CHAPTER 17

He found the advertisement classified in The New York Times under "Services Available."

It read:

How good is your security system?If we can't crack it, no one can. Money-back guarantee. Confidential free consultations, no appointment necessary. MISSION IMPOSSIBLE, Empire State Building, New York, N.Y. 10001

Lorimer dropped the clipping onto the bed table. "That's where you're heading today?"

Elliot, still undressed, sat down on the bed next to her. "There and also to the Times building, where I'll drop off my reply to another ad. Come with me?"

"Just for company?"

Elliot shook his head. "Whoever is looking for us individually won't be thinking about a couple. I also get the feeling you're pretty up on cloak-and-dagger."

Lorimer shrugged. "Something rubs off, I guess." She hesitated. "That's what my appointment today was supposed to be about. I've been told Merce Rampart thinks I could make a good operative."

Elliot looked at her seriously. "Have you met him?" She shook her head. "I would've today."

"I wonder," said Elliot. "I'm beginning to think that there isn't any Merce Rampart. That he's just a bogey invented to throw everyone off the track."

"You're a cynic."

"Not at all. I'm a rational empiricist. And an impatient one. Are you coming with me?"

Lorimer nodded. "I had some shopping to do anyway."

"Me, too. A change of clothes. And some brown hair dye."

"Not that easy sometimes. When I dyed my hair last week, I had to pick up colored contact lenses."

"That's not your real coloring?"

"My hair's as blond as yours."

"Well that explains--Oh, never mind." He studied her. "You know, blonde you'd look a little like my sister."

"Thanks. I think. Now come up close." Elliot slid over; Lorimer looked into his eyes. He could not resist kissing her. After a time she asked, "Is that how you treat your sister?"

"No." He kissed her again.

"You have a one-track mind."

"That's me, all right. The Man with the Monorail Mind. "

Lorimer flipped off the bed covers. "Later. I'm taking a shower."

Elliot flicked an invisible cigar ash onto the carpet. Imaginary thick eyebrows gyrated up and down behind imaginary glasses.

"Mind if I join you?"

At ten thirty Elliot answered a knock at the door, Lorimer still in the bathroom drying her hair. It was Mr. Ferrer with their delivery from the food cooperative.

Elliot took in the first carton; then, after accompanying Ferrer down to his apartment for two more, returned upstairs with him to pay the ten eurofrancs due. After thanking Ferrer, Elliot asked him if there were anything he could do in return. "Would you be going near a newspaper stand today?" Ferrer asked.

"Going uptown a little later."

"Would you pick up a newspaper for me? Our newsboy did not show up today. Again."

"No problem." Ferrer thanked Elliot and returned downstairs.

Elliot went to the kitchen, turning on the radio--easy-listening music was playing--then began storing the groceries. When half an hour later Lorimer finally emerged, dressed in a tight cashmere sweater and slacks, coffee was on the table, tarts in the toaster, and bacon draining. "So you cook too, huh?" she said.

"Nope. You're my first victim. How'd you like your eggs?"

"Uh--I'll cook my own eggs, thank you."

"Just kidding. I can make them any way you want."

"I'm crazy about eggs Benedict."

Elliot gave her a dirty look.

"In that case," Lorimer said, "once over easy."

While Elliot dropped food onto their plates, the radio announcer took the opportunity to intone a station break, then continued by cueing what he called "more beautiful music for a beautiful Monday morning, a Boston Pops rendition of 'Slaughter on Tenth Avenue.'"

The arrangement came on as Elliot carried the plates into the dinette, joining Lorimer at the table. "That's odd," he told her.

"What is?"

"The announcer just gave this station's call letters as WINS."

"So?"

"So WINS is an all-news station, twenty-four hours. Has been since before I was born."

Lorimer shrugged. "Probably a new CRC ruling. They've been talking about cracking down on balanced-programming rules for years."

Elliot scowled. "Why can't the CRC mind its own damn business?"

"When has any government agency ever had its own damn business to mind?"

"Uh--let's change the subject," said Elliot.

"Spoilsport."

Though still overcast, the sun was shining through in spots, and the sky did not again threaten rain. lust after noon, Elliot and Lorimer walked up to Fourteenth Street, deciding against searching for a tzigane and beginning to walk across town.

It was not as windy as the previous week, consequently the freezing temperature was. not especially uncomfortable. Had he not had so much on his mind, Elliot could have found this walk with Lorimer as carefree an outing as ever could be hoped for on a February day. As it was, he felt like a student on a half-day field trip, the momentary freedom merely underscoring his sense of being trapped.

