I got out of the cab and walked up to the gate where a guard met me with a nod of recognition, checked my identification, and telephoned into the main office. Henry Stanton came out to meet me, still licking his lips with a nervous gesture, and ushered me inside.
“I... hope everything is all right. Drink?”
“No thanks. I want to see Camille Hunt.”
“Certainly. I’ll have...”
“I know where she is.”
“But you need a pass and...”
“Get me one. I’m tired of chaperones.”
Stanton drew himself up, an overworked executive who has to put up with things not in his own domain and was ready to read me off. There were tired lines around his eyes and he was sick of being polite.
“Just do it,” I said. “If you really feel like forcing the issue I’ll make one call and get you canned. Or I can belt you in the mouth. So scrap all the regulations you’ve been issued, drop the ideas you have and play along. I’ll assume that by now you’ve contacted Martin Grady and are just trying to protect your own status. Forget it. I’m no efficiency expert or anyone who can jeopardize your job or the project here. All I want is to protect both and I’m as tired as you are of all the manure. Now hop to it or you’ll see what I can do if I’m pushed.”
Stanton had made the call, all right. It showed in his eyes and in the sudden change of demeanor when I laid it at his feet. It didn’t take him long to have a little blue temporary pass issued me that I could wear pinned to my lapel, and when I pinned it on he said, “I trust there will be no interference with this project, Mr. Mann. It’s a matter of national importance.”
“Not from me,” I assured him. “We’re all in this thing together.”
“What thing?”
“You just take care of your project.”
Stanton’s face seemed to set itself. In his own way he was dedicated too. “I intend to,” he said, and his tone was as cold and hard as steel wire.
Patriots, I thought. In ’42 they went into factories and drove rivets into the bellies of bombers. They read the signs that said SILENCE SAVES LIVES and TALK SINKS TANKERS and you couldn’t pry their mouths apart with a crowbar. Some were big and strong and some were short and weak, but they had one thing in common — they were patriots out of an old school you could hardly find any more in this age of radicalism and super-liberal stupidity.
I winked at him, made sure my badge was on firmly and walked outside past the guard who was ready to be my date if it weren’t for the blue badge and found my own way down to the door that read CAMILLE HUNT, PERSONNEL.
The secretary wanted to announce me, but I pushed her hand away from the phone and let her see the Martin Grady ID in the wallet I held in my hand, and to make sure she didn’t budge, let her catch a glimpse of the .45 in the speed rig on my belt when I put the wallet back.
Just to ease the tension I patted her cheek and said, “That’s a good girl. Now how about making a pit stop in the powder room for a little bit until I finish my business?”
She was glad to get out of there. Interested, but glad. Later she could have something to add to the office gossip.
It was nice to catch her off guard for a second. Nice to see the sudden rise of her head with the desk lamps framing her face with shadows that brought out all the loveliness of every striking feature and accentuated the blossom of a lower lip held between teeth in concentrated thought. Her hair was still lost in the darkness of the background, but this time there was no concealing the ripe maturity of her body in reflectionless black because now she wore a gossamer thing of yellow that made her breasts fuller and swept in tucks to a waist girded in a broad green belt.
“Hello, spider.”
Camille Hunt held one hand up to shield her eyes from the glare of the light, giving me time to cross the room, then she smiled. “Hello, fly. You took your time.”
“It’s only been a day.”
“That’s much too long. They usually can’t wait to be bitten.”
“You’re talking about the true diptra types.”
“And you?”
“More like a mud dauber. I break down webs and eat spiders.”
Camille leaned back and smiled gently. “Oh?”
“Don’t get dirty,” I said.
“You mentioned it.”
“But I didn’t mean it.”
“Then we’ll start over without any promises.”
“We’d better.”
She smiled again and sat back in her chair. “Now... about that job...”
“I’m unemployable.”
“Then...”
“I came to see you, understandable?”
She waved me to a chair, still smiling. “Oh, I understand, but I just don’t believe it.”
I threw the envelope on her desk. “That was my excuse. You can put these files back in the vault again. When I’m done with the copies I made I’ll destroy them.”
“Were they any use to you?”
“Not specially. Look... how familiar are you with the personnel here?”
“I know everyone by sight, Mr. Mann.”
“Tiger, kitten... remember?”
“I won’t forget any more.”
“Ever see this man here?” I spread the Agrounsky photos out in front of her and waited while she studied them carefully.
Camille took her time about it, making sure of the details of his face, then she frowned very slightly. “This man doesn’t work here, I know that.”
“Could he be disguised in any way?”
“No... I’m sure I would see through it. Besides, our people are all fingerprinted and filed with Washington. There is no doubt as to their identities.” She put the photos down and looked at me across the desk. “Facially, he isn’t an impressive-looking person. Rather common, I’d say, the type who could get lost in a crowd of two. However, there is a slight degree of familiarity here.”
There was a sudden constriction in my stomach and my hands wrapped tight around each other. “How?”
“When we last expanded we interviewed several hundred people for employment. Those I selected were given to Mr. Hamilton to process in the usual manner and the final selection was made on the basis of his reports and my personal approval. I have the feeling that this man might have been among those interviewed.”
I sat back and rubbed my face. “And you don’t have the original applications,” I stated flatly.
Her expression took on a serious note. “No... but often I do record my own personal observations of people as a matter of interest. It isn’t part of my job, actually, but character studies are important in this work.”
“You have the notes?”
“At home. They may not be very helpful because sometimes I use names or numerical identification rather than names.”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Who is he, Tiger?”
“Louis Agrounsky.”
“The name isn’t at all familiar and names I recall well. Why is he so very important?”
“Because he’s holding a death threat over the heads of everyone in this country.” I got up and nodded my head toward her. “Let’s go, sugar. We need every minute we can get.”
Camille Hunt didn’t answer. She simply looked at my face and without a word reached for her coat and handbag and followed me out the door. I turned in my badge at the gate, was cleared into the parking lot, got in her car beside her and we drove out to the highway.
Her apartment was on the east side of Central Park in the Seventies, an upper-middle-class section newly renovated to accommodate those who still liked the sprawling octopus of the city enough to live in it. The doorman took care of the car while a black-suited assistant in the lobby ushered us to the elevator with a smile of subservience and made sure we pushed the right button.
Camille lived on the sixth floor, her apartment facing the street with a grandiose spread of glass. She threw her coat carelessly across the back of a chair, pushed a panel open to expose a built-in wall bar and said, “Make a drink while you’re waiting.”