Ward spent four days traveling to Moscow, after fending off a twelve-hour filibuster by his parents and making a phone call to He Who Remains Classified, who had just returned from the Soviet Union.
At first, fresh from a bibulous lunch, He Who Remains Classified thought Ward was calling about a change of heart on the job offer. He scratched at his blond, brush-cut scalp and belched into the phone, “Good to hear back from you, chum!”
Adopting a respectful ‘old boy’ tone, Ward soberly described the situation with Mary and expressed an impulsive desire to go down on one knee and talk her into returning to the Indiana cornfields where she belonged, if he could secure a safe-passage.
He Who Remains Classified couldn’t resist a jab. “Yes, I know who you’re talking about. Typical dame. I offer her the mountain, and she takes the pebble on the beach.”
“So … you’ll arrange it?” Ward asked, temporarily ignoring a slur that would haunt him for years.
“My impression is, given the recent flap with this Dmitri fellow, our people would be happy to have Miss Mary Stark removed to the Indiana cornfields.”
“Who’s Dmitri?”
“I’m sure you’ll hear all about it. We’ll arrange for your transfers and your tickets out through Vienna. And one more thing. I know you’ve decided against playing the spy game, but I am going to need you to keep an eye on her.”
“An eye on her? Why?”
“Because there’s always the possibility that they’ve turned her. And, a piece of advice from a secret-society brother. Just because you’ve slept with a woman, doesn’t mean you have to propose to her. A lot of our brothers make that mistake.”
“Thank you,” Ward replied.
He Who Remains Classified dropped the phone into its cradle. He turned his attention to his new paper shredder, the latest model. Very powerful and also soothing. A brief gnashing sound and then a gentle hum. He Who Remains Classified insisted on doing his own paper-shredding. One couldn’t take too many precautions. Occasionally, he fed a ream of blank paper into its churning maw, simply to feel the cleansing effect.
He regretted his phony, sour grapes warning to Ward. He knew in his heart that Mary was okay. Realistically, as a career agent, he would probably never experience a salt-of-the-earth woman like her again. He tried to summon a feeling of magnanimity about handing her off to Ward. As with many corruptible persons in high positions of power, he clung to odd scraps of integrity; in this case, their Yale secret society vow not to steal each other’s girls. However, he rationalized that for security reasons, keeping tabs on her from a distance would be justified—a window into a quotidian world that was fast disappearing for him.
He Who Remains Classified summoned his assistant and ordered a file opened on Mary Stark and Ward Wangert. Basic surveillance, no alert levels, a monthly update would be fine. “Do you want photographs, sir?” the assistant asked. He Who Remains Classified shrugged and nodded. A bathing suit snapshot of Mary already held an honored place in his wallet. He suggested assigning one of those leftover Soviet industrial spies who’d been captured in the Upper Midwest and turned during the 1943 Lend-Lease flights.