I didn't get far before I wanted to go back, but then it hit me just how dumb this all was. Here I was, wandering around with a just-fired Luger under my coat, and right behind me were two dead cops and another unconscious. I could be dead before I ever got to a station house, or even managed to start an explanation, if the wrong types had arrived on the scene. Sure, most police are not like that. Sure, I had a good story, if you pass my running off instead of waiting for the police. But I had exactly one life and there are cops who won't listen when they think they've found a cop killer. There are a lot of country boys in uniform in some of our farm areas, and looking at that battlefield would make anybody edgy. I wouldn't blame them. I figured I had better get the hell out of there and explain over a telephone.
That left me with a problem. It was twenty miles easily to my house, and it was after three in the morning. Figuring four miles an hour if I could keep it up, and that's a fast pace, it would be after eight before I could get there, and they might be looking all over for me. Or for somebody, and I was a pretty suspicious character out there that time of night.
From what I remembered of the countryside, there should have been a railroad running along the edge of Puget Sound, and that couldn't be more than a couple of hundred yards from me. I cut off in that general direction, through scrub and weeds, and pretty soon I saw the water about forty feet below me. It didn't take long to get down the bluff, there were trails every so often, and then I started along the tracks. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all the plan I had.
I walked till it was daylight. I won't say it didn't take something out of me, but I still fish and hunt a bit, and a civil engineer doesn't spend all his time at a desk, so it didn't kill me. When it got light, I cut back toward the highway and found out I was inside the limits of the bus system. Nothing seemed to be happening, and even on Saturday there are people who take busses. I stayed off the highway, walking along residential streets like I lived around there, and when it got to be 8:30 I caught a bus and went home.
Once there, I was so damn tired I just didn't want to face a lot of questions. Nobody seemed to be looking for me, so I took a shower and went to bed. As I lay down, it came to me there was no reason for anybody to look for me anyway. I didn't figure the honorable mayor would remember my name, and even if he did, I could be surprised as hell and say I left Danny in my own car right after two o'clock. That way I didn't become involved, and that would be best. A consulting engineer needs his name in the papers in connection with dope smuggling like a Communist needs to be given a patriotism medal by the DAR. Nobody would understand. If I'd stayed there, I could have been a hero, but there isn't much heroism in running out. The hell with it. I remembered to stuff the Luger into a place I didn't think anybody would find it, and then I went to sleep.
Somebody wouldn't stop ringing the doorbell. I have the loudest doorbell in the world anyway. It came with the house, and I think it was used in a Hungarian brain laundry before it was brought over here. I keep meaning to take the damned thing out, but I never get around to it. This time it just kept on ringing until I woke up. Four thirty. Since it was daylight that made it afternoon.
I got on a robe and made it to the door. My door's got dingy curtains and glass with some kind of grillwork over it, and at night you can see out without anybody seeing in if the hall light's not on. But in daytime they can see you too, and they did. There were two of them, both in dark suits, both tall, but one was blond and the other dark. They had the same look that the security officers at Boeing had: like they knew all about you and where you hid the body. Well, in my case, left it.
I opened the door a crack, and they drew. Not guns, I don't know if they're that practiced about that, but those thin leather folders with the badges and credentials came out in a way that reminded me of the gunfighters on TV. While they held them out, the one identified as FBI Agent Alessandro said, "Mr. Crane?" It wasn't exactly a question either.
I admitted to being Paul Crane. Hell, they might have arrested me for doing him in, too.
The other one, with a card saying he was a "Duly authorized agent for the Central Intelligence Agency," said, "Mind if we come in?" I couldn't make out the signature on his card, and if his name was printed on it I didn't see it. I couldn't figure out what he was there for. For that matter, I didn't remember the FBI being in on narcotics cases either. There was nobody else with them.
You don't keep the FBI and CIA on the stoop while you ask for their warrants. At least I don't, and normally wouldn't, and I couldn't see any point in acting abnormal. I didn't have to try to look surprised, so I was saved the trouble. I didn't have to act to get a puzzled tone of voice either. "Sure," I told them, "come on in."
