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The Doomsday Spore

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  I STOPPED ON the top step, the fiddle case under
  my arm, feeling like an idiot. "Terence, my boy," I
  said, "what if somebody asks me to play this
  Terry Considine stood beside me staring up at
  the huge double doors of the Italian Embassy.
  Chuckling, he turned to me and said, "Then
  you're in big trouble, Nick old pal. Haven't you
  looked inside the case?"
  "No," I snapped, embarrassed that I let some-
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  thing get by me. "What's there?"
  "Just a few sandwiches. The word is, the Em-
  bassy doesn't have the best cooks this season. His
  Excellency seems to be well-known for tight
  pockets and a numb palate. I heard he called some
  agency for a cheap short-order cook."
  "Jesus," I mumbled, becoming irritated, "ring
  the bell."
  As Terry pressed on the small black buzzer, he
  gestured at the case in his right hand. "I suppose I
  didn't tell you about my two years at the New
  England Conservatory. I can actually play .
  "Sh-sh! Sounds like someone's coming."
  Just then one of large doors cracked open
  slightly. "Musicians,"
  I said, peering into the
  darkness. It was then that I noticed Terry was still
  babbling.
  The unfortunate thing is that I only
  learned the scale in one key, and I only picked up
  one tune; then I had to give the damned horn
  back."
  Now both doors swung open and—
  interestingly—we were greeted by a Spaniard! He
  shooed us in, making sure we took the service door
  to the right. I gave him the expected "yassuh" and
  scuttled out of sight to wait for Terry.
  "So far, so good," he said as he looked around.
  "Now what?"
  "Take this goddamn fiddle case,"
  I ordered,
  "and give the backstage area a once-over. Check
  for everything. Shake down everybody."
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  "For what?"
  "Didn't you get to talk to Hawk?"
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  "No. The phone line where he caught me wasn't
  secure."
  I looked him up and down quickly. Terry was
  big, redheaded, second-generation Irish, and as
  tough a customer as AXE had ever thrown me as a
  backup man. Sizing him up, I applauded David
  Hawk's judgment in sending him along. Terry
  could do everything ... except fold four cards to
  an inside straight. He had every strength God had
  ever given the Irish, and damn few of the weak-
  nesses.
  I "Shake 'em down," I said, "for anything that
  Could kill anybody. Because if we don't find who-
  ever the hell it is and disarm him in " I looked at
  Y watch.
  He groaned.
  In fifteen minutes."
  "You've got it," I said. g VA major assassination.
  riple priority. Hawk said the call came from ..
  "From Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue.
  esus, Mary an' Joseph. And who is going to get
  he honor of being sent to the Saints?"
  ' 'Nobody has the slightest idea. All we know is
  hat it's serious as hell."
  "God almighty. Any idea of how it's going to be
  done?"
  "We don't know another thing. It could be an
  repick up somebody's ass or it could be a satchel-
  ful of something that'll blow up everything, and
  everybody, between the National Geographic
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  Building and the Maryland line."
  "l knew I should have taken that job playing
  tight end for the Redskins. And we have how long
  to stop it?"
  "Fourteen—no thirteen minutes."
  I started to add the wry comment to speed the
  parting guest, but he was way ahead of me. All
  saw was his broad back disappearing around
  corner.
  I did my own bit of groaning when I walked intc
  the big reception room of the Embassy. The plac€
  was crawling with people. And as I looked around
  identifying one face after another, my heart sank a:
  the task.
  They weren't the sort of faces you'd know un
  less you were pretty well plugged into the Capital
  Nobody knows the diplomats, for the most part
  except people who have reason to know them
  But—damn it to hell—every ambassador of even
  country outside the Third World crowd was there
  I ticked them off: France . . .
  Germany .
  thi
  Soviet Union ... Canada... Australia ... Swedel
  . and, of course, His Excellency Sir Frederic]
  Thornton, K.C.B.E., Ambassador of Great Bri
  tain. Guest of Honor at the party. An elder states
  man who was celebrating his thirtieth year in th
  British foreign service. Yeah, there he was, jawin
  with the Cultural Attache from West Germany
  Someone in the room was scheduled to get him
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  self jerked up to Jesus in eleven minutes. And we
  had no idea who. Or why. Or how.
  I was just about to go backstage and help Terry
  when I spotted a familiar face heading my way.
  Red-haired, red-bearded; wearing—even in these
  circumstances, with soup and fish de rigueur on all
  sides—a suit that looked like he'd slept in it. And
  sporting a wry and sharp-eyed variety of the well-
  known coprophagous grin.
  "Robert Franks,"
  I said.
  "Howdy." The voice was low and didn't carry
  as Bob Franks slipped up to my side. "I'm
  alarmed. You wouldn't be here," he said, "unless
  some sort ofshit were about to hit some sort of fan."
  Bob's status had never been quite so clearly
  defined as I'd have liked. He'd had a very high
  clearance once. For all we knew he might well
  have one now. He worked whenever he chose as a
  sort of free-lance consultant to anyone and
  everyone in the Capital. We'd found out we could
  trust him with the damned little we approved of
  having him find out. The rest . . . well, he had a
  sharp eye and there wasn't much time.
  "You got it," I said. "In ten minutes the clock is
  going to run out for somebody here. If you've seen
  anything .
  "Hmmmm." He fiddled with his beard. "I'll
  think about that. You've got somebody
  backstage?"
  "Yeah. But who's there?"
  "The entertainment. Which consists of the
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  twelve stalwart strings of the Miniver Cheevy So
  ciety's Baroque orchestra, courtesy of your hum
  ble servant. . e"
  "Yeah. And?"
  "And, of course, the main attraction. The openiru
  program of the first American tour of The Grea
  Marconi, Master of Mystery. He's an illusionis
  and escape artist. The high spot of his program wil
  be a stunt he's performed at every court in Europe
  He bought it from the Houdini estate. They loci
  him inside an iron cylinder—padlocks, chains,
  works. Then they suspend the cylinder in the air
  frozen inside a giant cake of ice. The cylinde
  remains in full view the whole time. And by God i
  the son of a bitch doesn't. . . . Hey, Nick."
  "The president was supposed to be at this thim
  Have you seen him?"
  "No. They've warned him off. But I just spotte
  the Secretary of Defense."
  "Jesus."
  "You're sure you haven't seen anything?"
  "No, I—hey, wait."
  "The new paparazzo."
  "New what?"
  "There's a news photographer here I don't re
  ognize."
  Bob hung out with television photographer
  they were regulars at a bar on Connecticut whe
  he had a friendly arrangement with tl
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  bartender—who just happened to play the viola in
  Bob's band when he was off duty.
  "Can you point him out?" I asked with some
  interest.
  "Hmmm I don't see him right now," Franks
  said as he scanned the crowded room. "He may
  have gone backstage to get a shot of our magician
  friend."
  'What does he look like?"
  "Sort of a little, pushfaced guy. Looks like a
  young version of .
  aw, goddamn . . .
  you re-
  member Jimmy Gleason? The actor? Used to play
  prizefight managers?"
  "Yeah. Hey, if you see him find me. Don't tackle
  him yourself."
  "Nick, I
  "I'm not kidding. God knows what's in his cam-
  era. We don't know anything about the method. It
  may be loaded with gelignite. Or .
  "Oh, wow. Well, there goes my string or-
  chestra. "
  "There goes international relations. Everybody
  in the whole damn diplomatic world is here. India
  Israel . . . "Iürkey . . Iran. . .
  'You're a little bundle of joy. I'll keep an eye
  out."
  "You do that." I slipped through the curtain at
  the end of the big room, trying to look musical.
  There was a sort of hall between the green room
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  and auditorium, and in it Bob's fiddlers walked
  back and forth, playing scales, playing Kreutzer,
  warming up the fingers. A lone cellist sat, instru-
  ment between his knees, abstractedly playing a
  boogie-woogie bass pattern pizzicato on his cello.
  Behind the players, burly roughies were moving
  the illusionist's gear into place. This was block-
  and-tackle equipment, weighing hundreds of
  pounds. It looked as though they were getting
  ready to drill an oil well in the middle of the ball-
  room, and all they had to do was roll the damned
  derrick inside.
  I pushed past a fiddler playing Joe Venuti licks
  and went into the green room. Terry looked up
  from the frisk he was giving the second of two
  roughies who had been helping move the equip-
  ment. The first regarded him with the sort of look
  you give somebody you're thinking of giving a fat
  lip.
  "Nick," he said, looking over at me. "No soap
  so far. These guys are clean. I
  "Now," said a voice from behind a screen in the
  corner. A dapper little man stepped out from be-
  hind the shoji. He wore the traditional magician's
  tailcoat and red-lined black cape, white gloves,
  and an amused smile. The black wig and Mandrake
  moustache were patently phony, and probably
  weren't meant to look any other way. "Now if you
  gentlemen are through."
  "You're Marconi?" I said.
  w 'At your service, signore."
  "Oh, cut out the signore stuff, hey?" Terry told
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  him with a grin. "Nick, the Great Marconi is a
  Mick from County Kerry. His father had a feud
  once with a great uncle of mine, he says. Not that
  I'd know the Blarney Stone from Plymouth Rock
  unless I had money bet on it."
  "Nice to meet you," I said. I held out my hand.
  Marconi winced and pulled his hand away.
  "I—I never shake hands," he said. "I'm sorry.
  Some parts of my act . .
  they require a great
  delicacy with the fingers . . .
  you understand the
  precautions I have to take. They are, after all, my
  living."
  "Sure," I said. I turned to Terry. "Five god-
  damn minutes. No, four. You've frisked Mar-
  "Yeah. And I checked the equipment. Nothing
  there."
  "I got a tip from out front. Somebody's spotted
  a news photographer who doesn't seem to be-
  long .
  "Little guy with a rot more chin than nose?
  Balding on top? Wearing a coat that looks a couple
  sizes too large?"
  "Could be. You've seen him?"
  "He just went out the door. Heading for the
  john, he said .
  I didn't wait for him to finish. I was gone, at a
  run. There was a big guy, apparently one of the
  roughies, coming my way.
  'Hey," I said. "Did you see a little guy with a
  "Camera?" he asked.
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  I didn't see what was in his hand as I ran past.
  Whatever it was knocked me to my knees, then my
  face. As I tried to rise somebody hit me again.
  I shook my head.
  Music was playing. Tchaikovsky's Serenade For
  Strings.
  Music!
  I was too late! The performance had started. I
  got my hands under me and shoved to get up,
  trying to shake the cobwebs out of my eyes, my
  brain.
  Up ahead of me in the dim hallway some people
  were fighting. Wrestling. I could hear groans.
  Someone was hit and went down. And now I could
  see two others bending over him, hitting him
  again.
  I got my feet under me and charged. I hit the
  bigger of the two amidships and tackled him. He
  went down, rolling.
  "Nick!" Terry said. I wanted to answer, but the
  man I'd tackled caught me a good one over thc
  eye. I blinked—there wasn't time for anything ir
  the way of subtlety. I bulled into him as he tried tc
  rise. He slammed against the wall and came bacl
  at me. fists going. I ducked one, barely slippec
  another, and gave him a nice one in the short ribs. ,
  thought I felt something give. He groaned anc
  swung again, grunting in pain as he did.
  "Come back here, you little bastard." Tern
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  said behind me. I could hear feet pounding down
  the hall, toward the side door. TWO pairs of feet.
  The photographer's small ones—and those big
  brogans of Terence Considine, AXE Agent N21.
  Then the guy I was waltzing with missed a
  roundhouse aimed at my chin. As he did so he left
  himself wide open. I snapped a left hook across a
  few inches of space. He went down as if he'd run
  into a train.
  My own head went up.
