BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY MICHAEL KURLAND
The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America (with S. W. Barton)
Perchance: A Tale of the Paraverse
The Princes of Earth: A Science Fiction Novel
A Study in Sorcery: A Lord Darcy Novel
Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel
Transmission Error: A Scientifiction Romance
The Trials of Quintilian: Three Stories of Rome’s Greatest Detective
The Unicorn Girl: An Entertainment
Victorian Villainy: A Collection of Moriarty Stories
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1980, 2013 by Michael Kurland and Barton Whaley
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
PROLOGUE
FRIDAY, JUNE 16, 1972
Edward St. Yves put down his binoculars and picked up the phone. He dialed a very private number.
“Yes?” a guarded voice answered.
“This is Barkley,” St. Yves said.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling you from the Howard Johnson’s motel across the street from the Watergate complex.”
“I understand.”
“Our men have just come into contact with the local people,” St. Yves said.
“Yes? How serious?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to clean up here and see what I can do,” St. Yves said. “Be prepared for a phone call.”
“Me?”
“It may come to that. This must be stopped now. You understand? I’m calling the Company, but they may want someone at the top to verify.”
“Okay. Do what you have to. The big man is here. I’ll tell him.”
“He’ll be delighted,” St. Yves said, and hung up.
CHAPTER ONE
There is an odor unique to police stations. Compounded of sweat, soap, cheap toilet water, machine oil, dried vomitus, stale urine, and the smell of fear, under a thin mask of ammonia cleanser, it is most noticeable early in the morning. At four o’clock this Saturday morning in the Second District Police Station at 2301 L Street, Washington, D.C., it was particularly strong.
Christopher Young carefully adjusted the knot of his black knit tie before pushing through the station’s heavy wooden door. As junior officer of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Washington domestic operations station, he found himself with erratic regularity in one of the District police stations on Company business. The assignment required a delicate hand, since he had no official status with the police at all. If a couple of Company men were apprehended rifling the safe of some embassy undersecretary, he was to try to get them out. But if a couple of thieves thought it would be useful to tell the arresting officers that they were CIA agents, Kit would be unable to deny the allegation.
Kit walked up to the desk sergeant and laid down his open identification case. “I got a call,” he said, stifling a yawn and trying to sound more alert than he felt.
“Right,” the desk sergeant said with disinterest. “Five John Does, apprehended at the Watergate complex. They won’t say word one about anything. But we got a phone call said you people would be interested.” The sergeant reached under his desk and brought out a couple of bulging oversized manila envelopes. “Here’s what they had on them,” he said, undoing the flaps and letting the contents spill out onto the desk.
Kit stared down at the assortment of burglary tools and photographic and electronic gear. Some of it looked familiar. “They said they were Agency?” he asked.
“They’re deaf and dumb,” the sergeant said. “We got this phone call said you’d be coming down.”
“I wonder who called us?” Kit said. “I’d better talk to them.”
The sergeant called upstairs and a man in a cut-off sweat shirt and denims came trotting down to take Kit to the holding tank. “Hi,” the man said, sticking out a hand. “I’m Veber, one of the arresting officers.”
Kit grabbed the hand and shook it firmly. “Where’d you find them?”
“In the Watergate. Inside the DNC headquarters, as a matter of fact. Night watchman noticed something funny and called in.”
“The DNC?”
“Yeah. The Democratic National Committee. What the hell are you people doing in the Democratic Committee?”
“You got me,” Kit said. “We don’t know yet that they’re our people. What did they say when you arrested them?”
Veber shrugged. “Not much. One of them turned around, nice and calm and polite, and said, ‘Are you gentlemen with the Metropolitan Police?’ Didn’t seem very excited.”
“I can see why he wondered,” Kit said.
Veber looked puzzled for a second. “Oh, my hippie clothes? We’re on a special detail. At least we don’t have to put dresses on, like those cops in New York. Come on, they’re up here.”
The holding pen was up one flight of stairs. It held five unruffled, ordinary-looking men in business suits. One of them stood up as Kit approached with Veber. “Hello,” he said. “Are you Company?”
Kit looked him over. A short, stocky man with an air of control and competence, he could have been a successful lawyer or a congressional aide, or an FBI special agent or a Company man. Or, for that matter, a clever thief.
“More to the point,” Kit said, “who are you?”
“Let me see some ID first,” the stocky man said. “I hate repeating myself.”
Kit smiled. “Do I look like a cop to you?”
“Do I look like a burglar to you?” the man said without emotion. “Show me a card.”
“Give me a name,” Kit said.
“Chandler,” the man said, naming the Deputy Chief of Station for Washington, and Kit’s immediate superior.
Kit pulled out his ID card. “Here.”
The man gave it a cursory glance. “Talk to me,” he said. “Alone.”
Veber shook his head. “Don’t mind me.”
The stocky man fixed him with a stare. “You don’t walk down to the end of the corridor, I don’t talk.”
“Give me a minute with him,” Kit told Veber.
“I guess,” Veber said, unconvinced. He retreated to the end of the corridor and turned his back on them, staring out the window at the early morning drizzle.
Kit turned back to the stocky man. “Well?”
The man paused for a minute to select his words. “I’m George Warren,” he said. “We are not, at least at this time, with the Company. Not directly.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Kit demanded. “Not directly? What the hell did you get me down here for? Who called the Company?”
“I want you to make a phone call for me,” Warren said. “That will explain everything.”
Kit took a step back away from the cell bars. “You’ve got to be kidding. Why the hell should I make a phone call for you?”
“Listen to me,” Warren said patiently. “Does the number three-nine-five, three thousand mean anything to you?”
“Three nine—”
”Keep your voice