“Nothing solid; I want to get more information before I authorize Rothcoe or Leeland to put one of their men on it. You know how it is, and far better than I, when you have odd bits of facts but no notion on how to put them together.” He saw Channing’s brows draw together, portentous as storm clouds; he hurried on. “I don’t want to chase wild geese if we can help it, but I don’t want a Communist sympathizer running loose in the world with a head full of our secrets, so Atkins is my first concern. But Baxter seems to know something useful, as well, and it behooves my department to investigate thoroughly.” Broadstreet nodded stiffly, then sat down, feeling as if the well-padded chair were made of concrete. “I want to give the case preferential attention for the next couple of months.”
Channing was not convinced. “And how do things stand with your mysterious visitor? Have you found out who he is yet?”
“I don’t have solid confirmation yet, but I’m convinced that the man who came to my office was James Rutherford, Nugent’s brother-in-law. Isling in surveillance promised me a photo of him by the end of the week. That’s a bit tricky, since we aren’t supposed to be operating in St. Louis—or anywhere else in the US—but there’s going to be an opening of another car dealership, and the press will be there in force. If Grant Nugent is really James Rutherford—and I am reasonably sure he is—then we’ll know soon enough.” He paused, aware that he had lost Channing’s attention. “That’s what Rutherford does: he sells cars, new ones, used ones. He started out as a Pontiac salesman, then branched out. Now he owns three dealerships and a pair of used-car lots. He’s doing quite well for himself. He brings in about twenty thousand a year, Rutherford does.”
“And you say Nugent’s sister is in contact with him? Nugent, that is. Do they exchange letters frequently? I assume she and her husband see each other quite regularly.” This attempt at levity was not successful. Channing cocked his head like a perplexed hound in search of a scent.
“Yes, at least enough to send him—Nugent—money on what appears to be a regular basis,” said Broadstreet with a moue of distaste. “It’s always difficult when a brother has to ask for help from a sister, isn’t it? It seems less than manly to impose on a female that way.”
“Is this sister older or younger?” Channing’s lips were turned toward smiling rather than his more habitual frown.
“I don’t know. I’d guess she’s older, but I can’t confirm it. Does it matter? I can find out if you think I should. Her name is Meredith, by the way, but Nugent calls her Mimi.”
“Older sisters often take good care of younger brothers,” said Channing with a look that was very like nostalgia. The intercom buzzed; Channing tapped it on, all traces of nostalgia vanished from him. “Yes?”
“There’s a call from Miller at State,” said Channing’s secretary. “Do you want to take it now?”
“Not now. Tell him I’ll call back in an hour.” He clicked the intercom off and stared at Broadstreet; this was an improvement on the interview’s first omens. “About the age of the sister.”
Broadstreet neither knew nor cared, but he did his level best to agree. “I hadn’t looked at it that way, sir. I’ll find out who’s older, and get back to you.”
“What else do you know about her?” Channing inquired. “She may be more important to this than we thought.”
“She may be,” he said at once, not believing for an instant that her importance was anything more than minimal. “I’ll send Wehkind to St. Louis and ask him to find out as much as he can about the family. We have all the basic material on Hapgood Nugent, and from what we can tell, it all shows that there is strong support for examining the possible ramifications that everyone is aware of, but there has been no reason at this point to look further into the family. Well, it didn’t seem that important, did it? since we’ve assumed from the start that—” He realized he was babbling, and stopped.
“Any other siblings, or don’t you know?” Channing asked, and Broadstreet knew this was not just an idle question.
“There’s a younger brother, one of those surprise babies: the mother was almost forty when she had him. He’s just graduating from college. He took honors in mathematics—I guess it must run in the family.” This attempt at mild jocularity brought only a glower from Channing. “He’s settling on a graduate school now. He is considering Stanford and Cornell.”
“I’ll want all the family particulars by tomorrow. Vital statistics, school records, financial statements, the lot. We need to know how Hapgood gets along with all of them, and to target some pressure on them that way.”
“From what Grant Nugent told me, that’s been done already. His children—Grant Nugent’s children; Hapgood Nugent doesn’t have any that I’m aware of—have been watched and the schools they attend have been informed of the possibility of anti-American activities on the part of the family. Nugent wanted it stopped in return for his cooperation. I’ve sent a notice to the schools in question, informing them that the family is no longer of interest to the government and that the children and their parents are no longer regarded as possible wrong-doers.” He could feel his pulse racing, hoping he had done what Channing would approve.
“Which means we can continue our observation, but clandestinely.” Channing nodded. “Much the better way. We’ll have fewer chances to be caught off our reservation. It saves us the tedium of having to winnow out the gossip and rumors from useful intelligence, or at least we can minimize the extent of the damage such idle speculation can do to our case.” He leaned back in his chair as much as it would allow. “Oh, these civilian zealots! Certain that if there are Communists, they must be coming after them, as the good capitalistic patriots they are. They have no idea how our enemies target us, or why, and they want to think that of all this country has, the Communists want to control its sum; the crux of the matter is their city, their town, their institutions.” He rubbed his hand through his short-cut hair. “It’s a kind of civic pride, thinking the Commies are after you.”