  Down the hall Terry caught the Jimmy Gleason
  look-alike. They grappled in a pool of light near the
  side door. Terry pulled the guy's coat open; it tore
  away.
  His chest was covered with sticks. Fused sticks
  of dynamite.
  There was a sudden flash.
  In that marble hall it sounded like bloody hell.
  And the shock wave knocked me for a loop as the
  ceiling caved in. The side door—they told me
  later—landed half a block away on Columbia
  Road. What was left of it.
  I sat up slowly. And then clawed wildly at my
  coat.
  It was covered with flecks of blood ... and little
  pieces of flesh.
  Pieces of the guy who looked like Jimmy
  Gleason.
  Pieces of Terry Considine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO
  I BRUSHED SOME of the gore off me; there was
  something solid there, something black. Absently,
  I shoved it in my shirt pocket.
  Down the hall there was a gaping hole, letting
  out the stale air of the Embassy, letting in the stale
  air of the District. Something had caught fire from
  the blast and was smoldering.
  There wasn't much left of either guy. And now,
  as I looked, the clothing of one of them began to
  burn. I couldn't tell which one of them it was.
  Wake up, Carter. You've got a concussion, and
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  yes, that is blood from your nose running down
  your upper lip into your mouth.
  I looked around. There was the guy I'd creamed
  with the sucker punch only moments before, try-
  ing to struggle to his feet.
  "No, you don't," I said. I scrambled after him,
  grabbed one foot as he rose, twisted, and dumped
  him on his nose. "Hey," I said. "You stay put. I
  need you .
  He was nice and quick on the draw. The leg I'd
  pulled drew back and caught me one over the eye
  as I moved forward, and I went end over end. It
  bought him enough time to scramble to his feet just
  as the door opened and people started pouring out
  into the hall.
  He was a quick thinker, this one. "Help!" he
  said. "That man there ... he's the one ... he's the
  man who did it
  "Stop him!" I said. "Somebody stop him!" But
  damn it, they chose him to believe. He had the
  advantage of looking like everybody else. Soup
  and fish, most of it clean. Me, I was all over gore. A
  couple of burly lads from the Embassy staff bore
  down on me. Our little friend—all two hundred
  pounds of him—disappeared into the crowd.
  "Hey, damn it," I said. "You're letting him get
  away
  i 'Cuidado," said the one on the left. "Creo que
  tiene una pistola." He and his friend advanced on
  me one step at a time. The hall was full of people by
  now, and the noise was considerable.
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  I didn't have time to show my credentials as the
  man on the right moved in. I swept his hand down,
  spun him around, twisted his arm high behind his
  back, and literally threw him at the other guy.
  Then I made a rush for it.
  A few of them had the good sense to get out of
  my way. The rest I bowled over, and without the
  smallest twinge of conscience. And damned if the
  guy I'd tackled in the hall wasn't still in there,
  trying to look like somebody who had a right to be
  there. I looked around. "Bob! Bob Franks! Close
  that goddamn door! Don't let him out .
  The guy was making a break for it right then and
  there. Bob was up front trying to swing the door
  shut. He looked around in time to dive for the floor
  as the big guy pulled a snubnosed revolver and
  squeezed off a round in his direction. Franks—a
  lot more agile than I'd have given him credit for—
  rolled deftly behind a huge overstuffed chair and
  was safe for the moment. But me? Our friend
  turned and let one go at me ... and then I broke my
  rule about showing iron on the sacred diplomatic
  ground. I reached inside my coat for
  Wilhelmina—a factory-perfect 9mm Luger
  slightly older than I was, and just as deadly.
  "Drop it!" I commanded.
  Just as I was about to put him on ice until the
  authorities could arrive, a young blonde came
  through the door. He grabbed her by the neck
  immediately, and she let out a frightened, ear-
  piercing scream.
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  "All right," he yelped, a tremor in his voice, his
  eyes focused directly on me. He had a slight ac-
  cent, but one I couldn't readily distinguish. Some
  part of England or Canada that I didn't know,
  perhaps.
  "All right," he said again. "If anybody so much
  as moves a muscle , the lady gets it in the head. Just
  like that .
  The room was suddenly very empty of people.
  Apparently they assumed he meant they weren't
  supposed to move any direction but backward. My
  fingers itched on Wilhelmina' grip.
  "You, Carter." he said, his voice becoming
  more steady.
  How the hell did he know me?
  Inside my head an alarm buzzer went off and
  rang like blazes.
  "Drop the gun straight down. Don't try any-
  thing. Just let it go, and then I'll back right out of
  here . . ."
  "Leave the lady behind," I said. "She hasn't
  done anything."
  "Sorry," he said. The lady began to scream
  again. A big hand went over her mouth. "Not a
  chance," he told me. "Insurance.'
  My hand was still on the gun. My fingers were
  loose, though. "Not a chance indeed," I said.
  "Let her go right now . or I'll shoot right over
  her—and accurately. If you know me well enough
  to know my name you know that much about me.
  She's not big enough for you to hide behind.
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  There'll always be some part of you I can hit—and
  from which you can bleed to death. An artery in
  the leg, for instance. I
  There was a commotion outside in the foyer. A
  bullhorn bellowed: "All right, come on out. The
  place is surrounded. "
  "That's the SWAT team," I said. "Special
  Weapons and Tactics. Any one of them can disarm
  you and cut you in little pieces with his bare hands.
  The only thing that's keeping me from doing it
  myself is the passing thought that the lady might
  get her hairdo mussed in the process. And that
  isn't going to happen. You're going to go quietly.
  You remember the SLA shootout in Los Angeles?
  Well, these guys are six times as tough."
  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bob Franks
  edging to the near side of the huge chair he was
  hiding behind. He had a heavy glass ashtray in one
  hand. I kept my eyes on the gunman, but when I
  shook my head I had Franks in my mind. "No," I
  said. "Don't do it. It's too dangerous . . . ."
  But there was Franks, damn it, chewing on his
  red moustache, edging into place. I knew just what
  he was going to do. He was as deadly in a dart
  game as I was at the small-arms range. "No," I
  said, my voice aimed at the gunman but my words
  aimed at Franks. ' 'It isn't worth it. You'll just get
  killed."
  Behind the gunman a battering ram banged
  heavily at the door. His hand went to his mouth.
  The cops broke down the door, and I was just in
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  time to grab the lady as she fell to the floor in a
  faint. Behind her her assailant slumped into a
  heap. Behind his inert body the cops kicked in the
  door and jumped into the room, brandishing M16s.
  I sighed, dropped Wilhelmina to the floor, and put
  my hands up.
  Of course, he was dead when they got to him.
  Whatever he'd taken, it was quick and final. And
  there went our chance of finding out who he was,
  and who he represented. The cops put the frisk on
  me netting three good friends of mine: Wilhelmina,
  the Luger; Pierre, my little gas bomb; and Hugo,
  the peerless long-bladed shiv I keep up one sleeve.
  They were about to put the cuffs on me when the
  ambassador came to my rescue.
  "No, no," he said. "Please. This man . . . he
  saved my wife. . . : '
  Well, that was some entree. It took some more
  explaining, and finally it took having the cop in
  charge of the SWAT unit call a certain number
  down on the Mall. I watched as his eyebrows went
  up and the tone of his voice became quiet and
  respectful. He hung up at last and looked over at
  me with new eyes. "Sorry," he said. "Under
  the circumstances we couldn't take any chances.
  1.
  understand,"
  I said, and I did. Special
  firepower or no, he was just the cop on the spot,
  unable to tell the home team from the bad guys
  without a program.
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  time to grab the lady as she fell to the floor in a
  faint. Behind her her assailant slumped into a
  heap. Behind his inert body the cops kicked in the
  door and jumped into the room, brandishing M16s.
  I sighed, dropped Wilhelmina to the floor, and put
  my hands up.
  Of course, he was dead when they got to him.
  Whatever he'd taken, it was quick and final. And
  there went our chance of finding out who he was,
  and who he represented. The cops put the frisk on
  me netting three good friends of mine: Wilhelmina,
  the Luger; Pierre, my little gas bomb; and Hugo,
  the peerless long-bladed shiv I keep up one sleeve.
  They were about to put the cuffs on me when the
  ambassador came to my rescue.
  "No, no," he said. "Please. This man . . . he
  saved my wife. . . : '
  Well, that was some entree. It took some more
  explaining, and finally it took having the cop in
  charge of the SWAT unit call a certain number
  down on the Mall. I watched as his eyebrows went
  up and the tone of his voice became quiet and
  respectful. He hung up at last and looked over at
  me with new eyes. "Sorry," he said. "Under
  the circumstances we couldn't take any chances.
  1.
  understand,"
  I said, and I did. Special
  firepower or no, he was just the cop on the spot,
  unable to tell the home team from the bad guys
  without a program.
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  We set up a roll call in the foyer, lining every-body up, checking credentials. Then we ran another on the servants. After we got the list done the lieutenant started checking it against the guest list. I went back into the other room, having liber-ated my three lethal little friends and stowed them. Bob Franks was arguing with a cop. The cop wanted to know just what Franks was doing here. He wasn't conducting the band, was he? "He's okay. I said. "Ask Lt. Agnelli, up front. He'll vouch for me. I'll vouch for Franks." "Well . ." Keeping one eye on us, he sidled back to the open door where Agnelli, the SWAT leader, was calling off names. "flanks," Bob Franks said. "I think I'm going to stick to booking the band as live classical Muzak behind art-show openings. I'm getting a little long in the tooth for all this razzle-dazzle." "You damn fool, you almost got yourself killed. Didn't you hear me warning you off? If the cops hadn't busted down the door just then . . . ." "On the other hand, that so-and-so took a pot-shot at me. Nobody does that to ..." Franks's face had suddenly turned stark white. "What is it?" I asked. "You look like you've just seen a ghost." The color came back to his ruddy face a little at a time. "It's not the ghosts I'm seeing but the ones I ain't. That goddamn magician. He's been up there on that derrick, locked inside that steel cylinder, frozen inside that cake of ice for thirty-five min-
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  utes. With enough air for about ten .
  He beat me to the winch. The apparatus was
  secured with a mean-looking knot; I whipped out
  Hugo and sliced through the heart of it like Ale-
  xander the Great at Gordium. Bob went to work on
  the block-and-tackle arrangement that held the
  dripping cake of ice high above its tank in the
  middle of the big auditorium. "The ice." he said.
  "There's a big sledge over there .
  The sledge was one of those big-headed wooden
  monsters you see at carnivals; people used them to
  pound in the tent stakes. I hefted it and took a big
  backswing. The sledge went way up ... then down
  . and the ice smashed into a million pieces!
  I said, "The damn
  "Well, for God's sake,"
  thing's hollow."
  "Of course it is," Franks said. "I saw the re-
  hearsal. There's no time to actually freeze him in
  there. They used a hollowed-out cake of ice, made
  by freezing big blocks together in an igloo pattern.
  It's still a pretty spectacular stunt."
  "I'll bet. Where are those damn keys?"
  "That must be them over here. Here, catch."
  "Okay," I grabbed them in midair and went to
  work on the locks that held the cylinder shut.
  "No," he said. "Roll the thing over on its side
  so we can get the poor devil out. Not that I think
  it's going to make much difference by now. He
  can't still be alive, Houdini trick or no. The air ran
  out inside that thing a long time back, I'm sure."
  In a moment we had him. We rolled him out on
  his back. The face was familiar and the guy behind
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  21
  
