Sally was in school, Catherine wanted to settle down, to be part of something other than the Air Force. She detested the thought of Sally, her only real joy, being an "Air Force brat."

Ted Bradford loved his little girl and enjoyed sharing with her the delight of outdoor romps and little adventures in growing up. But Sally did grow up, and Ted never quite made it. Catherine grew tired of what she perceived to be the perpetual motion of Ted’s existence. He seemed unable to sit still for more than ten minutes and always had to be doing or planning something. The glue that kept them together was Sally. Ted traveled more, without Catherine, and played different games while away. Catherine stayed home and drank more. She knew that Ted was not faithful, but she did not confront him.

Catherine was angry, but not really surprised, when Ted told her he was in some trouble because of an "indiscretion." After all he was supposedly a mature man now, a full Colonel; as Catherine put it, "When are you going to grow up?" Ted tried to explain the seriousness of the situation while Catherine poured another drink of scotch for herself.

"The OSI investigator, Colonel Carlson, came to see me today. He was very sheepish and solicitous at first, ‘because of the embarrassing position he found himself in,’ he told me.

"Why was he embarrassed? You’re a damn fool."

"Why don’t you just listen to me for a change? I don’t ask much of you. This affects all of us."

"What do you mean, us?"

"You and I and Sally, and the Air Force."

"What!"

"Just listen, and put that drink down."

Catherine stared at him blankly as he tried to summarize the meeting with Carlson. The investigation had taken a new turn, Carlson had said, one that involved Bradford. Carlson wanted to "protect" Bradford and avoid bad press for the Air Force. Certain information in the wrong hands could be misinterpreted and reputations could be damaged. The "good of the service" was at stake. The "worst case" scenario was that Sachs could have blackmailed Bradford to get Dorothy Polinski assigned to Assistant Secretary Telford’s office staff. It was Bradford who had made special arrangements for the assignment and who was instrumental in getting Polinski an early promotion. (Carlson had obviously done his homework in the Air Force civilian personnel section.) It was also Bradford who quietly handled Miss Polinski’s resignation from the Air Force, bypassing normal procedures. Perhaps Bradford was an accomplice in espionage, Carlson had concluded.

Catherine gasped, "My god, what next?"

Bradford continued the painful exposition of his meeting with Carlson while Catherine drank some more. Carlson said that there was no direct evidence linking Bradford to the case, unless Sachs had blackmailed him. After all, he was not the only officer "playing around." But because of Bradford’s sensitive position in the Pentagon, and the fact that Sachs had kept a record of his dates, and the mysterious relationship between Sachs and Polinski—and the almost forgotten missing document—"things did not look good." Again, Carlson had emphasized, "in the wrong hands things could look very bad." He was sweating Bradford.

Colonel Bradford could no longer be just officious with Lt. Colonel Carlson. He must cooperate "for the good of the service." Carlson said he needed some help from Bradford in his effort to get more information on Marvin Sachs.

Catherine had listened impassively to her shaken husband. She knew about CYA, and was waiting for him to propose a way out. He always did. At this point she simply asked, "What does he want?"

"He wants our cooperation."

"Our cooperation? You and I?"

"And Sally."

"What!" Her face flushed red with anger and fear. "What do you mean—Sally?"

"He wants us to persuade Sally to help him get information on Sachs and possibly others involved in the security case."

"This is absurd! What does Sally know about such things?"

"She knows Christopher Williams, who was close to Sachs."

"Is Williams supposed to confide in Sally his innermost thoughts because they happen to know each other? Does she just ask him casually if he is a spy and, if so, please tell her all about it? "This is nonsense!"

"Sally and Williams have a closer relationship. She has been seeing him. She has ignored my warnings."

"Your warnings! You told me that Williams was gay, that the Agency had fired him. Sally is not a fool. What kind of a relationship can she have with him?"

"I may have been wrong about Williams. I don’t really know him. But Sally does."

"What are you getting at? Is Sally having an affair with Williams? Is she mixed up in the security mess? What? She is my daughter, you know!"

