by Eddy Shah
'How's your bullshit?' whispered Billie as the crowd applauded the speaker as he left the microphone.
'From the way he came on, I thought he was your type,' said Adam.
'Yuch. Definitely not my type.'
'Where's Tucker?'
'Reporting back to Washington. I can't see Trimmler's German friend.'
'Probably ducked out on the reception.'
'Wouldn't it be something if Trimmler turned out to be on their side?'
Adam shook his head. ‘If only everything worked out that simple.'
Tucker made his way through the guests and Billie waved in his direction to catch his attention.
'Happy party,' he said. 'Where's our boy?'
'Over there,' indicated Billie, pointing to the other side of the room where Trimmler was deep in conversation with a group of American and Russian scientists. 'Did you speak to Washington?'
'I did. They want us to increase our awareness.'
'What does that mean?' asked Adam.
'What it says.'
'Increase our awareness? Do we move in to his hotel suite? Go to the loo with him?'
'The loo?'
'The men's room,' interpreted Billie.
'Look...' snapped Adam, irritated by the interruption. '...I just want to know what they mean. How far are we allowed to go.' Adam had a soldier’s instinct, orders were his staple, even if they were to be broken.
'Okay, okay,' replied Tucker, taken aback by Adam's sudden intensity. 'I guess we've got to make sure we're covering everything.'
'The only way we can do that is by gluing ourselves to him.'
'They also said we weren't to make it too obvious.'
'That's ludicrous.'
'I'm just telling you what they said.' Tucker was exasperated with the Englishman. 'Let's just be more watchful, okay?'
Adam shook his head. If someone was after the scientist, they could hit him at their leisure. The whole thing needed more resources.
'Can we get some more support?' he asked.
'People?'
'Yes.'
'I'll put it to them. When I ring later. In the meantime, we just continue as we are. Take turns and keep close to him. There's an welcome dinner tonight, here in the hotel. I'll attend that with him.'
'What if he leaves again?'
'Washington have asked him not to go out alone, unless it's an official trip. You two take the afternoon off. I'll see you back here at about ten thirty, eleven.'
Tucker left them to join Trimmler.
'Wow, a free evening,' said Billie.
'Yes. Very secret service.'
'What's that mean?'
'It's like a bloody holiday outing. I'm sorry. When you've been in some of the places I have... We're either guarding this chap's life, or we're not. There's no in between.'
'So do you want to see New Orleans, or not?'
'Hell, why not?' Adam laughed. 'I'm not paying for this jaunt, am I? Where do you suggest?'
'Let's become tourists. Let's go to the French Quarter and see the sights.'
'Zis eez good,' he mimicked in Franglais. 'Zis is vot ve vill do. To ze French Quartair. To ze naughty place, eh?'
He made her laugh. Then she remembered why they were here. It was a shit life. Some way to earn a pension.
Ch. 35
CIA Headquarters
Langley
Virginia
'Who the hell's Albert?' asked the DDI.
'One of their scientists,' replied the DDA.
'Did Tucker say anything else?'
'No. They're running shifts on Trimmler.'
The Exec Director watched the two of them across his desk. Each one of them on their best behaviour so as to impress him. In truth, neither was a natural successor. The DDA was an exceptional administrator, the DDI an aggressive field leader. But both had their limitations, neither had that extra dimension that you needed to fill the top slot. What was it Confucius had said? "The Master must teach the pupil everything, except how to be the Master.". An apt saying, an exact hypothesis, thought the Exec Director.
'And Grob Mitzer? I never heard of him. Not until he popped up in Cannes,' continued the DDI.
'Big German industrialist.' The DDA, scored a quick point. 'Big in electronics. Heavily involved in the European space programme. And in ours.'
'Is that right?' stalled the DDI, not wanting to lay bare his ignorance of Herr Mitzer. 'God-damn funny. Him sitting next to Trimmler when that black boy took a shot at them. There were four possible targets. Trimmler and the Russian agent who got killed. Kushmann. And Mitzer.'