  
  
  
  
  21
  it was dead. Only he hadn't died from asphyxia-
  tion. That conclusion had something to do with the
  eight-inch dagger protruding from the middle of his
  chest. The blood stained his evening clothes and
  soaked through to the black-and-red magician's
  cloak he wore over them.
  It also stained the back of the white paper
  through which the dagger had been thrust into his
  chest. I read it through just as the cops hove into
  view, telling me to be careful not to touch any-
  thing.
  The blood soaking through the paper brought
  out a shamrock watermark—and the following
  message:
  And will Ireland then be free?
  Says the Shan Van Vocht;
  Will Ireland then be free?
  Says the Shan Van Vocht;
  Yes! Ireland shall be free.
  From the centre to the sea;
  Then hurrah for Liberty!
  Says the Shan Van Vocht.
  UNION OR DEATH
  Captain Moonlight
  Only the gent whose chest it was decorating
  wasn't the dapper little magician I'd met
  backstage. But I knew the face. It belonged to Sir
  Frederick Thornton, K.C.B.E., Ambassador of
  Great Britain to the United States.
  The magician? Not a sign of him anywhere!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THREE
  Two DAYS LATER David Hawk and I stood on a
  hillside in Arlington watching the man in the
  turned-around collar say the last words over Terry
  Considine. It was a gray day, with low clouds that
  had National Airport socked in, and as the priest
  got off the last few Latin words it started to rain.
  I looked around, feeling a sudden chill. There
  weren't many of us: Hawk and myself, and a girl
  Terry'd dated, but who had broken off their en-
  gagement when she found out something of what
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  he did for a living. I wondered what she was think-
  ing now. Her face was somber and drawn. Maybe
  she'd lost something she hadn't known the value
  of until now.
  There weren't any other AXE people there. The
  business doesn't stop just because one of us buys
  the farm.
  I looked at Hawk. "I think," I said, "that in the
  best of all possible worlds I'd skip the part where
  they start shoveling the dirt on him. If you don't
  mind." I thought a moment and then added,
  "Sir."
  Hawk looked around at me. His gaze landed on
  my tie first, then worked its way up to my face.
  "Yeah," he said in that gruff voice. "Let's go."
  His face looked a little odd without a stogie in it,
  being worried the way a pit bull worries a rat.
  There was a sour note there that made his usual
  less-than-enthusiastic tone sound like the tinkling
  of Christmas bells beside it. He jammed his hands
  into his pockets and strolled away. I caught up.
  Hawk had actually had a suit pressed for the fu-
  neral, and here it was getting sticky with one of
  those greasy Potomac drizzles.
  We followed the path down the hill. Neither of
  us said anything, all the way to Hawk's car—a
  ten-year-old bucket of bolts that looked like disas-
  ter on wheels and would do a hundred and forty on
  the roughest roads rural Virginia could devise. He
  took out the keys and looked at them with disgust.
  "Here," he said handing them to me. "You're the
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  active agent—you drive."
  25
  I took us down the hill to the turnaround and we
  went across the bridge past the Lincoln Memorial.
  Hawk suggested that I turn there and cut over by
  the Tidal Basin. The drizzle was knocking the last
  of the cherry blossoms off the trees. The city
  looked dismal, and the cold Potomac fog was get-
  ting into my bones. Some spring I thought!
  'Pull over," Hawk said, his tone indicating
  something was on his mind.
  I stopped under a stand of wilted-looking cherry
  trees and parked the car. As I turned off the igni-
  tion, the car made such rumbling sounds I ex-
  pected it would collapse any minute. Yet, as I was
  driving it, I could feel the damn thing purr; it was
  amazing. I was still puzzling over the car when
  Hawk finally spoke.
  Looking straight ahead, he said curtly, "Okay,
  you have something to say. Say it!"
  "Yes, sir."
  I got out one of my custom-made
  cigarettes and lit it, giving Hawk a light for the
  cigar that had miraculously appeared between his
  back teeth. "I ... let's say I'm pissed off. I've been
  led up the garden path by someone and faked out
  of position, and it has cost me not only a mission,
  but a good friend as well. I want to finish this
  I blew smoke out into the already
  assignment. "
  I added be-
  polluted air of Washington. "Sir,"
  tween clenched teeth.
  "Okay," Hawk said matter-of-factly. "You've
  got it."
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  I was just ready to argue with him, and there hc
  was, giving in without a struggle.
  "But," he added, imperatively, "This won't bc
  a vendetta. You get the job because you're the mar
  for it. But you won*t be if you plan to play thc
  Count of Monte Cristo. If you can't tackle the jot
  as if it were just a bunch of goddamn statistics yot
  dug out of a vault somewhere, you'd better let mc
  know about it right now. By the way ... this mar
  Franks ... he gets around a little too much for m:
  comfort. "
  "He's okay," I said. "And he's got a little morc
  guts than he knows. He was ready to cream tha
  guy with an ashtray."
  checked him out. He seems to have had
  very high clearance. He'll have one again if he get
  the consultancy he's applied for. I think I migh
  pull a string and get him the job. It has nothing
  do with us. It's a liaison in the Executive Offic•
  Building. Foreign trade. But you seem to have thi
  key that turns him on, and he doesn't leak informa
  tion to anybody but you."
  C You've been doing some dossier work."
  'SJust as a matter of course. His contacts—am
  that crazy orchestra he plays the impresari
  for—get him into some interesting places. And h
  knows when to keep quiet."
  "That's something," I quipped, "in a nonstoi
  talker like Bob."
  "Okay," Hawk said. "I'm going to get him th
  job. And that'll mean we have ears inside a coupl
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  27
  
