Metzger's Dog

33 Porterfield walked down the empty hallway, past closed doors with numbers above them but no signs. At five-thirty in the morning there were few people in this wing. Porterfield had made too many of these early morning trips to Langley in the past two weeks. The president of the Seyell Foundation had no business in the complex at Langley, and each time the car came for him Porterfield knew there was a chance he’d be spotted. Half the governments of the world might have people watching the roads in this area to see who came and went.

“Porterfield.” The voice was quiet and familiar. He turned and waited while the tall black man came abreast of him, and they walked on together.

“You keep turning up pretty far from Miami, J.K.”

“It’s hot there right now.”

“It’s always hot there.”

“So I always get out when I can. I have to go back tonight, but I wanted to see you first. I’ve got something to show you.”

Porterfield stopped. “You wanted me?”

J.K. nodded. “This is probably the safest place.” He opened the thick file folder he was carrying and pulled out two eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photographs.

Porterfield studied the pictures. They were both photographs of crowds of people in airline terminals. In the first one a group of passengers was moving along a corridor toward the camera, carrying small bags and briefcases. In the foreground was a middle-aged man with a high forehead and broad cheekbones and wearing a dark suit. “Who’s this?”

“He works at the Czechoslovakian embassy in Bogotá. He’s here legally and everything, but we’ve been taking lots of pictures of those flights lately. In the other picture the mark is the stewardess. She seems to be a courier for somebody, but at the moment we’re just watching. Forget those two. Take a close look at the other people, the ones in the background.”

Porterfield held the photographs at arm’s length and lifted them close to the light in the ceiling. “Damned eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be.” He squinted at the faces. “Okay, I see him. It’s Albert what’s-his-name.”

“Cotton. The flight list says he’s somebody else, but they seem to have made a mistake.”

“Did he follow this guy from Panama City?”

“That’s the mistake. According to the Latin America desk, Cotton is still in Panama City. This was a flight from Toronto.”

Porterfield studied the second photograph. “I’m getting good at this, now that I know the game. How many monkeys do you see in this picture? Oh, yes. There he is. The one with the moustache is Lester Viglione. I worked with him once, years ago.”

“He’s on a Special Ops detail attached to the Guatemala secret police, the ones that were supposedly disbanded. Now they only work nights.”

Porterfield shrugged. “It leaves him the daytime for travel.”

“He hasn’t been in this country for over ten years.”

“Who told you all that?”

“I have lots of friends, because I do lots of favors.” He put the photographs back in the folder and said, “Both of those were people who got wind of your little problem, asked permission to come home, and were refused.”

Porterfield said, “Thanks, J.K. I’ll take care of it. Keep it to yourself.”

“Take care of it? You know what I think they’re doing? I think they’re coming to see the Director. And if I just happened to notice these two in a couple of pictures, how many others are there? They’ll have to stand in line to get a shot at him.”

“Thanks, J.K. I’ll take care of it. I owe you another favor.” Porterfield turned the corner and left J.K. standing alone in the empty corridor. Porterfield made another turn and stopped at a plain door marked only with the number 412, and knocked.

Goldschmidt’s voice shouted, “Come in,” and Porterfield opened the door. “Hello, Ben. Did you come all the way out here again for this fiasco voluntarily, or did that fool order you to come?”

“The Director wanted us all there.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got a couple of minutes. You can make a call for me.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Arrange to have some medical people standing by for an in-house autopsy, probably within twenty-four hours. The papers can say suicide or something.”

“But they only do that when an agent is killed.”

“I know. Better make sure there’s room for two.”

WHEN PORTERFIELD REACHED THE CONFERENCE ROOM, Kearns was sitting alone, staring at an oversized brown square on the table.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a menu. Under it there’s an order sheet that says ‘Director’s Breakfast.’ Apparently we are here for the Director’s breakfast. Is that a good sign or a bad sign?”

Goldschmidt entered and nodded at Porterfield, then said to Kearns, “Bad. It means we’ll be here for four or five hours.”

“But did the Palm Springs thing work?”

Porterfield shrugged. “Order champagne and see if anybody crosses it out.”

The door swung open and Pines held it while the Director passed him, not slowing his quick, jerky strides until he reached the head of the table. He sat down and Pines handed him a file folder, which he flipped open and studied in silence.

The others waited. Pines walked around the table and picked up the menu and handed it to Porterfield. “Just write in your orders and they’ll be here to pick it up in a minute.”

“I’d like to know whether I’m going to feel like eating,” said Goldschmidt.

Porterfield handed the menu back to Pines. “Just coffee for me. I should be back in Washington before there are too many people on the street.”

The Director looked up from his file and began talking as though he’d heard nothing. “It’s now two-thirty in the morning in California.” He paused. “The first phase of this ended about a half hour ago.” He held his arms out and grasped the round, imaginary object between his hands, then stared through it at the opposite wall of the room. “The initial reports give us some cause for hopefulness and some cause for—for disappointment.”

“Who got killed?” asked Goldschmidt.

The Director seemed to lift his invisible globe out of the way as he stared down at the file again. “We seem to have lost four men. John Knox Morrison and Kevin Morton were shot down in some kind of chalet at the top of a mountain near Palm Springs. The other two seem to have been hit within the last hour at…it says here ‘the Dinosaur Memorial.’ Is that possible?”

Pines said, “Yes, sir. It’s a tourist attraction on the main highway between Palm Springs and Los Angeles. Big statues of dinosaurs in the desert.”

