Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  A phone in the next office shrilled and after four insistent rings was picked up; the steady clack of typewriters continued.

  He sat down, once again feeling bewildered. “What things?”

  She sat on the arm of his chair, perching carefully. “There was a call from Mister Channing’s office a short while ago,” she said. “He’d like you to come there at ten tomorrow morning. There are some questions he would like to go over with you.”

  Broadstreet took a deep breath as if he had been doused with ice–water. “Ten? In his Washington office? All right.” He thought he sounded stilted and unconvincing, so he added, “What more can you tell me? Did he happen to mention what concerns him?”

  “His current secretary didn’t say,” she told him, not mentioning that she had not asked; she was relishing the discomfort she was causing him; it was precisely what Channing had told her to do. “There’s been some talk about closing some of the satellite offices in favor of putting them all under one roof.” There had been a lot of gossip about that possibility, and thus far no final decision had been made.

  “We’re not actively at war now. Why shouldn’t we put us all in one place? I think the satellites were sensible during the war, but now?” He was speaking too loudly. “We can maintain better control of our information if we have a … a central office for central intelligence.” It was a feeble joke. “It’s not as if anyone’s going to blow it up during the peace. It could have happened during the war, but not now.” He cleared his throat. “You know how the upper directors have been pushing for a proper office, somewhere close enough to Washington to be useful for all of us, but away from the hustle and bustle of the city. We ought to include everyone who handles classified information.”

  “Mister Channing will want to hear your opinion,” said Pierce as an encouragement. She bent and kissed him. “Have you had your lunch yet?”

  “No. I’ve been busy.”

  “It’s about two, isn’t it?” She slipped off the arm of the chair and stood, half-facing him. “Why not leave early, have a real lunch away from here, do some thinking, and then go home and organize yourself for tomorrow? Bring everything that’s even marginally connected to that explosion in Paris, then figure out which of the field agents you think should work on this.”

  Broadstreet nodded several times. “I don’t have any appointments this afternoon. I guess I could do that,” he said slowly, still feeling nervous but beginning to think that he might have happened upon an out. He stared hungrily at her. “I’d rather spend it with you.”

  “We’ll put our minds to that later,” she said, all brisk efficiency. She had her own appointment with Channing in less than two hours, and would have to leave shortly. “Remember, if you’re worn out tomorrow, Channing will notice. He might hold it against you, to see you unrested.”

  “I know, I know,” said Broadstreet, sounding ill-used.

  Pierce regarded him very somberly. “You want that promotion, don’t you? You want to be head of a foreign office?” She felt more than saw Broadstreet nod. “Then don’t carp about the rules of the game you’re playing.”

  “I won’t,” he promised, surprised at her brusque recommendations. He knew Channing could make or break him now, and after all he had done to gain a promotion to the real work of the CIA, he was determined not to throw it all away on a point of pride. “I get your point. I’m going to study up on everything I’ve been working on. Particularly Baxter. And I’ll have a plan or two to show Manfred Channing, as well.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she said, and started toward the door. “Go on, now. I’ll notify the front desk that you’re out the rest of today and all of tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” said Broadstreet in a tone that was precariously close to being humble.

  “You get on it,” she told him as she let herself out.

  “Right you are,” Broadstreet called after her, then loaded up his briefcase and went to find his coat. He was already thinking where he should go and what he should do about Baxter. He was out of the building in three minutes and in his new Nash in another two, so he did not see Pierce leave through the north door ten minutes later. He drove through the city paying little heed to the traffic; he was trying to decide if he had failed with his Baxter ploy, and if so, how. He drove steadily for almost an hour, preoccupied, trying to ease the desperation that welled deep within him while he searched for an out-of-the-way place to eat. He knew that whatever he decided before his meeting tomorrow would have to be the story that he would make into the truth if he were ever to get his promotion. “And I will get a promotion,” he said, leaning toward the steering wheel. “I’ve earned it.”

