by Ken Follett
He went next door and knocked at Mrs. Loew's. She opened up. She was a tall, black-haired woman, who was too proud, in Mrs. Sims's opinion. She spoke a few words with the caller, then slammed the door.
He went to the next house, apparently intending to work his way along the street. Young Jeannie Evans came to the door with baby Rita in her arms. She fished in the pocket of her apron and gave him something, probably a few coins. So he was a beggar.
Old Mr. Clark came to the door in his bathrobe and carpet slippers. The stranger got nothing out of him.
The owner of the next house, Mr. Bonetti, was at work, and his wife Angelina, seven months pregnant, had left five minutes ago, carrying a string bag, obviously heading for the store. The stranger would get no answer there.
By now, Luke had had time to study, the doors, which were all the same. They had Yale locks, the kind with a tongue on the door side and a metal socket in the jamb. The lock was operated by a key from outside and by a knob inside.
Each door had a small window of frosted glass at head height The easiest way in would be to break the glass and reach inside to turn the knob. But a broken window would be visible from the street so he decided to use the screwdriver.
He glanced up and down the street He had been unlucky, having to knock on five doors to find an empty house. By now he might have- attracted attention, but he could see no one. Anyway, he had no choice. He had to take the risk.
Mrs. Sims turned away from the window and lifted the handset of the phone beside her seat Slowly and carefully, she dialed the number of the local police station, which she knew by heart.
Luke had to do this fast He inserted the screwdriver's blade between the door and the jamb at the level of the lock. Then he struck the handle of the screwdriver with the heavy end of the adjustable wrench, trying to force the blade into the socket of the lock.
The first blow failed to move the screwdriver, which was jammed up against the steel of the lock. He wiggled the screwdriver, trying to find a way in. He used the wrench again, harder this time. Still the' screwdriver would not slip into the socket. He felt perspiration break out on his forehead, despite the cold weather.
He told himself to stay calm. He had done this before. When? He had no idea. It did riot matter. The technique worked, he was sure of that.
He wiggled the screwdriver again. This time, it felt as if a corner of the blade had caught in a notch. He hammered again, as hard as he could. The screwdriver sank in an inch.
He pulled sideways on the handle, levering the tongue of the lock back out of the socket. To his profound relief, the door opened inward.
The damage to the frame was too slight to be seen from the street.
He stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind him.
When Rosemary Sims finished dialing the number, she looked out the window again, but the stranger had vanished.
That was quick.
The police answered. Feeling confused, she hung up the phone without speaking.
Why had he suddenly stopped knocking on doors? Where had he gone? Who was he?
She smiled. She had something to occupy her thoughts all day.
It was the home of a young couple. The place was furnished with a mixture of wedding presents and junk-shop purchases. They had a new couch arid a big TV set in the living room, but they were still using orange crates for storage in the kitchen. An unopened letter on the hall radiator was addressed to Mr. G. Bonetti.
There was no evidence of children. Most probably, Mr. and Mrs. Bonetti both had jobs and would be out all day. But he could not count on it He went quickly upstairs. There were three bedrooms, only one of which was furnished. He threw the suitcase on the neatly made bed. Inside it he found a carefully folded blue chalk-stripe suit, a white shirt and a conservative striped tie. There were dark socks, clean underwear, and a pair of polished black wingtips that looked only about half a size too big.
He stripped off his filthy clothes and kicked them into a corner. It gave him a spooky feeling, to be naked in the home of strangers. He thought of skipping the shower, but he smelled bad, even to himself.
He crossed the tiny landing to the bathroom. It felt great to stand under the hot water and soap himself all over. When he got out, he stood still and listened carefully. The house was silent He dried himself with one of Mrs. Bonetti's pink bath towels - another wedding present, he guessed -and put on undershorts, pants, socks and shoes from the stolen bag. Being at least half dressed would speed his getaway if something went wrong while he was shaving.
