WHEN THE PARTY was over, Hartman went back to his office. Sakuro Juzo and the other two Japanese took up stations outside his door. It was 3:00 A.M. Nonetheless, he picked up the phone and called Mel Taylor at home. Taylor was asleep.
“Is it an emergency?” Taylor asked.
“What I want to know is the truth about Joe Broz.”
“You have the file. Don’t you have the file?”
“Do you really take me for that much of an asshole? These missing years, and the civilian work in Vietnam, what’s the real story?”
“I’ll get it for you,” Taylor said. “Is first thing in the morning alright? Is that OK?”
“Sure,” said Hartman. He hung up. He liked Joe. Liked him and Maggie together. On the other hand, he liked silk ties, Hunan cooking a couple of times a year, the Pacific coast of Costa Rica, and London tailors. He liked RepCo agents to wear black socks, but he’d yet to fire anyone for wearing navy blue. “Like” was not one of the heavies.