LIDDY STRODE stealthily down the carpeted hallway. He paused every few steps to make sure no one heard him. He felt carefully along the wall until his hand grasped a familiar object: a doorknob. He waited again, his chest heaving. He tried to control his breathing. From inside his plaid polyester sport jacket he drew a Mickey Mouse penlight--a gift from the gang in the Company after a memorable visit to Disneyland in 1971. He struggled with the door knob lock, employing his special tools fashioned from stolen forks. It was a motel-style lock, easily picked. He had once owned a key to the door, but Liddy didn't trust keys. Keys were hard to swallow if you got caught.

When the lock clicked, Liddy nudged the door open. He shined the penlight into the dark, revealing familiar furnishings: a washbasin and a toilet. He squatted behind the door and ran his hand along the wall. He silently counted the ceramic tiles, seven across from the right wall, four up from the floor. Liddy picked at the soft plaster until the tile came loose. Again using one of his handmade tools, he removed the tile and slipped it into his coat pocket. Liddy plunged three fingers into the vacant hollow and withdrew a small white paper slip. In the same motion he placed the paper in his pocket, replaced the tile, and tiptoed back to the hall. He didn't want the Hungarian cleaning lady to surprise him again.

Once outside, Liddy hopped into the driver's seat of his panzer tank. He was distressed to find a parking ticket tucked under the gunmount. At last, he unfolded the paper. It was a blind memorandum, a standard CIA message with no saluation, no signature. The message read:

'Write a novel. Everyone else did.'

A WEEK LATER, Liddy was sitting in the executive office of a New York publishing house. A publishing executive across the desk was shaking his head emphatically. Liddy clearly looked disappointed but remained calm. From the left breast pocket of his leisure suit he drew a small white candle and a matchbook. Holding a match to the candle base, he melted it until the candle stuck firmly upright on the desk. Then he lit the wick.

"Until you agree to a $50,000 advance, I'll hold my hand in this flame," said Liddy.

Liddy positioned his right hand over the candle so that the flame licked at his palm. Soon, the room filled with the scent of burning flesh. Liddy did not flinch. The stench became overwhelming. The executive pushed a button on his intercom.

"Miss Moody," he squeaked. "Make out a check for $50,000 to Mr. Liddy."

Liddy blew out the candle.

"Don't worry," smiled Liddy. "I type with two fingers anyway."

Liddy stared at his typrwriter, inspecting it for boobytraps. It looked safe but as a precaution he stood several feet from his desk and used a fire poker to strike an "L." Satisfied, he sat down to write the first sentence of his novel:

"If patience is a virtue, Edward Zlin thought to himself, I am not a virtuous man."

Liddy was thrilled with his progress. He called William Colby.

"Four-o-seven-eight," answered Colby with his CIA code number.

Liddy read him the sentence. After a long silence, Colby grunted. A grunt in CIA-talk means, "I just caught a slug in the gut," or "Sounds like you're novel's coming along nicely."