by Paul Gallico
Sisson, looking up and seeing an eager-faced small boy, had replied, “What? Oh sure, sonny, sit down.”
As Julian did so, the colonel quietly removed the diagram marked TOP SECRET on which he had been working and slipped it back into his briefcase.
Allon, glancing once more into the rear vision mirror, saw only what he had seen before since the height of the seat covered Julian. The racket inside the bus effectively covered conversation. As far as Allon was concerned the colonel was still doing exactly what he had been before.
The colonel queried, “Now. What’s on your mind?”
Julian said, “It’s about my Bubble Gun invention, sir. Marshall said that you . . .”
“Your Bubble Gun invention?” The colonel was startled because he had not expected to be tackled on a subject connected with his own department—hardware. And then he added, “Who is Marshall?”
Julian nodded with his head in the direction of the rear of the bus. “He’s my—my friend back there. He said you’d know all about guns.”
Again the colonel was startled, for his nerves were not all they should have been. “Oh, he did, did he? How—?” Then, reflecting for a moment, he remembered the ruse of his papers scattered all over the floor. “Oh, yes, of course. Stupid of me. Well, what about your invention?”
Julian said, “S-s-something d-d-doesn’t work right. Can I show it to you?” And he had the diagram half out of his pocket.
“Sure,” said the colonel. “Let’s have a look.” He took the drawing and spread it out upon the flat of his briefcase. In an instant his practiced eye took it in and a smile touched the corners of his mouth but it was not one of derision—rather, of interest with even a tinge of admiration.
He asked, “You dreamed this up all by yourelf?”
“Y-y-yes sir, b-b-but there’s a problem.”
“What is it?” the colonel asked. “Looks all right to me.” And he examined the sheet more carefully as Julian explained and then the colonel reached into his pocket for a pencil.
Allon stole another glimpse into the rear-vision mirror and the movements of the colonel’s shoulders and the angle of his head told him that his quarry was still working on a diagram.
Over the loudspeaker the bus driver announced, “We’ll be in Tucson in twenty minutes, folks.”
Allon had an accomplice in Tucson, another in El Paso and a third in Dallas, but the farther away the bus moved from the Mexican border the more difficult became the assignment. The time to move was now. He would have preferred the entire contents of the briefcase which were known to the KGB as details of a new type of weapon, but failing that, one clear picture of a diagram or blueprint of a significant part and the ordnance experts in the Russian army would be able to reconstruct the rest. The moment was at hand.
Too, conditions were right. The bus was barrelling along at some sixty-five miles per hour on a not too perfect piece of roadbed that caused an occasional bump or sway. One would not be able to walk too easily down the aisle to the lavatory without clutching from time to time quite naturally at the sides of the seats to steady oneself.
The Russian interest in what the colonel was carrying was such that they had been prepared to risk the hullabaloo that the stealing of the entire briefcase would set off. The other alternative was to secure a facsimile of one or more of the diagrams without the Americans being aware that this had been done. Allon knew that if he accomplished the latter now, there would certainly be a decoration ceremony at the Kremlin, possibly even the Order of Lenin.
And now that the time had come even his years of training could not overcome the onslaught of nerves that assailed him as he made his final preparations. Sweat poured from his armpits and began to bead his brow and most embarrassing was that it made the palms of his hands slippery. He wiped them dry carefully several times on a handkerchief.
At the rear of the bus Marshall had put his book down and had seen Julian speak to the colonel and then slip into the seat beside the man and he thought to himself, Kids! They can get away with anything. They just go barging in and because they are young and innocent looking or have freckles or red hair they get away with it. And then, with an inward smile, he wondered to himself what would be the reaction of an army ordnance bigshot when confronted with a gat that purported to shoot soap bubbles instead of bullets.
