Assignment Unicorn (14 page)

“You’re on the right track,” Durell said.

“Don’t get your hopes up. This effect is related to the
dosage, and with increasing doses, the increase in peripheral resistance caused
by blood-vessel constriction nullifies the effect. In short, the more you
administer the stuff to the subject, the quicker the curve of cardiac
efficiency descends. Its basic use is in shock treatment. Toxic,
hemorrhagic, or traumatic. It seems to be superior to other
catecholamines—epinephrine, norepinephrine and dopamine are labeled as
catecholamines, Sam—in certain situations, primarily because it increases blood
flow to the kidneys and viscera preferentially to the patient in shock.
These assassins of yours with such splendid and extraordinary superpowers were
hardly in shock, hey?”

“No,” Durell said.

“Well.” Saul Sinberg clicked his tongue and yawned.

“The central nervous system physiology of dopamine is not clearly
elucidated, I’m afraid. We have a medication called L-dopa used extensively in
Parkinsonism, a neurological disease of the aged. The L-dopa effects changes in
the metabolism of the basal ganglia, the area of apparent malfunction in this
disease. But that’s not very helpful to you, Cajun. One could hypothesize a new
catecholamine, however; or a false metabolic precursor of these substances
which, when administered, caused a new catecholamine to be produced. This could
have wide effects on central nervous system activity—reasoning, co-ordination,
acuity, perception, et cetera—as well as peripheral effects on the
life-supporting viscera, which might increase strength and endurance far beyond
the norm. Ergo, a superdrug. But your options are myriad. I’m sorry, Sam. I
never heard of such a development anywhere. There just ain’t no such critter.”

“None that you know of, Saul, right?”

Dr. Sinberg was not offended. “Without any false modesty,
Cajun, I’m one of the best. You know that we give occasionally what you might
call pep pills to some of the K Section people in the field. But they are
not to be compared with what you’ve been talking about. It’s my business. I
tell you, there’s no such superdrug available.”

“But it could have been developed?” Durell insisted.

Sinberg frowned. He seemed nervous suddenly.

“One man,” he muttered.

“Who?”

“A biochemist named Alexander MacLeod.”

“Where is he?”

“Why, I don't know. But he’s the brother-in-law of our
esteemed Finance officer, Joshua Strawbridge, from whom all our cash blessings
flow.”

The clock on the library wall read two-thirty in the morning.
Durell did not feel sleepy. The only attendant was a young woman in one of the
inevitable smocks worn in the sanitized underground areas of the Fort. The young
woman waved a hand vaguely at the banks of microfilm and reader machines
and murmured, “Help yourself, sir.”

“I’d like a book on numismatics,” Durell said.

“Books? We have only microfilm here.”

“Any coin catalogs?”

“No, sir. What would we want with coin collectors in
Internal Security?” She grinned. She was very plain-looking, very wholesome.
“Charlie Duggan collects British Empire coins, though.”

“Just what I want. Where can I find Duggan?”

“He’s a radio technician. He might be in the lighthouse.
It’s his duty hour. I happen to know. He’s my boyfriend.”

“Lucky man,” Durell said.

“Charlie Duggan?”

“Are you Durell? Wilderman just called. He wants to see you,
pronto.”

“He can wait.”

“Sure. But you’ll pay for it.

Duggan was a stout man in his middle forties. He seemed too
old for the girl in the library. It was chilly and damp in the room, and Duggan
wore a windbreaker as he watched the oscillating dials and ammeters and voltage
regulators set into a metal control bank on his desk.

“I hear you’re a coin collector, Duggan,” Durell said.

The man’s head turned. “Of sorts, yeah.”

“You recognize this?”

Durell took the gold medallion from his pocket, the one that
Colonel Ko had given him from the captured killer in Palingpon. He dropped it
on the desk. It made a dull, flat sound, rolled a few inches, and Duggan
slapped a hand on it, and then slowly uncovered it.

“Fake,” he said at once.

“A copied fake, or a fake design?” Durell asked.

“It’s a facsimile of a unicorn, a Scottish gold coin. Used
to be worth about fifteen shillings, originally. Time of King James.”

“Which King James?”

