The Spy in a Box

by Ralph Dennis

  Blackman paused. He took a deep breath. “This is not a child’s game, Mr. Hall. I bought the article and I paid for it. There is no way that publication can be stopped at this point in the process. And, right now, I’m not even sure that I would obey a court order.”

  Hall stood. “You’ve heard nothing from the federal government?”

  “Nothing,” Blackman said. “I guess they don’t read The Truth Seeker”

  “They read you,” Hall said. “Don’t doubt that for a minute. Did you send me the latest issue?”

  “I thought you’d like to see the listing for your article,” Blackman said.

  Whoever built the frame probably hadn’t realized that might happen or they were so confident of his fate that they simply didn’t care if he was tipped off before publication.

  Enos Blackman followed him into the outer office. He stood behind the counter until Hall reached the door that led to the hallway. “Where do we stand now, Mr. Hall?”

  Hall paused at the door. “I’m the goat.”

  Late afternoon. It was snowing in New York. It was a fine powder like sand. Hall checked his small bag and his topcoat at the checkroom downstairs and climbed the stairs to the Four Seasons. He took a seat at the bar, near the stairs so that he could watch the arrivals. At the same time, by turning in his chair, he could watch the snow through what he considered some of the better windows in the world.

  He drank dark rum over the rocks. The first fifteen minutes he sat at the bar no one entered that he knew. At five-thirty exactly a tall, handsome man stopped at the head of the steps and looked at Hall. Everything about him, the cut of the suit, the texture of the shirt and the knot in the tie spoke of money and success. Until he moved. Then he seemed to be an actor only wearing the clothing for an hour on a stage. That sense, the feeling that the garments did not like his body.

  Ben Jacobi crossed to the bar and touched Hall on the shoulder before he took the empty stool on his right.

  “It’s been a long time,” Ben said.

  “Four years.” Hall waited for Ben to order and he nodded at the check in front of him when the bartender brought Jacobi a J&B on the rocks. After the bartender moved away, Hall grinned at Ben. “If you’re going to come in places like this you’ve got to stop drinking that lower-class scotch.”

  Jacobi poured back half the drink in one swallow. “It suits me.” Then he laughed. “Speaking of suits, what you think of these threads?”

  “Looks stolen to me, Benny.”

  “You’re a great kidder, Hall.” Jacobi rattled the ice in his glass. “I don’t have much time. You said you wanted a favor.”

  “I might need a specialist.”

  Ben leaned toward Hall. “What kind?”

  “B and E.”

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you boys do your own these days?”

  “I’m not with them anymore,” Hall said.

  “That’s a horse with a different stride.”

  Hall nodded. “I thought it might be.”

  “What kind of B and E?”

  “A popcorn box. I need to get past a door and into a file cabinet or two.”

  Ben lowered his voice. “Any security?”

  “None.”

  “Five bills will get you the best there is.” Jacobi poked a finger into the gray silk of his tie. “Me.”

  “For a popcorn box?”

  Ben shook his head. “For the fun of it.”

  Hall sipped his dark rum. “I’ve got a few things to do. I want it to hang fire for a week or so. Might be I won’t need it.”

  “You call me. Twenty-four hours’ notice, that’s all it takes.”

  After Ben Jacobi left, Hall watched the sky grow dark. After a time, the powder snow looked like black sand.

  The month’s bill from Southern Bell was in the mail box beside the road. Hall stuffed the envelope in his topcoat pocket and parked the black BMW in the driveway. After he tossed the overnight bag on the bed, he got a fire going in the fireplace. Then he carried the envelope into the kitchen. He poured a Jack Daniels, had a sip, and opened the bill from Southern Bell. He knew what he’d find. In the list of toll calls three to the same New York number. From the dates, looking at the calendar, he realized the calls had been placed while he was out of town, on his weekend rambles. He put the phone bill aside and found the unopened bank statement he’d received the day before. He found the one thousand dollar deposit.

  That was it. He was boxed. The problem was that he didn’t know why and he didn’t know who would go to all that trouble.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It rained early in the morning, sometime after midnight, and it was a soft, slow drumming on the tin roof. Will Hall heard it begin, his eyes closed tight against the darkness in the bedroom, and it should have lulled him to sleep. It didn’t. His body was jumpy after the trip to New York. Also, there were questions that he couldn’t answer and there was a jumble of ideas in his mind. The head of an idea chased the tail of another idea around and around. Until he said, “Sleep, dammit,” and he blew a cold wind through his brain, ear-to-ear, and the rain lulled him into a peaceful darkness. A darkness where it didn’t matter which was the head of an idea and which was the tail.

  The next morning, he called Denise in Chapel Hill. He called early to catch her before she left for campus. He was, he told her, sorry it had taken him so long to reply to her note. There had been some business out of town and he hadn’t known how long it would take to complete that. But it was done now and he could attend her party. In fact, he planned to spend the whole day in Chapel Hill. Maybe they could have a late lunch or an early dinner before the party? The offer seemed to please her and soften her. He said he would call her as soon as he reached town.