  After a little less than an hour of driving, Broadstreet pulled in at the Blue Crab, out on the county road that led to Little Macklin, a small fishing village that had been slowly dying for a century. The Blue Crab was at the head of a pier where crabbing boats would tie up and make their first sales. It was frequented by people from the village and the faculty and staff from a junior college located a mile away. The tables were covered in newspapers, and the waitresses wore sensible slacks and shirts, and thick-soled boots because of the bits and pieces of soft-shelled crabs that littered the floor. The place was not very busy this afternoon, and the owner, who served as his own maitre d’, was more than glad to seat Broadstreet at a table for four, giving the main dining room the air of more business than was the case. Broadstreet ordered a local beer and a bucket of blue and golden crabs in butter and onions, and encouraged his thoughts to drift. He glanced around the room with its decoration of nets and old crab-traps. Was this the kind of place Baxter might suggest as a meeting place? Was this too ordinary? Not ordinary enough? Was the Helmsman a better choice? He thought about that as a possibility and rejected it. Baxter might prefer a place like this, catering to the working class and where strangers were always remembered. That realization almost made him get up and leave, but that would make him more obvious than if he had a meal. He would take the time to consider how to go about bringing Baxter back into the case. It was time Baxter left the scene, Broadstreet saw it clearly. But to do that, he had to bring Baxter back long enough to resolve the case. He would need to show some activity from Baxter by the end of the month, so that Channing would continue to authorize payments for him. It would have to be another ten days before the next communication arrived, so that it would not appear too coincidental to have the inquiry begin at almost the same time as the newest letter arrived. He would have to receive something from Baxter that was useful as well as serious. He would have to go through many of his files to see what could be tied to Baxter. Broadstreet signaled to a waiter to bring one of the large bibs the restaurant provided its patrons. He slipped the loop over his head and tied the waistbands behind him. Now he felt less conspicuous than he had before. He smiled as he reached for a crab and the mallet that served as flatware. There was something so satisfying about smashing crabs, he thought as he broke the shell in a single, well-placed blow. One of the crab’s claws spun halfway across the table, so Broadstreet reached for it first.

  Pierce, too, was preparing for an afternoon light meal, what Channing called a French Tea, with an array of sweet pastries and a bowl of brandied whipped cream as well as tea. She sat on the sofa away from his desk, the coffee-table providing a small barrier between her and Channing, who had rolled his chair over to face her, his full attention being on her. “It’s good to see you, Opal.” His very cordiality put her on guard, although she was careful not to show it.

  “Well, Fred, I have to thank you: this is a luxury, an absolute luxury.” She poured a cup of strong English Breakfast tea, and held it out to him. “I think I’ll save the eclairs for last. They’d ruin everything else if I had them first.”

  “Whatever will please you, Opal,” he said, accepting the cup.

  “I suppose you ordered this from a bakery. They didn’t do it up in the lunchroom.” She was relieved to see him smile.

  “N
o, the most I could get from the lunchroom is crackers and cheese and maybe a dozen smoked baby clams.”

  “Or an assortment of store-bought cookies,” she suggested, and made a face at the prospect.

  “Something of the sort,” he agreed, locking the wheels on his chair before leaning forward to take a paper napkin and a cream-puff. “Go on; help yourself.”

  “This is a wonderful treat; I’m going to make the most of it,” she declared, contemplating a napoleon. “Napoleons, babas-au-rhum, eclairs, cream-puffs, and lemon squares.” She was about to reach for one of the display when his question stopped her.

  “How’s Broadstreet doing these days?”

  Her answer to that was the reason for this meeting. She took the teapot and filled her own cup, using the time to frame her answer; it was a large, stoneware pot, and quite heavy. “He’s getting worried, and that’s upsetting his work. There’s been no further contact from Baxter—nothing. I think Baxter’s left town, or someone else has found him and he’s run off or maybe we’ll find him floating in a marsh in a month or so. I’ll bet, if he’s running, he went out through Canada and then on to Europe. I’ve already checked with the overseas airlines, and there’s no record of a Baxter leaving from this area in the last two months.”

