Sustenance (18 page)

“I have assumed that,” said Broadstreet, sounding testy now. “We need to show that his presence has claimed the attention of—”

“The meeting at the Helmsman was one of those cobbled-together arrangements. You know he didn’t come to our meeting after all, but that did not surprise me when I thought it over. There was no acknowledgment that the meeting had not taken place. No explanation, nothing. But there was a note in my mail-slot at home three days later. Unsigned, of course, but I’m fairly sure it was from my contact, Baxter. It said
Better luck neXt time.
No salutation, no farewell. Not even an address, which means he brought it himself. The paper on which it was written could be found in any stationery, and it was typed on a Royal with a new ribbon.”

“Someone who knows about our line of work, then,” said Channing. “Any notion of who he might work for?”

Broadstreet shook his head. “Nothing solid, and no reliable confirmation about him. I have reason to believe the man’s name is Baxter, though it may be an alias, but I haven’t been able to make sure of that one way or another, and so I continue to think of him as such. I have begun to wonder if the appointment wasn’t a serious meeting at all, but actually some kind of test.” He spoke steadily, as if from a memorized text, which it was, for he had spent more than a week getting his story ready for this conversation.

“Baxter,” mused Channing. “Nothing in the name to help, is there? Why bother with an alias when you have such an anonymous name to begin with. Assuming it is his name: it may not be.” He sighed, looking toward the bookcase at the far end of the room. “Why can’t conspirators have unusual, one-of-a-kind names? Papadapolis, or Brinquedo, or something obviously Russian. Ouspensky would be a good one.” He slapped his right hand on his blotter-pad. “Baxter. Ha. Why not Smith, or Jones? His first name is probably John.” He tapped his fingers on the desk.

“I have saved the note, and if you like I can send it to our laboratory for fingerprint tests, but they may only find mine: I didn’t realize what it was until I opened it and read it.” He knew it was folly to reveal too much too soon, so he only added, “I’m planning to look into any connections that may exist between this Baxter and Bateman & McNally, for it has occurred to me that the men from that company may have known Baxter, which would explain his being missing from the Helmsman, where men from Bateman & McNally were having a celebratory lunch. Whatever they were celebrating, I might have compromised Baxter.”

Channing sighed again. “It may be that you’re right and this was a test, that your Baxter was among the men celebrating, and he was trying to determine if you were truly alone and not part of a trap.” He drummed his fingers some more. “This bears more attention than I thought at first. You’ll need to find out the names of the men from Bateman & McNally and try to determine if there are any connections with Atkins. I wish we didn’t have to think about that lot in Paris being in the middle of all this—it complicates matters. But since Nugent appears to know where Atkins is, his is a lead worth following. There are good reasons to think Atkins is helping the Commies in places in Malaysia and French Indo-China, or even in Indonesia, for it appears that he’s hoping to gain the favor of the Chinese.”

“How do you figure that, if you’ll pardon me asking, sir?”

“Because of the linking of Atkins with Hapgood Nugent, whom we know to be in France. Nugent’s brother-in-law appears to believe that Nugent and Atkins are in regular communication, or so I gathered when he called upon me. Our best intelligence out of Pei-King suggests that Atkins has offered the Chinese leaders information that could not have been available to Atkins at the time he left the US, but is part of a project Nugent has been involved with. There could be something more going on with that ridiculous Coven in Paris, but there would be clearer signs of it by now if that were the case. It’s an ex-pats’ shared-interest club, I’m sure of it, from our agent in it, and the reports say that there’s nothing more dangerous going on among the Coven than in the board room at Montgomery Ward.”

“You have an agent in place with the Coven?” Broadstreet asked, astonished to hear this news. “Who is it?”

“The best kind of agent; one who doesn’t know about being an agent.” Channing’s smile was small and wicked. “All you need do is ask a favor—some minor information your unaware agent might have—and thank him when he provides answers.”

“You mean an amateur, or he doesn’t know he’s spying on the group?” He wanted to know everything, but doubted he would be told today.

Channing shrugged. “The latter. The Coven’s found out all the professionals. I think this may be the only way to keep an eye on them.” He reached over to his intercom and placed coffee orders for them both. “This is more of a coil than I had expected. What other cases are you working on at this time?”