'New doors opening all the time,' commented the Exec Director. He turned to the DDA. 'I think we should also explain your ideas on the work we're doing with the Russians.' He watched the DDI's face, there was no flicker of surprise. That came from years out at the sharp end of intelligence. At least by highlighting the DDA as the prime mover in contacting the KGB, the Exec Director had shifted the onus of responsibility away from himself. 'There have been some interesting developments on both sides. Intriguing and similar.'
He sat back and watched the DDA explain the recent events that had taken place between the CIA and the KGB. The DDI gave nothing away as he listened, apart from a reaction from the left eyebrow when he was told that the two sides had exchanged information regarding their most secret files.
'Well?' asked the Exec Director when the DDA had finished.
'We should protect my people in the field,' came the reply, the DDI's drawl more pronounced and deliberate than before. 'We could be putting their lives in danger.'
'No individuals' names were given out. We only showed them an index of what was on the computer,' snapped the DDA. 'The secrecy of the asset base, and its protection, is still a major priority.'
'Can we trust them?' The DDI's instincts were to trust no-one, especially those who had been his direct enemies as long as he'd been in the Agency. 'It all sounds a bit too slick. We lose an agent, so do they. We have a computer glitch, they get a fire in their filing room. We both lose the same data, dealing with the same period in time. It smells.'
'We can't ignore it,' said the Exec Director, turning to the DDA. 'Have we come up with anything since we got their list?'
'Yes, sir. We listed their headings and ours onto a data base, then ran the whole thing through to find any common denominators.'
'What sort of stuff did you feed in?' asked the DDI.
'The locations of the killings, ours and the Russians'. The dates and times they happened. The methods used to see if they cross linked in any way. Any outside organisations which could have tied up with our agents as double agents. Foreign secret services, both friendly and otherwise, that could have run doubles. Any war time operations that were trying to hide their past records. Computer companies that had links into our computer, assassinations from the past that had a similar modus operandi. Hell, we fed in over four thousand different clues. My people are still coming up with ideas where there might be some connection.'
'And you've still drawn a blank?'
'We've still got a long way to go. I've got thirty programmers working on this and over fifty operatives coming up with ideas. The only connection we've got, and this doesn't involve the asset base, is the one between Trimmler, the computer that stored the 1945 to 1958 data which has been affected by the virus, Grob Mitzer and the Paperclip Conspiracy. In addition to that, the Russians have determined that Albert is one Albert Goodenache, a German scientist they captured at the end of the war. He's been heavily involved in their rocket and space programme.'
‘Tell me about Mitzer.'
'He was picked up by our troops at the end of the war. With another scientist, Heinrich Spiedal. Mitzer was heavily involved with the administration at both Nordhausen and Peenemünde. In the end we didn’t need Mitzer and he stayed on in Germany. With his knowledge, it doesn't take much to see why he became such a high flyer in West Germany.'
'And this Heinrich...Spiedal, was it?'
/> 'That's Trimmler.'
'An ex-Nazi?'
'Name change because of past connections. You know what happened with the Paperclip conspiracies. We just hijacked them over here, changed some of their names, and conveniently forgot about their war records. When it got out, it created one helluva stink.'
'At least it got us going in the space race.'
'And the computer?' asked the Exec Director.
'Most of those scientists had links with our computers. Hell, they were in on the ground floor. In the early days, every government department was helping each other. They could've planted a virus.'
'Sounds unlikely.'
'We also deal with a company in Germany called Mitzer Metelwerk Gmb. They supply various hardware parts for us. Their people come over here and install and service some of our machines. Usually in non-secure areas, but still linked to the main frame.'
'Mitzer Metelwerk. I don't have to ask who owns that?'
'Grob Mitzer.'
There was silence for a while as all three absorbed this latest information.
'Industrial espionage?' asked the DDI eventually. 'Maybe Trimmler's been helping Mitzer to our space technology and now he's running scared.'
