Twombly made a motion with his hand, negatively. "Nothing. A joke.
I'll see you later, Henry." He turned and left.
The major opened another door and ushered Hank into a room two or
three times the size of Twombly's office. Hank formed a silent whistle
and then suddenly knew where he was. This was the sanctum sanctorum of
Sheridan Hennessey. Sheridan Hennessey, right arm, hatchetman, _alter
ego_, one man brain trust--of two presidents in succession.
And there he was, seated in a heavy armchair. Hank had known of his
illness, that the other had only recently risen from his hospital bed
and against doctor's orders. But somehow he hadn't expected to see him
this wasted. TV and newsreel cameramen had been kind.
However, the waste had not as yet extended to either eyes or voice.
Sheridan Hennessey bit out, "That'll be all, Roy," and the major left
them.
* * * * *
"Sit down," Hennessey said. "You're Henry Kuran. That's not a Russian
name is it?"
Hank found a chair. "It was Kuranchov. My father Americanized it when
he was married." He added, "About once every six months some
Department of Justice or C.I.A. joker runs into the fact that my name
was originally Russian and I'm investigated all over again."