The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  "Eureka," said Wolfe, ignoring the elegance of their surroundings. He guided Benjamin to a bar on one side of the hall, somewhat forcefully elbowing his way to its edge. He handed Benjamin a drink, something amber.

  Benjamin took a sip, winced. "Scotch again?"

  "Yes," said Wolfe, looking about the room. "Because you liked it so much last night."

  Benjamin surveyed the room, noticed the "grandees" table at the front. He saw Arthur Terrill there, and on his left Edith Gadenhower. On Arthur's right was an extremely well-tanned gentleman with thick, shining, impeccably styled silver hair.

  "Who's that?" Benjamin asked, pointing.

  Wolfe turned, looked, chuckled. "Ah. That particularly well-preserved monument is George 'Former' Montrose."

  "Former?"

  "Former secretary of state, former chief of staff, former director of the CIA… From what I understand, he's a genial idiot, but with first-class connections. Montrose is the Foundation's front man for this new contract."

  "Contract? You mean that 'paycheck' you mentioned in Arthur's office?"

  Wolfe didn't seem to hear him. He was scanning the room as it filled with people, everyone standing around sipping their cocktails and chatting before dinner began.

  Suddenly Wolfe started out through the crowd, saying to Benjamin, "Let's try this direction, shall we."

  Stepping between the chairs and groups of people-Wolfe nodded to one or two but kept Benjamin moving forward-they arrived at a mismatched couple: a very tall woman and a very short man.

  Benjamin couldn't help but stare at the woman. She was a striking blonde with her hair up in a French twist and dressed formally in a low-cut black evening dress. She smiled when she saw Wolfe, as though she knew him; her smile was brilliant, cool, enticing-almost fierce. Benjamin hardly noticed the man she was with.

  "Dr. Gudrun Soderbergh," Wolfe said, making introductions, "this is Benjamin Wainwright." She nodded at him as she raised a cocktail-something clear and with ice-to her lips. She kept her eyes on Benjamin even as she drank, and Benjamin had to pull his gaze from her as Wolfe continued the introductions.

  "And here we have Dr. Edward Stoltz." He indicated the short, very well-dressed man in his midfifties with black hair and a small, well-trimmed mustache. Stoltz nodded and said, "Greetings."

  Benjamin gave Wolfe a quizzical look.

  "Yes, I called them," Wolfe said. "I thought we might save some time."

  "So, Benjamin," said Gudrun, "you're Mr. Wolfe's protege?"

  "Not at all, Dr. Soderbergh," Wolfe replied for him. "Dr. Wainwright is a gentleman and scholar in his own right. I've merely commandeered his talents for the duration."

  "The duration of what?" asked Dr. Stoltz. He was drinking a cocktail in a frosted glass with sprig of mint in it.

  "Their investigation, of course," said Gudrun. "Of Jeremy's unfortunate demise. Isn't that why you asked us to dine with you?"

  "Well, that and the stellar company," said Wolfe. He saluted Gudrun with his empty cocktail glass-which he immediately held up, looking to catch a waiter's eye for a refill. "You see, I believe you were among the last people to see Dr. Fletcher alive."

  "And how do you know," Stoltz said with a certain irritation, "that we were the last people to see Dr. Fletcher alive?"

  "Well…," began Wolfe. Then he saw a waiter passing, said "Excuse me," and hurried off in pursuit.

  "I think what Mr. Wolfe meant," said Benjamin uncomfortably, "is that you were his last appointments. He met with you this week."

  Gudrun shook her head. "Not with me," she said.

  "No, no," Benjamin said hurriedly, "but he wanted to. I mean, he'd scheduled you for Friday, yes?"

  Again Gudrun shook her head. "Not that I know of," then said, "I hope that doesn't mean you don't want to speak with me."

  "Oh," was all Benjamin could think to say.

  "With you, Dr. Soderbergh, most of all," said Wolfe, returning, his glass full again. "Gudrun," he said thoughtfully. "Wasn't that the name of some Norse Amazon in the tale of Sigurd? The one he spurned, and who then enacted terrible revenge upon him?"

  Gudrun didn't flinch. "Amazon," she replied coolly, "is really just a word for a strong woman. And strong women tend to make men… uncomfortable. So they make up terrible stories about them."