I led them to the office. "You'll have to excuse my robe. I just got up."
"Up late? "FBI asked.
"Yeah." I didn't explain. I still wasn't sure whether or not to just tell them and get it over with.
"You rode out to Lathrop with Daniel Ackerman last night, Mr. Crane." This was the blond one, CIA. With their shoes on and me in my slippers, they were just taller than me. I perched on the drafting stool and reached over to plug in the coffee pot. It was still half full of yesterday's coffee. Then I looked at him. "Yes. How did you know? And what do I call you, anyway? I couldn't make it out."
"I'm Harry Shearing, Mr. Crane. Louis, would you mind leaving us now? I think I'll handle this one." He didn't look at FBI when he said this. The dark one looked at me for a minute, then started out. Just before he left he turned back.
"Sure you know what you're doing, Harry?"
"Yeah. Just let me see what I can get. See you tonight."
FBI left, and Shearing sat down in my swivel chair at my desk. This put me looking down at him from the drafting table. My desk faces the front window and the drafting table faces the double doors to the hall, so we both had to turn inward to see each other. I wasn't very keen to. The coffeepot started making its popping noises as it heated up.
"I'm not here to play games with you, Mr. Crane. I need some help and I think you can give it to me. Please remember that. I'm not out to trap you into saying anything, and you don't have to answer anything I ask, and I'm not warning you anything you say can be used against you. Except in very unusual circumstances I don't have any authority in the United States anyway, and law enforcement isn't exactly my business. There is one thing I want you to agree to before I start. Everything I tell you from now on is classified information. You had a Secret clearance when you were at Boeing, so I don't have to tell you the penalties for talking."
"You also don't have any authority to make me listen," I told him. "What is all this?"
"I think you know a lot of it, Mr. Crane. Would you rather I got Louis back in here? He does have authority in the U.S. Or we could even manage a couple of deputy sheriffs if you want. Better listen to me and see what happens."
The coffee was hot so I poured some. Shearing shook his head when I offered him a cup. I took a long drink, scalded my mouth, got that down, and said, "Understand, I don't admit to having any reason not to let you get your friend back in here, but I'm curious. Okay, it's classified. Shoot."
"Maybe I will have some of that coffee after all. Thanks." He took the coffee and sat down. "Last night there was some trouble out at Richmond Landing. A deputy sheriff and your friend Dan Ackerman were killed, and another deputy was shot. I'm not looking at you, so you don't have to look surprised unless you want to. Also, don't say anything. Let me go on. In addition to those two, four other men were killed." This time he was looking at me, and this time I did look surprised.
He went on. "Three of the others were smuggling heroin into the country. They had come ashore in a dinghy, and they were met by one of my men and two deputy sheriffs. I told you we don't normally have any jurisdiction in the United States.
"Somehow, a gun battle was started. My man was killed down near the water. Everybody else was shot up on the road. One of the deputies, the one that lived, was hit early in the battle, but managed to get to his radio car and call for help. The other one continued the battle until he was killed. The surviving deputy says his partner wasn't hit until just before a green radio car came to his assistance. He also swears that there were two men in that car. One was Daniel Ackerman. We haven't identified the other one, at least not for the record.
"Again according to the deputy, there was a continuation of the gun battle. Ackerman shot at least one of the suspects, possibly two, but certainly not three because the third one killed him instantly and was himself killed by being hit three times with 9 mm. bullets. It is interesting to observe that no 9 mm. weapon was found at the scene.
"After this point the survivor lost consciousness, so we have to piece together what happened from what we found. The man with the 9 mm. was apparently not hurt. At least we found no blood where he was last known to have been when the battle was going on, nor where he lost his dinner in the bushes. And he seems to have moved around. Among other things, he found the heroin and put it in the deputies' car. Then he vanished. "There was another man there also, or at least we think so, because we don't like to think that the man with the 9 mm., who we assume was the second man in Ackerman's car, carefully cut the throat of one of the surviving suspects. And that, Mr. Crane, is exactly what someone did."
