“Move,” Conklin urged, pushing at him.
Paul slid out of the car and crossed to the walk. As he left the protection of the car’s bulk he stopped short and flung up a sudden hand to clasp the back of his neck. “Oh, damn, Peter! We’re hexed.”
“Move!” Conklin snapped again. “Keep moving. It’s a matter of seconds now.” He took a position on one side of Paul. Gordon moved up on the opposite side. “Neck hurt?”
“They’re behind us.”
“Who’s behind us?” Conklin jerked his head around, saw only Gates leaving the Packard. “Use your head, Paul! What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s too . . . dark, I can’t see anything. Something’s behind us.”
“Get behind, Gordon.” Conklin turned and motioned for Gates to close in. Gordon obediently stepped close behind Paul, almost walking on his heels. Gates came up, narrowing the fifty-foot gap between them. There was a soft mesh of gears and the Packard slid by them in the night, toward the rendezvous at the farther corner. Beyond the Packard the bright headlights of another car rushed to meet it, traveling fast.
“Embassy car,” Conklin said tersely. “Step up the pace.” They moved faster, watching the grillwork gate to gauge the ground and their speed. A horn sounded in the near distance and the great gate started to swing open, moved by an embassy guard. “Faster,” Conklin whispered. “We’re going to make it.”
Paul walked with his head high, eyes closed and holding on to Conklin’s arm for guidance. He was searching the street behind them, desperately seeking the danger he knew was there. The thing in the back of his head was like an ice pick biting into his skull. Something like a—
The embassy car slowed almost imperceptibly, abreast of the gate, and snapped around in a fast arc into the drive.
—a gun. “Gun!” Paul shouted aloud. “Down!” He brought up a knee in lightning action, jolting Conklin’s spine and sending him staggering. In the same instant he whipped out his arm, grabbed Gordon around the neck and tried to drag him to the ground with him.
There was a soft, faraway bark. The embassy car shot forward through the open gate, faces peering out at the tumbling figures. Paul hit the sidewalk hard, bruising his face and smashing a gash over one eye. Just ahead of him, Conklin was whirling on his belly, gun out, searching the night behind them.
“Paul? Were you hit?”
“I’m all right.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“I don’t know. Some window I think.” He caught a new movement. “Look out!” He flinched.
The thing barked again and a streak of pure white fire raced across the back of his neck. He dropped his head limply. Conklin fired blindly across the street, seeking the hidden marksman.
Beside Paul, Gordon spouted a fountain of blood.
In an apartment nearly three miles away, a girl screamed. She stared with horror at the scene on the sidewalk.
To be concluded
FOREWORD
Paul Breen’s latent telepathic talent first began developing in 1934 when he was thirteen years old. While at the Chicago Exposition he witnesses the shooting of a G-man and picks up information both from the dying man’s mind and from those of the killers. Anonymously informing Washington in a letter he starts a nation-wide secret search for himself, but the Federal Bureau of Investigation do not catch up with him until he is inducted into the Army in 1945, when his fingerprints are checked and match those on the letters he sent.
FBI official Ray Palmer and CIC operator Peter Conklin investigate his mental abilities and take him by train to Washington where it is thought his powers will be useful in spotting spies and traitors. While on the train Breen picks up the thoughts of a fellow passenger who is suspicious of their party—and is also thinking about something called an atomic bomb. Paul reports this information which is eventually relayed to higher authority and a dragnet is put out to apprehend the man, but although Paul can “see” where the man is hiding, he doesn’t know in which city he is located in. From a distance Paul mentally keeps in touch with the man, and realises that at the same time he can “watch” almost everyone he has met and spoken to. Their thoughts and actions are like an open book to him.
In Washington Paul becomes virtually a prisoner under the jurisdiction of Slater and Carnell, both of whom are directly responsible only to the President. His secret is closely guarded—only seven people know of his telepathic talent. Although he has everything he could wish for he is closely guarded in an hotel apartment and all guests are screened before he meets them. At a party in his apartment he meets a blonde named Karen and forms an attachment for her despite the fact that he knows she has been put in to spy on him. His closest friend is now Peter Conklin who is his constant companion and he has a certain liking for Carnell whom he often sees, but of Slater he can learn very little—the man keeps out of his way, relaying orders through Carnell. Somewhere in the back of Slater’s mind is an intriguing reference to a man named Willis, but Paul cannot trace the reasoning.
In 1949 the somewhat casual life of mentally spying on everyone who comes to Washington ends abruptly. Reports show that more than one country are now interested in the possibility of atomic explosions. America must find out just how far advanced these countries are with their experiments. The plan is for Paul to read the minds of operators sent on foreign missions (he now knows that he can keep in mental touch with anyone he has met wherever they are in the world), and report to Slater hours or days before code messages would get through. Conklin is one of the first to be chosen—his destination, Russia.
