by Jeff Sutton
"I don't want you to be propelled by emotion," she answered.
"I didn't think I was the emotional type."
She smiled coaxingly and murmured, "Why don't we > let things go on as they are, at least for a while?"
"I thought you might be hurt," he answered truthfully.
She caught his hand, laughing, a brittle laugh that held a jarring note. Tossing back her head, she exclaimed, "What you need is an equation to get you into the Twentieth Century."
Returning home that night, Kane felt confused. Anita really didn't want marriage; she had made that clear enough. What did she want? Did she fear marriage because of her first venture into matrimony? Or did she simply want a relationship that left her completely unfettered? That last question made him uncomfortable.
Perhaps she had sincere doubts about her own feelings. He hadn't considered that. He tossed the idea around. "Are you certain? Can you really say that?" Did her question indicate her doubts of him, or did it reflect her own feelings?
He grimaced wryly, realizing that in all honesty he couldn't assess how he really felt about her. His awkward proposal had been impelled by his emotions, and by a sense of guilt; he couldn't deny that. His conscience had pushed him.
Chivalrous Kane! He had to laugh. His denial that he was an emotional type had been so much hogwash, especially when it came to her. When he was with her the tides ran high; but at other times there was scarcely a ripple on the water.
How then did he really feel toward her? If he couldn't answer that, how could he condemn her? She was just more honest, he mused. They both wanted exactly what they had, nothing more. Yet how long could such a relationship last? Or did that matter? In today's world it didn't matter, he thought. Interpersonal relationships largely were matters of convenience; that's what Maxon claimed. Perhaps it was true. But he didn't want it that way; he really didn't. Margaret! Margaret!
Peering out through the windshield, he looked at the sky.
VII
Charles Dorrance watched the glow of Los Angeles brighten the sky as the jet airliner crossed the mountains before going into the turn on its landing leg to the International Airport. It was like the unfolding of a vast field of diamonds.
Big, Dorrance thought, caught by its immensity. The entire coast west of the mountains blazed with light—long chains of light that marked broad avenues, huge clusters that told of gigantic shopping centers, geometrical patterns that revealed mile after mile of tract housing.
He stared down musingly. His habitat for the last half a dozen years had been the small office buried in the huge white marble building in Langley, Virginia. So secret was its function that few ever had entered its single door; fewer still had an inkling of the nature of his work. Dorrance himself was answerable but to a single man high up the ladder. That was the way he wanted it; that was the way it had to be.
Before that, his habitat had been Europe; mainly West Germany, for that had been the great center of intrigue. Berlin, London, Paris—how well he knew them. He thought it strange that he knew them better than he knew any large city in his own country, New York and Washington excepted.
Singapore, Hong Kong, Tokyo—he also knew them, but to a lesser extent. But he had been brought back, had been buried deep in the bowels of a white marble building to perform work more secret still. Now he was a manipulator of men, and of destiny. Working from the single room, the world had been his chessboard. For the first time in that half a dozen years he had emerged from his secret cocoon.
The present case held ramifications beyond any he had ever known. Strictly speaking, it wasn't a case, but merely an investigation. As yet there was no clear-cut villain, no act threatening the security of the nation; yet he felt certain that both existed. It was the uneasy feeling of a plot so vast in scope, so alien to the way of plotters, that he was intrigued. But he had no tangible evidence, nothing provable.
There was only John Androki.
Yet, he told himself, something was building right under his nose. The murders had warned of that. It was the murders, and the urgency of his feelings, that had brought him from his small office to wing westward.
Was he on a wild-goose chase? Watching the plane let down over the sea of lights, he wondered. Four men had died, including David Cantrup, with not a shred of evidence to implicate anyone. Yet, with a certainty born of experience he had mentally implicated John Androki, the man who just the previous day had made Egypt a cash offer for a long-term lease on her interest in the Suez Canal.
The plane touched down and taxied to a halt under the airport floodlights.
