Sustenance (23 page)

“Mister Broadstreet?”

His anxiety racheted up. “What is it, Florence?”

“I need to speak with you,” she said.

Not more trouble, he thought. “If you need to, then go ahead.”

After a brief silence, she asked, “May I come in?”

Broadstreet was now thoroughly flummoxed. “Yes,” he said, still wondering if her unusual behavior was significant. “Is something the matter?”

Florence walked up to Broadstreet’s desk, obviously trying to hold her emotions in check. “Yes, there is. I hate to tell you, but you have to know.” She took a deep, shaky breath, then spoke rapidly. “Cole lost his job. I told you this was likely to happen, didn’t I? He wants to sell the house and go where there’s more construction going on, where they need engineers like him.”

“I’ve been told that business is good, that there are more jobs in the offing,” Broadstreet said warily, wanting to know why Cole had been fired, but he did not ask, afraid that this might lead to more revelations than he wanted.

“And so it is, but this is not the best place for a job with potentials, not in this area, anyway. The Navy and the Army Air Corps”—now the Air Force, he reminded himself—“have all the engineers they need up and down the East Coast. Cole has an offer from Titan Construction in Texas, near Houston. They build military bases, airplane hangars, that sort of thing, and Cole does that kind of work—designs bridges and hangars and airport towers. He’s up on all the safety standards and the materiel being used for such work.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Broadstreet a bit vaguely. “So I remember. Annapolis, wasn’t he?”

“Class of thirty-eight,” she confirmed. “He placed in the top ten percent of his class.” In spite of her tears, there was no disguising her pride. “I don’t want to go away,” she repeated. “But Cole needs me with him.”

Broadstreet could think of nothing to say, so he patted her shoulder carefully and made what he hoped were comforting noises. Emotional displays always upset him, and he could feel a headache starting behind his eyes.

“I’ll put it in writing for you, tonight, so you can have the same date on your agenda record and my resignation; otherwise someone might think this is a disguised firing, and that could turn out to be a problem. This will be my sixty days’ notice. I wanted to wait a while longer, but we may have to move quickly, and I didn’t want to leave you stranded.” Now that she had said it, she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, in a futile effort to stem the crying. “I don’t want to go to Texas. I like Baltimore. I like my job. I like our house. I like my neighbors. I like my kids’ schools. I like the weather, even if it’s miserable. I like the way the coast squiggles in and out. I want to stay here.” She started to weep in earnest. “I’m so sorry. I meant to conduct myself properly.”

Truly alarmed, Broadstreet stepped back and pointed out the better of the two visitor chairs. “You ought to sit down, Florence,” he said.

She nodded and backed up to the chair he had indicated. “I hate having to ask you for a recommendation, but if we have to move…” Her voice trailed off in sobs.

“Of course, of course,” said Broadstreet, still unable to determine how much of her tale was true. Was her husband out of work, or was this a ploy to get someone else into Broadstreet’s office, someone more loyal to the CIA than to Broadstreet?

“I’ll have to find a new job,” Florence wailed as quietly as she could. “Oh, dear. I don’t know where to start. Houston sounds like a rough-and-ready place, with oil-wells everywhere. At least I have a security clearance. That should help.” These practical observations helped her to rein in her weeping. “Oh, Mister Broadstreet, you’ve been so helpful. I’m sorry I have to go. You’re a good boss, but this is not your problem—it’s something Cole and I have to work out for ourselves.”

“He’s your husband, Florence. Your duty lies with him.” He did not entirely believe her, but he did not doubt her, either.

She wadded up her handkerchief and shoved it back in the cuff of her cardigan’s sleeve. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“No thanks necessary,” he said, and moved more than an arm’s length away from her. “I’m glad you let me know. Tomorrow I’ll tell the coordinator that I’ll need someone. I hope we can have a two-day overlap so you can show the new girl the ropes.” He did as much as he could to give his words a genial warmth, but realized he had not succeeded.

“I’ll do my best, Mister Broadstreet.” She patted her hair to determine if she needed to comb it or set it to order. “I’ll fix the back at lunch-break.” She turned on her heel and stumbled a bit, but managed not to fall. “I’m sorry, Mister Broadstreet. I wasn’t thinking. I should have done this differently.” On that self-effacing note, she hurried out of his office and closed the door behind her.

