Metzger's Dog by Thomas Perry

you?”
    “Let’s not waste time. You have it, and I’m making an offer. Two hundred thousand cash.”
    “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong number.”
    Grijalvas hesitated. “Isn’t this seven-six-nine—”
    Chinese Gordon interrupted. “No, the other number.”
    Grijalvas chuckled. “I can take it, but this is simpler.”
    “You’re welcome to try,” said Chinese Gordon. “Fair’s fair, after all. That’s how I got it. You’ve got twenty-four hours to make me a decent offer. After that it’ll be gone.”
    “Don’t make me laugh. Who else can pay even that?”
    “According to the last poll I took, there were only three people in Beverly Hills who wouldn’t. Two of them have asthma, and the other has an artificial nose—a terrible war accident, you know. Bitten off by a prostitute in Marseilles.”
    “What do you want for it?”
    “The police assessed it at a million. That’d be enough.”
    “Surely you know that the papers exaggerate these things. And what do I get out of it at that price?”
    “Something to mix with your powdered sugar and baking soda for the suckers.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “Always nice to hear from you.” Chinese Gordon hung up and went back into the bedroom. “Where was I? Oh, yes. The United Nations. The whole issue was put best by Colonel Anna Liebchen of the East German Luftpizzle when she said—moaned, actually—”
    “Where did you get this, Chinese?” Margaret was lying on her stomach on the bed, staring at something in front of her.
    “No, what she said was—”
    “Shut up. This is crazy.”
    Chinese Gordon walked to the bed. He could see now that she had the box open, and sheets of paper were scattered on the pillow. “You shouldn’t snoop, you know.”
    “What is it?”
    “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I haven’t had time to do any reading in the past couple days. First there was Immelmann and his evolutionary freak of a dog, then I had our financial future to think about.”
    “Where did it come from?”
    “I liberated it while I was taking a plunge in the pharmaceutical industry the other night at the university. It’s probably not worth anything, but while I was there two guys were making some kind of deal on a security system, so I thought I’d check it out. That was the only thing that had a lock on it, so here it is. Most likely it’s a statistical study of the incidence of venereal disease in sixteenth-century nuns.”
    “The hell it is. You got this at the university? In some professor’s office? Jesus!”
    “Well, one of them had to be a professor. He was too pompous to be anything else. The other one looked like a salesman. What’s the big deal? Does it look like it’s worth something?”
    Margaret rolled over to face him, still clutching several pages. “Tell me, Chinese, does ‘psywar’ mean what it sounds like?”

12                   
Porterfield had to sidestep twice to avoid the electricians on ladders installing the security gear in Donahue’s laboratory. Bits of wire and boxes with molded foam padding littered the hallway. When he reached the end of the corridor he saw the one who must be Donahue sitting behind a desk and talking, the telephone cradled on his shoulder. The man held up a finger to Porterfield but didn’t smile.
    Porterfield waited in the hallway. He was glad it was Saturday. It would be only Donahue and the technicians, and he was sure he’d seen one of them with Goldschmidt at Langley only a month ago. He watched as the man spliced something into a line that led nowhere near the security equipment, then stuffed it back behind the drilled-out plaster and began to seal the hole.
    “Mr. Porterfield?”
    He turned and saw Donahue in the doorway. They shook hands and went inside.
    “I’m terribly sorry about this,” said Donahue. “There’s been a burglary in the office, and as luck would have it, the damned electricians are just now installing the alarm. I think