Philip Conrad was waiting. He walked through the gate and met Dorrance at the bottom of the ramp. He nodded briefly, then shepherded his superior through the lobby and out to the late model car he had rented under his assumed name.
As they drove from the lot, Dorrance asked, "Anything new?"
"Nothing," Conrad returned flatly. "We've kept him under surveillance around the clock, even to taping his snores at night on the off chance that he might talk in his sleep."
"His business is certainly booming."
Conrad grinned at the sarcasm and said, "We've got a bushel basket on that too, including the names of a score of different agents he works through. In some instances we've traced agents down to the fourth or fifth level of operation. But don't ask me what it adds up to; I don't know."
"He's building a power structure like you've never seen before, that's what. It's expansion is geometrical."
"Can we shoot him for that?"
"It depends on how he intends to use the structure," Dorrance replied somberly.
"He's a strange character," Conrad observed. "He's so inept that he's baffling."
"Inept?"
"In protecting himself," Conrad explained. "What really bothers me is his inability to sense that he's being watched.
Oh, we're careful enough, but most men, in time, sense that kind of surveillance. They sniff it like a dog sniffs the breeze."
"Professionals do."
"Perhaps that's it," Conrad agreed. "But with all the fuss he's kicking up, he should know that he's under the glass. He certainly knows that Senator Blaire's watchdogs are digging into his affairs."
"That's business." Dorrance smiled briefly. "He's aware of that, all right, but he doesn't associate the surveillance with his private life. At least he doesn't appear to."
"He doesn't," Conrad answered succinctly; "not according to our tapes."
They fell silent as Conrad turned onto a freeway headed toward West Los Angeles. Far off to one side Dorrance saw the glitter of the old heart of the city, now somewhat resembling a tarnished jewel set in a basket of blue-white diamonds.
Reflectively he found it strange that John Androki should choose this great Western city for his headquarters. London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Vienna, Moscow—those were the centers he usually associated with world intrigue. And in his own country, New York and Washington. But Los Angeles, never. Yet, from here, John Androki was casting a net to snare the world.
The net was fashioned of murder.
Conrad drove into a circular driveway and parked. Dorrance briefly noted the spacious grounds, the high, sloping roof and Cape Cod architecture of the two-story house, before he followed Conrad inside. "Nice lash-up," he commented.
Conrad grunted, "You're paying for it."
Dorrance turned off the lamp, walked to a curtained window and peered out. "That Androki's place across the way?"
Conrad nodded and glanced at a small red bulb burning at the top of the staircase. "Greb and Laski are monitoring him now with the remote pickups upstairs. Hasselwaite is out running down a lead. Want to speak to them?"
"No." Dorrance faced him. "My business is with you."
"Are we getting down to the finish line?"
"Frankly, I don't know." Dorrance turned back to the curtain. The structure across the street was large, low, rambling. A combination of brick, siding and large expanses of glass, it was set wel
l back on a fenced plot of several acres. With the exception of the large lawn in front edged by a circular drive and a grassy plot toward the rear, off to one side of the house, the grounds were well-shaded by trees. The house sang of money; but it didn't look like a billionaire's house.
As if reading his mind, Conrad said, "He's just camping out. He bought five hundred acres in the hills above Malibu Beach, is building something that will make the Taj Mahal look like a slum."
"That's just one of a dozen places." Dorrance spoke without turning. "He's building in Connecticut, Florida, Puerto Rico, on the Riviera, outside Madrid and, oh yes, on the Cornish Coast. That's only a partial list."
"Nice, if you can afford it."
"I wouldn't know." Dorrance regarded the house intently.
Conrad had selected his lookout nicely. He'd had to pay a small fortune to lease it, of course, but that was of no consequence. What mattered was that he had a clear view of the entire front of Androki's house. There was at least a nine or ten second walk from the circular drive, where the cars parked, to the front door. That was more than enough time. Dorrance reflected broodingly at the power his own government had given him. In essence, he was both judge- and executioner, if he so chose. Whether John Androki lived or died depended on him; and that, in turn, depended on what sort of threat Androki posed to the nation's security.
