Sustenance (26 page)

“As do I,” Szent-Germain said, and went to close and lock the garage door.

Rogers knew he would have to be content with this response; he got out of the car and took the short walkway toward the building where Szent-Germain’s flat was, and opened the rear door so both of them could go inside.

By one in the afternoon on the following day, Szent-Germain’s curiosity was piqued, and he found it difficult to concentrate. He had cut short his meeting with three of the press-men, asking them to put another set of galleys of Professor Treat’s book on the desk in his office, and explained that she would arrive shortly for a conference. “Have your luncheon early, and go back to work by two-thirty; you’ll still receive a day’s pay.”

“That’s generous of you,” said des Ponts.

“I hope you will turn your extra time to good use,” said Szent-Germain, getting to his feet and preparing to leave the room. “I have a few things to attend to in my office.”

“We’ll leave within ten minutes, out the back way; I’ll lock the door,” said des Ponts, motioning to the rest of the men. “Come on. Let’s get our things and leave.”

Szent-Germain crossed the reception area and entered his office, where he opened the shutters, and was looking for an ashtray when he heard the summons of the knocker; he left the office to answer it.

Charis had not slept well, and it showed in her eyes. Despite her fawn-colored Bonnie Cashin suit, Hermes gloves, and Italian high heels, she seemed neither buoyed up by her fashions nor ready to buckle down to a discussion on her books. “Thank you for seeing me, Grof. I have that list of reviewers you wanted.” Reaching into her large, square purse she pulled out two pages paper-clipped together, which she handed to him.

“Professor Treat,” Szent-Germain said as he held the door open to admit her. “My office is the second door on the right.”

“Fine,” said Charis, sounding distracted; she faltered as if she were uncertain that she should proceed. “I probably shouldn’t have asked you to see me, but I’m relying on you not to be too condemning. I really didn’t think it would come to this.” Her smile crumpled and she looked away from him.

“Why on earth should I condemn you?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “You are an Eclipse Press author; you may command my attention as you wish, and to the limits of my capacity, I will try to accommodate any request you have.”

She gave an unhappy, uneven laugh. “You make it sound so easy. And I know it’s not.”

“What’s the matter, Professor?” he asked as he followed her into his office. “Please sit down—the chair or the sofa, as you prefer.”

She looked from one to the other, and to the chair behind the desk. “I’ll take this,” she said, sitting down in the chair, where she sat stiffly; to occupy herself, she removed her gloves, tucking them into her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked, and before he could answer, she took a pack of Chesterfields from her purse and pulled out a cigarette, holding it up defiantly as if she expected him to deny her.

He went to the desk to get his lighter, holding it out with its little flame already burning. “What’s wrong, Professor? I can see something is bothering you. Why not tell me at once, and be done with it?”

“I’m trying to work up the nerve,” she admitted. She inhaled, buying herself a second or two to gather up her courage; she plunged into her crisis. “My husband wants to divorce me,” she said in a rush, and began to cry. “Oh, damn,” she muttered as she put her cigarette in the nearest ashtray and wiped her eyes with the rumpled handkerchief from her jacket-pocket.

“Are you sure? Did he offer any explanation?” He was startled by this announcement; he had expected other problems. “Why would he want to do that?” he asked levelly as he hitched his leg over the edge of his desk so that he was nearly touching her.

“For his work, or that’s what he claimed,” she said. “He’s afraid his corporate sponsor will discontinue funding his work if I’m still in the picture, being a known Communist sympathizer, which I am not—or not the way the Committee means it. Harold told me he wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t so necessary to his research. He tells me he’s sorry, but he’s got so much riding on his project, he’s afraid he won’t be able to find another backer, and without corporate money, the university won’t support his work, either with lab-space or grad students to assist him.” She started to tremble. “If I refuse, he’ll despise me for ruining his career, so we’ll end up apart, no matter what. It’s bad enough that my career is in ruins.”

He reached out and took her hand; he felt her quiver again, but for different reasons than she had before. “Your career is not in ruins. You may be sure of that. It has changed direction but it hasn’t ended.”

