A Death in Geneva by A. Denis Clift

unperturbed.
    â€œMr. Bromberger, if I may have your attention. Incoming and outgoing traffic will be slugged ‘Shattered Flag,’ a category five designator chosen and controlled exclusively by the director.”
    â€œâ€˜Shattered Flag,’” Bromberger intoned, his voice resigned to accepting Fisker’s presentation, clearly a pace that had been set personally by the director.
    â€œThere is a small apartment, lounge, two beds, mini-kitchen, and a bath through that door. It is not anticipated that your need for these facilities will extend beyond a few weeks. I will be here seven days a week; my quarters are on the next floor. You will find that you have considerable capability here. My instructions are to augment that capability as you may require.”
    Fisker paused, ran a pencil up and down the back of his neck, satisfied himself that his mental checklist had been covered. He then keyed the console and led the way back through the wall into the front reception area. “I have a bit of pocket litter for each of you, nothing elaborate, no name changes, just the Trade credentials, a few credit cards, and a smattering of correspondence.” He flipped two switches beneath the first of the TV monitors; the inner steel door rolled open. “On this side of the street, about two hundred feet from the entrance to your left, you will find a blue-and-white cab showing an ‘off duty’ card on the sun visor. The driver is waiting for you, knows you by sight. The Director is expecting you in twenty-five minutes.

    Sweetman and Bromberger strode behind their escort, moving swiftly from the director’s private, key-operated elevator, through his outer rooms, to the sprawling wood-paneled office overlooking the spring green of Virginia.
    Two large hands formed a triangle cradling the forehead of a larger gray head bent over photo enlargements spread in a fan shape. “Hanspeter, Pierce, welcome.” The director continued his examination without looking up. His hand went to a particular print. Hepushed his eyeglasses up on his forehead and took several moments to examine various details of the photograph through a magnifying glass. “A wedding ring by the looks of it. My sympathy to the bride.” He spoke slowly. “A very smart piece of work, Hanspeter.” He put the photograph down and turned his full attention to the two men.
    â€œWe delivered a set of your snapshots to the secretary of state one hour ago. Not bad service, wouldn’t you say? He has invited Ambassador Fedoseyev in for a chat this afternoon. He will reveal our evidence. He will review it with the ambassador, and he will throw the book at him! High time!” The voice rose, then relaxed. “I see you have a small trophy on your chin, Hanspeter—a fine job. Congratulations!” The director came around the desk, shook his hand, turned. “Pierce,” shook his hand and returned to the black leather chair.
    â€œThank you, sir. No damage here; good to hear State’s moving.” There was relief in Sweetman’s voice. With the front office call, he was afraid he had somehow blown the Omsk operation, steeled himself for the bad news, searched his mind, every step, during the drive to Langley . . . now, the director’s approval. If it had gone well, why the hell the summons? He felt totally drained.
    â€œSit down Hanspeter, Pierce.” The agents moved to the long L-shaped couch which served to frame the glass-topped coffee table exhibiting twenty-eight foreign decorations, each contributing to the professional history of Director of Central Intelligence Ernest Lancaster.
    â€œPierce; you won’t have followed, I trust”—he pulled his glasses down to the tip of his nose and gazed over them—“Hanspeter’s exploit. Knowledge, planning, initiative, skill, guts, and luck—landed on the Soviets like a great bat last night and sunk his bat’s