by Garbo Norman
She was wearing a dress today, not slacks, so he was able to see her legs, which were not simply good but great.
She had gone directly to the Rembrandt section, so he knew her mood at once. She was abstracted, troubled, In need of solace. Angela went to museums as other people went to churches, synagogues, or shrinks. What’s wrong, love?, he thought. They giving you a hard time at the office? You find a new wrinkle on your face last night? The guy with the moustache not turning out quite as you hoped? Or maybe — just maybe — you woke up missing and wanting me a little this morning? Well, I’m here, Angie. And it’s going to be all right. So just sit down for a while in front of Remmy’s Old Woman and let it soak in.
And she did sit down, right there in front of the painting, while Burke settled comfortably in the next gallery. From here he was able to watch safely both her and the new watcher, a thin, balding, constipated-looking man in an oversized turtleneck. Tense and exhausted for days, Burke began to feel a bit better now. He had been in extreme states like this before, sometimes alone on extended assignments in alien places, where there was no one he could talk to and not a single burrow for him to crawl into for warmth. But it was different this time. This was not just another assignment. This was his life.
He had gone through a frenetic few days. From the moment he had stumbled over Millang in Tony’s old college yearbooks he had not stopped going. And the fact that he still had only assumption to go on had in no way slowed him. Clutching the august name of Arthur Montgomery Millang like a coveted blue ribbon, he carried what he hoped would be his first real prize straight to Tony’s father.
He had arranged to meet the professor at a small motel just off Route 95, but had first warned him to make certain he was not followed. “You still want to help?” he asked the old man when they were at last in the room together.
“You still have to ask?”
“It could be dangerous.”
“Just tell me what you want me to do.”
In the dingy motel room, yellow plasterboard walls shook from the turnpike traffic. Next door on their left a TV was going. Earlier Burke had prepared instant coffee with an electric wall gadget. Pouring it now into two plastic cups, he tasted one, made a face, and handed the other to Kreuger.
“Do you know Arthur Montgomery Millang?” he asked.
“Who doesn’t know Millang? Presidents don’t go to the bathroom without first having him run a poll on the possible results.”
“I mean do you know him personally?”
“Yes. Rather well, in fact.
“How do you know him?”
“We’ve met often enough around Washington over the years. He had also consulted me professionally on various political issues.”
“How did you meet him originally?”
The professor frowned at his coffee. “It’s been so long. I’m not quite sure anymore.”
“Could it have been through Tony?”
“I suppose so.” Kreuger thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “As a matter of fact it was. I remember now. We did meet at Tony’s place the first few times.”
“Did Tony ever tell you he knew him at college, that Millang was actually his debating team faculty advisor for three years?”
“No. I never knew that.”
“I never did either,” said Burke. “At least not until the other night, when I was digging through some old yearbooks.”
“Which means what?”
“Maybe nothing. But I don’t think so. Because it’s the kind of fact that would have somehow come out over the years — to either one of us — unless it was being deliberately concealed.”
“I don’t understand. Why would Tony and Millang have wanted to conceal it?”
A couple of car doors slammed outside and footsteps approached and entered the room on their right. Burke sat listening to muffled voices and laughter for a moment … recognizably male and female. Then he asked, “How much do you know about the Service?”
‘ “Practically nothing. All Tony ever told me was that it existed and that he believed it performed a vital national funcI i I tion.” Gently the old man rubbed the top of his scalp, as if probing for hidden facts. “He also said no one but me was ever to know he was part of it, not even his mother. He could die of a few careless words. As I’ve told you, I never even knew you were part of it. I had a vague notion you had something to do with non-ferrous metals and did a lot of traveling as a consultant.” He looked at Burke. “But what has this to do with Millang?”
“I think he may be part of the Service too.”
“You think? Wouldn’t you know?
“It doesn’t work that way. I knew only whom and what I had to know for any given assignment. And in the Service hierarchy, I’ve never known any name higher than Tony’s. He was my division chief. Which is why I can make only an educated guess about Millang. Because if he’s in at all, he’s in somewhere over Tony’s level.”
Burke rose, walked over to the wall on his right and stood listening for a moment. The male-female sounds from the next room had quieted, but now began again along with the splashing of a shower. Burke sighed. “Anyway,” he said, “here’s some of my thinking about Millang. I think the main reason Millang Polls came out of nowhere and grew as meteorically as they did, was because of the government contracts the Service quietly nudged its way. Since their new boy in town needed a prestigious cover, fast — one that would provide free access to the top echelons of government, industry and communications — this was how they gave it to him. I’ve checked back. In less than two years time important contracts had somehow filtered in to lift an unknown ex-college professor to national prominence in a tough, highly competitive business. The man may be good, but nobody is that good. Next, we know that Tony came directly to Washington to join the Service right from college, and never once mentioned to either of us that he had even known Millang there.”
“But if they’re pictured together in those yearbooks,” the professor cut in, “surely it couldn’t be any great secret.”
