Sustenance (40 page)

Channing’s secretary was a new face to Broadstreet—a woman of about thirty, smallish, neat, with carefully subdued good looks, and an engaging charm about her as she took stock of Broadstreet, saying in answer to his question, “I’ll be here until his usual secretary comes back from his assignment in three weeks with his brother, after spending most of that time in Italy, poor guys—it’s much better there in the last couple years. Thank you for asking.”—so he reached into his inner breast pocket for his wallet in order to identify himself with his credentials, striving to keep his anxiety at bay.

“It’s all in order,” she said after a cursory examination.

“Much appreciated, Miss Pierce.”

“Missus Pierce,” she corrected him with an easy smile. “Go on in, Mister Broadstreet. He’s expecting you.”

Two fans labored to cool off Manfred Channing’s office, but they did little more than ruffle the pages under an ornate paperweight in the middle of his desk-top blotter. The thermometer in the barometer display registered ninety-one degrees and the barometer was starting to fall. That would be a real problem, with all the preparations under way for the Fourth. There would be rain by sundown. Channing himself was a bit pink from the heat, but had no other direct sign of being too hot; his charcoal pin-stripe three-piece suit of lightweight Italian wool showed no sign of swelter, and his linen shirt appeared crisp; his tie had a regimental stripe and had not been loosened. He looked across the desk at his current visitor, and did his best to smile his approval. “I’ve read your most recent report on Baxter. It sounds as if you’re making progress with him at last.”

“So I hope,” said Lydell Broadstreet. “He’s not a man who is easy to pin down. He gets skittish when I’ve tried.”

“That much is obvious,” said Channing, and tapped his intercom. “Pierce, will you go get two large glasses of lemonade for me and my—?” He made no excuse for not using Broadstreet’s name or position within the agency.

Opal Pierce, who was determined to gain the good opinion of Broadstreet, answered at once. “I’ll be back in ten minutes at the most, if that’s satisfactory.” This was promised with a slight chuckle, as if the answer were obvious. “Will you want ice in the lemonade?”

“Ice for us both, a lot of it,” said Channing, not bothering to ask Broadstreet which he would prefer. He toggled off the intercom, and gave most of his attention to Broadstreet. “I appreciate your care in seeking not to interject your opinion into your observations, but I think it would be best if you tell me at least this: what is your impression of Baxter?”

“You have it in my reports,” Broadstreet said, and realized he had erred, that Channing was looking for something specific, and would fish for it as long as he had to. “But if you’d like me to enlarge upon what I have in the report, it will be my pleasure to do so; I have been reviewing my last meeting with him, and I think I might shed some light on the confusion around him. Or if you have questions requiring explication, ask me and I’ll do what I can to answer.” He told himself he had made a good recovery.

“Yes. I would like that.” He shifted a little in his wheelchair, his brow furrowed. “You say you have tried to locate this man Baxter’s place of employment among the marine engineering firms along the coast, but that you are beginning to think that he may be employed by the government, or working as an independent contractor for a government agency.”

Broadstreet did his best to conceal his uneasiness. “It would account for a lot, either way. It would also explain why he is so circumspect.”

“And why do you say that?” Channing asked.

“Well, I can find no record of him with any company that would give him access to what he claims to know from experience. But there can be good reasons for that: I have considered that he is using an alias, which, given the nature of his endeavors, is not unlikely, and that identifying him by his correct name could take time. As you see in my report, he says he has participated in trials of many kinds of marine structures as well as having a fair amount of knowledge about roads and bridges. To me this suggests that he has taken on a wider scope of—” He saw Channing lift his hand, and went silent.

“Yes, you made that clear in your report. I believe you may be onto something about the nature of his endeavors. What perplexes me is that you haven’t been able to identify any single project on which he worked, and that troubles me.”

Very gingerly, Broadstreet moved forward in his chair, knowing that his next explanation must be successful. “There is another possibility.”

“And that is?”

