A Talent For The Invisible (v1.1) (9 page)

Conger said, “Is Tiefenbacher bitching about that?”

“Tiefenbacher has joined
me
in complaining,” said Geer. “Now, maybe NSO doesn’t care if its best agent is sleeping around all over South America …”

“I’m in Central America now.”

“… but RFA does,” continued the boss. “And WTD cares. Most of all, I care. You see, Jake, to be a Wild Talent Division agent is a singular honor. The stern hand of WTD duty falls on but few and thus those to whom …”

“I need some background information on somebody,” cut in Conger.

Angelica had changed into a short night robe and was sitting on a flower filled see-through chair, watching Conger and the backside of the pixphone. She smiled at him.

“Okay, okay, I can see you’re not in the mood to be reminded of the splendid traditions of the corps in which we serve,” said Geer. He flipped through the memos. “So I’ll get to the yoohoo point. Here, we go. Tiefenbacher suggests that if Agent Conger doesn’t improve his field conduct, both officially and morally, he … well, things will get tough for you, Jake.”

“Meaning what?”

“I know that right now,” Geer said, licking the empty popsicle stick, “while the sap of youth runs through your veins, you’re in no mood to contemplate the future. Let me point out, however, that you may not have a future with RFA and WTD if you don’t stop being frivolous.” Angelica stopped smiling and stood.

“Are you firing me?” Conger asked.

“Did I say that? Don’t be a yoohoo,” said the boss. “I’m merely giving you what my old General Semantics teacher Mr. Phelps used to call a word to the wise. Now, what progress are you making on the Sandman problem?” Conger said, “What can you find out about an agent named Krist. That’s Krist with a K. He may be working for us in this area.”

“Which us?”

“The United States. He’s not NSO.”

“Oh, your lady friend is being helpful.” Geer left his desk and his phone swerved to follow him. “We don’t have a Krist in WTD either.” The boss stopped in front of a compact computer mounted on an airstand.

“How come your computer’s painted pink?”

“Ask Tiefenbacher. The day he took over he sent some yoohoo interior decorator to redo all the offices. You ought to see my icebox.” Leaning, Geer murmured something to the pink computer. “And they laid a patriotic motif carpet in here. Can you see any of that?”

“Part of it, where you’re standing. Looks like Molly Pitcher there and part of … Calvin Coolidge in an Indian headdress.” Geer lifted his foot. “Yes, I guess that’s who it is. Actually it’s inspiring in a way. I tripped and fell flat out on it earlier this morning and it was quite an experience.”

“Krist,” said the pink computer. “Klaus Krist, a lieutenant in the United States All Volunteer Army. Drafted in March of 2014. Also works as a part time agent for the US Counter Insurgency Office.”

“Their name’s been changed to the Aid To Underdeveloped Lands Agency,” put in Geer.

“Nobody told me,” said the computer. “Anyway, Lt. Klaus Krist has been stationed in Urbania for the past year and four months as a Special Adviser at the Red Plume Mechanical Commando School.”

“Where’s that?” asked Conger.

“Where’s that?” Geer asked the machine.

“The address is 87 Jungle Vista Road on the outskirts of St. Norbert, Urbania,” the computer said.

“Who else is Krist working for?” Conger said.

Geer said, “Who else …”

“I heard him,” said the pink computer. “Krist works for the … The Aid To Underdeveloped Lands Agency and for the Red Plume school. He has a spotless record, ranks especially high on attendance and personal hygiene.” Moving back toward his desk, Geer asked, “How does this Krist tie in?”

“I’ll find out.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” answered Conger.

“Uh huh. Okay, good luck, Jake, and try to shape up.”

When he left the phone Conger went to stand beside the lovely dark Angelica. It was several minutes before the girl’s smile returned.

A dozen robot commandos came charging at Conger.

He stopped still on the Red Plume school’s dirt track and waited.

The big camouflage-colored robots ran on by him and assaulted the cluster of simulated peasant huts in the center of the soccer field which the dirt track circled. Half of the mechanical commandos had flame hands. They set about burning down the huts. The rest of the robots, with one exception, stood by, their three-pronged right hands ready to impale any imaginary peasants who might rush from the flaming shacks.

The exceptional robot was off from the group. He was tapdancing, his tubular brown-green arms spinning.

“What the—hey, Ramirez!” shouted an angry American army sergeant at the other end of the field.