“You’re right. And there’s no real threat to the Service in their having known one another in college. In fact that’s how many of our people come in, with former professors or classmates recruiting them. I came in that way myself when a college friend told Tony to get in touch with me. All I’m saying is that when what should have been a casually revealed piece of background information is somehow not revealed over a period of years, it automatically takes on significance. And I’m also saying that Tony never mentioned it to me because he knew I’d immediately assume Millang had, indeed, recruited him, and therefore was probably somewhere above him in the Service ranks. And I’m guessing he didn’t mention it to you, because a basic Service tenet says to never volunteer any piece of personal information unless there’s a reason.”
The professor looked at Burke with a mixture of confusion and indictment. “I’m beginning to think you’re all a bit mad. Is this really what’s needed for national survival? If it is, then maybe I’m just as lucky to be standing with one foot in the grave.”
Burke said nothing and they sat with their bad coffee. The couple next door had left the shower and begun to make love.
Listening, the old man shook his head sadly. “Even in that …” he mourned. “Even in that, there’s no evidence of grace and love anymore.” He blinked, as if to clear away old visions, then said, “Tell me. What’s to be my part in all this?”
“If you’d rather not…”
“Please. Just tell me.”
Burke nodded. “All right. When was the last time you saw Millang?”
“At Tony’s funeral.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Just the usual condolences.”
“And you haven’t spoken with him since?”
“He did call once to ask if there was anything he could do. I thanked him and said there was nothing. That was all.”
“Okay,” said Burke. “Then I’d like you to call him this even
ing and tell him there is something he may be able to do for you. Make an appointment to meet with him. Let him know it’s urgent, but don’t say anything more than that on the phone.”
They met again two days later. This time, because Burke was almost sure Professor Kreuger would be under surveillance if his idea had any validity at all, he slipped into the old man’s house at 1:00 A.M. through a rear, basement door.
“No lights,” he said as the professor reached for the switch. “I didn’t see anyone out there, but there’s no point taking chances.”
They went upstairs to the study and sat down in the dark. The smell of old leather, dust, and books hung like a dry mist, and Burke had the feeling of being in some chapel of the intellect, with invisible relics hidden away in small boxes:
Kreuger found Burke’s hand and pressed a snifter of brandy into it. “All ready for you,” he said. “I’m well into my third. If I have to start playing spy at my age, I may as well do it as painlessly as possible.”
“Why not?”
“I shouldn’t need an excuse to drink, but it’s hard to break old habits. Especially foolish ones. I’m lately convinced we’re all just ingenious machines for turning alcohol into urine.” He raised his glass in the dark. “To Tony … and to finding whoever did him in and wants you done next.”
“Amen,” said Burke.
This makes five, he thought. Although with the others their involvement had been more the luck of the draw than his own initiative. They had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time.
“What is it you intelligence people call this process?” said Kreuger. “The debriefing?”
“Exactly,” said Burke, not able to see the old man’s face in the dark, but imagining it and knowing precisely how he would paint it, with all that classic strength, stubbornness, and lively youth trapped among the wrinkles. He would use a strong sidelight that left half the face in shadow and brought out the rest in strong relief. How much better certain faces became as they grew older. Which was about as close as he would come to finding anything good in the” aging process.
“Is there a proper procedure?”
“Just tell it as it happened When I have any comments or questions, I’ll cut in.”
“Well, I called Millang as you told me to,” Professor Kreuger began, “and made an appointment to meet him for lunch at his club the next day. My last class was over at noon and it was only a forty-minute drive, so it worked out conveniently.”
“How did he seem when you met?”
“Pleasant, warm, a trifle subdued and deferential. As befitted my position as a recently bereaved father. Quite frankly, I’ve never made any judgments about Arthur on the personal level. I’ve always pretty much accepted his charm and intelligence at face value. But I must say I was impressed with his feeling when he spoke of Tony. He apparently cared about him a great deal. And I don’t believe it was put on for my benefit I was paying particular attention and it rang true.”
“It probably was true. He-knew Tony a long time.”
“Then I got down to it,’.’ the professor went on. “I told him I knew Tony had worked for a top-secret, government agency called the Service. I said I was the only one he had ever confided in about this, and that I had respected the confidence for as long as he lived. But while going through his things the other day, I had come across some information that looked official and important and I didn’t know what to do about it.”
“What was his reaction?” .
“None. He just went right on eating his caesar salad. Then after a moment he asked why I had picked him to tell this to. I told him I had several reasons. For one thing, he had been Tony’s friend for a long time and I had a feeling he may have suspected something of what Tony was doing. For another, because I trusted and respected him as a man who cared about what happened to this country. And finally, I said because if anyone in Washington knew the right person to contact about this, and could do it discreetly, he could.”
“What did he say then?”
“Nothing. He just nodded and kept working on his salad. I was too nervous to do much eating myself, so I just sat there watching him go at that goddamned, double-sized caesar salad as though it were the single most important thing in the world.”
