by Buck Sanders
“You’re pretty funny yourself.” She turned, giving Slayton an unobstructed glimpse of her proud breast line.
He almost faltered, sensing the standard Slayton charm was not what was called for here. “My name is Ben Slayton.”
She looked past him. “I’m Wilma Christian, and I’m not particularly interested in how you do. But I am interested in what you do for a living that keeps you at odds with the newspaper business.”
Something in the way she bore down on him told him his foot was planted in his mouth. Keep it simple, his brain warned him. “I’m with the Treasury Department.”
“A bureaucrat? You?”
“Hardly. More a troubleshooter, I’d say. I travel a lot. International matters. Domestic investigations.”
Wilma tossed her hair back. “Jesus Christ—a spy!”
“Wanna see my shoulder holster?” he said conspiratorially, grinning and touching her shoulder. “How did you know?”
“Because I’m a reporter for the Post,” said Wilma, and Slayton’s grin went cheesy with embarrassment. They both laughed.
Slayton laughed now as he had that night. His romance with Wilma was still very casual, and neither complained. For three years after the sudden death of his wife, Jean Marie, Slayton had adamantly refused to make provisions for another woman in his life. Jean Marie had been a frail and delicate woman. Wilma, by contrast, was headstrong, individualistic, career-minded without that sentimentalism that too often overrides common sense. The way their relationship had jelled after that first memorable night together had surprised both of them, and they grew comfortable with each other. There was not yet room in Slayton’s life for any prolonged commitment, and Wilma respected his right to keep a distance between them.
She emerged from the bathroom, sleek, smug, and glistening, adorned with perfume and wearing one of his shirts. Wet hair dripped onto his face as she rubbed against him.
“I feel wonderful,” she sighed, lying on her back next to her lover. “Don’t set the alarm.”
The sound of snapping twigs triggered an instinctive reflex, and Slayton bolted up, wide awake. The full moon scattered a pale white ray throughout the bedroom.
Was someone at the window? He strained to make sense of the tall, motionless figure. The wind blew; a branch scraped the glass. Slayton relaxed for a second.
Then another crunch—heavy boots thumped across his front porch.
Slayton stirred from the bed and crept stealthily over the shag carpet. Wilma remained in deep slumber, undisturbed.
Perhaps a stray deer had found the courage to explore the two-story, split-level wooden frame house. Slayton put on his pants and, reaching across to the rest of his clothes, he extracted a gun holster and withdrew his Smith & Wesson revolver. He crept down to the living room, and cocked the gun, holding still at the room’s center, attentive to all external noises, unable to hear his own heartbeat, suppressing any auditory stimuli that didn’t relate to what was approaching the front door.
The ice maker in the kitchen gurgled. Trees on the patio swayed, whispering with the wind.
A harsh thump at the door brought a cold sweat to Slayton’s armpits. He kneeled behind a chair, raising the gun toward the intruder. The door swung open; the lights flipped on. Slayton swung into a classic firing stance.
“Holy shit, Ben!” said the man at the door.
Slayton relaxed. He could breathe again. The revolver fell away, pointing to the rug. The familiar figure standing before him, bundled in a thick hunting jacket and toting an unassembled fishing pole, ducked quickly behind the open door.
“Don’t shoot!” The man held up one arm and waved.
Slayton stepped forward. “Come out, Max, I’m sorry. I thought you weren’t driving down this weekend.”
Maximillian Parrish, with bright green eyes shining through a light gray beard and short white hair, shook his friend’s hand. “Good God, man,” he said, “I thought we had a date.”
Slayton laughed. “Didn’t you check with your service last night? I left a message.”
Parrish walked past him and to the far corner of the living room, grabbing the nearest bottle of scotch. Slayton’s in-house bar stocked all manner of firewater. “Bottoms up,” he chortled, taking a long slug of Johnny Walker. Coughing through the alcohol, he explained, “I never call in on Friday nights, Ben. Drove here straight from work. I hope you weren’t really going to fire.”
