Howard Kane said to Findlay, “Mind if I ask a question?”
“Hell no. Go right ahead.”
“I’d like to know something of the facts in this case. If you’ve been working on the case you’d know…”
“Sure thing,” Findlay agreed, getting his cigar burning evenly. “She worked for Hardwick, who was having an affair with a model. We followed him to the model’s apartment. They had a quarrel. Hardwick’s supposed to have jumped out of the window. She went to his office and took five thousand dollars out of the safe. The money’s in her purse.”
“So she was jealous?”
“Jealous and greedy. Don’t forget she got five grand out of the safe.”
“I was following my employer’s specific instructions in everything I did,” Jane said.
Findlay grinned.
“What’s more,” she blazed, “Frank Hardwick wasn’t having any affair with that model. He was lured to her apartment. It was a trap and he walked right in.”
Findlay said, “Yeah. The key we found in his vest pocket fitted the apartment door. He must have found it on the street and was returning it to the owner as an act of gallantry.”
The sheriff laughed.
Howard Kane glanced speculatively at the very young woman. “She doesn’t look like a criminal.”
“Oh, thank you!” she blazed.
Findlay’s glance was patronizing. “How many criminals have you seen, buddy?”
Doxey rolled a cigarette. His eyes narrowed against the smoke as he squatted down cowboy fashion on the backs of his highheeled riding boots. “Ain’t no question but what she’s the one who jimmied the safe, is there?”
“The money’s in her purse,” Findlay said.
“Any accomplices?” Buck asked.
“No. It was a combination of jealousy and greed.” Findlay glanced inquiringly at the sheriff.
“I’ll fly in and send that car out,” the sheriff said.
“Mind if I fly in with yuh and ride back with the deputy, Sheriff?” Buck asked eagerly. “I’d like to see this country from the air once. There’s a paved road other side of that big mountain where the ranger has his station. I’d like to look down on it. Some day they’ll connect us up. Now it’s an hour’s ride by horse…”
“Sure,” the sheriff agreed. “Glad to have you.”
“Just give me time enough to throw a saddle on a horse,” Doxey said. “Kane might want to ride out and look the ranch over. Yuh won’t mind, Sheriff?”
“Make it snappy,” the sheriff said.
Buck Doxey went to the barn and after a few minutes returned leading a dilapidated-looking range pony saddled and bridled. He casually dropped the reins in front of the ranch “office,” and called inside:
“Ready any time you are, Sheriff.”
They started for the airplane. Buck stopped at the car to get a map from the glove compartment, then hurried to join the sheriff. The propeller of the plane gave a half-turn, stopped, gave another half-turn, the motor sputtered, then roared into action. A moment later the plane became the focal point of a trailing dust cloud, then raised and swept over the squat log buildings in a climbing turn and headed south.
Jane Marlow and Kane watched it through the window until it became but a speck.
Howard Kane said, “Now, Mr. Findlay, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure, go right ahead.”
“You impressed the sheriff very cleverly,” Kane said, “but I’d like to have you explain…”
“Now that it’s too late,” Jane Marlow blazed indignantly. “You’ve let him…”
Kane motioned her to silence. “Don’t you see, Miss Marlow, I had to get rid of the sheriff. He represents the law, right or wrong. But if this man is an impostor, I can protect you against him.”
Findlay’s hand moved with such rapidity that the big diamond made a streak of glittering light.
“Okay, wise guy,” he said. “Try protecting her against this.”
Kane rushed the gun.
Sheer surprise slowed Findlay’s reaction time. Kane’s fist flashed out in a swift arc, just before the gun roared.
The fat man moved with amazing speed. He rolled with the punch, spun completely around on his heel and jumped back, the automatic held to his body, his eyes glittering with rage.
“Get ’em up,” he said.
The cold animosity of his tone showed that this time there would be no hesitancy.
Slowly Kane’s hands came up.
“Turn around,” Findlay said. “Move over by that window. Press your face against the wall. Give me your right hand, Kane…Now the left hand.”