  He placed the phone on the base and stared down at it. That ought to do it. Assuming the phone was tapped. And assuming there was another call that might need to be made. Another ribbon or bow that would add a flourish on the package they had made out of him.

  Two days later, Saturday morning, he dressed in slacks, a sweater and a parka and carried a suit bag and a shaving kit to the BMW. It was ten o’clock exactly when he backed down the driveway and followed the twisting road down into Blowing Rock. He took the highway and followed it for several miles. Speeding up and slowing down, changing lanes, while he watched his rearview mirror. No one car caught his attention. Still, he knew it would be well done and even a trained man might have trouble selecting the follow car. Ten miles beyond Blowing Rock, he stopped at a service station for gas. While the attendant worked over the BMW, he entered the station and bought a pack of cigarettes from the machine. Then he stood at the window and watched the traffic.

  If there was a tail, a single tail, the sudden stop was a crisis point. The man in a follow car would have to make a quick decision, whether to drive past the gas station and try to resume the tail down the highway a distance. Or he could stop for gas too.

  As it happened, no car pulled into the station. That would have been asking too much. A look at the tail if there was one.

  It was time for the risk. He knew this stretch of highway well. Two or three miles past the gas station, there was a crossover, a place where he could turn onto the dual lane headed back toward Blowing Rock, He made the turn. He watched his rear-view mirror. No car followed him.

  He drove back through Blowing Rock. He followed the twisting road toward his house and reached the driveway and passed it. The next house was around a bend. The Winters cottage. He knew the Winters weren’t using it. He pulled from the road and parked in the driveway. It took him almost twenty minutes to cross the rough landscape between the Winters house and the back of his house. He was perspiring and puffing when he climbed the back steps that led to his kitchen. He stood there for a time, getting his breath even, and listening for sounds in the house. The old flooring would creak under weight. Five minutes passed. He heard nothing inside the house. He entered and crossed through the kitchen. The living room was empty. He settled in
for the wait.

  There was a chill in the room. The log in the fireplace was down to coals. He drew the parka tight across him and shivered. On the arm of the stuffed chair was the only weapon in the house, an old .22 automatic that he’d found in the attic during the cleanup. He remembered the automatic from his childhood. He and his father had used it, some long summer ago, to shoot at cans from the porch. There were nine fresh rounds in the clip, from a box he’d bought in Winston-Salem on a shopping trip.

  After about thirty minutes, the phone rang. He ignored it. Twelve rings before the caller gave up. That was part of a pattern, he knew, and he lifted the .22 automatic and jacked a round into the chamber. Safety off. He held the automatic with his finger outside the trigger guard.

  He estimated the driving time from the center of Blowing Rock. Four or five minutes if the driver caught the lights. It was six minutes later by the wall clock when he heard the truck pull into his driveway. He crossed to the window. A blue van with HUNT BROTHERS PLUMBING painted on the side of it. He returned to his chair.

  He felt the weight on the porch, the footsteps, and he guessed there was one man. A pause, a shifting of weight, and then hall heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Some show they’d put on for him, he thought. They had a key. No tiresome lock picking for them.

  The door opened. Hall felt the rush of cold wind. A man in coveralls stood, backlighted for an instant, in the doorway. Then he stepped forward and closed the door behind him. The man carried a tool chest in one hand. With the other hand he groped for the light switch.

  The bright overhead light flared. The man turned. When he saw Hall, he almost dropped the tool chest.

  “Put it down easy, Freddy,” Hall said.

  Freddy Webb bent his knees and placed the tool chest on the floor directly in front of him.

  “Hands clasped behind your head.” Webb did as he was told. “Now, step away from the tool chest.”

  Webb stepped over the chest, two paces and he stopped. Hall wagged the .22 automatic at him. “Over there.” Hall stood. ‘Turn around, Freddy.” When the man’s back was to him Hall patted down, neck to shoe tops. Nothing. No weapons, not even a pocket knife.

  Hall backed away, “Face me. With your hands where they are, sit down and cross your legs in front of you.”

  Freddy sat down heavily, off balance. Hall thought it might be a try of some kind but Freddy righted himself. When his legs were crossed in front of him, Hall circled him and lifted the tool chest. He carried it to the stuffed chair and sat down. With his free hand, Hall flipped the catches on the chest and opened it. It looked real enough. An assortment of tools. Off to one side something wrapped in a clean red rag. Hall pulled the cloth away. He dropped the rag and picked up the .357 Python with a two-inch barrel. He placed the .357 next to his leg, between his thigh and the chair.

  “Long time no see, Freddy.”

  “I’ve been wondering why you call me Freddy. I don’t know you, mister.”

  “Sure, you do.” Hall closed the chest. “Quick entry used to be your specialty. You still working for the same shop?”

  “Smart mouth,” Freddy said.

  “I think you owe me fifty or sixty dollars for some phone calls.”

  “I don’t know anything about any phone calls.”

  “What’s the plot for today? Another call to Enos Blackman?”

  “You better talk to the Director,” Freddy said.

  “I thought you heard. I’m retired.”

  “Nobody retires.”

  “I did,” Hall said.

