Shadow of a Broken Man

Abu continued down the list of names he was familiar with while I took notes, crossing off the names of men Abu characterized as under thirty-five, Oriental, black, or Puerto Rican. I ended up with twenty-three names.

'Abu, do you suppose any of these people would agree to talk to me?'

'I can ask. Who would you like to speak with first?'

'Why not start at the top? What about Tal?'

Abu picked up the telephone. 'I must warn you that Ronald is an extremely busy man. I'll have to tell him who you are and what you want.'

'Of course.'

Abu spoke to Tal on the phone, and I listened. I couldn't catch Tal's words, but his voice was low and well modulated, like that of a man who does a lot of public speaking- which Tal did, much to the distress of a good many Americans who didn't like what he had to say. Abu did a good job of building me up, then mentioned Victor Rafferty and why I was there. When the conversation was over, Abu slowly hung up the phone and looked at me. He seemed vaguely surprised. 'Your fame and reputation for good works precede you. Ronald recognized your name and is most appreciative of what you've done for this agency. He'll see you in'-he looked at his watch-'forty-five minutes. His offices are part of the Secretary General's suite. You'll be expected. In the meantime, I'll make inquiries as to who may have known Victor Rafferty.' He clapped his hands once, loudly. ' Now! You've got forty-five minutes to kill. What say we have a little drink?'

'For breakfast? Thanks, Abu, but give me a rain check. I want to see if I can get a line on this Thomas. I'll be in touch.' I made a mental note to call him for dinner after I got back from Acapulco, if I didn't hear from him first.

Now that I was actually inside the working quarters of the U.N., internal security didn't seem to pose a problem. I had no trouble getting to the twenty-sixth floor, but once there, I wasn't sure how to proceed. There was no receptionist, no directory-just a long antiseptic-green corridor with small offices on either side. I ambled down the corridor, hands in my pockets, trying not to look like a lost tourist. I rounded a corner and almost bumped into a man who was wearing a pale blue, three-piece suit. His full auburn beard just reached the top button of his vest.

'Excuse me,' the man said as he backed up, gripped my shoulder solicitously, and limped around me.

'Mr. Thomas?'

He turned and smiled quizzically. 'Yes?' He had a kind face with kind eyes that were the wrong color-brown. But he could have been wearing contact lenses; the hair and the beard could be dyed, or phony altogether. I knew very well what wondrous things could be done with cosmetics and plastic surgery.

'Elliot Thomas?'

'Yes,' he said easily. 'Can I help you?'

'My name's Frederickson,' I said quickly, stepping forward and offering my hand. 'I'd like to talk to you if you have a few minutes.'

'Sure,' he said, shaking my hand tentatively. The hair around his mouth parted slightly to reveal a set of even, white teeth. 'What is it that you'd like to talk to me about?'

'I, uh … uh …' Clever detective that I am, this marvelous stroke of luck found me totally unprepared; I hadn't thought up a cover story. I went right at him with, 'I'm looking for Victor Rafferty.'

It got a response. The teeth disappeared, and I thought I saw something move behind the earth-brown eyes. But then, I was looking pretty hard; I didn't want to be fooled by my own expectations.

'Interesting,' he said pleasantly. 'Why don't you come into my office?'

He led the way into a small but neatly appointed office with a nice view overlooking Manhattan. My reflexes were quicker than my thinking had been; as he moved around his desk, back to me, I reached out and snatched a cheap plastic protractor from the midst of a pile of papers and drafting tools. I was hoping he wouldn't miss it as I dropped it into my inside jacket pocket.

'Is this a joke?' Thomas asked as he sat down. His smile was wearing thin, but that seemed understandable. 'Victor Rafferty has been dead for some years.'

'But you are familiar with the name?'

'Of course,' Thomas said, gesturing to indicate that the answer was obvious. 'I'm a stress engineer.'

'I'm sorry, but I don't know what a stress engineer does.'

'I'm sorry,' Thomas said evenly, still smiling, 'but I don't know what you do, either.'

A quick search of my mental resources still failed to turn up a plausible cover story. 'I'm a private detective,' I said. 'I've been hired to investigate the death-or, uh, disappearance-of Victor Rafferty. I thought you might be able to help me.'

Thomas' chuckle was easy, good-natured. 'What ever gave you the idea that I could help you? I never even met the man.'

'But you asked about him at the dedication ceremony for the Nately Museum.'

He thought a moment, then snapped his fingers. 'Patern! The architect! That's where you got my name. But I didn't ask about Victor Rafferty; I said the building reminded me of his work.' He reached inside his beard, tugged at his lower lip, frowned. 'I don't remember telling Patern where I work.'

'Mr. Thomas,' I said quickly, 'will you tell me how you happen to know so much about Rafferty's work?'

A shrug. 'Why not? You see, a stress engineer evaluates the structural requirements of a given design, and the geographical location where the proposed building is to be erected. First, I tell the architect whether it's possible to build from his design; if it is, I give him the strength requirements of the materials to be used, depending on the location. For example, any building erected in an earthquake zone is going to have to be stronger than garden apartments in, say, Hoboken. I'm the person who makes those kinds of judgments.'

'Then you're not an architect yourself?'

'No. But any stress engineer would be absolutely familiar with Rafferty's work. His 'Rafferty angles' made possible a whole new approach to the construction of very strong but relatively lightweight structures. I could see a relationship to Rafferty's work the minute I saw that museum, and that's why I asked Patern about it. By the way, I found him rather snooty.'

We sat and stared at each other for a few moments. Then Thomas shrugged again. 'That's it,' he said. 'Sorry I can't be more helpful.'

'You've been very helpful,' I said, heading for the door, 'and I thank you.'

'Just a minute,' Thomas said. I turned, waiting. 'No offense, Mr. Frederickson, but are you really a private detective? I'm still not convinced someone isn't playing a joke on me.'

'Oh, I'm a private detective,' I said. 'And I'm very serious.'

7

Although I was on my way to meet Ronald Tal, it was impossible not to think of the Secretary General himself; the two men were as inextricably linked in my mind as they were in the American press.

Having been disappointed by too many famous and powerful men, I wasn't usually moved by reputations or the trappings of office. But Rolfe Thaag, the boss and mentor of the man I was going to see, impressed me, at least by way of accomplishment. A vigorous man in his sixties, Thaag had entered the field of international diplomacy after the Second World War, during which he'd fought in the Resistance in his native Norway. He'd attained his high office almost by accident, as a compromise candidate that all the Big Powers could agree on. Once in power, he'd surprised a lot of people; he was the most activist Secretary General since Dag Hammarskjold.

Thaag owed his power to the fact that he seemed to have an almost uncanny ability to determine who was speaking with forked tongue and who was telling the truth in any given situation; it was a faculty that had earned him a list of enemies almost as long as Ronald Tal's. But even the member nations who screamed the loudest at