Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Channing shook his head. “Don’t worry, Opal; I need you here to help me keep an eye on our people. I was referring—a bit too obliquely—to Broadstreet. As much as this business can be secure, your position is. You can buy a town house in Alexandria, if you like, and know you’ll still live there when it’s paid for.” He picked up a small bowl holding three babas-au-rhum, took a spoon from the goblet full of flatware, and cut off a bite-sized bit.

  Or until you’re gone from the Agency, she thought as she fought down a third sneeze. “Job security?” she suggested, wishing she had a plausible reason to leave.

  “You know more about the Agency than most of the people working for it. You have a reputation for not listening to gossip, and you’re loyal—to me.”

  She could think of nothing to say, so she bowed her head, trying to decide as she did if she should warn Broadstreet of what might be facing him by summer.

  “Penny,” he said, cutting short her reverie.

  “What? For my thoughts?” she asked, hoping she had made a good recovery.

  “What else?” He maneuvered his chair a little nearer the table, picked up the teapot and refilled her cup. “I’ll call up for more, if you’d like.”

  “Not for me, thanks,” she said, already anticipating a dash to the ladies’ room even as she drank half the cup.

  “About your thoughts,” he prompted, his face once again in neutral lines.

  “I think Broadstreet may be in over his head. The Baxter case has got away from him, and he’s floundering.” This was as direct as she was prepared to be; the whole mess might still blow up in Baxter’s face, and Pierce wanted to catch no shrapnel from the blast.

  “Would you think that having an assistant would help? I could assign another agent to the case, to work with him.” His ingenuous smile might have fooled someone who did not know Channing, but Pierce was not fooled.

  “You mean you want to put another spy on him?”

  “In a sense,” said Channing at his most bland.

  “I think it wouldn’t be wise. I think that could lead to public attention and more publicity than would be good for us.” She picked up her purse and stood up suddenly. “Excuse me. I’ll be back shortly.” With that, she bolted for the door, hoping she could make it to the rest room in time. When she returned to Channing’s office less than ten minutes later, the profusion of pastries had been whisked away and in its place was a bottle of whisky.

  “I don’t want to ruin your appetite for dinner,” Channing said by way of explanation.

  Pierce shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not hungry.”

  TEXT OF AN AIR LETTER FROM JIMMY RIGGS O’HANRAGHAN IN JESUALBO, SONORA, MEXICO, TO LYDELL G. BROADSTREET IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, USA, SENT RAPID DELIVERY AND IN BROADSTREET’S HANDS TWO DAYS AFTER IT WAS MAILED.

  19 May, 1951

  Lydell G. Broadstreet

  139 Roanoke Way

  Baltimore, Maryland, USA

  Dear Broadstreet,

  Let me be among the first to congratulate you on your promotion. I’m sure that being attached to the US Embassy’s trade ministry in Jakarta will be filled with opportunities for you.

  Let me remind you that you owe me $50,000. Next month, the sum will be $60,000. In your new post you should be able to purloin that amount by the end of the year.

  Be careful where you park.

  Riggs

  6

  HEAVY SHUTTERS on the tall windows blocked the view of the Black Sea now shining darkly in the coppery August sunlight beyond this building that housed the Istanbul office of the Eclipse Trading Company. Sounds in the street announced increasing activity as the day slipped toward the delights of evening; it had cooled a little in the last hour, though where the sun struck, the heat of the day still lingered, and with it the spicy, salty odor of the city itself.

