The Blackbird

Three

Grofield walked out of the hospital into a snowstorm and the arms of Charlie and Ken. Ken said brightly, “Give you a lift?”

“No, thanks,” Grofield said. “I thought I’d take the bus.”

“Our car is over here,” Ken said. Their hands were gently closed around Grofield’s upper arms.

“You’re too good to me,” Grofield said, and walked with them to an unmarked Chevrolet. Not that it had to be marked; no private citizen has owned a black Chevrolet since 1939. All three got into the back seat, Grofield in the middle, and the chunky, spectacled man in the fur hat behind the wheel started them out of the parking lot.

It had been three days since Grofield’s conversation with these two, plenty of time for him to get over the sense of unreality they brought with them. Counterspy stuff didn’t really exist, it was invented for the convenience of novelists and screenwriters, like Atlantis and the timeless West and hippies. But Grofield had understood quickly enough that he had to start thinking of these guys and their world as real because they were likely to have some very real effects on his life, one way or another. So there are secret agents on the planet Earth, and two of them had invited Grofield to play on their team, and it was a game whose rules probably didn’t entirely coincide with the fictional version he knew in the movies and on television. They had gotten him out of the frying pan, as promised, and now it was up to him to get himself out of the fire.

As the car entered the slow-moving, snow-clogged stream of traffic, Grofield said, “Do I get to open the package now?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Ken said. “The other day you invited us to ask if you were patriotic. We declined, but now I’ll ask you something similar. How political are you?”

“I agree with that famous man, Whatzisname, who said, ‘My country; may I never have to think about her.’”

Charlie, on Grofield’s other side, barked and said, “I’m afraid you’re one of the great unwashed, Alan.”

“You betcha.”

Ken said, “Are you political enough to know the phrase Third World?”

“Are we back to the Cosa Nostra?”

“Not exactly,” Ken said. Outside, the snow was so bad you could barely see the storefronts they were passing. Ken said, “The Third World is the all-purpose journalists’ term for all those nations neither in our sphere of influence nor in the Communist sphere of influence. Much of Africa, some of Latin America, a little of Asia. The filler at the United Nations.”

“Poor countries, most of them,” Charlie said. “Unimportant, generally.”

“I suppose you don’t know this,” Ken said, “since most people don’t, but a few years ago there was a meeting in California of one hundred of the Western world’s finest brains, gathered together to discuss the probable future, and their conclusion was that the key to the future lay in the Third World. They believed that the nations of the Third World would tend more and more to military dictatorships, rule by colonel and general, and that these military men would have more in common with one another than with any of their own people or anyone at all from the United States or Russia. They suggested that these military rulers would tend more and more frequently to make short-term alliances with one another against both the Western and Eastern blocs, forcing us to become ever more militarily oriented, until within a century there would be no nonmilitary government left anywhere on Earth.

“A charming prospect,” Grofield said.

“The prophecy,” Ken said, “or warning, whatever you want to call it, didn’t get much play in the press. It’s easy to tell people they have to worry about a big country like the Soviet Union, or Red China, but it’s tough to get the general public to take seriously the threat of Guatemala, say, or Syria, or the Congo.”

“What it adds up to,” Charlie said, “we’re putting in burglar alarms when our real problem is termites.”

“I’ve got the idea,” Grofield said.

Ken said, “Good. What do you think of it?”

“What do I think of it?”

“Do you agree with the conclusion?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Does it sound reasonable?”

Grofield shrugged. “Sure it sounds reasonable,” he said. “What do I know about it? You can tell me anything you want, it’ll sound reasonable.”

“I would prefer,” Ken said, “that you had some true comprehension of the problem, but we can get along without. I’ll move on.”

“I’m taking your word for it,” Grofield told him. “I’m not a dummy, but this isn’t my field, okay?”

“Okay,” Ken said. “I’ll move on.”

“Fine. You move on.”

Ken looked at him. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“A little,” Grofield said. “You know, I could take you into my profession and razzle-dazzle you with expertise, anybody can pull that sort of stunt.”

“Which profession?”

“Either one.”

“I did some acting in college.”

“I’m sure you were adequate,” Grofield told him.

Charlie barked, and Ken said, “I think I was just insulted. I’ll move on.”

“I wish you’d move on,” Grofield said.

Ken said, “Have you ever been in Quebec?”

“City or province?”

“City.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the Chateau Frontenac?”

“The big hotel there. Sure.”

“Your friend General Pozos will be there this weekend,” Ken said. “Under an assumed name.”

“Pozos? I didn’t think he ever got off his yacht.”

“He will this weekend. Your other friend Onum Marba will also be there this weekend, also under an assumed name, part of the entourage of Colonel Rahgos, President of Undurwa. Everyone is incognito.”

“I know Pozos and Marba know each other.”

