Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  2

  LYDELL BROADSTREET sat alone in his office, nervously biting at the cuticle on his left thumb. The morning had been passing at glacial speed, giving him plenty of time to realize what a gamble he was taking, and how much of his career would be destroyed if he failed to pull it off; the omens suggested that he was in over his head. He had made every effort to use his deception to advantage, but was not convinced that he had achieved what he sought. He was embarked on a new level of dissembling that worried and excited him, ruining his concentration for the stack of files on his desk that were filled with reports and complaints about those who were now members of the Ex-Pats’ Coven. If he succeeded in pulling off this ploy today, he would have the power he was seeking and would enhance his reputation throughout the Agency. It was a temptation to buzz Florence and ask her if the mail had arrived yet, but as he never asked such a question, it would be suspicious if he should do so now, and then the letter he had been at such pains to make believable would be seen as false. He selected one of the files at random and opened it, laying it next to the stack. Axel Bjornson said the heading. The man had taught city planning at Columbia, having degrees in both sociology and architecture, with three books published as well as half a dozen papers on his subject. The photograph showed a middle-aged fellow wearing tortoise-shell glasses, with a neat moustache, with a slide-rule and two drafting pencils in the pocket of his tweed jacket; he was considered one of the top men in his field, and had been doing well until it was discovered that his grandfather, who still lived in Norway, was a firebrand Socialist, supporting all manner of Communistic reforms in Scandinavia. As an outspoken critic of capitalism, he often held up the Communist model for comparison and praise, which Broadstreet felt should vitiate all merit in his work, and gain him the contempt of the American part of his family, but that was not the case. The Bjornsons on both sides of the Atlantic stayed in regular contact, an assertion confirmed by photographs of intercepted mail between them all. Broadstreet read through the letters, paying less attention to their contents than he wanted to demonstrate. He was determined to have the Baxter letter in his hands as soon as possible, so he could write his report on it, have it hand-delivered to Channing, and then wait for developments.

  A gentle knock on the door pulled him out of his muddled reverie, alarmed at being interrupted before the mail was distributed at eleven-thirty. He closed the file and called out, “Who is it?”

  “Florence,” said his secretary. “I’m going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?”

  It was an unusual gesture for her to make, and that roused his misgivings. “Thank you, Florence, but I think not.”

  “All right. I’ll be away from my desk for fifteen minutes at the most,” she said, and he heard her footsteps as she left the outer office.

  He sat for ten minutes, waiting for her return, all the while wondering why this day, of all days, had been chosen to make such a courteous gesture. Had she done it on her own, or was she carrying out orders from Channing and his other underlings? Had they caught him in some minor error? Was Broadstreet under suspicion, or was he seeing spies where none existed? If he were not being watched, then he could assume his machinations were undetected, and if he had to explain himself, he could fall back on claiming that he was attempting to draw Baxter out. He got up and went to the window, staring out at the remainder of winter, and recognizing the signs of a late spring: there were no pale-green frills on the trees, promising leaves; the gardens were sere and bare, edged in ice. This rain today mixed with snow was so dreary, he thought, that it made him wonder if he should use Baxter to provide himself an excuse to seek out a nicer climate for a week or so. But Channing would not approve such a request, not now that the Baxter plan was moving. He felt the morning chill take hold of him, and he decided to turn on the space-heater to raise the temperature in the room; there was a reassuring hum as he turned the knob to start the coils going. He went back to his desk and opened the Axel Bjornson file once again, seeking out the professor’s correspondence with his grandfather. The tone of the exchanges between Bjornson and his grandfather was always respectful, but Axel had a different view of the Communist model than his grandfather did, that indicated that he, Axel, was in favor of the economic systems of capitalism, at least in so large a country as the US. Broadstreet weighed this assertion against all the other evidence gathered about him, and after some quiet reflection, concluded that Axel knew his mail was being read, and slanted his remarks accordingly. He also saw a note from Phil Rothcoe that indicated that Bjornson had a shrew for a wife, who was no help to him. This was something that almost amused him: did Bjornson like tyrants, and was dedicated to Communism because of it? He would have to talk to Channing about it, but not just now. He saw a note from Channing’s man in the Ex-Pats’ Coven that Bjornson was completing a book for Eclipse Press on the purpose of cities in the future, and the changes that was likely to bring. He closed the Bjornson file and picked up the next in the stack.