  “National airlines carry more passengers, and the search would be more complex,” Channing said. “And, as you know, if he’s left the country, there are a number of airports he might choose. He could take a train to Chicago and fly from there.”

  “Yes, he could,” Pierce agreed. “But did he?” He took a bite of the cream-puff. “Seems a bit unlikely, under the circumstances,” he said, then wiped away the whipped cream and confectioner’s sugar that framed his mouth.

  “I doubt it,” she told him, frowning. “I think that Broadstreet has a plan in place with him.”

  “Have you seen anything that supports your theory?” he asked calmly. “Or is this your woman’s intuition working overtime?”

  “It’s not intuition, Fred. I wouldn’t bother you with that.” She did her best not to sound annoyed at such an accusation, and very nearly succeeded.

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled,” he admonished her, smiling to make it all right. “You’re a sharp-eyed girl, and I respect that. So what makes you think Baxter might have flown the coop? at least temporarily.”

  “The way Broadstreet’s acting,” she said at once, striving to order her thoughts on the matter. “He’s paid little attention to Baxter for three or four months, almost as if he knew that Baxter wouldn’t be around, or that he didn’t expect to hear from him. I didn’t put much stock in that, assuming the two had worked something out between them. Someone might be closing in on Baxter—the FBI, Army or Navy Intelligence—and so he’s gone to ground. But a couple of weeks ago, Broadstreet started getting … I don’t know … nervous. Not for any reason in particular, but enough for me to notice it. I thought maybe there’d been new information on that group in Paris, or maybe D. G. Atkins had been located, but it wasn’t specific enough to know what had set him off.” She looked away from him, her face set with exasperation. “I couldn’t get much out of him, except he said that he was worried about a case.”

  “What made you think it was Baxter?” Channing persisted. “Broadstreet has other cases to worry about.”

  “He made a joke about Baxter, about how we should be looking at mother’s maiden names among those we’ve been checking out. He said Freud was right—mothers were at the heart of men’s problems. It wasn’t funny, really, but it was clear that he had something in mind about Baxter, something that was bothering him. I followed up on the mother’s maiden names search, but didn’t find anyone with that name among close relatives. I don’t want to spend the next six months tracking down family names for all the possible suspects.” She flushed a little, knowing that Channing was running out of patience; she spoke faster. “And he’s been getting more distressed. Broadstreet is doing a more extensive follow-up than is necessary, under the circumstances.” She waited a few seconds while Channing consumed the rest of the cream-puff, then went on. “That bomb in Paris upset him. He’s been brooding about it since it happened.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection to Baxter? That explosion is worrying the French. Broadstreet’s doing the smart thing with his follow-up: it shows the right attitude.” Channing sounded more forceful now, pressing her with his stance and the tone of his voice; the rest of the pastries went untouched.

  “He’d probably like it, to connect them, but about the only thing they have in common is Broadstreet himself. If the two cases intersect, it may be only through him.” This was the meat of her burgeoning notion, and she decided to make the most of it. “Something in his earlier investigation of the Paris group could have set off the Baxter case. I don’t know what it is, but it would explain what we’re finding out.” She chose her words carefully, to show Channing that she considered herself involved.

  Channing was about to upbraid her for that remark, but then sat back in his chair, musing. “That’s an interesting theory. Tell me more.”

  Pierce drank her rapidly cooling tea and looked directly at him. “It didn’t occur to me until just now: but I can’t remember how he decided that there might be a connection to the group in Paris. I didn’t start to work for him until after the Baxter business began, remember. Nothing he said to me seemed to support it. I make full allowance for secretive plans, but there are secrets and then there are secrets. And the care that Baxter went to to hide himself made me think he might be an agent of some kind, himself—maybe FBI, maybe someone foreign—because everything Broadstreet reported about Baxter suggested a professional.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Channing, softening his approach to Pierce.