  Wolfe smiled but didn't respond. Benjamin couldn't see how any of this was serving as an interview and decided to take the lead.

  "So, Dr. Stoltz, you did speak with Jeremy, yes?"

  Stoltz looked at him as though he were a slow child. "Yes," he said, "and a most interesting conversation it was." Wolfe used that moment to steer Gudrun a few feet away and begin a conversation with her, Benjamin couldn't quite hear about what, but Stoltz was going on.

  "But first tell me, Mr. Wainwright, what do you think so far of our little community?"

  Benjamin wasn't sure whether Stoltz was referring to the Foundation or its people, so he decided to assume the former, as it was easier to categorize.

  "It's beautiful. The buildings and grounds… and that extraordinary mural, in the manse?"

  "Ah," said Stoltz, nodding. "The Bayne panorama. Odd you should bring that up. That was what brought Dr. Fletcher to me."

  "Really?" said Benjamin, trying to conceal his surprise. "And what did you tell him?"

  "Well, I began by telling him that it's from the late 1920s. It isn't quite a Gropper, he was too busy doing post offices and banks, that sort of public welfare thing. But I told him it's an excellent representation of Gropper's style: the heroic poses, the slick surfaces, complete lack of corners, even in the faces. And the enormous scale. It's no Man at the Crossroads, of course, but it's quite interesting."

  "I haven't had time to really study it yet."

  "Oh, you should," enthused Stoltz. "Some of the scenes date back to the 1600s, back to when this whole area was part of the Quincy Homestead, one of the first-"

  " Edmund Quincy's homestead?" Benjamin interrupted.

  Stoltz looked surprised. "You know of him?"

  Benjamin tried to recover some of his disinterested manner. "Wasn't he a partner with a… Henry Coddington? I seem to remember that one of their investments had to do with a Puritan compound, something called the… the Bainbridge Plantation?"

  Stoltz beamed. "Then you know all about that sordid little chapter of our past?"

  "Sordid?"

  "Well," began Stoltz, "what with the Quincy Homestead, and then the Bainbridge Plantation practically on top of that ancient Indian burial ground, and then the Foundation's various predecessors-"

  "Excuse me?" Benjamin couldn't contain himself. "This… plantation, it was here? I mean, exactly… here?"

  Stoltz smiled. "We're practically eating over Bainbridge's grave."

  "Really?" Benjamin took a sip of his drink to give himself time to calm down.

  "Indeed. Our august institution occupies the very same plot of land as the Coddington Estate. Which was, before that, the Bainbridge Plantation. You see, the plantation was wiped out, by Indians, back in the 1600s. Burned to the ground, not a stick left, everyone massacred."

  "Then how," Benjamin said, keeping his tone calm, "could they know that the plantation was here? There were no… I mean, I would imagine there were no surviving records or anything?"

  "Well, yes, they never actually found Bainbridge's body, that's true. But when they discovered his diary here during the excavations in the twenties-"

  "Diary?" This time Benjamin couldn't keep his voice from rising.

  "Yes. The late twenties were when the Foundation first became The Foundation-as one of those populist institutions for good government, or something dreadfully idealistic like that-and they were digging to expand the manse, when they came across this small stone crypt. Inside that, they found a sealed lead box. And inside that, they found this diary." He paused for a moment, took a long drink of his wine. "Remarkable story, though it rather got lost amongst the more… commanding events of that year. It was, after
all, 1929. In fact, about this very time of year. October."

  "Extraordinary coincidence," said Wolfe.

  Stoltz smiled broadly. "Odd you should call it that," he said. "That's exactly how Dr. Fletcher reacted when I told him the same story."

  Benjamin could feel himself holding his breath. "Did Dr. Fletcher know any of this before you spoke with him?"

  "No, of course not," said Stoltz. "But after we spoke about the mural he was asking all sorts of questions about that episode-which I thought rather strange. For a mathematician." He shrugged, took another sip of wine. "Oh, and especially the scandal that transpired after they found the diary, when-"

  "Ah," Gudrun said, stepping back to them and interrupting Stoltz, "Eric, please, don't bore poor Benjamin to death." She turned to Benjamin. "I'm sorry, you get any one of us started, we forget other people don't share our… obsessions." Gudrun put her hand on Benjamin's forearm. "I think they're about to start serving. Shall we find a table?"

