What I'm trying to do is explain something I can't explain to myself. Call it shock, call it being in a daze, but I wasn't, or just say I was sick of the whole scene, but having done the bravest thing I'd ever done, I proceeded to do the stupidest. Leaving the bag in the deputies' car, I walked into the bushes, found out I wasn't quite going to be sick, and instead of coming back out on the road, I started away from there just as I saw headlights and a flashing emergency light round the curve up the road. As the car stopped next to the deputies' cruiser, I took off away from the whole scene.
Chapter Three
I didn't get far before I wanted to go back, but then it hit me just how dumb this all was. Here I was, wandering around with a just-fired Luger under my coat, and right behind me were two dead cops and another unconscious. I could be dead before I ever got to a station house, or even managed to start an explanation, if the wrong types had arrived on the scene. Sure, most police are not like that. Sure, I had a good story, if you pass my running off instead of waiting for the police. But I had exactly one life and there are cops who won't listen when they think they've found a cop killer. There are a lot of country boys in uniform in some of our farm areas, and looking at that battlefield would make anybody edgy. I wouldn't blame them. I figured I had better get the hell out of there and explain over a telephone.
That left me with a problem. It was twenty miles easily to my house, and it was after three in the morning. Figuring four miles an hour if I could keep it up, and that's a fast pace, it would be after eight before I could get there, and they might be looking all over for me. Or for somebody, and I was a pretty suspicious character out there that time of night.
From what I remembered of the countryside, there should have been a railroad running along the edge of Puget Sound, and that couldn't be more than a couple of hundred yards from me. I cut off in that general direction, through scrub and weeds, and pretty soon I saw the water about forty feet below me. It didn't take long to get down the bluff, there were trails every so often, and then I started along the tracks. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all the plan I had.
I walked till it was daylight. I won't say it didn't take something out of me, but I still fish and hunt a bit, and a civil engineer doesn't spend all his time at a desk, so it didn't kill me. When it got light, I cut back toward the highway and found out I was inside the limits of the bus system. Nothing seemed to be happening, and even on Saturday there are people who take busses. I stayed off the highway, walking along residential streets like I lived around there, and when it got to be 8:30 I caught a bus and went home.
Once there, I was so damn tired I just didn't want to face a lot of questions. Nobody seemed to be looking for me, so I took a shower and went to bed. As I lay down, it came to me there was no reason for anybody to look for me anyway. I didn't figure the honorable mayor would remember my name, and even if he did, I could be surprised as hell and say I left Danny in my own car right after two o'clock. That way I didn't become involved, and that would be best. A consulting engineer needs his name in the papers in connection with dope smuggling like a Communist needs to be given a patriotism medal by the DAR. Nobody would understand. If I'd stayed there, I could have been a hero, but there isn't much heroism in running out. The hell with it. I remembered to stuff the Luger into a place I didn't think anybody would find it, and then I went to sleep.
Somebody wouldn't stop ringing the doorbell. I have the loudest doorbell in the world anyway. It came with the house, and I think it was used in a Hungarian brain laundry before it was brought over here. I keep meaning to take the damned thing out, but I never get around to it. This time it just kept on ringing until I woke up. Four thirty. Since it was daylight that made it afternoon.
I got on a robe and made it to the door. My door's got dingy curtains and glass with some kind of grillwork over it, and at night you can see out without anybody seeing in if the hall light's not on. But in daytime they can see you too, and they did. There were two of them, both in dark suits, both tall, but one was blond and the other dark. They had the same look that the security officers at Boeing had: like they knew all about you and where you hid the body. Well, in my case, left it.
I opened the door a crack, and they drew. Not guns, I don't know if they're that practiced about that, but those thin leather folders with the badges and credentials came out in a way that reminded me of the gunfighters on TV. While they held them out, the one identified as FBI Agent Alessandro said, "Mr. Crane?" It wasn't exactly a question either.
I admitted to being Paul Crane. Hell, they might have arrested me for doing him in, too.
The other one, with a card saying he was a "Duly authorized agent for the Central Intelligence Agency," said, "Mind if we come in?" I couldn't make out the signature on his card, and if his name was printed on it I didn't see it. I couldn't figure out what he was there for. For that matter, I didn't remember the FBI being in on narcotics cases either. There was nobody else with them.
You don't keep the FBI and CIA on the stoop while you ask for their warrants. At least I don't, and normally wouldn't, and I couldn't see any point in acting abnormal. I didn't have to try to look surprised, so I was saved the trouble. I didn't have to act to get a puzzled tone of voice either. "Sure," I told them, "come on in."
I led them to the office. "You'll have to excuse my robe. I just got up."
"Up late? "FBI asked.
"Yeah." I didn't explain. I still wasn't sure whether or not to just tell them and get it over with.
"You rode out to Lathrop with Daniel Ackerman last night, Mr. Crane." This was the blond one, CIA. With their shoes on and me in my slippers, they were just taller than me. I perched on the drafting stool and reached over to plug in the coffee pot. It was still half full of yesterday's coffee. Then I looked at him. "Yes. How did you know? And what do I call you, anyway? I couldn't make it out."