This risky assertion he was about to make was the heart of the matter; he steadied himself for it. “He might have worked but been dismissed for activities that were questionable. He may also be bait for some sort of trap, a lure, but since I have no idea whom he might be allied with, I don’t know if I should consider any of this in my evaluations. He might have been part of the war effort and now cannot find employment, so he is keeping body and soul together by selling what he knows to the Soviets or others who are seeking such information—or the Greeks and the Japanese, perhaps.”

“How likely do you think any of this is?” Channing pulled a notebook out of his middle desk drawer and reached for a pencil. “That Baxter is a foil for another power? Have you any theory as to why that should be?”

“I have some ideas, none of them demonstrable at present, but I believe I should keep aware of these possibilities.” He told himself that this was an excellent improvisation, and one he could use as needed.

“We’ll consider his subterfuge a possibility, not a likelihood, but it would be folly to scratch it off the list entirely,” said Channing, a warning in his voice. “I agree with you that it can’t be ignored, but I believe that this is where we apply Occam’s Razor and go with the simplest explanation first; it spares us the trouble of having to question what we have already established. But be aware that everything you’re considering could be right. Don’t waste too much time chasing wild geese if you can help it. I would assume that he is acting more like an amateur than a professional spy, which puts the focus on his occupation, not his ideology. How does that seem to you?”

Broadstreet blinked, surprised at being asked so directly. “I think it makes sense, but we haven’t all the facts yet, and that makes going with the simplest explanation a bit premature. It is at least as likely that he has a secondary agenda as that he is some underling at an engineering firm with a present government contract, and that he is trying to turn that to his advantage,” said Broadstreet, and watched as Channing wrote something down. “I still believe his area of endeavor is marine engineering, but I have become less certain on his specific employment because of his great understanding of roads and bridges. That could turn a man resentful, especially if he had participated in the early days of repairing harbors in Europe. Baxter is old enough that he might have been a civil service employee of the Navy, or perhaps even the Army Corps of Engineers, during the war. I’ll check out the lists and see if someone stands out. He could have been among those contractors who worked on the rebuilding of parts of Europe, particularly where work included rebuilding and clearing harbors. On a broader front, he could also have worked along the major rivers, where restoring order meant rebuilding roads and bridges, and breakwaters, among other things.”

Channing continued to scribble. “Do you have a plan regarding his present activities? When you first made contact with him, it would seem that he was reporting the machinations of others. Do you still think that?”

“I do, but with some modification of my position: I think he might have participated with others in dealing with our former allies and some of our enemies, and that for some reason, he decided to withdraw from their venture. It could be that he is in danger from more than one source, and that would explain his reluctance to deal with me directly, and why he chooses such out-of-the-way locales for our meetings—that he knows of these places at all.”

“An interesting thesis,” said Channing. “How do you intend to pursue it?”

“I haven’t made up my mind. But I am aware that I will need time to work out how I will proceed to avoid going off on a wild goose chase.” He regarded Channing, his expression hopeful.

“How soon do you think you will be able to undertake this next step in your investigation?” Channing returned Broadstreet’s scrutiny. “Also, has it ever occurred to you that this Baxter might be lying?”

The challenge was so abrupt that it took Broadstreet almost a minute to summon up an answer. “At first, yes, I thought that was a possibility, but then I decided that it was better to learn as much as I could before determining if he were being truthful; I am trying to leave my mind open to the possibilities for a while longer; it would be intolerable to discover that in my zeal, I have neglected the obvious. I’ve been looking over my notes from our scheduled meetings—those that did and did not happen, which brought me back to that second time at the Helmsman, when he broke into my car and hid in the backseat until I finished my meal and your men ceased to watch me; that was when I decided that he had something to impart, if only I could persuade him to be candid in his revelations. He’s not one to blurt out anything compromising, as I reiterated in my report.” That sounded reasonable enough, he told himself, and waited for what Channing would ask next.

“But you suspect he has been engaging in espionage, is aware of the severity of his crimes, and is now trying to free himself from his comrades without endangering any lives, his own included?” He patted the papers under the paperweight. “You say that is your present stance: has it changed in any way?”