“Well, none of the coins in Scotland had dates in those
days,” Duggan said. He seemed interested, and his voice took on a pedantic
note. “English coinage was reformed under Henry VIII, who reigned from 1485 to 1509.
That’s when the shilling first appeared. Used to be called a
testoon
, or
teston
. The word
comes from Italian,
testa
, for ‘head.’ An image of
the sovereign of the coin, you see. This fake coin you have here dates before
1662, because milled coinage began then. The first official copper coins,
halfpennies and farthings, were issued during the reign of Charles II,
1660-1685.”

“This isn’t copper,” Durell said.

“No. Probably silver with a wash of gold over it. Even if it
were authentic, it would be worthless with that hole drilled in it. It’s just a
copy, probably made as a medallion to be worn on a chain around the neck.”

“Right,” Durell said. “Was it really called a unicorn?”

“Sure. There were all kinds of names for coins then —laurels,
crowns,
groats
, guineas, nobles, lions,
demys
, riders, unicorns, lion nobles, thistle nobles, hat
pieces, thistle crowns, unites. Wait a minute.” Duggan opened a desk drawer and
took out a powerful hand magnifying glass. “It’s pretty good,” he muttered.
“Made from a cast of an original. You can make out
Iacobus
III
—maybe
Iacobus
IV Dei Gratia
, can’t be quite sure.
James III, 1460-1488—he put out the first unicorn coins, of gold, showing
a unicorn with a shield, coat of arms of Scotland.” He flipped the coin
over. “Yep. Reverse shows a star with wavy rays. No dates, of course, at that
time. King James also put out silver coinage—I’ve got a couple-a
groat
with a crowned bust, a billon
plack
with a crowned lion shield and a floriated cross on reverse. The long
cross has a crown in two of the angles and three pellets in each of the other
two angles. Got a beautiful specimen of that.”

“What about this unicorn?” Durell persisted.

“It’s a fake,” Duggan repeated flatly.

“Why would anyone make a number of copies of this particular
coin?”

“Search me. Never saw anything like it before. Now, I’ve got
a fake billon
bawbee
with crowned thistles—goes back
to James V of Scotland—1513-1542—and a silver
testoon
,
too, that’s really pewter, a counterfeit. But this

unicorn of yours wasn’t meant as a counterfeit. It's a modern
copy.” Duggan looked up. “It’s a curiosity, that’s all. Want to sell it?”

“No. Why isn’t there any date on it?”

“I told you, the first dated British coins were struck
during King Edward VI’s reign—1547 to 1553. The first silver crown was
dated 1551. Showed the king on horseback with a quartered shield on a cross on
the reverse. This one was hand-hammered a century earlier. I mean, the
original. This copy could have been made today.”

“By whom?”

Duggan frowned. “Let’s see—seems to me I recall —wait a
minute.” The man put both hands flat on the desk and leaned back,
thinking. “Company named Sanderson, Sampson—no, just Sanderson, P.I. Sanderson,
Limited. They made copies that sold in Edinburgh as souvenirs. Junk, of course.
No real collector would consider them. About ten years ago. Probably out of
business by now.”

“Where was Sanderson located?”

“London, I think. Funny thing is, this fellow Sanderson has
the finest collection of Scottish coins in the world, they say. That’s
how I remember it. Real numismatists were shocked when he put out the cheap
reproductions.”

“In London?”

“That’s what I recall.” Duggan scowled again. “Tell you
what, though. Mr. MacLeod would know. He’s got a damned good collection of
British Empire coins.”

“Mr. MacLeod? Alexander MacLeod?”

“That’s right."

28

WILDERMAN had a brightly colored, big-beaked mynah bird on
his shoulder. There were
birdstains
here and there on
the Formica desk top, and others on various pieces of furniture. Durell
searched out a wooden chair that didn’t seem to have any stains on it.

Enoch Wilderman looked gray and ill. He had pushed his
glasses up on top of his head, into his unkempt gray hair. His rather long nose
looked pinched and thin. His angular frame slouched in the leather chair until
his pot belly, out of place with his knobby knees, elbows, and narrow hunched
shoulders, protruded prominently. He looked professorial, which he was not; his
pale eyes looked angry, which he was.

“You kept that coin from me, Cajun. Your attitude displays a
remarkable disdain for authority. Perhaps because you feel your relationship
with General McFee gives you some sort of special status here—”

“No, sir.”