Slayton returned the gun to its holster. “My assignment changed at the last minute. Sorry my message didn’t reach you in time.”
“S’okay.”
“You’re welcome to stay, though.”
Parrish raised the bottle again. “Great! Maybe we can go fishing later.”
Slayton removed two shot glasses from the bar cabinet, and they toasted the morning. Parrish was shaken by Slayton’s unexpected welcome, but the drink calmed his nerves a bit.
“Excuse me, Ben. We haven’t been introduced.” Parrish referred to the young woman standing at the bedroom doorway, arms crossed and stifling a yawn.
Slayton took out a third glass. “My friend, Maximillian Parrish, this is Wilma Christian.” Parrish nodded in her direction, turned back to the bar and drained another glass of scotch.
“Max is a little on edge,” Slayton said. “He opened the door and I was pointing a revolver down his nose.” Wilma waved them both off in approval and spun around, heading for the bed.
She knew of Max. Slayton spoke frequently of his ex-wife’s father, a genial family man who took to his son-in-law as if he were a full member of the Parrish clan. The two men laughed together in the living room.
“I had no idea that I’d be interrupting anything,” she heard Parrish say.
“Don’t worry,” Wilma answered, reappearing at the door. “I’ll just slip into something a bit more sociable.” Her flimsy attire threatened to expose a breast as she scratched her right leg.
“A drink is waiting for you,” Slayton said, as she casually strolled away.
“No thanks, I have an early morning.” Her voice faded.
“She’s a staff reporter for the Post.” Slayton fell silent for a moment, then noticed the time-5:14. “Has to be at work by seven.”
Parrish beamed, “A beautiful girl, Ben. Have you considered marrying again?”
“It’s nothing like that. We’re very close, though.”
After a pause, Max spoke. “I was back in Ann Arbor last week, on business.” He was marketing manager for Demo, Inc., a plastics firm. Divorced from his wife of twenty-four years, Parrish traveled the country, working with advertising sales managers and promoting Demo’s products, mostly industrial and chemical synthetics.
“How’s everyone back home?” Slayton went to work on another scotch and soda eye-opener.
“Fine, fine.”
“You can bunk here for the weekend. Chances are I’ll be free, and maybe we can reel in some bass. I hooked a fifteen-incher two nights ago.”
“I’ll take the attic bedroom.”
That suited Slayton. He and Max had seen tough times over the years; they were good friends, sharing a terrific rapport and a love of fishing and the sea. When away on assignment, Slayton allowed Parrish to stay at the farm and maintain its fifteen acres, sometimes for weeks at a time. Parrish, raised on a farm in Wisconsin’s dairyland, looked forward to those sojourns, enjoying an otherwise dull ride on Interstate 95 with the expectation of a decent catch and hours of relaxation amid rolling Virginia hills.
Wilma emerged from the bedroom fully dressed in white casuals and slippers, crossed the room to the two men, and slipped her arm around Slayton. “Isn’t it a tad early for a nightcap?” she said.
Parrish raised his glass. “Not if you’ve been driving all night.”
A persistent, low-pitched ringing erupted in the adjacent chamber, Slayton’s private library and study.
“Excuse me.” Slayton knew who it was. Only one person ever called him on that line. “Damn!” he grumbled.
Wilma and Parrish fell into conversation as Slayton closed the study door.
He plucked up the phone in mid-ring. Hamilton Winship, career administrator for the U.S. Treasury Department and Slayton’s boss, bellowed, “Where in the hell were you?”
Slayton, offsetting Winship’s ill humor, retorted, “Just having a drink.”
“At five in the morning? Most people would be in bed.” He sounded tired.
“I can’t sleep during a full moon.”
Winship raised his voice again. “Please be in my office in twenty minutes.”
“But—”
“I can’t tell you any more over the phone,” Winship interrupted. “We have an extremely serious condition here. Put your pants on and drive like the devil.”
Slayton mumbled, “Twenty minutes?”
“Right.” The line went dead.
