Paul Kavanagh - Such Men Are Dangerous

“That’s already a little more than we figured.”

“A little. Trucks are armor-plated. They look like big Brinks trucks. They’re empty now, and I’m positive they’re scheduled to haul the stuff.”

“Uh-huh.”

I drank some coffee. “We have to wait until they load and ship. To take them off now, we’d need ten good men and a lot of luck. Most important, we wouldn’t have any lead time. Those roads are rotten, most of them. We would only have one way out of Sprayhorn, we’d never make it.”

“Go on, Paul.”

“I sketched the next part. I’ll give you the drawing later, or do you want it now?”

“Later’s fine.”

“All right. They’ll have to go south from the post. There’s only one decent road and they’ll all have to take it. Now, here’s the problem — I get the impression from the general that the four trucks are going to four different places. One to Florida, one to Massachusetts, one to Texas and one to the Coast. California.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Right. He could be wrong, he’s no genius, but I think he knows something we didn’t know. That’s why I tried to find some way to pull it off inside, when everything would be in one place. Once those trucks start off on separate roads—”

“Uh-huh.”

“But there’s a stretch of fifteen miles that they’ll all have to take. If they were going in a convoy all the way to Florida, we could pick our spot. But we can’t count on that.”

“So we have to hit them within fifteen miles of home.”

“It’s the only safe way. Unless you want to settle for one load.”

“The hell with that.” He fell silent, and I worked on my hamburger. Then he asked how certain I was that they would all leave the post at the same time. I told him I wasn’t certain, but it was the way I would do it if I were setting it up.

“Why? Makes them a sitting duck, doesn’t it?”

“Yes and no. Remember, they wouldn’t worry that someone would want all four trucks. They would just want to make sure that nothing happened to any of the trucks. And they would realize that the tight part is on the road leading south from the post. After that, on larger highways, they would have less to worry about. So that’s where they would want to use a convoy. In unity is strength, all of that.”

“You’ll have to confirm that.”

“I know.”

“And find out what kind of contact they’ll use. They may send some cars along to ride shotgun.”

“Or aerial surveillance.”

“Christ, I hope not. Ten thousand cubic feet, that’s more than I thought. We’ll need two very big trucks, won’t we?”

“Or a van. I have a few ideas, George.”

“Let’s hear them.”

I talked for a long time, and he listened, and again we worked together very well. He found a few holes in my approach, but they were not as bad as they might have been, and by the time he was ready to get on his plane I felt good about the way things were shaping up.

“Just stay on top of it for now,” he said. “When the MI boys show up, that’s when you’ll get more of an idea of specifics. They’ll be able to tell you just how the whole operation is going to be staged.”

“They’ll also check me out a lot harder than General Baldy Windy.”

“That’s no problem.”

“Oh?”

“Your Agency card is a real one, Paul. That’s the thing to remember. All they can do is ask the Agency if you really exist, and all the Agency can do is say no. But that’s what we always say regardless, and MI knows it. They can’t possibly poke a hole in your cover.”

“They might have my prints on file somewhere.”

“So? They’ll establish that your real name isn’t Lynch and that you have a good service record. So what? They’d get the same line if you really were an Agency man. Once the job’s pulled off you might be hot under your own name, but that’s a name and identity you got rid of long before you found your little island and went native. You hadn’t counted on being Paul Kavanagh again, I hope?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t any,” I agreed. “Have a good flight.”

That was the 30th of January, a Thursday. Saturday morning I was at my desk when the phone rang. It was the general’s secretary. Would I please report to the valiant leader at once?

There were two men in his office. They were both majors, unless their ranks were as spurious as my own. Gen. Winden was standing stiffly alongside his desk. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Mr. Richard John Lynch, may I present Maj. Philip Bourke and Maj. Lawrence O’Gara. Mr. Lynch is a civilian intelligence officer,” he told them, “and I’m sure the three of you gentlemen will have a great deal to talk about. Since the powers that be do not seem to feel that Fort Joshua Tree is capable of handling its own affairs, I’m reassured to know that three fine men will keep matters under control. Indeed, gentlemen. Indeed, reassured!”

I looked at Bourke and O’Gara and they looked at me, and the general looked at all three of us. Bourke, the older of the two, started to say something, then changed his mind. They seemed rather dismayed at the whole affair. I could understand this, and suggested they might want to come to my office for a moment. They threw salutes at the general and followed me out of there.

When we were all three in my cubicle, with the door shut, Bourke heaved himself into a chair and sighed. “I heard about that overstuffed son of a bitch,” he said, “but it’s nothing to seeing him in the flesh. Words do not begin. He wasn’t supposed to tell us about you, was he?”

“It wasn’t what the office had in mind,” I admitted.

“A shame you had to tell him who you were in the first place. He never would have worked it out on his own.”

“You might be right.”

O’Gara said, “You should see his record. You wouldn’t believe it.” His voice was Boston Irish. “But if he were any good they wouldn’t have sent us here. He gave us a story to explain your interest in this one, Lynch, but I couldn’t make sense of it.”

I told him it didn’t make much sense to me, either. “The eventual destination of the shipment comes under Agency auspices, that’s all I know. So we’re showing some unofficial interest down the line. That’s about all.”

“Expecting trouble?”

“Not that I know of.” I looked at him, then turned to study Bourke. “Why? Something in the air?”

“We wouldn’t know. If they had to send us here, why couldn’t they wait until maybe August? A week in this town, I don’t know. What do you do for kicks?”

We did fifteen minutes on various ways of amusing oneself in Sprayhorn. I was waiting for the pitch, and I wasn’t surprised when they made it casual. Bourke said something about the general having simplified things, and that it was just as well our identities were out in the open. We might help each other, we could give each other company, and otherwise we’d have spent all our time running checks on each other.

“Amen to that,” O’Gara said. “And just for the record, Comrade Richard, here’s my Red Party Card.”

He gave me a leatherette case about the size of a passport. It had his picture — I think it was his picture, but it didn’t come all that close — and a thumbprint and description. I made a show of giving it a careful look-see while pretending to pass it with a glance. Then Bourke produced his ID and I had to glance examine it, too.

“And now, friends, we make the party complete.” The first thing I handed them was the Maj. John Walker paraphernalia. Bourke said it wasn’t bad work, but O’Gara didn’t think it would fool anyone who looked hard at it. Then I gave them the Agency ticket in the Lynch name. O’Gara hardly looked at it before passing it on to Bourke, who took a quick glance and flipped it back to me. There was just the quietest click when O’Gara photographed it. They were pretty smooth.