That Sweet Little Old Lady is a Literary Book ". What are we going to call that sweet little old lady, now that mother is a dirty word?" In 1914, it was enemy aliens. In 1930, it was Wobblies. In 1957, it was fellow travelers. And, in 1971…. "They could be anywhere", Andrew J. Burris said, with an expression which bordered on exasperated horror. "They could be all around us. Heaven only knows". He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up a chunky little man with bright blue eyes and large hands. He paced to the window and looked out at Washington, and then he came back to the desk. A persistent office rumor held that he had become head of the FBI purely because he happened to have an initial J in his name, but in his case the J stood for Jeremiah. And, at the moment, his tone expressed all the hopelessness of that Old Testament prophet's lamentations. "We're helpless", he said, looking at the young man with the crisp brown hair who was sitting across the desk. "That's what it is, we're helpless". Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable. "Just tell me what to do", he said. "You're a good agent, Kenneth", Burris said. "You're one of the best. That's why you've been picked for this job. And I want to say that I picked you personally. Believe me, there's never been anything like it before". "I'll do my best", Malone said at random. He was twenty eight, and he had been an FBI agent for three years. In that time, he had, among other things, managed to break up a gang of smugglers, track down a counterfeiting ring, and capture three kidnapers. For reasons which he could neither understand nor explain, no one seemed willing to attribute his record to luck.