It made quite a story. I found I was sitting there just holding my coffee, so I took another gulp. It was cooler this time. "You say, Mr. Shearing, that you don't expect me to comment. Why are you telling me all this?"
"Oh, I haven't finished yet. I just want you to see the situation. The police are going on the theory that two different men were involved besides those found at the scene. However, they could be persuaded to look for just one if Louis and I suggested it strongly enough to them. And Mayor Sundesvall could be instructed to cooperate with the police instead of saying nothing to them. But at the moment, the police aren't interested in the man with the 9 mm. They think he was a special deputy, maybe he was hurt a little, and wandered away in a daze. They would like to talk to him, but they aren't pushing it. They could, though."
I guess I had a pretty tight look on my face by then. Hell, this guy had me sewed up in three directions if he wanted me. Throat cutting, yet. And while I doubted if any jury would ever convict me, I was also sure that quite a lot of people including a jury would believe I had cut the throat of the other man in revenge for Danny. They'd let me off as justifiable, I figured, but that sure would play hell with my business. My whole life for that matter. I finished the coffee.
"Okay, Mr. Shearing. I see what you're driving at. Now what did you really come here to say?"
"That's simple. I came here to recruit you for the agency. We need some help on this mess and you're in a good position to give it to us."
"Wow," I said. I didn't put much conviction in it; he'd already told me he needed help and then hinted about how I might get arrested for all kinds of sordid deeds if I didn't cooperate. Still, it's a shock. I've read about the cloak-and-dagger boys, and for a while there at Boeing I even got to look at the results of some of their work—pretty spectacular, if you could believe it—but I never met one. One that I knew for sure was one, that is. Now it looked like Paul Crane was about to become a junior-grade spy himself.
"You mean you want me to become a spy, travel to exotic places, make love to beautiful women, pad expense accounts and . . ." I let it trail off. Harry Shearing was definitely not amused. "Okay, Mr. Shearing, what do you mean?"
He looked around my place. "I can't tell you all of it here, Mr. Crane. It's unlikely, but conceivable, that someone is listening to us. So far I haven't told you anything they couldn't figure out for themselves, or must have figured out if they know enough to wire your office. The rest of it I would prefer to tell you somewhere else."
"I'll get my clothes on," I told him, and went back to my bedroom. I didn't figure it was worth looking like Shearing already, so I put on slacks and a sport shirt. Let him wear dark suits all he wanted to, I'd had my fill of that in the aerospace business. Before we went out I put something out for Tiger, which was unnecessary. That cat could live if every human on earth dropped dead, except he'd have to train a chimp to scratch his ears. He'd do it too. While I was feeding Tiger, Shearing joined me in the kitchen and suggested the back way out. I let him out the back door, but it was a point for me. I mean, men in dark suits visit consulting engineers every day, but how many go out the back door?
He had an Impala around the corner, and we got in it. Louis was nowhere in sight, and I decided I might have seen all I was going to of the FBI. I hoped. We drove out to the Baliard Locks, which isn't a bad place to go. Ships come in and out; ships, and boats, and yachts, from all over the Sound and the world. They go into the locks, which lift them eighty feet from salt water to the fresh water of Seattle's big lake and canal system, and lots of them unload right at the business that's going to use their cargo. I could see how it made sense from Shearing's view too. Nobody could bug the whole grounds, and you could be in a position where not even one of those shotgun-parabolic reflector mikes could pick up any conversation over the noise of the water and boats. There's a kind of park that goes with the locks, and we found a bench and sat down to watch the boats coming in.
"Now what?"
"Now I tell you about what's happening around here, and you decide whether or not you want to help stop it. Look at these."
He was holding out some photographs of kids, young kids, maybe fifteen to twenty. Every one of them looked as though they were undergoing the tortures of hell. There were ten of the pictures, each one a different kid.
"Gets you, doesn't it?" Shearing asked. He pocketed the pix.
"What's wrong with them?"