Broadstreet stood still for about thirty seconds, his thoughts racing in a tangle. Then he went to his desk, pulled out his agenda, opened it to the current date, and wrote on the eleven
A.M.
line:
Florence Wentworth gave sixty day notice.
It was another troubling omen. He added no additional information, wanting to keep the record as clear and factual as possible. Then he stared toward the window, wanting to summon up the nerve to leave the building for lunch, but the recollection of what had ended up happening the last time he ate away from the building kept him where he was. Besides, he told himself, he needed to be here to receive the mail and begin the second stage of his plan. With that idea to calm him, he put his agenda away and took the next file off the Ex-Pats’ Coven stack and began to read up on Tim Frost, and his wife Moira, who, it appeared, was the family bread-winner. She had done all that she could to put her husband in circumstances that would improve his chance of recovery. A very committed woman, this Moira Frost, he concluded as he read on. At eleven-thirty, he buzzed Florence on the intercom to ask her to call the cafeteria and order him a hot meatloaf sandwich on white bread with catsup and mustard, one of his favorite dishes from the cafeteria, and to pick it up for him, with a carafe of hot coffee and a small creamer. “I’ll give you the money when you bring in the mail.”

“Okay,” she said without vitality.

“That’s one dollar, five cents, to cover the food and their preparation,” he said as if this information were new to Florence.

“I’ll bring my lunch back to the office, too, if you like,” she offered. “And pay my own prep fee.”

Not wanting a repeat of her emotional display, he said, “I think one of us sticking to the desk is about all that’s fair. Take your forty-five minutes for lunch. But thank you.” He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t rush because of me, please. Having a little time out of the office can be very restorative. If I hadn’t so much to do, I’d welcome the break myself.”

Florence took on a brisker tone. “Meatloaf sandwich on white bread, catsup and mustard, and coffee with cream, coming up.”

“Thank you, Florence,” said Broadstreet, and toggled the intercom to
off
, and sat back to read more about the Frosts. He knew that Tim Frost had been paralyzed from the waist down after a severe concussion—at Guadalcanal, according to his file—where he was ferrying supplies to the troops on the island. Frost was recognized as a hero then, for he had saved eight other men along with himself. He had studied the tides around the island and knew where to swim to keep from being washed out to sea. Had his loyalty not been questioned, he was said to be on his way to a Congressional Medal of Honor, but his statements about the Russian successes in Germany at the end of the war earned him the condemnation of the general public; he had to pay the price for his stance. He had been on disability through the Veterans Administration, but now that he was in Paris, he no longer received benefits and, unable to continue his work as an oceanographer, was reduced to being supported by his wife. One of the agents who had briefly penetrated the Ex-Pats’ Coven had summed her up as a clinical psychologist who was striving to hold her family together by seeking out clients in the ex-pats’ community. Tim and Moira had a sixteen-year-old daughter, Regina, who was attending school in Paris and coaching a half-dozen of her classmates in English. Tim’s parents were dead, and so was Moira’s mother; her father was retired and living in the Florida Keys, on Big Pine Key, if he remembered correctly. He supposed he ought to arrange to have him checked out, just to fill in any blanks about Tim.

The next folder was Hapgood Nugent’s: Broadstreet set it aside, planning to study it closely later. Too many of his plans depended on Hapgood Nugent to try to concentrate on him now. He wished he could take the file home so that he could expand his review of the material in it, but he would need Channing’s written permission to do this, and he was fairly certain that was unlikely to be forthcoming. He went back to worrying his left thumb, paying no attention when the cuticle started to bleed. His aggravation was increasing, and he was losing patience with everyone, himself included. If only the mail would come!

The crackle of the intercom cut into his exasperation. He was so startled that he jumped in his chair, and looked around as if he expected to find someone lurking behind the draperies. He forced himself to answer, clearing his throat before he activated his side of the intercom. “Yes, Florence: what is it?”

“I have Guidion Wallace on the line. Shall I put him through?”

“Ask him what this is about, if you would.” He fiddled with his tie, then reached for his pen and his notepad, prepared to write down anything once Florence toggled back on. He wrote down the name on the top of the notebook page. What kind of a name, he wondered, was Guidion?

