Author's Note: This is another one of my "old" stories that I recently unearthed in my archive… hope you enjoy.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He didn't know how he knew it; it was just a feeling he sometimes had. He hadn't had the feeling in a long time, but it was there now – a nagging suspicion that things around him weren't what they appeared to be.
He glanced around, and saw nothing out of the ordinary; his driveway and the suburban neighborhood around him looked exactly as they had every morning for the past ten years. Of course, he didn't really expect to see anything; the kind of trouble he sensed wouldn't be readily visible. And maybe, really, it was nothing at all…
You're getting paranoid, you know. Happens to the best of 'em. One day, you walk outside and start to get into your car – and bango! You think somebody's out to get you when there's nobody there.
He had the key in the lock and was still trying to dismiss his feeling of uneasiness when he heard his name called from close by. "Alexander!"
Emily stood on the front porch of their modest ranch-style house, waving to him. "You won't forget to pick up the dry cleaning, will you? I need the gray dress for Saturday."
All his old-style feelings of vague uneasiness melted away as Scotty waved back to her. "No, hon, I won't forget. I'll be home around six."
"Okay."
She blew him a kiss, accompanied by a girlish grin that seventeen years of married life hadn't tempered. "Love you!"
"Love you too!"
And as he got into his car and backed it down the driveway, by now fully awakened from his brief daytime nightmare, there was no one in that upper-middle-class Philadelphia suburb who was more content than Alexander Scott. He was on top of the world.
oo0oo
The pall that hangs over Washington DC on a hot summer day is minimal when compared to that of a metropolis such as Los Angeles, more famous for its smog than any other city is famous for its adverse weather conditions. Still, as in any large urban center, the problem exits. The more fortunate city dwellers have air conditioning to fend off the oppressive heat.
The truly fortunate have air conditioning in their offices as well. Most of the too-fortunate Pentagon was locked into a particularly chilling environment on that particular morning; the system had gone completely haywire, and secretaries scraped frost off the insides of their windows and warmed their hands over their computer terminals.
Inside one frigid office on a lower level, frost on the windows wasn't a problem. It was a windowless cubicle. And had there been frost, it would have assumed an extremely low priority.
"Nothing to report, sir," the young operative told his superior, trying not to let on that he was freezing in his light summer suit. He hadn't yet completed his first year with the Company, and didn't especially want to approach Mr. Robinson with any petty complaints about the climate in his office.
"What do you mean, nothing?" The veteran's low, patient tone belied the fact that his intense personal interest in this particular surveillance threatened to rob him of his objectivity altogether. "Nothing at all? Something that turned out to be nothing? What exactly does 'nothing' signify?"
"We know for sure that someone is monitoring Dr. Scott's activities, sir. More than that, we haven't yet been able to ascertain."
Harvard double-talk. Kelly Robinson sighed inwardly. Surely he'd never sounded that way when he'd been the one on the other side of the desk. But then, he'd seldom been standing there alone, as this wet-behind-the-ears young Ivy Leaguer was forced to do. In time, he'll loosen up. Get him a good partner; that's all.
"I want a twenty-four-hour watch on Scott and his family. I'll assign all the personnel you need. And keep it under wraps. The man's good. He's always been good. You blink at the wrong time and he'll know you're there, and he's not above wrapping you head to foot in masking tape and sending you back here C.O.D. And I want a report every six hours, whether you've got anything to tell me or not. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." Mercifully, the brief mental picture the operative had of himself taped up and lying in Robinson's in-box quickly faded. The young man turned to go.
It wasn't a hard assignment. The kid needed experience, and this was the only way to get it. Even if Scotty sighted him and blew the whistle, it wouldn't be the end of the world. It would be good practice for the young agent – and who knew? It also might just save Scotty's life.
Whether or not Scotty had already picked up on the fact that he was being followed was a judgment call; he hadn't varied his routine any, and there were no outward signs of his trying to lose the tails – either the Government one Robinson himself had placed, or the mystery guests who had yet to sign in. So far, Robinson's own agents had been unable to discover who the bogies were, or why they were zeroed in on Scotty, who'd been out of the business since 1970. September 4, 1970, if memory served.
Kelly Robinson had his own suspicions, and was in the fortunate position of not having to voice them quite yet – plus the added bonus of having the entire Department at his command. Yes, Scotty would be quite safe, even if he had to pull in every international operative at his disposal to make sure of it. Whoever these people are, they're not just whistlin' Dixie.
He checked his watch. Nearly eleven. He buzzed his secretary; when she answered with chattering teeth, he told her only that he would be out of the office for two hours. One hour for the funeral, and one hour to sit in an out-of-the-way bar and try to forget the funeral. By the time he got back to the office around one o'clock, he'd be ready to continue the hunt.
oo0oo
As usual, Scott left his office just after five. His short walk to the parking space reserved for the head of the Modern Language Department at the University of Pennsylvania campus was interrupted – as it often was – by a faculty member with a question. This time, it was Kyle Markham, a first-year member of the teaching staff.
Scott tried to pretend he'd heard nothing, and even managed to pick up his pace with such subtlety that Markham wouldn't notice – but unfortunately, Markham was not terribly subtle himself. "Dr. Scott, I know you're busy, but…"
"I am more than busy, Mr. Markham. I am on my way home. It is a well-researched scientific fact that people on their way home tend to be in a greater hurry than they are on their way to work, so I'm sure that you…"
The junior instructor refused to take the hint. "If I could just have a moment of your time, sir…"
"Tomorrow morning in my office, you may have all the moments your heart could possibly desire. Right now, I have to…"
Damn. What he had to do was stop and pick up Emily's gray dress at the cleaners… and even as he spoke, he could visualize the pink claim slip sitting on the corner of his desk blotter back in his office. Much as he wanted to keep walking, he came to an abrupt halt and turned around. Before Markham could reiterate his request for an audience, Scotty repeated, "I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Markham." The walk back began with him berating himself for forgetting such a ridiculous thing as a piece of paper.
Markham, although not quite brazen enough to dog Scott's footsteps back to the administration building, was nevertheless determined to catch up with his department head before morning. Resolutely, he posted himself next to Scott's maroon sedan. The window was rolled halfway down, and the door was unlocked – apparently Scott really didn't waste any time getting home at night. The skids were well-greased.
The young instructor reached into the open window to push the lock button down, figuring to buy himself just a few seconds of Scott's time when he returned.
Scotty turned reflexively at the explosion that suddenly burst from the parking lot, and stood staring in horror at the charred shell that moments ago had been his car. Flames poured from the shattered sunroof as a wave of heat hit him, but even the searing wall of charred summer breeze that bit at his face wasn't enough to quell the cold shiver that ran through him as he realized what had just happened.
"Oh, no… oh, God…!" He took a step toward the conflagration, numbly, not really knowing why, or what he intended to do when he got closer. The stench of burning gasoline hung oppressively in the humid air. One by one, the tires exploded.
And Kyle Markham was…
oo0oo
The special line on Kelly Robinson's office phone lit up, and he was on it in an instant. "Yes?" The caller was brief and to the point. "Bring him in!" Robinson snapped. "Now!"