Politically, Forrest said, it was the only way I could maintain enough credibility to be able to broker something.
So I’m already gone, Hillsinger said.
Let me ask you for the record: are you a traitor?
No, Hillsinger said.
That’s what I told the Director, Forrest said. Counterintelligence wants you in the cell next to Subotin, but they don’t have enough to prosecute. So instead, a graceful exit.
How graceful? Hillsinger said.
You will be offered the open post of Station Chief in Pretoria. You will decline this offer, citing family issues. After a short and tasteful interval, lasting no longer than a week, you will resign without pension. That, the pension, was Angleton’s condition. Allen Dulles is talking to people about a job for you, but either way you’ll have to leave Washington.
Pretoria, Hillsinger said.
It was the best I could do on short notice, Forrest said.
75
Catta stood in the basement. A roar broke the general hum coming from the floor above, before it died away and chairs squeaked, someone spoke, people laughed. Someone spoke. At one point he was sure he heard his mother and then she laughed, and he was furious—of all people, she should never laugh until he was back home. Slowly the collective noise built back up to the point where all the voices were once again indistinguishable.
The basement seemed larger than the house: he found a set of ancient refrigerators, racks of wine, abandoned bathtubs and toilets, and a row of children’s boots by the door. He was certain that his grandfather would want to know about the ravine on Baffin and the spring, which meant that owls were here, or at least it meant that they could be. And if his grandfather exposed him—if he raised an alarm, or called his father—then Catta would know that the adults in the family were corrupt beyond any possibility of hope. Dale and Conrad had said exactly that, and it was worth any amount of risk to know such a big thing for sure.
Once he’d made a full circuit of the huge basement, Catta began to understand which parts of it corresponded to which rooms overhead. He figured out what the oddly shaped door was in the main hallway upstairs. It was smaller than the other ones and rounded at the top instead of square. That door opened opposite the back stairs to the second floor.
Catta climbed the narrow stairs, which creaked. He stood behind the door, among the cobwebs, listening to his own amplified breathing. He waited for a sign. There was a burst of laughter. That was it—he opened the door. No one was there. He stood in the open for a brief second, glorying in the starkness of his contempt, and then opened the door to the back staircase and climbed it with quick feet.
Catta had never been in the second-floor hallway before. The rules on Seven were complex, and one of them was that children could never go upstairs in the Hill House. The hallway was quiet; all sound was swallowed by the heavy red carpet, and all the doors were closed. He had no idea which room was his grandfather’s, so he walked the length of the hall and saw only one door with any sign of life—a plate, sitting on a tray, with crumbs and a crust of yolk. The door was locked.
“Go away!” the Old Man said.
Catta knocked softly, three times.
“I’ve had my breakfast. Go away!”
Catta knocked yet again—light, calm, persistent, as if the knocking would never stop. He heard rustling, and then the lock clicked and the door swung open.
The Old Man, who normally wore a blazer even in hot weather, was in pajamas and a battered robe. His mouth was open in the act of screaming, but his voice and his whole body froze when he saw Catta, who held a finger to his lips. The Old Man slowly retreated into the dim room, where the blinds were drawn, and sat down on his single bed. Catta stepped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it. It was hard to see in there, though eventually he could make out a wooden chair in the corner. He crossed to it and sat down. He had expected the Old Man to speak, to demand answers or even ring his bell, but his grandfather said nothing and did not move. He was hunched over, facing the door, his head only partway visible.
“There’s a spring on Baffin,” Catta said after a long silence.
The Old Man considered this for longer than seemed normal. He did not meet Catta’s eye.
“I came back to tell you,” Catta said.
The risk was that the first thing his grandfather might do with the information would be to commandeer a boat and go to Baffin to see for himself—so Catta added, quickly: “I could never find it again. It was just luck that I found it at all.”
The Old Man looked at the window as if the blinds were open, although they were not.
“Were there owls?” the Old Man said.
“Yes,” Catta said. “I saw one for just a second, and then it was gone.”
There might have been, Catta thought, a thousand owls on Baffin. It had been so dark that he could not see anything at all. But he could do this small thing for his grandfather—for the Old Man, distant springs equaled owls. That had been his theory for Catta’s whole life. He could carry his logic through to the end.
“What color?” his grandfather said.
“Gray,” Catta said, “with white tips on its wings.”
“Gray with white tips,” his grandfather repeated.
The Old Man climbed under the bedcovers. Catta wanted to ask his grandfather to keep his presence secret, but he felt as if speaking now were out of place. He was embarrassed—it seemed imposing and possibly improper to stay in the room while his grandfather was in bed, as if sleep in so old a man was somehow indecent. Catta crossed back to the door and left.