"I'm Harry Shearing, Mr. Crane. Louis, would you mind leaving us now? I think I'll handle this one." He didn't look at FBI when he said this. The dark one looked at me for a minute, then started out. Just before he left he turned back.
"Sure you know what you're doing, Harry?"
"Yeah. Just let me see what I can get. See you tonight."
FBI left, and Shearing sat down in my swivel chair at my desk. This put me looking down at him from the drafting table. My desk faces the front window and the drafting table faces the double doors to the hall, so we both had to turn inward to see each other. I wasn't very keen to. The coffeepot started making its popping noises as it heated up.
"I'm not here to play games with you, Mr. Crane. I need some help and I think you can give it to me. Please remember that. I'm not out to trap you into saying anything, and you don't have to answer anything I ask, and I'm not warning you anything you say can be used against you. Except in very unusual circumstances I don't have any authority in the United States anyway, and law enforcement isn't exactly my business. There is one thing I want you to agree to before I start. Everything I tell you from now on is classified information. You had a Secret clearance when you were at Boeing, so I don't have to tell you the penalties for talking."
"You also don't have any authority to make me listen," I told him. "What is all this?"
"I think you know a lot of it, Mr. Crane. Would you rather I got Louis back in here? He does have authority in the U.S. Or we could even manage a couple of deputy sheriffs if you want. Better listen to me and see what happens."
The coffee was hot so I poured some. Shearing shook his head when I offered him a cup. I took a long drink, scalded my mouth, got that down, and said, "Understand, I don't admit to having any reason not to let you get your friend back in here, but I'm curious. Okay, it's classified. Shoot."
"Maybe I will have some of that coffee after all. Thanks." He took the coffee and sat down. "Last night there was some trouble out at Richmond Landing. A deputy sheriff and your friend Dan Ackerman were killed, and another deputy was shot. I'm not looking at you, so you
don't have to look surprised unless you want to. Also, don't say anything. Let me go on. In addition to those two, four other men were killed." This time he was looking at me, and this time I did look surprised.
He went on. "Three of the others were smuggling heroin into the country. They had come ashore in a dinghy, and they were met by one of my men and two deputy sheriffs. I told you we don't normally have any jurisdiction in the United States.
"Somehow, a gun battle was started. My man was killed down near the water. Everybody else was shot up on the road. One of the deputies, the one that lived, was hit early in the battle, but managed to get to his radio car and call for help. The other one continued the battle until he was killed. The surviving deputy says his partner wasn't hit until just before a green radio car came to his assistance. He also swears that there were two men in that car. One was Daniel Ackerman. We haven't identified the other one, at least not for the record.
"Again according to the deputy, there was a continuation of the gun battle. Ackerman shot at least one of the suspects, possibly two, but certainly not three because the third one killed him instantly and was himself killed by being hit three times with 9 mm. bullets. It is interesting to observe that no 9 mm. weapon was found at the scene.
"After this point the survivor lost consciousness, so we have to piece together what happened from what we found. The man with the 9 mm. was apparently not hurt. At least we found no blood where he was last known to have been when the battle was going on, nor where he lost his dinner in the bushes. And he seems to have moved around. Among other things, he found the heroin and put it in the deputies' car. Then he vanished. "There was another man there also, or at least we think so, because we don't like to think that the man with the 9 mm., who we assume was the second man in Ackerman's car, carefully cut the throat of one of the surviving suspects. And that, Mr. Crane, is exactly what someone did."
It made quite a story. I found I was sitting there just holding my coffee, so I took another gulp. It was cooler this time. "You say, Mr. Shearing, that you don't expect me to comment. Why are you telling me all this?"
"Oh, I haven't finished yet. I just want you to see the situation. The police are going on the theory that two different men were involved besides those found at the scene. However, they could be persuaded to look for just one if Louis and I suggested it strongly enough to them. And Mayor Sundesvall could be instructed to cooperate with the police instead of saying nothing to them. But at the moment, the police aren't interested in the man with the 9 mm. They think he was a special deputy, maybe he was hurt a little, and wandered away in a daze. They would like to talk to him, but they aren't pushing it. They could, though."
I guess I had a pretty tight look on my face by then. Hell, this guy had me sewed up in three directions if he wanted me. Throat cutting, yet. And while I doubted if any jury would ever convict me, I was also sure that quite a lot of people including a jury would believe I had cut the throat of the other man in revenge for Danny. They'd let me off as justifiable, I figured, but that sure would play hell with my business. My whole life for that matter. I finished the coffee.
"Okay, Mr. Shearing. I see what you're driving at. Now what did you really come here to say?"
"That's simple. I came here to recruit you for the agency. We need some help on this mess and you're in a good position to give it to us."
