by Jim Hougan
I’m gonna kill that fuckin’ Russian, Dunphy thought, and tried the pass again. Once again, nothing happened. The receptionist was on his feet now, and Dunphy was about to bolt. With a little luck, he could hit the door at a run and lose himself—
“You’re upside down.”
The voice made him jump, so that when he turned to its source, Dunphy’s heart was slamming against his ribs. Black trench coat. String tie. Bifocals.
“What?”
“Your pass—it’s upside down.” The guy nodded toward the turnstile.
Dunphy looked. “Oh, yeah,” he said, and rumbling, reinserted the pass so that the hologram went into the slot. Chnnnk! a “Thanks.” He was sweating.
The hallway ran in a straight line for about thirty feet, then doglegged to the right before emptying into a mezzanine that seemed to have been lifted from a Batman film. Black marble floors and travertine walls glittered against a backdrop of stainless steel elevators. And in the center of the room, its only ornament, stood a transparent cylinder on a golden pillar, surrounded by flowers. Inside the jar, a replica of la protectrice. Blacker, even, than the marble on the floor. And a most unusual installation for a government building—if that’s what this was.
Dunphy watched the elevator indicators sweep from one to five, and realized, a little belatedly, that he was in the presence of a major contradiction: a one-story building with five floors. Which meant that most of the place was underground.
“Heyyy, stranger!” A clap on the back made Dunphy start. Turning, he saw the man with the Vandyke beard, the one from the abbey, the guy with the posse.
“Heyyy,” Dunphy replied, forcing a smile. “You’re up bright and early.”
The man shrugged. “That’s nothing new. But what about you? This your first time here?”
Dunphy shook his head. “It’s been a while, but—yeah, when I saw you, I’d just gotten into town.”
“And you couldn’t! wait! to see Her!” The man laughed and shook his head in mock amazement.
For a moment, Dunphy didn’t know what he meant. But then he understood, and treated the guy to what he was looking for: a sheepish smile. “I guess,” he said.
The elevator arrived, and the two of them got in. Classical music played softly on the intercom. The Messiah, Dunphy thought, but, then, that’s what he always thought when he heard classical music. His own tastes ran to Cesaria Evora or, if he’d been drinking, the Cowboy Junkies.
“Where you headed?” the man asked, punching a button.
For the second time in the same minute, Dunphy didn’t know what to say. The guy with the beard stood there with an expectant look, his forefinger pointing at the control panel. Finally Dunphy replied, “Chief’s office.”
The man made a moue, to show just how impressed he was, then stabbed at the panel with his finger. A couple of other people got on, the doors closed, and the elevator began what seemed like a motionless descent. A few seconds later, the doors opened, and when no one moved, Dunphy stepped out.
“It’s on your left,” the guy said. “All the way down the hall.”
The corridor was broad and softly lighted, with plum-colored carpeting, mauve walls, and Art Deco sconces. Paintings and drawings hung from the walls in elaborately hand-carved and gilded frames. An ancient woodcut, limning The Tombe of Jacques de Molay. An architectural drawing, rendering the floor plan of an unidentified castle—cathedral—both. An oil painting in which a recumbent knight is shorn of his hair by a beautiful maid. A second painting that Dunphy thought of as an alas-poor-Yorick number, depicting a shepherd in what can only have been Acadia, contemplating the skull of . . . Yorick. Meinrad. Someone.
Finally, Dunphy arrived at a smoked-glass door at the end of the corridor. On the glass, a single word: DIREKTOR.
His heart was banging against his chest, so that it took all the courage he had to rap smartly on the door and then, without waiting for an answer, to barge in. A birdlike woman with salt-and-pepper hair looked up from behind a wafer-thin computer screen. She was wearing tortoiseshell reading glasses and seemed more irritated than startled.
“Kann ich Ihnen helfen?”