A dozen Urbanian Red Plume soldiers were spread out on the grass there, each working a round control box.

“I am very sorry, Sergeant Ferber,” apologized Ramirez. “I pushed the wrong button by mistake.”

“It better be a mistake, Ramirez,” shouted Ferber. “From here it looks a heck of a lot like whimsy. I’d hate to be you, mister, if you’re cracking whimsical with me.”

“Oh, no, sir!”

Conger, invisible, walked along the gravel edge of the track where he wouldn’t leave footprints. Out behind the field lay the officers’ barracks.

Each American adviser had a small adobe and tile house of his own.

According to the directory in the Academic Center building of the Red Plume Mechanical Commando School Lt. Klaus Krist occupied cottage #8.

A half-size android servant girl was setting out a breakfast tray in the walled patio behind the adobe cottage. After she’d deposited the tray on the tiletop table, the miniature servant dusted off the pseudorattan chair and fluffed its realfeather pillow.

Conger, unseen, stretched out atop the patio wall to watch.

A big wide blond man, freckled and brown from much sun, stepped out of the cottage. He stooped to pat the little android. “Good morning, Maria Carmen,” he said in a tenor voice.

“Buenos dias.” After she placed a fresh white plyonapkin on Krist’s big knee the half-size android went into the cottage.

Klaus uncovered his bowl of cornmeal mush, poured himself a glass of nearorange juice. He sipped the juice, smiling up at the midmorning sun.

Krist placed the juice glass back on the tile table, took a blaster pistol out of the holster at his side and aimed it up at Conger. “Better come down off there, mister. Else I’ll have to shoot you off.”

Conger declined the offer to share the cornmeal mush with the big blond lieutenant. “You can see me, huh?”

“Sure thing, bo,” replied Krist in his high pitched voice. His gun rested sideways on the breakfast table. “An NSO agent I know bootlegged me an immunity shot a couple moons back. Krist likes to keep one or two jumps ahead at all times. It’s the macho thing to do.”

“You’re working for Sandman?”

With his left hand Krist picked up his juice glass. “Correct, bo. Did you ever see a US Army paycheck? $500 per week. Who can live on half a big one once a week. I had to get me a sideline or two to survive. Krist figures live once and do it up brown. You sabe?”

“Do you plan to turn me over to Sandman?”

Krist gave several tenor snickers into his tilted juice glass. “No chance, bo. You’re no ways important. Big Mac and his slant buddy pumped you dry of info back down in Brazil, the way Krist hears it.” He tapped the square tiles with the side of his pistol. “Nope, I got myself a free hand. Krist may look like nothing more than a jock but he’s got mucho think power, bo. Just while we been sitting out here in the sunshine I worked out a plan for you. Soon’s I’m done breakfasting I’ll blast you. Come night time I’ll tote you out to Acre 26.”

“Acre 26?”

Krist laughed, snorted. “Wow! You secret agent types tickle Krist something awful. Here you are a cat’s whisker away from cashing in for good and you’re still in there asking questions.”

“Habit.” Conger rested his finger tips on the table edge.

The big blond lieutenant tilted his blaster so it was pointed directly at Conger. “Don’t try to tip the morning repast on me, bo. Krist has reflexes like a snake.” Shrugging, Conger lifted his hands.

“Anyways, Acre 26 is a little private burying ground we maintain. Now and again one of these greaseballs fouls up while trying to learn to work the equipment. We have to hold a little private funeral on them occasions. Don’t worry, bo, there’s still plenty of room.”

His eyes on Krist’s Conger put one foot against the table leg. “You know who Sandman is?”

“There’s a darn good question, bo,” laughed Lt. Krist. “The answer being, I sure do. I’ve helped set up a couple resurrections, including the one Big Mac had to cancel.”

“Oh, forgive me, senhor,” said a voice from the doorway to the patio. “I completely forgot to serve your scones.”

“Scones? What the hey, Maria Carmen!” Krist turned his big head to look at the cottage. “You know darn well I can’t hardly abide …” Conger kicked. The breakfast table went up and over. Its far edge swung in an arc and smacked the blaster free of Krist’s hand.

“Doggone!” roared Krist in his tenor voice.

Conger sailed over the fallen table, catching the big lieutenant’s left arm. He twisted, bringing the arm up behind Krist.

