“Ice for us both, a lot of it,” said Channing, not bothering to ask Broadstreet which he would prefer. He toggled off the intercom, and gave most of his attention to Broadstreet. “I appreciate your care in seeking not to interject your opinion into your observations, but I think it would be best if you tell me at least this: what is your impression of Baxter?”
“You have it in my reports,” Broadstreet said, and realized he had erred, that Channing was looking for something specific, and would fish for it as long as he had to. “But if you’d like me to enlarge upon what I have in the report, it will be my pleasure to do so; I have been reviewing my last meeting with him, and I think I might shed some light on the confusion around him. Or if you have questions requiring explication, ask me and I’ll do what I can to answer.” He told himself he had made a good recovery.
“Yes. I would like that.” He shifted a little in his wheelchair, his brow furrowed. “You say you have tried to locate this man Baxter’s place of employment among the marine engineering firms along the coast, but that you are beginning to think that he may be employed by the government, or working as an independent contractor for a government agency.”
Broadstreet did his best to conceal his uneasiness. “It would account for a lot, either way. It would also explain why he is so circumspect.”
“And why do you say that?” Channing asked.
“Well, I can find no record of him with any company that would give him access to what he claims to know from experience. But there can be good reasons for that: I have considered that he is using an alias, which, given the nature of his endeavors, is not unlikely, and that identifying him by his correct name could take time. As you see in my report, he says he has participated in trials of many kinds of marine structures as well as having a fair amount of knowledge about roads and bridges. To me this suggests that he has taken on a wider scope of—” He saw Channing lift his hand, and went silent.
“Yes, you made that clear in your report. I believe you may be onto something about the nature of his endeavors. What perplexes me is that you haven’t been able to identify any single project on which he worked, and that troubles me.”
Very gingerly, Broadstreet moved forward in his chair, knowing that his next explanation must be successful. “There is another possibility.”
“And that is?”
This risky assertion he was about to make was the heart of the matter; he steadied himself for it. “He might have worked but been dismissed for activities that were questionable. He may also be bait for some sort of trap, a lure, but since I have no idea whom he might be allied with, I don’t know if I should consider any of this in my evaluations. He might have been part of the war effort and now cannot find employment, so he is keeping body and soul together by selling what he knows to the Soviets or others who are seeking such information—or the Greeks and the Japanese, perhaps.”
“How likely do you think any of this is?” Channing pulled a notebook out of his middle desk drawer and reached for a pencil. “That Baxter is a foil for another power? Have you any theory as to why that should be?”
“I have some ideas, none of them demonstrable at present, but I believe I should keep aware of these possibilities.” He told himself that this was an excellent improvisation, and one he could use as needed.
“We’ll consider his subterfuge a possibility, not a likelihood, but it would be folly to scratch it off the list entirely,” said Channing, a warning in his voice. “I agree with you that it can’t be ignored, but I believe that this is where we apply Occam’s Razor and go with the simplest explanation first; it spares us the trouble of having to question what we have already established. But be aware that everything you’re considering could be right. Don’t waste too much time chasing wild geese if you can help it. I would assume that he is acting more like an amateur than a professional spy, which puts the focus on his occupation, not his ideology. How does that seem to you?”
Broadstreet blinked, surprised at being asked so directly. “I think it makes sense, but we haven’t all the facts yet, and that makes going with the simplest explanation a bit premature. It is at least as likely that he has a secondary agenda as that he is some underling at an engineering firm with a present government contract, and that he is trying to turn that to his advantage,” said Broadstreet, and watched as Channing wrote something down. “I still believe his area of endeavor is marine engineering, but I have become less certain on his specific employment because of his great understanding of roads and bridges. That could turn a man resentful, especially if he had participated in the early days of repairing harbors in Europe. Baxter is old enough that he might have been a civil service employee of the Navy, or perhaps even the Army Corps of Engineers, during the war. I’ll check out the lists and see if someone stands out. He could have been among those contractors who worked on the rebuilding of parts of Europe, particularly where work included rebuilding and clearing harbors. On a broader front, he could also have worked along the major rivers, where restoring order meant rebuilding roads and bridges, and breakwaters, among other things.”
Channing continued to scribble. “Do you have a plan regarding his present activities? When you first made contact with him, it would seem that he was reporting the machinations of others. Do you still think that?”
“I do, but with some modification of my position: I think he might have participated with others in dealing with our former allies and some of our enemies, and that for some reason, he decided to withdraw from their venture. It could be that he is in danger from more than one source, and that would explain his reluctance to deal with me directly, and why he chooses such out-of-the-way locales for our meetings—that he knows of these places at all.”
“An interesting thesis,” said Channing. “How do you intend to pursue it?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. But I am aware that I will need time to work out how I will proceed to avoid going off on a wild goose chase.” He regarded Channing, his expression hopeful.
“How soon do you think you will be able to undertake this next step in your investigation?” Channing returned Broadstreet’s scrutiny. “Also, has it ever occurred to you that this Baxter might be lying?”