Mr. Bonetti used an electric shaver, but Luke preferred a blade. In the suitcase he found a safety razor and a shaving brush. He lathered his face and shaved quickly.
Mr. Bonetti did not have any cologne, but maybe there was some in the suitcase. After stinking like a pig all morning, Luke liked the idea of smelling sweet. He found a neat leather toiletry case and unzipped it. There was no cologne inside - but there was a hundred dollars in twenties, neatly folded: emergency money. He pocketed the cash, resolving to pay the man back one day.
After all, the guy was not a collaborator.
And what the heck did that mean?
Another mystery. He put on the shirt, tie and jacket. They fitted well: he had been careful to choose a victim his own size and build. The clothes were of good quality. The luggage tag gave an address on Central Park South, New York. Luke guessed the owner was a corporate big shot who had come to Washington for a couple of days of meetings.
There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. He had not looked at his reflection since early this morning, in the men's room at Union Station, when he had been so shocked to see a filthy hobo staring back at him.
He stepped to the mirror, bracing himself.
He saw a tall, fit-looking man in his middle thirties, with black hair and blue eyes; a normal person, looking harassed. A weary sense of relief swept over him.
Take a guy like that, he thought What would you say he does for a living?
His hands were soft, and now that they were clean they did not look like those of a manual worker. He had a smooth indoor face, one that had not spent much time out in bad weather. His hair was well cut. The guy in the mirror looked comfortable in the clothes of a corporate executive.
He was not a cop, definitely.
There was no hat or coat in the bag. Luke knew he would be conspicuous without either, on a cold January day. He wondered if he might find them in the house. It was worth taking a few extra seconds to look.
He opened the closet. There was not much inside. Mrs. Bonetti had three dresses. Her husband had a sport coat for weekends and a black suit he probably wore to church. There was no topcoat - Mr. Bonetti must be wearing one, and he could not afford two -but there was a light raincoat Luke took it off the hanger. It would be better than nothing.' He put it on. It was a size small, but wearable.
There was 'no hat in the closet, but there was a tweed cap that Bonetti probably wore with the sport coat on Saturday. Luke tried it on. It was too small. He would have to buy a hat with some of the money from the sponge bag. But the cap would serve for an hour or so-
He heard a noise downstairs. He froze, listening.
A young woman's voice said: 'What happened to my front door?'
Another voice, similar, replied: 'Looks like someone tried to break in!'
Luke cursed under his breath. He had stayed too long.
'Jeepers, I think you're right!'
'Maybe you should call the cops.'
Mrs. Bonetti had not gone to work, after all. Probably she had gone shopping. She had met a friend at the store and invited her home for coffee.
'I don't know ... looks like the thieves didn't get in.'
'How do you know? Better check if anything's been stolen.'
Luke realized he had to get out of there fast.
'What's to steal? The family jewels?'
'What about the TV?'
Luke opened the bedroom window
and looked out on to the front yard. There was no convenient tree or drainpipe down which he could climb. .
'Nothing's been moved,' he heard Mrs. Bonetti say. 'I don't believe they got in.'
'What about upstairs?'
Moving silently, Luke crossed the landing to the bathroom. At the back of the house there was nothing but a leg-breaking drop to a paved patio.
'I'm going to look.'
'Aren't you scared?'
There was a nervous giggle. But what else can we do? We'll look pretty silly if we call the cops and there's no one here.'
Luke heard footsteps on the stairs. He stood behind the bathroom door.
The footsteps mounted the staircase, crossed the landing and entered the bedroom. Mrs. Bonetti gave a little scream.
Her-friend's voice said: 'Whose bag is that?'
'I've never seen it before!'
Luke slipped silently out of the bathroom. He could see the open bedroom door, but not the women. He tiptoed down the stairs, grateful for the carpet 'What kind of burglar brings luggage?'
'I'm calling the cops right now. This is spooky.'
Luke opened the front door and stepped outside.
He smiled. He had done it He closed the door quietly and walked quickly away.
