The Shadow Man (12 page)

When Samuel Underwood walked into Andrews’ room at the Hayes, he smiled and nodded but said nothing. It was Andrews who had phoned and set up the meeting.

Andrews invited his slender, tastefully attired visitor to sit, then offered a drink. Underwood sat down in an armchair that was beginning to show wear at the edges of the cushion, but he declined a drink.

“I need help,” Andrews said flatly. He had known Underwood since Watergate and had a respect for the man’s ability and candor. One day, Andrews was sure, Underwood would move up that remaining short climb in his career and become chief of the CIA. Discretion was his religion.

“I gathered that, Senator. What sort of help?”

Andrews snorted, suddenly struck by a dark humor. “Can you assign a bodyguard-detective-clairvoyant?” he asked.

“Sure, we have those.” Unblinking gray eyes remained serious.

Andrews wondered for a moment if Underwood had meant what he said.

“Bothered by ghosts?” Underwood asked.

“More like doppelgangers.”

“They bother us all.” Underwood settled into his chair with exaggerated relish, as if he’d been playing a dull game that suddenly had turned interesting. “Give me the specifics,” he said.

Pat Colombo leaned over the meat counter in the Boulder supermarket near her apartment and tried to outwit the grocer at his own game, juggling price and weight to determine if sirloin was cheaper than flank steak. Only lately had she begun to examine grocery prices carefully; unlike a certain senator, whom she happened to love, she couldn’t vote herself a pay raise to keep pace with inflation. She wished at that moment that she were shopping for food that she and Jerry would share. She smiled at her womanly wiles. Gastronomical romance. She decided on the flank steak, picked it up and laid it gently in the bottom of her grocery cart, so that none of the juice would run from the styrofoam tray.

When she looked up she saw the thin blond man again.

He had walked into the supermarket behind her, then in the soup aisle she had glanced up to catch him staring at her. Now he was standing near a pyramid of canned potato chips, looking past the display at her with avid interest. When Pat returned the stare, he looked away, then sauntered toward Spices.

There were some men, she’d heard, who considered the supermarket an ideal place to make advances on women. She had to agree that in a way the theory was sound. Most women seldom dressed up to shop for groceries; what a man saw was what he’d get. And the blond man, not unhandsome in a gaunt, anemic fashion, might have enjoyed success with women in such a mundane setting. But he could expect no success with Pat, who was involved with Jerry Andrews and the problem of stretching her food budget.

She was worried about Andrews. His basic stability was the first thing Pat had noticed about him, and it was no illusion. Jerry Andrews, more than any man she’d ever met, knew who and where he was all the time. Yet what had happened in New York seemed to have knocked the underpinnings from that stability, both in obvious ways and in ways that only a lover might notice even from a telephone conversation. There were disturbing nuances in the things he said and the way he said them. She hadn’t mentioned to him the sudden sensation of unfamiliarity she’d experienced while talking with him on the phone, as if for an instant she had been speaking with a stranger.

As she checked out, Pat made it a point not to glance in the direction of the blond man. He was several counters over, in the express lane, juggling a six-pack of beer, several bags of pretzels and a gallon of milk while advancing on the register with half steps as the line moved slowly forward.

Pat paid the artificially cheery check-out girl, wheeled her two bags of groceries outside to her car and placed them in the trunk. She rolled the empty car into a no-parking area marked off by yellow stripes on the smooth blacktop, then got into her car and started the engine.

The blond man was three cars behind her, at the wheel of an unobtrusive blue Ford, as she headed toward her apartment at a fast clip to reach home before the ice cream in the trunk became soft enough to run.

As he drove, the blond man hummed softly to himself, a patient man in a job that demanded patience.

Underwood had listened to Andrews’ story with hardly a change of expression. His eyes seemed to be focused on some absorbing object above and beyond Andrews’ left shoulder. But he’d been listening. When Andrews was finished talking, Underwood asked him several succinct questions in order to have the facts straight beyond doubt, then sat still as if quietly analyzing an opponent’s intriguing chess move.

