alone, and mostly slept alone. Some operatives chanced marriage but seldom children because children were the most vulnerable of all, too easy to make disappear.
Worst of all, Blaine reckoned, was that the fear of attachments came not only out of regard for the opposition but for your own people as well. Your superiors liked leverage. They always treated family men better because if they misbehaved there were always those buttons that could be pushed.
“This it?” the cabbie asked him.
They had come to a halt in front of a brownstone with a doorman blowing breath onto his gloves before the entrance.
“Yeah, this is it,” Blaine told the driver, flipping him a twenty with instructions to keep the change.
Blaine stepped out of the cab and approached the entrance to Madame Rosa’s to find his path blocked by the rather burly doorman.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Blaine fingered his beard. “A trim will do for today. I’ll take the manicure next week.”
The doorman was not amused. “This is a private club, sir.”
“Club? Is that what they’re calling these places today? My, my, leave the country for a few years and the whole damn dictionary changes.”
The doorman’s eyes swept around him, obviously unsure. Avoiding a scene was foremost on his mind. Making one was foremost on McCracken’s.
“Tell Madame Rosa a friend of Tom Easton’s is here to see her.”
“I know no woman by that name, sir.”
Blaine moved a little closer, leery of the bigger man’s feet and hands. “Let me spell it out for you. Either I go by you or through you. Your choice.”
The doorman moved toward a phone suspended in a box to the right of the windowless entrance. “Who should I say is here?” he asked McCracken.
“Rudolph R. Reindeer …”
Blaine knew the name didn’t matter because the doorman was already going for his gun. The man’s bulky jacket precluded a quick draw, which allowed McCracken the instant he needed to close the gap between them and to lock his hand on the doorman’s drawing wrist. Blaine pounded his face once with a fist and then slammed his groin with a knee rocketed from the pavement in a blur of motion. The doorman gasped, eyes dimming, and started to slump. McCracken grabbed him, providing support, and pounded rapidly on the door.
“Hey, you inside! Help! Open the door! This guy’s sick!”
McCracken could feel himself and the doorman being observed through the peephole.
“Come on!” he urged, striking the door harder.
It finally opened and a short, slender Oriental man stepped out.
“I don’t know what happened,” Blaine explained, as he helped drag the doorman in. “He just collapsed.”
The door closed behind them.
“Excellent performance,” came the voice of a woman through thin raps of solitary applause. And then Blaine saw the gun in the Oriental’s hand. “Now, if you would be good enough to put your hands in the air …”
T.J. Brown met his air force contact for lunch five hours after depositing the computer disk on his desk. The captain’s name was Alan Coglan and T.J. had become friendly with him during research for a story he had done a few months back on the new breed of test pilots.
Coglan arrived at the restaurant late and approached the table nervously, face as stiff as his air force uniform.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, holding the disk in his hand and making no move to sit down.
“Does it matter?”
“I’ll say it does.” Now Coglan seated himself but kept his legs outside the table. He had left his overcoat on. T.J. watched him smother the disk with a napkin and slide it across the table. “I’m giving this back to you because I want nothing to do with it. You never met me, understand? And if you won’t tell me how you got this disk, go to the FBI and tell them—right now before it’s too late.”
T.J.’s eyes showed fear. “Al, you’re scaring the shit out of me. That ain’t no way to treat a friend. All this
Worst of all, Blaine reckoned, was that the fear of attachments came not only out of regard for the opposition but for your own people as well. Your superiors liked leverage. They always treated family men better because if they misbehaved there were always those buttons that could be pushed.
“This it?” the cabbie asked him.
They had come to a halt in front of a brownstone with a doorman blowing breath onto his gloves before the entrance.
“Yeah, this is it,” Blaine told the driver, flipping him a twenty with instructions to keep the change.
Blaine stepped out of the cab and approached the entrance to Madame Rosa’s to find his path blocked by the rather burly doorman.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Blaine fingered his beard. “A trim will do for today. I’ll take the manicure next week.”
The doorman was not amused. “This is a private club, sir.”
“Club? Is that what they’re calling these places today? My, my, leave the country for a few years and the whole damn dictionary changes.”
The doorman’s eyes swept around him, obviously unsure. Avoiding a scene was foremost on his mind. Making one was foremost on McCracken’s.
“Tell Madame Rosa a friend of Tom Easton’s is here to see her.”
“I know no woman by that name, sir.”
Blaine moved a little closer, leery of the bigger man’s feet and hands. “Let me spell it out for you. Either I go by you or through you. Your choice.”
The doorman moved toward a phone suspended in a box to the right of the windowless entrance. “Who should I say is here?” he asked McCracken.
“Rudolph R. Reindeer …”
Blaine knew the name didn’t matter because the doorman was already going for his gun. The man’s bulky jacket precluded a quick draw, which allowed McCracken the instant he needed to close the gap between them and to lock his hand on the doorman’s drawing wrist. Blaine pounded his face once with a fist and then slammed his groin with a knee rocketed from the pavement in a blur of motion. The doorman gasped, eyes dimming, and started to slump. McCracken grabbed him, providing support, and pounded rapidly on the door.
“Hey, you inside! Help! Open the door! This guy’s sick!”
McCracken could feel himself and the doorman being observed through the peephole.
“Come on!” he urged, striking the door harder.
It finally opened and a short, slender Oriental man stepped out.
“I don’t know what happened,” Blaine explained, as he helped drag the doorman in. “He just collapsed.”
The door closed behind them.
“Excellent performance,” came the voice of a woman through thin raps of solitary applause. And then Blaine saw the gun in the Oriental’s hand. “Now, if you would be good enough to put your hands in the air …”
T.J. Brown met his air force contact for lunch five hours after depositing the computer disk on his desk. The captain’s name was Alan Coglan and T.J. had become friendly with him during research for a story he had done a few months back on the new breed of test pilots.
Coglan arrived at the restaurant late and approached the table nervously, face as stiff as his air force uniform.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, holding the disk in his hand and making no move to sit down.
“Does it matter?”
“I’ll say it does.” Now Coglan seated himself but kept his legs outside the table. He had left his overcoat on. T.J. watched him smother the disk with a napkin and slide it across the table. “I’m giving this back to you because I want nothing to do with it. You never met me, understand? And if you won’t tell me how you got this disk, go to the FBI and tell them—right now before it’s too late.”
T.J.’s eyes showed fear. “Al, you’re scaring the shit out of me. That ain’t no way to treat a friend. All this
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