'No,' replied the Exec Director. 'They wouldn't knock off our asset base for that. And where’s that leave the Russians'?'
‘Maybe they stumbled onto something.'
'That don't stack up. Who’s going to take on the CIA and the KGB? What've we got on Trimmler's past?'
'Not a much,' said the DDA. 'When we accessed his file, the virus went to work. Operation Paperclip, in its early days, was handled by the OSS and then the other secret services. All that information is under the 1945 to 1958 file. We can't get to it without corrupting the system.'
'So did we find out about Mitzer?'
'Through our the German station....'
'You contacted my people?' barked the DDI.
'Yes.'
'You should'a gone through me. Fuck it, it makes me look like I don't know what's happening. Even in in my own department.'
'I said you were aware of the situation.' He lied in front of the Exec Director.
'You should've still cleared it with me.' The DDI sat back huffily, irritated with himself for letting his cool exterior slip.
'We needed the information fast,' the DDA purred on, pleased that he had needled his counterpart. 'The information on Goodenache and Spied...Trimmler, was on their file. Mitzer once gave a magazine interview where he talked about how he had been at Peenemünde and how he escaped with two scientists.'
'And he named those scientists?' asked the Exec Director.
'Yes, sir.'
'Has he any links with the Russians?'
'None. He kept his head down and built up his business. No known involvement with any political organisations whatsoever.'
'Any other way of finding out about Trimmler?'
‘Now we’re chasing it something could break. Won’t be easy. Hell, it was nearly fifty years ago.'
'Give it all to the Russkies. There's nothing in there to cause us any embarrassment. In the meantime, see what you can dig up on Trimmler.'
'I'll deal with that,' the DDI reacted quickly, determined to regain the lost ground.
'I also want information on Mitzer. Get that from the German station,' the Exec Director swung back to the DDA. 'See what the Russians have got on Mitzer and on Goodenache. I'll give you fifty-to-one his files were in that fire. ‘
'They'd say that even if they weren't,' interjected the DDI.
'And keep a close watch on Trimmler. He could still be a target.'
'Can I put a team in?'
'Not yet. Until the computer snag's resolved we keep everything under wraps. Get Tucker to report his movements back to you.'
'He might need some help,' said the DDA.
'Okay, but low profile.'
The DDA nodded. He would send Carter down to New Orleans in the morning.
'Can we pull out the Brit?' asked the DDI.
'No. We don't upset London. If things go wrong, we can always pass the buck there. Keep him in the dark. Just tell him he's there to protect Trimmler, as he always was. Limeys! Too bloody polite. They were always the easiest to fuck. And thanked you for the privilege afterwards.'
Ch. 36
New Orleans
Louisiana.
Bright winter sunshine, seventy degrees and a swirl of colour, sound and people on the streets as the clock clanged six p.m. in Jackson Square where they once hung the thieves, beheaded the murderers, burnt the witches and broke the rapists on the wheel.
New Orleans. The French Quarter. Watch your fantasies be born, flourish and die in the time it takes you to walk from one end of Royal Street to the other. A place where anyone can make a dream come true, as long as they've got the endurance and the dollars in their pocket. How the American Dream was before popcorn, Coca Cola and Tyrone Power.
Adam and Billie, having agreed to meet Frankie in his cab at seven thirty, had walked up Canal Street from the Hilton, past the new department stores and turned down Royal Street into the area known as the French Quarter.
Lined with elegant Spanish colonial buildings, their upper balconies jutting out over the sidewalk with their slim cast iron balustrades, Royal Street stretched from Canal to Esplanade, parallel to Bourbon Street. Sealed off to traffic, with the exception of black helmetted policemen who rode the streets on their futuristic shaped scooters, the street was crowded with the swell of tourists.
