Conklin moved his head away from the window to lock glances with him, a direct question in his eyes. He repeated the question aloud. “And you see no later meeting?”
“None at all.”
“Then I suppose I must accept it.” He refilled the glass in his hand and stared through the liquid. “Cheers.”
“And good luck.”
“I’ll need that, too! Russia, by hell! I wish you’d tell me about it; what happened this time?”
“Boiled down, you’re going bomb hunting. Enough information to cause alarm has slipped through the security net and been smuggled abroad; some plans and actual drawings have gone over. Top brass thinks that Russia will have the atomic bomb pretty soon, much sooner than the original estimate based on research calculations. They underestimated Russia’s potential and never dreamed outside information would be channeled over to them. The calculations had to be discarded when it was discovered that White Sands and Chalk River leaked secrets. So—they have no hope of preventing or even circumventing a foreign atomic program now. All they can do is watch and wait, pry and peer, keep abreast of development to learn how soon and how much.”
“And I’m the eyes and ears?”
“One set, yes. Others are already over there and still more will follow you, but you won’t be allowed to contact any of them. You’ll be briefed and then shipped over to find out for yourself. What you discover you’ll report to me. You see, you’re supposed to be something different than all those others.”
“Why? Because I know about you?”
“Because you pass your thinking along to me. You do the mental broadcasting and I do the receiving. No couriers, no cables, no in-between contacts. No other man ever approaches you to expose your activities.”
“I just think about it? At that distance?” Conklin moved in his chair, the better to study him.
“Can do, yes. They will either give you Dr. Roy’s report to read or they’ll tell you all about it. They found out that I’m able to follow you wherever you go, see what you see, hear what you hear, know every thought that passes through your head. I can do it any time, all the time. The distance involved is no barrier at all—not as well as I know you. So they’re setting us up as a relay team.”
“Paul . . . this new thing, this extended faculty, is it a recent development?”
“My being able to read you at a distance? No. I’ve done it for some time; wherever you go in the world, I can follow you.” He chuckled. “One of the reasons Slater is unhappy. He thinks it has been going on for years.”
“Has it?”
“Some of the years, yes. Not all of them.”
Conklin considered that for a moment, dwelling on the many personal episodes firmly lodged in his heart and memory. And suddenly he whistled.
“No,” Paul cut short the dawning trend of thought. “I’ve never done that, Peter. Not to you. I’ve looked in at odd moments without your knowledge, seeking the answer to some particular question; and I’ve unconsciously sopped up the residue which spills from you like water, but I’ve never done what you must be thinking now. And I’m not peeking now—I’m looking at the expression on your face.” Paul had to grin. “Sometimes I find myself an involuntary Peeping Tom, but I get the hell out of there in a hurry!”
“Thanks, pal!” Conklin’s answering grin was weak. “You worried me for a moment. And Emily wouldn’t have liked it, if she knew.”
“Slater forced Karen to tell him about ours.”
“The devil he did!”
“Yes. And she won’t come back to see me again. That’s another thing I’m saving up. One by one I’m losing my friends: Karen, you, and I suspect Carnell will be moved after a while. I suspect Slater’s long-range intention is to surround me with strangers.”
“Why?”
“Because he hates my guts, and he knows I hate his. How’s your memory?”
“It stretches back four years,” Conklin replied.
“That’s the answer.”
Conklin drummed fingernails on the whiskey glass. “How does it feel to be a Cro-Magnon?”
“I wish I were a Neanderthal.” He put out his hand to touch the other’s arm. “I’d change places with you right now—Russia and all.”
“Sorry. I wouldn’t change with you.”
