Glen Allen - The shadow war

She turned out the light by the chair and made her way through the darkened apartment into the bedroom, where, as soon as she'd undressed and stretched out on the bed, she immediately fell asleep.

Once back in his room, Benjamin had looked around for glasses for Gudrun's brandy. He was nervous, and felt silly for being nervous. There was always the chance she'd change her mind and not show up. Or maybe he was making too much of this. Perhaps she really did want to talk to him about Jeremy. Which, he reminded himself, smiling, was what he was supposed to want, too.

As he was washing two glasses he found in the bathroom a knock came at his door. Holding the glasses, still dripping, in one hand, he went into the room and opened it.

"As promised," announced Gudrun, holding aloft a squat bottle of brandy. She was still in her evening dress, though she'd let her hair down, so that it shone like a mane against her bare shoulders. Once again, Benjamin thought she was one of the most striking women he'd ever seen. "Are you going to invite me in?" she asked.

"Oh, of course." He pointed to the two chairs set next to the small table, but Gudrun sat down unceremoniously on the bed.

"Is one of those for me?" she asked, pointing to the wet glasses.

"Yes." He shook the water from it. "Sorry, all I could find." As he held forth the glass she tilted the bottle, poured a healthy portion into it, then motioned for the other, did the same. She set the bottle on his nightstand, took one of the glasses from him, and tapped glasses.

"To making new friends," Gudrun said.

"And absent old ones," Benjamin answered.

"Yes, of course." She took a sip of her brandy. "So tell me, Benjamin, how do you… sorry, did you know Jeremy Fletcher?"

Benjamin sipped his own, found it pretty strong stuff. "In college," he said. "But I hadn't heard from him in years."

"But then he called you to come out here? To help with his work?" Benjamin just nodded. "And your field is Colonial history?"

"How did you-?"

"Samuel told me." Gudrun leaned back on the bed. "Though he didn't explain why Jeremy suddenly needed a Colonial historian."

Benjamin paused. "Why do you say suddenly?"

"Well," Gudrun smiled, "you arrived late yesterday afternoon with a single suitcase, you weren't on the roster of new fellows sent around last week, and there wasn't a single rumor about your coming." She laughed lightly at Benjamin's look of surprise. "The Foundation is like a village, Ben. Everyone knows everyone else's business. Oh, do you mind if I call you Ben?"

Benjamin was beginning to feel uncomfortable still standing over Gudrun. He perched at the head of the bed, on a pillow. "Not at all," he said, lying. "But now let me ask you something. Why do you think Jeremy suddenly needed you, an expert in counterterrorism?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," she said. She leaned over him, took the brandy bottle from the nightstand and held it toward him.

"I'm fine," Benjamin said. "I had a lot of wine with dinner, and…"

Gudrun set the bottle and her own glass on the nightstand. She turned back to Benjamin, reached forward, and took his hand.

"You're really quite handsome, Ben. Are you used to hearing that from women?" She put her right arm around his neck and began caressing the back of his hair with her fingertips. When he just sat, staring at her, saying nothing, she leaned forward and kissed him.

The taste of the brandy was like an aphrodisiac. Benjamin felt his head reeling. Gudrun kept her mouth against his, her lips slightly parted. Benjamin was surprised at how tender the kiss seemed, how sincere. He was intensely aware of her perfume-something both sharp and musky-and the sound of her dress pressing against his shirt, her fingers on the back of his neck…

She moved her head back a few inches.

"Let's dispense with this jacket, shall we?" she said.

Almost instinctively, Benjamin started to shrug off his jacket, then realized he would have to set his drink down first. He leaned awkwardly over to the nightstand. As he did so, the glass bumped the side of the yellow sheet of folded paper he'd set there. It fell to the floor, where it lay almost beneath the bed, half open. Even as Gudrun was helping him out of his jacket, he couldn't help glancing down at it.

When after a moment she realized he wasn't helping her, she stopped.

"Cold feet?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Benjamin looked at her. His first thought was that she was indeed a very beautiful woman: her blond hair, dark eyebrows, bright red lipstick… like something out of a 1950s movie. And he was about to turn her out.

"No, no," he said. He ran his hand through his hair, then stood up so that his shoe was covering the yellow paper. "I think I've had too much to drink after all," he said. "That damned scotch of Samuel's." And then he gave her a look he hoped was both guileless and slightly drunk.

If she was insulted, she hid it well. She stood as well, put her hand on his chest.

"Well, there's still time to… get to know each other. I think you'll be around for a while." Before he could ask what she meant by that, she gave him a very kind peck on the cheek, said, "Do you mind?" and took the brandy. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

It was only after she was gone that Benjamin wondered why he was hiding the paper from her. From what little he'd seen of what was written there, he didn't have a clue what it meant.

Benjamin crouched down and took the yellow paper gently by one corner. When it had fallen partially open, he'd seen only the word "TEACUP" written across the top in neat, block letters. Now that he saw the entire half-page, he knew he had to show it to Wolfe, regardless of the late hour.

He went into the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face and hair, and ran a towel over his head. Then he went back into the bedroom, grabbed the yellow paper, and hurried out of the room and down the hall.

"I'll be damned." Wolfe was holding the small yellow paper Benjamin had brought him. "What on earth does it mean?"

Benjamin had found Wolfe still awake and reading in bed, some sort of scholarly journal, and listening to a radio; somehow he'd found a station with oldies from the 1930s, the kind of music that he thought suited Wolfe perfectly. He also had the ubiquitous tumbler of scotch on his bedside table.

The half sheet of notepad paper had small figures on it, and a single word:

"Tell me again, slowly, where did you find this?"

"On my nightstand." Benjamin said, then corrected himself. "I mean, that's where I'd put it. But it must have fallen out of the Ginsburg book, the one about Harlan Bainbridge."

Wolfe stood up. He studied the paper in silence for a moment, turned to Benjamin.

"Care for a drink?" he asked, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

Benjamin frowned in frustration. "Drink? No, thank you, I've had quite enough for one night. And I have a feeling I'm going to need a clear head-that we're going to need clear heads-if we're going to figure this out."

Wolfe gave him that infuriating smile. "Quite the nanny, aren't you?"

"Samuel." He stopped, controlled his frustration, began again. "Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on here? This is most likely some sort of note Jeremy placed in that book. But why would he go to all the trouble of putting it in code? Why all the passwords on his computer? Why this cloak-and-dagger about who he spoke with? I just practically chased Gudrun… Dr. Soderbergh out of my room because I didn't want her to see this. And I'm not even sure why, except that your paranoia is contagious."

Wolfe raised an eyebrow. "Gudrun? You're on a first-name basis?" Benjamin started to protest, but Wolfe waved him silent. "It doesn't matter. It may even be of benefit. Anyway, you did the right thing by not letting her see this. You were acting on instinct."