The Infiltrators (18 page)

“Do you want an apology?” Her voice was steady. “All right, I’m sorry, I was out of line. What the hell am I complaining about, anyway? Everybody’s spent years tearing me down, why should I object because somebody wants to build me up for a change?”

“You Liza Doolittle,” I said. “Me Professor ’Enry ’Iggins.”

“You sonofabitch,” she said with a reluctant grin. “Well, when do we go? And where?”

If somebody ever starts a new country and asks me to select a location for the capital, I sure as hell won’t pick a miasmal swamp bordering a semitropical river; but I guess we’re stuck with that reclaimed mosquito marsh on the banks of the Potomac. Well, it’s almost bearable in spring and fall; and as the taxi transported me away from the hospital in nearby Bethesda—my official excuse for coming east being a medical analysis of my damaged shoulder—I noticed that the trees were budding, tenderly, reminding me, if I needed reminding, that considerable time had passed since I’d fallen, wounded, into a New Mexico snowbank.

It was a fairly long haul into the center of Washington, and I should of course have employed my time usefully in considering the true reason for my being summoned here, and the meeting that had been called to discuss it, towards which I was now heading. However, I hadn’t really been given enough facts to work on yet, so I found myself instead thinking about Mrs. Madeleine Rustin Ellershaw, B.A., J.D., and wondering how she was getting along.

I’d seen hardly anything of her after we’d arrived at the Ranch in Arizona. People tend to kind of disappear into that sprawling desert installation, which used to be a fairly fancy dude ranch—Uncle Sam took it over for our use when it went broke. Although I’d missed Madeleine’s company, I’d been busy with my own problems of convalescence and rehabilitation. Novices in the training barracks to which she’d been assigned are not encouraged to, and usually after a hard day’s work have no desire to, associate socially with the full-fledged agents in residence for refresher courses or therapy. In fact such fraternization is discouraged for security reasons: if the trainee washes out, the fewer faces he’s seen, the better. And Madeleine had told me firmly that, if she was going to subject herself to this ridiculous bang-bang, punch-chop-kick, run-jump-climb-scramble-crawl indoctrination course, she certainly didn’t want me hanging around watching her make a spectacle of herself.

That had been back when we first arrived; and after enduring a car trip across most of two states with an unhealed bullet wound I was hardly in condition to lope across the desert terrain watching a bunch of neophytes being put through their paces, anyway. Some time later, however, I’d had occasion to look up a certain physical training instructor for advice. An exercise he’d recommended was more painful than I thought it should be and I was afraid it was doing my shoulder more harm than good. I found him with a bunch of young hopefuls just in from some kind of a cross-country conditioning run. Leaving, I saw her sitting by herself a little distance from the rest. She looked up at my approach.

“Checking up on the class clown?” she asked with a crooked little smile. “I don’t know what those kids would do if they didn’t have Auntie Madeleine around for laughs.”

She was a mess, of course, after a hard workout in the sun, lank-haired and sweaty, in a torn T-shirt and grubby blue satin running shorts that, I noticed, hung loose about her hips; she’d had to take in the waistband with a safety pin to keep them up. Her nose was peeling, and there were scabs on both knees. I couldn’t help remembering a well-groomed young lady making quite an elaborate production of selecting an expensive wine in a restaurant called Cortez; and her eyes said that she also remembered that shining girl who’d been so sure she had her golden life all arranged.

“How are you making it?” I asked.

“Don’t ask,” she said. “I suppose I’ll get over it eventually, but I still feel as if they’ve been beating me with clubs; and of course they have, a little. But I’m glad to see you, Matt. They say you’re pretty good with a rifle. So tell me, please, when you shoot, do you know when the piece is going to fire or don’t you? We’ve been arguing about it.”

I shook my head. “I try not to know. I just keep adding a little pressure on the trigger whenever the sight picture looks just right; I never know exactly when it’ll let off. That way I can’t flinch in anticipation of the noise and recoil and throw the shot wild.”