The challenge was so abrupt that it took Broadstreet almost a minute to summon up an answer. “At first, yes, I thought that was a possibility, but then I decided that it was better to learn as much as I could before determining if he were being truthful; I am trying to leave my mind open to the possibilities for a while longer; it would be intolerable to discover that in my zeal, I have neglected the obvious. I’ve been looking over my notes from our scheduled meetings—those that did and did not happen, which brought me back to that second time at the Helmsman, when he broke into my car and hid in the backseat until I finished my meal and your men ceased to watch me; that was when I decided that he had something to impart, if only I could persuade him to be candid in his revelations. He’s not one to blurt out anything compromising, as I reiterated in my report.” That sounded reasonable enough, he told himself, and waited for what Channing would ask next.
“But you suspect he has been engaging in espionage, is aware of the severity of his crimes, and is now trying to free himself from his comrades without endangering any lives, his own included?” He patted the papers under the paperweight. “You say that is your present stance: has it changed in any way?”
Broadstreet shook his head. “No. I stand by what is in that portion of the report on that incident. I could make a few more surmises to make the report longer, but it won’t be any more accurate than it is now. There are details I will want to flesh out in the next few days, and a few matters that I’m doubtful about.”
“And those matters—how important are they to your investigation?”
“I can’t answer that until I know what they are.” He hesitated. “I don’t mean that in any sarcastic way, of course; I haven’t learned enough to know what other answer to give.” He would have gone on, but
Opal Pierce appeared in the outer door, carrying a tray with two glasses almost filled with ice, and a large pitcher of lemonade.
Noticing her presence, Channing motioned to her to come in. “This will help clear the head,” he declared. “This heat saps the intellect.”
Uncertain if Channing were expecting an agreement or other observation, Broadstreet nodded.
“This should cool us both down,” said Channing, signaling to Pierce to pour for him and Broadstreet. “And buzz Alice for me in about twenty minutes, if you would. She and I have something to discuss today.”
“Of course, Mister Channing,” she said with a winsome smile as she reached for the pitcher. “Half an inch from the top?”
“That sounds about perfect.” When she was done, Opal Pierce left the two men alone, going to the outer office and closing the door between them. “She’s a real asset to us.”
“She seems very … amiable.” Broadstreet wondered where this discussion was going, and he listened closely in the hope that he might learn something from Channing’s tone or delivery that would provide him some hint of Channing’s objective in asking him. He thought this was an encouraging omen, one that promised a good outcome. “I’ll bet she’s efficient—she has that look about her.”
“She is efficient,” said Channing, smiling. “You might want to see if she can be shifted to you when she’s done here; keep her in the family, you know. I gather your replacement secretary isn’t working out; I know you’d find Pierce very good at her job. She’s smart but not too smart, if you know what I mean.”
Looking out at the sky, Broadstreet was startled to see vast swaths of wispy, nacreous clouds as sheer as linen curtains, with the tell-tale lilac tinge that heralded the gathering of an electrical storm, which confused all the other omens of the day. Fireworks in the rain, he thought and was able not to laugh. But now Broadstreet was in a quandary: was Channing seeking to saddle him with a spy or was he actually recommending a good worker for another possible secretary? He missed Florence, and was sorry that she had followed her husband to Texas. Was this suggestion perhaps an indirect criticism against his temporary secretary, with whom he was not getting on, and who did not type as rapidly or accurately as he would have liked? “If you will, find out if she would like to work for me. She’ll be taken down a notch in pay, won’t she: I’m not as high-ranking as you are. That hardly seems fair.”
“The pool secretaries—and she is part of it until she moves into a permanent position—get the same no matter for whom they work,” said Channing. “If she is the only secretary you have, in a year she’ll have an automatic upgrade in pay.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Broadstreet, though he dimly recalled hearing something of the sort when he was going through orientation. He took the proffered glass of lemonade and sipped a little of it from the glass; it was cold enough to make his fillings ache, but the ice made it chilly enough for him to cool off.
“Well, we owe it to our staff to be fair,” said Channing. “I’m looking forward to hearing more from you, and shortly.”
The bluntness of this statement startled Broadstreet, but he managed to nod twice and to say, “Yes. So am I.”
“It is a very risky venture you’re embarked upon, Dell,” Channing continued. “You mustn’t lose track of that. Bear in mind that the FBI is eager to discredit our work; Hoover wants to subsume the CIA under his command, though that could lead to more abuses of power on Hoover’s part.”
“Yes. I do understand that,” Broadstreet assured Channing. “Atkins needs to be made to answer for his lack of loyalty to the country, and we need to know much more about Hapgood Nugent and his role in Atkins’ disappearance. The Ex-Pats’ Coven is likely to be providing a conduit for Communist sympathizers whose mixed alliances have brought about their various decisions to leave their place in American academia for the wide world. It’s such an easy ploy: the members of the Coven passing along notes, just the sort of thing academics do, so no one takes the time to check out what is really being done. You hide a duck in a flock of ducks. So long as I am able to continue to focus on these interactions, we should be able to turn this potential embarrassment into a major accomplishment.”
