That wasn’t good enough for the Americans. They needed their own intelligence provided by their own operatives. So, the decision had been taken to place undercover agents around the country in French-held regions where they could send back reports as to how they saw the war. Many of the agents would be going in as missionary couples as were Bodge and Stephanie. They would be getting together with the others the following week.
Palmer explained, “Ban Methuot is a small town and in itself it isn’t particularly interesting to us. So, why are you going there? There are two reasons. Firstly, the French garrison is only five miles out of town. It’s run by a guy named General LePenn. He and his senior officers naturally get invited to social events in the town. You’ll no doubt meet them and, we hope, become very good friends. The general doesn’t have his wife with him so I’m sure he’d appreciate a little home cooking from time to time.”
Bodge rued the fact that he couldn’t cook.
“Yours is a particularly sensitive posting due to the fact that all the cross-border operations in Laos are coordinated from Ban Methuot. The other reason,” Palmer continued, “is that the mission has a waterfront house out at Lac Lake. The only neighbour up there is the emperor’s hunting lodge. A little neighborliness with his highness could get us some very valuable information. Primarily you’d be reporting back on troop movements but we’ll take all the gossip and rumors as well. Any snippets from the royal household about overseas trips — that kind of thing.”
Although he’d taken copious notes, by four, Bodge realized he hadn’t actually absorbed a great deal of the information. He hadn’t been wholly there. Prime in the forefront of his mind was the process he’d need to go through to put in his resignation and set about establishing a new life outside the agency. He should have said something when they brought in the lunch trays and the three of them had eaten in silence. He should have interrupted Palmer’s spiel and prevented this enormous waste of time. Instead he waited for the day’s orientation to be over, for that woman to leave the room like a heifer swaying out of a barn, and to be alone with his supervisor. He knew Palmer would be angry but he had no choice.
“Sir.”
“Yes, Bodge?”
Palmer was gathering papers and stuffing them into files with no apparent rhyme or reason.
“Sir, I appreciate your faith in me.”
“I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”
“Yes, sir. I feel it would be better if you could find someone else for this mission.” Another wry smile. “I don’t believe I have what it takes to undertake such a project. The woman was right.”
“You want to go back to your desk?”
“No, I doubt I could do that. I believe it’s time for me to get out of the agency.”
“Goodness. Such a major decision because of a woman, Bodge?”
“It isn’t because of her,” he lied.
“Then what is it? This morning you were gung-ho about the whole thing.”
Bodge could see Palmer wasn’t taking this resignation nearly as seriously as he did himself. He found his supervisor’s levity irritating.
“All right. I admit she’s helped me decide.”
“Your first run in with a little difficulty and you collapse?”
“Yes. Better it happens in Washington than out there in the field.”
“Point taken.”
“I’ll put it in writing for you and the agency in the morning.”
“Well, you could do that, I suppose.”
“But?”
“Do you recall a few years ago, all the hoopla with the establishment of the new agency?”
“Yes.”
“And you had to sign a number of confidentiality and national security contracts?”
“Yes.”
“Well, one of those documents states that you’re obliged to give six months notice before terminating your contract with us. I’m afraid the agency holds its operatives to that stipulation under penalty of arrest.”
“In other words I spend those six months in Indochina or I go to jail?”
“Something like that. Except the jail term would be a little longer.”
“And you’d hold me to this mission even though you knew my objections?”
“Come, Bodge. I’m no more in control of the system than you. Your name’s already in the mill. Hard to get in, even harder to get out.”
“Right.”
“I tell you what, are you still up for our little private investigation in New York tomorrow?”
With all his sulking and brooding, Bodge had totally forgotten Lou and the matter with the Gladstein boy.
“Damn right.”
“Me too. That little adventure would be even more against regulations if you resigned beforehand. Forget the letter. Come in tomorrow and withstand a morning more of orientation. At noon we’ll go see what we can find out in the Apple. And you never know, you may see things differently after a good night’s sleep.”
“I can’t see myself getting one.”
“I think tomorrow will be a very different day as far as you’re concerned, Bodge.”
“Right.”
They shook hands. Bodge still had the impression the older man didn’t believe his threat to resign. But perhaps this was his inscrutable way of dealing with disaster. He could see the man pegged out in the desert, covered in honey and carnivorous ants, still smiling his thoroughly annoying wry smile.
Bodge was looking forward to some fresh cold air and distance from the Casually Yours building. It wasn’t till he hit the sidewalk and was on his way back to the rooming house that he remembered his bag. The thought of going through the reception and security one more time frustrated him, but he planned to call around to people who knew Lou, and his address book in the bag had all the numbers. He figured he’d ask one of the security guys to run up and grab the bag from the meeting room, but they weren’t allowed to leave their station. So they frisked him one more time before he could get inside.
He walked along to the meeting room. The door was pushed to. He was glad they hadn’t locked it. He’d probably need a signed permission slip from Truman himself to get hold of a key. He was about to walk straight in when he heard the voices. He stopped and listened. Palmer was in there talking and from the high-pitched laughter that met his comments Bodge could tell who was in there with him.
