by M. K. Wren
“Sven,” he called, “do you see anything over there?”
After a pause, Svensen answered, “No, not yet, Mr. Flagg. I see not’ing.”
The light began to flash on and off, the irregular pulsation continuing for a full minute as Conan watched, desperately wishing for some means of recording those impulses. Then it blinked off, leaving nothing but darkness.
“Anything yet, Sven?”
“They yust sittin’—no…wait. I t’ink I see—”
Conan turned, looked intently toward the trawlers.
“What, Sven?”
“A light. Yust a little, blinkin’ light. I can yust barely make it out.”
Conan crossed the deck, stumbling on the cover of the hold, reaching out blindly for the railing.
“Where was the light coming from—the mother ship?”
“Ya, the mother ship. That damn floatin’—”
“I have it.” He tightened his grip on the binoculars, fixing his intent gaze on one light among that glittering chain; one small, white, blinking light.
Mrs. Leen was desperate. Those signals were an admission of failure; failure to find the message that was hidden in the original copy of the Dostoevsky. No doubt she’d suffer for that failure, and for making this direct contact necessary.
But her ultimate fate was of little interest to him. She had her instructions now; those impulses carried the answers to her signaled questions.
He watched the flashing light and wondered if somewhere in this long-distance visual conversation he was witnessing, his own name might not be mentioned.
*
On the way back to Holliday Bay, Svensen had been complaining about a strange noise in the engine. As soon as he tied up at the dock, he returned to the pilothouse, and descended the narrow hatchway into the hold to diagnose her mechanical ills. He didn’t even seem to hear Conan’s good-bye, or notice his quick departure.
Conan took the steps up to the street level two at a time, and as he reached the XK-E, looked back at the Josephine. Sven was nowhere to be seen, lost in the hold.
A man of little curiosity, perhaps; or a man who had long ago ceased to be surprised. Or—and the thought made him pause—a man who knew more than he was telling.
But there wasn’t time to consider Olaf Svensen’s character or motives.
He backed the XK-E out of the parking space, and gunned it past the Coast Guard station north of the docks, then turned left up a side street, skirting the Bay, to the highway.
He found himself flinching at every shift of gears, but resigned himself to the pain. Another of Nicky’s pills would bring it under control.
A half mile from the Bay, he braked and pulled off the highway at a telephone booth. He left the motor running, glancing at his watch as he got of the car: 7:05. Mrs. Leen had had approximately thirty-five minutes since her exchange with the trawlers.
For a sick moment, he felt around in his pockets for a change, wondering if he were in the classic position of utter helplessness, facing a pay phone without that magic silver disk. But to his relief, his pockets provided the necessary passkey to communication. He dialed the Alton house, fumbling in his haste.
Duncan answered after only one ring.
“Conan, is that you?”
“Yes, Charlie, what’s—”
“Thank God! You okay? Where are you, anyway?”
“A phone booth, about half a mile south of the shop. Charlie, I hit paydirt. Mrs. Leen had a little téte-à-téte with the trawlers; light beams—very narrow and intense.”
“I’ll be damned. I’ll never laugh again when you start running off about property values.”
Conan couldn’t muster so much as a smile.
“That was about six-thirty. Charlie, she has her instructions now. What’s been going on there?”
Duncan’s voice had an edge of tension in it.
“Maybe that explains a couple of things. Chief, the old lady had a bonfire. That would be about six forty-five.”
“A bonfire? What do you mean?”
“I mean, she lit a fire in her fireplace, and it must’ve been a good one. Her chimney was spreading sparks all over the neighborhood. And in the last ten minutes, I’ve seen her look out her front window three times. Every time a car goes by.”
“She’s expecting someone, then.”
“Yeah. And that fire makes sense now. She was probably getting rid of any incriminating evidence around the house. She must be ready to blow town. That’s what that message to the trawlers must’ve been about.”
Conan closed his eyes, concentrating.
“No. There’s more to it, but that must be part of it. She’s waiting for someone; a ride. She hasn’t a car of her own; part of the poor act. What about Dominic?”
“I talked to Carl ten minutes ago, and he’s getting some action down there, too, but I don’t know what it means yet. He’s waiting for instructions.”
“Instructions?”
“Yeah, well, you see, he’s been prowling around since it got dark; he didn’t have a good enough view from that house he was in. Anyway, he says at about six-fifty, all the lights went out in the house across the street from Dominic’s; that telephone man’s blind.”
“All the lights—”
“Oh—there’s someone else. I guess the FBI sent a replacement for the Major; another guy showed up about six. The telephone man let him in; looked okay.”
“But what about the lights?”
“I don’t know what happened. Carl says the lights went out, so he slipped over to take a look. He couldn’t hear a sound inside, and the shades were pulled, so he couldn’t see anything. He went back across the street and checked Dominic, but he was still inside his house. Then he radioed me. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to bust in on a couple of FBI agents unannounced.”