"Withdrawal. The cure. You know, kicking the habit."
I thought about that for a moment. "That's the Treasury boys' job. Or maybe even the FBI. What have you got to do with that?"
"It's their job to stop narcotics. It's my job to stop the Red Chinese from building up their agent net over here. It turns out I have to do their job to do mine."
"Maybe you'd better run that one by me again."
He took out a pack of Camels and offered me one. "I'll start at the beginning. The Chinese have never had much of an agent net in the U.S., and mostly relied on getting information from the Russians, who have a very good system. But now it seems that the Russians aren't cooperating, so Beijing has to build her own or go without. The first thing you need to get a net going is money, local currency, and they haven't many dollars. They do have a lot of poppies. What's more natural than bringing in heroin and opium to finance their espionage? Dope takes up less bulk than money, and money's no good unless you have it where you use it. So they bring in dope, sell it, and use the money to recruit and pay expenses. Simple."
I thought about it for a while, and it made sense to me. "Okay," I told him, "I'll buy that. Now where do I come in?"
"What do you think they look for in an agent, Paul?" I noticed he had switched to my first name. "What would be ideal? It would be a man with an independent income of sorts, who has a job which lets him keep irregular hours; a man who travels a lot, is respectable, has enough technical training to be able to know whether something is important, and who has already been run through a security check but isn't working at present in classified areas. Add to that your ex-wife's political sympathies, and you have Paul Crane, consulting engineer. I'm surprised they haven't tried to recruit you already."
"But anybody in his right mind would know I wouldn't work for them, and anyway I haven't any training."
"Mr. Crane, they can't be choosy. The Russians have experienced cadremen here. Colonel Abel had been here twenty years. But the Chinese have to use what they can get. This is a big amateur show, Paul. As for why they might think they could get you, you have no known political opinions. I believe you pride yourself on getting along with everyone."
"Had to, with my wife around. Guess I just got in the habit of never arguing. If it means anything to you, I do have opinions on the subject."
"We know. We talked to your mother. But I doubt that they can or will check that far. However, your opinions are of no matter, Paul. If they want somebody bad enough, they can frame him for something and blackmail him. That's not the usual technique. The usual technique is to enlist his sympathy for some cause or movement unconnected with their real objective and get him to work for them in it. Then in something else. Finally comes something harmless but illegal. When he begins to get sulky, they let him have it: cooperate or we publish what you've been doing. It works more often than not."
I threw away the Camel, realizing as I did each time I lit one why I gave up smoking cigarettes. "Okay. I'm prime bait for them. What makes you think I'd be useful to you?"
"The qualifications I spelled out before fit equally well if you look at it from our side. We haven't unlimited resources, you know. The FBI has more men on this than I do, and they have a limit to what they can do, and I have the problem of hiding any trace of my office's involvement in domestic affairs. My people have to be just as careful to avoid our side as enemy agents do."
"Then what was the FBI doing at my house?"
"Louis is an old friend, and unlike most of his agency he isn't jealous of who does a job as long as it gets done. They got a routine report on this whole operation weeks ago, and we decided to approach you then. I take it Mr. Ackerman didn't mention anything to you."
"Danny? Good God, was he in on this?" Shearing nodded. "It begins to fit together. Hell, he knew about something going on at Richmond Landing too, that's why he went balls out when he got the signal."
"Of course. We learned that the stuff would be brought in several days ago, and alerted our people. Ackerman was one of our best, and he was assigned the job of getting on the Lathrop police force because it seemed he might be useful there. Being a policeman in a cornball town isn't as silly a cover for a counterespionage agent as you might think. Ackerman had a reputation for being rather lenient on politics and getting concerned only with violence and criminal disorders, and thus was able to be friendly with at least some of the student group here."
"How did you find out about the stuff?"
