Summit by Richard Bowker Page B

a try, and they had found someone who was perfectly reasonable and cooperative—almost as if he had been hoping they would ask. It had certainly been a pleasant surprise, and it was going to make life a lot easier. "That's really all, Mr. Fulton," Hill said. "Except to add that we appreciate what you're doing for us."
    Fulton shrugged. "Call me Daniel," he said. And he smiled a charming smile.
    * * *
    James Houghton smiled his usual professional smile as Sullivan entered his office. "Well hello, Bill, what have you got for me today?" he said. They were exactly the same words as before—his unchanging greeting. But was it Sullivan's imagination, or was the tone frostier this time. Your welcome is wearing thin, Sullivan, he imagined his boss thinking. Don't push your luck.
    "This is a transcript of a phone call one of our public-affairs reps received."
    Sullivan handed it to Houghton, who glanced at it and set it aside. "Yes?"
    "This is an op proposal I submitted last year. You may recall it." Sullivan set the document in front of Houghton, who thumbed through it without much show of interest. "In it I note Valentina Borisova's obsession with the pianist Daniel Fulton, which we learned of from Doctor Chukova, and I suggest using him as bait to get Borisova to defect. This appears to be the plan that Operations is now putting into effect."
    Houghton said nothing. It was up to Sullivan to spell it all out, then.
    "At the time I submitted this proposal," he said, "you may recall that I asked to be placed in charge of its execution if it was accepted. Apparently the operation is on, and my request was not honored."
    Houghton said nothing.
    "I would therefore like some, uh, clarification of my status, and also the status of the reports I've been producing." Sullivan struggled to recall the speech he had rehearsed. "Does this mean I'm not going to be let back into Operations? Does it also mean people actually do believe Borisova represents a threat to us? If so, why have I been led to believe you think otherwise?"
    Houghton pressed his hands together in front of his face and stared at him. He has to say something now, Sullivan thought. "Bill," he responded finally, "you've been around long enough to know that you shouldn't be asking most of these questions. Frankly, it's none of your business what people do or do not believe about Borisova, and whether operations are or are not taking place. Your job is just to get the information and analyze it for us. Just because you've been on the other side of the fence, so to speak, doesn't mean you have any special privileges in this regard."
    "But it would help my analysis if I had some idea what people thought was important."
    "How do you know that? Maybe you'd slant your opinions to reflect mine, or Roderick Williams's, or George Loud's. Just do your job, Bill."
    But Sullivan hated his job—hated it even more if people were playing their damn spook games with him. And most of all he hated the idea that he wasn't part of it anymore, and they weren't going to let him be part of it, ever again. "Is it worth my while talking to Culpepper about going back to Operations?" he asked.
    Houghton shrugged. "Culpepper has a long memory," he said. "Why don't you just let it lie?"
    Because it's killing me, that's why. But he couldn't say that to Houghton, or anyone. Damn them all. He stood up and retrieved the transcript and his proposal from Houghton's desk. "Should I talk to this manager of Fulton's?" he asked. "The guy looks like he could be a real stumbling block."
    Houghton smiled that infuriating smile of his. "Don't worry about him, Bill. He's somebody else's problem."
    Houghton turned away then, and there didn't seem to be anything for Sullivan to do but go back to work.
    * * *
    The CIA didn't call back; Hershohn hadn't really expected they would. But that left his decision still dangling, undecided. At home, his wife asked him what was wrong. He said, "Fulton," and that was enough; she