Andrews watched him uncomfortably, wondering if the CIA executive thought that a U.S. senator had slipped a mental cog and was posing a problem. Unable to endure the silence of the composed Underwood, Andrews finally said, “Any ideas?”

“If we’re dealing with the supernatural,” Underwood said, “of course there is nothing we can do.” Andrews saw that Underwood was serious. “So we’ll proceed on the assumption that we can deal with whatever it is that might be threatening you.”

“Might? Three people connected with Karpp recently died. Surely you don’t think, like Franks, that it’s all a coincidence and no one death has anything to do with the others.”

“I don’t believe that, Senator. And, unlike Amos Franks, I don’t have to wait for hard evidence on which to act. I can take action on even slight possibilities. You’ve given me possibilities more than slight, so there’s no problem there.” He shifted in the worn armchair and crossed his legs. Well tailored as he was, there was a dark, layered hole in the sole of his right shoe. “You’re right,” he said to Andrews. “You do need help.” He stared hard at Andrews, then laughed softly. “Not psychiatric help, Senator.”

Andrews couldn’t help but feel relief. “I know how insane the story sounds,” he said.

“It doesn’t, really,” Underwood replied. “It’s like a code without a cipher. But every code can be broken.”

“True enough,” Andrews said. “But most codes need to be broken in time to prevent whatever it is they were devised to conceal.”

“And that,” Underwood stated with underlying steeliness, “is the job I’m best at: preventing. But of course you must pledge your cooperation.”

“I didn’t ask to see you in order to question your expertise,” Andrews said. And already he felt safer in the presence of the cool, flawlessly professional Underwood. Together, using Underwood’s know-how and long experience, perhaps they could untangle the knots and fears of the past week.

Underwood stood up, buttoned his suitcoat. “If you were planning on going out,” he said, “don’t. In a few hours, I’ll want you to meet someone.”

The someone Underwood wanted Andrews to meet was Nels Graham, another CIA man, but one about whom Andrews knew nothing. Graham was about fifty, sandy-haired, with one of those good-humored yet pugnacious Irish faces that usually are associated with smaller men. But Graham wasn’t small. He was at least six foot four, and Andrews suspected that the man possessed an athlete’s strength in his angular limbs. Twenty-five years ago, Graham would have looked right at home as a hard-driving playmaker on a college basketball team. He smiled a friendly, overgrown-leprechaun smile at Andrews. Then he reached to the side with a long arm and opened the door to the hall to admit another man.

“This is Robert Arlen, Senator.”

Arlen shook Andrews’ hand and smiled. He was about Andrews’ height and build. He was leanly handsome, had dark hair just beginning to gray and symmetrical blue eyes that lent him a level, reasonable expression. Andrews saw the similarity immediately, but it was not so great that he thought it might be anything but coincidental.

It wasn’t coincidental. “Mr. Arlen is going to be you,” Underwood said to Andrews.

Andrews looked at the three men before him. They all wore much the same expression, one of professional nonchalance yet with an unmistakable subterranean spark of interest, like poker players nursing promising hands.

Andrews sat down in the worn armchair. “I see ...” He looked up sharply. “It’s ironic that our last names are vaguely similar. But he doesn’t really look enough like me to fool anyone.”

“Remember, Senator,” Graham said, “you’ve been physically attacked. You’re afraid now, not likely to show your face unless you have to. And after you fill us in for the next few hours, you’ll be surprised at how strikingly Mr. Arlen can resemble you from a distance.”

“And not a very long distance at that,” Arlen said with what Andrews thought was too much confidence.

“Mr. Graham will be in charge of the operation,” Underwood told Andrews. “He’s run this sort of show before. You can have faith in his ability.”

Andrews looked again at Nels Graham’s almost devilish Gaelic countenance. Graham grinned down at him from atop his tall frame. It was an oddly controlled grin that conveyed a quiet imperturbability. Arlen merely stood with his hands folded before him, already studying Andrews.