  Germyn Rakoczy sat alone in the pleasant gloom of his office; his skin was still intensely sensitive to sunlight, and had the same stretched appearance as the scars on his torso—but unlike the tokens of his execution, the burn-scars would fade. To protect his skin, he only opened the shutters after sunset, when the lights of the city shone like fireflies in the night. In the last week, he had started coming to his office during the day, and occasionally had good reason to regret it, for he had not fully regrown his skin, and exposure to sunlight at mid-day was particularly enervating. His brief sojourn in the Carpathians had sped up his recovery, but he had not remained there long; there was too much political foment in Transylvania for him to feel safe. Constantinople had seemed a reasonable choice—near to Romania, but not too near; Eclipse Trading and Eclipse Publishing both had offices in the city, and his presence was beginning to attract attention. He set himself up at his desk and prepared for his visitor, the third one he had had since his arrival in Istanbul a month ago. During that time since Hrogre had wheeled him off the train from Bucharesti, he had claimed and occupied the house in Bistrita of his supposedly late cousin, and with Hrogre’s help had ventured deep into the mountains to fill several chests with his native earth, some of which he added to the crawl-space above the concrete foundation of his elegant house here in Constantinople. He was now into the last stage of his healing from the burns the explosion had ravaged upon him, and settling into his latest identity.

  There was a noise from the intercom that connected the front office with Rakoczy’s own. “He’s here again, sir; the same request for an hour of your time,” said Hrogre in Imperial Latin, the intercom’s speaker adding an electronic squeal to this announcement. “That makes four days in a row. You had better see him.”

  “No doubt you’re right, old friend. But I am nervous; I don’t want him to start asking questions about me.” Rakoczy sighed; it was apparent that Hrogre had assessed the situation, and it would be prudent for Rakoczy to receive this fellow from the American Embassy; yes, it would be better off seeing his caller than refusing him admittance yet again. “You might as well send him in,” he went on in Turkish. “He’ll only be more persistent until we meet.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Hrogre. His disguise was more comprehensive: he wore Turkish garments; he had dyed his hair a walnut-brown and had let it grow so that it brushed his shoulders; to complete his transformation, he had fashioned a wen with undertaker’s putty and placed it high on his cheek, making his face look lopsided.

  “Then let us be done with it.” Rakoczy adjusted the open collar of his black silk shirt so that it looked a bit more formal; his visitor from the American Embassy was used to a certain level of decorum in his work. The rest of his clothing—the black Italian-silk suit he wore, and the Florentine shoes on his small feet—were not only fashionable, they were obviously expensive.

  “Right you are,” said Hrogre, and clicked off the intercom. A few seconds later, the door opened and Edward Merryman stepped into the half-light of Rakoczy’s office. “Mister Merryman, sir,” said Hrogre in English.

  “Good afternoon, Mister Merryman,” said Rakoczy in the same language, rising and extending his hand. “Forgive me for not seeing you sooner; I’m just becoming acquainted with my cousin’s business. How can I be of help to you?”

  Merryman, very natty in a summer-weight linen suit of pale blue with a handsome straw hat, and carrying a chestnut leather briefcase, took Rakoczy’s hand. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me, Mister—is it Mister, or is it Grof?—Rakoczy. One never knows how these things work within the Soviet hegemony.” He had not changed much in the months that had passed since Ragoczy left Paris, but Rakoczy would not mention that, for it was Ferenz Ragoczy, not Germyn Rakoczy, who had seen Merryman there.

  “It is whichever you prefer,” said Rakoczy. “I am more familiar with Mister.”

  “Then let us stick with Mister for now; I can’t make sense of the systems of nobility in this part of the world. My failing, I know, but better to admit it than become more confused than I am already,” Merryman remarked with the same slightly fusty ease he had shown in Paris, which
Rakoczy knew was a mendacity: Merryman was keenly observing everything he saw and heard, starting with Rakoczy himself. Seemingly relaxed, Merryman was doing his best not to stare too closely at Rakoczy, but still ended up peering at him as much as the low light would allow. “There’s a remarkable resemblance.”

  “So I have been told; I don’t see it, myself,” he said with complete honesty, taking care to speak English with a Romanian accent.

  “Well, that’s often the way, isn’t it?” Merryman offered a genial smile. “You’re a bit younger than your cousin, I would guess. And perhaps a little taller?” He pursed his lips to show he was mentally comparing the two men.

  “So you met him?” Rakoczy asked, to see how Merryman would respond to the question.