“How was he sitting?” Burke asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What was his position in the room? How was he sitting in relation to you, the walls, and the exits?’
“What has that do do with anything?”
“Please, professor,”
Kreuger breathed deeply. “He sat opposite me on a banquette. He was facing a stairway and two exits. One wall was behind him and the other was on his right.”
“He was sitting in a corner?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure the wall was on his right?” - “Yes.”
“Think carefully, professor. Was he eating with his left hand? Was he left-handed?”
Kreuger took a moment. “Yes. I believe he was. Which means what, for heaven’s sake?”
“He was sitting the way a professional would. Rear and weaker flank protected by walls, gun hand on the exposed side,, and a clear view of the room, exits, and entrances. The way I myself would sit, and the way Tony spent his life sitting in restaurants.”
“Marvelous,” said the old man coldly. “So they didn’t kill Tony in a restaurant. They killed him somewhere else.”
Burke palmed his brandy, feeling the snifter round and smooth in his hand. Somewhere off in the darkness, a locomotive whistled.
“Who spoke first after that?” Burke asked.’
“I did. For a normally big talker, Arthur showed a remarkable capacity for silence at that moment. It seemed to stretch forever. I finally had to ask whether he could be of any help and he shrugged and said he wasn’t sure. He wanted to know how I was so certain this information was important or top-secret or whatever, and I told him I wasn’t certain, that I was just guessing, but that there were some markings that might mean something to someone who understood these things.”
“Did he ask what the markings were?”
“Not at first In fact he spoke of other things for a while and I was afraid lie was going to ignore it entirely. Then very casually, over coffee and a rich dessert — my God, that man loves to eat — he asked if I remembered what the markings were.”
“Good. Great!”
“I told him they were just hieroglyphics to me, a bunch of numbers and letters like, Code I … dash … zero … M … E … dash … zero …”
Burke was leaning forward in his chair. “How did he react then?”
“It was interesting. He was just in the process of eating a spoonful of chocolate mousse when I went into my little recital, and so-help-me if that mousse didn’t seem to turn sour in his mouth. But all he actually did was nod slightly, and I’m sure I wouldn’t have noticed anything at all if I hadn’t been watching for it. Yet the reaction was definitely there. From then on he avoided the subject and we just spoke of politics in general until lunch was over and we were ready to part. Then again, very casually, he said he didn’t know whether he could be of any help, but was pleased and flattered that I had come to him and would certainly do his best. His final words were that he would get back to me as soon as possible, and that it might be wiser not to mention this to anyone else until he did.”
“Terrific,” said Burke. “You were absolutely beautiful, professor.”
“Then you think he’ll get back to me with something?”
“I know he will.”
The old man slowly got up, walked to a window of the darkened study, and stood looking out at a black row of pine. “It’s a curious thing, Richard, but this whole thing, all this skulking about and secret mumbo-jumbo still doesn’t seem real to me, still doesn’t seem like anything more than a lot of childish play-acting. Yet it represents what Tony believed in, dedicated his life to, and finally died of.”
Burke sat between walls of book
s and said nothing. His brief moment of elation had passed, leaving only a cold residue. There was so much that lay ahead — by far, the worst of it.
“A lifetime,” said Kreuger. “All these years and I never even shared it with his mother. Tony said no one else was to know, and no one else knew. But there was never a moment when I did not resent it, did not despise having to shut my wife out of so important a thing. I knew that woman for more than fifty years, Richard, and this was the only thing I ever kept from her. There were times when I almost hated Tony for doing this to me, to us, but I respected his needs and his integrity. I know that in the world’s scheme of things my son’s needs and integrity were only very minor considerations, but they were never minor to me.” He laughed softly. “The unavoidable hazard of spending your life at the front of classrooms. It finally becomes impossible to say anything briefly or simply. All I’m really trying to say, Richard, is thank you.”
“For what?”
Professor Kreuger turned around. “For letting me be part of this in some small way.”
Now, a day and a half later, he was back in New York, enjoying his Saturday of Angela-watching. He had given the professor instructions on how to reach him when he heard from Millang and could do nothing but wait until then.
Watching from the next gallery, he saw Angela get up and leave Rembrandt’s Old Woman and stop in front of his Noble Slav. Ah, she’s feeling better, he thought, recalling the delight she had once taken in that marvelously dignified old man in the shimmering turban of a fake, Eastern potentate. “What fun Remmy must have had dressing the old boy up,” she had laughed, “making a street beggar more regal, more kingly-looking than any real king. That’s what I call an artist.” And as if trying to prove herself equally creative, she had hustled Burke straight down Fifth Avenue to Saks and outfitted him from top to bottom in the latest designer fashions. At home, she considered the results. “How do I look?” he asked. Sadly, she shook her head. “Like a spy in Saks’ clothing,” she said and pulled everything right off. “Can you love me this way?” he asked, naked. “I’m trying,” she said. “Lordy, I am trying.”