“…scared the life out of him.” (Palmer)
Laughter.
“So he’s handing in his resignation?” (Delainy)
Laughter.
“He wanted to put it in writing.”
“I don’t get it. How did you know he would?”
“I know his type only too well.”
The voices were getting louder, approaching the door. Bodge hightailed behind the reception desks to the bathroom door where he cut inside just as Palmer and Delainy came out of the meeting room. The last thing he heard was the most disconcerting.
“You don’t think he suspects anything?”
“I doubt it.”
10.
Bodge sat in one of the stalls with the door locked, running over the conversation he’d heard, again and again in his head. Why would they want him out? Hell, he was hardly in. Palmer could have turned him down right there at the first interview. Weird. Damned weird. It was one of those mysteries that Bodge agonized over; questions without answers.
He sat for another ten minutes before leaving the bathroom. He collected his bag and headed out of the building. It seemed the place cleared before four-thirty as there were only the security guys and the receptionist still on duty. She wished him yet another good day. This time when he arrived at street level a feeling of escape came over him. He walked slowly along the sidewalk with his nose pointed at the paving slabs and his mind ticking over like a cab meter. He hadn’t given a thought to which direction he was headed. It wasn’t till he heard his own name that he looked up for the first time. A motorcycle approached, crawling along the far side of the street. The
rider wore an old padded leather helmet and aviator goggles. Beneath them was a bright, full-toothed smile.
“Hey, Bodge!” The rider raised his arm in salute. As one does when recognized by a stranger, Bodge smiled, waved tentatively and called, “Hi.” He had no idea whom he was greeting. Probably someone who’d passed through the agency office in New York? Someone from baseball? It didn’t really matter. He expected the motorcycle to stop and himself be forced into a conversation. But, instead, the bike continued a hundred yards down the street and stopped at a call box. Bodge could have doubled back and asked the guy who he was, but he wasn’t that interested. He just wanted to get back to his room and think.
DC was the nation’s capital. It boasted all the buildings they put on bank notes and taught about in schools, but you didn’t have to travel too far from the impressive white pillars to find yourself in some hick suburb or other. The city had a downtown of cluttered alleyways and an inner city where opulence mingled with degradation. If you headed north along the old Washington canal you’d see dirty congested slums of packing case hovels. Yet only two miles from there you could visit the mansions they took color prints of for House and Garden.
As Bodge got closer to Howard, some of the streets were positively rural; grass on the sidewalks, chickens in the yards, screen doors hanging off a single hinge. There was no growl of big city traffic or buzz of neon. It was like a city that closed before sundown.
He walked the last few blocks along the roadway to avoid stomping through damp weeds and tripping over abandoned tricycles. Heaven knew where all the people were. But maybe a big white man in an overcoat strolling through a Negro neighborhood was a bad omen. It was a peaceful moment none-the-less. Some birds were bickering, but apart from the sound of one noisy truck engine from somewhere behind him, he could have been in small town Tennessee walking home from the fields — albeit twenty degrees colder.
He reached the back wall of the university and the incident at Casually Yours might have slowly erased itself from his mind if it hadn’t been for the damned truck. It needed an oil change. The driver was gunning his engine, either checking the rhythm of his pistons or showing off for a girlfriend. It was coming his way but Bodge imagined most folks around there walk in the road. He was big enough to spot. It was the faint squeal of rubber on road that caused him to look back over his shoulder.
The truck was a beaten-up brick-red Diamond T flat back, and it was rolling along about half a block behind him. It was on his side of the road with two wheels in the gutter and had built up a good head of speed in a short space of time. Bodge stepped onto the sidewalk to give the fool all the gutter he wanted, but the driver wasn’t even satisfied with that. His left wheels bumped up over the curbstones and the heap flew along at an angle, half on the road, half off. It was heading straight for Bodge, accelerating all the while.
Bodge had reached the worst possible spot on the street. To his left the back wall of the university reached up eight feet and was topped with barbed wire set in cement. He only had a second to gather his wits. If he’d headed for the road the truck would only have to swerve to run him over, and there was no doubt in Bodge’s mind that was the intent of the guy behind the greasy windshield.
He had no choice. The front fender was at his legs. He threw himself up at the wall, grabbed for the jagged top and heaved his knees up beside him. He could feel the wire dig into his fingers. The truck scraped along the wall with a metallic screech they probably heard in China. It kicked up sparks and chunks of brickwork. With an almighty effort for an out-of-shape man, Bodge yanked himself above the cab of the truck which thumped his rear end as it passed. Something yanked off one of his shoes and a wedge of wall masonry flew up and hit him in the cheek. But the bed of the truck passed safely underneath him and kept on going. Bodge hung there like a heavy bunch of bananas until the truck was out of sight. When he finally dropped to the ground, his legs buckled and he lay on the ground shaking.