  
  
  
  
  27
  of trade missions who have .. ." He looked at me
  sourly. "Who have choked off a lot of useful in-
  formation lately that might otherwise have wound
  up in our files."
  "All's fair in love and war," I said.
  "Nothing's fair in AXE, but I'm not running a
  den of Cub Scouts. And meanwhile, there's the
  present business at hand."
  ' 'I was wondering when we were going to get
  back to that,"
  I said.
  "Here," he said. He reached under the dash on
  the right side, pushed—or maybe pulled—
  something, and a compartment slid down. In it was
  a file folder. "This is your bedtime story for the
  evening. It'll bring you far enough up to date for
  the meeting tomorrow."
  I said. "What meeting?"
  "Fine,"
  Hawk gnawed on the cigar. It looked like the
  remains of an old bedroom slipper that had been
  savaged by a Doberman. ' 'Big Stuff." The words
  had audible capital letters. "We will have partners
  in this one. You realize I'm saying this just to cheer
  you up."
  "Can't be helped. It's international and it busted
  in our turf. The good people in charge of this are,
  quite definitely, going to strike again. More than
  once. That is, unless we can pull a rabbit or two out
  of a hat in one hell of a hurry."
  "Yeah," I sighed. "But
  "Yes, I know. You prefer playing Paganini fiddle
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  solos, and it seems like I'm handing you a dul
  viola part in a Haydn quartet. Well, it won't bc
  quite that way. But you will be working in tan
  dem."
  "With how many people?"
  "At last count, two." He spat a fragment o
  mangled tobacco leaf out into the rain.
  It was back to anonymous bureaucratic mun
  the next day as I walked up the steps to the 01'
  Georgetown mansion. There is a way to dress il
  Washington that makes you look precisely liki
  everybody else in the whole damn town—and tha
  includes Arlington, Alexandria, Silver Spring ani
  Bethesda. At least everybody who works for o
  with Uncle Sam at a certain level. It's a handy thin
  to know if you want to disappear utterly. Even th
  ladies look right through you, even if they'd do
  Jerry Lewis double-take if they saw you in T-shir
  and jeans; all they can see in that outfit is Execu
  tive Paper Shuffler, and they want no part of you
  You're not where the action is. You don't contrc
  contracts, money, power. Not directly anyhov
  The hell with you.
  It's a good disguise.
  It bought me a snotty sneer from the servar
  who answered the door. He showed me into
  room where I was obviously expected to sit on m
  ass and wait, and without the usual solace of ou
  dated copies of National Geographic. Ther
  wasn't the smallest hint of any kind of deference i
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  his manner. Anywhere.
  29
  Well, that was Georgetown. They didn't invent
  the techniques, but they had them down all right.
  Sitting there gave me some time to think. I used
  it to review what I'd learned from Hawk's dossier.
  It wasn't much. The slug on the front had said:
  RED SWINEHERD
  It seemed that there'd been a recent split-up in
  the ranks of the Provisional Wing of the Irish Re-
  publican Army. The break had been over the re-
  curring dispute between the conservative mem-
  bers and the mpre fanatical element. The conser-
  vatives only wanted to murder every Englishman
  and every Protestant on the island in their beds,
  and take over the management of Ulster at gun-
  point, enforcing a Catholic rule so repressive and
  reactionary that even the Vatican frowned on it.
  The fanatic element wanted increased terrorist
  activity, and all the wraps taken off the escalating
  war. They wanted an assassination a minute. They
  wanted bombs in hospitals and kindergartens.
  They wanted tactics that would really horrify the
  British, and not in Whitehall either—in the little
  constituencies around the country where, in an
  age that was tired unto the death of bombs and
  blood, nobody knew what to think any more. Ex-
  cept that, if this was the way they were going to be,
  let them have Ulster, and good riddance.
  Of course, the conservative element wanted the
  same results. But there was a glimmer of common
  sense in their view of the situation, and it said that
  after you'd won the war you'd have to be living
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  with your neighbors. And you'd do a bit bettel
  with them at the bargaining and trading tables ij
  you hadn't turned their stomachs for good be
  forehand.
  That was the problem, in short. The new grouc
  had spun off, in a sanguine snit, from the conserva-
  tives who promptly denounced it and read it out 03
  Ireland. The fanatics' reply had been to kidnap
  leading Provisional Wing spokesman—an experl
  incendiary and gunman with a record of thirty
  personal kills—and torture him to death's dool
  before leaving him, tarred and feathered anc
  nailed to a crude cross, in the middle of a majol
  intersection in downtown Dublin at dawn. He
  already in a deep coma when the police found him
  and he died before anyone could question him, or
  a speeding ambulance in the streets of the city b)
  the Liffey.
  There hadn't been any doubt about the groul
  that had done this. The nail that had gone througt
  the kidnap victim's right palm had impaled a piecc
  of paper on the way. It read:
  Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
  Condemned to chains unholy,
  Who could he burst
  His bonds accurst,
  Would pine beneath them slowly!
  UNION OR DEATH
  Ron O'More
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  31
  The quotation, as it turned out, had been from
  the poet Thomas Moore, and it had been a favorite
  of Daniel O'Connell's during the great Repeal fight
  in 1843, when he had brought a crowd of four
  hundred thousand to their feet at a mass rally in
  Mallow by reciting the verse and declaiming af-
  terward, "I'm not that slave!"
  The pseudonym of the writer went back even
  farther—to the TUdor days—to a revolt against the
  English commander of the garrisons in Counties
  Leix and Offaly, Sir Francis Cosby, who had
  sequestered the lands of the O'Conors and the
  O'Mores. The Irish leader in six bloody years of
  guerrilla warfare had been a boy named Rory
  O' More. He spelled it, according to records, Ruari
  Og O'More; but the Irish, in the decline of the Erse
  tongue,•have traditionally used the shorter form.
  Rory was finally killed in battle—his partisans
  killed also, some of the children hanged in their
  mothers' long hair—but the Irish never forgot
  him. A refrain that still echoed in the country was
  "God, and Our Lady, and Rory O' More!"
  The name of the new organization didn't surface
  until a week later. It was then that a schoolboy on
  his way home stumbled across a mutilated body in
  the streets of Belfast. The body—barely identifi-
  able by now—was naked underneath the tarpaulin
  in which it had been wrapped. It turned out to be
  that of Seumas McCarty, a Catholic born and
  raised, but one of the few voices raised in recent
  years to ask for conciliation between the warring
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  factions in the Orange Free State. He'd been gut-
  ted, castrated, his tongue cut off and his eyelids
  slit. And then someone had sat him down on the
  business end ofa fine Toledo sword stolen a week
  earlier from a museum, slowly, letting his weight
  do the work, until the sword entered his heart. He
  had bitten through his lips before he died.
  Also impaled on the same sword was another
  verse:
  I shall go to Phelim O'Neill with my
  sorrowful tale, and crave
  A blue-bright blade of Spain, in the ranks
  of soldiers brave.
  And God grant me the strength to
  wield that shining avenger well—
  When the Gael shall sweep his foe
  through the yawning gates of Hell.
  UNION OR DEATH
  Brian Boy Magee
  But this time someone couldn't resist claiming
  credit for the deed. He called the police station in
  Belfast and crowed about it. His last words were:
  '*Beware the Red Swineherd!"
  Everybody knew the references.
  "Brian Boy Magee" was the name ofa poem by
  Ethna Carbery-—a stirring call to bloody revenge
  for the punitive action mounted by Scottish troops
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  in 1641, when a Scots force from Carrickfergus
  drove a band of no less than a thousand Irish
  women and children-over the cliffs on the rocky
  peninsula called Island Magee.
  And the Red Swineherd?
  ' 'A gigantic preternatural figure in Irish Myth, "
  said my anonymous, but diligent, compiler of dos-
  siers. ' 'Where it passes, where it lays its foot,
  smoke and flames and blood and death and de-
  struction are there. It comes out of some antique
  past, some dread forgotten ritual
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOUR
  "WILL YOU COME in, please?"
  The servant who showed me in was the type
  whom I might be able to impress if I were to flap
  my arms and fly through the door. As I followed
  him, I absently stuck my hands in my pockets and
  fingered a funny, hard rubber object I'd been car-
  rying around for a day or so.
  David Hawk nodded at me from a big armchair
  without getting up. The man behind the desk,
  however, did get up. He gave me a curt Mittel-
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  Europa nod. He was a burly-looking man with a
  thick neck and he didn't smile. "Mr. Carter," he
  ' He turned
  said. "I want to talk to you alone . ...
  to Hawk. "In your company, of course, David.
  Before our two collaborators are shown in I
  thought it prudent to see you first. Some of what I
  have to say is for their ears. Some is not." He sat
  down again. We didn't shake hands.
  "Yes, sir," I said. "I understand."
  "Then you will perceive the problem here. Be-
  yond the door are agents, working in services
  much like your own of both the Republic of Ireland
  and the Irish Free State. We. . i" He noticed my
  surprise. "Oh, yes," he said. "Both sides. I
  should perhaps have segregated them while they
  waited to enter. I don't think they get along with
  each other."
  "I don't understand."
  "May I, Mr. Secretary?" Hawk said. He pulled
  out a cigar and bit into it. He did not light it. The
  thick-set man leaned back a trifle in his chair and
  nodded. "Nick. As you can imagine, the activities
  of the Red Swineherd are not only disturbing in the
  extreme to the Free State government, they're
  also profoundly embarrassing to the government
  of the Republic as well. This time the two govern-
  ments, convinced of the danger to peace if the
  present terrorist activities continue have a bounty
  on the head of any and all members of the organi-
  zation. In a sense, the agents on the other side of
  the door are bounty hunters. Their missions are
  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  37
  