“Harold doesn’t see it that way. He’s in a panic.”

Szent-Germain was aware that Charis was trying to hold her agitation at bay. “If he truly needs corporate backing, I can probably arrange something. I have … business associates who sometimes invest in academic projects.” That most of these
associates
were various aliases he had used over the centuries, he did not bother to tell her.

“I’m too indebted to you already.” She wadded up her handkerchief and pushed it back into her pocket.

“Do you mean you want to keep this between you and your husband?” he guessed, knowing the answer.

She nodded. “Un-huh,” she said.

“Even though it may end your marriage?” He said it bluntly, knowing she did not want to be treated like a weak-willed female.

“If I’m not worth more to him than five years’ funding, it’s better to learn it sooner than later,” she said with a forlorn attempt at bravery. “He’s got his parents living with him now, and they’re taking care of the boys, and that leaves me cut out of the family. I don’t like the thought of losing Arthur and David, but”—her voice broke and she clung fiercely to his hand—“I don’t know if he’ll allow me to see them.”

He studied her while she fought back tears. “Can he do that? Won’t the courts make some provision for access?”

“They m-might,” she allowed as she stifled a sob. “In some states, but not Louisiana. He could claim I deserted the family, or that I w-was indoctrinating my sons in un-American Activities, and he could probably get an Order of P-protection to keep me away from them.” She seemed not to hear her childhood stutter.

“Are you certain?” He knew of far more draconian measures taken against unwanted wives, but not in the US, at least not this century. “Did he say so?”

“Not in so many w-words, no, but I know H-harold, and I know when he’s g-giving me a warning. He has a style h-he uses, and he was using it w-when he phoned me.” She pressed her lips firmly together, then went on more steadily. “If I agree to let him divorce me, without contesting it, he’ll be willing to arrange some kind of visitation with the kids.”

“Do you think he will?” He spoke gently; he could feel her anguish triggering her need of him, and he chose his words carefully. “Do you have friends in New Orleans who would be willing to work as your intermediary in this?”

She looked away. “I don’t know. I used to think I had friends who would stand by me, but when push came to shove, no one did. And I ended up here.” She shook her head. “Good lord, I sound like such a
ninny
!”

“Not a ninny,” he said, standing up and holding his hand out to her. “You sound alone. There’s a difference.”

Taking his hand, she rose into the haven of his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, and finally giving way to tears that were drawn as much from anger as they were from pain and frustration. It took almost five minutes to cry herself out, and even after her tears were gone, she remained standing in his embrace, her heart pounding so loudly that she could not hear his pulse at all. When she finally took a step back, he released her, though he did not move away from her. She retrieved her handkerchief and was about to use it when he offered her a square of black silk; she took it, whispering, “Thank you.”

“Not necessary, but you’re welcome—I believe that’s what they say in the States,” he told her, at last knowing what she needed most from him.

She nodded. “It is,” she said, and gave an awkward laugh. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assured her.

“I thought … I thought I wasn’t so overwrought.”

“You needn’t apologize; I’m not offended.”

“Still…” she said, offering him his handkerchief; he waved it away. “We’re doing business together, and it’s not appropriate to … to mix personal and professional.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, an excellent rule, but these are not ordinary circumstances for you, are they?” As he watched, she shook her head, unwilling to look at him. “What you need now isn’t a publisher, it’s an ally.”

This caught her attention; she stared at him. “An ally,” she echoed.

“You have one, if you want one.”

“An ally,” she repeated, this time as if testing the word for intent and sincerity.

“If that is what you want,” he said again.

“I might be here for a long time, if Harold has his way,” she cautioned him. “It could be long and drawn out.”

“I’ll be your ally as long as you want one,” he told her. “What you decide about your husband is up to you.” He extended his hand.

She took it with both of hers. “You’re on.”