Before he goes, however, he and Paul are sent to check on a new ambassador. Paul is to scan his mind as the car enters the embassy gates. Together with two guards they leave for the assignment, but Paul has a sense of impending disaster as the car they are riding in nears the scene of the investigation. He checks the street, the car, but his mind cannot find what is wrong. A hot pain continually stabs at the back of his neck—he feels that whatever is coming will come from behind. With the car parked they walk the remaining short distance as the ambassador’s car comes into sight. Conklin a step in front of Breen, one of the guard’s immediately behind him.
As the embassy car slows for the drive entrance Paul gets a fleeting thought and dashes his two companions to the path as a gun explodes across the street. A second shot finds its mark in him … and three miles away a girl screames with horror at the scene on the pavement.
XI.
1949
He opened his eyes to find himself in his own bed, in his own room, and saw Karen.
“Well, hi . . .” he said weakly, happily.
She sat beside the bed, looking into his face.
“Glad you changed your mind.”
She wore a quizzical expression.
“About coming back,” he explained.
Karen smiled slightly. “The old order changeth.”
Paul grinned at her. “They missed me.”
“Sure they did.” There was an edge to her voice. “They missed the spinal column by a good half inch. No need to worry at all.”
“They missed,” he reminded her. “What more could I want?”
She didn’t answer, only sat there staring at him. The room was quiet. He moved his head slowly and saw they were alone. A near-by table held a glass and a pitcher of water, a tray, and some bottles. Behind the tray he saw the end loops of a pair of surgical scissors and bandage dressing. A tall vase held a half-dozen yellow roses.
“Never bothered much about flowers.” He rolled his head back to her and experienced an ache in his neck. “But I like the yellow ones better than the red ones.”
She smiled her thanks.
He rested, lying on his back with his face turned to hers, content to lie there and watch her. After a while his thoughts returned to the street scene and what had happened there.
“Gordon?” he asked.
“Gordon is being buried this afternoon.”
“But . . .” Th
e surprise was evident on his face.
“You were shot the night before last.” The edgy tone had returned to her voice. “You’ve been out of circulation, mister.”
Paul considered that. “Peter? And the others?”
“All okay. Only you and Gordon.”
“Did they find anybody?”
She shook her head. “You’ll have to ask Peter or Mr. Carnell about the details. I know very little, and I don’t talk about what I do know.”
Paul studied her. After some moments he said, “Something’s happened to you, Karen. There’s a change.”
“I came back,” she said quietly.
“And that took guts,” he added.
She searched his face for information. “I suspect you know more than I had believed. About . . . things.”
Paul tried to nod and found the taped neck forbade it. “I’ve picked up a bit here and there. Carnell added a few things. I’m awfully glad you came back.”
“Perhaps I should apologize, but I’d rather not talk about it.”
“No apologies needed; I know it was forced, and we won’t talk about it. Nice day isn’t it?” He couldn’t see the window from his position on the bed and so she grinned crookedly at him.
“It’s raining.”
“I say it’s nice. You’re here.”
“Thank you, sir.” Karen dipped her head.
“You can tell me something. Did you know what happened there on the street? How far away were you?”
“Several blocks. We heard the shooting—guessed it was your party. I turned around and drove back as quickly as I could. Forrie and Peter were putting you in the car.”
“Several blocks?” he questioned. Then suddenly, “Did you scream?”
“Scream?”
“Yes, did you? When the shots were fired, or when you arrived?”
“No. I didn’t scream.”
“Someone did. A woman. I heard her.”
“Probably a neighbor across the street.”
“Maybe. I’ll ask Peter.”
Karen stood up. “I’d better call him, and the doctor. They’re downstairs eating a late lunch. I was supposed to call them instantly if you awoke.” She paused as she was crossing the room and turned to look back over her shoulder. “I wanted a few moments with you alone. Don’t give me away.”
For answer, he put an imaginary kiss on the tip of his finger and flicked it at her. She pretended to catch it and place it on her lips, then continued on to the door. He watched her blonde hair as it disappeared from sight and then listened to the sounds of her shoes descending the stairway.
Paul relaxed and lay staring at the ceiling. The full vivid picture of the street ambush came back to him, and he considered the gun that had been planted on the back of his head. That gun had been waiting for him for a long time—from the moment the party left the house on the Pike. From before that moment actually, because he had realized danger as soon as he emerged from the house and entered the Packard; the danger had been unrecognized, he didn’t know then that it was a gun, but he knew something was lurking there. At first he had made the same mistake as Conklin in supposing that the danger would come from the embassy car, or perhaps the embassy itself. But instead it had come from some other place along the block or across the street, and it had been waiting for him. Waiting for him to arrive at that precise spot. First time out of the house in two or three years, and the gun was waiting for him.
So the gun really must have been waiting for a very long time. In the literal sense. It had been waiting for all of those two or three years he lived in the house; until now he had never ventured beyond the grounds. That gun might have been waiting for him since the day he first arrived in Washington, in 1945—or any time thereafter. The fact that there had been no early attempt suggested it had been waiting only the last few years, since his taking up residence at the house on the Pike. It also very obviously suggested that the man behind the gun knew where he was going and when he would be there. Unless the people in the embassy had his twin, his counterpart hidden within their walls, they knew nothing of his coming. And were out of it.
