Created, the Destroyer

CHAPTER ELEVEN

«Impossible, sir,» Smith cradled the special scrambler phone between his ear and the shoulder of his gray Brooks Brothers suit. With his free hands, he marked papers, setting up a vacation schedule.

A stiff, gloomy, rain whipped across Long Island Sound behind him bringing an unnaturally early nightfall.

«I appreciate your difficulties,» Smith said, counting the days a computer clerk wanted near Christmas. «But we worked out a policy a long time ago about New York. No extensive operations.»

«Yes, I know a Senate committee will be investigating crime. Yes. It will start in San Francisco. Yes. And move across the country and we will supply you with background and you will supply the Senate with background; yes, making the Senators look good. I see. Upstairs needs the Senate for many other things. Right. Yes. Good. Well, I'd like to help you, but no, not in New York. We just can't get a canvass. Maybe later. Tell upstairs, not in New York.»

Smith hung up the receiver.

«Christmas,» he mumbled. «Everyone's got to have Christmas off. Why not the sensible and convenient month of March? Christmas. Bah.»

Smith felt good. He had just turned down a not-too-superior superior over the scrambler phone. Smith recreated the scene again for the pleasure of his mind: «I'd like to help, but no.» How polite he was. How firm. How smooth. How wonderful. It was good to be Harold W. Smith the way he was Harold W. Smith.

He whistled an off-tune rendition of «Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer» as he denied Christmas vacation after Christmas vacation.

The scrambler phone rang again. Smith answered and casually sang: «Smith, 7-4-4.» Suddenly he straightened, his left hand shot up to the receiver, his right adjusted his tie and he bleated out a snappy «Yes sir.»

It was the voice with the unmistakable accent, giving the code number that no one needed to recognize him.

«But sir, in this area there are special problems… yes, I know you authorized a new type of personnel… yes sir, but he won't be ready for months… a canvass is almost impossible under… very good, sir, I appreciate your position. Yes sir. Very good, sir.» Smith gently hung up the scrambler, the wide phone with the white dot on the receiver, and mumbled under his breath: «The damn bastard.»