  Merryman ignored this conversational feint, and offered his own. “There was a lot of talk when his Jaguar was blown up, with Professor Treat in it.”

  “A very bad business,” Rakoczy said darkly.

  “That it was.” Merryman shook his head. “And I am sorry if I am causing you distress, but the sooner we get through this inquiry, the sooner all those pesky questions can be put to rest. You know how these things go.”

  “I gathered when you first came here that the reason for your visit is my cousin; shall we get on with it,” said Rakoczy with urbane ease, avoiding the implied question in Merryman’s observation. “I will tell you what I can, but I did not know him very well, as you are no doubt aware.”

  “Cousin, is it?” Merryman asked.

  “The one from whom I inherited the title, my cousin Ferenz, who died in Paris earlier this year, my cousin—second cousin, actually, if you want to be specific,” said Rakoczy, knowing what Merryman would find in the Rakoczy/Ragoczy family records that he and Hrogre had just revised; he gestured to the two chairs that faced his desk.

  “Your great-grandparents were siblings?” Merryman asked tentatively as if he knew little about genealogy.

  “That is my understanding,” Rakoczy said. “Sit, please. Would you like something to drink on this hot afternoon? We have coffee, tea, and for Europeans, brandy, gin, and ice.”

  “Whatever you’re having,” said Merryman with the practiced ease of one used to diplomatic maneuvering. “I appreciate your willingness to see me, and I hope my purpose will make this worth your while.” He went to the sofa and sat down on it; he removed his hat and used it for a fan for a short time. “I am glad for this opportunity to speak to you. There are a number of questions surrounding your … second cousin, is it?”

  “Second cousin,” Rakoczy confirmed again, coming to the Turkish armchair at right angles to the sofa.

  “Second cousin, then; I won’t expect to hear family secrets; you rarely find them beyond the first-cousin tier.” He fiddled with his tie. “This call is pro forma—nothing too drastic, just a few loose ends,” Merryman said, and blinked to keep from staring. “I have to tell you, the resemblance between you and your late second cousin is astounding. I don’t mean to goggle, but it is…” He sat up a little straighter. “If you didn’t have that scar on your cheek, in this low light I would think I was speaking to Ferenz Ragoczy, Grof Szent-Germain, rather than Germyn Rakoczy, his heir. But this is often the case with these old families—in-breeding makes for these marked resemblances, don’t you think?”

  Rakoczy, who had had Hrogre apply the scar on his face with theatrical collodion before he left his house this morning, as he had every morning since his arrival in Istanbul, gave Merryman a diplomatic nod. “I have heard the same things many times myself. A number of us are readily identified by our faces as relatives; I will allow that the family has a stamp set upon it long ago, luckily rather better-looking than the Hapsburg jaw.”

  “Yes, Good Lord, yes, poor fellows,” said Merryman, chuckling. “They all ended up looking like old-fashioned nut-crackers, didn’t they? Lower jaw ahead of the upper one, isn’t that it?” he added, to show he got the joke, then reached for one of the pillows to put behind his shoulders. “I wish I could tell you that I knew your cousin well and could recount some personal recollections of the man, but, alas, we met only twice—once in connection with an investigation, and once at a reception he gave for his authors. He had an air of command about him, which many short men strive for, but which he achieved. A very personable fellow in a slightly stand-offish way.”

  “That sounds like him.” It was also an accurate recollection; they had met on those two occasions but no others.

  “I’m not only acting on instructions from the State Department, I am here to deliver a report on the progress of this investigation being conducted by the CIA, pursuant to your request for information on the inquiry into your cousin’s death. Ordinarily such access would not be granted, but under the circumstances … I hope the news I have won’t disturb you—” Merryman said, sitting up enough to rest his shoulder on the bolster of the sofa.

  “What information is that?” Rakoczy prodded gently.

  Merryman waved his hand. “It appears”—he put subtle emphasis on appears—“that the Grof was not actively the target of the explosion. This was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Do you mean the bomb was an accident?” Rakoczy asked, struggling to keep his tone even.