  Tolliver Bethune—Broadstreet read—had been in Europe the longest of all those in the Coven, and had not run into questions about his loyalty until he began preparing cases for the War Crimes trials, when it was noticed that he regarded those Nazis who had connections to the Communists as less guilty than others, or so his colleague Jerome Kinneman claimed, who worked with Bethune. If Kinneman wanted to oust Bethune from his position in the pool of attorneys working on the War Crimes, compromising his loyalty would be an effective way to do it, but it was also possible that Kinneman had found out about Bethune, just as he claimed in his initial report, and was doing what any attorney would have to do in such circumstances. There was a note that hinted in obscure terms that Bethune might be homosexual, and therefore was ripe for blackmail, which might be the case, as well as any other possibility that could lend credibility to such an accusation as Bethune had laid against him. Broadstreet sighed and moved on through the file. The outer office door opened, and the sound of high heels announced the return of Florence. Again Broadstreet closed the file and waited.

  After five minutes, Florence rapped on the door. “I’m back, Mister Broadstreet,” she said. “The switchboard says there was a call for you.”

  This startled him, for Broadstreet was not expecting any telephone calls this morning, and it seemed strange that he should receive one so unannounced. He sat a little straighter in his chair. “Who was it from?”

  “A Guidion Wallace,” Florence reported, opening the door. “I checked the log: this is the first call from him.”

  “Did he say what this was about? Is there any record of him calling the CIA before today? If he asked for me by name, he must have something specific in mind, mustn’t he? But how did he know to specify me?” Broadstreet asked, baffled by the elaborate, unfamiliar name. “Did the operator say why he would want to talk to me?”

  “Not that the operator made note of; she didn’t mention anything,” said Florence, sounding like a chastened child. “I’m sorry; I should have asked. I’ll do it right now, if you like. It won’t take me but a couple of minutes.” Her footsteps moved away from the door.

  Broadstreet sat still, wondering why she had not used the intercom to tell him of the telephone call. It could have come when she was on her tea-break, he told himself, that would explain it. He heard the sound of Florence’s voice but not the words she spoke. He considered thumbing the intercom to find out what she had learned, but could not bring himself to take that very minor action; while he wrestled with what he ought to do, he almost missed the tap of her heels as she approached the door again.

  “Mister Broadstreet?”

  His anxiety racheted up. “What is it, Florence?”

  “I need to speak with you,” she said.

  Not more trouble, he thought. “If you need to, then go ahead.”

  After a brief silence, she asked, “May I come in?”

  Broadstreet was now thoroughly flummoxed. “Yes,” he said, still wondering if her unusual behavior was s
ignificant. “Is something the matter?”

  Florence walked up to Broadstreet’s desk, obviously trying to hold her emotions in check. “Yes, there is. I hate to tell you, but you have to know.” She took a deep, shaky breath, then spoke rapidly. “Cole lost his job. I told you this was likely to happen, didn’t I? He wants to sell the house and go where there’s more construction going on, where they need engineers like him.”

  “I’ve been told that business is good, that there are more jobs in the offing,” Broadstreet said warily, wanting to know why Cole had been fired, but he did not ask, afraid that this might lead to more revelations than he wanted.

  “And so it is, but this is not the best place for a job with potentials, not in this area, anyway. The Navy and the Army Air Corps”—now the Air Force, he reminded himself—“have all the engineers they need up and down the East Coast. Cole has an offer from Titan Construction in Texas, near Houston. They build military bases, airplane hangars, that sort of thing, and Cole does that kind of work—designs bridges and hangars and airport towers. He’s up on all the safety standards and the materiel being used for such work.”

  “Oh. Yes,” said Broadstreet a bit vaguely. “So I remember. Annapolis, wasn’t he?”

