Assignment — Angelina Read Online Free Page A
Sam."
"It doesn't say where, in the Waggonner Building." Durell frowned. "What do I do, stand around the lobby until a girl with a rose in her teeth slinks up and asks me to buy her a sloe gin fizz?"
McFee shrugged. "Go there and see. When are you due?"
"Twenty minutes." Durell tore the order sheet and envelope into small strips, went to the opposite wall and opened a small iron door and dropped the bits of paper into the incinerator chute. He remained standing. Was there anything else, General?"
"Just a word of advice. I have an idea where you are going and what you're to do. But you'll find out for yourself. If I'm right, I'd suggest extreme care. I don't have to emphasize how many police and intelligence arms the government has. Some are jealous of the others and spend more time competing with each other than in doing the job they're supposed to do. It's the penalty of governmental size, I suppose. The people you're going to work for are above inter-departmental rivalries, however. They once took Harry Keaton from us. Remember him?"
"Nobody has seen him since," Durell said flatly.
"Right. I think Harry is dead. He goofed it."
"You're quite cheerful," Durell said.
"I hate to lend you to them. I just hope you'll do better than Harry. You're the best I have, Sam, and there's been too much spent in training you, in spite of your Cajun attitudes, to make it easy to lose you." McFee stood up and they shook hands. "Take one of our cabs, the second at the corner. I left it for you. The driver knows where to drop you. You'll have five minutes to spare."
* * *
The Waggonner Building was nondescript and ordinary, off Fourteenth Street in downtown Washington. It was two in the afternoon, and the lunch-hour rush of government clerks had ebbed. The August heat was crushing, a humid blanket that smothered the city. Durell rather enjoyed the heat, since it reminded him of the bayou country.
The building had a false façade of marble, with a cigar stand beside the lobby doors, a bar to the left, with red neon signs advertising beer, a men's haberdashery and a cutlery shop with windows opening on the lobby area. Durell considered the business directory, but saw no familiar names. People moved all around him, but there were no familiar faces, either. The clock over the elevators read two minutes past two when he walked to the cigar stand and bought fresh cigarettes.
The woman attendant was middle-aged and looked tired, until her eyes met Durell's; then he saw a bright, amused intelligence in her glance.
"Waiting for someone?" she asked.
"Just waiting."
"Anything special?"
"Like a street car," Durell said.
"I see, sir. You might find one up on the fifth floor."
"Thank you."
"McGuire, Sloan and Levy. Room Five-fifty-four."
"Attorneys?"
"No, sir. Uniform manufacturers."
He took the elevator up. The corridor was dusty, lined with frosted-glass office doors. A fire escape stood open at the back and Durell walked there first, looked out at rooftops behind Fourteenth Street, and went back to Room 554. He knocked and walked in.
A blonde behind a typewriter took off harlequin glasses glittering with rhinestones and said: "Go right in. You are expected."
"Why all the hocus-pocus, Mata Hari?" he asked.
She stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
He didn't bother to reply. An inner door opened into an office crowded with two shabby desks, a clothing rack loaded with samples of army and air force uniforms, and two men who turned to consider him. One wore a seersucker suit and looked thin and rumpled; his bald head glistened with perspiration. The second man had a young face that contrasted oddly with his snow-white hair. Durell closed the door behind him.
"Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Durell," said the white-haired man. "We do not operate on formal levels here." He had the stamp of the military on him, but Durell did not know him or the older, bald man. "We appreciate your coming here."
"Did I have a choice?" Durell asked.
"You could
"It doesn't say where, in the Waggonner Building." Durell frowned. "What do I do, stand around the lobby until a girl with a rose in her teeth slinks up and asks me to buy her a sloe gin fizz?"
McFee shrugged. "Go there and see. When are you due?"
"Twenty minutes." Durell tore the order sheet and envelope into small strips, went to the opposite wall and opened a small iron door and dropped the bits of paper into the incinerator chute. He remained standing. Was there anything else, General?"
"Just a word of advice. I have an idea where you are going and what you're to do. But you'll find out for yourself. If I'm right, I'd suggest extreme care. I don't have to emphasize how many police and intelligence arms the government has. Some are jealous of the others and spend more time competing with each other than in doing the job they're supposed to do. It's the penalty of governmental size, I suppose. The people you're going to work for are above inter-departmental rivalries, however. They once took Harry Keaton from us. Remember him?"
"Nobody has seen him since," Durell said flatly.
"Right. I think Harry is dead. He goofed it."
"You're quite cheerful," Durell said.
"I hate to lend you to them. I just hope you'll do better than Harry. You're the best I have, Sam, and there's been too much spent in training you, in spite of your Cajun attitudes, to make it easy to lose you." McFee stood up and they shook hands. "Take one of our cabs, the second at the corner. I left it for you. The driver knows where to drop you. You'll have five minutes to spare."
* * *
The Waggonner Building was nondescript and ordinary, off Fourteenth Street in downtown Washington. It was two in the afternoon, and the lunch-hour rush of government clerks had ebbed. The August heat was crushing, a humid blanket that smothered the city. Durell rather enjoyed the heat, since it reminded him of the bayou country.
The building had a false façade of marble, with a cigar stand beside the lobby doors, a bar to the left, with red neon signs advertising beer, a men's haberdashery and a cutlery shop with windows opening on the lobby area. Durell considered the business directory, but saw no familiar names. People moved all around him, but there were no familiar faces, either. The clock over the elevators read two minutes past two when he walked to the cigar stand and bought fresh cigarettes.
The woman attendant was middle-aged and looked tired, until her eyes met Durell's; then he saw a bright, amused intelligence in her glance.
"Waiting for someone?" she asked.
"Just waiting."
"Anything special?"
"Like a street car," Durell said.
"I see, sir. You might find one up on the fifth floor."
"Thank you."
"McGuire, Sloan and Levy. Room Five-fifty-four."
"Attorneys?"
"No, sir. Uniform manufacturers."
He took the elevator up. The corridor was dusty, lined with frosted-glass office doors. A fire escape stood open at the back and Durell walked there first, looked out at rooftops behind Fourteenth Street, and went back to Room 554. He knocked and walked in.
A blonde behind a typewriter took off harlequin glasses glittering with rhinestones and said: "Go right in. You are expected."
"Why all the hocus-pocus, Mata Hari?" he asked.
She stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
He didn't bother to reply. An inner door opened into an office crowded with two shabby desks, a clothing rack loaded with samples of army and air force uniforms, and two men who turned to consider him. One wore a seersucker suit and looked thin and rumpled; his bald head glistened with perspiration. The second man had a young face that contrasted oddly with his snow-white hair. Durell closed the door behind him.
"Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Durell," said the white-haired man. "We do not operate on formal levels here." He had the stamp of the military on him, but Durell did not know him or the older, bald man. "We appreciate your coming here."
"Did I have a choice?" Durell asked.
"You could
Readers choose
Russell Wangersky
Sawyer Bennett
Eve Langlais
Adam Mitzner
Kit Berry
Sarah Mathews
Crystal Collier
Angela Sorby
Margaret McPhee
Tom Clancy