"Gran, please?"
Violet shook herself briskly. "We'll see, we'll talk about it later. I have to think about it."
"But we don't have much time."
"Time enough to think. We'll talk this afternoon, after school." She glanced at the clock. "And you'd better scoot, or you'll be late."
Lila gathered her coat and her books. She kissed her grandmother's cheek, and hugged her shoulders. "Please think about it," she pleaded. "Please think real hard."
"I will, I promise." Violet looked up, and smiled. "We'll see." Lila nodded happily. She knew her grandmother, she knew that smile, and she knew that she was going to Hightower Mountain.
About an hour after Lila raced off to school, Martha marched into Sammy's office at the Center. She was just back from two whirlwind days in Rockhill, New York, on the Simms assignment. She threw her report on Sammy's desk, and waited while he read it.
Sammy:
Here's what I have so far on the Sextant operation.
Rockhill is a small town in the Hudson Valley, the east bank just north of Rhinebeck. It's a pleasant place, quiet, with shady streets, and a high school straight out of a 1930's movie. Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, you know? The sidewalks are clean, there's no graffiti, and aside from a bowling alley and a roadhouse out on the edge of town, the lights go out at eleven. I wouldn't mind living in Rockhill someday.
I spent my first day there using my cover as a field agent for the New York State Department of Social Services, researching crimes of violence in the area. I hit the chief of police, the high school principal, a couple of pastors, and came away with the impression that Rockhill is virtually free of serious crime. Sure, once in a while a teenage party gets out of hand, once in a while the buckos out at Jimmy's Grill, the local roadhouse, take on a load and start bopping each other, once in a while a kid gets himself busted for smoking pot on the village green-but that's about it. Again, I wouldn't mind living there.
I spent the next morning at the hall of records. Lila Simms was born 11 June 1976. Mother listed as Julia Simms, died in childbirth. Father listed as "unknown." Lila's residence, 29A Linden Avenue, Rockhill, is listed as being owned by Mrs. Violet Simms, who turns out to be the kid's maternal grandmother. Tax valuation $57,500. Real estate and water taxes paid up to date. No mortgage, no outstanding liens. Lila has lived with her grandmother all her life.
Late in the afternoon I got close enough to Lila to do an Alpha tap. Couldn't get her to stay still long enough for a Delta, but we're not interested in anything deep. Turns out to be a perfectly normal sixteen-year-old, into rock music, tennis, and skiing. Likes boys, dates around, but nothing steady. Deep attached to her grandmother, and no memories of her parents, which isn't surprising since she never knew them. Worried about her school grades, but not to the point of panic. Somewhat bored with her life, somewhat restless, somewhat curious about the big wide world out there, but that's nothing unusual. She is also, believe it or not, exactly what Ogden was looking for, a certified virgin.
So there's your background, and here's the problem. My brief is to keep this child from being raped within the time frame, but my brief also specifies that she cannot know what is going on. Nor can anyone else connected with her. This, my dear Sammy, is a virtual impossibility. Given the limitations of our mandate, I see no way in which we can protect Lila Simms unless-and this is my point-we remove her from her present environment.
Thus:
(1) Sextant will come after her in Rockhill.
(2) Given our limits, there is no way that we can protect her in Rockhill.
(3) We have to remove her from Rockhill, and place her in an environment that we can control.
(4) How do we do that, and at the same time preserve the limitations of our mandate?
(5) Turn page for the answer.
Sammy turned the page and found himself looking at a duplicate of the notification to Lila Sims, advising her that she had won a week's vacation at Hightower Mountain. He read it carefully, then looked up, and smiled.
"Not bad. Fast work."
"The Workshop did it. We were up all night. I haven't been to sleep yet."
"When will Lila get it?"
"She got it this morning." When Sammy raised an eyebrow, she added, "Jerry Becker in Postal took care of it. He owes us."
"You're close to a breach of security there."
"Sometimes you have to bend the mandate. I had to get it to her today. Sextant's time frame begins in four days, and I want her out of there in three. Of course, I'll be leading the party."
"You'll need transport."
"The Workshop is organizing a minivan."
"Rooms at the inn?"
"All the logistics will be locked up by this afternoon. There's just one other point that I have to clear with you."
"Yeah, I see it coming." Sammy sat back, and his smile was gone. "You need four teenage kids to fill out the group."
"Four kids who can ski. Four seniors I can trust all the way down the line. I want George Shackley, Pam Costis, Linda Bryce, and Terry Krazewski."
"They're not operational."
"Okay, you had to say that, but who else can I use? I know they're not operational, but they're all seventeen, less than a year away from assignment. They're not aces yet, but they're damn close. They can do the job, and I need them. Now, are we going to sit here and argue all morning, or can we cut to the bottom line?"
"Who's arguing? You can have them."
"I can?" Martha's surprise showed on her face. "I thought I was going to have to wrestle you."
"No, they're the obvious choices, and, as you said, sometimes you have to bend the mandate. But you can only have three, you can't have Krazewski."
"Why not?"
"He's in the infirmary with the flu. Not a chance."
"Sammy, I have to have four."
"So take four. Take Little."
"Chicken?" Martha stared at him. "You're kidding."
Sammy shrugged. "It's up to you, but he's the only other senior."
"But he's a disaster."
"I know."
"He's a menace."
"I know."
"He's a monster."
"I know."
Very slowly, and carefully, Martha said, "Sammy, we both know that he may be a deuce. It's taking a hell of a chance."
"I know that, too. Do you have a choice?"
She shook her head. "I guess not."
On the night of that same day, Sextant prepared to go out on the town. He had been working hard, and it was time to play. He had been in Rockhill for a week, doing the painstaking research that was the hallmark of his work, establishing a clear pattern of his target's routine. After a week in Rockhill he knew what time Lila Simms went to school, where she ate lunch, who she met at the Dairy Queen, what time she came home, and where she went in the evenings. He knew the food she ate, the clothes she wore, and the pace of her walk. He could pick her out in any crowd. After a week in Rockhill he knew as much as he needed to know, and now, with the time frame of his assignment only four days away, he was ready to make his move. But first it was time to play.
Sextant was fifty-three years old, but he looked to be less than forty. His body was slim and hipless, his face unlined, and his hair a rich chestnut that needed only an occasional touching. Preparing for the evening, he inspected his wardrobe in the closet of his motel room. The leather and chains wouldn't draw flies here in Rockhill, much less what he was after. The bell-bottoms and bolero jacket? Not very subtle; might as well wear a skirt. Cowboy boots and stone-washed jump suit? Too campy by far. What was needed was a touch of swish, just a touch. He decided on pencil-thin Italian slacks, a ruffled shirt, and a blazer that nipped at the waist. He laid the clothing out on the bed, showered and shaved, and, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he went to work on his face. He used a Revlon misty rose for a base, a soft beige Max Factor cream puff, and a Maybelline liner for his eyes; a touch of shadow, and then ever so lightly with the velvet black mascara. He worked slowly, and when he was finished, he inspected himself in the mirror.