Дональд Уэстлейк - The Spy in the Ointment

“The thought of a lot of pacifists protecting me from a lot of terrorists,” I said, “just somehow doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

Murray said, “Well, Gene, it’s up to you.”

“I know that. Listen, what about this alternative number three? I’d never get away with it.”

“Why not?” He picked up his attaché case, uncrossed his legs, put the case in his lap, and snapped it open. “I looked up the World Citizens’ Independence Union,” he said. “Quite an interesting organization. They were a group of one-worlders, opposed to all borders, all travel restrictions of any kind. They expressed themselves by blowing up customs shacks at borders, mostly between this country and Canada. A contingent of them attacked and demolished a customs shack on a small road between France and Germany about seven years ago, were chased by German police, took refuge in a farmhouse, murdered the farmer and his family, and fought to the last man. Quite a rowdy group. That one attack seems to have been their only foray off the continent of North America.”

I said, “Oh, fine. That’s the kind of group you want me to go to a meeting with, is it?”

“Well, this particular organization, the WCIU, isn’t extant any more.”

“Extant. Does that mean they’re not around?”

“Right. It seems one of their bombs blew up prematurely, in their headquarters, during a meeting. Wiped them all out.”

“Bombs,” I said.

“Now,” he said, looking at papers in his attaché case, “it does appear that one list published by the Attorney General’s office four or five years ago — yes, here it is — through a printer’s error, left the word ‘World’ out of the entry on the WCIU, which is where, I suppose, your friend Eustaly got the idea you were one of the terrorists he wanted to see. It’s entirely possible you have some sort of suit here in this error, particularly if any sort of injury—”

“Shut up, Murray.”

He looked up. “Eh? Oh, all right, I will. Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry. Back to the issue at hand.”

Angela said, “Gene, I think you ought to go up to that meeting, that’s what I think.”

I said, “Why?”

“Because,” she said, “that way they won’t try to kill you, and you can get the evidence and make the FBI pay attention to you.”

I said, “Murray? What do you think?”

“Gene, it’s your decision.”

“I know it’s my decision, dammit, but what do you think? ”

“What do I think? I think Angela’s right. I think you can attend this meeting in perfect safety, and at least learn something of Eustaly’s plans, and not give them any reason to suspect they should do away with you. I’m not saying you’ll definitely find any tangible proof you can turn over to the FBI, but at least you’ll keep Eustaly and the others from planning to kill you.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds better than alternatives one and two, I admit that, but I just don’t know. What if I couldn’t bring it off? What if I just couldn’t act like a terrorist?”

“Apparently Eustaly was convinced this afternoon,” Murray pointed out. “Besides, there’ll be a dozen or more people there. No one will be watching you in particular.”

“Yeah, but going in there alone...”

“I’m going with you, Gene,” Angela said, as though it had all been decided hours ago.

I turned and looked at her. “You’re doing what?”

“I’m going with you. I want to see these people. Besides, if there’s two of us we’ll feel stronger, won’t we, Murray?”

Murray said, doubtfully, “Well...”

I said, “You’re not going.”

“Oh, yes, I am. I can take shorthand, I bet you didn’t know that, and that’s just what I’ll do. I’ll take shorthand notes of everything everybody says.”

“Definitely not,” I said. “I’m going alone. Besides, I was the only one invited. How am I supposed to sneak you in?”

Murray said, “As your secretary. Actually, it’s not a bad idea. If Angela can get a stenographic record of the meeting—”

I said, “Murray, you’re going along with this? You want Angela to get killed?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t want anybody to get killed. And if you two behave with just a little discretion, there’s no reason why tonight’s meeting should be at all dangerous for either of you.”

I said, “Murray, you’ve got—”

“Oh, golly!” said Angela, jumping to her feet. “What time is it?”

Murray looked at his watch. “Almost six-thirty.”

Angela took her own tiny watch off her wrist and shook it. “This darn thing, it’s broken.”

“It won’t tell time?”

“No, it tells time, but it’s supposed to ring. You know, it’s like an alarm clock, it’s supposed to ring when I should take my pills. I should have taken them at six o’clock.” She hurried away toward the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”

Murray looked at me. “Alarm clock? On her wrist?”

“It’s something her father gave her,” I said. “Sort of an alarm watch. It tinkles.”

“When she should take her pills. What pills? Is she sick?”

“No. They’re diet, birth control, and complexion.”

“Oh, really? All at once? If she isn’t sick, she will be.”

“Not a bit of it,” I said. “Angela’s as healthy as a horse. But better-looking. But not quite as bright.”

“You don’t appreciate that girl, Gene,” he said as that girl came back into the room.

She said, “Well, it’s all decided, right? We’re going up to the meeting tonight, you and I.”

I said, “Murray? You really think it’s safe enough to take Angela?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“In that case,” I said, “it’s probably safe enough for me to go. All right.” I nodded to Angela. “We’ll go,” I said.

“Wonderful,” she said. “I’ve been dying for a chance to practice my shorthand.”

Murray said, “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

I said, “The traditional hearty meal?”

“Your problem,” Murray told me, “is you’re a pessimist.”

“No,” said Angela. “Pacifist.”

“Same thing,” said Murray. “A pacifist is a man who thinks if he does get in a fight he’s sure to lose.”

“That’s what I like about you, Murray,” I said. “You’re such a snot.”

Murray laughed genially, shut his attaché case, and got to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll eat at Ludlow’s.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. I got a pencil and a piece of paper. I wrote on the piece of paper S crew t he FBI . Then I ripped the paper into a lot of little pieces and threw them in the wastebasket.

“There,” I said. “Now I’m ready.”

I twisted around in the seat and looked back the way we’d come. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I said.

Angela, at the wheel of her yellow Mercedes Benz convertible, said, “What’s the matter, Gene?”

“Pull over to the curb. They’ve lost us.”

She glanced at the rear-view mirror. “How did they do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Pull over, maybe they’ll find us again.”

The time was quarter to twelve at night, and we’d been heading north on Broadway toward Eustaly’s meeting, having dropped Murray off at his apartment on Third Avenue and 19th Street. Two FBI men (E and F) had followed us from my apartment to the restaurant, where they’d been relieved by two others (G and H), who had followed us ever since in a blue Chevrolet. Except that now they’d disappeared.

Angela stopped the car next to a fire hydrant, and we both watched traffic for a while. The month was April, the weather gusty, rainy, and somewhat cold, and we were traveling with the convertible top up. We were parked between 68th and 69th streets, and a steady stream of cabs rolled by us, heading uptown. But no blue Chevrolet.