He smiled grimly. It wasn't supposed to be that way, of course. Nothing in the Constitution or laws granted that sort of power. Yet, he knew, each nation had his counterpart. It might be in the form of a huge, unwieldy bureau like Russia's super-secret KGB, or it could be a one-man operation. Not that his empire was much larger.
He turned to face the agent. "Tell me about him."
"There's not much beyond what's in the reports."
"Personal impressions," Dorrance instructed. "The dossier has him thumbnailed quite accurately," Conrad explained. "He works late, sleeps late, likes blondes, good whiskey, and entertains quite a bit, usually at one of the better spots along Sunset Boulevard. His tips make him a joy to headwaiters."
"All of which tells us very little about John Androki," Dorrance commented. "Has he any special friends?"
"Not that we can discern, and that's odd. He gathers people around him—they come running—yet he strikes me as a loner. He's different. Does that make sense? I keep trying to put my finger on it. He's a man who wants to belong, yet never can belong except by paying the way."
"An eighteen carat method of introduction, Phil." Conrad nodded. "And yet, with all that, he's never without his bodyguards. A couple of them prowl the grounds at night, others maintain a watch inside."
"Bodyguards are cheap," Dorrance remarked. "It isn't the fact of the bodyguards." Conrad hesitated, searching for words. "I've sensed, and I don't know why, that he's frightened. He's too watchful, too cautious, far more now than he was a few months ago. Even when attending a social function, he's wary. You can tell by his eyes, his manner. Perhaps it's normal that he'd be suspicious, but this goes beyond that. It's almost a paranoia."
"I've had that report from others."
"Yet he doesn't dodge people; he seeks them." Dorrance watched the agent. "Androki's gathering a lot of powerful friends, or at least his money is," he said finally. "He's gaining considerable influence and support in high government circles. That includes the Cabinet and Congress. Enough so that considerable effort is being expended in an attempt to call off the watchdogs in antitrust and quash actions already started. You can imagine how Senator Blaire is reacting to that."
"Frothing, I imagine."
"Far more than you'd know by the press, Phil. He's out to nail John Androki to the mast."
"More credit to him." Conrad rubbed his jaw. "Are die power sources he's gathering selective? Is there a pattern?"
"He's pulled in a lot of the malcontents."
"I would suspect that."
"Yet I can't say that he knows any of those people personally, Phil, except perhaps as nodding acquaintances." Conrad said bluntly, "The dollar has a loud voice."
"Very loud. He's using it to shout around the world."
"With all that, he must be making enemies," Conrad observed.
"His opposition is testing the wind. Fear keeps most of them quiet."
"Not Senator Blaire."
"Not the senator," Dorrance agreed. "He might be just the boy to bring Androki down."
"Or get scuttled in the process."
"Androki's circle of influence is a mixed one," Dorrance commented. "Financiers, politicians, government big wheels, academicians—but he always reaches for the top. He knows who the prime movers are."
Conrad lifted his head. "Speaking of academicians, the chancellor of LAU is tossing a shindig for him next month."
"Androki has quite a hankering for the academic types, especially the brain trusts in math and physics. I never could quite figure that."
"Fruit of the ten million bucks, eh?" Dorrance smiled bleakly.
"He's got an angle," Conrad agreed.
"I'm not going to tell you any more than you have to know, but the man is dangerous."
"I don't want to know any more than I have to," Conrad responded flatly.
Dorrance's expression changed. "How did David Cantrup's murder strike you?"
"Was Androki implicated in that?"
"My guess is yes."
"The motivation would be tough to figure."
Dorrance smiled slightly. "Have you ever heard of Martin Freyhoff of Germany?"
"The name has a faint ring."
"It's thunder to the ears of the top mathematicians of the world."
"Another Cantrup?"
"They were about on a par," Dorrance acceded. "There are perhaps half a dozen forerunners in the field, all .absorbed in the same problem. I understand they communicate rather freely."
