David Robbins - Anaheim Run

“Wasn’t your background checked?” Blade inquired.

“Are you kidding? Toland’s personnel director asked me a few questions, gave me some tests, and that was it! They never suspected a thing.”

“What were you before you became their spy?” Blade queried.

“None of your business,” Ebert responded.

The elevator reached the lobby.

“Not one false move,” Ebert warned, hefting the M-16.

The elevator doors slid open. Blade walked out, heading across the lobby toward the front entrance. Clusters of soldiers, bureaucrats, and others were engaged in conversation here and there, but not one gave him more than a passing glance. The Federation leaders and Governor Melnick were already back in conference.

Ebert stayed to Blade’s right, two strides away, the M-16 at his side, his finger on the trigger.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Blade mentioned, wanting to draw out their discussion. The more he talked, the more he distracted Ebert, the more likely the spy was to slip and give him the opening he needed.

“What?”

“Why didn’t the Soviets send in one of their officers to do the spying?” Blade asked.

“How do you know I’m not an officer?” Ebert rejoined.

“You don’t impress me as the military type,” Blade said.

“I’m not,” Ebert conceded. “The decision to send in a spy was made after your buddy, Hickok, escaped from General Malenkov in Washington, D.C. Malenkov wanted to learn all he could about the Federation. The Soviets could have used one of their own officers, but let’s face facts. The Russian officers, even those they raise and educate after impregnating American women, are real stuffed shirts. They can follow orders blindly, but they’re not known for their imagination and inventiveness. And Malenkov wanted someone devious, someone who was your basic sneaky type, someone familiar with life on both sides and able to mingle undetected. Back in the old days he could have used an expert, someone trained in one of the Russian spy schools. But they don’t have those schools here, not yet anyway. So Malenkov decided the best candidate would be a professional smuggler.”

“You were a smuggler?” Blade said.

“That’s right,” Ebert affirmed, his expression saddening. “One of the best. There’s a big market for scarce commodities, goods you can hardly find anywhere because of all the shortages. Neither the Russians or the Civilized Zone have much of a manufacturing capability. The people can never get enough of what they want. And that’s where I come in. Or came in. I supplied customers on both sides with whatever I could get my hands on. I was doing real well too. I had scores of contacts, I knew all the safest points to cross the borders, and I was accumulating quite a hoard of gold and silver.” He sighed. “And then the Russians pulled the plug.”

“They caught you?” Blade deduced.

“They caught me,” Ebert said. “Not only that, they traced me to my home in the Outlands, the area between the Civilized Zone and the Soviet-occupied territory. They captured me and my whole family. My wife and three kids,” he revealed in a melancholy tone.

“What happened then?”

“The Russians offered me a deal,” Ebert disclosed. “Malenkov offered to spare the lives of my family if I’d spy for him. He also agreed to pay me more gold than I could make in ten years of smuggling. There was nothing I could do but say yes. What choice did I have?”

“And you expect General Malenkov to honor your deal?” Blade queried skeptically.

Ebert frowned. “Not really. He’s a lying bastard! But what else could I do? He has my family!”

They were almost to the front entrance. Blade glanced over his left shoulder at the novice secret agent. “Don’t you miss your wife and kids?”

“Of course!” Ebert snapped. He morosely, absently gazed at the floor.

Which was the opening Blade was waiting for. He spun and leaped, executing a flying tackle, his muscular arms encircling Ebert’s waist, his momentum carrying both of them to the carpet with the spy on the bottom.

“No!” Ebert cried.

Blade straddled the former smuggler, pinning the man’s wrists to the floor with his powerful hands.

“No!” Ebert thrashed and kicked. “Don’t! The Russians will kill my family if they find out I’ve been caught!”

“How do you know they haven’t already?” Blade asked. “When was the last time you talked to them?”

Ebert ceased resisting, releasing his grip on the M-16. “Sixteen months ago,” he said softly.

Soldiers were running toward the pair, and one of the fleetest was General Gallagher. “Blade! What’s going on?”

Blade scooped up his M-16 and stood. “We’ve caught a spy.”

“What?” General Gallagher drew a pistol from a flapped holster on his right hip.

Ebert made no attempt to move. “I’m dead,” he stated dejectedly. “And so’s my family!”

“Maybe not,” Blade said.

Ebert rose to his elbows. “What do you mean?”

“Have you ever killed anyone for the Russians?” Blade queried.

“No,” Ebert replied with conviction.

“This man is a Russian spy?” General Gallagher interrupted.

“Stand up,” Blade ordered, ignoring the general.

Ebert complied.

“Why have the Russians hired the Gild?” Blade asked.

“The Gild? I never heard of it,” Ebert answered.

“You’ve never heard of an organization of assassins known as the Gild?” Blade elaborated.

“Never,” Ebert replied. “If the Soviets hired this Gild, no one ever told me about it.”

“How would you like a chance to see your wife and children again?” Blade inquired.

Ebert’s forehead creased in confusion. “What are you talking about? You know I want to see them again.”

“If you’ll cooperate with us,” Blade said, “I’ll see that you’re released from custody. The rest will be up to you. You’ll have to find where they’re holding your family and free them yourself. You might be able to pull it off if the Soviets don’t know you’re free, if they think you’re still in the Civilized Zone spying for them.”

“You’d let me go?” Ebert responded in amazement.

“Now wait just a damned minute!” General Gallagher interjected. “If this man is a spy, you don’t have the authority to release him.”

Blade stared at the general. “Must we go through this again?”

“But you can’t simply let him go!” Gallagher protested.

“I’m not just letting him go,” Blade stated impatiently. “I said I would release him if he cooperates with us.”

“In what way?” Ebert asked.

“You were a smuggler for years, right?” Blade questioned.

“For seventeen years,” Ebert replied.

“So you must know the Soviet territory better than most people,” Blade noted. “And you also know all the best spots to cross the Soviet borders undetected. Did you spend time in Washington?”

“Yes. When they were preparing me for this assignment,” Ebert responded.

“Then you must be familiar with the Soviet chain of command,” Blade observed. “Not to mention other valuable information.”

“I know a little,” Ebert stated.

“Then here’s the deal,” Blade said. “If you’ll agree to cooperate, if you’ll let General Gallagher and myself interrogate you, if you’ll honestly answer every question, then I’ll persuade President Toland to release you as close to the Russian territory as possible. What do you say?”

Ebert’s face was a curious contrast of commingled hope and doubt.

“You’d do this for me? Why?”

“Because I have a family of my own,” Blade declared.

Ebert nodded. “All right. You have a deal. I’ll help you if you’ll help me.”