Iron Orchid

FIFTY-TWO

IRENE FOSTER WAS BACK from New York in time for work on Monday morning, but she was a little late getting to her office at Langley. As she passed Hugh English’s office, she saw him looking through a stack of papers on his desk. “Morning, Hugh,” she said, sticking her head through the doorway. “Sorry I’m late; I just got back from New York.” She didn’t like it when Hugh got in before she did. Every time that happened, something invariably went wrong.

“Irene,” English said, “do you know somebody in Operations called Charles Lockwood?”

She did not, and she immediately had an awful thought. “Sounds familiar,” she said, trying to breathe normally. “Why?”

“I got a memo from payroll this morning, saying Lockwood is three weeks behind on his time sheets, and they won’t pay him, until he’s up-to-date. That’s what troubles me.”

“What’s that, Hugh?”

“If he’s turning in time sheets, that means he’s executive level, not just a clerical worker, and I swear, I know every mother’s son at the executive level who works for me.”

Irene walked forward and held out her hand. “Give me the memo,” she said. “I’ll sort it out.”

“Thank you,” he said, handing it over. English hated dealing with any administrative matter.

Irene took a deep breath; she might as well get it over with, she thought. “Hugh, have you got a second?”

“Sure. Take a pew.” He waved her to a chair.

She took off her coat and dumped it on the other chair, then sat down. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” she said, “and I’ve decided to put in for retirement.”

English blinked in surprise. “How long have you got in?” he asked.

“Twenty-seven years.”

“Then you’re fully vested in your pension, I guess.”

“I guess I am.”

English sat back in his chair. “Irene, I just can’t imagine the place without you. I mean, you’ve been in this office with me for as long as I’ve occupied this chair, and we knew each other a long time before that, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did, Hugh. Better than twenty years, anyway.”

“I’ll probably have to assign two people to do your job.”

“Thank you, Hugh, but my shoes won’t be all that hard to fill.”

“I’m not going to count on that. What are you going to do with yourself?”

“Funny you should mention that; I was on the Internet last night, looking at houses in the Caribbean.”

“Where in the Caribbean?”

“I’ve heard good things about St. Thomas and St. Barts.”

“St. Thomas was looking overgrown, last time I was there,” English said, “but St. Barts is very nice.”

“It seems a bit more expensive than the other islands, but I’ll take a harder look at it.”

“Twenty-seven years,” English said, shaking his head. “I’m coming up on thirty, myself. It’s probably time I got out of here, too.”

“I can’t see you in retirement, Hugh.”

“Well, it’s become clear that I’m never going to get the top job, unless Kate Rule Lee drops dead, and I’m not going to count on that. When do you want to go?”

“I guess as soon as I can break somebody in,” she said.

“You got some ideas on who that might be?”

“I think either Bergin or Masters,” Irene replied. “They’re both good men; I suppose you should pick whomever you like best.”

“You can’t think of any women for the job?”

“There are a couple a level down who are comers,” she said, “but you need somebody with more field experience I think. As much as I’d like to see a woman in the job, I think you’re going to have to make do with Bergin or Masters for the time being.”

“Or both of them,” English said. “Okay, I’ll try and make a decision today, and you can start working with him.”

“Thanks, Hugh. It’s been fun, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” He had done fuck-all for her, she recalled. She was only in this job now because Kate Rule had wanted a woman high in Operations.

“I was glad to do it,” English said benevolently. “You deserve a happy retirement.”

Irene got up and walked to the door. “I’ll take care of this,” she said, holding up the memo. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey,” English said, “maybe Mary and I will join you in St. Barts.”

“Happy thought,” she said, quivering with disgust. She headed for her office, the memo clutched tightly in one hand, her coat in the other.

She hung up her coat and got behind her desk. She inserted her computer card into the machine, and it came on automatically, having read her codes. “Dear God,” she said, looking at the memo while the computer booted. “Don’t let this be Teddy.”

IT WAS TEDDY. Fifteen minutes later she had read the complete file of Charles Lockwood, and while it was credible, Teddy hadn’t bothered to do his usual thorough job on background. Lockwood was Princeton ‘88 and before that, Groton, but the Groton transcript was missing, and there wasn’t much on his parents. She’d have to call Teddy as soon as she got out of the office. She picked up a phone and called payroll.

“Payroll, Miriam Walker speaking.”

“Miriam, it’s Irene Foster in Operations.”

“Hi, Irene.”

“I’m calling for Hugh English about Charles Lockwood’s time sheets for the past three weeks.”

“Can you get them to me today, Irene? I’d really like to pay the guy.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Why?”

“Lockwood is on special assignment, and he’s unreachable for administrative matters.”

“For how long?”

“Another month, six weeks. It’s impossible to put a date on it.”

“All right, I’ll mark his record as such, but I’m going to rely on you to get him up-to-date when he returns.” She’d be gone by then.

“I’ll ride herd on him. Where are you sending his paychecks?”

“Let me check,” she said, shuffling some papers. “An account in the Caymans,” she replied, finally.

“That sounds like our Charlie,” Irene said. “Thanks, Miriam. Bye-bye.” She hung up. It was unlike Teddy to be greedy, but she supposed that if he had created Lockwood-and after all, it had been her suggestion-the man would have to be paid in order to be credible.

She was relieved that she had announced her retirement to Hugh English, because she had just painted herself into a very tight corner. She had used her authority to authenticate Lockwood and thus, to protect Teddy, and Miriam Walker was certainly going to remember every detail of their conversation. She would remember that Irene had sounded as if she had known Charles Lockwood well. Maybe that “Our Charlie” had been a mistake.

She fed the memo from payroll into her shredder, which immediately reduced it to ash, then she logged on to the Agency mainframe and began looking at any assets they might have in St Barts. To her relief, there weren’t any: no station, no resident, no stringers. How many places were there left in the world where the Agency didn’t have, at the very least, a stringer? She wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into somebody she knew while she and Teddy were walking on the beach. Except in the unlikely event that Hugh English followed through on his retirement threat. She shuddered again.

AS IRENE WAS LEAVING the office that evening, Hugh English shouted at her as she passed his office.

“Yes, Hugh?”

“It’s going to be Bergin; you can start on him tomorrow morning.”

“Right”

“Did you get that payroll thing sorted out?”

“Yes. Turns out he’s an analyst in Intelligence. Somebody in payroll had entered the wrong division code on his pay record. You won’t hear from them again.”

“Thanks, Irene. Good luck on the house hunt.”

“Good night, Hugh.”