“He’s sure Dominic didn’t leave his house?” Conan leaned against the glass wall wearily, fighting to keep the tension under control.
“He’s sure. You figure Dominic had something to do—?”
“I don’t know. I still don’t know where he fits into this thing.”
“Well, he sure as hell fits somewhere. Anyway, Carl signed off in a hurry; he saw a couple of city police cars heading his way, and one of them was Harvey Rose’s.”
“Oh, God, did you warn Carl?”
“Yeah. I told him to watch out for Harv.”
“This was—what? Ten minutes ago?”
“About. I’d better tell Carl what you want him to do.”
Conan was silent a moment, then he straightened.
“Nothing, except keep his eyes open. What about Steve?”
“Not one word. I haven’t tried to phone him yet.”
“I will. He has the authority to call in the Coast Guard, and those signals should give him something tangible to work with. Charlie, we must have Mrs. Leen; we can’t lose her now. She has all the answers. We’ll have to get her out of her house before her chauffeur arrives.”
“I can get her out,” Duncan said grimly.
“All right, but be careful. She may look like a sweet little old grandmother, but I have a feeling she can take care of herself.”
“Listen, I’ve got that overweight Mata Hari pegged. Don’t worry. What should I do with her?”
“The bookshop. I’ll try to get through to Steve from here, then I’ll go on to the shop and check it out. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. You’d better get the VW. You’ll be an open target walking the streets with her.”
“Right. It’ll only take a couple of minutes to pick up the car.”
“But hurry. We must get to her before she leaves—”
“Just relax. I’m on my way.”
The phone went dead, and Conan fumbled in his pockets for another coin, then dialed the operator. The only response was a busy signal. He left the booth, swearing inwardly. There were certain disadvantages to living in a small town, and one was having only two operators on the local switchboard at night.
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He gunned the XK-E onto the highway, then reached into the glove compartment for Charlie’s gun and thrust it under his belt. The tires screamed around a turn.
Time. How much was left before he reached the end of some unknown countdown? He didn’t even know what was supposed to happen at the end of that countdown.
Edwina Leen knew.
The question now was how much would she tell?
He geared up to third, hitting the accelerator, and he was afraid he knew the answer to that particular question.
She would tell him nothing.
But she was his only hope now.
CHAPTER 23
So. It’s you. I thought you were one of them.”
Mrs. Edwina Leen paused inside the office door, her puffy features set in an expression of injured dignity that would have been ludicrous under other circumstances.
Conan sat on the edge of the desk, resting his right arm on his upraised knee, and it was all he could do not to laugh. It was so incongruous, this pink-cheeked, myopic, white-haired, plump little old woman; this woman who should have been someone’s chuckling, indulgent grandmother; this woman who was a professional spy, and judging by her survival to this ripe old age, undoubtedly highly skilled at her work.
“One of whom?” he asked.
She spat out the words viciously. “One of them—the FBI. Or is it another branch of your government’s official network of spies?”
He laughed briefly, noting that she’d given up the pretense of deafness, and the stentorian tones and rural dialect that had successfully disguised a very slight accent.
He ignored both her question and her assumption, looking past her to Duncan, who was peering out through the one-way glass. A small .22 automatic rested easily in one hand; the other was wrapped around Mrs. Leen’s arm. “Any trouble, Charlie?”
“With her?” He shrugged. “No. She was expecting somebody; made her a little careless, I guess.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Around the corner by the grocery store.”
“No sign of a tail?”
“No.”
“It will do you no good!” Mrs. Leen burst out. “It’s futile—all of this. It’s too late!”
Duncan turned on her, raising the gun.
“Too late for what, Granny?” Then when she made no response, “It’s sure as hell too late for you to catch your boat for home. Now, you just settle, and don’t make any sudden moves.”
She subsided into seething silence, a brief hint of fear in her eyes at the reminder that her escape route had been cut off.
“Charlie, keep an eye on the street,” Conan said. “Someone will probably be around looking for her. Mrs. Leen, sit down.”
She turned her resentful glare on him, then moved to the chair across the desk and seated herself, pulling her skirt down over her knees with a peculiarly fussy, old-maidish gesture.
Conan glanced at his watch, then focused his attention on her, keeping his voice level.
“Mrs. Leen, I want you to understand your position. You have no hope of making good your escape, nor completing your mission. It would be to your advantage to cooperate with us now.”
“To cooperate?” Her eyes narrowed, and she studied him speculatively for a moment, then she smiled; a malign smile that was a travesty in that plump, pink face. “So. You need my cooperation. Well, you’re in error, Mr. Flagg. Perhaps I won’t escape, but you’re too late to prevent the accomplishment of my mission!”
Then she began to laugh, a high-pitched cackling, and Conan felt himself go pale and fought the urge to stop that triumphant laughter with his fist.
“What is your mission?” he demanded.
