«I see.»
«It struck me that since he was an old friend of yours, so to speak, he might try to contact you.»
«That seems reasonable.»
«Well, has he?»
«No.»
«If he does, will you call me?»
«Of course.»
«I'll give you my number.»
«I have it already, if you're still at the sanitarium»
«Yes, I am, and could you put out the word? Could you get your men to dig around for him? I have his picture and fingerprints.»
«So do I.»
J thought, Damn showoff. Always was a damn showoff. But J's voice, when he spoke, was nothing but charming. «Don't hurt him, Ordway, but bring him in as soon as you can.»
«You can count on me.»
«Thank you, sir.»
«Think nothing of it, J old buddy. I'm happy to be working with you again.»
After hanging up, J stood a while in thought before gathering the moral force to dial.
«Information,» chirped the operator.
«Give me the number of the Berkeley police department.»
Glen Ordway of the CIA turned pensively away from the phone and regarded his guest, who lounged in a black leather-upholstered overstuffed chair under a Picasso cubist painting.
«What'll you have?» Ordway smiled broadly.
«Brandy and soda,» answered Richard Blade.
Chapter 12
Glen Ordway was a small, wiry mulatto, an ideal racial mix for intelligence work in a world where, increasingly, almost all the serious action was in the so-called Third World. Ordway could be an African among Africans, an Arab among Arabs, a moorish Spaniard among Spaniards, a South American among South Americans, even an Oriental among Orientals or an Italian among Italians. He needed no makeup, only a change of language and mannerisms, and he spoke, Richard knew, twenty-seven languages and acted with virtuoso aplomb in all of them. He was now in the United States, and therefore spoke, acted and looked exactly like an American ghetto Black, at least when out on the streets of East Oakland where he maintained this apartment near the Bay Area Rapid Transit line.
His neighbors, if they noticed him at all, must have taken him for a rhythm-and-blues musician, or perhaps a successful pimp, in his light-blue slacks, dark-blue blazer, white silk shirt, platform shoes and cat's-eye sunglasses.
«Your drink, Mr. Blade,» Ordway said, and his accent was shifting, becoming British. As usual, almost unconsciously, Ordway was absorbing the speech and mannerisms of the person he was with.
«Thank you, Glen.» Blade accepted the glass. «And not just for the drink.» He glanced at the white pushbutton phone on Ordway's modern black steel desk.
«You did not wish to be found, therefore you will not be found.» Ordway had mixed himself a whiskey sour. He raised it in a toast. «To the confusion of MI6.»
They clinked glasses and sipped.
«I hope this won't cause trouble for you,» Blade said.
«No trouble. There's no love lost between the CIA and The Old Firm.» The Old Firm was standard jargon for the British Secret Intelligence Services. «My station chief will probably award me ten brownie points when he hears about this. He and I agree on many things, including the opinion that your boss is a pompous ass long overdue to be taken down a peg. Besides, I owe you a favor.»
«For what?»
«You remember that night in the North Beach district of San Francisco? You remember that dude who was dressed up as a woman that you were after?»
Richard nodded. «I remember.»
Glen chuckled and went on. «We tracked him into the ladies john in Miss Prisford's Tea Room. Good old Miss Prisford's! You could buy anything there, animal, vegetable or mineral, except tea. I busted in and looked around and didn't see anybody right away, and you followed me in and-blam blam blam-shot that fruit right through the wall of his toilet stall. When he fell out on the cement this cute little pistol went bouncing across the floor. It was a Baretta, wasn't it?» Glen's accent became more American.
«That's right.»
«I knew it! I forget names and faces, but I never forget a gun. Well, that fruit could very easily have canceled my pension, if you know what I mean. I didn't see the bastard! I still to this day don't understand how you spotted him.»
«I heard him.»
«Sure, but how did you know he wasn't a genuine lady in there?»
«A true lady does not stand on the toilet seat in order to prevent her feet from showing.»
Glen drained his glass and went over to the black-upholstered bar for a refill. «I remember the gun you used. It was a German job, wasn't it? A big Walther PPK pistol with an eagle and swastika embossed on the handle. A Nazi gun! I've always wondered where you got it.»
«I picked it up from its original owner when he had no more use for it. I still own the thing, though I haven't had occasion to use it for years.»
«A beautiful weapon,» Glen murmured reverently.
«A classic,» Richard agreed, raising his glass.
Silently they toasted the Walther PPK.
«So you see,» Glen went on, after wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, «I might very well owe my life to you. You were there at the right time doing the right thing.»
«I remember.» Richard had to smile.
«So as I said, I owe you a favor. I assume you're planning on dropping out of sight for a while. Fine! I can get you a new passport and papers with a new name and a new past. Our plastic surgeons can give you a new face, if you need one. And if you're job hunting, the Company can use a man like you. Where would you like to surface? South America? Europe? Africa?»
Blade looked up at him, still smiling, and said softly, «England.»
«England? Are you crazy, man?» Glen's accent went pure ghetto Black. «I mean, like, you gotta be puttin' me on!»
Richard said quietly, «Yes, England, as close to London as can be arranged.»
«You know, I believe you. It's just crazy enough…»
«I can understand your misgivings, but I assure you I know exactly what I'm doing.»
«You're walking like a lamb right into the mouth of the British lion.»
«It can't be helped. There's something I must do.»
The mulatto shrugged. «So be it. It will take a week for me to have your false papers prepared and to get you a plane ticket.»
«I don't have a week.»
«When do you want to leave?»
«Today.»
«But the false papers. «
«I won't need them.»
«The tickets…»
«With your help, I won't need them either.»
«But how…?»
Richard stood up. «I understand you fly regular spy plane missions over Russia from somewhere around here to the American airbase outside London.»
Glen looked at him oddly, head cocked to one side. «You're not supposed to know about that, Dickie baby.»
«Once in a while, by chance, MI6 blunders onto something. I want to hitch a ride on that plane. Can you arrange it?»
There was a long silence, then Glen said softly, «Yes, I can arrange it. Do you want a two-way ride?»
Richard did not meet the shorter man's intent gaze. «No, Glen. I rather expect this will be a one-way trip.»
Richard Blade caught his first glimpse of the spy plane from the air, as Glen circled the desert airfield.
«What do you think of her?» Glen demanded, half-turning in the cockpit to look back over his shoulder at Richard.
«Not bad,» Richard answered over the rushing roar of their jet fighter.
Moments later they touched down and taxied up to the looming bulk of a giant bomber. The spy plane was perched on the back of the bomber as if it were the bomber's child. Unlike the parent, who was unpainted save for the insignia of the U.S. Air Force, the child was painted a dull black and bore no markings of any kind. Glen brought his jet to a stop in the shadow of the larger plane's wing, cut the engines, unplugged himself, pushed back the canopy, and clambered out. Richard followed.