  “I can’t figure out what Baxter is up to. If he were MI6, we could approach the Limeys, but he’s not English—I can tell by the spelling and the grammar. He’s American.”

  “You’re certain of that.” Channing waited for her to explain herself.

  She paused. “He could be a Canadian, but they’re still very British.”

  “Could he be working for a foreign power?” Channing asked.

  “So you can keep the Agency out of the spotlight?” she countered. “I don’t know enough about Baxter to make a guess.” She wondered if she dared to light up a cigarette.

  “Don’t make up what you don’t know, but is it possible that Baxter is selling what he has to the highest bidder?”

  “Yes, it’s possible, I suppose.” To gain herself a little time, she reached for the teapot once more, offering him a fill-up, which he declined, before pouring more into her cup. “I thought it might be an FBI operation—trying to set us up for Hoover, so he can take us over.”

  “Truman won’t let that happen,” said Channing, his confidence apparent in every line of his body. “Truman knows why we need a foreign intelligence agency that is not part of domestic intelligence.”

  “He doesn’t trust Hoover.” Pierce looked toward the window, doing her best to ignore Channing’s scrutiny.

  “Who does?” Channing asked. “Besides Walter Winchell.”

  It was almost as feeble a joke as Broadstreet’s about mother’s maiden name had been, but Pierce laughed dutifully, feeling that she had avoided something dreadful. She reached for her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes, selecting one and removing it. She was about to pull out her book of matches but saw that Channing had his lighter out. “Oh. Thanks, Fred.” She leaned over the table so he could apply the little flame to her Lucky Strike.

  “Always a pleasure to be of service to a lady,” he said as he snapped the lid closed and returned it to his pocket. “Tell me more about your reason for—”

  To her dismay, Pierce suddenly sneezed. Mortified, she put her cigarette in the ashtray at the end of the coffee-table, then she set her cup down and reached for her purse again for her handkerchief. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s this hay fever. Smoking’s s
upposed to calm it down, but…” She turned away to blow her nose.

  “Have some more tea,” Channing recommended.

  In order to turn attention away from her hay fever, she said, “I thought you had a waiter. Didn’t you have one the last time I came in to discuss Broadstreet?”

  “Yes. He left two months ago. I’ll have to find a new one.” He drank a little tea.

  “What happened to him?” It was an innocent inquiry, not intended to require an extended answer.

  “He’s gone back to J. Edgar, a little the worse for wear now, I trust.” There was malice in his smile.

  She was folding her handkerchief, but looked up at him. “Good Lord. There’s going to be a scandal.”

  Channing chuckled. “No, there isn’t.”

  “Why not?” Pierce asked.

  “Because neither we nor the FBI want to be too closely scrutinized by anyone, including our own leaders. The more closely we’re monitored, the less effective we can be. Too many people will know what we’re doing, and that can’t be allowed.” Channing sighed. “It’s an awkward situation. They and we have taken advantage of the fear of Communist infiltrators, and have extended our activities beyond the limits of the law, and neither they nor we can afford to have these … lapses exposed. We’re in the more marginal position, because we aren’t supposed to deal inside the US, and to find out what we’ve been doing in some cases would really be a scandal. So, like the FBI, we’ll handle our internal peccadillos internally.”

  “How?” Pierce asked, then stifled another sneeze.

  “The way we have avoided scandal before: Hoover’s man will be given a technical promotion and then be posted to some place like Fargo or, if he’s really screwed up, Guam, and his career will stagnate. We do the same thing here, and we have more out-of-the-way places to send our embarrassments. There’s an opening in Singapore, and another in Bratislava. And one coming up in Jakarta.”

  For a chaotic moment, Pierce thought this warning was for her—that she might be posted to Papua in New Guinea, or Vladivostok in the Soviet Union. “Oh,” she said, to let him know she understood. She picked up her cigarette, tapped off the ash, and took a drag on it.