They sat for a while without talking, and now and then someone would refill the glasses. Conklin placed a cold pipe in his mouth and stared at a colder sky, wondering if the same forbidding overcast would be seen on the other side of the world. That was certainly ruining a lot of things! A suddenly heating romance must now be postponed and the many plans they had foolishly made would have to be filed away or abandoned altogether. He had already made a down payment on an engagement ring and started inquiries into the possibility of an apartment; finding one in Washington still was not easy, and he expected the search to last many months. He had not taken time to figure out how he would make the move away from the house on the Pike—or even considered the possibility that his superiors would disapprove. But Emily certainly, couldn’t live there in the house with them; he had supposed some arrangements for living out and working in could be made. Well—so much for that.
No marriage, no apartment, no heaven with Emily. It would be no more than a rosy dream, something that would have to await his return. And how long might that be? There was no knowing; Paul himself couldn’t foresee the reunion. And Paul could see . . .
What could Paul see and know? That analysts’ report must have been astonishing, to judge by what occurred between Paul and Carnell an hour ago. He fervently hoped his superiors would allow him to read the report before he went overseas. It would be rewarding—if frightening—to discover some of his own theories had borne fruit. Since that long ago day four years ago he constantly speculated on Paul, forming new impressions and revising old ones almost from day to day. And now, he had been told, his innermost thoughts could be traced and read, halfway around the world. A reading of that report would certainly be a treat!
“What now?” he asked suddenly. “When do we start?”
“You start in a few weeks—I don’t know just when. You’re going to Europe as a tourist; some of the airlines are offering off-season rates until warm weather, and you’re a bargain-hunting tourist. New York to Shannon, Shannon to London, London to Paris. From Paris you’ll probably take a sightseeing bus to the Low Countries—and then you vanish. In a casual manner. No search, no hue and cry. Have fun, Peter.” He considered a moment. “And, Peter, watch your step. Pretend you’re in enemy territory the moment you reach Shannon. Do you know what happened in Portugal?”
Conklin said grimly, “I know.”
“All right then. It could happen to you before you ever see Paris. Use your head.”
“Meanwhile, what?”
“Meanwhile, you are going to teach me to play spy. This afternoon, or maybe this evening or tomorrow morning at the latest, were going into town.” Paul scratched his chin, ruminating. “We’re going down to haunt an embassy.”
“Oh? Someone there?”
“I gather that someone will be there soon; he’s in New York now, he just got off the ship and checked into a New York hotel. I gather that he’s chock-full of information and instructions from home. When he leaves New York for Washington, we go down and hang around the embassy to await his arrival. I’m supposed to find out what he knows.”
“Jolly,” Conklin commented, “real jolly. Why don’t you simply inquire now?”
“I can’t do that. I don’t know the man, I’ve never seen him in my life; he’s a total stranger. If I knew him, I could reach him now. I could find out what Carnell wants to know.” Paul shrugged. “But a stranger remains a stranger as long as he is a stranger. If that makes sense to you.”
“In a vague way.”
“So we’re going down to the embassy and wait for him. Carnell is hoping he has inside information on a very hot subject.”
“Those bombs?”
“Those bomb
s.” Paul nodded solemnly.
“See here. Doesn’t the fact that he speaks a different language make any difference?”
“No. You speak French and Spanish, don’t you?”
“Both, yes.”
“All right, try this. Think of something in either of those languages or both of them. Try not to form English word pictures; try to think in French or Spanish.”
Conklin closed his eyes, frowning with effort.
“Esprit fort,” Paul quoted from his mind, “I am a freethinker—I am a strong-minded man.”
“Well, I am!” Conklin laughed ruefully.
“No doubt about it. You used to scare me. Let’s go downstairs and see if the cook has burned up all the lunch.” He pushed back the chair.
The afternoon light was fading early, even for January, and a cold, drizzling rain dampened visibility. A black Packard sedan waited in the drive a few steps away. Paul Breen pulled the collar of his overcoat higher and tighter about his neck, then ducked his head to ward off the slanting rain. He moved down the steps toward the car and then suddenly stopped as somebody opened a rear door for him. Paul stared at the man, recognized him as having been around before, raked the Packard with a quick glance and recognized it, and finally climbed inside the car.
