The Touch of Treason Read Online Free
restrapped it to his wrist in the name of a security that Fuller knew no one in the world could feel any longer.
*
Now, after months of work on the manuscript, Fuller longed to be freed of his duties to history. He was more sensible than Trotsky, he would tell himself each day as he locked the safe in his study. For he allowed no one except Leona into the small room in which he worked. The door was deadbolt-locked when he was inside as well as outside. Trotsky was guarded by idealistic students and by Mexican police, neither a reliable category. Fuller’s safety, on the one hand, was in Perry’s charge, and Perry had given him Randall, a professional whose sole responsibility was to see that no harm came to Martin Fuller. Fuller referred to Randall behind his back as “my spook,” but he appreciated that because of Randall his mail was safe to open, his phone line untapped, there were no bugs in his study or elsewhere in his home, and that, since he’d begun work on this project, an elaborate fire and burglary warning system had been installed in his home in Westchester at federal expense. Whenever Fuller opened the safe in the early morning, that act was registered by a green light on a board somewhere nearby. When Fuller, his work for the day finished, closed the safe some hours later, the light went out. If anyone not familiar with the combination tried to open the safe, or even jostled it—as Leona found out it was so sensitive you could not brush it accidentally with a broom—Randall or one of his lieutenants would be at the house within minutes. And he knew that if the phone lines from the house, though they were underground, were ever cut, the red light would go on instantly, even before the prospective intruder could enter.
Randall had pleaded with Fuller to make a carbon as he worked so that a safety copy could be lodged somewhere. Fuller said he couldn’t be bothered with carbon paper. Randall suggested a copying machine be brought in and the manuscript reproduced under Fuller’s watchful supervision. “That will give you two things to worry about,” Fuller said. “My copy and the safety copy. And how can you make safe what I have not yet put down on paper?”
Fuller was aware that those who came to visit, whether from the U.S. or abroad, even the students who hung around to refresh themselves and him in what seemed to outsiders like abstruse debate, had had at least a cursory check without their knowledge. The problem was, of course, that so many people who were interested in Martin Fuller had what Randall referred to as “difficult backgrounds.” The older ones may have once been Stalinists, Trotskyites, Lovestonites, or came from Asian and African countries that seemed to be unwilling or unable to provide background information on their own subjects. The younger ones were sometimes casual users of what Randall referred to as “controlled substances”; they sometimes lived out of wedlock and dressed intentionally in scruffy clothes; some of them had been to the Soviet Union in recent years as exchange students or tourists; others were former peaceniks making the usual migration of age from left to right. Fuller enjoyed the range of his guests and was purposefully delinquent in giving Randall the names of prospective visitors for advance checks.
Once, when Randall was insistent about the strangers coming to a buffet dinner at the Fullers’, Fuller said, “Why don’t you tell me who’s coming to visit you this weekend.”
“Nobody interesting,” Randall said.
“Then I’ll lend you some of my guests,” Fuller said. “If you’re afraid to let them in your house, you can always frisk them first.”
Randall, who’d gone to Georgetown University before becoming a Secret Service officer, was sometimes embarrassed by his role. “This isn’t normal bodyguard duty,” he’d been told. “It isn’t something we can assign to just anybody. We need someone Fuller can respect, who
*
Now, after months of work on the manuscript, Fuller longed to be freed of his duties to history. He was more sensible than Trotsky, he would tell himself each day as he locked the safe in his study. For he allowed no one except Leona into the small room in which he worked. The door was deadbolt-locked when he was inside as well as outside. Trotsky was guarded by idealistic students and by Mexican police, neither a reliable category. Fuller’s safety, on the one hand, was in Perry’s charge, and Perry had given him Randall, a professional whose sole responsibility was to see that no harm came to Martin Fuller. Fuller referred to Randall behind his back as “my spook,” but he appreciated that because of Randall his mail was safe to open, his phone line untapped, there were no bugs in his study or elsewhere in his home, and that, since he’d begun work on this project, an elaborate fire and burglary warning system had been installed in his home in Westchester at federal expense. Whenever Fuller opened the safe in the early morning, that act was registered by a green light on a board somewhere nearby. When Fuller, his work for the day finished, closed the safe some hours later, the light went out. If anyone not familiar with the combination tried to open the safe, or even jostled it—as Leona found out it was so sensitive you could not brush it accidentally with a broom—Randall or one of his lieutenants would be at the house within minutes. And he knew that if the phone lines from the house, though they were underground, were ever cut, the red light would go on instantly, even before the prospective intruder could enter.
Randall had pleaded with Fuller to make a carbon as he worked so that a safety copy could be lodged somewhere. Fuller said he couldn’t be bothered with carbon paper. Randall suggested a copying machine be brought in and the manuscript reproduced under Fuller’s watchful supervision. “That will give you two things to worry about,” Fuller said. “My copy and the safety copy. And how can you make safe what I have not yet put down on paper?”
Fuller was aware that those who came to visit, whether from the U.S. or abroad, even the students who hung around to refresh themselves and him in what seemed to outsiders like abstruse debate, had had at least a cursory check without their knowledge. The problem was, of course, that so many people who were interested in Martin Fuller had what Randall referred to as “difficult backgrounds.” The older ones may have once been Stalinists, Trotskyites, Lovestonites, or came from Asian and African countries that seemed to be unwilling or unable to provide background information on their own subjects. The younger ones were sometimes casual users of what Randall referred to as “controlled substances”; they sometimes lived out of wedlock and dressed intentionally in scruffy clothes; some of them had been to the Soviet Union in recent years as exchange students or tourists; others were former peaceniks making the usual migration of age from left to right. Fuller enjoyed the range of his guests and was purposefully delinquent in giving Randall the names of prospective visitors for advance checks.
Once, when Randall was insistent about the strangers coming to a buffet dinner at the Fullers’, Fuller said, “Why don’t you tell me who’s coming to visit you this weekend.”
“Nobody interesting,” Randall said.
“Then I’ll lend you some of my guests,” Fuller said. “If you’re afraid to let them in your house, you can always frisk them first.”
Randall, who’d gone to Georgetown University before becoming a Secret Service officer, was sometimes embarrassed by his role. “This isn’t normal bodyguard duty,” he’d been told. “It isn’t something we can assign to just anybody. We need someone Fuller can respect, who
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