"As it happens, that's none of your business. A contact told us about it coming in at Victoria. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police saw it go aboard a small motorboat registered to a Mr. Lawrence Blevins. Mr. Blevins kept his boat at Richmond Landing and had made several trips to Canada, which made it reasonable to let him get here with it and see who met him. I sent one of my men and two deputy sheriffs down, because we couldn't get permission to let them bring that much heroin into the country. My man had instructions to use his judgment about whether to apprehend everyone or let someone get away to see what would happen. Evidently they were better than he thought they were."
"I take it Mr. Blevins was one of the bodies."
"Yes. The short one. The one who had his throat cut."
"Can I think about this for a while, or do I have to give you an answer now?"
"No. With the loss of Dan Ackerman I don't have enough coverage of that university group, and I need some now." Shearing took out another Camel, and I lit my pipe.
I thought about this for a minute. I didn't see I had much choice, much more than somebody who had been roped in by the ChiComs the way Shearing described it. Hell, I was roped in too. Then I asked, "That's twice you've mentioned the university. Why?"
"Does it occur to you that there are not many groups that keep weird hours, have no visible means of support, have contact with people who work at Boeing, have some smattering of education, and openly sympathize with China in the argument with Russia?"
"Yeah. It also occurs to me that that is about the unlikeliest group of losers anybody in his right mind would employ for spies. Hell, most of them wanted to be Communists a long time ago, and the Party wouldn't have them."
"Their new friends can't be so choosy. I grant you they aren't what the Chinese would pick if they had a choice, and that most are harmless, but it's a start. Somebody in that gang is the logical contact with you if they want you; and before we're through they'll want you."
I watched a big ship floated up the locks while I digested this. "First you've got me in a bind," I told him. "And the way you say it, they'll soon have me in one. Thanks, but right now I'm just suspected of cutting throats. I think I'd rather have that than treason."
"It won't last that long. These are amateurs, Paul. They can't have many trained men. They're vulnerable. They can't have a competent cell system or anything like one, and they can't have enough men they trust to manage the money. As near as we can figure it, they've got close to a million dollars out of this operation and they're ready to start spending it, but they really haven't much of an organization yet. Their whole operation is tied up in one or two top men, who will also have the money. I want those men and I want that money. All you have to do is find me one name. You or somebody like you; you aren't completely alone on this, but as I told you I don't have unlimited resources and can't recruit all the people I'd like to. Just find me that name."
"They may be amateurs but they aren't going to give me the name of the top dog in any short time."
"I never thought they would. But they might let you identify somebody who does know. You tell me who knows and I'll have the whole thing wrapped up in two days."
Shearing had a chilled look in his eyes, and it scared me. His whole face showed dedication. Hell, he reminded me of one of the student activists popping off about the war. "How?"
"You know as well as I do. This is war."
"I thought there was something called a Constitution in this country."
"There is. It protects rights. If it's gone there won't be any rights. It's my job to see that we keep it. Look at these again." He pulled the pictures out of his pocket.
I didn't want to look at them. Anyway, he even made sense in a funny kind of way.
"I sure have a choice, don't I. You'll ruin me, if they don't."
"If you like to think of it that way. I'd rather think you wanted to help your country."
"Yeah. That's all very well, Mr. Shearing, but I don't know what to do. Barring that funny business with Carole yesterday, I haven't had much to do with that crowd lately. It would look pretty suspicious if I suddenly sprouted leftist convictions and went around being friendly, wouldn't it?"
"By the time we're finished you are going to be so unsuspiciously attractive to that crowd that they'll stand in line to recruit you. Describe the funny business yesterday." Shearing got up and walked toward the locks, and I strolled along with him. He stopped at a coffee machine, we got some, and went to another bench. I told him about Carole's attentiveness as we walked, and also told him what Danny had said.
"You don't know that wasn't a recruiting attempt," he said. "Whether it was or not, it might help. Your connection with that group isn't going to be motivated because of political reasons anyway. Your story is that you're tired of square company and getting lonesome, so you go to a few parties with your old friends. While there you are going to offer them services, but they won't think you're offering. This Halleck business works right in. Make a play for her. If she's after you, let her catch you. We'll look her up, but if she's talking to John Murray, she gets word to everyone we need to reach. You see, I think Murray may be the man we want to talk to. I think he's up here to help set up the net for them."