“Okay, thanks. Just what I wanted to know. Matt.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t look so worried.” She gave me that wry grin again. “It’s merely a matter of forgetting that I was supposed to be a highly respectable partner in a highly respectable law firm by this time in my life, not to mention a socially prominent and probably very stuffy and self-satisfied married lady, and letting myself become a tomboy kid again with skinned knees and a dirty face—kind of fun, actually, like a second childhood. I’ll have you know I’m keeping right up with those scrawny brats. A few aching muscles won’t kill me. I’ll be all right, you’ll see…. Oh, God, here we go again!”

The last I saw of her, she was hitching up her baggy shorts and rejoining her group at a crisp trot that did not betray the painful effort I knew it demanded of her. It was clear that she was driving herself hard, remembering that she’d once quit shamefully under pressure to the point of trying to take her own life; she obviously had no intention of letting it happen again…

Normally, on business, we’re fairly careful how we approach the shabby side-street headquarters building in Washington, always leaving our transportation some distance away and testing for surveillance before we slip inside, never mind how. But today I had the taxi driver stop right in front and wait while I fumbled out my money left-handed—my right arm was supported by a black silk sling. Well, whatever passes for silk these petrochemical days. There was clearly no mystery about me today. It was just old Helm reporting with a bum shoulder after being taking apart like a busted clock by the specialists in Bethesda to determine what bright new springs and gears were needed.

Secrecy was reserved for the third party to the three-cornered conference to be held up in Mac’s office, a man who’d make every effort to arrive unseen and depart that way. Call him Mr. Smith to be original.

But he apparently hadn’t got there yet, since I had to wait below for a few minutes with the pretty office girls who all carry little capsules under their pretty hair, or wherever girls hide such things, because they have access to information somebody might one day try to get out of them; but you don’t get much information out of dead girls. At least that’s the theory. Then I marched up the stairs, proud that I could make it without puffing—well, not much—but I’d have taken an elevator if there had been one. It had been a fairly slow recovery, and I was still way off my usual fine Olympic form. The time wasted here on all those tests and X-rays when I could have been working hard at rebuilding the body hadn’t helped.

As I entered the second-floor office with the big window that somehow isn’t overlooked by any roofs or windows within a thousand yards—quite a trick in that crowded city—Mac rose and came around the desk to greet me. It was a courtesy I’d earned by getting shot. Normally he’d simply have nodded as I came in and indicated the chair in which he wanted me to sit. I remembered to give him my left hand to shake, leaving the right acting helpless.

“I just received a summary of the final medical report by phone,” he said. “Significant tissue destruction. Poor fusion of the fractured bones, if I recall the terminology correctly. Some nerve damage. Remedial surgery recommended in a month or so, as soon as general health permits. Very regrettable, Eric.”

I said, “Well, let’s hope somebody sneaks a look at the report and is suitably impressed. I’d hate to be wearing this damn thing for nothing.” I slipped my right arm out of the sling and flexed the biceps a couple of times. “Actually, I still wouldn’t want to try arm-wrestling one of those healthy young ladies downstairs for a bet of any significance. And I’d hate to get slammed by the butt of a hard-kicking rifle or shotgun. But I guess I can shoot a pistol okay if I have to, since I don’t like those thundering Magnums anyway.”

It was one of the tricky plays that don’t often work, pretending to be more badly shot up than I really was; but the fact that he wanted me to try it was significant, indicating that he thought I’d be needing any advantage I could get, even with Madeleine Ellershaw for a baby-sitter. Or particularly with Madeleine for a baby-sitter?

“Any word from the Ranch?” I asked, putting my arm to rest once more in its tiresome silken cradle. “How’s my bodyguard coming along?”

Mac returned to his chair, waited for me to seat myself, and patted a file folder on his desk. “She completed her limited qualification, third out of a class of seven, two of whom failed to finish,” he said. “She would have been at the top if she’d had any prior shooting experience, but you can’t make an instant soldier, or operative, out of somebody who’s been brought up in a gunless household brainwashed to consider the firearm an invention of pure evil. One wonders why parents always seem to feel they’re doing favors for their children by making them afraid of things. I was brought up to be afraid of dogs—my mother was bitten by one once. I never quite got over it: something of a disadvantage back when I was revising our methods for dealing with guard and attack dogs.”