TEXT OF A REPORT FROM LYDELL BROADSTREET IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, TO CIA DEPUTY DIRECTOR CHANNING IN WASHINGTON, DC, CARRIED BY INTERNAL MESSENGER.

EYES ONLY

March 7, 1950

Deputy Director Channing,

Baxter did not appear for our second scheduled meeting, not even in the unusual way in which he presented himself to me at our first encounter; I still want to know how he got into my car and was able to remain hidden for as long as he was. Your men must have looked in the back windows to see if there were any potential problems with the car. Baxter said he crouched on the floor of the backseat for well over two hours I should think your men would have spotted something, though I must admit, I saw nothing amiss as I came up to my Packard after lunch. I wish he had not been so diligent in keeping his face partially concealed. He has rather heavy brows, fairly dark, and hazel eyes. His accent is Midwestern, perhaps Chicago, and he used technical terms correctly and with ease. At least the information he provided as I drove back from the Helmsman made the journey worth the time it took away from the office. All those fomulae for wiring systems can help us to detect piggy-back coding on radio signals. Baxter left a note for me under my windshield wiper; he put it in a Traffic Authority envelope, so that it appeared I had received a parking ticket, but who would be ticketing a restaurant parking lot baffles me.

The note informed me that he fears being observed, so he has suggested another place that he and I might meet: Branco’s Oyster Beds. It is not quite as remote as the Helmsman, and it is much louder and busier. Even now, when there is an “R” in the month, Branco’s does a great deal of business. Baxter’s note informs me that there is a potential difficulty with the Helmsman: its very remoteness makes individuals more likely to be remembered. Branco’s has a significant turn-over, and single individuals don’t stand out unless they are unruly or loud. I see the advantage of his recommendation: after due consideration, I believe Baxter is right, and so I’m applying to you for a voucher for two meals at Branco’s on the 14
th
. Baxter has assured me in his note that he will make an appearance or notify me in the morning that he will be delayed.

I am, of course, continuing my efforts to discover the identity of Baxter. I remain convinced that he is an engineer of some sort—those capital letters interspersed throughout his first and second note are often encountered in the handwriting styles of engineers. It would also explain the information that Baxter has provided us. I see a number of advantages in using Baxter as a resource as long as his information is useful to us, not the least of which is that he came to us, which demonstrates his patriotism and his own loyalty. If his employer is indeed mixed up with questionable persons, this way we can be sure that we are not in the hands of a double-agent. Engineering cannot easily be faked, which makes me fairly confident that we are getting straight goods, as my mother used to say.

If you are willing to give me a free hand in dealing with Baxter, I know I can establish rapport with him, and perhaps I can find out how Baxter and D. G. Atkins intersect, and where Atkins has gone. A few more lunches is a small price to pay for such necessary information. Let me know when you have decided how much leeway I am to have with Baxter.

Submitted

Lydell Broadstreet

4

C
HARIS’ NEW
flat took up the whole of the top floor in a handsome building in the now-passe but very beautiful Art Nouveau style; each window overlooking the street had a balcony with railings ornamented with carved trailing vines. There were stairs up the front and back—the front stairs were interior, the rear were not—and there was an elevator that required a key to reach the top level, which was a large, well-laid-out flat: it had a modern kitchen with a dumbwaiter that connected to the building’s kitchen on the ground floor as well as a chute that led to the dustbin at the back of the building on the alley that gave access to the garage. There were two bedrooms, a living and a dining room, one full bathroom and one guest bathroom, a study, and even a terrace outside the master bedroom, with a number of potted plants providing shade and shelter. The bedrooms and the living room as well as the study had rolled carpets standing up against the wall, and some very simple furniture on the bare floors.

“I’m waiting for the furniture to be delivered,” she said to Szent-Germain as she held the door to the small elevator lobby open, beckoning him to come in. “I hope you won’t mind sitting on wooden benches. I’ve put pillows on them, to make them easier to sit on.” She was in a simple house-dress, her hair wrapped in a long, peach-colored scarf; she wore no make-up. “As my ally, you won’t be put off by all that needs doing, will you?”