The fat boy, all three hundred quivering pounds encased in a tight white T-shirt and black elastic shorts with a zip up the back, was the first musician they saw. He walked along, twelve string guitar strapped over his shoulder and square cardboard box in hand, looking for a place to park up and troubadour the crowd. They followed him, but never heard the curly haired fat boy sing.
'Maybe he just doesn't,' said Billie. 'Maybe he just likes everyone to think he can sing.'
Adam was surprised by the lack of jazz players; he had expected to see them on every street corner. She told him they worked in the clubs and only came out at night when the Quarter livened up.
'This is just for the gawkers,' she said. 'No-one makes money out of gawking.'
He was happy to listen, to take it all in. Dressed in a pink cotton shirt and pleated charcoal grey trousers he had bought in a local shop, Adam was the cultured European out on the town. Over his arm he draped his black blazer, elegant in style, heavy enough to carry the Browning 9mm in the pocket.
She liked walking with him. Short as he was, he attracted the attention of others, was a man women liked to admire. She was pleased to be next to him, even if her clothes were Californian casual and not European chic.
Further down the road, a clown, white faced and red nosed in a multicoloured jump suit, handed out balloons to passing children. A folk singer, singing Kristofferson songs in a Dylan voice, leant against the wall behind him, his efforts unrewarded by the lack of pennies in his upturned Lennon hat. The fat boy avoided the singer and crossed the road, his guitar wobbling along with him. The singer grinned as he saw the fat boy; 'wearing yesterday's misfortunes like a smile,' he sang.
They stopped for a Haagen Dazs ice cream at the next corner, Billie savouring a chocolate chip special while Adam licked his way through a blueberry cone. The shop signs fascinated him, the impact of tourist shabby on this beautiful street.
'Orgy French Style. Girls Girls Girls.'
'Female Amateur Wrestling. Audience Participation.
We come to the street to find a challenger.'
'Mask Factory.'
'Guru T shirts.'
'Dee-sire is yours - thru these doors.'
'Lesbian Orgies - women only.'
And those were just the ones he could see from where he stood.
'What're you thinking?' she asked him through a mouthful of chocolate chip.
'How about something to eat?' he lied back.
The Court of (the?) Two
Sisters is housed in a building that dates back to 1832 and has one of the most beautiful courtyards in the Quarter. It is called after two sisters who ran a dry goods shop there at the turn of the century and is now one of the finest outdoor eating places in the street.
Adam led Billie through the darkened archway to the courtyard. Within minutes a black waiter, 'Mateus' according to the badge on his lapel, had poured them iced water and taken their order.
'What do you think of it?' she asked him.
'Interesting. And different.'
'What do you want to do tonight?'
'Not bothered. What about you ?'
'I'd like some excitement.'
'Any ideas?'
'Yes. I've never been to one of those sex shows.'
'The lesbian ones?'
'Yup.'
He grinned. 'Women only.'
'Damn.'
'Shame.'
'Liar.'
He laughed. 'So where were we? I know, we were talking about your marriage. You said you honeymooned here.'
'That was yesterday. On the plane. And I'm not talking about myself any more.' He saw the hurt in her eyes and regretted mentioning the honeymoon. But she pushed it aside and went on. 'Let's change the subject. Let's talk about you.
'Nothing to say.'
'Like hell.'
'Wouldn't know where to start.'
'At the beginning. What were you like at school?'
'Terrible.'
'Why?'
'A right little tearaway.'
'I don't believe it,' she mocked him.
'I was. You really want to know?'
'Yes.'
'Okay. I went to about six different schools in the same time that most kids go to one.'
'Why?'
'Because I was kicked out of every one. Expelled.'
'I don't believe that.'
'Listen, if you're not going to believe me, then I won't tell you.'
'Oops. Sorry.'
'Didn't see the point of school. Waste of time. So I played truant. Hookey to you. I got in with an older crowd, we all had a bit of money, you see. So I used to disappear each day and play cards with these guys. Poker. Chemin de fer. It was great. I won a car in one game. An old Mini. You remember them?'