Fellowship of Fear

5, European-style. Today’s date.

“Sonofagun,” Eric said. “I know that wasn’t there this morning. Huh.” He sat staring at the paper.

Dr. Rufus must have gone in and checked the schedules right after he had talked with Gideon, then, and made sure his Torrejon request was put into effect.

Eric got up and went to a file cabinet, where he stood with his back to Gideon, going through some manila folders. A Western-style shirt accentuated the soft bulge that spilled over his belt in back. If anything, he had gotten a little puffier in the last two weeks.

“Yeah, here it is, man,” he said, turning. “Got your packet all ready; never got around to canceling it. Train ticket to Frankfurt, Lufthansa to Madrid. Bus schedule to Torrejon. BOQ reservations, too.” He handed the packet to Gideon. His forehead glistened with an oily, unhealthy sheen. “You’ll love it; fantastic chicks.”

“So you said. Eric, why did you route me through Heidelberg to get me to Madrid?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why not direct from Sigonella to Torrejon? Or through Rome? Why all the way back up to Germany?”

Eric bristled. His hand went nervously to his hair. “Hell, I don’t remember why I got your particular itinerary. Maybe all the direct flights were booked. It happens all the time. The instructors usually like to stop off in Heidelberg anyway; use the library, see some people. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“I appreciate that, Eric. It’s just that it does seem the long way around.”

“Hey, look, man, I got forty fucking itineraries to worry about.” With the back of his hand, he made an irritated swipe at the papers on his desk. “You know how much work that is? Shit, I’ve been on the phone to the airlines for eight hours a day for two weeks. There’s tourists all over the goddamn place. Shit.” He plopped back into his chair; the cushion emitted a sympathetic, whistling sigh.

“I don’t know, Eric—”

“Hell, I talked it over with Rufe; he thought it was okay.”

“With Dr. Rufus? Does he get involved in that kind of detail?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Especially with you. You’re the visiting fellow, which is such a big deal.” His expression implied a differing opinion. “Besides, you were getting beat up every time you turned around. He was just checking to see you were getting treated right. He didn’t beef, and I don’t see what you’re complaining about. Christ, sometimes I gotta route people through Oslo to get them to Spain.”

Gideon sighed. “Let me ask you another question, Eric—”

“Look, man, can’t you give me a phone call next week? I’m up to my armpits right now.” He slapped the arms of his chair. “Ah, what the hell. You want some coffee?”

Gideon shook his head. Going to a messy table at the side of the room, Eric poured water from a pot on a one- ring hot plate, then added instant coffee, stirring it with a plastic spoon. He took a sip, made a face, added sugar with the same spoon, and returned to his chair.

“So what are the questions?” He tossed back a slug of coffee as if it were a shot of bourbon.

“I was wondering what you were doing in Sigonella last week.”

“I was making my Italian round. Logistics checks out every one of our bases at least once every two years. Looks over the accommodations, settles complaints, makes new contracts, that kind of stuff.” He frowned. “Why?”

“Just sorry I missed you,” Gideon said. “If you’re going to be down at Torrejon next week, let’s have dinner.”

Eric tossed down another slug of coffee, peering suspiciously at Gideon over the rim of the cup. “All right, I just might be there.”

“Oh?” said Gideon, feeling his breath quicken.

“Yeah, I’m scheduled to hit Spain and Greece in the next few weeks. Of course, with all the alerts, I don’t know. I’ll give you a call.”

As hard as it was to believe, then, everything was beginning to point to this harried, laid-back, not very intelligent administrator. He had been at Sigonella at the right time, and he was going to be at Torrejon at the right time.

Eric drained the last of his coffee and made another face. “Yuck.”

Then they sat and looked at each other for a long time. Gideon attempted to read Eric’s expression. Was he trying to stare him down, or did those half-closed, dull eyes reflect no more than a bovine resignation to Gideon’s continued presence? Gideon couldn’t tell.

Finally Eric frowned with the expression of a man who had something to say. He closed his eyes and belched —a remarkably deep, resonant sound, around which he managed to enunciate with great clarity the word “barf.”

In the hallway, Gideon’s anticipated elation did not materialize. As telling as Eric’s presence at Sigonella was, as well as his planned trip to Torrejon, Gideon couldn’t bring himself to believe the Californian was a spy. If ubiquity were evidence of spying, then Gideon was a proven spy, too. Interesting thought; in spite of John’s reassurance, it was still possible that NSD’s Bureau Four suspected him, on the same grounds that he suspected Eric. And when they found out—if they didn’t know already—that Gideon was going to be at Torrejon upon his own insistence, and for not terribly cogent reasons, he was going to be even more suspect.

No, the only difference between Eric and him was that Gideon knew he wasn’t a spy, which left Eric as the only other USOC’r, as far as he was aware, to be at the crucial bases at the right times. And yet, Eric just didn’t feel right as a spy. Could spies be that fatuous, that transparent? Moreover, his explanation of Gideon’s routing through Heidelberg had the ring of truth.

All the same, he’d see that the information about Eric got back to Bureau Four if he could. He’d have to do it