“Not unless you speak English,” Dunphy told her, and glanced around the room. “I’m here to see the Direktor. a”
She gave him a skeptical look. “That’s impossible,” she said, speaking in a clipped German accent. “For one thing, you must have an appointment. And I don’t think you have one.”
“No,” Dunphy replied, “I don’t. But I’ve got something better.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’ve got an assignment.” He nodded toward a door in the corner of the room and began to move toward it. “Is this his office?”
He thought she was going to levitate. As it was, she half rose out of her chair. “No! I mean, yes, of course it is—but that has nothing to do with you. He isn’t here. And who are you, anyway?” She had her hand on the telephone.
With a show of irritation, he pulled out his building pass and held it out to her. She squinted at it for a moment, then copied his name into a little book on her desk.
“You’ve been here before,” she said, looking unsure.
Dunphy nodded uncomfortably. “Once or twice, but that was a long time ago.”
“Because I remember your name, but . . .” She peered at him over her reading glasses, then shook her head.
“You must’ve seen it in a file or something, because I haven’t been here in years.”
She looked doubtful. “Perhaps.”
“Anyway, when does the Direktor get in?” Dunphy asked, eager to change the subject.
“Usually, not until eight. Today, not at all.”
The reply caught Dunphy by surprise, and for a moment, he was off balance. He’d been counting on the guy being at work. “Not at all?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, why not? Where is he?”
“In Washington—there’s been a flap. Now, if you don’t mind—”
Dunphy made a guess. “You mean, the Schidlof business.”
The woman’s demeanor softened with surprise. “Yes,” she said, settling back in her seat. “There was a shooting—”
Dunphy nodded impatiently, as if he’d heard it all before. “In London,” he said. Run with it, he told himself. This could be good.
She gave a little nod, but was obviously impressed by how much he knew.
“That’s why I’m here,” Dunphy told her. “Poor Jesse.”
“They say he’ll be all right.”
“All right, maybe. Good as new, I doubt.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “I’m going to need some office space,” he said, “for a couple of days—maybe a week. And an open line to Harry Matta’s office in Langley.”
Her eyes rounded at the mention of Matta’s name. “Well,” she said, looking uncertain.
“Well what?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“About what?”
“This!”
“You’re the Direktor a’s secretary, aren’t you?”
“Actually,” she corrected, “I’m his executive assistant.”
“Even better.” He peered at the nameplate on her desk. “It’s Hilda, right?”
She gave him the tiniest of nods, suspicious of his familiarity.
“Okay, Hilda, so what I’m suggesting is—we ought to get started.”
“But I can’t give you an office. For this, I would need permission. Perhaps the deputy Direktor a . . .” She reached for the phone.
Dunphy rolled his eyes, then cocked his head, and asked, “Do I look like the town crier? Do I look like someone’s advance man?”
The questions confused her for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No”
“Good. Because if it comes down to it, let’s just call the Man.”
“Who?”
“The Direktor. You know where he’s staying, right?”
“Of course, but—”
“What’s the number
?” He reached for the phone, but she covered the receiver with her hand.
“We can’t call him now. It’s one-thirty there.”
“Well, if you don’t want to wake up your boss, call Langley,” Dunphy insisted. “Tell them to patch you through to Matta. Let’s get him outa bed!”
“But what would I say?” she asked, her eyes widening with panic.
“Tell him you want to know if I can have an office. At two in the morning, I’m sure he’ll be very impressed.”
She looked puzzled. “With what?”
“Your sense of initiative.”
“Oh,” she said, “now we have sarcasm.”
Dunphy smiled apologetically. “Sorry . . . I’m under a lot of pressure.” He paused and leaned toward her with a sympathetic and confidential air. “Look,” he said, “if you’ll hook me up with an office, we can talk to them this afternoon—first thing. Your boss, my boss, whoever you want. And they’ll confirm what I’ve said. You’ve seen my pass. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t belong.” He could see the wheels turning in her mind. Matta . . . Curry . . . the pass.
“Okay!” she said, raising her hand to shut him up. “There’s a room on the fourth floor—”
“The fourth floor will be fine.”