  Benjamin glanced around for Wolfe, didn't see him, and let himself be led to a nearby table with four empty seats.

  While wineglasses were being filled and plates set down, Benjamin thought about what he'd learned from Stoltz. What struck him as strangest of all was that Jeremy, after residency at the Foundation for several months and probably passing through the manse's foyer on a daily basis, should suddenly take an interest in the mural. In all the time he'd known Jeremy at Harvard, never once had he expressed an interest in art. He'd always imagined that to Jeremy art, being unquantifiable, didn't really exist; not in the certain way of numbers and patterns.

  Benjamin realized Gudrun was introducing the others at the table.

  "And this is Dr. Morton Cavendish," she was saying, pointing with her wineglass to an older gentleman with full white hair and beard. "Our resident expert on international relations."

  Cavendish frowned. "Don't let her mislead you, Mr. Wainwright. Gudrun isn't taking proper credit. Her white paper on the Middle East… well, it wouldn't be inaccurate to say it helped point this administration in the right direction." He saluted her.

  "Really, Dr. Cavendish." Gudrun smiled, but Benjamin noticed she did not demur.

  "Yes, a remarkably successful invasion, as invasions go," said Wolfe, rejoining the group. He was greeted by stares and silence. He scanned their faces, smiled. "I'm sorry, is that word out of season now?"

  "You can't possibly suggest," began Cavendish, "that we should have done nothing and let our enemies-"

  "Please, Morton," Gudrun said, smiling sweetly at Wolfe, "let Mr. Wolfe finish."

  Wolfe bowed slightly to Gudrun. "What would you say regarding enemies, Ms. Soderbergh? Thanks to our doing something, do we now have fewer? And does this splendid little war make the next big one less likely?"

  "I'm more interested in what happens before a conflict begins," she said steadily. "Napoleon said a battle is won or lost before it ever starts. That's when victories are made."

  "And those victories," said Wolfe, looking very pointedly at Gudrun, "they're made here?"

  She didn't flinch. "Those in power have always recognized the value of innovative thinkers to advise them."

  "To think the unthinkable?" asked Wolfe, quite calmly. "Like Kahn?"

  "Kahn?" asked Benjamin, struggling to understand the tension between Wolfe and Gudrun-and, he realized with some embarrassment, trying to find a way to reenter the conversation, perhaps to get Gudrun to turn those luminous eyes toward him again.

  "Herman Kahn," replied Cavendish. "Wrote on nuclear war theory. Practically invented it."

  "Or invented the notion that it was 'thinkable,' " amended Wolfe, still looking at Gudrun.

  "Wasn't he merely being realistic?" said Gudrun. She leaned toward Wolfe, the cynicism of earlier replaced by what appeared to be sincere commitment. "Most people don't really know why they believe as they do. They require… call it direction. Or purpose. And history has taught us that purpose is usually found in the face of one's enemies."

  "Then I alter my question slightly," said Wolfe, now looking quite serious himself. "Those enemies, are they made here?"

  Before Gudrun could respond there came a tapping of a fork on a wineglass from the head table. Arthur Terrill was standing and attempting to get everyone's attention. Finally, when the murmur of conversation and clatter of silverware had died down, he spoke.

  "While I have you all gathered together like this, I believe it's an excellent time to acknowledge the supreme effort of one of our own. All of you know him, but I think few of you appreciate how absolutely vital his efforts are to the survival of the Foundation and its mission. I'm speaking of course of Mr. George Montrose."

  Arthur turned toward Montrose, and there was a round of applause. Terrill continued.

  "Without his work in the lobbies of the Capitol, every bit as important as the work that goes on in the laboratories and studies here on campus, we wouldn't have the luxury to pursue our precious researches. Here's to George Montrose." He raised his glass to a chorus of "Here, here" and "Good work, George."

  Everyone at the table drank, Wolfe draining his glass. Then Montrose stood and began to speak, beginning with something about the "unsung heroes here in the wilds of Massachusetts," and there was general laughter… but at that moment Gudrun leaned in closer to Benjamin and spoke in low tones.

  "I can't stand these speeches. I'm going outside for a smoke. Mind keeping me company?" She placed her hand on his shoulder in a gesture he couldn't quite define. Friendly? Flirtatious? Maybe he was drunker than he thought.