A smooth leather thong, which had been defty knotted into a slipknot, was jerked tight, then knotted into a quick half hitch.
The girl, taking advantage of Findlay’s preoccupation, flung herself on him.
The bulk of Findlay’s big shoulders absorbed the onslaught without making him even shift the position of his feet. He jerked the leather thong into a last knot, turned and struck the girl in the pit of the stomach.
She wobbled about for a moment on rubbery legs, then fell to the floor.
“Now, young lady,” Findlay said, “you’ve caused me a hell of a lot of trouble. I’ll just take the thing you’re carrying in your left shoe. I could tell from the way you were limping there was something…”
He jerked off the shoe, looked inside, seemed puzzled, then suddenly grabbed the girl’s stockinged foot.
She kicked and tried to scream, but the wind had been knocked out of her.
Findlay reached casual hands up to the top of her stocking, jerked it loose without bothering to unfasten the garters, pulled the adhesive tape off the bottom of the girl’s foot, ran out to the car, and jumped in.
“Well, what do you know!” he exclaimed. “The damn yokel took the keys with him…So there’s a paved road on the other side of the mountains, is there?”
“Come on, horse, I guess there’s a trail we can find. If we can’t they’ll never locate us in all that timber.”
Moving swiftly, the fat man ran over to where the horse was standing on three legs, drowsing in the sunlight.
Findlay gathered up the reins, thrust one foot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle, front and rear, and swung himself awkwardly into position.
Jane heard a shrill animal squeal of rage. The sleepy-looking horse, transformed into a bundle of dynamite, heaved himself into the air, ears laid back along his neck.
The fat man, grabbing the horn of the saddle, clung with frenzied desperation.
“Well,” Kane asked, “are you going to untie me, or just stand there gawking?”
She ran to him then, frantically tugging at the knot.
The second his hands were freed Kane went into action.
Findlay, half out of the saddle, clung drunkenly to the pitching horse for a moment, then went into the air, turned half over and came down with a jar that shook the earth.
Kane emerged from the cabin holding a rifle.
“All right, Findlay, it’s my turn now,” Kane said. “Don’t make a move for that gun.”
The shaken Findlay seemed to have trouble orienting himself. He turned dazedly toward the sound of the voice, clawed for his gun.
Kane, aiming the rifle carefully, shot it out of his hand.
“Now, ma’am,” Kane said, “if you want to get that paper out of his pocket…”
She ran to Findlay, her feet fairly flying over the ground despite the fact that she was wearing only one shoe and the other foot had neither shoe nor stocking…
Shortly before noon Jane Marlow decided to invade the sacred precincts of Buck Doxey’s thoroughly masculine kitchen to prepare lunch. Howard Kane showed his respect for Findlay’s resourcefulness by keeping him covered despite the man’s bo
und wrists.
“Buck is going to hate me for this,” she said. “Not that he doesn’t hate me enough already—and I don’t know why.”
“Buck’s soured on women,” Kane explained. “I tried to tip you off. He was engaged to a girl in Cheyenne. No one knows exactly what happened, but they split up. I think she’s as miserable as he is, but neither one will make the first move. But for heaven’s sake don’t try to rearrange his kitchen according to ideas of feminine efficiency. Just open a can of something and make coffee.”
Findlay said, “I don’t suppose there’s any use trying to make a deal with you two.”
Kane scornfully sighted along the gun by way of answer.
Jane, opening drawers in the kitchen, trying to locate the utensils, inadvertently stumbled on Buck Doxey’s private heartache. A drawer containing letters, and the photograph of a girl.
The photograph had been torn into several pieces, and then laboriously pasted together and covered with Cellophane.
The front of the picture was inscribed “To Buck with all my heart, Pearl.”
Jane felt a surge of guilt at even having opened the drawer, but feminine curiosity caused her to hesitate long enough before closing it to notice Pearl’s return address in the upper left-hand corner of one of the envelopes addressed to Buck Doxey…
It was as they were finishing lunch that they heard the roar of the plane.