"Wow," I said. I didn't put much conviction in it; he'd already told me he needed help and then hinted about how I might get arrested for all kinds of sordid deeds if I didn't cooperate. Still, it's a shock. I've read about the cloak-and-dagger boys, and for a while there at Boeing I even got to look at the results of some of their work—pretty spectacular, if you could believe it—but I never met one. One that I knew for sure was one, that is. Now it looked like Paul Crane was about to become a junior-grade spy himself.
"You mean you want me to become a spy, travel to exotic places, make love to beautiful women, pad expense accounts and . . ." I let it trail off. Harry Shearing was definitely not amused. "Okay, Mr. Shearing, what do you mean?"
He looked around my place. "I can't tell you all of it here, Mr. Crane. It's unlikely, but conceivable, that someone is listening to us. So far I haven't told you anything they couldn't figure out for themselves, or must have figured out if they know enough to wire your office. The rest of it I would prefer to tell you somewhere else."
"I'll get my clothes on," I told him, and went back to my bedroom. I didn't figure it was worth looking like Shearing already, so I put on slacks and a sport shirt. Let him wear dark suits all he wanted to, I'd had my fill of that in the aerospace business. Before we went out I put something out for Tiger, which was unnecessary. That cat could live if every human on earth dropped dead, except he'd have to train a chimp to scratch his ears. He'd do it too. While I was feeding Tiger, Shearing joined me in the kitchen and suggested the back way out. I let him out the back door, but it was a point for me. I mean, men in dark suits visit consulting engineers every day, but how many go out the back door?
He had an Impala around the corner, and we got in it. Louis was nowhere in sight, and I decided I might have seen all I was going to of the FBI. I hoped. We drove out to the Baliard Locks, which isn't a bad place to go. Ships come in and out; ships, and boats, and yachts, from all over the Sound and the world. They go into the locks, which lift them eighty feet from salt water to the fresh water of Seattle's big lake and canal system, and lots of them unload right at the business that's going to use their cargo. I could see how it made sense from Shearing's view too. Nobody could bug the whole grounds, and you could be in a position where not even one of those shotgun-parabolic reflector mikes could pick up any conversation over the noise of the water and boats. There's a kind of park that goes with the locks, and we found a bench and sat down to watch the boats coming in.
"Now what?"
"Now I tell you about what's happening around here, and you decide whether or not you want to help stop it. Look at these."
He was holding out some photographs of kids, young kids, maybe fifteen to twenty. Every one of them looked as though they were undergoing the tortures of hell. There were ten of the pictures, each one a different kid.
"Gets you, doesn't it?" Shearing asked. He pocketed the pix.
"What's wrong with them?"
"Withdrawal. The cure. You know, kicking the habit."
I thought about that for a moment. "That's the Treasury boys' job. Or maybe even the FBI. What have you got to do with that?"
"It's their job to stop narcotics. It's my job to stop the Red Chinese from building up their agent net over here. It turns out I have to do their job to do mine."
"Maybe you'd better run that one by me again."
He took out a pack of Camels and offered me one. "I'll start at the beginning. The Chinese have never had much of an agent net in the U.S., and mostly relied on getting information from the Russians, who have a very good system. But now it seems that the Russians aren't cooperating, so Beijing has to build her own or go without. The first thing you need to get a net going is money, local currency, and they haven't many dollars. They do have a lot of poppies. What's more natural than bringing in heroin and opium to finance their espionage? Dope takes up less bulk than money, and money's no good unless you have it where you use it. So they bring in dope, sell it, and use the money to recruit and pay expenses. Simple."
I thought about it for a while, and it made sense to me. "Okay," I told him, "I'll buy that. Now where do I come in?"
"What do you think they look for in an agent, Paul?" I noticed he had switched to my first name. "What would be ideal? It would be a man with an independent income of sorts, who has a job which lets him keep irregular hours; a man who travels a lot, is respectable, has enough technical training to be able to know whether something is important, and who has already been run through a security check but isn't working at present in classified areas. Add to that your ex-wife's political sympathies, and you have Paul Crane, c
onsulting engineer. I'm surprised they haven't tried to recruit you already."
"But anybody in his right mind would know I wouldn't work for them, and anyway I haven't any training."
"Mr. Crane, they can't be choosy. The Russians have experienced cadremen here. Colonel Abel had been here twenty years. But the Chinese have to use what they can get. This is a big amateur show, Paul. As for why they might think they could get you, you have no known political opinions. I believe you pride yourself on getting along with everyone."
"Had to, with my wife around. Guess I just got in the habit of never arguing. If it means anything to you, I do have opinions on the subject."
"We know. We talked to your mother. But I doubt that they can or will check that far. However, your opinions are of no matter, Paul. If they want somebody bad enough, they can frame him for something and blackmail him. That's not the usual technique. The usual technique is to enlist his sympathy for some cause or movement unconnected with their real objective and get him to work for them in it. Then in something else. Finally comes something harmless but illegal. When he begins to get sulky, they let him have it: cooperate or we publish what you've been doing. It works more often than not."
Red Heroin Page 3
