More sherry was poured, and after a decent interval T. Hamilton McKenzie announced that they ought to be getting back. The director nodded her agreement and accompanied her guests to their car. She thanked the surgeon for a lecture of great insight, and waited at the bottom of the steps until the car had disappeared from view.
“I have never known such behavior in all my days,” she declared to her secretary. “Tell Miss McKenzie to report to me before chapel tomorrow. The first thing I want to know is why she canceled the car I arranged for her.”
* * *
Scott Bradley also gave a lecture that evening, but in his case only sixteen students attended, and none of them was under the age of thirty-five. Each was a senior CIA officer, and when they talked of logic, it had a more practical application than the one suggested when Scott lectured his younger students at Yale.
These men were all operating on the front line, stationed right across the globe. Often Professor Bradley pressed them to go over, detail by detail, decisions they had made under pressure, and whether those decisions had achieved the result they’d originally hoped for.
They were quick to admit their mistakes. There was no room for personal pride—only pride in the service was considered acceptable. When Scott had first heard this sentiment he thought they were being corny, but after nine years of working with them in the classroom and in the gym, he’d learned otherwise.
For over an hour Bradley threw test cases at them, while at the same time suggesting ways of how to think logically, always weighing known facts with subjective judgment before reaching any firm conclusion.
Over the past nine years, Scott had learned as much from them as they had from him, but he still enjoyed helping them put his knowledge to practical use. Scott had often felt he too would like to be tested in the field, and not simply in the lecture theater.
When the session was over, Scott joined them in the gym for another workout. He climbed ropes, pumped iron and practiced karate exercises, and they never once treated him as anything other than a full member of the team. Anyone who patronized the visiting professor from Yale often ended up with more than his ego bruised.
Over dinner that night—no alcohol, just Quibel—Scott asked the Deputy Director if he was ever going to be allowed to gain some field experience.
“It’s not a vacation job, you know,” came back Dexter Hutchins’s reply as he lit up a cigar. “Give up Yale and join us full-time and then perhaps we’ll consider the merits of allowing you out of the classroom.”
“I’m due for a sabbatical next year,” Bradley reminded his superior.
“Then take that trip to Italy you’ve always been promising yourself. After dining with you for the last seven years, I think I know as much about Bellini as ballistics.”
“I’m not going to give up trying for a field job—you realize that, Dexter, don’t you?”
“You’ll have to when you’re fifty, because that’s when we’ll retire you.”
“But I’m only thirty-six…”
“You rise too easily to make a good field officer,” said the Deputy Director, puffing away at his cigar.
When T. Hamilton McKenzie opened the front door of his house, he ignored the ringing phone as he shouted, “Sally? Sally?” at the t
op of his voice but he received no response.
He finally snatched the phone, assuming it would be his daughter. “Sally?” he repeated.
“Dr. McKenzie?” asked a calmer voice.
“Yes, it is,” he said.
“If you’re wondering where your daughter is, I can assure you that she’s safe and well.”
“Who is this?” demanded McKenzie.
“I’ll call later this evening, Dr. McKenzie, when you’ve had time to calm down,” said the quiet voice. “Meanwhile, do not, under any circumstances, contact the police or any private agency. If you do, we’ll know immediately, and we’ll be left with no choice but to return your lovely daughter—” he paused “—in a coffin.” The phone went dead.
T. Hamilton McKenzie turned white, and in seconds was covered in sweat.
“What’s the matter, honey?” asked Joni, as she watched her husband collapse onto the sofa.
“Sally’s been kidnapped,” he said, aghast. “They said not to contact the police. They’re going to call again later this evening.” He stared at the phone.
“Sally’s been kidnapped?” repeated Joni, in disbelief.
“Yes,” snapped her husband.