Eleven men in Washington knew what he was, where he was, and what he was doing. Which of the eleven was the man behind the gun? Or had placed a marksman there?
Were there more than eleven? Had someone talked?
The door opened suddenly and Paul looked up in surprise. Conklin came in, followed by a second man who must be the doctor.
“Hello!” Conklin called out. “Glad to see you up and around—” He caught the expression on Paul’s face. “What’s the matter?”
“I didn’t hear you coming,” Paul said.
“The door was closed. And I’m not an elephant.” Suddenly he stopped in midstride as a new thought twisted across his mind, registering on his face as alarm. “Paul! You—didn’t?”
“No.”
“Try, Paul. Now. Try me!” Conklin waited, forcing rapid thoughts at the man lying on the bed.
Paul shook his head. “No,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, Peter. Nothing. It’s like . . . like a radio suddenly turned off.”
Conklin asked desperately, “Everything blank?” He turned and ran from the room.
The doctor stood beside the bed, mystified. “Now what was that all about?” He reached for the pulse. “How do you feel, young man?” He took out his watch and began counting to himself.
Paul listened to the count echoing in the doctor’s mind and held back a smile.
Carnell reached the house in less than a half hour. He was panting from the exertion of running up the stairs, and the growing alarm on his face went far beyond that exhibited by Conklin. The two of them sat beside the bed, pumping him, seeking to encourage him.
“I don’t know when it started—I mean stopped,” Paul protested again. “It never occurred to me to read Karen. When I woke up and found her here, I just said a few words and she answered me, then went to call the doctor. I didn’t try to look into her mind. Everything seemed all right until Peter opened the door. I hadn’t heard him, hadn’t realized he was standing on the other side of the door. First time it ever failed.”
“What about now?” Carnell anxiously pressed him. “What about Peter and myself? Aren’t you getting anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Jehoshaphat!” Carnell smacked his fist into the bed. “Is this the end of it all?”
“Will you keep trying, Paul? Try hard?” Conklin turned to Carnell. “Where’s Slater? He should know about this.”
“He’s in San Francisco; something urgent came up. I’ve wired him. He’s coming back as soon as possible.”
“I’m curious about a couple of things,” Paul said after a short silence. “That street shooting. Did you find anything?”
“Some,” Conklin told him glumly. “We located the house, the room and the window the gunman was hiding in. For all the good it did us. The people owning the house have been gone for months—since Labor Day. Wintering in Arizona. The gunman forced a basement window in the rear and entered the house that way. But he didn’t so much as leave an empty shell or a cigarette butt.”
“Sounds like a smart operator.”
“Damned smart! We know he went in, we know he fired two shots at you, we know he left. We know nothing else.”
“Nothing more than that?” Paul asked sharply.
They stared at him curiously. “What do you mean?”
“Eleven men know about me. Only eleven.”
“We thought of that, too,” Carnell informed him. “Our first thought, almost. And we checked on the location of every one of those eleven. All accounted for.”
“The gunman knew I was coming,” Paul reminded them. “I realize that; it’s been giving us trouble. And we can’t account for it. All we can do is watch the eleven; there is the bare possibility that one of them has talked. We’re checking into that.” He spread his hands. “Of course, there are one or two men we can’t grill, but we can ask discreet questions
and then weigh the answers.”
“Paul,” Conklin said then, “if only this new thing hadn’t happened to you, if this blankness hadn’t occurred, you could check the eleven fast enough.”
“I know. I’ve thought of that.”
“Well, what are we going to do?”
“Nothing much to do,” Paul responded, “except sit and wait. Let’s see what happens next. Maybe Roy, or that doctor can explain it.”
“I’ll ask Roy immediately, but not the doctor. I object to a twelfth person joining the club!” Carnell jumped up from his chair to pace the floor. “Damn it all, Peter, this is a disaster.”
Conklin nodded dully. “I’m afraid so.”
“How in the world could it ever happen?” Carnell demanded savagely of no one.
Paul said, “He must have used a rifle. And had good eyesight.”
“He probably had a sniperscope on it,” Conklin put in. “It was rather dark along that street and he picked you out too neatly, considering the distance. Did you notice the absence of loud noises? The rifle was equipped with a muffler or baffle of some sort. I wish I could lay my hands on him!” He grinned weakly. “Next time I’ll trust your hunches, boy. You said he was behind us.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Carnell contradicted flatly. “Paul isn’t going out of this house until . . . until . . . well, until whatever.” He paused in his frantic pacing to frown with new thought. “You know, there has been talk downtown of building a new place, a really big establishment. Somewhere over on the Chesapeake shore. We have some
property over there which was used as a training center during the war. What happened night before last will probably cinch it.” He stopped again and looked at Paul. “If—”
“If I’m arty use to anyone after this,” Paul finished for him.
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