"I don’t know. Carlson showed me photos, obviously taken with a special zoom lens camera by a surveillance team. Sally was with Williams."

"What were they doing?"

"Walking along the towpath below Georgetown, holding hands."

"Oh Ted," Catherine choked out, "are we so sick? Our Sally is a beautiful young woman, full of life. She must know this young man better than the fools who are hounding him. You listen to a report involving your daughter, our Sally, holding hands, for god’s sake, and you see a conspiracy. What has happened to you Ted? Are you as small as Carlson? Have you lost your mind?"

Bradford was hurting. He turned his back to Catherine and stood silently looking at the fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a color photo of Sally. She looked radiant in the sun, standing near a cluster of aspen trees, a mountain scene in the background. The picture was taken during a vacation trip to Colorado, when they traveled together, when he loved his wife and daughter. Catherine spoke to him, to his back, from across the room.

"If you hurt Sally, I will never forgive you. I have taken a lot from you for her sake. I have pretended that you were a good man so that she could be proud of her father. I even hoped you would grow up, would change, would stop running away. Now you are willing to sacrifice Sally, her feelings, her loyalty, her love. And for what? So that Carlson can keep his case alive, using Sally to get at Williams, perhaps implicating her in the process. Wake up, Ted! Sally is not perfect, but she has the qualities you wanted in a son. She will not deceive a friend. I am weak, but Sally is not."

Bradford did not look at his wife. He could not speak. He took the photo from the mantelpiece and left the room. She shouted after him, "Don’t run away. Don’t be a coward!"

Catherine then went into the kitchen and poured another tumbler of scotch. Bradford went into his den and closed the door. He put the photo of Sally on his desk, next to the one of himself as a handsome young cadet. He sat quietly for a few minutes. His heart ached. He opened the top drawer of the desk, took out his gun, and shot himself.

Christopher Williams was alone. The late afternoon shadows had dimmed and distorted the walls and narrow windows of his apartment. He had never noticed this before, probably because he had never spent so much time observing the subtle changes in the atmosphere of his place. He had heard about people “climbing the walls,” and he was beginning to understand what that meant. At least it wasn’t raining. Shafts of light penetrated and brightened sections of the room. He found the intensified contrast between light and shadow captivating and thought about moving from darkness to light. He also thought about praying, but his prayers seemed so empty. Instead, he began to question Jesus, the supposed Lord and Savior of guys like him. He tried, though, to skip the “Why me, Lord?” self-pity routine.

“What am I doing here Lord?” There must be some purpose for what’s happening. Is it my pride, my self-centered life, my lack of faith, trust hope? What do you expect of me? I’ve tried to be a decent person, to do something useful. I’m not a theologian or philosopher. I have tried to use what gifts I have been given to do some good. I know I’m a dreamer. I am human. I am weak sometimes. But I try. Please show me the way.”

Chris looked out the window. He thought of the brief encounter he had had with a young Jesuit priest on the Georgetown campus. During one of his melancholy walks in the past week, he found himself crossing the open green away from the main buildings clustered on the campus. He “bumped into” the Jesuit, literally and figuratively, and nearly fell down. Chris was preoccupied with his problems and was not paying attention to what was in front of him. The young priest seemed to be in deep thought. Both were startled for a moment, and laughed at themselves. Chris apologized and said he must have been daydreaming. He could not resist asking the Jesuit if he had been praying. Chris had obviously interrupted a man deep in thought. The question did not seem impertinent at that moment; the two young men recognized something in each other that made it natural. The Jesuit smiled and said he had been to the chapel for prayers but had come outside to walk so that he could listen for a while. He liked to listen in the light, he said. “Listen to what?” Chris asked. “To what God has to say to me; to what he wants me to do, or not do,” replied the Jesuit calmly and not in pious tones. Before parting they introduced themselves and agreed to meet again, to walk and talk and perhaps just listen.

