by Len Levinson
“Since you’re the security chief here, I was wondering where my duties would overlap with yours when it comes to Mr. Noble.”
“You will be his personal bodyguard, as I said. Moreover, you will arrange for his security here in his office, at his home, on his various business trips and so forth. You will submit all security plans and requests for additional personnel and technical support through me, of course. That’s about it. Do you have a gun?”
“Not with me.”
“When you report to work tomorrow, make sure you bring it with you. There are many people who would like to kill Mr. Noble, you know. He’s a great man and a great American captain of industry, but there still are those who’d like to kill him. I can’t figure it out myself. I and the others here virtually worship the man.”
“People are jealous of rich successful men,” Butler offered.
“I’m sure it must be that. Well, your next step is to go up and meet Mr. Noble yourself. You may have to wait awhile—he’s a very busy man. But he’s expecting you. Well, good luck.”
“I’ve just thought of one more question,” Butler said.
“What is it?”
“What happened to the person who held my job previously?”
“The man who was Mr. Noble’s personal security officer before you?” Leiberfarb frowned. “He was killed.”
“How?”
“A bomb in Mr. Noble’s limousine. Your predecessor was checking the vehicle for just such a contingency and the bomb went off right in his face.”
“You should have bomb squad experts for that sort of thing.”
“We do now. We hired a man from the Agency, you may be pleased to know. And now we’re using the same equipment the Agency uses. You don’t have to worry about there being any repetitions of that mess. Any other questions?”
“No.”
“Then you might as well be off to Mr. Noble’s office. Well, good luck. You’ll be on the payroll as of tomorrow. And be prepared to leave town on a moment’s notice. Mr. Noble travels a lot.”
Butler stood and held out his hand. “It’s been very nice talking with you, Mr. Leiberfarb, and I look forward to working with you.”
Leiberfarb shrank back from Butler’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said nervously, “but I don’t like touching people unless it’s absolutely necessary. Germs, you know. They’re everywhere.”
“I understand.”
“Nothing personal.”
“Of course not.”
Butler left Leiberfarb’s office and walked down the sparkling white corridor to the elevator. He thought that Leiberfarb was a freak and a crackpot, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d noticed that quite often men in high positions were that way. On his way to the elevator he passed numerous offices where people pushed paper around. They looked listless and bored, and yet they must have very good jobs if they were on a floor as high as this one. Perhaps they were bored because their work was fundamentally meaningless to them. All they were doing was helping Phillip Noble become even richer than he was already.
Butler rode the elevator to the top floor, got out, and found himself in an enormous reception room. Paintings were on the walls and expensive pieces of sculpture were on the floor. Butler recognized a Rodin, a Renoir and a Picasso. It looked more like a room in the Museum of Modern Art than a reception room. A sleek young woman with long black hair sat behind a desk along one wall of the room. There was a switchboard beside her, and a copy of Business Week was open on her desk. She smiled at Butler as he walked toward her.
“You must be Mr. Butler,” she said.
“That’s me.”
“I’ll call Mr. Noble and tell him you’re here.” She picked up her phone, mumbled into it, and hung it up again. “He’ll be with you in a few moments. You may have a seat if you like.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll look around.”
“By all means do. We have a very fine selection of modern art in this room, as I’m sure you can see.”
“Is all this stuff original?”
She looked hurt. “Why of course. Mr. Noble wouldn’t dream of having an imitation of anything. He has exquisite taste.”
Butler studied the finely chiseled features of her face. “He certainly does.”
She blushed.
“May I know your name?”
“I’m Ann Rhinestein.”
“I’m going to be working with Mr. Noble, so I imagine we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Yes, you’ll be replacing Mr. Smith, I understand. Poor Mr. Smith. He was such a fine man. I do hope you’ll be careful, Mr. Butler. There are many people who hate Mr. Noble. It’s very hard for me to understand, because Mr. Noble is a wonderful individual.”
“Indeed.”
“But there are so many crazy people running around the world these days.”
“How true.”
Butler roamed around the room, admiring the paintings and sculpture.
Finally the buzzer on Ann Rhinestein’s desk went off, and she picked up the phone. “Mr. Noble will see you now,” she said to Butler.
“Where is he?”
“Through those doors and down the corridor.”
Butler pushed open the two swinging doors and walked down a wood-paneled corridor also adorned with pictures. He came to an office area where a dozen secretaries worked behind desks and some men lounged about. Butler guessed that the men were part of the security staff. An attractive blonde woman of about thirty-five sat at the foremost desk.
“Mr. Butler?” she asked.
“That’s me.”
“Go right in.”
She pointed to a steel door, embellished with designs that looked as if it came from a medieval castle in England. Butler approached the door, opened it, entered the office of Phillip Noble.
Noble sat behind his desk, a broad-shouldered man with a pinkish beefy face. He had wavy blond hair, slanted eyes and roguish lips. He gave the impression of having eaten five pounds of prime steak every day of his life. The conservative blue suit he was wearing contrasted sharply with the jeweled rings on the four fingers of each of his hands.
