and said, “Chinese, I could use a hand with that horse trailer over there.”
“What for?”
“It’s a hell of a disguise, for one thing.”
Kepler nodded. “It is, Chinese. It’ll just about completely change the way the van looks from the air. Here, let’s pull it over and hook it up.” The two picked up the trailer’s hitch assembly and started pulling it out of the line.
“Wait,” said Kepler. “Where are we going? The van’s over there.”
“I always wanted a dog,” Immelmann said.
“Oh no, Immelmann. You can’t. The fucking thing is a monster. It’ll kill you. For that matter, Chinese Gordon’ll kill you.”
Immelmann leaned against the weight, moving the trailer by himself. “It just needs a friend.”
Kepler stalked along beside him, bending down to talk into Immelmann’s ear. “You live in a one-bedroom apartment. An animal like that needs a place to run. Like Africa.”
Immelmann grunted as he pulled the trailer. “I’ve made up my mind. You can get Chinese Gordon into an uproar about it if you feel like standing around arguing until the guy who owns this place comes to work. You could also shut up and help me.”
Kepler moved to the rear of the trailer. In the growing light he could read the two bumper stickers. At one time they’d said, “Have you hugged your horse today?” but someone had changed them to, “Have you hugged your whores today?” and “Have you fucked your horse today?” He decided to remember to tear them off before they drove the trailer onto the road.
They backed the horse trailer to the rear of the bread truck and the dog woke up. This time it didn’t bark, just threw its body against the back door, rocking the truck, then getting up in silence and leaping against the door again.
“I’ll open the truck door, you slam the trailer door,” said Kepler. “The timing has got to be right.”
“Of course.” Immelmann took his position beside the trailer, his hand poised on the open door.
Kepler listened to the sound of the huge dog throwing itself against the truck door, then walked to the front of the truck. The dog’s toenails scratched the metal truck bed as it gathered speed for another leap, and Kepler flung the door open. When he saw the black shape lunge past, he knew he’d miscalculated. The dog’s leap carried it to the roof of the trailer, where it scrambled for a foothold, then whirled and poised to leap down at Kepler. At that moment Immelmann said quietly, “Down, boy,” and pushed the dog’s haunches hard. The dog slipped on the roof and sat down.
In the dim light Kepler could see the sitting dog sliding past with what seemed to be a look of puzzlement on its face, and Immelmann pushing it so quickly it couldn’t stand up. As it went off the edge of the trailer and saw that it was falling back into the bread truck, it writhed and twisted in midair. As it landed, the dog dashed into the horse trailer eagerly, and Immelmann closed the door.
They pulled the trailer up the aisle, but the dog inside was silent. Immelmann beamed. “He’s strong as a man and weighs as much. He’s fast, he’s got teeth like a Rototiller, and he’s not afraid of anything that breathes.”
“All true,” said Kepler. “Hell of a pet for a man who’s afraid his yard will be infested with cows.”
THE SUN WAS ALREADY ABOVE THE LEVEL of the ridge to the east when Chinese Gordon drove past the gate and onto the gravel drive and waited for Kepler to replace the lock. As Chinese Gordon eased the van onto the highway, the sound seemed to grow louder for a moment, then fade into the hum of the engine and the rush of the wind and the more unfamiliar rattle of the trailer. He knew the sound hadn’t gone away. He listened intently, trying to separate it from the other sounds and identify it. There was a high-pitched whine for a few seconds that seemed to go down the scale to a growl. It wasn’t too surprising that a horse trailer in a junkyard needed a grease job, maybe even needed wheel bearings. It was the shaking that worried him. Every ten or fifteen seconds he felt something happen to the horse trailer. It shook as though its weight had shifted suddenly, and that could only be trouble. He was glad when he saw they were getting close to Van Nuys, because by then he’d decided there was something wrong with the way the trailer was mounted to its axle. What it felt like was that the trailer wasn’t empty. It felt as though it had a horse in it and the horse was getting mad as hell.
He closed the bedroom door and lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Please call in.” It was a man’s voice, the toneless, clear, quiet voice.
Porterfield turned on the hallway light and squinted against the glare to dial the familiar number. “Benjamin Porterfield. Any messages?” He waited while the computer, somewhere in the communications center, compared the recording it had just made with the master print of his voice in the memory bank. Then the man said, “Can you be in at six?”
Porterfield’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the light. He glanced at his watch without surprise. It was four-thirty. “Yes.” He hung up and slipped into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar to cast a sliver of light on the closet.
He could see Alice’s shape on the bed, a small, compact lump with the covers clutched around her, her face empty and innocent of thought—a face watching the pretty pictures of a dream. Alice was becoming a little old lady, he thought, a sweet little old lady. She was nearly as old as he was, although time didn’t appear to be using her up as quickly. She seemed to feel his eyes on her and let part of herself come to consciousness to acknowledge him.
“Ben?”
“What?”
“That wasn’t one of the kids?”
“No, baby. Nothing to worry about. I just have to go in early.”
“Trouble?”
“No. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”
Alice sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. “I’ll make you some breakfast.” She looked like a child in the dim light. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Thanks anyway. I’ve got to have a breakfast meeting with somebody.” He sat on the bed and put his arms around her, then gently pushed her back on the pillow. “Now go back to sleep.”
He showered and dressed in the bathroom, trying to be as quiet as possible. It made him feel good to think of Alice in the bed, warm and soft, by now sleeping again, her face calm and somehow still beautiful almost thirty years after he’d met her.
When she heard the front door closing, Alice got out of bed and padded quietly to the living room in her bare feet. She stood in silence and watched the car pull out of the driveway and creep up the dark, empty street. Alice stood absolutely still, staring out the window for a long time after the car had disappeared, her face calm and thoughtful. Then she lit a cigarette and went to the kitchen without turning on the lights, and started the coffee. Soon the birds would start singing, she thought, and then the cold, bluish tinge of dawn would warm to yellow, the sun itself appearing first right over the chimney of the house across the street.
PORTERFIELD ENTERED THE COMMITTEE ROOM and classified the problem at a glance. There were no junior people scurrying in and out with earnest expressions, which meant the problem hadn’t yet reached the moment when nothing could be done about it—the great flurry of pointless activity hadn’t begun.
He noticed Hadley, who ran the Domestic Operations arm of Clandestine Services. He was predictable enough, and Pines, the Deputy Director, was no surprise. Their presence only certified that the trouble was worth getting out of bed at four-thirty to talk about. Kearns had had some shadowy relationship with the Latin America desk for so long nobody even thought about what his actual job was anymore. When Porterfield saw Goldschmidt he became curious. Goldschmidt was chief of Technical Services. If Goldschmidt was here it meant the problem was serious enough to draw his attention away from all the spy satellites and the research facilities built into Company