  
  
  
  37
  identical and unequivocal: stop the Red
  Swineherd by any means necessary. There are
  matters of protocol we can't go into here. At any
  rate, you're to maintain liaison with them. We've
  been assured that both of them are excellent
  agents—tough, resourceful, discreet. I know
  neither government would send us anyone but
  their best." He shot lightning bolts at me between
  well-chosen words. They said: One outburst and
  you wind up playing bodyguard for some visiting
  fireman for a month.
  "Okay," I said. "Sir. Uh
  but I think you
  were going to tell me some things first
  "Right," the man behind the desk broke in. "Of
  course, we do not want a diplomatic flap. Particu-
  larly if your work leads you, as it may, to foreign
  parts. We have no idea where they will strike next,
  or at whom. Or where their headquarters is. In
  short, you are to be discreet
  ' 'I'm sure he will," Hawk said. "One thing,
  Nick. The printout we gave you the other day
  wasn't quite up to date. 'Captain Moonlight'... ."
  'SI was going to ask about him," I said.
  ' SA phrase from a speech by Charles Stewart
  Parnell," the burly man offered. 'S After an oration
  Parnell was asked who would replace him if he
  were arrested. Captain Moonlight,' said Parnell.
  He referred to the 'moonlighters'—a popular
  name for any Irishman willing to strike back at the
  British, but particularly to strike in stealth, from
  cover, at night if possible."
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  "An odd choice of a name for our magician
  friend," I said, "considering the brassy stunt he
  pulled off here. Do we have anything on him?"
  "Yes," Hawk said in that guttural voice. "He's a
  real magician as you may have guessed. He is, as
  Terry said, from Cork, and his name is Daniel
  O'Grady. He's not the brains of the outfit—that
  seems to be the one called 'Red Hugh' although
  that one fact is virtually all we know about their
  boss. But O'Grady did indeed travel until quite
  recently as 'The Great Marconi' and he did have a
  considerable name in Europe, working circuses
  mostly. Interpol tells us that a few months ago he
  confided to a friend that he was sick and had only a
  year to live, and that he was going to go out in
  style. It seems to have been from that point that he
  began trying to contact the Red Swineherd organi-
  zation and offer his considerable services. Well,"
  he continued, "you've seen him, and that's a
  lead. .
  "I'm not completely sure I have," I said. "He
  was heavily made up. But I did see his eyes. And
  his ears. Those are identifying areas. Nobody
  makes up his ears, or tries to cover up their distinc-
  tive shape."
  "And you've seen his hands ... w" Hawk said.
  "No, sir. I haven't. He wore gloves. He
  wouldn't even shake hands with me."
  "I see. Well, he's a new and dangerous one.
  You'll have to watch for him. But what we want
  right now, besides, of course, the destruction of
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  39
  
  
  
  
  
  39
  the entire Red Swineherd gang, is the identity of
  'Red Hugh.' We're totally stumped, both about
  that and about their HQ. If only
  "If only you had a lead?" I said. "Well, I may
  have something." I reached in my pocket and
  pulled out the thing I'd been fingering. I put it on
  the desk.
  "What's that?" Hawk said, leaning forward.
  The man behind the desk picked it up and turned it
  around in his hands.
  "Virtually all that's left of the guy with the
  dynamite vest Terry Considine chased down the
  hall. It got thrown my way in the blast, and I
  picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket at the time.
  The cops, incidentally, wouldn't like to hear I'd
  done that."
  "Quite all right," the man with the accent said.
  "Go on."
  "Well," I continued, "just for the hell of it I sent
  it to the lab for a rundown. They informed me that
  it's just what you thought it was, a rubber heel from
  his shoe. And that it isn't anything currently in use
  in shoe repair shops in America, or England, or
  Canada, or either northern or southern Ireland."
  "Hmm." David Hawk scowled at the man be-
  hind the desk. "I wonder. Rhodesia, perhaps?
  South Africa?" He took that pitiful cigar out of his
  mouth, frowned and dropped it into a wastebasket
  near his knee. "Have you any ideas, sir?"
  The man with the accent looked at him. It wasn't
  a glare; it just appeared that way because of his
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  + 110%
  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  thick glasses. Anyone but David Hawk would
  have shriveled up and died under that heat.
  "None. Except to say that the people we are talk-
  ing about have no home or country. They set up
  housekeeping, always temporarily, in any place
  where they intend to do business."
  "And the business they do in this case is?" I
  asked.
  the man said
  "Terrorism, pure and simple,"
  "I should say that when you find out
  flatly.
  where that piece of rubber comes from, we
  may have some idea of one of the places
  where they intend to strike next. Unless of
  course they have already struck there by
  then."
  "Let's try another tack," I said. "Can you
  get us up-to-date information on the planned
  itineraries of all the British ministers, the
  royal family—anyone who's likely to be a fu-
  ture target?"
  Hawk inspected a new cigar. "Already got
  it, Nick. But that's the problem. These
  people tend not to kick you on the same
  shin twice running. That's an angle we have
  to cover, of course, but it's just as likely to
  be a hijacking next time. Or what have
  you."
  "Well, that about does it, I guess. Except
  that I should meet my new friends. I gather
  they've had the same orientation already."
  "Correct,"
  the burly man said. "And
  well, Mr. Carter, I have explained to David
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  THE
  that we deplore
  you with these . .
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  the necessity for saddling
  "That's okay, sir,"
  I said. "As long as it's
  okay for me to give them the shake now and
  then whenever I need to do some real
  work. "
  Hawk's glare grew posilively poisonous.
  "I understand,'
  the man told me, "but
  keep up appearances when you can. We ac-
  tually do need all the help we can get."
  "Yes, sir. But there's one thing I don't un-
  derstand. "
  "What's that?"
  "Our percentage in this?"
  "Nick!" Hawk's scolded. He meant it. Lay
  off.
  '*No, David, that's all right,"
  the man said.
  "He's quite right. He should know. Mr. Car-
  ter,"
  he said, turning back to me,
  "three
  hours ago our Embassy in Ottawa received a
  note in the mail. It listed several names of
  officials high in the United States government
  at the present time. The text said one of
  these would die within the week. It didn't
  say which. The note was signed with one of
  those dreadful poems these people seem to
  favor, and the pseudonymous identity of the
  writer was 'Owen Roe'—another hero of the
  continuing Irish war against the British. And,
  Mr. Carter, one of the names on the list was
  my own."
  42
  I said. I looked at Hawk. He
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  looked back. He jammed the new cigar back
  between the molars on the left side of his
  face. I could see the muscles in his jaw
  working. "That means here. In D.C. again."
  "Or in San Francisco, where I speak be-
  fore the Bohemian Club tomorrow night. 01
  in Atlanta, where I address the convention oi
  the Knights of Columbus the night afterward.
  Or in any one of three other cities I'll visil
  during the week. Or in any one of a dozer
  cities where other names on the list have ap
  pointments in the next few days."
  "And we can't call anyone else in on this
  The secretary' '—Hawk's head jerked toward
  host—Ohas
  expressly forbidden that
  Which leaves you and me. And our youni
  friends from Ireland."
  "We have another problem as well,"
  said. "They know me."
  "Know you? How do you know that?"
  "The guy at the Embassy—the one
  committed suicide—called me Carter."
  The look on Hawk's face said That's no
  good. But let's get out of here and compan
  notes in private. "Well, we-II deal with that.'
  He turned to the man at the desk, who wa
  getting up. S'AII right, sir. We'll get right 01
  it. "
  "Do that, please,"
  the man said. "You wil
  appreciate the personal interest I take in this
  Your secretary has, by now, a list of th
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  43
  