“Excellent,” Channing approved. “I was right to rely on you.”
“I’m honored to be worthy of your trust,” said Broadstreet, hoping he was not fawning too obviously. “But what about this Grof Szent-Germain? Have you any more information about him?”
“Scotland Yard has a file on him: he has a shipping company and a publishing house in England, much as he has in France and Italy, and Amsterdam and Copenhagen for that matter, and probably in other places as well. His father or grandfather had a factory and a school in Russia, but he vanishes from the record before 1918; I can’t tell you for certain if he got out ahead of the Cossacks, but I doubt it, which wouldn’t incline Szent-Germain to help the Soviets, but might provide a means to contact anti-Soviet factions in the present government,” said Channing, hoping he had covered all the bases on this case. “I was hoping the Soviets might be willing to pass on information on the fellow, if only because he has hereditary estates in Romania, but they’re no longer willing to share information with us. If we can tie this Szent-Germain to Atkins, then we may have a valuable chip to play.”
“That’s an interesting response,” said Broadstreet. “I’ll have Rothcoe put one of his men on it and see if any of it dovetails with Atkins.” The recent addition to being able to post no more than two spies to a case had caused Broadstreet his first sign of making progress in the Agency, though he was reluctant to discuss it for fear that someone as ambitious as he was himself might find a way to throw a monkey-wrench in everything he sought.
“Playing both ends against the middle?” Channing suggested. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Broadstreet was suddenly distracted by the first spangle of heat lightning—not the kind of omen he wanted on this occasion, he told himself. “It might all come to nothing,” he said and coughed once.
“Leave your options open, Dell, that’s the idea. Get as much confirmation as you can, from the most reliable sources.” Channing made a grimace that passed for a smile. “I’ll see if I can get you a couple more agents to pursue your case on-site.” He blinked at the second squirt of heat lightning. “I believe it would make more sense for us to adjourn for now. You don’t want to drive home in a summer storm.”
“No, I don’t,” Broadstreet said with conviction. “I’ll have more information for you by next Monday.”
“That’s excellent. Once you get the dice thrown, it’s best to act quickly. Send a wire, don’t bother with the evening courier.”
“I’ll provide you with a copy of what I put in motion before I leave tonight: nothing will get done tomorrow. I’ll put the message to Rothcoe in an Agency bag no later than twelve, which should reach here by midnight.” He tried to smile but got it wrong, and stopped still.
“That would be fine.” He indicated the door. “Would you ask Pierce to come in as you go out?”
“Of course,” said Broadstreet, encouraged by Channing’s best efforts at geniality. Drinking the last of his lemonade, he set the glass down; he made a gesture that was half-wave, half-salute, and picked up his briefcase. He nodded to Channing and held out his hand. When they had shaken, Broadstreet picked up his briefcase. “If anything changes, I’ll call you with a report as soon as I learn of it.”
“Thank you,” said Channing, and settled back in his wheelchair and watched Broadstreet depart. Then he rolled around his desk to go to the window, where three minutes later, he saw Broadstreet rush from the building, racing toward the crosswalk to catch the light, and honked at by a light-blue Nash for his pains.
A few minutes later, Opal Pierce knocked on the door and without being summoned, came in. “You sent for me?”
“Broadstreet took the bait,” said Channing, rolling back toward his desk.
“Just like that? Hook, line, and sink
er?” she asked, startled, and came up behind his chair, bending over to kiss Channing’s ear.
“Not a quibble or a hesitation,” Channing said, smiling in spite of his somber mood. “He’d fall on his sword in the Lincoln Memorial if we asked it.”
“He may have to do that if this plan of yours doesn’t work,” Pierce told him, concern in her expertly shadowed eyes. “This is a big risk.”
“I don’t want to have to work for a glory-hog like Hoover; it would turn all of CIA into a tool for political sabotage—of this country,” said Channing distantly. “The man would be Inquisitor General if we didn’t have separation of Church and State.”
“No; nor would I. Still, you will allow he’s good at showing his Bureau to advantage,” said Pierce.
“Give the devil his due, you mean?” Channing said, but not very generously. “So long as what is good for the Bureau also enhances the reputation of Hoover himself, yes, he does a great deal to reinforce the public understanding of G-men, especially those in the FBI. He and the Bureau are one in the same, I’d imagine, at least in his mind.”
“I’ll give you that, and at least Hoover is making himself an obvious target, if it all goes to hell in a handbasket,” Pierce remarked. “Wild Bill told me Hoover was riding for a fall.”
“It hasn’t happened yet,” said Channing morosely.
“Wild Bill had a pretty clear take on the man, and he said that Hoover is more like Stalin than FDR; that would be enough to make him fall.”
“Eventually,” Channing grumbled.
“It may take time,” she conceded, “but—”
“We can but hope,” said Channing.
Knowing this speculation would only upset him, Pierce changed the subject. “How much longer is this going to take, this investigation you’ve foisted on Broadstreet?” She sounded slightly amused, but Channing knew it was more complicated than that.
Sustenance Page 32