Broadstreet was fairly certain that Channing knew everything he had been assigned, and so he enumerated the eight other investigations going on under his supervision. “Two should wind up by the end of the month”—Bishop should be out of Ireland by then and the new team ought to be in place in Turkey by about the same time, and that would mean much more time for Atkins and Nugent—“which will free up some time.”

“Not enough, and not soon enough,” Channing grumbled. “I’ll need to see you busy on this Atkins matter by the first of next week, which means that we need to settle the Nugent/Rutherford question as soon as possible. I’ll lighten your load by three cases before Thursday, so you can concentrate on Atkins. We don’t want him slipping through our fingers once we locate, or at least identify, him.” He dropped his head, chin on his chest, in deep thought; Broadstreet sat still, watching Channing in a growing rapture of fear, becoming so entranced that he visibly jumped when one of the serving staff arrived with a wheeled cart laden with coffee-pots, -cups, creamers, sugar-bowls, and three covered dishes of appropriate food for a ten-thirty
A.M.
break.

The waiter who brought the cart laid out the various dishes and comestibles—two bear-claws, two raisin muffins, and two large glazed doughnuts and a covered butter-plate—then poured coffee into two large mugs, handing the first one to Channing and the second one to Broadstreet. “Is there anything else, sir?” the waiter inquired.

“No, Walters. This will do us very well.” Channing waved a dismissal in Walters’ direction. “You can pick up the cart in an hour.”

Walters went toward the door, then stopped, his demeanor showing how willing he was to relay crucial orders. “Oh, sir: they’re closing the building at one today. They want everyone out after lunch, on account of the weather. There’s supposed to be a blizzard coming this way, and the Mayor wants to keep the streets as clear of cars as possible.”

“Does that include Baltimore, or is it just DC?” Broadstreet asked.

Channing looked up from his mug. “Thank you for the information, Walters. I’ll endeavor to be away by noon.”

With a nod, Walters let himself out of Channing’s office.

“He’s very good at his job,” Channing muttered once they were alone.

“I suppose so,” said Broadstreet, reaching for the creamer, only mildly curious about the waiter.

Channing reached for a muffin. “He’s an FBI agent, sent to keep an eye on us for Hoover, just to make sure we don’t do anything domestic.” He opened the butter-plate, removed the small knife, and cut off three pats of softened butter. “I think he’s foolish to waste such a good operative in our dining room, but that’s Hoover’s way. He wants all security agencies in the US under his thumb. He’s after Truman to make the CIA part of the FBI.”

“You’re sure of this?” Broadstreet asked, almost choking as he bit into the side of the nearer doughnut.

“Of course I am. And I suppose Walters realizes that, though he’s not said ‘boo’ about it.” He buttered the top half of his muffin and took a bite, chewing thoroughly, his face showing he was lost in thought. After he took a long sip of coffee, he said, “I have a feeling he keeps a lot to himself, Walters does.”

“Holding something in reserve?” Broadstreet asked, taking another bite of his doughnut. “For bargaining?”

“Nothing so crass as that,” said Channing. “He is making sure he has options. If he wants something from me, he has information to trade, information he can withhold or deliver to the FBI.”

“Surely you could fire him, for some reason other than spying,” Broadstreet exclaimed.

“Why would I want to do that? He is showing himself to be reliable and he’s an excellent waiter. Whomever Hoover sends next, I imagine he won’t be quite so useful. No, I’ll keep Walters and see what I can gain from him.”

“Do you think he’s aware you’re onto him?” Broadstreet asked, then realized that he had asked the question badly and made another run at it. “Why would he think you were onto him?”

“He’s in the business to know such things,” said Channing, finishing his muffin and reaching for a bear-claw.

“But if you’re both aware of the other’s knowing, why bother? Surely both of you have more important things to do?”

“Gamesmanship, my lad, gamesmanship. Never underestimate the power of gamesmanship. Why did you go to so unlikely a meeting as the one at the Helmsman? Same sort of thing. Practice is as important as performance where intrigue is involved. We both have the opportunity to keep our skills sharp, to keep on our toes. We need to have these games or, when our opponents are Russians or Bulgarians or native rebels in Latin America or Indo-China, we won’t end up compromised and cut loose for it.” He began on the bear-claw. “Make sure you have yours. They’re very good today.”