  
  
  
  43
  other names, plus a complete itinerary for all
  of them. All, even the ones not normally ac-
  corded such treatment, have 24-hour Secret
  Service protection on a high-priority basis
  from this moment."
  "Right, sir." Hawk stood up and I fol-
  lowed suit. The man in the neat gray suit
  shook hands with us—one little short pump,
  Central European style, and the smallest sort
  of bow of the head—and went out.
  Hawk looked at me, made a sour face, and
  shifted the cigar to the other side of his face.
  "Okay i damn it,"
  he said. "They're over
  here in the side room. That is, if they
  haven't blown each other's brains out by
  now. I suppose we'd better get this over
  with."
  Hawk let me open the door and I fol-
  lowed. The two were sitting on opposite
  sides of the room, and it was a hell of a big
  room, but if it had been the Houston As-
  trodome it would have been too small for the
  two of them. They stood up when they saw
  Hawk, though, and something in their manner
  changed a bit.
  said Hawk around
  "This is Mr. Carter,"
  the cigar. His voice was raspy and sounded
  irritated under his professional politeness.
  "He's the agent you'll be working with in
  this. Nick, this is Miss Sinead Geoghegan of
  the Republic of Ireland. And Mr. Sean Mul-
  44
  
  
  
  
  
  44
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  I shook hands with each of
  rae of Belfast."
  them and we exchanged greetings.
  Sean Mulrae was the one who looked Irish.
  He was redheaded and round-faced and had
  the same green eyes you'd expect if you'd
  sent out to Central Casting. His grip was
  strong as a gorilla's, and made you takc
  another look at him with, perhaps, an eye.
  brow raised. He simply didn't look heft)
  enough—he was perhaps five-feet-eight, anc
  might come in at a hundred fifty—to have
  that kind of fist on him. His eye was clew
  and looked as though, in other circumstances
  there might have been a gleam of humor ir
  it.
  Sinead Geoghegan was what they called
  "black Irish."
  The hair was bright, glossy
  gleamy black, squeaky clean, and had
  fetching wave in it at shoulder length. Thi
  skin was Byronically pale. The eyes werf
  dark, with bright flashes in them. She wa:
  mad as hell about something, and I was glac
  it wasn't at me. She wore a tweed skirt aru
  a bulky Irish sweater, and the body tha
  showed through was the kind that takes you
  breath away. She'd have looked sexy am
  half-dressed in a diving suit.
  She pressed my hand warmly—and her gril
  wasn't as strong as his, but it had a lot o
  muscle behind it in its own way.
  you'll have to forgive us, please,'
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  45
  she said, trying to smile through the rage
  that was running through her. ' 'We
  we've been after having a bit of a row."
  "Damned right, too," Sean muttered, stuffing
  his hands into capacious pockets of his
  Irish-cut suit. "Bloody papist bitch."
  "You dare!"
  she said in a voice suddenly
  gone huffy.
  "You pro-British
  you. . . ."
  I stepped
  back and looked
  brows were
  furrowed and his
  of disbelief.
  It was going to
  week!
  . you quisling,
  at Hawk. His
  expression full
  be a hell of a
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  FIVE
  "WE DO HAVE something of a dossier on this
  O'Grady, but .. Hawk was talking as he tried to
  find a parking place on Massachusetts Avenue
  near Dupont Circle.
  It had taken several minutes and quite a bit of
  diplomacy to calm down our two collaborators and
  get them out to the car. I never did find out what
  their heated argument was about; it didn't matter,
  it seems it was only a preliminary bout.
  "Oh, yes, sir." Sean Mulrae offered enthusias-
  48
  
  
  
  
  
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  tically. "I'm having our files on him sent to you.
  We've quite a bit of information. Odd, though, that
  the bloody bastard should choose a knife this time.
  With a knife in the chest you have to face your
  victim. O'Grady will usually stick with something
  nice and safe, like plastic bombs on a postbox,
  where even a schoolchild can set it off and lose an
  arm."
  Sinead Geoghegan was in a huff now, the anger
  showing hot in her eyes. "Coward he may be, and
  murderer, but our own dossier on the man includes
  devil a word about him raping or tarring and feath-
  ering innocent Catholic convent girls in the streets
  of Londonderry like—
  "Oh, if it's atrocities we'll be talking about,"
  Sean cut her off," we could always mention .. .
  Hawk exchanged a knowing glance with me and
  spoke above both their voices. "Nick, Bialek's has
  a book I ordered a month ago. I think I'll drop b)
  and pick it up. You can take Sean and SineaC
  upstairs, and I'll meet you there in about twenty
  minutes. "
  "Oh, sure," I said through gritted teeth. "Anc
  thanks I stared at him before he pulled away. HC
  caught my look and knew that he owed me one
  "But if your people hadn't . .. " It was Sinead
  "And for the love of Jesus, why shouldn'
  they?" Sean countered.
  For Christ's sake, they were still bickering
  They didn't even notice that Hawk had left. I triec
  to interrupt, but they were really at it this time
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  "Oh, sure to God you're not going to bring up
  that poppycock about Bango and Ballymena,"
  Sinead was saying. "British propaganda even a
  child could see through in a moment .
  "I do beg your pardon," said Sean sarcastically.
  "I've only just got through having a look at eight
  by ten glossy photographs by the dozen: mangled
  bodies, women, children .
  "Oh, and splendid photos they are too," Sinead
  said angrily. "They were made in a film studio
  in Yugoslavia, using the finest modern tech-
  niques—
  I'd had enough. "For the love of God, you
  two." I almost screeched the words, so that
  Sinead stopped talking in midsentence and they
  both turned to glare at me. I realized then that I
  handled the situation unwisely. Calming down, I
  said to Sean, "There's a cafeteria on the ground
  floor. Would you mind bringing up four coffees?
  It's Room Number—-
  "Oh, I know the room," Sean said. "I'll be glad
  to bring them; be right up."
  I didn't bother to speculate as to how the hell he
  knew which room. I sure hadn't told him, and
  neither had David, and I'd have put money on the
  notion that the secretary hadn't told him before he
  ducked out. All I knew was that AXE would prob-
  ably have another damned faceless office within a
  couples of days. Hawk had a thing about people
  knowing where he was. He didn't like it! I'm not
  talking about the front—Amalgamated Press—
  50
  
  
  
  50
  + 110%
  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  but the real office, the one with the files.
  Now, however, the atmosphere changed appre-
  ciably, and as we waited for the elevator I turned
  around and got another look at Sinead Geoghegan.
  The flush in her cheeks, red as rouge on her pale
  skin, was attractive as all hell. And she knew she
  was attractive; women, no matter how young,
  have an infallible instinct about such things.
  . it's an all but
  "I'm sorry," she said. g VI
  insoluble problem we have, and it's a blessed small
  island to be locked up in with it. You have to
  understand the provocations come daily, some-
  times oftener . . .
  "Yeah," I said. I looked at the dark eyes and the
  full lips curving in an ironic smile. There was a lot
  of intelligence in her look, and no coquetry at all.
  That suited me just fine. I like a woman who looks
  you in the eye and makes up her own mind. And
  she had a kind of natural grace that made every-
  thing she did look sexy.
  Well, everything she did when she was out of
  earshot from Sean Mulrae, anyhow.
  I sighed and opened the elevator door.
  We were barely inside when I felt something
  wrong. And the minute the elevator started I knew
  something was wrong.
  It was an old elevator—an Otis, with the old-
  fashioned fancy logo mounted on several sides. It
  reminded me of David Hawk's car; old and cranky,
  but serviceable.
  Now, all of a sudden, it began jerking its way
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  51
  upward in wild lurches. One of them sent Sinead
  to her knees and damn near knocked me over
  too.
  It passed our floor and kept going. Seven, eight,
  nine. I hit the emergency button but nothing hap-
  pened. I grabbed at the door. Usually if you can get
  the door open a bit it'll jam the car and stop it. Now
  the damn thing wouldn't give. "Here," I said.
  "Give me a hand. Get your fingers in here ... now
  when I say heave . . . . "
  We pulled hard and the car shuddered to a stop.
  We were stuck between floors. You could see
  about six inches of the door above and below us.
  There wasn't room to crawl through even if you
  could get the door open.
  I took one very tentative step toward the middle
  of the car.
  Thc car shivered, the motor growled, the car
  dropped four inches.
  I looked at Sinead Geoghegan. Her eyes were
  excited, her face still wearing that fetching flush. It
  wasn't fear, whatever else it may have been. I had
  to give her. that.
  "Maybe," I said, "I could give you a leg up and
  you could get through the door."
  don't think so," she said. "It'll take time to
  pry the door open. I don't think we have that kind
  of time. The lift's ready to fall."
  "I think you're right. Okay. The only way out is
  through the roof. Come here." She slipped out of
  her sensible Irish shoes and put one stockinged
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  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  foot in my cupped hands. When she stepped up
  those nice legs nestled against my cheeks—and
  the car dropped another six inches.
  "These lifts," she said, "usually have a door.
  Yes, here . .1 think I can lift it out of the way .. ."
  The car shook like a six-point earthquake. I
  damn near dropped her.
  "Ah, yes," she said. "That's the brake. It's old
  oh, Jesus, Mary and
  and it's slipping. And .
  Joseph. You should see the dinky strand of cable
  that's holding this thing up. It's been cut through,
  Nick. Cut right down to one strand
  "Yeah," I said. "All the more reason to get the
  hell out of here."
  She got the picture and crawled up and through
  that little door with a lot less fuss than I would have
  done considering that broken and slipping brake.
  She was agile and strong and moved like a cat.
  In a moment she was up on top of the car looking
  down at me through the little door. "Here, Nick, "
  she said. "Take my hand
  "I can get out by myself," I said. "Sinead, for
  the love of God get the hell out of here. You ought
  to be able to reach the door from there. Get
  through it. Damn it, go
  As if to underline what I was saying, the car took
  another sickening lurch. It dropped a foot this
  time.
  "Nick," she said. Her voice had an edge on it.
  "Come along. The shoe on that brake .
  I took that pretty hand she was holding out to
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  53
  