“Where is the real me supposed to be while this impersonation is taking place?” Andrews asked.

“Where you were going to be in the first place, Senator,” Underwood said. “That cabin in the mountains. It seems an ideal spot to have you safe and out of the way while we deal with the problem. And incidentally, we know about Miss Colombo, have for some time. Both of you are free to go on about your business as planned. It would be best that way.”

Andrews didn’t know whether to feel guilty or angry. He became aware that his fists were clenched. He unclenched them. Of course he’d always considered the possibility that Intelligence knew about his relationship with Pat. After all, they were both security-cleared to handle the most sensitive material. But he’d never expected it to come to a face-to-face, casual reference to his extramarital affair.

Underwood knew what Andrews was thinking. “You’re among the cleanest of the clean, Senator. You’d be shocked if you read our files.” The elegantly attired CIA man shrugged. His expensive suit shrugged like a second skin along with him. “That’s the way it is, unfortunately, and it’s better that we know.”

Sometimes Andrews wondered about that, but he nodded in meaningless agreement.

Underwood looked at his watch. “Arrangements have been made to get you out of the city secretly. We’ll depart in three hours. Until that time, I’ll leave the three of you to the necessary conversation.” He smiled at Andrews, glanced at Graham and Arlen without smiling, then left the room.

Every minute of the next three hours was utilized. Graham and Arlen grilled Andrews exhaustively on his activities since arriving in Manhattan, on his personal habits and manner of dress. Andrews learned that Arlen already had studied films of him that Andrews never knew existed. He surprised Andrews with an almost perfect imitation of the senator’s long-striding, arm-swinging walk.

At five o’clock, Underwood returned. He was carrying a large paper bag full of folded clothes. He showed Andrews his reassuring smile. “You have fifteen minutes to pack, Senator.” Methodically, he began arranging the clothing on the bed. There were slacks, shirts, a light-colored topcoat.

“They appear to be close to my size,” Andrews said.

“They’re your size exactly, Senator. They’re to replace the clothes you’re going to leave for Arlen to wear.” He folded the now empty paper bag into fourths, then eighths, flattened it and stuffed it into his suitcoat side pocket. There was no bulge to disturb the lines of the coat. “Ten minutes now, Senator.”

Andrews began packing.

“You’re booked on a TWA flight to Pittsburgh under the name L. Akers,” Underwood said. He held up a red-and-white TWA boarding pass. “Dinner on the plane.” Then he moved his fingers sideways, like a card player spreading his hand, revealing another airline ticket behind the first. “In Pittsburgh you have a half-hour layover before a connecting flight to Denver. Then you’re on your own, Senator—out of this mess.”

“What if I’m followed?”

Underwood appeared remotely insulted. “You won’t be. That I can guarantee.”

Andrews latched his suitcase and spun the combination lock, zipped closed his folding garment carrier. He was packed.

Again Underwood stole a glance at his gold wristwatch. Time was the controlling factor in his life. He briskly crossed the room and stood by the open door, waiting for Andrews.

“Good luck, Senator,” Nels Graham said.

Andrews thanked him, then looked at Arlen. “Good luck to you,” he said to the man who was to take his place and align himself with danger.

Arlen nodded calmly. By some trick of the eye he was beginning to seem more and more a passable double for Andrews.

Andrews and Underwood rode a service elevator to the hotel’s subbasement. After a wait of only a few minutes in damp dimness, Underwood led the way up a flight of narrow concrete steps to a door that opened into a delivery alley behind the hotel. A battered taxi was waiting. Andrews knew that the driver wasn’t an ordinary cabby. Underwood held open the cab door for Andrews. The driver stared straight ahead as if he were alone, like a well-groomed mannequin from Macy’s.

“He knows where to take you,” Underwood said.

Andrews got into the cab, and Underwood closed the door almost silently and leaned forward. “There’s no need for you to worry anymore, Senator,” he said through the rolled-down window.

As the cab pulled away, he gave Andrews a smile and a jaunty little military half salute.