  “Class of thirty-eight,” she confirmed. “He placed in the top ten percent of his class.” In spite of her tears, there was no disguising her pride. “I don’t want to go away,” she repeated. “But Cole needs me with him.”

  Broadstreet could think of nothing to say, so he patted her shoulder carefully and made what he hoped were comforting noises. Emotional displays always upset him, and he could feel a headache starting behind his eyes.

  “I’ll put it in writing for you, tonight, so you can have the same date on your agenda record and my resignation; otherwise someone might think this is a disguised firing, and that could turn out to be a problem. This will be my sixty days’ notice. I wanted to wait a while longer, but we may have to move quickly, and I didn’t want to leave you stranded.” Now that she had said it, she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, in a futile effort to stem the crying. “I don’t want to go to Texas. I like Baltimore. I like my job. I like our house. I like my neighbors. I like my kids’ schools. I like the weather, even if it’s miserable. I like the way the coast squiggles in and out. I want to stay here.” She started to weep in earnest. “I’m so sorry. I meant to conduct myself properly.”

  Truly alarmed, Broadstreet stepped back and pointed out the better of the two visitor chairs. “You ought to sit down, Florence,” he said.

  She nodded and backed up to the chair he had indicated. “I hate having to ask you for a recommendation, but if we have to move…” Her voice trailed off in sobs.

  “Of course, of course,” said Broadstreet, still unable to determine how much of her tale was true. Was her husband out of work, or was this a ploy to get someone else into Broadstreet’s office, someone more loyal to the CIA than to Broadstreet?

  “I’ll have to find a new job,” Florence wailed as quietly as she could. “Oh, dear. I don’t know where to start. Houston sounds like a rough-and-ready place, with oil-wells everywhere. At least I have a security clearance. That should help.” These practical observations helped her to rein in her weeping. “Oh, Mister Broadstreet, you’ve been so helpful. I’m sorry I have to go. You’re a good boss, but this is not your problem—it’s something Cole and I have to work out for ourselves.”

  “He’s your husband, Florence. Your duty lies with him.” He did not entirely believe her, but he did not doubt her, either.

  She wadded up her handkerchief and shoved it back in the cuff of her cardigan’s sleeve. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

  “No thanks necessary,” he said, and moved more than an arm’s length away from her. “I’m glad you let me know. Tomorrow I’ll tell the coordinator that I’ll need someone. I hope we can have a two-day overlap so you can show the new girl the ropes.” He did as much as he could to give his words a genial warmth, but realized he had not succeeded.

  “I’ll do my best, Mister Broadstreet.” She patted her hair to determine if she needed to comb it or set it to order. “I’ll fix the back at lunch-break.” She turned on her heel and stumbled a bit, but managed not to fall. “I’m sorry, Mister Broadstreet. I wasn’t thinking. I should have done this differently.” On that self-effacing note, she hurried out of his office and closed the door behind her.

  Broadstreet stood still for about thirty seconds, his thoughts racing in a tangle. Then he went to his desk, pulled out his agenda, opened it to the current date, and wrote on the eleven A.M. line: Florence Wentworth gave sixty day notice. It was another troubling omen. He added no additional information, wanting to keep the record as clear and factual as possible. Then he stared toward the window, wanting to summon up the nerve to leave the building for lunch, but the recollection of what had ended up happening the last time he ate away from the building kept him where he was. Besides, he told himself, he needed to be here to receive the mail and begin the second stage of his plan. With that idea to calm him, he put his agenda away and took the next file off the Ex-Pats’ Coven stack and began to read up on Tim Frost, and his wife Moira, who, it appeared, was the family bread-winner. She had done all that she could to put her husband in circumstances that would improve his chance of recovery. A very committed woman, this Moira Frost, he concluded as he read on. At eleven-thirty, he buzzed Florence on the intercom to ask her to call the cafeteria and order him a hot meatloaf sandwich on white bread with catsup and mustard, one of his favorite dishes from the cafeteria, and to pick it up for him, with a carafe of hot coffee and a small creamer. “I’ll give you the money when you bring in the mail.”

  “Okay,” she said without vitality.

  “That’s one dollar, five cents, to cover the food and their preparation,” he said as if this information were new to Florence.