  
  
  
  53
  me, intending just to use it to steady myself as I
  climbed up. Instead she pulled hard and steady,
  and lifted me off my feet.
  "Okay," I said when I had both hands on the
  sill. "I've got it. Now clear out." She backed off,
  but stood ready to give me a hand.
  The car slipped, slowly, down another inch or
  so. There was a smell of scorched rubber from that
  badly frayed brake shoe. As I climbed I could
  see the cable above me. And that single strand
  they'd left uncut was unwinding at the edges . . .
  slowly. .
  I slipped through the door and sat on the car. It
  took another ghastly lurch. She tottered, but held
  on. 'SAII right," she said. "I tried the door a mo-
  ment ago. I can't move it. You'll have to do it for
  me."
  "Okay." I stepped past her. Damned if she
  didn't smile at me. It was a mildly worried smile,
  but it was a good Irish smile nonetheless. She had a
  bit of sand in her, no doubt about that. "Hey,
  damn it," I said. "Why don't you get up on that
  crossbeam?" I gestured at a big "I" beam. "And
  get behind the beam, too. When that last strand
  pops the cable's going to lash around like blue
  blazes. You don't want it to catch you and knock
  you off."
  for God's sake get the
  "Nick, if it breaks . .
  door open. You're still standing on the car, re-
  member?"
  How could I forget? But there wasn't anyplace
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  + 110%
  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  else to stand while I clawed at that goddamned
  door. It didn't want to move; for a moment I
  thought I had it, and then the brake squealed, and
  the motor roared, and the car dropped another
  four inches.
  The next time the thing slipped it would either go
  just far enough to keep me from being able to reach
  . . or it would drop me ten floors into the
  the door .
  basement.
  I threw caution to the winds and heaved.
  The door opened ... just a crack ... then a little
  The car beneath me shuddered and
  more .
  threatened. I could feel it give, little by little. I
  looked up and watched tiny flecks of rubber fly
  from the brake as it dragged precariously at the
  rail.
  I yanked at the door again and the car fell out
  from underneath me completely.
  As I started to fall I got one hand on the door,
  good and solid. Straining for it saved my life. By
  ducking I kept the broken end of the cable, flailing
  about like crazy, from taking my head off. Even
  so, the single strand—the one that hadn't wanted
  to give—lashed past me and neatly stit my coat
  right up the back without even touching the shirt I
  wore underneath.
  Hanging by one hand, I watched the elevator
  below me get smaller and smaller and land with
  a crash that was deafening in the echoing shaft.
  I swung around, facing the wall again, and
  reached desperately up for that door. And as I did
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  55
  
  
  
  
  
