Glen Allen - The shadow war

Benjamin turned the page and began reading about the "Vision and Tragedy" of the Rev. Harlan Phlegon Bainbridge, 162?-1675. And for a while he was engrossed in his reading, but eventually his eyes began to droop, his head began to nod…

As Benjamin fell asleep, the book slipped from his hands and fell off the side of the bed. And as it fell, a slip of paper-small, yellow, with ruled lines-fluttered out of the center of the manuscript and dropped lightly to the floor. When the book landed next to it, the gust of air sent the paper floating sideways a foot or so, so that it came to rest under the bed.

Jeremy Fletcher's room was tidy to the point of obsession. So like Jeremy, Benjamin thought. Which made the overturned chair and computer keyboard on the floor all the more surprising.

Wolfe had awakened Benjamin at the ungodly hour of 6:00 A.M., thrusting a cup of hot coffee under his nose.

"Get changed and meet me in the hall," he'd offered by way of a morning greeting. "Those leaks won't plug themselves."

Once Benjamin had washed his face and put on some fresh clothes, they'd walked down the hall and through the manse's expansive foyer-in the early morning light the mural was more visible, but Benjamin hadn't time to make out any details-and down a hallway until they stood before Jeremy's door. Wolfe was neatly dressed in a suit and tie, and showed no evidence of a hangover. He was carrying a small black briefcase in one hand.

"Haven't you already examined his room?" Benjamin had asked, sipping the coffee.

"I just glanced in yesterday, before you arrived. Then after we met… well, I decided to wait until we could examine it together, when both our impressions would be fresh."

"But I don't even know what I'm looking for."

"Exactly," Wolfe had said. "Unbiased eyes are the best detectors of fraud."

When they'd reached Jeremy's doorway, Wolfe had stopped and examined the space where the door met the jamb. Finding what he was looking for-a small, transparent piece of tape-he'd ripped it from the jamb before unlocking the door and ushering Benjamin into the room.

It was furnished almost identically to Benjamin's room: bed, nightstand, mahogany secretary-bookcase, small round tables, a cherry chifforobe-armoire. Set in front of the window in the left wall was a small mahogany Philadelphia card table, also much like the one in his room.

But upon this table was a laptop computer. And several feet in front of the table, lying on its side on a Persian throw rug, was a Chippendale chair. It was then Benjamin had noticed the detachable computer keyboard, also on the floor.

"I don't understand," Benjamin said. "If the laptop has its own keyboard, then why…?"

"Exactly," said Wolfe. "And why is it on the floor."

"So this is where he had his heart attack?" Benjamin asked. Wolfe nodded. "And who found him?"

"Another excellent question," Wolfe said, smiling. "You've a nose for this sort of thing, as I suspected. Anyway, Terrill told me it was one of the other fellows, a Mrs. Gadenhower. She was apparently bringing him some books, something about a topic they'd discussed earlier the day of the… incident."

"And then she notified Mr. Terrill?"

"She didn't have to. From what Arthur told me, close on her heels was Hauser."

"Hauser?"

"Eric Hauser. In charge of security here at the Foundation. Most providential, his timely arrival. He prevented anything from being touched. Except, of course, the body."

"And where…?"

"There's a fairly complete biology lab, with a storage freezer. Dr. Fletcher is laid out, very respectfully I might add, in there."

Benjamin frowned. "But isn't that… illegal? Shouldn't they have left his body here, for the police?"

Wolfe gave Benjamin one of his hooded, slightly disappointed looks.

"Given the Foundation's standing in the local environs, and the confidential nature of much that goes on here, Arthur assumed he would have a certain leeway in dealing with, as he so delicately called it, the 'incident.' However long is the arm of the law, the Foundation's reach is longer still."

"Well, I know the Foundation is influential, but this is a man's life. Well, a man's death."

"If you can't exercise influence over life and death, Benjamin, what good is such power?"

Benjamin had another question. "And why isn't this Hauser dealing with the investigation?"

Wolfe smiled again. "The Foundation may have some entitlement to do things in their own way and their own time, but there are limits. It's not some banana republic. Arthur understood that the government's going to want some assurances. There's a very large contract about to be finalized soon, and now's not the time for scandals."

"Who watches the watchers?"

"Something like that," said Wolfe.

"But Mr. Terrill said something about you already working for the Foundation. Isn't that-"

"That was some time ago, Benjamin," Wolfe cut him off. "Now, let's have a look around."

Wolfe stepped over to the chifforobe, opened it. There were two suits and half a dozen button-down shirts hanging neatly, another hanger with two almost identical ties, a pair of brown Florsheim shoes on the shelf. "Not exactly a bon vivant, " he said. He opened the lower drawers of the chifforobe, shuffled through small, neat stacks of underwear, white T-shirts, argyle socks.

All this time Benjamin had been staring at the laptop computer. Finally Benjamin said, "Excuse me, Mr. Wolfe-"

"Samuel," said Wolfe, still rifling the drawers.

"I don't mean to be telling you how to do your job, but all this…" He waved vaguely toward the chifforobe, the rest of Fletcher's room. "I just don't see how this relates to finding leaks."

Wolfe answered him without standing up. "My dear boy, leaks come in all shapes and sizes, but ultimately they're like pets: they tend to wind up looking a lot like their masters. First we have to complete our portrait of the good Dr. Fletcher. Or the bad Dr. Fletcher, depending on what sort of picture emerges here," and he waved about the room.

"So that is why you're here," Benjamin said half to himself. "Look, Mr. Wolfe-"

"Samuel," Wolfe insisted again.

"I may not have talked to Jeremy in a while," Benjamin said skeptically, "but I just can't imagine him being some sort of… traitor. Is there any evidence he was?"

"None whatsoever," said Wolfe, finally finished with the drawers and standing up. "In all his work for the Foundation to date, Jeremy Fletcher seems to have been meticulous, insightful, dedicated. The one word that keeps cropping up about him is 'brilliant.' "

"I know." Benjamin frowned. "So you're saying if he did breach security, such an indiscretion would be…"

"Yes?" Wolfe looked at him quizzically.

"Well, meticulous. Brilliant."

"Give the lad a hand. And ergo, any such leak will be damned difficult to spot. So, the more careful we are now, in the beginning, the less likely we are to make false assumptions later on."

Benjamin looked down at the laptop again. "Well, if we're looking for leaks, shouldn't we examine his computer?" He reached out a hand to its keyboard.

Wolfe reached over and stopped his arm.

"Fingerprints?" asked Benjamin.

"Sort of," said Wolfe.

Benjamin looked to the keyboard on the floor. "And that one, too?"

"Yes. Let's get a pristine keyboard in here before we continue."

Wolfe went to the phone next to the bed. Using his handkerchief to pick up the small black receiver, he dialed a few digits, spoke to someone for a few moments, hung up, looking a little puzzled.

"Interesting," he said. "I just spoke to someone in technical services, asked them to bring a keyboard to the room."

"Don't they have one?" asked Benjamin.