As they walked along, past First Avenue, past Second and Third, Elliot began noticing that many of the faces he encountered showed uneasiness as great as his own. Too many stores were closed, hastily drawn signs taped onto plate glass behind drawn steel grilles, saying "NO STOCK TODAY." Though the subway strike had been thickening street-traffic density, today seemed particularly crowded. A mob at Union Square was standing around a fight, cheering it on. Elliot told Lorimer, "There's something in the air," then added silently to himself: And it has nothing to do with meteorology.

At ten to one o'clock, the couple entered United States postal zone 10001, the Empire State Building's directory informing them that their destination was on its forty-third floor. Taking the elevator up, they found a small office with its door marked "Mission Impossible Security Consultants" and went right in, a buzzer sounding as they entered.

There was a receptionist's desk but no receptionist. After a moment, a bald man with glasses emerged from an office wiping his nose. "Heddo," he said. "Cad I he'p jew?"

Elliot suppressed an immediate desire to walk right out again, instead replying, "We're responding to your classified in Sunday's Times."

"Jew bus hab de wrog opus. I dode hab edy ebplobet opedigs."

"What?"

"Hode od a bobet."

He took a decongestant from a jacket pocket, tilted his head back, and sprayed both nostrils. "Ah, that's better. I said you must have the wrong office. I didn't advertise for any personnel."

"But you did advertise your firm's services.Testing security systems? Money-back guarantee if you can't break them?"

"That's our ad, all right.But we deal with commercial and industrial systems. Are you sure you're coming to the right place?"

"I'm not sure at all," said Elliot. "Do you usually do business in your reception area?"

A surprised expression appeared on the man's face. "Not at all." He motioned the two into his office, directing them into plush chairs facing his desk; photographs of security devices decorated the wall. "I'm Benton Durand," he continued, taking his chair. "I apologize but today's been impossible -- just impossible. First, this cold. Second, my secretary didn't make it in today -- I think she caught my cold. And third, my phones have been out all morning." He wiped his nose again. "Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee? The coffee will have to be instant; I don't know how the machine works."

Elliot hoped this was not an indication of the man's technical competence. Moreover, he was not about to risk drinking anything within a hundred yards of Durand. He and Lorimer both declined.

"Mr. Durand," began Elliot, "my problem is rather touchy--legally. You advertise confidentiality. Will it remain confidential if you deem what I ask illegal, or we do not do business?"

"It will remain confidential, Mr.... Mr...."

"Rabinowitz," said Elliot.

". . . Mr. Rabinowitz, but if you want me to help you steal or destroy property--"

"Nothing like that," Elliot interrupted, waving it away.

"Then if I'm worried, I'll talk to my lawyer. Go on."

"You're sure this office isn't bugged?"

"I know my business. This is private."

Elliot nodded. "Two members of my family are confined incommunicado in a federal maximum-security prison in Massachusetts. They have been arrested without due process, charges, or trial. If you can bypass that prison's security, I am willing to pay handsomely--in gold."

Durand blew his nose, shaking his head. "Impossible. "

"Moral objections?" asked Lorimer. "Or is it the risk?"

"Neither one. Mr. Rabinowitz, I fully sympathize with you. But I can't help. I don't know anyone in the business who could."

"Would five hundred grams of gold change your mind any?" Elliot asked. "Five thousand eurofrancs, if you prefer. "

"Ten times that wouldn't change my mind. Maybe a hundred times would. Something this size requires a budget of--oh, half a million eurofrancs. At least we'd be in the same league as with the federal intelligence forces."

Elliot stood, Lorimer following. "I'm afraid I can't afford government prices."

Durand extended his hand. "I really do sympathize."

"Thanks, anyway," said Elliot, taking it. He and Lorimer started for the door.

Durand cleared his throat loudly, calling them back. "Er--there is one outfit--now that I think of it--that could possibly help you."

Elliot turned anxiously. "There is?"

"I don't know how to put you in touch, though. The Revolutionary Agorist Cadre."

"Uh--I'll keep that in mind," said Elliot, he and Lorimer both suppressing shocked smiles.

Durand sneezed. "This damn cold is driving me right up the wall. Do you know of anything for clogged sinuses?"

Elliot got out as fast as possible.

A brisk fifteen-minute walk over to Broadway and eight blocks up through the garment district--business as usual--brought them to Times Square; the New York Times offices were a block farther up on Forty-third Street. Elliot sensed something incongruous but could not quite put his finger on it. Then he knew.

The news on the Oracle was gone.

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