The smile died away as something niggled at Marshall. What the hell kind of colonel was that who spilt blueprints and diagrams marked TOP SECRET all over the floor of a public conveyance? Memories of the past came crowding in rapidly before he could shut them out again but they remained long enough to remind him that the higher the rank, the greater the quota of imbeciles. He wondered how Julian would make out. If the colonel was busy he would probably be sent packing.
From his viewpoint Marshall saw an unobtrusive little man several seats ahead of the colonel get up and prepare for a march down the aisle of the swaying bus, or rather he did not really see but was merely aware of him for he was not interested in the movements of other passengers as he was in what the colonel’s reaction would be to Julian’s diagram.
The colonel was saying, “You invented that? Ingenious. And you say the problem is . . . wait a minute. I think it’s a matter of the ratio of distance, isn’t it?”
“Sir?” said Julian.
Colonel Sisson studied the diagram for a moment with intent concentration, and then, tracing with his pencil, said, “Well, see here now, take your figure six, the rubber air bag. You’ve got it too close to the muzzle, I’d say. You’ve got your soapy solution hose okay and there’d be a buildup at the muzzle so when you first pull the trigger you might get some nice good sized bubbles, but your connection from the rubber air bag and the air nozzle is too short for you to get a buildup for the next, so when you squeeze the trigger you’d be getting that whole stream of little ones,” and then he added, “Did you ever try to make a working model?”
Julian nodded his head in assent and his hand stole to his right-hand pocket and yet he hesitated for if he had made a serious mistake with the gun he was ashamed to let the colonel see it. But Sisson had not noticed, having become fascinated with the simplicity of the gadget. He sketched lightly over the diagram with his pencil, saying, “Move the rubber air bag back to here, shorten your trigger action and lengthen your air hose.”
Stark with admiration Julian said, “Gee, sir, that’s right. I ought to have thought of that.” Then he added, “But if I d-d-did that, shouldn’t I p-p-put another washer here?”
The colonel said, “Good for you. I should have thought of that.” And he drew the washer in and then added, “I guess you’re a pretty bright kid. What did you say you were going to do with this?”
Julian was filled with exultation. “Get it p-p-patented, especially now that you fixed it. Gee, sir, thanks. You’re g-g-great.”
The bus favoured Allon for just as he reached the vicinity of the colonel it gave a violent lurch as the driver swerved to avoid a pothole and enabled the agent to let himself be thrown up against the seat. His quick eye registered the small boy next to the colonel who was of no interest and at the same time gave him a split-second glimpse of the drawing on the colonel’s lap, that of an extraordinary and heretofore unknown piece of ordnance on which the colonel was working with a pencil.
Even so the trained eye of the Intelligence operative was not as fast as was the Japanese mini-camera palmed in his right hand which practically fell about the colonel’s shoulder from the lurch and which took six pictures during the time Allon mumbled “Sorry,” regained his balance and continued down the aisle.
Frank Marshall saw it all happening but it didn’t register. Not even a minute splinter of light which seemed to flash from the unsteady passenger’s hand and which might have been the reflection of a ring. Marshall’s mind was on the amount of time the colonel seemed to be giving to Julian. Wouldn’t it be funny if there really was something to Julian’s invention? If it worked, wouldn’t every kid want one?
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As the passenger came teetering along Marshall perforce looked up and saw that his colour was a muddy green, he was sweating violently, his mouth was distorted and his right hand was tightly clenched as though in a spasm. He thought, Oh Christ, the poor bastard’s going to be sick. I hope he makes it.
The colonel studied the diagram a moment longer. How old could the kid be; nine, ten? He had been so engrossed in the simplicity and ingenuity of the invention that he had not even looked up when a shadow had fallen athwart it and somebody was apologizing for having stumbled against the seat. He had simply murmured, “That’s all right,” and continued with his examination. He said, “There, that ought to fix it,” and suddenly with a curious glance at Julian, “Look here, young fella, what about you? Are you really going to Washington to patent this?”
“Uh huh.”
“What do you know about getting a patent?”