It was half an hour before he could get his muscles working. Some of the locals had come out to take a look at him. They gave him a cup of sweet tea and bandaged up his bloody fingers. But even by the time he made it back to the guest house, he hadn’t been able to put more than three words together. He nodded at the receptionist, collected his key, and went straight to his room. It wasn’t until then, laid out on the solid bed, that he could start to work out what had just happened to him and why. He looked at the uneven patches of white and cream paint on the ceiling, and tried to weigh things up. There were more questions for his list. Was there a connection between this and what had taken place in New York? Could it all be related to the new mission? A life that had been singularly grounded before he met Palmer had taken flight. Which led him to the ten grand bonus question; how did it all fit together with what he’d heard at the carpet store?
And like a perfect stage direction, Palmer made his entrance. Bodge hadn’t shut the door to his room and the boss was standing there like a royal portrait in the door frame. He smiled and strode into the room. Bodge did a quick juggle of what and what not to say first. Palmer beat him to it.
“Agent Leon, have you been planted into my life to make it more intriguing?”
“I was just thinking mine used to be dull too,” Bodge confessed. “I assumed this must all be part of signing up for operations.”
Palmer smiled down at Bodge from the edge of the bed.
“Are you in the mood to tell me what happened?”
“How could you possibly know anything…?”
Palmer held up Bodge’s bag and pulled the Casually Yours map from the front flap with its phone number. “You left this behind. Someone gave us a call. What do you remember?”
One thing Bodge remembered was that the street he was in didn’t appear to have a telephone line running to the shacks. He wasn’t even sure they had electricity. A call?
“Some drunk in a truck,” Bodge said. “He ran off the road and I happened to be in the way.”
“You’re sure it was an accident?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“There’s a witness who swears the driver was idling till you reached the wall of the university, then he sped up. He was of the opinion the man was aiming for you.”
Under an hour and they’d interviewed witnesses already?
“Perhaps he was one of those short people who have grievances against everyone over six feet. I was just a random tall guy.”
“Did you get a look at him?” He sat on the edge of the bed by Bodge’s leg.
“No, I was too busy bouncing off his windshield.” It was odd how quickly his respect for Palmer had vanished. He studied the senior agent for signs of insincerity, began to read other meanings into his questions. He decided now was a good time to change the subject.
“Have you had any news from New York?”
“Nothing new. Naturally we’ll postpone tomorrow’s trip.”
“Oh, no. If you don’t mind. It’s been nagging at me since yesterday. I’d rather not put it off.”
“Are you sure you’ll be up to it?”
“Just a few cuts and bruises It would help if I could be excused tomorrow morning’s briefing.”
“I think it’s only fair given the circumstances. Bodge, I have to ask. I’m sure it’s gone through your mind already.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you think there could be any connection between this “accident” and what happened in New York?”
“How could there be? It hadn’t occurred to me.”
“No? You surprise me. Has anything else out of the ordinary happened that you can recall? Anything else here in Washington?”
Bodge’s mind sped immediately to the overheard conversation, then the motorcyclist who called his name.
“No. Nothing.”
“Well, you sleep on it. I’m afraid you may find yourself confronted by Stan and Ollie again in the morning. They’re sure to hear about this.”
“Heaven help me.”
“I’ll send a car around noon to pick you up. I think incognito casual will be the dress code for the day. Just let me know if you don’t feel up to it.”
“Sure. Thanks for coming in.”
Palmer left, shutting the door behind him, and Bodge still wasn’t sure what he knew. The puzzle was too soon out of the box to have any pieces that fit and there certainly was no picture. He called reception for a half pint bottle of gin and finished the lot. When he woke up in the morning, the TV was still on and his backside hurt like hell.
11.
It was exactly noon when Bodge emerged from the Sunset Lodge in his casual clothes. CIA casual would have been church wear for anyone else. He’d decided on a dark suit, white shirt and wool muffler. The driver was sitting out front in a pre-war Buick Cabriolet. He waved at Bodge as if he recognised him from a description and leaned across to open the passenger door, but Bodge opted for the rear. Physically the driver wasn’t unlike Jimmy Stewart. He had that same gangly awkwardness. He wore his hair greased flat and the lines around his eyes and mouth smiled even when he wasn’t. He stooped over the wheel and drove as if he were watching the white lines on the road disappear under the front bumper. Either the seat or the vocation was uncomfortable for him. But he was friendly enough. He kept up the small talk all the way to their destination. He had a deep voice that twanged through his skinny body like a note from a double base string.
“This is the place,” he said slowing down to a crawl. He drove them down a dead-end street full of lock-up garages and sounded his horn. Palmer emerged from a side gate and walked jauntily to the car. Bodge expected him to climb in the back beside him, but instead he waved and opened the driver’s door. The wiry man stepped out, smiled at Palmer and climbed into the passenger seat. Palmer eased his way behind the wheel and slid the seat forward on its ratchets so he could reach the pedals.
“How are you feeling today, Agent Leon?”
Bleeding in Black and White Page 6