Glen Allen - The shadow war

"And unfortunate," Terrill continued. "I'm terribly sorry, but in any case the Foundation will cover your expenses for the trip and, let's say, two weeks?"

"Christ on a crutch, Arthur." Wolfe frowned at Terrill, as if scolding him. "This young man hasn't the foggiest idea what's happened here. Toss him a line, for godssake." And for emphasis he recrossed his legs, rather elegantly.

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry." Again Terrill tapped and rifled. "If only Jeremy had spoken to me sooner. You see, I didn't know he'd contacted you until this very morning, well after the…"

"The incident?" Benjamin offered.

"A hit," said Wolfe, raising his glass in a toast. "Give the lad a drink."

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Would you care for a drink?" Terrill asked.

"No," Benjamin said. "Well, perhaps some water-"

"And the whiskey you don't give him," Wolfe said, handing his empty glass across the desk to Terrill, "put in this."

Terrill took the glass and went to a small bar by the fireplace, and as he made another drink and poured a glass of water for Benjamin, he continued.

"Anyway, as I said, there's been a terrible… event. Jeremy Fletcher-the man who requested your services, a resident fellow here at the Foundation, in fact a very accomplished scholar in his own right-Well…" Terrill returned and handed both of the men their glasses, then sat back down. "Well, he's dead."

"There," sighed Wolfe, "you said it." He saluted Terrill and took a sip of his refreshed drink.

"Dead?" Benjamin exclaimed. "But he called me at the Library of Congress. Just yesterday. He asked me to come out and help with some work he was doing." They both looked at him in silence. "He…" Benjamin realized he'd run out of things to say. "Dead?" he repeated.

"Decidedly," said Wolfe. Then he looked sharply at Terrill. "You say this 'incident' occurred sometime yesterday afternoon?"

"Well, it must have happened after Dr. Fletcher's afternoon meeting with Edith, certainly," Terrill said nervously. Then he glanced at Benjamin. "But there's no reason to go into all that now, taking up Mr. Wainwright's time, when we've wasted so much of it as it is."

Benjamin turned to Wolfe. "You're a policeman?"

Wolfe shifted those lidded eyes as if Benjamin had insulted him.

"A miss," Wolfe said. And then he smiled-and again Benjamin felt both charmed and irritated by his expression.

"In any case," Terrill continued with some effort, "as Mr. Fletcher was the only member of the Foundation doing that sort of research, we simply don't need-"

"What sort of research?" Wolfe interrupted.

"What? I told you-"

"No," said Wolfe, turning to face Benjamin. "I'm asking Mr. Benjamin Wainwright. Why do you think Dr. Fletcher requested your illustrious presence?"

"You mean, what sort of work was Jeremy… was Dr. Fletcher doing?" Benjamin shook his head. "I know almost nothing about it. I hadn't spoken to him in years, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, yesterday-"

"You knew Dr. Fletcher?" Wolfe asked sharply.

"Well, yes, back in college. But-"

"And then, after a long interval without any contact, he called you yesterday, asked you to come out here?"

Benjamin felt like he was being interrogated. "He said something about working with the Colonial period, and, as that's my field-"

"Then," Wolfe interrupted him again, "you do know of Dr. Fletcher's research."

"No, not really. I mean, I know his degree was in statistics-"

" Inferential statistics," corrected Wolfe. "You know, to draw inferences."

"Samuel, really," Terrill protested, exasperated. "I feel I must put my foot down here. This is the very sort of thing that we wish to remain confidential. And confidentiality, need I remind you, determined our course of action in bringing you here."

Wolfe stood and crossed to Terrill's desk as if to confront him; but instead he merely smiled tolerantly at Terrill, then turned and addressed Benjamin.

"Doesn't it strike you as odd, Mr. Wainwright," Wolfe said, "that a statistician, inferential or otherwise, would need the services of a Colonial historian?"

Benjamin entirely agreed with Wolfe, but for some reason he didn't want to say so.

"Well… not necessarily. Jeremy and I used to discuss Colonial history back in college, and-"

"Fletcher's current work was all on nuclear war theory," Wolfe said heavily. "Hardly the stuff of Puritan religious dogma, wouldn't you say?"

Benjamin looked to Terrill, who was now jotting notes furiously, resorting to the pretense that neither of them existed. And then an answer seemed perfectly obvious to him.

"Jeremy knew my dissertation was on the Native-Settler wars. Perhaps his work on war game theory had something to do with those wars and… well, modern guerilla warfare?"

Wolfe looked at him silently for a moment, turned to Terrill.

"How much were you going to pay him, Arthur?"

Terrill looked up from his papers. "What? Him?" He glanced at Benjamin. "Well, I don't see how that's really relevant, given the circumstances."

"As much as my assistant?" Wolfe said.

"Your assistant?"

"If I'm to explore this incident thoroughly in no more than three days, I'm going to need some help, Arthur. And there's the not inconsequential issue of who's to be trusted. Wasn't that your point in dragging me away from my cozy little loft in Boston this morning? To guarantee a little discreet nosing about before the big-footed detectives arrive?"

Terrill roused himself. "And confidentiality, Samuel. At least you were once already employed by the Foundation, thus the proper security checks-"

Wolfe leaned over and patted Benjamin's shoulder. "And our congressional librarian here works for the government, too, don't you?" He turned back to Terrill. "The government that writes your checks, Arthur. The same government that's not going to write you that very fat check, unless-"

Terrill held up his hand. "Samuel, please!"

Wolfe smiled. "My point is that you can spare no one, I need someone, and someone has just very propitiously arrived. Someone whom poor Jeremy thought could help him. Well, perhaps he was right, Arthur. Perhaps Mr. Wainwright can help us."

"Really, now, Samuel…," began Terrill.

But Wolfe suddenly cursed as his glass slipped from his hand and fell with a crash to Terrill's desk. Ice and liquid spread everywhere across the papers there. Terrill first looked stunned, then horrified, then began grasping willy-nilly at folders and papers.

"Oh dear," Wolfe said-and began dabbing at the expanding rivulets of scotch with the end of his tie.

Terrill sat back, exasperated.

"I think," he said, speaking slowly and carefully, "this discussion's usefulness is concluded for the evening. Mr. Wainwright, we'll decide in the morning what, if any, your continuing role with the Foundation will be. And Mr. Wolfe…"

Wolfe looked up, grinning ruefully, and handed Terrill the one folder he'd managed to snatch from the deluge, a shard of glass perched in its concavity. And then without another word he turned and, nodding to Benjamin, walked out of the room.

When Wolfe was gone, Arthur looked at Benjamin. "I have to apologize for Mr. Wolfe," he said. "He's been through a… well, a recent shock. You haven't seen him at his best."

Benjamin realized that Terrill's schoolmaster tone of earlier was tempered with the concern of an elder colleague for a promising friend-someone whose promise was vanishing before his eyes. "Go upstairs, Mr. Wainwright," Terrill continued, "and there you'll find an empty guest room. You can use that for the night. We'll sort all this out in the morning."

"Thank you," Benjamin said. "Then… good night." He gathered his briefcase from the floor and crossed what seemed an immense distance to the office's doorway.