  Benjamin's first impulse was to look to Wolfe, but Wolfe was engaged in an intense whispered dialogue with Cavendish.

  "Wouldn't it be rude, to leave in the middle of…?" and he waved his hand toward Montrose and the head table.

  "They'll assume we're off to be naughty," Gudrun said, and before Benjamin could reply she'd lifted his hand and led him, winding through tables, out the doors, across the foyer, and into the empty quad outside.

  CHAPTER 11

  Once outside, Gudrun immediately extracted a cigarette and lighter from her purse, lit up, and inhaled with undisguised relief. Then she looked up at the night sky. The chilled air made Benjamin pull his jacket closed.

  "Amazing out here, isn't it?" she said. "Away from the city lights. They're so much… clearer. But then, so many things are."

  He looked upward, if for no other reason than to prevent himself from staring at her face shining in the starlight-and noticing the way that same starlight emphasized the contours of her breasts above the low-cut neckline of her dress.

  She threw the cigarette to the stone pathway, ground it out beneath the toe of a black high-heeled shoe, looked back to him. Smiled that radiant, rapacious smile.

  "We never really got a chance to have our chat at dinner, did we. Look, I have some very nice brandy in my room-what say I bring it to yours, mine is an absolute mess, and I'll answer any… inquiries you might have had for me."

  When he hesitated, she placed her hand on his arm, and said, "I'll be nice, I promise."

  "Enjoying the night air?" said Edward Stoltz loudly, approaching them from the dining hall.

  Gudrun said, "Saying good night. So I will. Good night, Edward." She turned to Benjamin. "Mr. Wainwright." And, her high heels clicking on the cobblestones, she walked off down the path and into the manse.

  "A remarkable woman," said Stoltz. "Not my type, of course."

  Benjamin nodded, said nothing. He was about to say good night himself when he remembered their earlier conversation that had been cut off.

  "Dr. Stoltz, you mentioned there was some sort of… scandal after they discovered this diary?"

  "Scandal with a capital S," said Stoltz, smiling wickedly. "Seems the painter of that mural we were discussing, Cecil Bayne? Seems he was having an affair with one of the fellows here. A Warren Ginsburg. An historian, like you, I believe."

  At first Benjamin was so surprised to hear that Stoltz knew he was an hi
storian that the name of Bayne's lover didn't strike him. Then he realized it sounded familiar.

  " Warren Ginsburg," repeated Benjamin.

  Now Stoltz's eyes went wide in surprise. "You know of him?"

  "Well… as you say, he was an historian, so…" He let his voice trail off, then added, "But an affair, even a homosexual one… that was a scandal?"

  "Oh, no," said Stoltz. "They weren't that provincial, even back then and even out here."

  "Then why-?"

  "It was the termination of the affair." Stoltz smirked as though he'd made a particularly clever joke. "Messy. One of those murder-suicides that's supposed to happen in dens of iniquity like Hollywood, not staid Massachusetts."

  "So they both…"

  "Died, yes. Bayne murdered and Ginsburg…" Stoltz held a finger to his temple, pulled an imaginary trigger. "You see? Needless to say, Bayne never completed the mural. Pity."

  Benjamin nodded. He shivered as if cold. "Well, I think I'll say good night too, then." He began to leave, then turned back as if he'd remembered something. "And that diary you mentioned, is it still here?"

  "No, no, it was donated long ago," said Stoltz, waving his hand, apparently now bored with the whole story. "To the Morris Estate."

  As in 'the Library of Seymour Morris'? Benjamin wondered. But he dared not ask.

  "Well, good night then. Pleasure meeting you," Benjamin said.

  He turned and started off down the path to the manse-not certain whether he wanted Gudrun to keep their rendezvous in his room or not. He had a lot to tell Wolfe, and wasn't sure he could wait until morning.

  CHAPTER 12

  By the time Natalya got back to her apartment, it was almost 12:00 A.M., or 8:00 A.M. in Dubna, Russia. Her father would be awake soon. On weekends he liked to spend the mornings working in his ogorod, his kitchen garden, a small plot of ground in a communal square down the street from his apartment building. If she called in perhaps thirty minutes, she could catch him before he left. So she just had to stay awake until then.