Sustenance (48 page)

“That’s good news,” said Pierce, intending to pass this information on to Channing while on her coffee-break. She smiled as she caught sight of two little iodine spots on his jaw, where he had cut himself shaving that morning. “I put the report I completed last night in Mister Channing’s delivery box before I went home, so he should be in line with your progress first thing today.” She managed a supportive smile.

“Yes; you said you would,” he said, and then decided to add, “Thank you for that.” He waited for her to speak, then added, “I’m most grateful.”

“All part of my duties, Mister Broadstreet,” she said.

“Um,” said Broadstreet, pulling his office-door key from his pocket. “I’ll be available for calls until ten-twenty,” he said, wanting to get away from her, and the power she had to command his attention.

“Ten-twenty,” Pierce said, and gave a sigh of relief when Broadstreet entered his office, leaving her to her current chores, which required very little concentration; she rolled paper into her typewriter and filled in the first three lines of the form in front of her while she did her best to work out what Broadstreet was up to, all the while puzzling over his uncharacteristic exuberance that had marked him this morning. She had to decide what she would tell Channing. It would probably be best to wait until Broadstreet had made his call to Paris, for then she could describe to Channing how Broadstreet reacted to the call, and how much he was willing to tell her of his plans. She had a new envelope purse with her, in good leather, dyed a rich walnut-brown, and matching her shoes, she thought, and he had hardly noticed. She was only slightly aware that Broadstreet could not stop staring at her.

It was going to be an important day—every omen confirmed it. He leaned on the door for a few seconds, trying to gather his thoughts for his coming talk with Rothcoe. To his astonishment, he was shaking. He made himself breathe slowly, and repeated softly, “it’s going to work, it’s going to work, it’s going to work,” as he made his way to his desk and sat down, opening his briefcase as he did. He pulled out five files and placed them at various intervals in the stacks he had already made. No one would notice that there were five files with their spines to the right rather than the left, he promised himself as he looked at the clock on the wall. “Nine-fifty-two,” he murmured, and tried to make up his mind how he would spend the next half-hour. At last he pulled his personal notebook out of the briefcase and began to review his plan for the next week. He took time to try to decide how long it would take him to bring about the results he was seeking. Ideally, it would not require more than a few days, but he knew that was an unrealistic goal. As much as he liked to believe that it could be accomplished quickly, and that he would have all the weight of the Agency behind him, he knew that was not going to happen. Under the current constraints of his position, he would have to be willing to go slowly, so as not to exceed his authority, and to be sure that no information leaked before he wanted it to.

A tap on the door pulled him out of his musing. “Yes?”

“Your coffee,” said Opal Pierce.

“Oh, yes. Bring it in. Please.” He sat up and folded his hands on top of the files he needed the most. “Very good. Thank you, Missus Pierce.”

Making no effort to be convincing, she said, “My pleasure.” She set the cup-and-saucer down on the clear space next to his lamp, and was about to leave when Broadstreet spoke again.

“You’re very helpful, Missus Pierce. I should thank you more often than I do, but it is true.”

“It’s part of my job to be helpful,” said Pierce, adjusting her stance so that her dress made her bust glow like ripe fruit; she saw the flare of lust in his eyes that she knew he did not recognize for what it was. “If there’s anything more you need, Mister Broadstreet?” she asked with a deferent smile.

“Nothing just now. Probably later.”

“I’ll do my best,” she assured him.

“And you do it excellently,” said Broadstreet, handing her a dollar. “For the coffee. Keep the change.”

She wanted so much to slap his face for that casual, smug gesture that put her on the par with a servant, but she swallowed hard and said, “Thank you,” before she hastened out of his office, closing the door between them with more than usual force.

Broadstreet was too preoccupied thinking about his call to Rothcoe to notice that Pierce was upset. He slipped his notebook out of his briefcase and went over the points he wanted to discuss with Rothcoe. It would not do to falter in his conversation, given what he would be asking. He would destroy these notes later, of course, but just now he found it deeply reassuring, a vindication of all his plans. He sat back and drank a little of the coffee Pierce had brought him, thinking about the non-fraternization policy that would frown upon an open flirtation with his attractive secretary; he would have to find a way to work around those strictures, but that could be an intriguing challenge in itself. He drank more coffee, considering the omens he had observed that morning, and so far felt that the tide was with him. He picked up the receiver of his telephone and dialed for the international operator, then gave her his name, and the number in Paris he wanted to reach. It was tempting to mention how important the call was, but he kept that to himself: there would be plenty of time for boasting later on, when he had resolved the case and received his recognition. He listened to the telephone ring.