Inside, the sense of depression gripped him.
Peter Conklin moved in beside him. One of the two bodyguards ran around to the opposite side of the car and entered, placing Paul in the middle. The second bodyguard climbed into the front seat with the driver. The Packard began moving along the drive.
“Peter . . .”
“Yes?”
Instead of answering, Paul reached forward to tap the driver’s shoulder. “Stop.”
The Packard slammed to a halt, jolting those who had not time to brace themselves.
“What is it, Paul?”
“Something’s wrong.”
Conklin made a sound deep in his throat and his hand slid toward a shoulder holster. The bodyguard sitting on the opposite side already had a gun in his hand, searching the surrounding lawn and shrubbery.
“What’s wrong? Can you tell me what it is?”
“No, I don’t know what it is.”
“You’re sure?” Conklin knew it to be a foolish question.
“As wrong as hell, but I can’t see what it is!”
The man in the front seat twisted around. “I’ll take a look at the street.” He slipped out of the car and trotted along the drive, one hand in a coat pocket. Behind them, the hesitation and the subsequent activity had been noted in the house. The front door was flung open and two men ran down the steps toward the car, coatless, but armed.
“There’s nothing in the street,” Paul protested.
“Let him look anyway.” The men from the house ran up and peered into the windows. Conklin shook his head, but they waited beside the car, looking over the grounds.
The street was clear. The bodyguard standing at the entrance of the drive waved them on.
“Okay?” the driver asked.
“Go ahead,” Paul answered. The Packard moved slowly along the drive. At the street it paused, and the bodyguard got in.
“All clear,” he said uselessly. The car continued out onto the Pike and nosed toward Washington.
Conklin was sweating. He wanted to ask where the trouble might lie, where it might be located, but he couldn’t ask such a direct question in front of the car’s passengers for fear of getting a direct answer. The bodyguards knew only whom they were guarding, not what they were guarding. And then he cursed his own stupidity. He didn’t have to ask and be overheard. Briefly, he touched Paul’s arm and then ran his hand across his forehead.
“Paul, is something wrong with the car? Tires?” Because he was not used to it, he enunciated each word clearly and slowly in his mind. His lips said nothing.
Paul closed his eyes as though he were examining the automobile. At last he shook his head.
“The men in it? Any of them?”
The same negative reply.
“Along the street?” was the next thought.
Paul frowned, hesitated before answering and then shrugged.
“But it’s a possibility—is that what you mean?”
A nod.
“Something ahead of us then. It must be that” He ceased to direct his thoughts at Paul, to review mentally the route ahead of them. Abruptly he tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Do you know where we are going?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then take a different route. Twist around and come in by some other direction.”
The Packard slowed and left the Pike at the next intersection, turning north to make a wide swing around behind Arlington Cemetery. “This is silly,” Conklin hurled the thought at Paul. “We’ve never gone to the embassy before; there is no set route.”
Paul nodded, gazing ahead through the windshield. The grim sense of imminent depression clung to him. Slowly, he looked at the faces of each man in the car or as much of their faces as he could see without attracting attention. He found no rewarding sign. But something was ahead of them, something was to happen—of that he was certain. The car sped toward the intersection with Lee Boulevard, and Paul suddenly gripped Conklin’s arm.
“Slow!” Conklin commanded, catching the suggestion. “Watch the traffic coming in on either side.”
They moved onto Lee and then across it, without incident. A prowl car swung from Lee and followed them for a moment, until the driver caught their license plate. The prowler fell back and was lost in traffic.
“Any ideas?” Conklin shot at Paul.
“Do you have hunches?” Paul asked aloud.
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t want to upset you—I’m not just making this up. But—well, it feels funny. You know what I mean.”
Conklin nodded, staring at the backs of the men in the front seat. “I know what you mean.”
“When I was a kid, sometimes I’d wake up in the morning with hunches, good or bad ones. If it was a happy hunch something nice would happen before the day was out; if it wasn’t . . .”