“Conserve your strength, senhor,” said Canguru. He ran out onto the patio, wearing the little android maid’s serving apron over his three-piece cocoa-brown tourist suit. He slapped a little silver bug against Lt. Krist’s neck.

The lieutenant began snoring in midair as he fell toward the ground.

“I didn’t know you were in Urbania.” Conger stepped back to let Krist fall by.

“Boss Geer hired me to come here and back you up,” explained the little curly-haired spy. “I’ve been unobtrusively watching you since late last evening. You ought to see how filthy they keep the alleys in the vicinity of your hotel. I’ve spent nights in a variety of alleys and these …”

“How’d you track me here? Can you see me, too?”

Canguru shook his blond curly head and took off the borrowed apron.

“For a moment I toyed with the idea of putting on the nitwit maid’s whole outfit. I decided it’s going to take more than espionage pay to get me to go around in drag,” he said. “You didn’t become invisible until you reached the municipal forest, a mile from here. I knew, from my talk with Senhor Geer, who you were planning to see.”

“How’d you get in?”

Canguru grinned. “I have my ways,” he answered. “I hope I didn’t upset some far-ranging plan you had. It looked to me as though this nitwit commando was going to kill you.”

“That he was,” said Conger. “Thanks for distracting him.” The little spy poked a toe into the slumbering lieutenant. “You want to question him?”

“Yeah, he says he knows who Sandman is.” Conger reached for his kit.

“Allow me,” offered Canguru. “I boosted this from an Armenian secret agent. I want to see how it works.” He stooped, tapping a tiny licorice-colored button to Krist’s temple. “Go ahead, ask him something.” Conger squatted beside the big man. “Give me your name.”

“Krist, Klaus N.,” replied Krist, his eyes tight shut.

“You’re working for Sandman.”

“Yessir, I am.”

“Who is he?”

“Why, his name is Sir Thomas Anstey-Guthrie,” said Krist.

Conger made an O with his mouth, grunting. “You sure?”

“Yessir, I’m sure, bo. I work for the darn guy, don’t I? Krist is what they call an important liaison man between Sandman and his potential customers.”

“Guthrie’s supposed to be dead.”

“That there was merely a fakeout, bo. To leave him free to set up in business as Sandman.” Conger asked, “Where is he?”

“Hard to say. He flits around a whole lot doing jobs. There have been mighty near seventeen resurrections, you know, since Sandman hung out his sign.”

“Where’s his home base?”

“You mean where is he when he’s not out working in the field?”

“That’s right.”

“Mexico,” said Lt. Krist.

A simple cleanup mechanism was humming around the hotel room.

Conger stepped around the squat mechanism, calling, “Angelica.”

“Grump, grump,” said the cleanup robot.

“Angelica,” repeated Conger.

“Grump,” said the squat machine. It tapped the top of a pseudomarble coffee table with one of its several arms.

There was a note on the table.

The note said: Jake, I have the notion I’m fouling up your life and your career. Especially after hearing your boss go at you last night. Maybe I’m even fouling up my own life some. I want to think about things for awhile.

So let’s go back to working solo. When this job is done we can get together again, if you want to. Maybe we’ll cross paths before then even. I love you I think. Be seeing you. Angelica.

“Grump,” said the small robot, pointing at the note and then at the paper shredding hole on its top.

“No, I’ll keep the letter,” said Conger. “I’m sentimental about things like this.” He folded the letter into a pocket, went scuffling around the suite.

Angelica really was gone, though a trace of the scent she used still hung in the air of the bedroom.

Conger sat on the newly made bed, listened to the robot humming and grumping out in the living room. “Damn,” he said.

After a time Canguru’s voice sounded out there. “Why are you using this kind of mopup machine? They’re not nearly as efficient as they could be.”

Conger returned to the living room. “Find out anything?”

“Your door was standing open,” said the little blond spy. “Would you like me to fuss with the lock? They probably installed the wrong sort.”

“I left it open,” said Conger, crossing over to close the door.

“I’m sorry to hear Miss Abril has left,” said Canguru. “She seemed to have fewer flaws than most women.”

“How did you know she’d left?”

“Well, senhor,” said Canguru, “just as you have me working under you, I have people working under me. One of them reported Miss Abril departed four hours ago.”

“Does your man know where she went?”

“To the teleport station. He didn’t pursue the matter further. I can find out perhaps.”