They went to the door to watch it turn into the teeth of the cold north wind, settle to a landing, then taxi up to the low log buildings.
The sheriff and Buck Doxey started running toward the cabins, and it was solace to Jane Marlow’s pride to see the look of almost comic relief on the face of the sheriff as he saw Kane with the rifle and Findlay with bound wrists.
Jane heard the last part of Doxey’s hurried explanation to Kane.
“Wouldn’t trust a woman that far but her story held together and his didn’t. I thought you’d understand what I was doing. I flew in with the sheriff just so I could call the FBI in Los Angeles. What do you know? Findlay is a badly wanted enemy spy. They want him bad as…How did you make out?”
Kane grinned. “I decided to give Findlay a private third-degree. He answered my questions with a gun. If it hadn’t been for that horse…”
Buck’s face broke into a grin. “He fell for that one?”
“Fell for it, and off it,” Kane said.
“If he hadn’t been a fool tenderfoot he’d have noticed that I led the horse out from the corral instead of riding him over. Old Fox is a rodeo horse, one of the best bucking broncs in Wyoming. Perfectly gentle until he feels it’s time to do his stuff, and then he gives everything he has until he hears the ten-second whistle. I sort of figured Findlay might try something before I could sell the sheriff a bill of goods and get back.”
* * *
—
It had been sheer impulse which caused Jane Marlow to leave the train early in the morning.
It was also sheer impulse which caused her to violate the law by forging Pearl’s name to a telegram as she went through Cheyenne.
The telegram was addressed to Buck Doxey, care of the Forest Ranger Station and read:
BUCK I AM SO PROUD OF YOU. PEARL.
Having started the message on its way, Jane looked up Pearl and casually told her of the torn picture which had been so laboriously pasted together.
Half an hour later Jane was once more speeding East aboard the sleek streamliner, wondering whether her efforts on behalf of Cupid had earned her the undying enmity of two people, or had perhaps been successful.
When she reached Omaha two telegrams were delivered. One was from Howard Kane and read simply:
YOU WERE SO RIGHT. IT GETS TERRIBLY LONELY AT TIMES. HOLD A DINNER DATE OPEN FOR TONIGHT. YOU NEED A BODYGUARD ON YOUR MISSION AND I AM FLYING TO CHICAGO TO MEET YOU AT TRAIN AND DISCUSS THE WYOMING CLIMATE AS A PERMANENT PLACE OF RESIDENCE. LOVE, HOWARD
The second telegram was the big surprise. It read:
I GUESS I HAD IT COMING. PEARL AND I BOTH SEND LOVE. I GUESS I JUST NEVER REALIZED WOMEN ARE LIKE THAT. YOURS HUMBLY, BUCK DOXEY.
YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON
OLEN STEINHAUER
THE INTERNATIONALLY BESTSELLING Olen Steinhauer (1970– ) has carved out several niches in the demanding literary category of espionage fiction. One way in which he has made the subject his own has been for the peripatetic author to live in numerous Eastern European countries to engage in deep research. When he writes about Hungary or Romania or the Czech Republic, he knows what he’s writing about, giving his novels an extraordinary authenticity.
He took on the challenging goal of writing about the Cold War in historical breadth, with each of the five novels in what he termed his “Yalta Boulevard Sequence” set in a different decade. The Bridge of Sighs (2003), his first published book, was set in 1948; The Confession (2004) in 1956; 36 Yalta Boulevard (2005) in 1966–1967; Liberation Movements (2006) from 1968 to 1975; and Victory Square (2007) in 1989.
Steinhauer followed this quintet of award-winning novels with a trilogy of espionage adventures that was focused on the post-9/11 world, beginning with The Tourist (2009), which has been translated into twenty-five languages. This was followed by The Nearest Exit (2010), which won the Hammett Prize, awarded to the best literary crime novel of the year by the International Crime Writers Association. The third book in the sequence was An American Spy (2012) which, like its predecessors, was a critical and commercial success.