  “I said it appears; we’re seeking confirmation on this, which means asking about your second cousin; you know, I would suppose, that he was engaged actively in anti-Nazi activities during the war?” He saw Rakoczy nod. “If I can confirm a few things with you—similar to what I just asked—I can turn my attention to more troubling developments in this investigation. I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I wouldn’t have bothered to seek you out unless the event didn’t appear to be associated with a rather more important investigation currently under way; your … second cousin’s activities can be set aside from the suspicions that might linger around his businesses, given the terrible business of last February.”

  “If it will help end the rumors of spies and assassins, I am delighted to help.”

  Merryman stretched a little trying to adjust to the depth of seat on the sofa. “I can’t promise to rid the event from spies and assassins, for they are the very ones most likely to be involved, but I can make it clear that he was an unlucky target—if that’s what he was.”

  “I appreciate your service on behalf of my second cousin, whatever it is, and for telling me what your progress is.” Germyn Rakoczy nodded to Merryman with sardonic gravity. “I hope that once you have your answers, there are no more suspicions from Paris. I am hardly in a position to be much help with the French, you know. And I hope that there are no more persons who are seeking to bring about the ruin of our family, if that accounts in any part for the explosion. There’s been far too much of that already; no matter what happens in Korea, we are not presently at war.” His smile had more sadness than warmth, but Rakoczy went on. “We have been in the Carpathians for many generations, as I must suppose you are aware—you Americans seem to be relentless in your pursuit of information—that our family has long striven to maintain our autonomy among our various national leaders we have had to accommodate. You must have some sympathy for us.”

  “Some—yes. But not all,” said Merryman. “Over time, I hope you and yours will establish links with me and mine, in the name of international good will, although I realize that isn’t likely to happen.”

  “No,” said Rakoczy. “Probably not.”

  “There are a few puzzling aspects of the … incident which I hope we can resolve so that our inquiries in your regard may be concluded, assuming you know anything useful.” He held up an admonitory finger. “But I am not here just to demand an answer, as I said, I am here to inform you as to how matters stand for you and your House in relation to the bomb in Paris.” He looked steadily at Rakoczy. “Will you let me present you with a report?”

  “Of course, and welcome,” said Rakoczy; it was more than he had expected. He rose and turned on the standing electric fan in the c
orner. “This should make the room more comfortable; the heat has made the air stale.”

  “It does have a cooling effect,” Merryman said, pushing another pillow into position behind his back, then pulling his briefcase into his lap and opening it. “Thanks for turning it on. Your second cousin was punctilious about the comforts of his guests.”

  Rakoczy inclined his head. “What are your questions?” He came back to his chair and sank into it as Merryman handed him a two-inch-thick folder. “Unless you want any of the refreshments I mentioned?”

  Merryman smiled. “Very generous of you, Mister Rakoczy, but for the time being, I’m not looking to have a drink, of anything, with or without alcohol. I have heard that you do not drink wine.” He made an unconcerned gesture. “Do you want to go over the file now?”

  “Do you think it is necessary?” Rakoczy asked, anticipating the answer; he was not disappointed.

  “I would have to return next week rather than conclude my questions now if you believe you need to know all that is contained in that file.”

  Again, Rakoczy shrugged. “Then let’s get on with it.” He folded his hands and looked at Merryman, an expectant shine in his dark eyes.

  “Excellent,” Merryman approved, and took a notebook and pen from his inner jacket-pocket. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

  “Not at all,” Rakoczy said, making himself a bit more comfortable. “Ask away, Mister Merryman, and I will do all I can to answer you.”

  Merryman opened his pen and tested it, making sure the nib was clean and the ink-chamber full. He cleared his throat and prepared to write. “Are you aware of a group calling itself the Ex-Pats’ Coven?”

  The room was a bit cooler; the light through the slats in the shutters was becoming blue. At the docks some distance below Eclipse Shipping bright lights came on, and were greeted by the hoots of tug-boats.