It was an uncharacteristic digression. He very seldom talked about himself; for having worked for him so long I really knew very little about him. It occurred to me that he was looking tired. The black eyebrows were as fiercely independent as ever, but the face was perhaps a little more lined than it had been. Well, he’d set up the agency from the start as a one-man outfit and now he was stuck with it, although I remembered that once not too long ago when a mission had left me in fairly bad shape he’d suggested that I might consider a desk job as his assistant.

Mac cleared his throat sharply and brought his mind back to the present. “Mrs. Ellershaw was beaten by a Texas boy who grew up shooting jackrabbits on the run, and a state-champion lady skeet shooter. Their marksmanship scores surpassed hers by enough to overcome her superior grades in other subjects.” He touched the folder in front of him. “However, quite a commendable performance considering that she was ten years older than anybody else in the class and in deplorable physical condition at the start. Also, she was slightly handicapped by the condition of her wrist, but that disability turned out to be largely psychological. In prison, she’d apparently exaggerated the effects of the injury, to herself as well as to others, using it as a justification for inactivity. It didn’t take her long to break the habit once it was called to her attention. Some residual weakness, but I’m informed she’s working hard on it. Apparently quite an impressive young woman. Her instructors all commented on her intelligence and determination.” He glanced at me. “You can inform Mrs. Ellershaw, when you see her, that if her plans for the future, whatever they may be, should fail to work out, I’ll be happy to hear from her.”

“I’ll pass the word, sir.”

Mac paused, and went on: “Of course there are some who question our personnel policies. They do not seem to realize that our work cannot be performed by conventional people with conventional backgrounds.”

“No, sir,” I said, knowing him well enough to decipher this double-talk. “Has somebody raised a question of security with respect to Mrs. Ellershaw?”

“Would you expect them not to?” His voice was dry. “A sinister female convicted of selling, or helping to sell, our critical scientific secrets to the Russians?” He frowned. “How certain are you that she’s to be trusted, Eric? Are you emotionally involved with her, by any chance?”

“Probably,” I said. “I’m a sucker for lost kittens, and birds with broken wings, and lovely maidens wrongfully subjected to durance vile. And although prison didn’t leave her in very good shape, as that record shows, she’s a bright lady with very pretty legs. How could I resist, sir?”

Mac said absently, in his pedantic way, “Technically, a married woman hardly qualifies as a maiden if her husband performed his marital duties properly, and there is no reason to believe that Dr. Ellershaw did not.” A buzzer sounded on his desk, but he paid it no attention, still studying me carefully. At last he nodded as if satisfied. “Very well, Eric. I have been backing your judgment of the lady and will continue to do so. But I must ask you now to curb your chivalry and keep your temper. The gentleman who just arrived prides himself on being a rough-spoken character—you will probably recognize him, but his name is not to be mentioned. Considering his current position, we cannot afford to antagonize him. Well, at least not unnecessarily.” After a moment, hearing footsteps in the hall outside, Mac raised his voice: “Come in, Mr., er, Smith.”

The big man who entered was wearing a shapeless suit of brown herringbone tweed, a blue shirt left over from yesterday, and a rather greasy blue tie. His brown shoes hadn’t been polished recently. His white hair needed cutting, and the barber—if he ever got to one—would hardly be able to resist the temptation to do some snipping at the bushy white eyebrows that emphasized the redness of the broad grainy face. The body was bulky enough that the vest had parted company with the pants to let a fold of crumpled shirt leak out. All in all, not a prepossessing figure, and generations of bright young politicians had wept bitterly into their very dry martinis at the perversity of an electorate that had stubbornly persisted in sending this dumb red-faced slob to the U.S. Senate in preference to their neat and attractive and highly intelligent selves.

Their trouble was, I decided, that they’d never really looked at the innocent baby-blue eyes that seemed to peer in a startled way out of the wide face, as if shocked at the company in which they found themselves. Behind those eyes was a very shrewd politician who’d held his Senate seat as long as he’d wanted it, and had then retired to remain a political power in his state. Only after the last election had he allowed himself to be called back to Washington, as adviser to a chief executive aware of his own lack of experience in domestic political affairs.