The Proxy Assassin (28 page)

Good Lord.

“I got a coupla G-men cooling their heels in the lobby who are just itchin' to talk to you.”

No doubt.

“But I
hate them stuck-up cokesackers. What say we smuggle you out the back door and send you down to E Street in Foggy Bottom.”

“Where's that?”

“I thought you worked for Frank Wisner?”

“I do.”

“That's where his office is.”

How did he know that? Had Wisner called? So far as I knew he was still in London.

“Never been there,” I said.

“Why not?”

It looked like Chief Johnson was angling for one last dollop of juicy gossip before he'd turn me loose.

“Because, Chief Johnson, I am what the Office of Policy Co-ordination terms a covert agent without portfolio.”

The Chief liked this, but his eyebrows indicated he wanted more. I laid it on thick.

“I'm an off-the-books operative authorized to perform sabotage, subterfuge and, in extreme cases, subject to National Security Council sanction, termination with extreme prejudice.”

Chief Johnson's eyes narrowed. “Are you funnin' me?”

“No sir.” I gave him my best hard-eyed stare. “And we never had this conversation.”

I was uncuffed and bundled out the back door in short order.

A
cop in an unmarked car drove me to Wisner's surprisingly cramped and cluttered office about six blocks from the White House.

“Jesus Christ, Schroeder, you look as bad as I feel.”

He said he had arrived home yesterday from London and had come down with the crud
en route
.

I was surprised to see him back so soon. I figured he would want to take some time getting Stela and the boy king settled. But I wasn't going to open that can of worms again.

I gave him a quick summation of events, how I came to have the stitches in my lip, how Leonid was intent on personal vengeance, how I killed him in self-defense. I felt bad about lying to him, though Wisner only half listened to my account. His mind was elsewhere.

“I don't take issue with your appearance at the Dewey rally, Schroeder,” he said, his voice raw. “As I understand it you didn't identify yourself as CIA. You are free to express your political preferences as a private citizen, as are we all.”

Wisner gestured to the copy of the Evening Star on his desk. “But this headline terms you a ‘CIA hero.' There is no such animal. No active agent or operative can have a higher public status than any other. It damages our cohesion.”

Very high-minded I'm sure. I had spent less than a week in D.C. all told yet its bleak cynicism had leached into my bones. I suspected that what Julia's cover story most damaged was Frank Wisner's sense of superiority to the crass, headline-chasing FBI.

“I understand your concern, sir. But becoming the CIA's Melvin Purvis was the last thing I wanted.” Purvis being the G-man
famous for gunning down Pretty Boy Floyd and John Dillinger.

I surprised the Director of the OPC with this remark. Leastwise he gave me a fresh once over. I sounded a little too big for my britches maybe. Wait till he heard my next little tidbit.

“Change of subject, sir. Last evening I was summoned to the office of J. Edgar Hoover. He wanted to discuss my dubious conduct back in '45, when I took part in a federal sting operation in Cleveland.”

“The one you were asked about at the Dewey rally.”

Wisner had been kept up. “Yes sir. We got that all squared away, best I can tell. However…” I paused to clear my throat and question my sanity. “I got the feeling that our meeting wasn't about me so much as it was about you and the OPC.”

An almost imperceptible tightening from Wisner. “How so?”

“Well, by rights Hoover should have read me the riot act about my conduct during the Cleveland sting op – I more than botched it – but he was pleasant, welcoming. I got the distinct impression that I would hear from him again, that he was, well, recruiting me to be a source.”

Wisner sat very still. “Did he ask you any direct questions related to OPC, your recent OS operation or our debrief in Rome?”

Three questions. But I do believe Wisner only cared about the last one. I pictured the headline in the Evening Star if J. Edgar Bulldog found out that Frank Wisner was the father of the heir to the Romanian throne.

CIA Chief Sires Commie King!

Someone once said ‘Be quick with bad news, take your time with good tidings.' I took my time.

“Sorry, sir, I'm not sure what you mean by ‘OS'.”

