The Blackbird

Seven

Somewhere a light was burning, making a dull red glow on Grofield’s eyelids. He came very slowly up toward consciousness, aware of the red glow for a long while before being aware that he was awake, and then continuing to lie there for another period of time after he was awake, thinking about who he was and where he was and all of the things that had happened in his recent history and what was he going to do about it all and also he was very very hungry.

He didn’t want to open his eyes, because the light would blind him, and it took him a long while to decide what to do instead. At last he rolled over onto his other side, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as he moved, and when the red glow cut off he opened his eyes, and found he was facing the window, which was heavily draped. The source of the light was somewhere in this room.

A page turned. A very distinctive sound, the sound of a page turning. Page of a book.

Was she still here, waiting for him to wake up? How long had she been sitting here, for God’s sake? What time was it? He struggled his left arm up from under the covers and the wrist was naked, of course, his watch being on the shelf over the sink in the bathroom.

He was very very hungry.

Another page turned.

He didn’t want another session with that girl now, he really didn’t. He was going to have to be firm, that’s all, get rid of her and no nonsense. Make an appointment with her for later on, if she insisted. During business hours.

He steeled himself for the effort, rolled over onto his back, sat up, and looked into the mild eyes of Henry Carlson, who said, “So you’re awake.”

“I know you,” Grofield said.

“Ken showed you my picture. And of course I’ve seen yours. Tell me, was it retouched?”

What hurt was that the question didn’t seem to be malicious. Henry Carlson looked honestly and innocently interested in the answer. Grumpily Grofield said, “Of course not.”

“Oh. No offense.”

“I’m just not at my best in the morning.”

“Hardly morning,” Carlson said, and looked at his watch. “Three twenty-five.” Disapprovingly he added, “In the afternoon.”

“Us counterspies work funny hours.”

Carlson got very prim. “That’s not a good sort of joke, you know.”

“It isn’t?”

Carlson could be seen making an effort to be friendly with the lower orders. “Before we go any farther, Alan — may I call you Alan?”

“No,” Grofield said, and got out of bed, and stomped away to the bathroom.

When he came out again ten minutes later, shaved and shiny and much more awake, he was still naked and Carlson was still sitting in the same chair under the same lit floor lamp with the same hardcover book open in his lap. Carlson looked at Grofield and got fidgety. “I suppose actors get used to ignoring usual conventions of modesty,” he said, and tried a friendly smile that didn’t entirely work.

Grofield, crossing to his suitcase, glanced at Carlson and said, “I suppose secret agents get used to ignoring the usual conventions of politeness. Like not coming into rooms uninvited.”

Carlson’s face grew troubled. “Aren’t we going to get along? I was hoping everything would be friendly.”

“I bet you were.” Grofield opened the suitcase and started dressing. “Excuse me while I put on my radio,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Was this just a social call or did you have a motive?”

“Miss Kamdela,” Carlson said.

Grofield stopped with one pant leg on. “Say again?”

“Miss Vivian Kamdela,” Carlson said.

Grofield put his other foot in the other pant leg and pulled his trousers up. “I bet,” he said, “that’s the black lady who was in here this morning.”

“Well, of course. You seemed to be on very good terms with her.” Carlson was being prim again.

“Sure,” Grofield said. “We skipped over the part where you exchange names, that’s all.”

“What did she want?”

“To know who sent me and why. And if she hung around to watch you come in here, she probably no longer has to ask.” Grofield carried his tie into the bathroom and put it on in front of the mirror.

Carlson called from the other room, “No one saw me come in, I guarantee it. Why did she want to know about you?”

“She didn’t say.” The tie came the right length on the first try, a rare occurrence. A straw in the wind, or a sign that his luck was changing? He patted the tie against his shirt front and walked back out to the other room. “Shall we have breakfast together or are we making believe we have security to maintain?”

“It is hardly make-believe,” Carlson said stiffly. “A great deal of care has been put into this operation, to be absolutely certain no one knows of our connection with you.”

“Then how come Miss Whatsername... ”

“Vivian Kamdela.”

“Right. How come she showed up to ask questions?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“You’re zigging when you should be zagging. Go ask Miss Vivian Whosis.”

“Kamdela.”

“All right, Kamdela.” Struck by a sudden thought, Grofield said, “Is she African?”

“Of course.”

“Not from Undurwa, by any chance?”

“Are you merely pretending ignorance, Mr. Grofield?”

“No more than you are, Mr. Carlson. A fellow named Onum Marba is one of my two acquaintances at this meeting I’m supposed to crash. He comes from Undurwa. If he saw me this morning when I checked in, it might have made him curious to know if it was just coincidence. He has a very dry sense of humor, Marba has, it would be his kind of thing to send a girl around to ask the questions.”

“I see,” Carlson said thoughtfully. “That does make sense.”

“You noticed.”

“It was all I wanted to know, really. Why Miss Kamdela was here.” He closed his book and got to his feet. It was The Espionage Establishment, by David Wise and Thomas B. Ross.

Grofield gestured at the book. “They give you a mention?”

“Happily, no.”

“Better luck next time. You want to join me for breakfast?”

“At this hour?”

“I’ll call what I eat breakfast, you call yours whatever you want. You coming?”

“No, Mr. Grofield. There really is security to maintain, you know, it isn’t all a joke. If your cover is blown, you realize, you won’t be any further use to us at all. I don’t know exactly what my superiors would want to do about you in such a case.”

“Back into the frying pan, eh?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Go ahead,” Grofield said. “All right, how do you want to work this?”

“You go on out,” Carlson told him, “and I’ll leave a few minutes after you.”

“Why don’t we do it the other way around? You first.”

“If the representative from Undurwa is keeping you under observation, this room will now be watched. If you go out first, the watcher will leave with you, and I will be able to leave unobserved.”

“Okay, that makes sense. But be sure the door is locked when you go out.”

“Certainly.”

“Not that it does any good,” Grofield grumbled, and went away to find breakfast.