Slayton returned the mouthpiece to its hook and bit his lip angrily. At the bar, Max was telling dirty jokes; Wilma shrieked uproariously at a punch line.
Sorry friends, Slayton thought, but duty calls. Stepping into the living room, to the welcome laughter of his friends, Ben Slayton wished he could take up Parrish’s offer and spend a weekend on a boat, soaking up sun and baiting hooks.
3
“Senator?” The long-distance line crackled. The voice was cold, passionless.
“Who is this?” Senator Willard Parfrey, switching on the light and fumbling for his glasses, noticed the time. “Do you know it’s three ayem?”
“My name is Peters, Senator. You do not know me, but my employers have asked me to warn you.”
Parfrey, career Republican whose constituency filled out the lower southwest of Texas, the man .who owed all he was to “the little people,” squirmed in his bed. “Well,” he snarled impatiently, “whaddya want?”
“You have something my. employers want.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Peters. We want the list, Senator.”
Parfrey suddenly realized who Peters represented. “Look here, son, I told yer employers that I would get their list to ’em. I need time.”
“You’ve had time. We know it’s printed. We know you’ve been holding back. That’s not part of our agreement.”
Parfrey would not be intimidated. He had seen too many battles in the field and on the Senate floor to waste precious bedtime on useless threat-mongering. “I can’t talk to you now.”
“The list is ready. You will deliver it to the prearranged spot tomorrow morning at ten. If you’re not there I will send someone to see you.”
“Now you listen to me.” The Senator was pissed off. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you—” Click. Peters had hung up.
Shifting under the blankets, Parfrey stared silently at the telephone, a shiver working its way up his spine. His rational half said to call the Capitol first thing next morning and admit to having supplied a terrorist organization with government secrets, including a promise to deliver the President’s itinerary for ten thousand dollars. He couldn’t bring himself to complete the deal; this group was ruthless, unstoppable. They were able to bribe him once, now they were blackmailing him to no end. It must be stopped, at any cost. But could he live with the consequences? A possible prison sentence? His practical side told him to give the bastards what they wanted. He would disappear for a while, maybe go to South America. Were they going to kill the President? Certainly that’s what they intended. And did that matter? The present Administration was unable to move effectively against inflation, social disparity, and economic strife. A bunch of mealy-mouthed, candy-ass bureaucrats, he reasoned. Everyone was in it for themselves, and that’s how he’d behave right down the line.
In his office the following day, Parfrey opened the sealed envelope marked ON HOLD, which had remained in his desk for three days.
“I’ll be gone for two hours,” he barked to his secretary. The door slammed behind him. Parfrey was going to take the ten grand and sell out completely. What choice did he have? The revolution would succeed with or without him anyway; why not skim off a bit of cream for Number One and then make tracks?
Rounding the corner and stepping into the elevator, the Senator caught a glimpse of Jack Roper from Idaho. They had a two o’clock appointment; by that time, Parfrey would be happily ensconsed in his private jet, scampering off to Rio de Janeiro with a wallet bulging with C-notes.
The exchange took place on schedule at a small cafe on Massachusetts Avenue.
“How do I know this is authentic?” Peters, the terrorist courier, had a manner that would freeze water. He had black, wavy hair and a lean but well-proportioned and muscular frame. He pored over the single typed sheet of paper detailing the chief executive’s early April schedule.
Parfrey was convincing. “That’s exactly what you asked for.”
Peters disagreed, tossing the page on the Formicatopped table. A waitress delivered the Senator’s order—a greasy pastrami sandwich, and water. Peters wasn’t eating (he probably drank blood, Parfrey thought).
“This is the same schedule he had last week,” said Peters.
Parfrey nearly gagged on an oversized chunk of meat. “The itineraries are often similar. You’ll hafta take mah word on it. Now where’s my money?”
The courier stared at the senator, deciding to accept his word for it. “At home,” he said.
“My home?” Now the Senator was gagging. “What kind of happy horseshit are you pulling?”
“Don’t get excited, chubby,” growled Peters, lowering his head. “You go home now. When I’ve verified the authenticity of this paper, someone will phone you and tell you where the money is.”
