«Now, General, they’re soldiers, trained for that sort of thing—»
«No, they’re not!» exploded Brokemichael, his whisper growing into a near-hiss. «They’re actors, real professional actors! When they enlisted as a group, I saw the opportunities right away. Who better to infiltrate and pull the plugs behind enemy lines than men trained to impersonate other people? And what better than a unit of actors familiar with one another’s work, a repertory company capable of playing off one another to give the illusion of spontaneity, of naturalism—reality?… clandestine operations, Mr. Harrison. They were born to it and I made it possible!»
The journalist’s reaction was that of a curmudgeon grudgingly acknowledging a valid point where he had thought none existed. «Well, I’ll be damned …! That’s one hell of a concept, General—I might even go so far as to say it’s brilliant.»
«Not exactly amateurville, is it? These days everyone wants their services. Even now, at this moment, they’re on assignment for one of the most powerful men in the country.»
«Oh?» The man called Harrison frowned questioningly, a slight cynical smile shaping his lips. «Then they’re not on the premises, so I can’t meet them … and we are off the record so I can’t write about them?»
«My God, way off the record, not a word!»
«Then, frankly, General, speaking as a reporter, I have only one source—you. No editor alive would accept a single source, and my friends in the Polo Lounge would laugh through their oat bran eggs Benedict, saying it would make a hell of a screenplay if it were true—which it would if it was.»
«It is!»
«Who says besides you?»
«Well, I … I can’t!»
«Too bad. If there was a shred of truth to the concept, you could probably sell an outline for a few hundred thousand. And with what they call a ‘screen treatment’—that’s a half-assed summary like we all used to do in high school book reports—for maybe a half a million. You’d be the toast of Tinseltown.»
«Oh, my God, it is true! Believe me!»
«I may believe you, but my confidence wouldn’t be worth a Pellegrino and lime in the Po-Lounge. For this kind of thing to fly, you need credibility… Now, General, I really think we should return to the interview.»
«No! I’m too close to my dreams… Paul and Joanne, Greg and Mitch and Michael—all the good people!»
«That they are—»
«You must believe me!»
«How can I?» growled the old journalist. «I can’t even write down a word—we’re off the record.»
«Well, try this,» cried Brokey the Deuce, his eyes on fire as the sweat rolled down his face. «Within the next twenty-four hours, my antiterrorist repertory company of actors will capture one of the most dangerous enemies our country has ever known.»
«That’s a hell of a statement, General. Anything to back it up with that I can document?»
«Is there anything between off-the-record and on-the-record?»
«Well, I suppose there’s confidential postoccurrence disclosure—that’s to say nothing may be printed until the event takes place, and even then, only ‘on background.’»
«What’s that?»
«No specific names are used or revealed as sources.»
«I’ll take it!»
«You’ll get it,» muttered the journalist.
«I beg your pardon?»
«Nothing. Go ahead, General.»
«They’re-in-Boston-Massachusetts,» said Brokemichael quickly in a monotone, his lips barely moving.
«That’s nice.»
«Have you been reading the newspapers or watching television?» the general asked, again quickly, secretively.
«Off and on, you can’t escape either one.»
«Did you read or hear about the Nobel committee that flew into Boston on the Vice-President’s plane?»
«Yes, I think I did,» replied the journalist, scowling in thought. «Something about an address at Harvard and announcing some award or other for a general … the Soldier of the Decade, or something like that. I saw it on the television news.»
«Preet-tee impressive, wouldn’t you say?» said Brokey the Deuce, the question delivered in sing-song.
«Well, any committee representing the Nobel Foundation wouldn’t be too tacky.»
«You agree then that they were a distinguished group of scholars and military historians, right?»
«Certainly. The Nobel boys don’t mess around with bums, they don’t have to. So what’s all this got to do with your … your repertory company of antiterrorists?»
«It’s them!»
«What’s them?»
«That Nobel committee! They’re my men, my actors!»
«General, on this point I’ll stay strictly off the record, but have you been dabbling in the sauce this morning?… Hey, look, I’m no young goober with newsprint stars in my eyes—like my friends at the Po-Lounge, I’ve been around the block, too, sometimes with a fifth in my pocket—»
«I’m telling you the truth!» Brokemichael fulminated, his harsh sotto voce so intense the veins in his throat turned purple. «And I never have a drop of alcohol before the Officers’ Club opens at noon. That ‘Nobel committee’ is actually my clandestine unit, my actors!»
«Perhaps we should reschedule this interview—»
«I’ll prove it to you!» The leader of Suicidal Six raced to a file cabinet, slapped open a drawer, and yanked out a number of manila folders. He ran back to his desk and threw them indiscriminately across the top, opening several and scattering dozens of photographs helter-skelter. «There they are! We keep records of their various disguises so as not to duplicate them on succeeding operations in case of past photo surveillance… Here, here! These are the last pictures—the hair, a few short beards, the glasses, and even the eyebrows. These are the men you saw on television in the press conference at Logan Airport in Boston! Look, look!»
«I’ll be damned,» said the journalist, now standing and studying the eight-by-ten glossy photographs. «I believe you’re right.»
«I am right! These are the Suicidal Six, my creation!»
«But why are they in Boston?»
«It’s top secret, max-classified to the zenith.»
«Well, General, I hate to tell you, but all you’ve shown me is disconnected visual possibilities. They’re meaningless without an explanation. Remember, we’re on ‘postoccurrence disclosure,’ so it’s okay, you can tell me.»
«My name won’t be mentioned—except perhaps to your ‘Po-Lounge’ friends, who I’d kill to meet?»
«My word as a journalist,» agreed the man who called himself Harrison.
«Well, that general you mentioned—that disgraced former general—is a traitor to our country. I won’t go into all the details, but if he carries out his plan, this nation stands to lose its first- and second-strike capabilities.»
«He’s that—Soldier of the whatever?» interrupted Harrison.
«‘Soldier of the Century,’ but it’s all a hoax, a scam to pull him in and take him! And my men, my actors are doing that right now!»
«I’m genuinely sorry to hear that, General, genuinely sorry.»