Julian fished forth the crumpled article from Popular Mechanics. The colonel glanced through it. “Sure,” he said, “the article’s okay. Anybody can get a patent for an original invention, but you know, sonny, there’s a lot more to it than this and it’s not mentioned here.” He tapped the paper. Then he added, “By the way, who are you travelling with? This fellow Marshall?”
Julian nodded, “Yes sir.”
The colonel suddenly felt bewildered and began to wish he had not become involved. He said, “I see,” and then was compelled to ask, “And what about your parents? Do they know all about this caper?”
Julian again knew himself close to panic. Questions, questions, always questions. But he nodded his head.
Sisson said, “Well, and when you get to Washington? Have you got any money? Do you know anybody?”
The word “money” led to “grandmother” and birthday present. Grandmother would do.
Julian said, “My grandmother lives in Washington.”
The colonel snorted and said, “Your grandmother will be a great help in the Patent Office.”
Subliminally Marshall was aware of Allon emerging from the lavatory too soon to have been ill and marching past him up the aisle quite steadily, his hand no longer clenched, his colour seemed to have returned. But what was far more interesting was that Julian and the colonel were still actively chatting.
Marshall did not bother any more about Allon except to notice that the man was busying himself with taking his satchel down from the rack again and the bus was entering the outskirts of Tucson.
The colonel handed back Julian’s diagram which he folded up and began putting in his pocket. The colonel said, “You know, this whole thing sounds cockeyed to me, young man, and I’m not sure I believe a word of it.” But then he indicated the paper which Julian was stowing away and said, “However, I’ve seen a lot crazier ideas than this come off. The point is, your engineering is sound. Look here, if you need any help in Washington, get in touch.” He produced a wallet from which he took a card with his name, rank, department and the telephone number of his office in the Pentagon Building. He initialled it and then handed it to Julian. “Keep this safe. You might need it.”
After he had been overwhelmed with “Gee, thanks,” and “Say, you’re the greatest,” and Julian had departed, he said to himself, For sweet Jesus’ sake, Sisson, why can’t you mind your own business? What the hell did you have to do that for? But he excused himself with, Goddammit, the country needs kids like that. His mind then turned back to the problem of his mission and the bad luck that had attended it so far. He glanced ahead to where Allon was sitting and could not think of a single solitary thing to do beyond going up to him, handing him the sheaf of blueprints with, “Here, your bosses would like to have a look at these.” The next move would have to be up to Allon.
Julian had dropped into the aisle seat next to Marshall as the bus slowed down through the streets of Tucson. He said excitedly, “Say, he was great,” and produced the diagram. “He showed me what to do. See here?” He took out a pencil of his own with an eraser, rubbed out certain lines on the diagram, traced over the colonel’s corrections and gazed with awe and delight upon the altered sheet. “B-b-boy, was I a dope. I should have s-s-seen that.” Then, looking proudly at Marshall, “But the colonel d-d-didn’t see something that I s-s-saw, like here.”
Marshall said, “Yeah,” and then casually, “Did he say it would work?”
Julian said, “Sure, why wouldn’t it? See, when I . . .”
Julian became aware that Marshall who had been showing the most intense interest was suddenly no longer listening to him and he looked up slightly bewildered to see that Marshall was gazing in a puzzled manner up towards the front of the bus.
Julian asked, “What are you looking at?”
Marshall replied, “Nothing. Never mind.”
Nevertheless he continued to watch the actions of the little man who had looked as if he were going to be sick. He now saw that Allon had removed his bag from the rack and there was a curious tension about Allon’s neck and shoulders and all he could think of was a memory of a high school track meet, and the eight-eighty and the way the back of the competitor on his mark a few feet ahead of him had looked, all bunched up and ready to explode. And there was something else that he kept trying to remember that tugged at his mind.