“The Third World rulers are more and more getting to know one another,” Ken said. “Our information is probably incomplete, but so far as we now know the leaders of at least seven minor unaffiliated nations will all be at the Chateau Frontenac this weekend, incognito. Three African nations, one Central American, two South American and one Asian. There may be others.”

“What’s the meeting about?”

Charlie barked. “Wouldn’t we like to know,” he said.

“Oh,” Grofield said.

“Our interest is so intense,” Ken said, “that we’re willing to help an armed robber beat the rap he so richly deserves, if he will help us find out.”

“Why me?”

“Because you know two of those men. Because they both know you to be an adventurer, a man for hire. Will they have some use for an American like you? We hope so. We hope you can convince them.”

“What if I can’t?”

“A lot will depend,” Ken said, “on how hard we think you’ve tried.” He leaned forward, peering past the driver. “I think we’re here,” he said.

Grofield looked out at the snowstorm, and could vaguely see that they were going past iron gates. A gray stone building was just ahead. Watching it move closer he said, “Why don’t you use some of your own people?”

“None of them have your qualifications,” Ken said. “Wait till we’re indoors, we’ll have more to talk about.”

“I’m sure we will,” Grofield said.

The car had turned slowly around the corner of the building, and now pulled to a stop next to a black side door. Charlie pushed open the car door and climbed out into the falling snow, with Grofield behind him and Ken bringing up the rear. Charlie opened the black door and went in. Grofield, following, glanced back and saw the car in motion again, going away.

They entered a small and very hot foyer. They stood stamping off snow and opening their overcoats, and then went through another set of doors and down a narrow brown corridor to a broad maroon corridor, which they took to the left. They entered a smallish room ringed with bookcases and dominated by an oak conference table with captain’s chairs. Ken said, “Sit down. We’ll finish in here.” There were some things at one place — folders, papers, a small metal box — and Ken sat down there.

Grofield draped his overcoat over one chair and sat in another. Ken was to his left, and Charlie took the seat opposite. Ken opened a folder and said, “I’ll tell you now what we’ve set up for you. We have you booked in at the Chateau Frontenac for four days from Thursday, tomorrow, under your own name. We have an airline ticket for this evening, assuming any planes are taking off today, with a change at New York. A four-hour layover there, I’m sorry to say. It was the best we could do.”

“Don’t worry your head.”

“Thank you. In addition to the clothing we gave you at the hospital, which looks very good on you by the way... ”

“Thank you. A little conservative for my taste, but not bad.”

Ken smiled thinly. “Yes. In addition to that, we have one suitcase for you with everything you should require during your stay in Quebec, changes of clothing, a razor, toothbrush, things like that.”

“No miniature cameras, tape recorders, dart guns?”

Another thin smile. “Afraid not. We’ve also been authorized to give you some spending money. Not much by your standards, perhaps, but enough for coffee and cigarettes. One hundred dollars.”

“In cash or stamps?”

The thin smile again. “It’s taxpayers’ money,” Ken said.

Charlie said, “If they won’t give their schoolteachers a living wage, you can’t expect them to be lavish with amateur spies.”

Grofield nodded. “I wonder what Castro would pay for the plane,” he said.

“You will have a contact at the Chateau,” Ken said. “Here’s his picture.” He handed over an eight-by-ten glossy, black and white.

Grofield looked at a chubby-faced man with horn-rimmed glasses and a bushy mustache. He looked like the kind of cheerful suburban neighbor who borrows everybody’s power mower. Grofield said, “My contact is a man? No beautiful girl?”

“Beautiful girls tend not to volunteer for this sort of work,” Ken said.

Grofield looked at him. “You mean you two are volunteers?”

“As are you, friend,” Charlie said. “Let’s not lose sight of that.”

“Let’s not.” Grofield handed Ken back the photo and said, “Do we have a secret handshake or something?”

“Why should you? You already know what he looks like, and he knows what you look like.”

“How?”

“We sent him a blow-up from your picture in Player’s Guide.”

“Oh.”

Ken said, “His name is Henry Carlson. Don’t get in touch with him unless you have something specific to report, or a request to make or something like that.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t suppose I have to point out,” Ken went on, “that Henry won’t be the only member of our organization in your vicinity for the next few days.”

“There’ll be others?”

“Oh yes.”

“Do I get to look at their pictures?”

Ken smiled, not thinly. “Afraid not. You’ll probably never have any contact with them at all.”

“Unless,” Charlie said, in a friendly way, “you decide to run out on us. Like during the layover in New York.”

“Who, me?”

“We know you wouldn’t,” Charlie said. “It’s our bosses, they don’t trust anybody.”

Ken tossed over a thick white envelope. “There’s your money and tickets,” he said. “The hotel room is already paid for.”

Grofield tucked the envelope unopened in an inner pocket. “I suppose I thank you guys,” he said. “For getting me out of that jam.”

“Time will tell,” Ken said.