“He says it’s about a screen-writer in Paris, one whom the Committee has accused of pro-Communist activities. Mister Wallace says that there may be—”

Broadstreet interrupted. “Tell him, if you would, to talk to Alice Jamison; she has the lesser Hollywood run-aways. And thank him for contacting us.” He saw his hand was shaking; he dropped his pen and balled his fingers into a fist, then counted to ten before he flipped the intercom to
off
, which allowed him to overhear what Florence was saying to Mister Wallace; as usual, Florence was being tactful and patient. He decided he would ask Alice about Wallace when he next saw her, and would hope that she would tell him what she learned, as a quid-pro-quo for making sure Wallace reached her. As the only woman coordinator in the CIA, she was known to be amazingly tight-lipped about her cases, fearing poaching from her male colleagues, and not without cause. Perhaps he could offer to trade information with her: academics and screen-writers could be in touch with one another. Maybe Guidion Wallace was associated with screen-writing himself. Guidion sounded like the sort of name someone in the movie industry would have. He went back to staring out the window, giving up all pretense of work while he indulged in a great deal of anticipation, imagining the heights to which he could rise if his ruse worked, and how far he would plummet if he failed.

Fifteen minutes later, Florence brought in the mail, and Broadstreet sighed his relief. “Is something the matter?” Florence asked him.

“I don’t know,” said Broadstreet. “There’s an inconsistency in these reports”—he gestured to the stack of files—“and I don’t know if that’s important or not. Inconsistencies don’t always mean deception, do they? But they might.” He had made the answer up on the spur of the moment, but now that he had said it, he decided it was a useful tack to take in terms of pursuing information. “I should send a wire to Phil Rothcoe; he can assign one of his men to check these things out. I can’t manage it from here.”

“You’ve said before that inconsistencies are one of the hazards of field work, and this is probably just more of the same,” she reminded him as if addressing a favorite teacher. “Why ask for more field work to clarify matters?”

“Yes, I understand your point,” he agreed. “But it’s those inconsistencies that lead to problems—that is why cases remain open when they should be closed. I want to be able to settle the cases on these professors, once and for all, and that means taking the time to find explanations for all the information that is lacking, and all the statements that are contradictory.” He did not add that it would make his reputation if he did, and that he would be able to get the promotion that had eluded him for so long. He wondered how he might work Baxter into Wallace’s information, once he got Alice Jamison to tell him what it was.

“I called in your lunch order,” said Florence, as much to get his attention as to impart what she had done on his behalf.

“Thanks,” he said a bit distractedly. Then he looked up at her. “Sorry.” He reached into his trouser-pocket and pulled out a small coin purse from which he took out two half-dollars and a dime. He gave her his version of a smile. “Keep the change.” He added a nickel to his offering. “Get yourself a roll to go with your salad.”

She took the coins, an unreadable expression on her face. “Thank you, Mister Broadstreet,” she said tonelessly before she turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

In a kind of self-torment, Broadstreet waited to open his planted letter last, wanting to make the most of this moment. He ordered the various letters in a single stack, overseas letters on top, domestic letters underneath. He noticed one of the envelopes said Grant Nugent as the return addressee and was post-marked St. Louis. This he set out on the desk, wondering what Hapgood’s brother-in-law had to tell him now. Last of all, he picked up the envelope addressed by a standard Royal ten-point typewriter, his first name misspelled—he thought that was a nice touch—and no return address. It was post-marked Wilmington, Delaware, two days ago; the envelope was somewhat wrinkled as if it had been carried in a pocket that was too small for it—another nice touch, he felt.

The intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Florence?” Broadstreet asked, annoyed.

“I’m going up to lunch, Mister Broadstreet. I’ll be back within the hour.” She clicked off, and he was distantly aware that he had offended her in some way, although he had no such intention. “Women,” he muttered as he continued his inspection of the letter he had been at such pains to make look right. The lined yellow paper off a legal pad was a clever choice, and the small coffee-stain in the right-hand corner gave it the air of something written in haste. The text was a mix of script and arbitrary printed capitals, suggesting the writer was attempting to disguise his handwriting, which, of course, was true. He read it through twice, glad that he had chosen to put his brief message in the middle of the page, the ink a standard blue, bought with the lined paper at Deering Office Supplies in Philadelphia, where he had paid cash and had not kept the receipt. He noticed the few grains of beach sand that were in the envelope, hardly more than six or seven, something that anyone might ignore; he had brushed them off his sleeve after he had spent half a day in his little boat on Christmas weekend. There were no fingerprints on the paper beyond the few he had supplied when he opened the letter to read it: Broadstreet had worn thin cotton gloves when he worked on it; he had thrown the gloves into a public garbage can in Oxon Hill, Maryland. He had covered his tracks very well, he told himself. There was no way to trace all this back to him. He congratulated himself on his accomplishment.