"The top science hierarchy has never been noted for its nationalism," Conrad remarked dryly. "What's with Freyhoff?"
"He was murdered yesterday."
"What?" Conrad was startled.
"Under circumstances highly similar to Cantrup's death," Dorrance explained. "He was picked off by a sniper as he was about to enter his home. Again no clues, no known enemies, nothing. He apparently wasn't a political creature, a sex hound or a bon vivant. Neither was he an ex-Nazi. To the contrary, he fled to England when Hitler came into power, remaining there until after the war. During his stay there he made substantial contributions to the allied cause. He was old, brilliant, somewhat of a recluse; he lived in a world of mathematics, by and for mathematics. But that didn't keep him from getting knocked off," he added harshly. "Cantrup and Freyhoff, two of a kind—it would strain my credulity to say the murders were unrelated."
"And mine, Phil."
"How does this tie in with Androki?"
"A tenuous thread that I'll get to." Dorrance eyed the agent quizzically. "Does the double execution suggest anything to you?"
Conrad rubbed his ear. "Motive, no," he finally conceded; "but you mentioned there were half a dozen of those birds?" He. eyed his superior expectantly.
Dorrance nodded. "Vosin of Russia, Bernardi of Italy, a late-comer but apparently a powerhouse named Tanaki, of Japan…"
"I'd warn their governments," Conrad cut in. "Steps have been taken. There's another name, Bertram Kane. Have you heard any mention of him?"
"Another bell rings," Conrad murmured. "Who is he?"
"A mathematician at LAU."
Conrad's eyes glinted. "And Androki's finangled himself a reception there, is that it?"
"It's a propelling force for suspicion," Dorrance acceded.
"I don't know." Conrad studied his hands. "That's like saying he paid ten million bucks on the off chance of getting next to Kane. That's hard to digest."
"That's peanuts to Androki, Phil. But that's not what brought me out here. Androki flew to Philadelphia two weeks ago." He paused, waiting.
"Greb and Hasselwaite were on him every second," Conrad explained. His v
oice was slightly defensive. "I'm staying out of his sight."
"Of course."
"He met with a few financiers; it's all on the tapes. Nothing else happened."
"Except that a man was murdered," Dorrance said grimly.
"In Philadelphia?" Conrad was startled. "Greb and Hasselwaite missed that?"
"It happened next door to where Androki was staying," Dorrance explained. "It had no apparent link to his visit."
"Apparent?"
"Oh, there was a tie-up, all right. I'm convinced of that." Dorrance's eyes grew blank. "Last week Androki flew to Seattle."
Conrad waited.
"There was a murder within fifty yards of where he was staying."
"Who were the victims?" Conrad asked tersely.
"That's what I think you should know. They were nobodies."
"Nobodies?"
"Oh, they had identification papers—false ones. But they had no real identification, no fingerprint records, no social security numbers. Who were they? I don't know. Where did they come from? I don't know. Why were they murdered? I don't know. Who murdered them? Again I don't know." His voice grew clipped. "Like John Androki, each was a Mr. Nobody."
"Strange," Conrad murmured.
"Right offhand I'd suspect Androki's bodyguards."
"A working hypothesis," Dorrance agreed. His eyes glittered. "All of which means Mr. Androki does have enemies, and they mean business. Probably that explains the fear you sensed in him. It might also explain why he hires the gorilla type for his personal bodyguards. But all that is surmise."
"Any ideas who his enemies might be?"
"Not a glimmer, Phil."
"He walks in murder," Conrad murmured.
"By my arithmetic, the total is five—Winthrop Farrand, two world-famous mathematicians, and two unidentified corpses."
"That's a weird collection."
"It doesn't tell us much," Dorrance agreed.
"It's also a lot of killing without a clue," Conrad said speculatively. "He's propelled by fear."
"Murder is the last resource of desperation," Dorrance agreed. He straightened briskly. "I have the feeling that things are going to break fast. I also have the feeling that we might have a job cut out for us."