"Yeah. I'd thought of that myself. He's had more training than most of them, he's smart, and he has some standing in the left wing. Now what service am I going to offer them?"
"I haven't been trying to be mysterious, Paul. I've been trying to make up my mind about something, and I've decided to do it. You're going to help them bring in a shipment of dope. They'll have enough in reserve to take care of their customers for a little while, but last night hurt their expansion program and they'll be getting desperate. I'm going to tighten up the border, particularly for them, so they'll be looking for a new courier. You. But they wouldn't trust you with that, so they'll have to have a way of getting you to do it without your knowing what you're doing."
"Even I can see what you're driving at now. I'm going to take a trip to Canada, and somebody is going to volunteer to come along with me."
"Right."
"But I still don't get it," I told him. "That border's wide open. You drive through and there's a joke of an inspection, and that's that."
"It won't be a joke anymore. As of this afternoon, we'll run every license that crosses through the computer. Anybody who has any connection with this outfit will get a thorough search. We'll also have a random search of other cars. The customs people won't like this too much, but they'll keep it up for a couple of weeks, and by then our friends will be getting worried. They won't use a car to bring it down with that going on." Shearing seemed to be enjoying himself now. I could see he had put a lot of thought into his plan, but it still didn't make sense.
"Then how," I asked him, "am I supposed to get there and back with the stuff?"
"By boat. Tomorrow you are going out and buy yourself a sailboat. You used to have one, didn't you?"
"Sure. Had to sell it to raise cash for the divorce settlement with my wife. This job begins to sound interesting."
"We'll give you money as a fee from a perfectly legitimate corporation. You'll buy a boat that you can sail to Victoria with at least four people aboard. Finance it at the Union Bank in the District. The girl in the Loans Department, Janie Youngs, will be your contact from now on. She knows about as much about this as you do, but not more. You will make your reports to her, and take instructions from her. Remember the name, Janie Youngs. She's a rather pretty blonde, so you won't have much trouble noticing her in the bank. There's not much more I can tell you about this anyway, except that if they do use you, you'll be carrying something pretty dangerous, so don't get curious. They probably won't let whoever they send know what's in the package, but once it's in the U.S. it has to get to the top pretty soon. We'll arrange to follow it."
I whistled. A long, corny whistle. This thing was getting bigger, and I wasn't used to it. It scared me. I tried to sound matter-of-fact like Shearing, but I wasn't very good at it. "You're going to let heroin into the country? Help them get it in?"
"Yes. It isn't that hard to get in nowadays, anyway.
We'll clean up the whole organization if this works, and we won't have helped them as much as you think if it doesn't. Not that I want that stuff here any more than you do, but this is the only way I see that has a chance of breaking them before they get organized. At the moment they won't have many people, and they won't trust most of those they have. There's a very good possibility that the stuff will go to the top with only one link between your escort and the head. We just might be able to get it out of that link."
"You're the boss." We talked for another half hour about details, and he drove me to the District. I left him a few blocks from the house and walked back. It was quiet, and I got a beer and sat down in my office.
Nothing looked different from yesterday except I didn't have blueprints on the drafting table. Tiger came in and I scratched his ears and thought about it all. It was scary. It was also coming to me that I had killed a man the night before. That may not be a very big deal for some people, but it was the first time for me, and it bothered me. I haven't had much religion for years now, but the idea that you don't kill people was pretty deep.
I drank a couple more beers and went out. On my way to the District I stopped at a phone booth and called the number listed for the CIA in the book. A girl answered, and I asked for Mr. Shearing. He came on in a minute, as he'd said he would, and we exchanged some pleasantries I'd learned back at the locks. I didn't give my name, and he didn't ask. After I hung up I knew it wasn't an elaborate joke, but of course I'd known that before. The ID cards might have come out of cereal boxes, but they had my name and knew I was with Dan last night, which made them more than jokesters. Paul Crane was a real live junior counterspy.