“Offshore, overseas,” snapped Wisner.

“Oh, of course,” I said. “And no, sir, the Director asked me no such questions.”

Wisner brightened at this reply and stood up. Too quickly apparently because he had to lean on his desk to steady himself. I got up as well.

“My driver will take you back to the Mayflower. Got everything you need?”

Alas I did not. But I wasn't about to ask the Executive Director of the Office of Policy Co-ordination for a wad of folding money.

The intercom buzzed. “I'll be in touch late tomorrow,” said Wisner. “After the election results come in.”

I showed myself out.

-----

Wisner's
driver was a pleasant young fellow who hailed from Twinsburg, Ohio just west of Cleveland. We talked about the Browns' terrific season – eight wins, no losses – as he drove across town. I suggested he drop me off behind the hotel in order to duck the newsies.

“I've got that covered, Mr. Schroeder.”

Indeed he had. He drove down a steep ramp on the western side of the hotel and punched in a security code on a mounted keypad. A ribbed steel door rolled up, admitting us to the Mayflower's sub-basement. He parked by an elevator shaft, got out and keyed in another code. I heard an elevator car descending.

The young man watched my perplexity with a grin. The elevator car settled with a
ding
.

“They call this the King's Lift,” he said as the door opened on an elevator operator in white and gold livery.

Wisner's driver waited until I climbed onboard, kept waiting till the door closed. The elevator operator cranked us skyward.

“I'm on the
sixth floor,” I said. “Why do they call this the King's Lift?”

“The concierge will explain sir.”

We blew by the sixth floor and kept climbing to the top of the building. The door opened to reveal a small lobby with an inlaid marble floor and a soaring glass skylight.

A dark man in an expensive suit said, “Welcome to the Penthouse Floor, Mr. Schroeder. Mr. Wisner instructed us to relocate you for reasons of security. This floor is designed for use by heads of state, it is not accessible by the lower floors.”

“Sure, of course.” We heads of state need our privacy.

He showed me to the Woodrow Wilson Suite, a dazzling three room job with a wet bar, original oil paintings on the walls, Steuben glass bowls on the end tables and a private terrace overlooking the Capitol dome. What in the world had I done to make Frank Wisner like me this much?

“We took the liberty of hanging your clothes in the bedroom closet and placing your toiletries in the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

“Is there anything else you require, sir? Anything at all?”

I wanted nothing more than to take the world's longest shower and hit the sack but the concierge looked so eager to please that it seemed a shame to disappoint him.

“I could eat something.”

“Certainly sir, we have an extensive room service menu.”

“No doubt, but for some reason I'm dying for a corned beef sandwich on Jewish rye, brown mustard, not yellow. Can you do that?”

He nodded. Actually it was more like a bow. “Would you care for a beverage?”

“A glass of beer.”

“What brand do you prefer?”

“I'm not fussy about beer.”

“Pilsner glass or a chilled mug?”

“I'm not
fussy about beer glasses either,” I said, stripping off my vile-smelling topcoat.

The concierge managed to not look surprised, though I figured to be the first guest in the history of the Woodrow Wilson Suite attired in a brown maintenance man's uniform with a name patch.

“Shall we have your coat dry cleaned, Mr. Schroeder?”

“That'd be swell. But I'll need it by tomorrow morning.”

“Very good sir. If you would like us to launder your …uniform, simply leave it in the bedroom hamper,” he said, gathering up my smelly coat. “You will find a terrycloth robe in the bathroom.”

I would and did.

-----

The corned beef was first rate, the beer cold, the bed so comfy I figured to sleep for a week. As I drifted off I tried to make sense of why I was ensconced on the Penthouse Floor of the Mayflower Hotel, my head swathed in downy pillows.

I didn't make much progress. I was asking a hard question of good fortune, true. But I wasn't all that interested in the answer.

They
say that people who rise to great wealth from humble roots quickly become accustomed to the trappings of the good life.