Sims frowned, mystified. The man leaving the Bonetti house had on Mr. Bonetti's black raincoat and the grey tweed cap he wore to watch the Redskins, but he was larger than Mr. Bonetti, and the clothes did not quite fit She watched him walk down the street and turn the corner. He would have to come back: it was a dead end. A minute later the blue-and-white car she had noticed earlier came around the corner, going too fast. She realized then that the man who had left the house was the beggar she had been watching. He must have broken in and stolen Mr. Bonetti's clothes!
As the car passed her window, she read the license plate and memorized the number.
.
1.30 P. M.
The Sergeant motors have undergone 300 static tests, 50 tests and 290 ignition-system firings without a failure.
Anthony sat in the conference room, fuming with | impatience and frustration.
Luke was still running around Washington. No one knew what he might be up to. But Anthony was stuck here, listening to a State Department time-server drone MI about the need to combat rebels massing in the fountains of Cuba. Anthony knew all about Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. They had fewer than a thousand men under their command. Of course they Would be wiped out - but there was no point If Castro ere killed, someone else would take his place.
What Anthony wanted to do was get out on the street and look for Luke.
He and his staff had put in calls to most of the police stations in the District of Columbia. They had the precincts to call in details of any incidents involving drunks or bums, any mention of a perpetrator who talked like a college professor, and anything at all out of the ordinary. The cops were happy to cooperate with the CIA: they liked the thought that they might be involved with international espionage.
The State Department man finished his talk, and a round-table discussion began. Anthony knew that the only way to prevent someone like Castro taking over was for the US to support a moderate reformist government Fortunately for the communists, there was no danger of that The door opened and Pete Maxell slipped in. He gave a nod of apology to the chairman at the head of the table, George Cooperman, then sat next to Anthony and passed him a folder containing a batch of police reports.
There was something unusual at just about every station house. A beautiful woman arrested for picking pockets at the Jefferson Memorial turned out to be a man; some beatniks had tried to open a cage and free an eagle at the zoo; a Wesley Heights man had attempted to suffocate his wife with a pizza with extra cheese; a delivery truck belonging to a religious publisher had shed its load in Petworth, and traffic on Georgia Avenue was being held up by an avalanche of Bibles.
It was possible that Luke had left Washington, but Anthony thought it unlikely. Luke had no money for train or bus fares. He could steal it, of course, but why would he bother? He had nowhere to go. His mother lived in New York and he had a sister in Baltimore, but he did not know that He had no reason to travel.
While Anthony speed-read the reports,' he listened with half an ear to his boss, Carl Hobart, talking about US ambassador to Cuba, Earl Smith, who had worked tirelessly to undermine church leaders and those who wanted to reform Cuba by peaceful means, Tony sometimes wondered if Smith were in fact a agent, but more likely he was just stupid. One of the police reports caught his eye, and he it to Pete.
'Is this right?' he whispered furiously.
Pete nodded. 'A bum attacked and beat up a patrolman on A Street and Seventh.' 'A bum beat up a cop?'
'And it's not far from the neighbourhood where we live.'
'It might be him!' Anthony said excitedly. Carl who was speaking, shot him a look of annoyance. Anthony lowered his voice to a whisper 'But why would he attack a patrolman? Did he I anything - the cop's weapon, for example?' but he beat him up pretty good. The officer treated in hospital for a broken forefinger on his hand.' tremor ran through Anthony like an electric 'That's him!' he said loudly. Carl Hobart said: 'For Christ's sake!' George Cooperman said good-humouredly 'Anthony shut the fuck up, or go outside and talk, why don't you?'
Anthony stood up. 'Sorry, George. Back in a flash.' He stepped out of the room, and Pete followed. 'That's him,' Anthony repeated as the door shut 'It was his trademark, in the war. He used to do it to the Gestapo - break their trigger fingers.'
Pete looked puzzled. 'How do you know that?'