Broadstreet finished his doughnut, then reached for the second bear-claw; his mind was racing, and finally he dared to say, “Then if Baxter comes to nothing, you won’t mind?”

“Oh, I’d mind, all right, but I wouldn’t do anything foolish. You’ve been behind your desk too long; you’re turning into a bureaucrat, and we have far too many of them in DC than we need already. No, you need to get your feet wet, and this seems as good a way to do that as anything.” He chewed in reflective silence.

“Um,” said Broadstreet—the bear-claws
were
very good today, if his was any example.

Finally Channing spoke up again. “That doesn’t mean you’re free to do whatever you like. You have your orders and I expect you to follow them. No dawdling, no getting sidetracked. If you want to think of this as a test, or an audition, go ahead and do so.” He poured more coffee into his mug and held the pot out to Broadstreet. “Top up?” He clearly expected to have his offer accepted.

After a brief hesitation, Broadstreet extended his mug. “Thank you.” It was the least he could say, yet it would show that he was aware of the potentialities of his immediate commitment to the case he was going to pursue. “I’ll try not to disappoint you, sir. I’m grateful for this opportunity.”

“Keep in mind that Atkins is really up to no good. Don’t waste sympathy on him. What he’s doing is not an intellectual ploy or a trick he’s playing: he is deliberately giving our enemies—our
enemies
—information on rocket fuels and load-thrust ratios as well as the formulae for them to do similar calculations. If there are intercontinental ballistic missiles involved, those formulae could spell real trouble for the US for years to come.” Channing shook his head. “He has to be found and he has to be stopped, and everyone who aided him has to be checked out, and dealt with appropriately, or it’s possible that the work will continue even after we eliminate Atkins from the picture.”

The word
eliminate
made Broadstreet uneasy, but he made sure his discomfiture was unnoticed. “Do you expect any trouble with him? Extradition, and so forth? Or do you think the Commies have got him already?”

“I don’t believe we will bother to ask. Nor should you. We can’t bring Atkins into public view until we know how much damage he has done.” Channing spoke softly, which convinced Broadstreet of the sincerity of Channing’s threat.

“Understood,” said Broadstreet, and bit more bear-claw off than he had intended. He could feel a bit of the filling cling to his cheek. He grabbed his napkin and rubbed it away.

“I’m looking forward to seeing what you can accomplish in the next few days. We need to be diligent as well as accountable in everything we do.” Channing took the nearer of two folded napkins and wiped his fingers. “You have most of the afternoon to get all your ducks in a row, and tomorrow, I want to see results. Give me a call around mid-day to apprise me of your progress. I want to see you get a promotion out of this.” He bared his teeth in imitation of a smile. “This way, you’ll be prepared to deal with Baxter, if he ever shows up.”

Realizing that his audience with Channing was almost over, Broadstreet returned the half-eaten bear-claw to the plate on the serving-cart, picked up the second napkin to get the sugar-glaze off his hands, and brushed down the front of his jacket and vest, working out how to end this audience on an appropriate note. “Thank you. I’m glad to have something useful to do for the … company. I will do all I can to perform to your expectations.”

“Yes, yes,” Channing said, sounding a bit bored.

Standing in the doorway, Broadstreet asked, “Is it true that Atkins’ first name really is Daedalus?”

Channing blinked, somewhat surprised. “Yes. Daedalus George Atkins.”

“I supposed that he gave himself the first name,” Broadstreet said. “In a gesture of self-aggrandizement.”

“No. His parents had big plans for him from the first. They called his brother Pythagoras William. He died in a prisoner-of-war camp in ’forty-two.” He laughed once. “Can you imagine getting through grammar school with a name like Daedalus? Or worse, Pythagoras?”

“Must have been rough,” said Broadstreet, who knew it was expected of him.

“Not half so rough as I require you to be in dealing with him. Keep in mind that he is working against US interests. Persevere, Broadstreet. Do not hesitate to do all you must to end Nugent’s spying, with or without the help of Baxter. We need to get a good result on Atkins, and soon. He cannot be allowed to escape. Hoover’s men should have kept him from leaving the country, but since they didn’t … So long as I see results, you can keep your position, but if you become lax, someone else will take over for you, and you’ll be in the archives for the rest of your career.”