“A call for Philetus Rothcoe,” said the operator as soon as the ring was answered.

“I’m Rothcoe. I’m expecting a call from Lydell Broadstreet.”

“I have your party,” said the operator. “Go ahead, Mister Broadstreet,” she told him before she clicked off.

There was a brief silence, then Broadstreet said, “How’s it going in Paris, you lucky stiff?”

“Well enough,” said Rothcoe carefully. “The Gendarmes picked up another Nazi camp guard a couple days ago, small fry, really, but he knows where some of the big fish have gone.”

“Is a prosecution likely?” Broadstreet asked, although he was not much interested.

“Depends on how many survivors there are who can identify him, and how willing they are to testify,” said Rothcoe. “For now, it’s hurry up and wait.”

“Well, even if you’re marking time, what a great place to do it,” said Broadstreet with false enthusiasm. “How are matters going with the Coven?” He could hear Rothcoe’s cigarette lighter flare on, and a second later, Rothcoe’s long exhale. “I ask, because I think I may have found an interesting link among the members, and I’d like your insights on that group. Their dynamics are a little … confusing from here.”

“You mean dynamics beyond being virtual exiles?” Rothcoe asked. “They’re academics: there’s bound to be some connections. That world’s a pretty exclusive club, even now.”

“No, more than that,” said Broadstreet, reminding himself not to plunge into his case right off the bat. “I think I may have found the underlying—”

“About half of them publish through Eclipse Press,” Rothcoe interrupted deliberately. “They have that in common.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Broadstreet, knowing he was being needled and growing testy because of it. “This is something that goes back a while, to the Thirties, when Szent-Germain was in America.” He let this sink in. “You didn’t know about that, did you?”

“No,” said Rothcoe. “I can’t say that I did. Tell me more.”

“It’s a little strange, but I believe I may have found the way in which these people may all be attached as more than Communist-sympathizing university instructors.” He paused long enough to let Rothcoe think about it. “It began when the Spanish government seized Szent-Germain’s aircraft-manufacturing business. It seems they left his trading company intact—probably not big or strategic enough to worry about.”

“When was this?” Rothcoe asked, sounding impatient.

“Back in the Thirties.” He glanced at his notepad though he had memorized the information several days since. “He vanished from Spain around the end of June in 1936.”

“That’s fourteen years ago. He must have been just a little more than a kid,” Rothco remarked, then his tone changed. “You needn’t remind me that the men who took Omaha Beach were little more than kids, too, for the most part.”

“All of them were kids, but the officers,” said Broadstreet, pleased that Rothcoe saw the importance on his own, and needed no careful leading. “But, as I said, he vanished from Spain, by which I mean
poof!
No one in his airplane company knew what had happened, except that his business affairs were all in order. And no one in his trading company had any knowledge of him. His manservant was seen—perhaps—the day that the Spanish Civil War began, but no one can confirm it, so that leads nowhere. The next place he crops up is in Boston, and it turns out someone has set a hired killer on him, although who or why, I have yet to find out.” He could feel Rothcoe wrestling mentally with this knowledge, and he paused to light up his pipe. “So you see, there are factors here neither of us have considered. I believe that if Szent-Germain were gotten rid of—very discreetly this time; nothing like those two thugs you hired to discourage him from helping the Ex-Pats’ Coven—we could tidy up that organization without fuss. And we could find out where D. G. Atkins is without resorting to … intrusive tactics to do it.”

“The report on what he has done for refugees and displaced persons is truly admirable,” said Rothcoe uneasily. “Why should we repay his generosity and care so…?”

“Shabbily?” Broadstreet suggested. “What if all those so-called good works of his are only a smokescreen, to keep governments from asking the very things you are asking me? He is a very crafty fellow, this Grof Szent-Germain, if he is a Grof at all.”

