threatening to expose him if he went through
with it.
“He knows
everything
!” Mildred had asked Wanamaker in alarm.
“Absolutely everything,” he had confirmed.
“He knows about the packages we’ve been smuggling in?” Parker had asked.
Wanamaker had nodded dejectedly.
Webb had shaken his head in disbelief. “He couldn’t know
where
. That’s simply not possible. Even among ourselves we hardly ever mentioned Kabir.”
Wanamaker had flashed a furious look in Webb’s direction and the word Kabir had not come up again in the discussion, which
had turned around the necessity of canceling Stufftingle. But the Admiral had noted it.
Linkletter raised a finger in an effort to catch Yul’s eye. “My doctor told me not to drink, so I switched doctors. What’s
your pleasure, Pepper?”
“I invited you,” Toothacher said. “I’m buying. Are you still presiding over the Company’s dusty archives?”
“Here it comes,” Linkletter moaned. “It never fails. The day I meet someone who doesn’t want to know something outside channels
I will give up cigarettes
and
sex.”
The Admiral leaned over the table until his head was inches away from Linkletter’s. “Does the word
Kabir
ring any bells in that brain of yours?”
Linkletter jerked back in surprise. “I don’t believe it,” he exclaimed. “I simply refuse to. You’re the second person this
week to ask me about Kabir.”
The Admiral’s bulging eyes bored into Linkletter. “Who,” he asked, “was the first?”
The Company archivist sighed. “Come on, Pepper. You’ve known me long enough to know I won’t answer a question like that. I
don’t mind helping out a friend with the odd piece of information he could get by going into the archives himself. But it’s
not my style to betray compartmentalization.”
Toothacher batted his eyes innocently. “And you’ve known
me
long enough to know I won’t let you off the hook easily.” The Admiral crooked a forefinger in Linkletter’s direction. The
archivist leaned cautiously toward Toothacher, who said in an undertone, “People who leave the Company under a cloud would
be idiots not to take their private files with them—to make sure the Company didn’t change its mind about paying a pension.”
The Admiral narrowed his eyes to stir his memory. “An excerpt from a police blotter crossed mydesk when I worked at counterintelligence. I have a photocopy in Guantánamo. It came from a Tampa, Florida, precinct, I remember.
It mentioned lewd behavior. At a playground. Exposing a sexual organ to a minor.”
“It wasn’t true,” Linkletter burst out. “Not a word of it. The minor in question was nineteen years old and a professional.
The Director himself decided the evidence was too flimsy, my services too valuables—”
“The Director is dead,” Toothacher said in a bored voice. “Long live the Director.”
“I retire in two years, three months and nine days,” Link-letter whispered plaintively. His eyes watered with emotion. “You
wouldn’t …” He studied Toothacher’s weathered features. “You would!”
“Who,” the Admiral repeated his question, “was the other person to ask you about Kabir?”
20
I n the penumbra of the smoky light filtering through dirty windows, Admiral Toothacher circled the room. His nose twitched
of its own accord at the odors—staleness, mildew, stubbed-out cigars, synthetic carpet permeated with dust. He removed the
impossibly tacky color photograph of the President from the wall and examined the cobwebs behind it. He ran his fingertips
over the joints of the bricked-in chimney. He inspected the once wilting, now dead, plants on top of the safe, lifting them
one at a time from their plastic flowerpots. He examined the safe. He tapped a knuckle against the grimy windows, noticed
for the first time that there were double panes to prevent lasers from picking off voice vibrations and reproducing what was
said
with it.
“He knows
everything
!” Mildred had asked Wanamaker in alarm.
“Absolutely everything,” he had confirmed.
“He knows about the packages we’ve been smuggling in?” Parker had asked.
Wanamaker had nodded dejectedly.
Webb had shaken his head in disbelief. “He couldn’t know
where
. That’s simply not possible. Even among ourselves we hardly ever mentioned Kabir.”
Wanamaker had flashed a furious look in Webb’s direction and the word Kabir had not come up again in the discussion, which
had turned around the necessity of canceling Stufftingle. But the Admiral had noted it.
Linkletter raised a finger in an effort to catch Yul’s eye. “My doctor told me not to drink, so I switched doctors. What’s
your pleasure, Pepper?”
“I invited you,” Toothacher said. “I’m buying. Are you still presiding over the Company’s dusty archives?”
“Here it comes,” Linkletter moaned. “It never fails. The day I meet someone who doesn’t want to know something outside channels
I will give up cigarettes
and
sex.”
The Admiral leaned over the table until his head was inches away from Linkletter’s. “Does the word
Kabir
ring any bells in that brain of yours?”
Linkletter jerked back in surprise. “I don’t believe it,” he exclaimed. “I simply refuse to. You’re the second person this
week to ask me about Kabir.”
The Admiral’s bulging eyes bored into Linkletter. “Who,” he asked, “was the first?”
The Company archivist sighed. “Come on, Pepper. You’ve known me long enough to know I won’t answer a question like that. I
don’t mind helping out a friend with the odd piece of information he could get by going into the archives himself. But it’s
not my style to betray compartmentalization.”
Toothacher batted his eyes innocently. “And you’ve known
me
long enough to know I won’t let you off the hook easily.” The Admiral crooked a forefinger in Linkletter’s direction. The
archivist leaned cautiously toward Toothacher, who said in an undertone, “People who leave the Company under a cloud would
be idiots not to take their private files with them—to make sure the Company didn’t change its mind about paying a pension.”
The Admiral narrowed his eyes to stir his memory. “An excerpt from a police blotter crossed mydesk when I worked at counterintelligence. I have a photocopy in Guantánamo. It came from a Tampa, Florida, precinct, I remember.
It mentioned lewd behavior. At a playground. Exposing a sexual organ to a minor.”
“It wasn’t true,” Linkletter burst out. “Not a word of it. The minor in question was nineteen years old and a professional.
The Director himself decided the evidence was too flimsy, my services too valuables—”
“The Director is dead,” Toothacher said in a bored voice. “Long live the Director.”
“I retire in two years, three months and nine days,” Link-letter whispered plaintively. His eyes watered with emotion. “You
wouldn’t …” He studied Toothacher’s weathered features. “You would!”
“Who,” the Admiral repeated his question, “was the other person to ask you about Kabir?”
20
I n the penumbra of the smoky light filtering through dirty windows, Admiral Toothacher circled the room. His nose twitched
of its own accord at the odors—staleness, mildew, stubbed-out cigars, synthetic carpet permeated with dust. He removed the
impossibly tacky color photograph of the President from the wall and examined the cobwebs behind it. He ran his fingertips
over the joints of the bricked-in chimney. He inspected the once wilting, now dead, plants on top of the safe, lifting them
one at a time from their plastic flowerpots. He examined the safe. He tapped a knuckle against the grimy windows, noticed
for the first time that there were double panes to prevent lasers from picking off voice vibrations and reproducing what was
said
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