His more recent books continue to have an international flavor. The Cairo Affair (2014) is set in Budapest, then moves to Cairo and Libya during the Arab Spring. All the Old Knives (2015) moves between Vienna another foreign country—California. The Middleman (2018) deals with domestic American terrorism.
The highly cinematic books have often been optioned for films. All the Old Knives is in production by Chockstone Pictures, directed by James Marsh and starring Michelle Williams and Chris Pine, featuring Steinhauer’s own screenplay. Sony Pictures acquired The Tourist some years ago for Doug Liman to direct but it has not yet been made. Steinhauer has also been hired to write the screenplay for The Nearest Exit. He also created the television series Berlin Station (2016–2019), which lasted for twenty-nine episodes, and for which he wrote several scripts and served as executive producer for ten episodes.
“You Know What’s Going On” was originally published in Agents of Treachery edited by Otto Penzler (New York, Vintage, 2010).
YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON
OLEN STEINHAUER
PAUL
WHAT TROUBLED HIM MOST was that he was afraid to die. Paul believed, though he had no evidence of it, that other spies did not suffer from this. But evidence holds little sway over belief, and so it was for him.
He thought of Sam. The last time they’d spoken had been in Geneva, in the international lounge before Sam’s flight back here to Kenya. Years before, they had trained together, and while Paul had done better than Sam on the written tests, it was on the course that Sam had shown himself superior. Later, when he heard rumors that Sam was plagued by suicidal tendencies, he understood. Those unafraid of death usually were better on the course.
But the visit was a surprise. After Rome, the only way he’d expected to hear from Sam was via a disciplinary cable or at the head of a Langley tribunal. But Sam’s unexpected invitation to the Aéroport International de Genève had included no threats or reprimands.
“You’re just following,” Sam told him in the airport. “You’re the money, a banker; I’m the deal maker. I’ll use my Wallis papers—remember that. You won’t have to say a thing, and they’ll want to keep you well so you can take care of the transfer. It’s a walk in the park.” When Paul, wondering if any operation in Africa could legitimately be called a walk in the park, didn’t answer, Sam raised his right index finger and added, “Bes
ides, I’ll be right there beside you. Nothing works without this fingerprint.”
The target was Aslim Taslam, a six-month-old Somali splinter group formed after an ideological dispute within Al-Shabaab. Over the last month Aslim Taslam had begun an intense drive to raise cash and extend its contacts in preparation for some large-scale action—details unknown. “We’re going to nip them in the bud,” was the way Sam put it.
Sam had come across them in Rome, just after things had gone to hell—perhaps because things had gone to hell. Aslim Taslam was in Italy to establish an alliance with Ansar al-Islam, the very group that he, Paul, Lorenzo, Saïd, and Natalia had been performing surveillance on.
Now, their cover was information. Sam—energetic, perpetual-motion-machine Sam—had contacted Aslim Taslam’s Italian envoy with an offer of two million euros for information on the Somali pirates who had been plaguing the Gulf of Aden shipping lanes. Which was why he’d called this rushed meeting in the airport. In three days—on Thursday—Paul would show up in Nairobi as a bank employee. He would carry a small black briefcase, empty. His contact at the hotel would have an identical case containing the special computer. “Once we make the transfer, you board the plane back to Geneva. Simple.”
But everything sounded simple from Sam’s lips. Rome had sounded simple, too.
“You’re still pissed off, aren’t you?”
Sam shook his head but avoided Paul’s eyes, peering past him at the pretty cashier they’d bought the coffee from. He’d just returned from a working vacation in Kenya, a cross-country race that had left a permanent burn on his cheeks. “It’s a damned shame, but these things do happen. I’ve gotten over it, and you should, too. Keep your head in this job.”
“But you can’t let it go,” Paul said, because he could feel the truth of this. Only three weeks had passed since Rome. “Lorenzo and Saïd—they’re dead because of me. It’s not a small thing. You deserve to hate me.”
Sam’s smile was tight-lipped. “Consider this a chance to redeem yourself.”
The Big Book of Espionage Page 70