“He’s got some kind of title, that’s certain,” said Rothcoe, wanting to be able to demonstrate his knowledge of the man. “The family has been in Romania and Hungary for centuries, and not one of the present generation has spoken out against this man. They defer to him.”

Unwilling to concede the point, Broadstreet said, “Well, considering the chaos in Eastern Europe generally, and the hostilities in the Carpathians in particular, all manner of rag-tag opportunists may claim a noble ancestor or two. Have you sent anyone to question the family? I should have thought that would be first thing on your list.”

“No, we haven’t done that; we’re not allowed to,” said Rothcoe, sounding a bit morose. “If you have nothing against Szent-Germain you can prove, present it to Channing. I think it would be wise to be rid of him, but I lack the means to make an accusation stick.” He cleared his throat. “I know you have strong opinions about Szent-Germain, but unless you have facts to back you up … This part of the CIA has to operate on demonstrable evidence or we will shortly be unable to function at all. Innuendo may work to discourage Communists at home, but here in Europe we are obliged to proceed on proof.”

“And you never bend the rules, do you?” Broadstreet asked, his smile worthy of a bad-tempered alligator.

“Of course not,” said Rothcoe, a shade too quickly; he took a long, steadying breath and went on, doing his best to sound calm. “Tell me what you’d like to know about Szent-Germain and I’ll do what I can to authenticate the charges against him. Until you can do this, it would be a good idea if you don’t let—” He stopped abruptly. “The assassin sent after Szent-Germain to America might not be an isolated incident.”

Broadstreet sat up slowly, his pipe clutched in his teeth. “Are you suggesting anything?” he demanded quietly.

“No. I’m warning you,” said Rothcoe.

“Don’t get caught. I realize that,” said Broadstreet.

“No. Don’t do anything at all.” Rothcoe’s voice was more urgent. “Stay away from Szent-Germain.”

Broadstreet chuckled. “I wasn’t planning on involving you,” said Broadstreet and hung up, savoring his sense of accomplishment; he pulled out his notebook and began to check off points in preparation for the next phase of his plan.

TEXT OF A LETTER FROM JIMMY O’HANRAGHAN, KNOWN AS RIGGS, IN ACAPULCO, MEXICO, TO LYDELL BROADSTREET IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND; SENT AS AN AIR-LETTER AND DELIVERED FOUR DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

24 September, 1950

L. G. Broadstreet

P.O. Box 251

Madison Station

Baltimore, Maryland, USA

Dear Mister Broadstreet,

I heard you’re looking for a man with my talents, and I was wondering when you would get around to me. It sounds like the sort of job I wouldn’t mind doing. One event, a Jaguar XK120, in a public street. A pity to destroy such a handsome auto, but you say it can’t be helped. The cost would be $20,000 up front, in cash, delivery of which we will arrange if we have a deal. I will also require a round-trip airplane ticket from Mexico City to Brussels and back, for the week of 3 December or 10 December, whichever is more convenient to you, so that I may acquaint myself with the target, and then one round trip for the middle of February, a four-day trip, preferably beginning on a Sunday. I will arrange my housing, and I will add the price of it to the second installment of your payment, $30,000 in cash within ten days of the completion of the event. Failure to deliver the full amount would result in my turning over all evidence I am able to supply to the American Embassy in Paris, where I am sure there will be someone who will find it most interesting. I will be out of France by then, and not easily located, so do not suppose you will be able to turn me in to avoid payment. I do not haggle about price, nor the terms of delivery, so I will expect nothing more than your acceptance of terms and payments as scheduled, or I will arrange a demonstration for you that will teach you the error of your ways, however briefly.

The event you are seeking to accomplish will occur on or before the end of next February, or you will owe me nothing more than the initial payment of $20,000, and I will account for my failure in a letter, which it would be wise not to keep. You state you would prefer I use American components to encourage the authorities to search out Americans as primary suspects. You do not need to inform me why you ask for this—far be it from me to discourage business—but I draw the line at planting so-called evidence of any kind. I prefer to use components from the place the event is supposed to take place. I have connections for such materiel as I will require in Paris, the cost of which will be added to the final payment.