All I really knew about was the training I had received and the jobs the Old Man sent me on. Interesting jobs, some of them—if you don’t care where you sleep, what you eat, nor how long you live. I’ve totaled three years behind the Curtain; I can drink vodka without blinking and spit Russian like a cat—as well as Cantonese, Kurdish, and some other bad-tasting tongues. I’m prepared to say that they’ve got nothing behind the Curtain that Paducah, Kentucky doesn’t have bigger and better. Still, it’s a living.
If I had had any sense, I’d have quit and taken a working job.
The only trouble with that would be that I wouldn’t have been working for the Old Man any longer. That made the difference.
Not that he was a soft boss. He was quite capable of saying, “Boys, we need to fertilize this oak tree. Just jump in that hole at its base and I’ll cover you up.”
We’d have done it. Any of us would.
And the Old Man would bury us alive, too, if he thought that there was as much as a 53 percent probability that it was the Tree of Liberty he was nourishing.
He got up and limped toward me as I came in. I wondered again why he did not have that leg done over. Pride in how he had gotten the limp was my guess, not that I would ever know. A person in the Old Man’s position must enjoy his pride in secret; his profession does not allow for public approbation.
His face split in a wicked smile. With his big hairless skull and his strong Roman nose he looked like a cross between Satan and Punch of Punch-and-Judy. “Welcome, Sam,” he said. “Sorry to get you out of bed.”
The deuce he was sorry! “I was on leave,” I answered shortly. He was the Old Man, but leave is leave—and damned seldom!
“Ah, but you still are. We’re going on a vacation.”
I didn’t trust his “vacations” so I did not rise to the bait. “So my name is ‘Sam’,” I answered. “What’s my last name?”
“Cavanaugh. And I’m your Uncle Charlie—Charles M. Cavanaugh, retired. Meet your sister Mary.”
I had noticed that there was another person in the room, but had filed my one glance for future reference. When the Old Man is present he gets full attention as long as he wants it. Now I looked over my “sister” more carefully and then looked her over again. It was worth it.
I could see why he had set us up as brother and sister if we were to do a job together; it would give him a trouble-free pattern. An indoctrinated agent can’t break his assumed character any more than a professional actor can intentionally muff his lines. So this one I must treat as my sister—a dirty trick if I ever met one!
A long, lean body, but unquestionably and pleasingly mammalian. Good legs. Broad shoulders for a woman. Flaming, wavy red hair and the real redheaded saurian bony structure to her skull. Her face was handsome rather than beautiful; her teeth were sharp and clean. She looked me over as if I were a side of beef.
I was not yet in character; I wanted to drop one wing and run in circles. It must have showed, for the Old Man said gently, “Tut tut, Sammy—there’s no incest in the Cavanaugh family. You were both carefully brought up, by my favorite sister-in-law. Your sister dotes on you and you are extremely fond of your sister, but in a healthy, clean-cut, sickeningly chivalrous, All-American-Boy sort of way.”
“As bad as that?” I asked, still looking at my “sister”.
“Worse.”
“Oh, well—howdy, Sis. Glad to know you.”
She stuck out a hand. It was firm and seemed as strong as mine. “Hi, Bud.” Her voice was deep contralto, which was all I needed. Damn the Old Man!
“I might add,” the Old Man went on in the same gentle tones, “that you are so devoted to your sister that you would gladly die to protect her. I dislike to tell you so, Sammy, but your sister is a little more valuable, for the present at least, to the organization than you are.”