“I’ll call the Direktor at one o’clock—he’s an early riser. Then, if he thinks it is necessary, we can contact Herr Matta.”
“Fine,” Dunphy said. “If you’ll just point the way, I’ll get started.”
She picked up the phone. “Security will show you where to go.”
“One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’m gonna need someone to hump files for me.”
She looked blank. “Files? Hump a?”
“Absolutely. Why do you think I need the office?”
“I don’t know. Why do you?”
“For damage control.”
“What?”
“Damage control.” He peered at her closely. “You know what happened to Curry, right?”
“Of course. There was a cable.”
“I know,” he said. “I wrote it. Anyway, the guy who shot him—”
“Dunphy.”
He looked impressed. He was impressed. “Right. Jack Dunphy—who, incidentally, is one mean son of a bitch. Pardon my French.”
She shrugged. “I live among men,” she said. “I’m used to it.”
“Understood. Anyway, Dunphy worked for the Agency—you knew that, right?”
“Of course.”
“And you know what he did—what his job was?”
“No.”
Dunphy frowned. “I thought I put it in the cable . . .”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, anyway, he was an FOIA guy.” Seeing her puzzled look, he elaborated. “Part of the Freedom of Information staff.”
“Oh, yes?” She looked bemused—and relieved. “Is that all?”
“Yes. That’s all. And that’s why I’m doing damage control.” She looked at him in a way that told him she didn’t understand.
“Harry thinks there’s been a breach,” he explained.
“A breach?”
“In the Andromeda files. The son of a bitch went through ’em like he was surfin’ the Net.”
The information didn’t seem to register. And then, after a moment or two, she swayed, ever so slightly in her chair. For a second, Dunphy thought she was about to lose her balance. But she didn’t. She just sat there, getting whiter and whiter until, in the end, she lurched to her feet and said, “Let’s get you set up right away, shall we?”
Chapter 22
The first of the files didn’t arrive for almost an hour, by which time Dunphy was nearly paralyzed with paranoia. Though he knew they wouldn’t call Matta at two in the morning, it occurred to him for the first time that the Special Registry might have a copy of Brading’s personnel file. After all, it was they who’d issued the pass. If they did, then the woman he’d spoken to, Hilda, might be suspicious enough to pull it—in which case, she’d see in an instant that Dunphy was impersonating a much older man. And then they’d come for him.
The room he’d been given resembled a cell without windows. It measured three strides by three and was barely large enough to contain the desk and chair in which Dunphy now sat. His overcoat hung from a coatrack next to the door—and that was that. There was a telephone, but no books, so that he had nothing to do until his “assistant”—a bull-necked security guard named Dieter—barged in with half a dozen kraft-colored folders marked Schidlof. Dunphy checked his watch. It was 8:25 A.M.
“You must sign for them,” Dieter said, handing Dunphy a clipboard.
“While I’m reading these,” Dunphy said, scrawling Braden’s name on the Document Control List, “I’d like you to pull whatever you’ve got on a guy named Dunphy—D-U-N-P-H-Y—first name, Jack. Got it?”
“Sure.”
“And I’ll want to see the Optical Magick files, too, and anything you can get me on the . . . uhhh . . . Bovine Census.”
Dieter frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Dunphy asked.
“We have pushcarts,” Dieter said, “but the Census—this is impossible. I’d need a truck.”
Dunphy tried to conceal his mistake. “Just the last two months. New Mexico and Arizona.”
This seemed to satisfy his new assistant. When the door closed, Dunphy sat back with a sigh of relief, then turned to the files with the relish and alarm of a twelve-year-old boy who’s just stumbled upon his parents’ pornography stash.