Anthony realized he had made a blunder. Pete believed that Luke was a diplomat having a nervous breakdown. Anthony had not told Pete that he knew Luke personally. Now he cursed himself for carelessness. 'I didn't tell you everything,' he said, forcing a casual tone. 'I worked with him in OSS.'
Pete frowned. 'And he became a diplomat after the war.' He gave Anthony a shrewd look. 'He's not just having trouble with his wife, is he.'
'No. I'm pretty sure it's more serious.'
Pete accepted that. 'Sounds like a cold-blooded bastard, to break a guy's finger, just like that'
'Cold-blooded?' Anthony had never thought of Luke that way, though he did have a ruthless streak. 'I guess he was, when the chips were down.' He had covered up his mistake, he thought with relief. But he still had to find Luke. 'What time did this fight occur?'
'Nine-thirty.'
'Hell. More than four hours ago. He could be anywhere in the city by now.'
'What'll we do?'
'Send a couple of men down to A Street to show the photo of Luke around, see if you can get any dues where he might have been headed. Talk to the cop, too.'
'Okay.'
'And if you get anything, don't hesitate to bust in on this stupid fucking meeting.'
'Gotcha.'
Anthony went back inside. George Cooperman, Anthony's wartime buddy, was speaking impatiently. 'We should send in a bunch of Special Forces tough guys, clean up Castro's ragtag army in about a day and a half.'
The State Department man asked nervously: 'Could we keep the operation secret?
'No,' George said. 'But we could disguise it as a local conflict, like we did in Iran and Guatemala.'
Carl Hobart butted in. 'Pardon me if this is a dumb question, but why is it a secret what we did in Iran and Guatemala?'
The State Department man said: 'We don't want to advertise our methods, obviously.'
'Excuse me, but that's stupid,' Hobart said. 'The Russians know it was us. The Iranians and the Guatemalans know it was us. Hell, in Europe the newspapers openly said it was us! No one was fooled except the American people. Now, why do we want to lie to them?'
George answered with mounting irritation. 'If it all came out, there would be a Congressional inquiry. Fucking politicians would be asking if we had the right, was it legal, and what about the poor Iranian shit kicking farmers and Spic banana-pickers.'
'Maybe those a
ren't such bad questions,' Hobart persisted stubbornly. 'Did we really do any good in Guatemala? It's hard to tell the difference between the Armas regime and a bunch of gangsters.'
George lost his temper. 'The hell with this!' he shouted. 'We are not here to feed starving Iranians and give civil liberties to South American peasants, for Christ's sake. Our job is to promote American interests - and fuck democracy!'
There was a moment's pause, then Carl Hobart said: 'Thank you, George. I'm glad we got that straightened out'
.
2 P. M.
Each Sergeant motor has an igniter that consists of two electrical matches, wired in parallel, and a jellyroll of metal oxidant encased in a plastic sheath. The igniters are so sensitive that they have to be disconnected if an electrical storm comes within twelve miles of Cape Canaveral, to avoid accidental firing.
In a Georgetown menswear store, Luke bought a soft grey felt hat and a navy wool topcoat. He wore them out of the store and felt, at last, that he could look the world in the eye.
Now he was ready to attack his problems. First he had to learn something about memory. He wanted to know what caused amnesia, whether there were different kinds, and how long it might last Most importantly, he needed information on treatment and cures.
Where did one go for information? A library. How did one find a library? Look at a map. He got a street map of Washington at the news-stand next to the menswear store. Prominently displayed was the Central Public Library, at the intersection of New York and Massachusetts Avenues, back across town. Luke drove there.
It was a grand classical building raised above ground level like a Greek temple. On the pediment above the pillared entrance were carved the words:
SCIENCE-POETRY-HISTORY
Luke hesitated at the top of the steps, then remembered that he was now a normal citizen again, and walked in.
The effect of his new appearance was immediately apparent. A grey-haired librarian behind the counter stood up and said: 'Can I help you, sir?'
Luke was pathetically grateful to be treated so courteously. 'I want to look at books on memory,' he said.