Conklin’s only answer was a whisper under his breath. He understood the idea Paul was trying to communicate to him, and he saw with some satisfaction that his own unease was spreading among the car’s passengers. Damn Carnell and his harebrained ideas! He wished he had Breen back at the house, safe and sound inside four walls. Anywhere but here on a Washington street outside an unfriendly embassy. But still—this was Breen’s purpose, his job.
The Packard worked its way north and east past the island, sped over the Key Bridge and turned on M Street. “Not much choice now,” the driver said.
“Take the shortest way; let’s get this over.”
The long sedan was parked innocently at the curb a block distant from the embassy. Five men remained seated inside, studying the street, the embassy building and the iron-grillwork gate swung shut across its entrance drive.
“Listen carefully,” Conklin said swiftly, “this is the schedule. We can’t drive down there and park without arousing suspicion; after all, they know their man is coming home, too. We’ll get perhaps a minute’s warning that he’s on the way. A tail is waiting at the station for him now; that tail will get here a jump ahead of him and give us the sign.” Conklin turned to the man sitting on the other side of Paul.
“Gordon, you and I and Breen will stroll along the walk, talking; we’ll time our arrival at the gate so that we’ll have to stop and let the car pass.”
Gordon nodded, judging the distance.
“Their chauffeur drives like a madman and he swings off the street and through that gate like a kid with a hotrod. So we’ll stop, to keep from being run over. If we’ve mistimed our arrival and have gone past the gate, Breen turns around for a curious look. Only Breen.” He tapped Paul’s arm in emphasis. “Paul, your man will be in the rear seat and probably sitting on the right side. He’s sixty, has a small mustache, wears rimless glasses and a hat such as Gordon is
wearing. If the hat is off—fine white hair. Look fast, Paul. You won’t have more than a second.”
“Do my best.” He was aware of the curiously subtle glances of the bodyguards, wondering what was going on.
“Hell and Maria!” Conklin snapped petulantly. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have planted you in one of those windows across the street. Perfect cover.”
“That’s no good. I have to see the man close up. I need a good look at him and as long as possible.”
“Well, we can hope for the best. I can’t imagine them trying to pull something in the middle of Washington. All right . . . Forrie, you’ll drive on to the next corner and wait for us. Gates will follow us by fifty feet. And if anything goes wrong, close in fast!”
Conklin pursed his lips, watching Paul. “Still got it?”
Paul nodded. “Hard.” He fingered the back of his neck. “Here.”
“Want to back out?”
“Will Slater let us?”
“No.”
“That’s my answer, too.”
“All right,” Conklin repeated tautly. “If anything goes wrong, you jump! And jump fast. Pick your spot and don’t think about us—if we can’t get out of the way it’s our tough luck. Maybe that damned fool chauffeur will go over the curb at us, maybe anything . . . You be ready to move, one way or the other. I’ll be in front of you, Gordon stays behind you.” He turned cold eyes on the bodyguard. “And I mean close behind. If something is to happen, you or I get it first. Understand?”
“I’ll breathe down the back of his neck.”
A noisy car appeared out of the darkness on the street ahead, headlights dim with age. Behind the wheel, Forrie said quickly, “Here’s the tip.”
“Positive?”
Forrie nodded. “I know that car.” He peered through the darkness. “Two people in the front seat.”
The old car rattled toward them. Paul watched it, knew that Karen was driving, knew that she had picked up her companion on the run at the station. As they neared, Karen rolled down the window on her side and reached for the glowing cigarette between her lips. Her eyes slanted toward the Packard, searching out the occupants. When the two cars were abreast, she flicked the cigarette out the window. It sailed in a fiery arc across the short space and hit the Packard broadside, to tumble to the street. Gordon had his door open, already moving. Paul flung a quick look at the old car, but it was past them and Karen kept her attention on the street ahead. She was striving furiously not to think of him.
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