His first impression was that the file was atypical of other dossiers that he’d seen at the Agency. Usually, if a person was of “operational interest” to the CIA, a 201 file would be opened and interviews laid on. But there were no interviews in Schidlof’s dossier—just data. His telephone records and credit-card receipts were in separate folders, as were copies of the pages in his passport, showing most of the places he’d traveled during the past ten years. There were some black-and-white contact sheets whose images seemed to have been taken from a car with the help of a telephoto lens. Looking at the pictures, Dunphy recognized the professor’s house (he’d helped Tommy Davis case the place) and Schidlof, too. There were pictures of the professor—leaving for work, getting his mail, coming home, and so on. Looks healthy enough, Dunphy thought, for someone who’s about to become a torso.
And that was the point, really. The Schidlof dossier was not an investigative file. Whoever put it together hadn’t been interested in Schidlof, the man, as much as they were in Schidlof, the Problem. So it didn’t matter, really, who the professor’s friends were, or what his neighbors thought of him. All that was needed was the old boy’s address and a good likeness.
So that, when the time came, they’d whack the right guy.
Which meant that Schidlof had pissed somebody off (Curry or Matta). Or worse—he’d scared them. And when he’d done that, the question had gone out, “Who is this son of a bitch?” And bang! the answer came back in the form of the dossier at hand: He’s this guy, it said. This is what he looks like. This is where he lives.
Most of the information seemed to have been collected in a single sweep. And while Dunphy couldn’t be sure when the sweep had been initiated, it looked as if it was last September. Riffling through a folder that bulged with copies of credit-card receipts, and a second folder that held Schidlof’s telephone toll records, Dunphy could see that there were no entries after September 9. Which meant that Schidlof had come to Matta’s attention at about that time, some six or seven months ago. And this is what Dunphy learned:
Leon Aaron Schidlof, (M.A., Oxon.; Dip. Anal. Psy., Zürich) was a British citizen, born October 14, 1942, in the city of Hull. He was a graduate of Oxford’s New College (1963), and trained as an analyst at the C. G. Jung Institute in Zürich (1964–7). A contributor to numerous anthologies and professional journals, Schidlof was the author of two books: A Dictionary of Symbols (New York, 1979), and a book on Jungian psy
chology, Die Weiblichen in der Jungian Psychologie (Heidelberg, 1986). After twenty years as an analyst in London, he had taken on the responsibility of teaching a seminar at King’s College in the Strand. Never married, his nearest relative was an older sister, a resident of Tunbridge Wells. Schidlof’s own address (which Dunphy knew by heart) followed.
Pretty innocuous, Dunphy thought. You wouldn’t think a guy like him would hit the fan.
The second folder held Schidlof’s credit-card receipts and telephone records. Dunphy didn’t know what to make of them, really, and wondered if Matta really cared. In all likelihood, the data were collected because it was easy to get them, and doing so made the gumshoes look as if they knew what they were doing. Still, a couple of things stood out. Like the fact that there were rather a lot of trips on Swissair. Two in June, then one each in July, August, and September. What was that all about?
The Swissair charges didn’t say where he’d flown to, but they didn’t have to: the credit-card receipts included hotel charges for the same months. And the charges were always the same: Hotel Florida, Seefeldstrasse 63, Zürich.
Dunphy knew the place. It was a clean, midrange hotel, a few blocks east of Bellevueplatz, which was a mixing bowl for the city’s trams. It was a decent enough place, if you were on a budget, and exactly the kind of hotel where you’d expect an academic to stay while doing research in a country as expensive as Switzerland.
But Swissair wasn’t the only airline Schidlof flew. His Visa bill listed a £371 expenditure with British Airways, incurred September 5. Other charges documented Schidlof’s visit to New York on the sixth and seventh of that same month. He’d stayed at the Washington Square Hotel and eaten at a couple of Indian joints on Third Avenue.
So what a?
Dunphy reexamined the earlier charges. The professor’s last visit to Zürich had occurred on September 3. The New York trip followed about three days later—and soon after that, the old boy was put under telephone surveillance. Which suggested (but certainly didn’t prove) that the three events were related: the trip to Zürich, the visit to New York, and the bugged phones.