“I’m still going to send Wehkind,” Broadstreet said tentatively. “He comes from St. Louis and can use his contacts advantageously.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Best to put him on it today. Have him pack up and take a plane. Rent a car in St. Louis. You don’t want DC plates to draw attention to him, do you?”
“Of course not,” said Broadstreet a little too quickly. “I’ll give Wehkind his orders as soon as I leave here.”
“I’ll arrange for hazard pay for him. That should stop any reluctance to travel so near to Christmas.” He chuckled, contemplating the windows. “The weather is really turning nasty. If there are delays in flights or road closures, I’ll extend your deadline appropriately, but don’t try to make it an excuse if you cannot complete your assignment in the time allowed.”
“My Aunt Mildred says a storm is coming, and she’s rarely wrong,” Broadstreet said, in order to show he was listening. “I always call her before I travel.” This was not quite the truth, but it was enough to get Channing’s attention.
“Is she more reliable than the weather service?”
Broadstreet hitched up one shoulder. “The family thinks so.”
“How fortunate for her, and your family,” said Channing.
“I don’t think she sees it that way,” said Broadstreet. This mention of Aunt Mildred made him think for a few seconds that he really ought to call upon her before Christmas Eve, and do something nice for her. She lived only twenty minutes away from him and was his father’s last living sibling. But the thought of her relentless cheerfulness and Bible-quoting seemed more than he could endure, and the impulse faded as rapidly as it had come. “What would you like me to do about Baxter? I am prepared to wait, and I think it would be a wise idea.” He was beginning to hope that he could get a trip to Europe as part of the investigation, if only he could keep the story believable. He would have to make up his mind about Baxter over Christmas, find some way to make him more crucial to what was happening than he had imagined at
the start of all this.
“I have assumed that,” said Broadstreet, sounding testy now. “We need to show that his presence has claimed the attention of—”
“The meeting at the Helmsman was one of those cobbled-together arrangements. You know he didn’t come to our meeting after all, but that did not surprise me when I thought it over. There was no acknowledgment that the meeting had not taken place. No explanation, nothing. But there was a note in my mail-slot at home three days later. Unsigned, of course, but I’m fairly sure it was from my contact, Baxter. It said Better luck neXt time. No salutation, no farewell. Not even an address, which means he brought it himself. The paper on which it was written could be found in any stationery, and it was typed on a Royal with a new ribbon.”
“Someone who knows about our line of work, then,” said Channing. “Any notion of who he might work for?”
Broadstreet shook his head. “Nothing solid, and no reliable confirmation about him. I have reason to believe the man’s name is Baxter, though it may be an alias, but I haven’t been able to make sure of that one way or another, and so I continue to think of him as such. I have begun to wonder if the appointment wasn’t a serious meeting at all, but actually some kind of test.” He spoke steadily, as if from a memorized text, which it was, for he had spent more than a week getting his story ready for this conversation.
“Baxter,” mused Channing. “Nothing in the name to help, is there? Why bother with an alias when you have such an anonymous name to begin with. Assuming it is his name: it may not be.” He sighed, looking toward the bookcase at the far end of the room. “Why can’t conspirators have unusual, one-of-a-kind names? Papadapolis, or Brinquedo, or something obviously Russian. Ouspensky would be a good one.” He slapped his right hand on his blotter-pad. “Baxter. Ha. Why not Smith, or Jones? His first name is probably John.” He tapped his fingers on the desk.
“I have saved the note, and if you like I can send it to our laboratory for fingerprint tests, but they may only find mine: I didn’t realize what it was until I opened it and read it.” He knew it was folly to reveal too much too soon, so he only added, “I’m planning to look into any connections that may exist between this Baxter and Bateman & McNally, for it has occurred to me that the men from that company may have known Baxter, which would explain his being missing from the Helmsman, where men from Bateman & McNally were having a celebratory lunch. Whatever they were celebrating, I might have compromised Baxter.”
Channing sighed again. “It may be that you’re right and this was a test, that your Baxter was among the men celebrating, and he was trying to determine if you were truly alone and not part of a trap.” He drummed his fingers some more. “This bears more attention than I thought at first. You’ll need to find out the names of the men from Bateman & McNally and try to determine if there are any connections with Atkins. I wish we didn’t have to think about that lot in Paris being in the middle of all this—it complicates matters. But since Nugent appears to know where Atkins is, his is a lead worth following. There are good reasons to think Atkins is helping the Commies in places in Malaysia and French Indo-China, or even in Indonesia, for it appears that he’s hoping to gain the favor of the Chinese.”
“How do you figure that, if you’ll pardon me asking, sir?”
“Because of the linking of Atkins with Hapgood Nugent, whom we know to be in France. Nugent’s brother-in-law appears to believe that Nugent and Atkins are in regular communication, or so I gathered when he called upon me. Our best intelligence out of Pei-King suggests that Atkins has offered the Chinese leaders information that could not have been available to Atkins at the time he left the US, but is part of a project Nugent has been involved with. There could be something more going on with that ridiculous Coven in Paris, but there would be clearer signs of it by now if that were the case. It’s an ex-pats’ shared-interest club, I’m sure of it, from our agent in it, and the reports say that there’s nothing more dangerous going on among the Coven than in the board room at Montgomery Ward.”