The Director looked at him. “How odd. At any rate, we don’t have their names yet. They were apparently part of the team that was supposed to block the escape of the terrorists. I haven’t been informed yet about the details.”

Goldschmidt said, “A dinosaur stampede?”

Porterfield leaned forward. “You said something about hope. You mean the papers have actually been recovered?”

“Not yet, but the report we received indicates that there were seven terrorists involved, and the operational group allowed none to escape. At this moment our people will be using every means to discover their identities. Raids will be conducted before morning.”

Goldschmidt shook his head. “Eleven people killed in public places—four of ours, seven of theirs, and nothing to show for it. And these raids you’re talking about, no doubt the people left to guard the papers will throw down their arms and come quietly.”

“This is the easy part,” Pines said. “We’re certain that this is a small, tightly knit terrorist cadre from somewhere in Latin America. They may not come quietly, but believe me, they’ll come. We have nearly two hundred operational men out there already, and there will be more before the first raid.”

Porterfield glanced at Kearns, who was staring absently at the menu, his mouth hanging open. “And how many people involved in the support and communication?”

Pines said proudly, “Over a thousand. As the Director told you two days ago, this time we took the threat seriously.”

Kearns winced. “But that means over twelve hundred people know what’s happened?”

“What do you mean?” asked the Director. “Of course these are handpicked people.”

“There is no such thing as twelve hundred handpicked people,” Kearns said. “You don’t even know the names of all the ones killed. That means the people with them didn’t know their real names either.”

“If there’s someone you’re worried about—”

“You!” said Kearns. “Before this happened there were people whose lives were in jeopardy all over Latin America, and who knew it, and knew you were doing nothing to protect them. Now you’ve got twelve hundred—”

Pines interrupted. “If you’re going to bring all that up again, we might as well just give up.”

Porterfield said quietly, “You could do what we’ve been asking you to all along, pull the people home who have a reason to be afraid. It may be too late to negotiate with the ones who have the papers, since you’ve betrayed them twice.”

The Director smiled. “But we’ve got them, blasted them off the face of the earth. We’re going to go through with the mopping up.”

Porterfield’s eyes suddenly seemed to lose their luster. The lids half-covered them, and he stared at the Director with a look that might have been boredom. He seemed to be old and tired. “Is that your final word?”

“Of course.”

Goldschmidt slowly stood up, pressing his palms against the table to support himself. His face was pale and he was sweating. “Excuse me, please. I just remembered I got a number wrong on an important telephone call I made a few minutes ago.” He walked to the door and stopped. “For the record, I’d like to say I agree with Ben.” He opened the door, then said, “But I forget—that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? There is no record.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Pines said to the Director, “I wonder if we shouldn’t all take Mr. Goldschmidt’s lead. Mr. Porterfield and Mr. Kearns have given their opinions. They didn’t wait for the reports from California, but I don’t think that would change anything. Would it, Mr. Kearns?”

Kearns shook his head and stood up. “I don’t think so.” His voice changed, and he seemed to be pleading. “Don’t you see? We don’t have to worry about one little gang of terrorists. We’ve got the makings of a revolt inside the Company. Seventy-eight people so far, and any one of them knows more than Donahue did. Any one of them can do more than these terrorists have done. Any one of them—”

“Thank you,” said the Director and stood up. Kearns took one long look at Porterfield, then turned and walked out of the room.

Pines walked to the Director’s seat and picked up the file from the table. Porterfield remained seated, leaning down to lift his briefcase slowly to his lap. His face had not changed. He looked at the two through half-lidded eyes.

The Director smiled compassionately at Porterfield. “Ben, I admire your guts. I always have. You’re an old pro who’s spent a lot of time in the field and is used to doing things on your own and relying on your own wits to stay alive. But I can’t have you doing this to me. You see what the problem is?”

Porterfield was silent for a moment. The hand in his briefcase stopped moving. “Yes. I do.” The Director and Pines looked at each other. Porterfield said, “You are both people who aren’t up to what you’re doing.”

The Director flipped his hand at Pines, urging him to leave. Pines turned on his heel and took a step, but there was a sharp, spitting sound and his head jerked and he walked into the wall. He took another step and collapsed. The Director looked down at Pines. The side of his head was already oozing blood. It ran down his temple to his neck and then to the floor to form a pool that grew as he watched.

The Director froze, as though he couldn’t step across the body. Then he bent over and looked at it closely. He pointed at the floor. “I suppose that mess is his brain. I see the bullet hole, and that’s what came with it, isn’t it?” He turned to face Porterfield, standing straight. “You’ve done it now. I’m sure you know. There are people waiting for us outside the door.”

Porterfield stood up. “Yes.” He aimed carefully with both hands, and the gun spat again. The Director’s head slammed against the wall, and his body fell forward to the floor.

Goldschmidt opened the door and slipped into the room. “The meeting’s over?”

Porterfield walked to the Director’s body and nudged it with his toe. “Did you take care of the arrangements?”

Goldschmidt shook his head. “I didn’t have to. Yesterday afternoon Pines ordered the autopsy team to report this morning.” Goldschmidt stopped and studied Porterfield. “They were expecting to lose agents on this.”

Porterfield picked up his briefcase and moved toward the door. “Can you take care of the cleanup?”

Goldschmidt sat on the table and stared down at the bodies on the floor. “I’ve already talked to the people at the gate. You didn’t come here this morning.”

“What about Kearns?”

“He was the one who told the Director’s bodyguards to take a break.”