  “The Director will want to talk to you.”

  “This is some gold watch you boys are putting together for me.”

  “You keep messing and it’ll be a dum-dum behind your ear.”

  “Threats, Freddy?” Hall smiled. “Tell me about the phone calls.”

  “I don’t know …”

  Hall fired a shot with the .22 a fraction of an inch past Freddy’s left ear. Wood splinters flew from a panel in the door.

  “That’s to get your attention. The next one is for your kneecap. You’ll remember me the rest of your life, every time you limp.”

  “Alright.” Perspiration matted Freddy’s face, even in the chill of the room. “I’m supposed to plant some bugs. They’re in the chest.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask why? After what you’ve done?”

  “What have I done?”

  “Sold out the Company,” Freddy said.

  Hall leaned forward and opened the chest. He poked around in the mass of tools until he found the bugs. He tossed the package into the fireplace.

  “I think I wet myself,” Freddy said.

  “It’s a rough life.”

  “You ain’t seen rough yet.” Freddy looked down at the crotch of his coveralls. A wet stain was spreading there.

  “And you haven’t made any phone calls here?”

  “From here?” Freddy shook his head.

  “Your first visit?”

  Webb nodded.

  “The key?”

  Webb understood the rest of the question. “Before you turned, while you were still with the Company, you rented out the place during the summers. Some realtor here in town handled it for you. There used to be a spare key on the pegboard in their office.”

  “You get it there?” Hall stepped over the tool chest and squatted beside the fireplace. He stacked kindling over the ashes and shoved in several wads of newspaper. He touched his lighter to the newsprint and, when it was burning, he backed away.

  “No, I got it from the Warden.”

  Moss, the one they called the Warden, was in charge of internal security at the Company. He kept his eyes on all matters that involved agents, from their bank accounts to their bedroom lives.

  The kindling caught. Hall added a split log and moved back to his chair. “Who’s the Warden’s second now?”

  “Rivers.”

  Hall nodded. It sounded right. From the moment he recognized Freddy Webb, he’d known the phone calls to New York, the rigging of the thousand-dollar check, the whole box, were beyond a B and E man. It was the kind of work, however, that a man like Rivers might have relished. All matters sly and underhanded, those were in Rivers’ ballpark.

  Webb worked his shoulders. His arms were getting tired and cramping. He groaned. “The Director will want to see you.”

  “I’d rather see Rivers.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard for a smart man like you.” Another groan. “You going to keep me like this all day?”

  Over the smell of the kindling and the oak, there was the scent of burning plastic and wiring. Freddy Webb looked in the direction of the fireplace. The electronic bugs were melting.

  “There a tap on my phone?”

  Webb nodded.

  “Where?”

  “You know Ma Bell loves us. The Warden figured you’d find any bug on the phone or in it.”

  “The same with any bugs here in the house?”

  “That’s right,” Webb said. “The Warden wanted you lazy and sure of yourself before I dropped by.”

  True. It was a good assumption on the Warden’s part. A week or ten days before, Hall had given up sweeping the house for bugs. It hadn’t seemed worth the effort. Until now.

  “I go now?” Webb jerked his head toward the fireplace when one of the bugs popped.

  Hall nodded. “I appreciate you stopping by.”

  Webb used one hand to push himself to his feet. The other hand remained behind his head. When he was on his feet, he rubbed the muscles in his back. Then the free hand joined the other at his neck. “The tool chest? The piece?”

  “The next time you drop by,” Hall said.

  “There won’t be any next time.”

  “Too bad. It gets lonely up here.”

  Hall followed him to the door. He kept his distance while Webb opened the door and stepped onto the porch. When Webb reached the steps, Hall moved into the doorway. He stood there until Webb got into the
van, turned it and headed for the road. He watched the driveway for ten minutes. Then he returned to the living room. He opened the phone book on the telephone table and found the emergency numbers. He dialed the fire station.

  A woman answered. “Fire station.”

  “I want to talk to you, Rivers.”

  “What? You must have a wrong …”

  “I said I want to talk to you, Rivers.”

  Hall placed the receiver on the base. He entered the kitchen and mixed himself a watered-down Jack Daniels. He returned to the living room and watched the fire. The smell of burning plastic and wiring was gone. He took his time with the drink. He’d just had the last swallow when the phone rang.

  Hall lifted the receiver. He waited.

  “I thought you were going to a party.”

  “That’s what Webb thought too.”

  “Tricky of you,” Rivers said. The voice was vaguely Harvard. Edged with upper class snot.

  “You change Webb’s diapers yet?”

  “Did he have an accident?” Rivers laughed but there wasn’t a pinch of amusement in the laughter. “The poor baby must have been nervous.” There was a pause. “You really should go to the party.”

  “What’s the point now?”

  “I’m a guest there myself,” Rivers said.

  “I see.” Hall let out a long breath. It was almost a whisper. “Maybe you could do me a favor.”

  “I might.”

  “Tell Denise I won’t be there for the late lunch or early dinner.”

  “She already knows that,” Rivers said. He broke the connection.

  CHAPTER FOUR