Parfrey suppressed an urge to punch out the cold-hearted bastard. “You motherfuckers entered mah home?” Several customers looked up at him.
“Do as I say.” Peters left his seat and walked quickly from the restaurant, ducking into a waiting cab which sped off in the direction of the Capitol.
After eating, Parfrey had the driver leave him at his Georgetown apartment, where he contemplated the future from a heavy red recliner. Recalling his early days in Texas as a senatorial candidate, and the high-spirited idealism that originally brought him to Washington, he shrugged in disbelief. Remembering all he once held sacred, the obliteration of the country’s democracy seemed an unpardonable sin. However, his greed knew no bounds, as thousands of dollars in pay-off money could attest.
Chairs were overturned, shelves disemboweled, carpet torn up. He ripped the back from the red recliner. No money was to be found. Examining the washer and dryer, something caught his eye. The utility room door had been jimmied, its lock forced apart.
The phone rang.
Parfrey noticed the receiver was heavier than usual, but there was no time to process that random thought.
“Hello?”
It was Peters. “Is this Willard Parfrey?”
“Yes, you asshole, where’dya hide the money?” The Senator heard an ear-splitting whine, a shooting, painful whistle. The sound swelled, exploding the blood vessels in his head.
When police discovered the body, a nearby dresser was coated with blood, skull fragments, and bits of gray matter. Parfrey’s headless corpse was face down on the floor, one hand still clutching the phone.
Hamilton Winship hadn’t slept in three days. The heads of five government security agencies were clamoring for results on a case that appeared impossible to solve: two prominent U.S. senators had been murdered in execution-style terrorist assaults—one, Will Parfrey, by an exploding telephone, and a Korean ambassador, closely involved with the CIA intelligence operation, in the Far East, was cut down in front of his home.
“What’s the connection between all this and calling me in at six in the morning?” Ben Slayton leaned back in the less-than-comfortable swivel chair, rolling his neck until it cracked.
Winship paced the office nervously. “That phone rings every fifteen minutes,” he said, gesturing angrily at the hateful device, “and the
boys upstairs won’t let me go home until some progress is made.”
“Progress on what?”
Winship ignored him. “I’ve run through every file we have in the computers. Nothing makes sense, yet our intelligence reports confirm some undefined conspiracy is brewing behind the bamboo curtain.”
He paced the room twice before settling in the chair behind his desk. He glanced at the large portrait of Harry Truman hanging on the wall, as if for inspiration.
“So far,” said Slayton, “you’ve told me nothing. Just some unrelated facts.”
Winship slapped his hand on the desk top, rattling a metal rubber-stamp tree and toppling the tray of large paper clips. “On one hand, the Justice Department is pressuring me to conduct a full investigation of the events in question. On the other hand, a handful of powerful senators and a few blasted liberals with nothing better to do are sending me communiques like this one.”
Slayton glanced at the memo typed on onion paper letterhead: “I must object to the claimed appropriation of $200,000 by the Treasury Department for stepped-up terrorist counter-intelligence. Intended Senate Bill 451 will demalversify this unnecessary appropriation.”
“Can you understand it?” inquired Winship.
Slayton rubbed his eyes. “Have you sent it to be decoded?”
“Don’t push me, Ben. Senator Conklin’s office issued that one, and it reads just like these others.” He tossed a handful of similar memos in the air. They fell in patterns at the base of the desk.
“None of these fellows are ever around when you need them,” Winship continued. “The boys in the Justice Department tell me to ignore the senators. The senators threaten to investigate our investigation.”
“What does it all mean?”
“I can’t get any answers!”
Slayton thought this a typical Washington snafu. For Winship, it was beginning to take its toll. He again paced the carpet impatiently. The phone rang. It was the switchboard at the Senate Offices—Dick Conklin was in Washington, but no one could ascertain where. The weary Winship suggested, “Have you checked the bordellos?” When the operator asked, “What’s a bordello,” he slammed the phone down.
