'I like it better where I am,' I answered, modestly tugging at the blankets to cover myself.
'Move it, Yank!' the John Bull snarled.
'I don't want to,' I told him. 'It's nice and cozy here,' I added, snuggling under the blankets. 'And it looks like a cold world out there – not to mention hostile.'
'Are you getting out of that bed voluntarily? Or are we going to go in and pluck you out?' He made an obscene gesture to demonstrate just how I might be 'plucked.'
'Since you put it so graphically,' I sighed, 'I'm coming out.' I wrapped a sheet around me toga-style and went out to confront Scotland Yard. 'You'll have to pardon me,' I greeted them haughtily, 'but I didn't have time to put on my laurel wreath.'
'Are you Steve Victor?' one of them demanded.
'In the flesh,' I answered accurately.
'Put on your clothes and come with us.'
'Why should I? I haven't done anything.'
'Oh? Then I suppose you have a wedding license to prove that you and this lady are married,' he observed sarcastically.
'Damn!' I snapped my fingers. 'I knew there was something that must have slipped my mind. Gladys -' I turned to her – 'why didn't you remind me? We forgot to get married.'
'That's one 'ell of ha proposal,' she said wistfully, 'but Hi haccept.'
'It's too late for that now.' Scotland Yard crooned a duet. 'Get dressed, Mr. Victor,' one of them added.
I got dressed.
'Now come along with us.' They fell in on either side of me, each grabbing an arm.
'You can't be serious,' I protested. 'Since when does Scotland Yard bother with this sort of thing?'
'We have many varied duties when it comes to keeping the peace.'
'Just as I thought,' I wisecracked. 'You want Gladys for yourself.'
'Come along now.'
'Wait a minute.' I pulled loose and pointed. 'What about her? Since when do you arrest the customer and let the hustler go?'
'Coo!' Gladys said bitterly. 'Hand Hi thought you was ha blinkin' gentleman.'
'We know where to find her when we want her,' one of them said.
'Chicago was never like this,' I told them. But I went along peacefully. I figured that whatever I'd done couldn't be too serious and I'd manage to talk myself out of trouble sooner or later. Still, I was curious about just exactly what it was they were arresting me for. When I was in the back of their car and it began moving through the Soho streets, I raised the question. 'Just what is the charge against me?' I asked.
'Well, it could be carnal knowledge out of wedlock,' one of them told me.
'Are you kidding? You'd have to arrest half of London. Besides, there was no actual carnal knowledge. Just a little mutual carnal investigation. Your arrival forestalled any real in-depth carnal knowledge.'
'My apologies for the
'This is ridiculous!' I was silent after that, brooding. And feeling guilty, too. Hell, I hadn't even kissed Gladys goodbye. If I'd behaved like such a boor, it was no wonder the American image abroad was so tarnished. Still, with this kind of European hospitality, who could blame an American for turning ugly?
The car pulled up at a gate. The driver presented some identification, and it was opened. We drove up a long driveway to the side of an imposing-looking mansion. 'Where are you taking me?' I asked as the car pulled to a halt. 'This isn't Scotland Yard.'
'You'll see in a moment, Mr. Victor.'
I was prodded out of the car. Just as I was being hustled into the building, I glanced up and saw an American flag flying from a pole on top of it. What the hell?
I was ushered into a nice-sized room. Mahogany paneling, quiet, expensive drapes, a couple of leather armchairs and a leather sofa, a desk out of Thackeray which glistened with prestige, a Sixteenth Century bas relief on the wall, a shield and pike that looked Crusades-y, a hand-loomed Persian carpet – it all added up to quiet elegance and tacit tradition. The bulls left me alone in the room. I waited a moment, then eased the door open. The figure in front of it swiveled around like a robot and barred my way with a rifle. It was eight-foot-ten – give or take a few inches – of U.S. Marine. 'Semper Fidelis.' I smiled weakly into his stony face and shut the door.
A few minutes later it opened again. The man who entered was dressed impeccably, ultra-conservatively. The only thing that was out of style was the face sticking out over his diplomat-blue suit. It was the face of a third-rate wrestler. The ears looked like they'd been run through a meat grinder manufactured by the Marquis de Sade. The nose was a purple lump left over from some ancient volcanic eruption. The eyes were shrewd and blue, but buried in scar tissue. The hair was gray, but bristly like steel wool dipped in a sugar bowl. And the body under the Bond Street suit was a muscle-bulging bulldozer primed for action.
I took a long look at this incongruity and cursed under my breath. 'I might have known,' I added aloud.
'It is pleasant to see you again, Mr. Victor,' he said, the icicles dripping off his tongue detracting from the sincerity of the words.
'I'm sorry I can't say the same.' I glowered at him familiarly. I knew him all right. It was Charles Putnam.
That wasn't his real name. I don't think he has a real name. Just a number, like some government issue weapon. Maybe not even that, since no government department was about to officially acknowledge his existence.
Charles Putnam was the invisible man, the man who never was, the lost statistic on the government payroll – if he was on the payroll at all. I reminded myself that I'd have to ask him about that some time. It would probably annoy him, which was reason enough to raise the question.
Anyway, this hulky human cipher held one of those indefinable positions in the nether world which lies between espionage and diplomacy. He had something to do with the State Department – something they'd never admit. And he had something to do with the CIA – something they buried quickly before the smell was detected. He'd played footsie with the Russians and held hands with the Chinese, but his loyalty to the U.S. was unquestionable. So too was his function and authority.
Because of my connection with O.R.G.Y., Putnam had found my services useful in the past. Now I was remembering the last time he'd called on those services. It had been in Tokyo and, like tonight, he'd had me hauled away from a warm bed and a willing woman so that I might be brought to him. That was only one of the reasons I didn't like him, but I brought it up now anyway.
'Mr. Putnam,' I asked him, 'how do you always manage to time these summonses for such maximum frustration?'
'My apologies, Mr. Victor. But this can't wait. The young lady, I am sure, can.'
'But will she?'
'Surely you underrate yourself, Mr. Victor.'
'Perhaps. But now I'll never know. Will I?'
'Ships that pass in the night.' He shrugged.
'You certainly can turn a phrase, Mr. Putnam,' I told him sarcastically.
He shrugged that off, too. 'This is important, mr. Victor. Important to your country and mine.'
'Doesn't your arm get tired waving that flag all the time?' Before he could answer, I raised another question. 'Just what is this place, anyway?' I asked him. 'It's not the American embassy. I've seen that. But there's an American flag on it. What is it?'
'You're mistaken. It is the American embassy.' He allowed himself a rare smile, just the faintest trace of a crack in the iceberg. 'That is, it will appear as the American embassy to millions of people all over the world.'
'Come again? You lost me going around that last innuendo.'
'You don't mean innuendo; you mean hint. But let me explain. This house has been decorated as a facsimile of the American embassy for use in a film. All sorts of odd people come in and out without attracting any notice.'
'You mean like Scotland Yard men and such?'
'Exactly. Anybody seeing them would simply think they were extras and that their official car was a prop. So you can see why this meeting place is ideal for purposes of secrecy. Where everything and everybody is out of the ordinary, nothing attracts attention.'