  55
  the first hand lost a little more purchase. My legs
  dangled aimlessly ... my other hand was slipping.
  I looked up. Sinead stood inside the door. She
  was ripping her stocking off, peeling it off her leg.
  As I watched, she braced herself, both hands on
  the rail outside in the corridor, and reached one
  bare foot and ankle down for me to grab. ' 'Hurry, "
  she said. "Your hand would slip on nylons. Here,
  grab hold, Nick. Quick!"
  I grabbed.
  First one hand, then the other. She braced her-
  self and gave another tug, again surprisingly
  strong. She held on to that railing with an iron grip
  and backed one millimeter at a time into the cor-
  ridor, dragging my 180-pound weight behind her.
  She backed against the wall, looking at me. Her
  eyes closed for a long blink, and opened again to
  look at me some more. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph,"
  she said. She was all relieved tension for a mo-
  ment, then she looked around her, getting her
  bearings. "My God," she said. "That should have
  waked the dead. And there's not a person at all in
  the hall here. Hasn't anyone any curiosity here?"
  "Sorry about that," I said. "That's the kind of
  building this is. Hey, you looked pretty good in
  there, pal,"
  I said.
  "Ah, God," she said, Her face was drawn. "I'm
  usually all right while these things are happening.
  its afterward that I'm a coward." She was
  blushing and it looked nice as hell on that pale skin.
  To cover her embarrassment she pulled off the
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  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  I suppose that's it for my
  other stocking. "l .
  shoes," she said.
  "Don't worry," I said, getting up. "This is
  Dupont Circle, after all. Nobody wears shoes
  around Dupont Circle. I'll tell everybody you're in
  training to be a hippie."
  That drew one of those nice smiles. "l I've
  she said
  got another pair at the apartment,"
  lamely.
  "Come on," I said. "Forget about that. We've
  got to get downstairs
  I didn't finish the sentence. '%Vick!" a familiar
  voice bellowed. I wheeled and went back to the
  shaft and looked down. Four floors below David
  Hawk, standing in the sixth floor, stared-
  up the shaft at me. "What the hell is going on? Is
  Miss. . . ."
  "Yeah," I said. "This Irish ladyfriend of yours
  saved my neck. Hang on. We'll be right down. And
  David. Don't touch your door until I get there."
  It took us a whole minute and a half to make it
  there. Well, maybe two minutes. I bounced down
  the stairs two and three at a time, Sinead close
  behind me, silent on her bare feet.
  When we got to the sixth-floor landing we ran
  into Sean Mulrae. "What the devil?" he said.
  "The lift .
  . it isn't working
  He held a
  cardboard box bearing four coffees. His expres-
  Sion was puzzled, but his eye on us was sharp and
  took everything in—her bare feet, my filthy suit
  and slashed coat, the grease all over both of us.
  "Something's happened," he said.
  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
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  'Brilliant."
  the girl said.
  57
  " Don't either one of you start anything. " I said.
  "Come along." I shoved the door open to face
  David Hawk. He was standing there waiting for an
  explanation. His glare wouldn't settle for anything
  half-baked.
  "What's this about my door?" he said.
  s 'I meant it. Don't touch it until I've had a look. I
  know you know about these things. I know you
  can give me lessons any day in the week in
  demolition-squad techniques. But I'm not taking
  any chances."
  I looked at him. "You know what
  I'm talking about."
  "Oh?" he said. He reached for a cigar.
  "I didn't see that list of names in the secretary's
  office," I said, "and you did. But I know that that
  cable was cut. And I know .
  "Then you know," Hawk said, "that one of the
  names on the list was my own."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  SIX
  "AH," SAID SEAN Mulrae. Then he did a sort of
  double take as the implications hit him. "Ah, now.
  That is unfortunate, isn't it? Complicates things
  terribly." His sharp young eye caught mine, and a
  wry expression twisted one side of his mouth.
  "I don't understand," Sinead said. "What
  "The list the secretary got in the mail not five
  hours ago. In Ottawa. The one he didn't tell us
  about in the interview."
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  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  "Oh?" I said. "Tell me more." I folded my arms
  over my chest and looked at him with new eyes.
  "If he didn't tell you about it I'm a little curious as
  to how you .
  "Come inside," Hawk said. He took a hard look
  at the door and opened it as if I hadn't warned him.
  "Don't worry, Nick. I've got that door bugged. If
  anybody messes with it while I'm out I can tell."
  "I should have known." We went in. Hawk sat
  down and pointed the three of us at chairs. Sean,
  shutting the door behind him, looked both ways in
  the hall first. "Now, Mr. Mulrae. You were say-
  ing. "
  'Oh, yes. The list was delivered to your Em-
  bassy in Canada. It wasn't exactly Foreign Papers
  Please Copy, and it wasn't routinely released to
  Reuters, but we have a way of hearing about these
  things fairly quickly."
  "You sure as hell do." I dug out one of my
  monogrammed smokes and looked at it. I can't
  make up my mind whether or not to quit smoking.
  Maybe I don't want to. Every time the tailormades
  run out I reorder as a matter of course. "Go on. '
  "Yes," Sinead said. "And it would help if you'd
  be getting to the point."
  And of course I made a quick phone call while I
  was out getting cof—God almighty, I forgot the
  coffee. Here. They're all black. There's cream and
  sugar if anyone wants. Saccharine," he said with a
  quick glance at Sinead•s tweedy, but trim, bottom,
  "for any of us as is on a diet at the moment. " The
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  glance she shot back at him would have killed
  anyone but an Irishman. "Now," he said, ignoring
  her, "our people tell me the list contains several
  names of interest. And it stands to reason, doesn't
  it, that if all these names are of people marked for
  death
  "Please," said Sinead impatiently, "get to the
  point."
  "Exactly," he said. "And if one of the names
  your dear friend 'Owen Roe' intends to murder
  during the coming week
  "He's no friend of mine,"
  she snapped.
  "You couldn't prove it by me. But as I say, ifone
  ofthem was Mr. Hawk here s .. why, that means a
  serious compromise of security in your agency,
  doesn't it? And that means . . .
  ah, Christ, we
  might as well all wear name tags, and take out ads
  telling where we are and what we're doing ... ."
  'Tes?" Hawk cut in, glaring at young Mulrae.
  "And I'm sure you have some alternative sugges-
  Mulrae looked at Hawk; caught that ice-cold
  eye of his for a moment; and blinked. 'SAh
  sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be flip. It's just that this
  changes the situation a bit, now, doesn't it? I mean
  if AXE's security has been blown .
  "Nick," Hawk said. I took my cue. I was out of
  the chair in a second and I jumped him. He got one
  arm between my fist and his jaw, but it didn't do
  much more than deflect a blow that would have
  taken his head off if it had landed squarely. As it
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  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  was it spun him over the back of his chair, scatter-
  ing hot coffee every which way.
  He was strong and agile. He spun in the air and
  landed with his feet under him. He reached for his
  coat pocket, but stopped. Wilhelmina was out and
  cocked, her twin sights zeroing in on his chest
  before he could move another muscle.
  "Okay," I said. "Spread-eagle against the wall.
  Support yourself with your fingertips, feet about
  four feet back. The Luger is going in your ear. One
  false move while Miss Geoghegan pats you down
  and cleans out your pockets and believe me, bus-
  ter, you've got yourself a problem."
  'Mind telling me e" he asked, "what all this is
  about?" His voice was a little strained. There was
  blood running down his jaw from a split lip.
  "Just taking no chanceS," Hawk said, watching
  Sinead pat him down expertly and remove a pri-
  vate arsenal before dumping the other contents of
  his pockets on the floor.
  "I have only the secre-
  tary's word that you're Sean Mulrae. And you
  were the only person besides myself who wasn't
  on that elevator when it went down. And you
  know too goddamn much." He bent over and
  picked up the wallet. He looked over wallet and
  papers; grunted. *'Nick. See if he's got a scar on
  the outside of the right calf, size ofa quarter; deep;
  white scar tissue."
  "Yeah," I said, checking, "it's real. And it's not
  new from the look of it."
  "Okay. Let him up." He watched as Mulrae got
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  to his feet, looking hard at all of us. Not mad, hard.
  Appraising us. "Sorry," Hawk told him, but his
  tone wasn't apologetic. "You know the rules of the
  game."
  "Sure," Mulrae said. "Sure I do. And I—I sup-
  pose I'd have done the same." He looked at me
  and wiggled his jaw, testing it. "Jesus Christ," he
  said. "You throw a mean punch." He shook his
  head and grinned that Irish grin. Heredity doesn't
  ask you which side of the border you come from.
  "However," Hawk said, "the problem you
  brought up remains a problem. It's true. I'll have to
  move. We're on red alert within AXE from this
  moment. That's all you two," he nodded at Sean
  and Sinead, "need to know. Except that looking
  out for me is not part of your job. Nor yours, Nick.
  Your job is to stop these people. Now sit down
  here, all of you. The secretary had to leave before
  he could finish his orientation. I'll finish the job
  right now. If you have anything to add to what we
  know, don't keep it to yourselves."
  We broke up an hour later. David had dropped a
  hint to me in the conversation to call in at nine
  using the "B" Code phone number. Nobody but
  me seemed to have caught it. He showed us out. I
  knew that shortly the Amalgamated Press and
  Wire Services would be on their way to temporary
  relocation in the National Press Building and
  David Hawk's office would be as vacant as if it had
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  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  never been occupied at all.
  Sean Mulrae gave us a jaunty grin and begged
  off when I invited the two of them to dinner. He'd
  see us in the morning, he said; we were to get
  together at the AXE lab in McLean and have a
  look at the analysis of the damned little our
  bomber friends had left to trace them by. As he
  turned to leave he flexed his jaw again, using one
  hand. "Christ," he said, "some right hand there
  And he went out.
  I turned to Sinead. "You're not going to turn me
  down too? I kind of owe you a meal. I don'l
  know whether that pays you back for my still
  having a whole skin, but
  She smiled up at me with those dark eyes.
  love to go to dinner with you, Nick."
  We caught a cab and went down to Chez Fran-
  qois. It's not as tony as the Rive Gauche, and you'll
  never run into Jackie Onassis or Walter Cronkite
  there, but it's a lot more real for my dough.
  We stopped at Sinead's hotel room on the way to
  get her shoes and let her change. I thought about
  my ripped coat, my dirty face ... and for a moment
  I thought of going back to my apartment to change.
  Then I said the hell with it, and when she was done
  with the bathroom I went in to wash up. The coat I
  stuffed down the garbage disposal after I'd re-
  moved all my valuables. I stowed Wilhelmina's
  little holster inside my shirt and borrowed a scarf
  from Sinead to improvise myself an ascot. Chez
  Frangois isn't all that snooty about dress.
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  She was quiet and subdued during the cab ride
  and throughout most of the meal. I tried to get her
  talking several times, but she was unresponsive.
  She ate her Chateaubriand with a surprising hear-
  tiness, though, considering her trim frame and thin
  bones.
  Finally she looked up and said, "My God. I
  can't eat another bite." Smiling, she pushed the
  plate away. "Nick, it was mafvelous. And .
  she put her hand on mine "thanks ever so much for
  putting up with me. I—I don't know how to ex-
  plain it. I just didn't feel like talking."
  "Happens,"
  I said. I picked up the bottle of
  wine and poured the dark red liquid into her glass.
  "Don't think any more of it."
  "No," she said. The hand tightened on mine.
  "I—I must explain. I mean, why I was so terrible
  about Mulrae today. I mean .
  "Terrible?" I shook my head and took a drink.
  "No. Edgy, maybe, I understand things are bad
  over there."
  "No, it's not just that." Her mouth trembled,
  just once, and the dark eyes dipped to the table-
  cloth. Then she was under control again. "Nick,
  I—I'm not Miss Geoghegan. I was 'Miss" Mac-
  Manus .. . oh, a year ago. But I married another
  agent in our service, Hugh Geoghegan. He was a
  handsome young widower, oh, I'd guess about
  your age .
  "You can't imagine how I like the juxtaposition
  of 'young' and 'your age', " I said.
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  THE DOOMSDAY SPORE
  shc said, smiling—but the smile
  "Ah, right,"
  was a thing that turned dark and bitter in spite of
  her. "1——1 was saying ... Hugh had two children
  from his first marriage, a boy and a girl, seven and
  five years old. Lovely children, both of them, and
  a month after the marriage I already had begun to
  think of them as my own. I loved them, I .
  Here she faltered a bit, and I could see tears glint-
  ing in the dark eyes by the soft candlelight. "Nick.
  O'Grady. He played a benefit performance, in that
  'Marconi' getup of his, at a street fair in Dublin.
  Hugh was well known to the Red Swineherd or-
  ganization as a man who was after them. We
  weren't on to O'Grady then. And he came into the
  audience at the end, and picked our . . . our chil-
  . to help him demonstrate his act . . e"
  dren .
  "Sinead," I said. I put my other hand on hers.
  "And—and he was supposed to leave this
  empty opera hat on the edge of the stage ... and to
  show he had nothing to do with it, he'd back away ,
  away off into the wings ... and little Seamus was
  to reach inside, and there'd be a rabbit or what-
  ever. And Hugh edged closer with little Brigid in
  his—his arms, and
  "Hey," I said. "Here."
  She was sobbing now, very quietly, as if her
  heartbreak could never be cured. "Nick .
  . the
  bomb went off... thirty children killed ... sixteen
  more injured ... and all my three ... Hugh and the
  babies the only people I had left to care for in all
  the world
  "Jesus," I said. I wanted to say something like
  yeah, honey, I know how you feel. But I didn't. All
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