Julian began, “The colonel said, . . .” but Marshall swiftly put his hand on Julian’s arm in a gesture that meant keep quiet and half rose out of his seat to see what Allon was up to. He was getting ready to leave the bus fast and Marshall remembered Allon had bought a ticket to Washington.
Then there was the bus driver’s voice, “Tucson, Tucson, ten minutes, keep your seats please.” The bus drew up to a stop at the bus station. The doors hissed open and several new passengers boarded.
At this moment the subliminal, that same which so often had saved that other Marshall and helped him during certain dangerous days to avoid the trip wires hidden underfoot, grenades hung from trees, pressure mines that tore one’s legs and genitals to bloody shreds, the poisoned punji sticks buried in the ground and all the other booby traps, came startlingly to life and brought what had happened into focus. And even as Allon nipped out of the seat, out of the bus and was off running, with Colonel Sisson standing and looking at him in confusion, Marshall was down the aisle saying to Sisson, “Sir, excuse me, I may be wrong but I think that little guy that just got off took a picture.”
Sisson said, “What? Picture of what?” He couldn’t remember Allon’s movements.
Marshall was saying, “Over your shoulder. When the bus was swaying. He almost fell over you. I thought I saw something in his hand.”
Cold fear settled in the colonel’s stomach. He glanced at his briefcase, then gripped Marshall’s arm, “Christ! When? Did you notice when he got the picture?”
Marshall said, “When you were talking to the kid.”
The colonel yelled “Son of a bitch!” so loudly that it startled everyone in the vicinity but particularly the man named Wilks occupying the front seat. Beyond the offence of his appearance, his behaviour had been subdued ever since he had got on the bus; he hardly moved at all as though concerned with not attracting attention and did not get out during stopovers. He sat hunched by the window, hat pulled down over his eyes, moodily observing the scenery as it flashed by. Occasionally he pulled a road map from a pocket and studied it. The seat next to him was unoccupied. Two passengers had tried it, a man and a woman, and been driven away by his unwashed fetor. These defections did not seem to upset or worry the man.
But now as the colonel rushed past him and out through the still-open door while reaching inside his jacket for his shoulder holster, Wilks immediately arose, his hand moving in an exact duplicate of that of the colonel.
Marshall bumped Wilks as he dashed after the colonel and momentarily distracted him from completing his draw. Wilks remembered Marshall from the episode in the bus station and the irritation gave him pause just long enough to see that the sudden furor had nothing to do with him. He removed his hand
from his clothing, shoved his hat on to the back of his head and mopped his brow. He sank back into his seat and watched through the window.
Colonel Sisson and Marshall were just in time to see Allon at a little distance giving a taxi-driver instructions. The colonel produced his gun, a black army .45. The bulk of the passengers in the bus were unaware of the curious drama being played out at the entrance to the bus station since Sisson had his back to them and they could not see the automatic.
There was a moment of frozen tableau like the stopping of a motion picture film on one frame as Allon, for one terror-stricken instant, his face a mask of fright, glanced over at the colonel, the gun and Marshall. Then he nipped into the cab, slammed the door and was gone.
Marshall was unable to keep a slight tinge of contempt from his voice as he said, “You could have had him, sir.”
For the first time Sisson took in Marshall wholly and recognizing an ex-soldier, the colonel reholstered his gun and said, “Thanks, but maybe I didn’t want him with holes in him,” and then he said, “Oh, goddammit, the stupid bastard.” And suddenly he felt as though he was nine years old like the kid with that design and wanted to cry from sheer helpless frustration. “What a son of a bitching foul up!” For a moment, almost stupidly he regarded his briefcase and then said bitterly, “They’ll have my chicken feathers for this. That crazy kid! Tell the bus driver I’m not coming back.”
Marshall said, “I don’t get it,” but Sisson was already running for a second taxi, exchanged a few words with the driver, was in and gone.
As Marshall climbed back into the bus, the driver asked, “What the hell was all that about? Where are they?”