“You have an agent in place with the Coven?” Broadstreet asked, astonished to hear this news. “Who is it?”
“The best kind of agent; one who doesn’t know about being an agent.” Channing’s smile was small and wicked. “All you need do is ask a favor—some minor information your unaware agent might have—and thank him when he provides answers.”
“You mean an amateur, or he doesn’t know he’s spying on the group?” He wanted to know everything, but doubted he would be told today.
Channing shrugged. “The latter. The Coven’s found out all the professionals. I think this may be the only way to keep an eye on them.” He reached over to his intercom and placed coffee orders for them both. “This is more of a coil than I had expected. What other cases are you working on at this time?”
Broadstreet was fairly certain that Channing knew everything he had been assigned, and so he enumerated the eight other investigations going on under his supervision. “Two should wind up by the end of the month”—Bishop should be out of Ireland by then and the new team ought to be in place in Turkey by about the same time, and that would mean much more time for Atkins and Nugent—“which will free up some time.”
“Not enough, and not soon enough,” Channing grumbled. “I’ll need to see you busy on this Atkins matter by the first of next week, which means that we need to settle the Nugent/Rutherford question as soon as possible. I’ll lighten your load by three cases before Thursday, so you can concentrate on Atkins. We don’t want him slipping through our fingers once we locate, or at least identify, him.” He dropped his head, chin on his chest, in deep thought; Broadstreet sat still, watching Channing in a growing rapture of fear, becoming so entranced that he visibly jumped when one of the serving staff arrived with a wheeled cart laden with coffee-pots, -cups, creamers, sugar-bowls, and three covered dishes of appropriate food for a ten-thirty A.M. break.
The waiter who brought the cart laid out the various dishes and comestibles—two bear-claws, two raisin muffins, and two large glazed doughnuts and a covered butter-plate—then poured coffee into two large mugs, handing the first one to Channing and the second one to Broadstreet. “Is there anything else, sir?” the waiter inquired.
“No, Walters. This will do us very well.” Channing waved a dismissal in Walters’ direction. “You can pick up the cart in an hour.”
Walters went toward the door, then stopped, his demeanor showing how willing he was to relay crucial orders. “Oh, sir: they’re closing the building at one today. They want everyone out after lunch, on account of the weather. There’s supposed to be a blizzard coming this way, and the Mayor wants to keep the streets as clear of cars as possible.”
“Does that include Baltimore, or is it just DC?” Broadstreet asked.
Channing looked up from his mug. “Thank you for the information, Walters. I’ll endeavor to be away by noon.”
With a nod, Walters let himself out of Channing’s office.
“He’s very good at his job,” Channing muttered once they were alone.
“I suppose so,” said Broadstreet, reaching for the creamer, only mildly curious about the waiter.
Channing reached for a muffin. “He’s an FBI agent, sent to keep an eye on us for Hoover, just to make sure we don’t do anything domestic.” He opened the butter-plate, removed the small knife, and cut off three pats of softened butter. “I think he’s foolish to waste such a good operative in our dining room, but that’s Hoover’s way. He wants all security agencies in the US under his thumb. He’s after Truman to make the CIA part of the FBI.”
“You’re sure of this?” Broadstreet asked, almost choking as he bit into the side of the nearer doughnut.
“Of course I am. And I suppose Walters realizes that, though he’s not said ‘boo’ about it.” He buttered the top half of his muffin and took a bite, chewing thoroughly, his face showing he was lost in thought. After he took a long sip of coffee, he said, “I have a feeling he keeps a lot
to himself, Walters does.”
“Holding something in reserve?” Broadstreet asked, taking another bite of his doughnut. “For bargaining?”
“Nothing so crass as that,” said Channing. “He is making sure he has options. If he wants something from me, he has information to trade, information he can withhold or deliver to the FBI.”
“Surely you could fire him, for some reason other than spying,” Broadstreet exclaimed.
“Why would I want to do that? He is showing himself to be reliable and he’s an excellent waiter. Whomever Hoover sends next, I imagine he won’t be quite so useful. No, I’ll keep Walters and see what I can gain from him.”
“Do you think he’s aware you’re onto him?” Broadstreet asked, then realized that he had asked the question badly and made another run at it. “Why would he think you were onto him?”
“He’s in the business to know such things,” said Channing, finishing his muffin and reaching for a bear-claw.
“But if you’re both aware of the other’s knowing, why bother? Surely both of you have more important things to do?”
“Gamesmanship, my lad, gamesmanship. Never underestimate the power of gamesmanship. Why did you go to so unlikely a meeting as the one at the Helmsman? Same sort of thing. Practice is as important as performance where intrigue is involved. We both have the opportunity to keep our skills sharp, to keep on our toes. We need to have these games or, when our opponents are Russians or Bulgarians or native rebels in Latin America or Indo-China, we won’t end up compromised and cut loose for it.” He began on the bear-claw. “Make sure you have yours. They’re very good today.”
Sustenance Page 14