  “I’ll bring my lunch back to the office, too, if you like,” she offered. “And pay my own prep fee.”

  Not wanting a repeat of her emotional display, he said, “I think one of us sticking to the desk is about all that’s fair. Take your forty-five minutes for lunch. But thank you.” He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t rush because of me, please. Having a little time out of the office can be very restorative. If I hadn’t so much to do, I’d welcome the break myself.”

  Florence took on a brisker tone. “Meatloaf sandwich on white bread, catsup and mustard, and coffee with cream, coming up.”

  “Thank you, Florence,” said Broadstreet, and toggled the intercom to off, and sat back to read more about the Frosts. He knew that Tim Frost had been paralyzed from the waist down after a severe concussion—at Guadalcanal, according to his file—where he was ferrying supplies to the troops on the island. Frost was recognized as a hero then, for he had saved eight other men along with himself. He had studied the tides around the island and knew where to swim to keep from being washed out to sea. Had his loyalty not been questioned, he was said to be on his way to a Congressional Medal of Honor, but his statements about the Russian successes in Germany at the end of the war earned him the condemnation of the general public; he had to pay the price for his stance. He had been on disability through the Veterans Administration, but now that he was in Paris, he no longer received benefits and, unable to continue his work as an oceanographer, was reduced to being supported by his wife. One of the agents who had briefly penetrated the Ex-Pats’ Coven had summed her up as a clinical psychologist who was striving to hold her family together by seeking out clients in the ex-pats’ community. Tim and Moira had a sixteen-year-old daughter, Regina, who was attending school in Paris and coaching a half-dozen of her classmates in English. Tim’s parents were dead, and so was Moira’s mother; her father was retired and living in the Florida Keys, on Big Pine Key, if he remembered correctly. He supposed he ought to arrange to have him checked out, just to fill in any blanks about Tim.

  The next folder was Hapgood Nugent’s: Broadstreet
set it aside, planning to study it closely later. Too many of his plans depended on Hapgood Nugent to try to concentrate on him now. He wished he could take the file home so that he could expand his review of the material in it, but he would need Channing’s written permission to do this, and he was fairly certain that was unlikely to be forthcoming. He went back to worrying his left thumb, paying no attention when the cuticle started to bleed. His aggravation was increasing, and he was losing patience with everyone, himself included. If only the mail would come!

  The crackle of the intercom cut into his exasperation. He was so startled that he jumped in his chair, and looked around as if he expected to find someone lurking behind the draperies. He forced himself to answer, clearing his throat before he activated his side of the intercom. “Yes, Florence: what is it?”

  “I have Guidion Wallace on the line. Shall I put him through?”

  “Ask him what this is about, if you would.” He fiddled with his tie, then reached for his pen and his notepad, prepared to write down anything once Florence toggled back on. He wrote down the name on the top of the notebook page. What kind of a name, he wondered, was Guidion?

  “He says it’s about a screen-writer in Paris, one whom the Committee has accused of pro-Communist activities. Mister Wallace says that there may be—”

  Broadstreet interrupted. “Tell him, if you would, to talk to Alice Jamison; she has the lesser Hollywood run-aways. And thank him for contacting us.” He saw his hand was shaking; he dropped his pen and balled his fingers into a fist, then counted to ten before he flipped the intercom to off, which allowed him to overhear what Florence was saying to Mister Wallace; as usual, Florence was being tactful and patient. He decided he would ask Alice about Wallace when he next saw her, and would hope that she would tell him what she learned, as a quid-pro-quo for making sure Wallace reached her. As the only woman coordinator in the CIA, she was known to be amazingly tight-lipped about her cases, fearing poaching from her male colleagues, and not without cause. Perhaps he could offer to trade information with her: academics and screen-writers could be in touch with one another. Maybe Guidion Wallace was associated with screen-writing himself. Guidion sounded like the sort of name someone in the movie industry would have. He went back to staring out the window, giving up all pretense of work while he indulged in a great deal of anticipation, imagining the heights to which he could rise if his ruse worked, and how far he would plummet if he failed.