“Stand still a moment there, Butler,” Noble said. “Let me have a look at you.”
Butler stood several paces in front of Noble’s desk, feeling like a fool. Behind Noble were photographs in golden frames of Noble with various government leaders. On the other side of the office was a long table of the type business executives sit at when they hold conferences.
“You look like a feller who can take care of himself,” Noble said. “C’mon and have a seat.” He had a vaguely southern accent.
Butler sat on one of the leather-covered chairs in front of Noble’s desk.
“How old are you?” Noble asked.
“Thirty-two.”
“Old enough to know better and young enough to learn, eh?” Noble picked up an ebony box with his pudgy jeweled fingers and opened the lid. “Cigar?”
“No thanks.”
“Don’t smoke?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Bad for the health.”
Noble looked incredulous. “Surely you don’t believe all that cancer nonsense.”
“I’m afraid I do.”
Noble took a cigar out of the box and lit it with a gold lighter. He blew huge blue puffs of smoke at the ceiling. “Delicious,” he said. “We only live once, Butler, so we should enjoy ourselves. Cigars are one of the great joys of life. And besides, a little tobacco never hurt nobody. Those reports from the Surgeon General’s office are bullshit. Tobacco doesn’t cause cancer; anybody who thinks it does is an asshole.”
Butler said nothing. He knew Noble owned a big tobacco combine that manufactured cigarettes, cigars and pipe tobacco.
“I understand you saw some service in ‘Nam,” Noble said.
“That’s right.”
“Kill any gooks?”
“Yes.”
Noble stared at him. “Are you willing to kill for me?”
“If I have to.”
“Good, because I want the whole world to know that anyone who tries to kill Phillip Noble shall himself be killed. I understand you’ve done CIA work in South America.”
“That’s right.”
“Which countries?”
“Brazil, Uruguay and Chile.”
“Ah, three of my favorite countries in South America. Of course, they weren’t always my favorite countries. The commies almost got ’em, but thanks to you boys in the CIA those countries were saved for democracy. A little bird told me that you’re the one who shot Allende.”
“I didn’t shoot him, but I was there when he was shot.”
“Tell me about it.”
Butler shrugged. “There’s not much to say. He was standing there and a couple of army officers shot him.”
“And then what happened?”
“I don’t know. I had to leave to file a report that he was dead. There was a U.S. destroyer offshore taking all messages and monitoring the military coup.”
Noble raised his eyebrows. “Military coup? You call it a military coup? It was not a military coup! It was a popular revolution against a corrupt disgusting communist regime!”
“That’s right too.”
“You need to learn to be more precise with language, Butler. I can see that. You shouldn’t misuse words.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I’m not hiring you for your ability to express yourself. I’m hiring you for your skills in security, espionage and war. Well, are you ready to go to work?”
“Mr. Leiberfarb told me I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Since you’re here, why not start today?”
“I don’t have a gun with me.”
“Hell, that’s no problem. I got enough guns in this office to start a war. Come here behind my desk.”
Butler rose and walked behind Noble’s desk as the latter opened a drawer. Inside were about twenty pistols, plus boxes of ammunition.
“Take your pick,” Noble said.
Butler bent over and looked in the drawer. His eyes roved the Colts and Smith and Wessons, then came to rest on a Walther P38, a very fine, exotic automatic pistol chambered for the nine-millimeter round. “Can I use this one?” he asked.
“Sure, take any damned one you want. Load it up, too. You never know when you’ll have to shoot somebody.”
Butler ejected the clip and filled it with bullets. Inserting the clip in the handle, he stood beside Noble thinking that all he had to do was aim at Noble’s head and pull the trigger, and the world would be rid of another motherfucker. Instead, he jammed the Walther into his belt and returned to his chair.
The phone on Noble’s desk buzzed, and Noble picked it up. He mumbled a few words, then returned the receiver to its cradle.
“Some people are here for a meeting,” he told Butler. “My Admiral Foods Division. Got a new product they want me to see. I want you to keep an eye on ‘em, understand? You never know who might be deranged enough to try and kill me.”
“Yes sir.”
The door opened and a group of men wearing suits and carrying attaché cases entered the office. Noble rose from behind his desk and beckoned for them to sit at the long meeting table and told Butler to sit on his right.
“Before we begin, I’d like to introduce my new security man,” Noble said. His name’s Butler and he’s a dead shot. Just thought you might want to know that.”
Butler smiled at the assembled executives of the Admiral Foods Division and they wiggled uncomfortably in their seats, attempting to smile back.
“Okay, let’s get on with the meeting,” Noble said.
Chapter Twenty
In a phone booth on a busy corner in the Wall Street area, Butler called the number of the Bancroft Research Institute in New York. An efficient-sounding young woman answered the phone.
“I’d like to speak to the director of your New York office, please,” Butler told her.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Mr. Butler.”
“One moment, please.”
There was a click and a buzz and another young woman came on the phone. “Director’s office,” she said.
“I’d like to speak with him, please.”
“Who is this?”
“Mr. Butler.”
“The director’s name is Ms. Hewitt. One moment, please.”