Chris needed something. A miracle would be nice, he thought, but he would settle for a sign, a new purpose, clear direction. He knew he was getting paranoid. Self-doubt and anxiety were building up. He had to pray, and tried again in the quiet of his apartment, which was now almost dark. “Please, Lord, show me the way, and give me the courage to follow it.” Then he tried to listen. He heard the murmur of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He heard an auto go by on the narrow street outside. He thought he heard his heart beat. It was that quiet. Nothing happened. But he just sat still and listened.

A half-hour passed. Then he thought he heard a soft knock on the door. He wasn’t sure. He listened. Nothing. He got up and went to the door, but did not open it. He said in a clear, audible voice, “Yes.” He heard a woman speak. She cried, “Help me.” Chris opened the door and saw Sally. She was trembling, her eyes moist and red. She repeated, “Help me, help me.”

Chris took her in his arms gently, and cradles her head on his shoulder. They just stood there, framed in the lighted doorway, quietly weeping together.

The tension in Chris drained away. He felt a peace he had never known before, a love that healed him. He whispered, “Yes, Lord.” Then he led Sally into the apartment. The light seemed to follow them.

Secretary Telford was appalled by the report of Colonel Bradford's suicide. Bradford had his faults, bit he had been a trusted confidant, a loyal aide to Telford. Bradford would be given an appropriate military funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. The official obituary would note that he had been in poor health for some time. He would be eulogized properly by Telford. Catherine cried a lot at the funeral.

The classified OSI report that followed Bradford’s death had to be dealt with more discreetly. Although no evidence was presented, there were “indications” that Lieutenant Sachs could have blackmailed Colonel Bradford, and that there may have been some connection to the security case involving Sachs and Dorothy Polinski. The wording had to be careful because OSI was now dealing with an implied penetration of The Office of the Assistant Secretary of the Air Force. Colonel Carlson was no longer dealing with lightweights. In the hands of “political enemies” such a report could destroy Secretary Telford and embarrass the Administration.

Telford shook his head as he put down the OSI report. “How absurd,” he muttered to himself. He thought fondly of Dorothy and wondered how she was doing. Then he phoned a few seniors officers in the Air Force hierarchy. Shortly thereafter, Colonel Carlson was given a commendation for his work on the investigation and reassigned to the Air Attaché Office in Paris. No further action was taken on the case.

Two years later the Air Force document control section was moved to another area of the Pentagon. When the moving crew pulled the tall file safes away from the wall, an airman clerk found a document that had been wedged between the back of a safe and the steel wall of the vault. He showed it to the security officer who was overseeing the transfer of classified material. The young lieutenant noted that the document, a secret draft estimate, was dated over two years ago, which meant that it should have been destroyed. He told the airman clerk that this was an example of sloppy handling, that someone had probably tossed a stack of material on top of the safe to be filed later. One of the documents had apparently slid off the pile and slipped into the tiny space between the safe and the wall.

“No real harm done, though,” said the lieutenant. The document had obviously remained in the vault all this time.

“What should I do with it now?” asked the clerk.

“Burn it with the other classified waste,” replied the lieutenant.

Dorothy Polinski’s first child was born in a private hospital in Lucerne, Switzerland. While there, she met a young doctor from Poland. They now live with their three children in Chicago.

Robert Telford was the president of a large aerospace company in California at the time of his death. Following a late night party on his yacht, he stumbled in the dark and fell overboard. None of his former wives or women attended the memorial service. He had no children.

Christopher Williams lives with his wife Sally in Boulder, Colorado, where he teaches philosophy at the University. Their daughter, Rebecca, an aspiring writer, still loves to walk in the foothills and look at the wildflowers. Their teenager, Marvin, laughs a lot and says he wants to be in show business. They worry about him.

During Mass on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Chris and Sally listened again as their Jesuit friend read the words of Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:

Love never fails. Prophecies will cease, tongues will be silent, knowledge will pass away. Our knowledge is imperfect and our prophesying is imperfect. When the perfect comes, the imperfect will pass away. When I was a child I used to talk like a child, think like a child, reason like a child. When I became a man I put childish ways aside.