Metzger's Dog

24 Porterfield pulled the car up to the curb in front of his house and turned off the ignition. The engine gave three violent chugs and a wheeze that sounded mortal. It had been overheating all the way home, so he’d turned the heater on. Now his suit was soaked with sweat, and his loosened tie hung limp and twisted. As he climbed out of the car the air felt cool, and the bright sunlight seemed almost gentle.

Alice came around the corner of the house with a trowel in her hand and waved it at him comically. She had her hair tied in a small bun at the back of her head, and she was wearing an immaculate pink sundress that seemed crisp and starched. She looked impossible. That had always been something that had fascinated him about Alice—she always looked so clean, like a little girl waiting to have her picture taken.

He walked up the lawn and set his briefcase on the front step. As always, it was empty, just something the president of the Seyell Foundation carried, but today it felt heavy.

“Welcome home, Ben. Lots of traffic?”

“It was what the man on the radio calls ‘a tough commute.’ I guess I’ve got to take the car in again for psychoanalysis too.”

“It did sound a little odd. Sort of growly.”

Porterfield glanced at the car with disgust. It took so little to transform one from a symbol of freedom and motion into four thousand pounds of steel. As he looked, he saw the dark blue Mercedes glide to a stop behind it.

“Isn’t that Jim Kearns?”

“Yes,” said Porterfield. He felt a perverse annoyance that surprised him until he listened to his own thought: No. I’m home now.

Kearns got out of his car and raised his hand. “Hello, Alice, Ben. I was just passing by and saw you two standing there like an ad for a real-estate development.”

“Come in out of the heat,” said Alice in a tone so easy and confident that it sounded inevitable. “I was just about to make Ben a cool drink.”

“Good. I’ll drink his and he can go get his own.”

They went inside, and Alice disappeared into the kitchen while Kearns and Porterfield sat in the living room in silence. Alice returned and said, “I’m assuming you still drink martinis, Jim. Neither of us has seen you in such a long time.” Kearns looked at Porterfield.

“There are only two there, Alice,” said Kearns. “Have you finally decided to cut off Ben’s bad habits?”

“Far too late for that,” she answered. “I’m afraid I was in the middle of repotting a plant. It’s lying there looking dazed and naked right now, so I’d better finish up before I join you.” They heard the back door close quietly.

“Alice is the most graceful woman I know,” said Kearns, frowning at the carpet.

“She’s been at this a long time. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m sorry to come here like this. There was no other way. I’m one of the people who’s not supposed to be seen at the Seyell Foundation. I’m afraid we’ve got more trouble.”

“Did Pines think of another plan?”

“Not today. No. Look, you were connected to the Latin America desk for a lot of years, one way or another. We’ve both worked it for a lot of years. If I tell you what I know, you’ll understand, and hardly anybody else would. Right now our section has about six hundred people in the field—Company people—and nobody knows how many locals and Special Operations types and stringers. In the past four days thirty-seven were supposed to check in. In the two days before that, fourteen others were due for some kind of communication.”

“No word from any of them?”

“Nothing. Those fifty-one are spread from Veracruz to Buenos Aires. Some are in deep cover, running networks, but some of them are supposed to be sitting in embassies and consulates, major corporations, airlines, and so on. The only thing they have in common is that they’re all family—no outsiders. Some of them have been out there for twenty years without missing a check-in.”

Porterfield frowned. “Does the Director know about this?”

“I told Pines, but he said the Director didn’t think it was significant. Ben, it’s got to be a response to the way they blew the Donahue problem. The word got around in the only way it could have—the upper-level operational people. They’re not talking to us, but they sure as hell must be talking to each other.”

“Interesting,” Porterfield said. “It looks like the Company’s first strike. Do you suppose they want the Director’s resignation, or what?”

“I wish I thought that. I really do. Everybody I know wants that, and nobody has any hope it’ll happen. To tell you the truth, I’m worried. Frightened.” He gulped a quarter of his drink and then stared at it as he rolled the glass between his palms. “They haven’t asked for anything. Nobody has said a word. They just dropped out of sight.”

“All of them? Fifty-one people?”

“So far fifty-one. After tomorrow it may be close to seventy.”

“What exactly do you think they’re doing?”

“These aren’t a bunch of disaffected recruits just out of college. Some of these people have overthrown governments, recruited and trained armies. I’ll tell you what I think. I think they’ve decided to establish an alibi for someone.”

“If fifty or seventy or ninety people drop out of sight, any of them or all of them can go where they like.”

Kearns nodded. “And even if you know it in advance, you can’t tell which of them is coming, or where he’s coming from.”

“Of course. That has to be it. Even afterward, it would be impossible to know who burned the Director, because it could also be someone who wasn’t due to check in, or someone who never checked in except with his own controller. I’d say they have nothing to worry about. In fact, the only ones who have anything to worry about are the people who might get in the way.”

“You and me, for instance.”

“Decent of them to give us a warning. How long will it take before a whole reporting cycle is completed and everybody who talks to Langley gets his chance to stand you up?”

“Another ten days.”

“It might be a good idea to wrap up the Donahue thing before then.”