There was another click and a buzz and the voice of a woman came on the phone. “Hello, Mr. Butler.”
“Hi. Mr. Sheffield told me to call when I thought I had some information, and I think I have some.”
“Good. Go directly to Grand Central Station and stand underneath the clock. Someone will walk up to you and ask you where the Hilton Hotel is. You’ll say it’s a few blocks uptown, and offer to share a cab. You’ll get in the cab with that person and follow his instructions. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but how will this person know me?”
“We know you, Butler. Don’t worry about that. You’re one of us now. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The phone clicked in his ear. He hung up and walked a few blocks to the Lexington Avenue subway, which he rode to Grand Central Station. Getting off, he climbed the stairs to the main room of the terminal and stood underneath the clock.
Nearby were the Off-Track Betting windows, where men were lined up with racing forms picking their winners for the next race. Butler was tempted to go over and put two dollars on some horse’s nose, because he liked to gamble, to pit his luck against the odds and see what happened.
“Excuse me sir, but can you tell me where the Hilton Hotel is?”
Butler looked down at a tiny bespectacled man carrying a briefcase and wearing a derby on the back of his head.
“It’s uptown a few blocks. Coincidentally, I happen to be headed in that direction myself. Care to share a cab?”
“Good idea.”
They walked out of the station and got in a cab. The driver pulled into the heavy cross-town traffic on 42nd Street. The small bespectacled man leaned toward Butler. “I’ll get off at the Hilton. You’ll stay in the cab and get off on Central Park South. Then you’ll walk into the park and proceed to the Wollman Skating Rink. Directly to the north of the rink is a small building surrounded by tables used for playing chess. At one table will be a man in a red knit cap playing a man with a hearing aid. You will sit next to them and say, ‘Bobby Fischer would use his knight here, I believe.’ The man in the red hat will say, ‘Bobby Fischer is an ass.’ At that point you may relay your message. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear.”
“Good.”
The driver turned right on Sixth Avenue and headed uptown. When he neared the Hilton, Butler told him not to turn the meter off because he was continuing north. The man with the derby got off at the Hilton and Butler told the driver to drop him off on Central Park South. Upon reaching that destination, Butler paid the driver, crossed the street, and walked into Central Park.
It was October and the leaves on the trees were turning to red and gold. Butler walked along with his hands in his trench coat pockets, watching children play and lovers kiss in the shade of trees. It reminded him of his youth at the University of Georgia and made him feel melancholy. Sometimes he felt dissatisfied with his life and thought he should get married. Often, too, he wished he had become an archaeologist and had spent his life studying ancient civilizations. After a while you grew weary of clandestine meetings and secret passwords.
He made his way through the park and finally approached the chess tables north of the Wollman Rink. Because it was a chilly day, men were playing at only three of the ten tables. At one of those tables a man in a red hat was playing a man with a hearing aid. Butler sat on the bench beside them and watched their play.
“Bobby Fischer would use his knight here, I believe,” he said.
“Bobby Fischer is an ass.”
Butler leaned toward them and gave his name. “I’d like to
pass on the information that Phillip Noble will be leaving for South America in a few days.”
The man in the red hat didn’t look up from the chess board. “Do you know why lie’s going?”
“There’s a country that might nationalize his oil.”
The man in the red hat looked at the man with the hearing aid. They were both in their fifties and fit their role of crackpots who would play chess in public places.
The man with the hearing aid shrugged. “There are several countries that might want to do that.” He looked at Butler. “He didn’t give you any hint about which country he was going to?”
“If he did I would have told you.”
The man in the red hat nodded. “We have offices in every country in South America. When you arrive, go to our local office with any information you might have. If you can’t go, call. Identify yourself first and say you’re calling about the security job that the Institute has offered you. Any questions?”
“No.”
“Good. Next time you have to reach us here in New York, go to the Museum of Natural History. Your contact will be Doctor Lesley Clarke, whose office is in the Paleontology Department, which is located in the basement. If you cannot go in person you may contact him by phone, but make sure the phone you use is safe. Any questions?”
“No.”
“That’s all. Good luck in South America, Butler.”
“Thanks.”
Butler arose from the bench and walked east to Fifth Avenue. There he caught a cab that took him home. He hung up his trench coat and lay on the living room sofa, listening to the Jazz Crusaders on his stereo. He felt a little nervous and had an urge to resume smoking. He’d given it up six months ago but still had an occasional desire for a cigarette. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth.
Looking around, he had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t alone. This was the form that his standard paranoid attacks took. He imagined there were microphones hidden in the walls, movie cameras stashed in the ceiling, and a platoon of spies in the next apartment monitoring his every move. He wanted to scratch his balls but was embarrassed that someone might see. The watchers probably had hidden mikes and cameras in the bedroom and bathroom too, to keep track of his dirty little habits. He knew that his suspicions weren’t too farfetched, because he’d been on bugging operations where certain people were watched that way. The Agency might be bugging him, so might the Institute, and maybe Noble was too. Well, if you were a spy you had to get used to these things. Butler sighed and reached down to scratch his balls.