But she only laughed again. “You seem quite well informed about me. I should think you’d know all about—”
“Mrs. Leen—” He was on his feet, looking down at her, and what she read in his face silenced her. He said slowly, “Treason is considered a serious offense, in case you’d forgotten; it means life imprisonment—at the least.”
The laughter had turned to sullen intransigence now.
“So. You think to frighten me? I’m an old woman. What does life imprisonment mean to me, or even execution? No. I have nothing to say to you. Nothing!”
“Damn it, don’t you understand—”
“Conan—”
He turned at the urgency in Duncan’s voice.
“What is it?”
“Company. Car slowing up; looks like it’s about to stop. New-model Ford; maybe a rental.”
“Probably. Come on, Mrs. Leen.”
“What? What are you—let go of me!”
He started to pull her to her feet, but he was wearing the sling again, and she almost proved too much for him. Duncan stepped in, twisting her arm behind her back with no hint of respect for her years, stifling her protests with his big hand across her mouth.
“By the door, Charlie.”
They escorted her, still struggling, to the door. Conan snapped off the light to avoid a telltale line of light under the door, then concentrated on the car inching along the street.
The car itself was of no interest to him; it wasn’t familiar. But the lone driver was of immense interest. As he watched, the car came to a full stop outside the shop, and after a long hesitation the driver finally emerged.
And again, Conan felt an urge to laugh.
The man was wearing a belted trenchcoat, the collar turned up, and a hat with the brim pulled low over his face. He looked like a character out of a vintage 1940 movie. Even his posture and movements were Bogartish; the hands in the pockets, the tense, hunched set of the shoulders, the quick glances up and down the street.
Still, the costuming was effective in hiding his face; it was only a dark blur in the ambiguous shadows cast by the street lamps. But Conan didn’t need to see his face.
Duncan asked quietly, “You know him, Chief?”
“The third man.”
“The courier?”
“Yes.”
The man approached the shop cautiously, looking in the windows, finally moving to the door, shading his eyes with one hand to block out the reflections on the glass.
Mrs. Leen had relaxed momentarily, but now she renewed her struggles, letting out frantic, muffled yelps, one foot shooting out and thudding against the door.
Conan wasn’t concerned about her cries; the soundproofing would silence them. But the kicks…
“Hold her, Charlie! Her legs.”
It was incredible that a fat old woman could muster such strength, but she was desperate, and it was all the two of them could do to control her.
Finally, Conan jerked the gun from his belt, aiming it not at her, but at the man outside the shop.
“Mrs. Leen, if your friend sets foot inside that door, he’s dead!”
Her struggles ceased, and in the silence that followed her fast-paced, wheezing breathing seemed loud.
Duncan sighed with relief, cautiously taking his hand from her mouth.
“Well, Granny, that shows real consideration for your friend.”
“Not for him,” Conan said. “For her mission. She has someone else to do her dirty work for her—as usual.”
He watched the courier, looking for any indication that he’d heard her kick the door. But he was turning away now, pausing to look up at the upstairs windows.
“Charlie, as soon as he leaves, follow him.”
“Okay, but he’ll have a hell of a start on me by the time I get to the car.”
“I know, but you’ll have to try. What about Dominic? Did you talk to Carl?”
He felt Mrs. Leen tense at Dominic’s name.
“No, I couldn’t raise him,” Charlie replied. “But he won’t get out of reach of his radio for long. I’ll give him another try from the car. What about Steve?”
The man was stepping into the Ford now, looking back over his shoulder toward the shop.
“No luck. I didn’t have time to try him from this phone.”
He was gone before Conan had time to wish him anything. The bells marked his exit with a shattering clangor.
*
There was another possibility now, if Charlie didn’t lose the courier. A large if. The countdown was still ticking, and it would be as long as the third man was free.
Conan switched on the light, raising the gun as he guided Mrs. Leen back to her chair. But she offered no resistance, only glaring at him balefully once she was seated.
“Your man won’t find him,” she insisted truculently. “It’s too late!”
“Is it?” he demanded. “Then why is your accomplice still around?”
“He was coming for me! That’s all. He was—”
“Of course. I believe that; but I also know your accomplice to be a man of many talents, and I’m sure he’s serving this mission as something more than a chauffeur for you. Mrs. Leen, I’ll ask again—what is your mission?”
“And I’ll tell you again,” she hissed, “I have nothing to say to you. Nothing! You’ll find out what my mission is, Mr. Flagg; you’ll find out when it’s accomplished!”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, or even to move for a moment. Then he reached for the phone and began dialing, trying to control the anger that set his hands trembling. As he listened to the drawn-out burrs on the phone, he looked at his watch again: 7:30. And Mrs. Leen might claim a victory in truth before he even found out what it was he was trying to stop.
“Oregon State Police. May I—?”
“Steve Travers, please—and hurry.”
There was a clicking, a brief hesitation, then the crisp, feminine voice again.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Travers cannot be reached—”
“This is an emergency. I must talk to him.”