“Let me see the coin.”

Durell handed it across the desk. Wilderman scarcely glanced
at it, then dropped it into a drawer out of sight. “So you refer to these
people as unicorns because of this —uh—medallion?”

“It’s just a handy tag,” Durell said.

“And you think the leaks concerning our money transfers
come, of course, from Joshua Strawbridge, your Finance officer, eh?”

“Or someone in his office, yes.”

“Mr. Meecham and I have been a bit ahead of you. You take on
a great deal for yourself. Dr. Sinberg didn’t give your theory of a new drug
much encouragement, did he?"

“He gave me enough.”

“You’re thinking of Alex MacLeod, Josh Strawbridge’s
brother-in-law? The biochemist?”

“It’s a Scots name,” Durell said. “The unicorn is a Scottish
coin.”

Wilderman locked his hands over his bulging belly. “Got
anything from the girl yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Think there’s anything useful in her?”

“I’m not sure now.”

“I do not believe the girl, as a lead, will come to anything.
It’s already resolved, in any case.”

“Sir?”

“The case is being shut down, Durell. There still remains
the
brooming
of the dirt under the carpet, of course.
Covering up, for the Congressional committees who may insist on full budgetary
explanations in executive session. It can be arranged. These things happen. One
cannot hope to exist as a barrel of perfect apples.” Wilderman’s eyes were
tired. “What I am saying is that the whole matter is one for ISB now. We’ll
clean our own closet. There is no need for you to pursue the matter further.”

“I’d like to talk to Joshua Strawbridge.”

“You’re a bit late. Strawbridge vanished forty-eight hours
ago. At least, he did not appear here or in the Washington offices. He was due
to testify at the current budgetary committee meeting. Congress likes to feel
it can control us with
pursestrings
. It was a fairly
important meeting. Mr. Strawbridge had some explaining to do. I had written a
full brief for him, but he did not appear. He has not been seen since last
Friday.”

“Any personal problems?” Durell asked.

“I put our best people on the matter. Josh Strawbridge was a
fool. He pilfered from our till. Lived high on the hog. We assumed his life
style was his own business, since his wife is independently wealthy. Supposed
to be. Now it turns out she never had a cent. He was using K Section money for
his sloop, his house on St. Maarten’s, his cars and servants and estate in
Virginia. Pitiful. Stupid.”

Wilderman sat up straighter, but he still looked slumped, a
cadaver with a watermelon belly. He said, “You seem dissatisfied, Cajun.”

“The case isn’t closed yet,” Durell said.

“For you it is. We can clean up the loose odds and ends, the
crap on the floor. You can go back to General McFee for a new
assignment.”

"I'm sorry, but—”

“Mr. Meecham, the Director, and I concur in the decision.”

“But what about Joshua Strawbridge‘?

“He had nowhere to go. He knew that if he ran for it, we’d
find him, anywhere in the world. So he killed himself. Blew his foolish,
greedy brains out. Early this morning or late last night. We need a new Finance
officer now.”

“Too many loose ends,” Durell protested.

“They will be tied up. Worry not. You’ve been conscientious
and efficient. I’ve recommended you for a higher grade of work, if we need you
again.”

“I’ll think about it,” Durell said.

Wilderman seemed to have gone asleep, along with his birds.
“Do that,” he murmured gently.

His eyes were closed.

29

DURELL left the Fort in the early hours of morning, taking
one of the “company” cars, a green Chevrolet, and after checking out through
the perimeter guards of the compound, he headed west, came to the opposite side
of the Eastern Shore on Route 50, and crossed the bridge over Chesapeake Bay
just as the first light of dawn touched the gray waters under him. From
U.S. 50 he took Route 301 south, to avoid the complex of beltways and commuter
traffic around the District. Even taking byways, it took two hours to reach the
small town south of Washington, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, an enclave
of quiet and very private estates, all with security guards visible at the
brick-columned gateway and a glimpse of Dobermans on patrol through the mist
that still clung to the red pines. Durell drove past the entrance to Joshua Strawbridge’s
long, long Colonial home, glimpsed the blue of a heated swimming pool from
which mist was rising; he turned left, found the village itself and a diner
that had just opened, and stopped for breakfast. He noted in the mirror that he
needed a shave.