Broadstreet shook his head. “No. I stand by what is in that portion of the report on that incident. I could make a few more surmises to make the report longer, but it won’t be any more accurate than it is now. There are details I will want to flesh out in the next few days, and a few matters that I’m doubtful about.”

“And those matters—how important are they to your investigation?”

“I can’t answer that until I know what they are.” He hesitated. “I don’t mean that in any sarcastic way, of course; I haven’t learned enough to know what other answer to give.” He would have gone on, but Opal Pierce appeared in the outer door, carrying a tray with two glasses almost filled with ice, and a large pitcher of lemonade.

Noticing her presence, Channing motioned to her to come in. “This will help clear the head,” he declared. “This heat saps the intellect.”

Uncertain if Channing were expecting an agreement or other observation, Broadstreet nodded.

“This should cool us both down,” said Channing, signaling to Pierce to pour for him and Broadstreet. “And buzz Alice for me in about twenty minutes, if you would. She and I have something to discuss today.”

“Of course, Mister Channing,” she said with a winsome smile as she reached for the pitcher. “Half an inch from the top?”

“That sounds about perfect.” When she was done, Opal Pierce left the two men alone, going to the outer office and closing the door between them. “She’s a real asset to us.”

“She seems very … amiable.” Broadstreet wondered where this discussion was going, and he listened closely in the hope that he might learn something from Channing’s tone or delivery that would provide him some hint of Channing’s objective in asking him. He thought this was an encouraging omen, one that promised a good outcome. “I’ll bet she’s efficient—she has that look about her.”

“She is efficient,” said Channing, smiling. “You might want to see if she can be shifted to you when she’s done here; keep her in the family, you know. I gather your replacement secretary isn’t working out; I know you’d find Pierce very good at her job. She’s smart but not too smart, if you know what I mean.”

Looking out at the sky, Broadstreet was startled to see vast swaths of wispy, nacreous clouds as sheer as linen curtains, with the tell-tale lilac tinge that heralded the gathering of an electrical storm, which confused all the other omens of the day. Fireworks in the rain, he thought and was able not to laugh. But now Broadstreet was in a quandary: was Channing seeking to saddle him with a spy or was he actually recommending a good worker for another possible secretary? He missed Florence, and was sorry that she had followed her husband to Texas. Was this suggestion perhaps an indirect criticism against his temporary secretary, with whom he was not getting on, and who did not type as rapidly or accurately as he would have liked? “If you will, find out if she would like to work for me. She’ll be taken down a notch in pay, won’t she: I’m not as high-ranking as you are. That hardly seems fair.”

“The pool secretaries—and she is part of it until she moves into a permanent position—get the same no matter for whom they work,” said Channing. “If she is the only secretary you have, in a year she’ll have an automatic upgrade in pay.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Broadstreet, though he dimly recalled hearing something of the sort when he was going through orientation. He took the proffered glass of lemonade and sipped a little of it from the glass; it was cold enough to make his fillings ache, but the ice made it chilly enough for him to cool off.

“Well, we owe it to our staff to be fair,” said Channing. “I’m looking forward to hearing more from you, and shortly.”

The bluntness of this statement startled Broadstreet, but he managed to nod twice and to say, “Yes. So am I.”

“It is a very risky venture you’re embarked upon, Dell,” Channing continued. “You mustn’t lose track of that. Bear in mind that the FBI is eager to discredit our work; Hoover wants to subsume the CIA under his command, though that could lead to more abuses of power on Hoover’s part.”

“Yes. I do understand that,” Broadstreet assured Channing. “Atkins needs to be made to answer for his lack of loyalty to the country, and we need to know much more about Hapgood Nugent and his role in Atkins’ disappearance. The Ex-Pats’ Coven is likely to be providing a conduit for Communist sympathizers whose mixed alliances have brought about their various decisions to leave their place in American academia for the wide world. It’s such an easy ploy: the members of the Coven passing along notes, just the sort of thing academics do, so no one takes the time to check out what is really being done. You hide a duck in a flock of ducks. So long as I am able to continue to focus on these interactions, we should be able to turn this potential embarrassment into a major accomplishment.”