The Daleth Effect

had been drifting by ever since.

The cars were what had aroused his interest, the high-level activity so late at night, the concerted motion of a number of military people that he kept under observation. What it meant he had no idea. They had gone to that damned quay, in the dead of night in a snowstorm, to stand and look at a filthy scow of a coal-burning icebreaker. He cursed again and spat into the darkness, an ugly man, uglier now in his anger, with a tight mouth, round head, bullet neck, and thin gray hair cropped so short it might have been shaved.

What were these thick and stupid Danes up to? Something had happened; there had been an accident docking ,, the ship perhaps, men had been knocked down. There had been a disturbance in the water. But there had been no sound of an explosion. Now there was plenty of excitement, ambulances and police cars coming from all sides. Whatever had happened had happened; there would be nothing else of importance to be seen here tonight. He cursed again as he rose, chilled, his knees stiff and cracking with the effort.

Something had happened, that was certain. And he was damned well going to find out what it was. That was what he was paid to do and that was what he enjoyed doing.

The ambulances clanged away, and it would have taken a keen eye in the darkness to see that the icebreaker now rode lower in the water.

5

“Not much of a view,” Bob Baxter admitted, “but it’s one that I find inspiring in a way. It’s kind of hard for me to forget my job when I look out of this window.”

Baxter was a thin, gangling man who seemed to fold at the joints like a carpenter’s rule. His face was bland, instantly forgettable, and its most memorable feature was the thick, black-framed glasses that he wore. Without them you might not recognize him. Which was perhaps why he wore them. He slumped when he sat, deep in the swivel chair behind the desk, pointing out of the window with a freshly sharpened, yellow HB pencil stamped PROPERTY OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT.

The only other man in the small office sat, bolt upright, on the front half of his chair and nodded stiffly. This was not the first time he had heard about the view. He was a solid, ugly man with tight-clamped lips and a very round head only partially covered with a stubble of gray hair. The name he was known by was Horst Schmidt, which is just as much a hotel register name as is John Smith.

“Peaceful in a way,” Baxter said, jabbing the point of the pencil at the white stones and green trees. “Nothing more peaceful than a graveyard I guess. And do you know what that building with the fancy roof is, right on the other side of the graveyard?”

“The Embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” His English was accented but good, with a marked tendency to roll the Rs deep in the throat.

“Pretty symbolic that.” Baxter swung about and dropped the pencil back onto his desk. “The American embassy being right across this graveyard from the Russian embassy. Gives you something to think about. What have you found out about that trouble the other night down by the waterfront?”

“It has not been easy, Mr. Baxter. Everyone is being very close-mouthed.” Schmidt reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, holding it at arm’s length and squinting to read it. “This is the list of the people hospitalized with injuries, all of them admitted at roughly the same time. They are—”

“I’ll make a xerox of that list so you can skip the details. Can you just give me a summary now?”

“Of course. One admiral, one major general, one colonel, one other rank, one high-ranking member of the Ministry of State. Five individuals in all. I have good reason to believe that an unidentified number of other individuals were treated for bruises and dismissed. Among these numbered members of the Air Force.”

“Very good. Most efficient.”

“It was not easy. Military hospital records are hard to come by. There were expenses…”

“Just submit your gyp sheet. You’ll be paid, no fear. Now the sixty-four-dollar question, if I may say so myself, is what caused all these injuries?”

“That is difficult to determine, you must realize. There is a ship involved, the Isbjorn, an icebreaker.”

“That is not what I would call startling news, since we have known it since the first day.” Baxter frowned slightly and pushed the handful of sharpened pencils into a neat row on the unmarked green blotter before him. The only other item on the desk was a folding, leather-type plastic frame containing the picture of a round-faced, smiling woman holding two equally moon-faced, but surly, children. “There must be more.”

“There is, sir. The Isbjorn has been towed across to the Naval shipyard in Christianshavn where it is being repaired. It appears to have suffered some sort of hull damage, possibly through collision. I have been able to determine that whatever is responsible for the damage to the ship also injured the men. Getting this bit of information alone has been immensely difficult because of the security curtain that has been clamped down on the entire affair. This is enough to lead me to believe that something very important is going on.”

“I believe the same thing, Horst, the same thing.” Baxter’s eyes unfocused in thought and his fingers touched one of the pencils, picked it up, carried it to his mouth where he gnawed lightly at it. “This appears to be a big thing for the Danes, all the military involved, their state department, even a damned icebreaker. And that icebreaker makes me think of ice and ice makes me think of Russia and I would like to know just what the hell is going on.”

“You haven’t then…” Horst smiled a completely unhumorous grin that revealed a badly matched collection of yellow teeth, steel teeth, even the unexpected luxury of a gold tooth. “That is, I mean, there should be some information through NATO, should there not?”

“Which is none of your damn business whether there is or not.” Baxter frowned at the dented, spit-damp end of the pencil, then threw it into the wastebasket. “You are here to supply information to me, not the other way around. Though you might as well know that officially nothing has ever happened and no one is going to say one damned word to us about it.” Under the cover of the desk he wiped his damp fingertips on his pants leg.

“That is very disloyal of them,” Horst said with complete lack of emotion. “After all that your country has done for them.”

“You can say that again.” Baxter glanced quickly at his wrist watch. It was gold and contained an extraordinary number of hands and buttons. “You can give me a report in a week. Same day, same time. You should be able to find out something more by then.”

Schmidt passed over the piece of paper with the names.

“You said that you wished to photocopy this. And there is the matter of…” He had his hand out, palm up, and he smiled quickly before lowering it.

“Money. Come right out and say it, Horst. Money. Nothing to be ashamed of. We all work for money, that’s what keeps the wheels turning. I’ll be right back.”

Baxter took the paper and went through the connecting door to the next office. Schmidt sat, unmoving, while he waited, showing no interest in the desk or the filing cabinet against the wall. He yawned once, widely, then belched, smacking his lips afterward with a dissatisfied expression. He took two white tablets from a plastic box in his pocket and chewed on them. Baxter returned and gave him back the sheet of paper and a long, unmarked envelope. Schmidt slipped them both into his pocket.

“Aren’t you going to count it?” asked Baxter.

“You are a man of honor.” He stood up, every inch the middle-class middle-European in his wide-lapeled dark blue suit, heavy black shoes, wide-cut trousers with cuffs big enough to swallow his feet. Baxter’s eyebrows raised up, above the black frames of his glasses, but he said nothing. Schmidt took his coat and scarf from the stand in the corner, both as dark and coarse of texture as the wide-brimmed hat. He left without another word, using the door that opened into the gray and featureless hall. There was no nameplate on the outside of the door, just the number 117. Instead of turning into the lobby, he continued along the hallway, then down a flight of stairs to the United States Information Service Library. There, without looking at the titles, he took two books from the shelf nearest the door. While they were being checked out he shrugged into his coat. When he emerged into