No shit. You wake up at three a.m. with a taste for a ham and cheese omelet and a Bloody Mary and it's on a bedside tray in fifteen minutes and you're wondering why it took so long. After two nights in the Woodrow Wilson Suite of the Mayflower Hotel my humble roots were a distant memory.

I listened to the radio and visited the wet bar and sat on my private terrace and watched the sun set behind the Capitol dome.

It was very peaceful. There's a statue atop the Capitol that you don't really notice from street level. It looked like it might be an Indian brave.

I liked that you couldn't tell for sure. They fought a world war over what fiery totem got planted atop Berlin's Brandenburg Gate. Better to leave ‘em guessing.

The FBI had come to call on Tuesday morning. They were oddly formal, and brief. On a short leash by J. Edgar, or intimidated by the surroundings. I answered their questions about the bloody demise of Leonid Vitinov, repeating what I had told the PD. They wrote down my answers, thanked me and left. Life in the Woodrow Wilson Suite was another world entirely.

I had been expecting a call from Frank Wisner once the election results came in. But the election was too close to call on Tuesday night.

Frank Wisner woke me up on Wednesday morning, by proxy. A young man, pale as his starched Mayflower tunic, apologized for the interruption. He was holding what looked
like a walkie talkie that was plugged into the wall. He presented it with a bow.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Schroeder.”

“And a good morning to you sir.” I looked up. The young man in the white tunic had vanished.

“Have you seen the election results?”

“Last I heard Dewey had a slim lead.”

“That didn't hold. Harry Truman has won.”

I listened to spitting static on the scrambled line and kept my yap shut.

“We will have to mend some fences,” said Wisner. “I believe you can provide us a valuable service in the present circumstance.”

I kept my yap shut.

“I would like you to consider being OPC's congressional liaison. I'm no good at that sort of thing, lobbying, testifying in closed session. I get flustered and lapse into lawerly mumbo jumbo.”

Somehow I couldn't picture brawny Frank Wisner being unnerved by a committee of porculent windbags. “Sir, I am
not
a gifted speaker. I barely managed ten words at the Dewey rally.”

“Americans like their heroes taciturn,” said Wisner. “And congressmen prefer listening to themselves.”

“Good one sir.”

By rights I should have jumped at the opportunity, I didn't have any other hot prospects lined up. It would be nice to have a grown-up job, I might even get to ask Miss Julia out to dinner and pick up the tab. But I wasn't keen to be the Captain Candybar of the OPC. I asked for a day to think it over.

Wisner blew his nose.

“How are your accommodations?”

“Quite splendid, sir. Any chance I could live here?”

Frank
Wisner chuckled and rang off. He thought I was kidding.

I ordered breakfast from room service. I read election coverage from the stack of newspapers the staff left at my door. I took a long soak in a hot tub. The day dragged on.

I was sorely tempted to sneak down to the T&C for one of Winston's perfect Manhattans. I could order one from room service of course but drinking a perfect Manhattan alone in your room is just plain sad. And the prospect of facing a mob of reporters shouting questions was unpleasant in the extreme.

I was reading Li'l Abner and the Katzenjammer Kids for the second time when the telephone shattered the plush quiet.

The front desk explained they had a Julia Hammond on the line, that she had been told, repeatedly, that Mr. Schroeder was not to be disturbed but that she had insisted, repeatedly, that I would want to speak to her. I told the front desk to patch her through.

I didn't care what bad-news-from-the-front Miss Julia was about to deliver. I just wanted to hear her voice.

“How are you getting along?”

“I'm a kept man at the moment, confined in splendid isolation.”

“Would you like some company?”

“Yes, ma'am, I sure would.”

“I could stop by for a cocktail.”

“Be still my beating heart.”

Julia giggled, I grinned. I missed her.

“Though I must tell you,” she said, “I have an ulterior motive.”

“Hey, join the club!” No girlish giggle this time. “What's this about, Julia?”

“My editor is after me to do a follow-up story on you.”

Oh crap. “What sort of story?”

“What they call a ‘feature.' A personality profile.”

“I've already
gotten a ration of shit for being called a CIA hero.”