which he spread out and regarded dispiritedly. His shoulders sagged and he looked exactly what he was—a failure. A man pushing fifty-five-with a pot belly, his once muscular body now running to fat, his brains turning to mush, and the damned dandruff was making his hair fall out. Every time he looked at his comb he was disgusted.
Ben Hardin once had such high hopes. He had majored in languages at the University of Illinois and when he had been approached by the recruiter he had been flattered. Although the approach had been subtle he was not fooled; the campus was rife with rumours about the recruiters and everyone knew what they were recruiting for. And so he had fallen for the flattery and responded to the appeals to his patriotism because this was the height of the Cold War and everyone knew the Reds were the enemy.
So they had taken him and taught him to shoot—handgun, rifle, machine-gun—taught him unarmed combat, how to hold his liquor and how to make others drunk. They told him of drops and cut-outs, of codes and cyphers, how to operate a radio and many other more esoteric things. Then he had reported to Langley as a fully fledged member of the CIA only to be told bluntly that he knew nothing and was the lowest of the low on the totem pole.
In the years that followed he gained in experience. He worked in Australia, England, Germany and East Africa. Sometimes he found himself working inside his own country which he found strange because the continental United States was supposed to be the stamping ground of the FBI and off-limits to the CIA. But he obeyed orders and did what he was told and eventually found that more than half his work was in the United States.
Then came Watergate and everything broke loose. The Company sprang more holes than a sieve and everyone rushed to plug up the leaks, but there seemed to be more informers than loyal Company men. Newspaper pages looked like extracts from the CIA files, and the shit began to fly. There were violent upheavals as the top brass defended themselves against the politicians, director followed director, each one publicly dedicated to cleaning house, and heads duly rolled, Hardin’s among them.
He had been genuinely shocked at what had happened to the Company and to himself. In his view he had been a loyal servant of his country and now his country had turned against him. He was in despair, and it was then that Gunnarsson approached him. They met by appointment in a Washington bar which claimed to sell every brand of beer made in the world. He arrived early and, while waiting for Gunnarsson, ordered a bottle of Swan for which he had developed a taste in Australia.
When Gunnarsson arrived they talked for a while of how the country was going to hell in a handcart and of the current situation at Langley. Then Gunnarsson said, ‘What are you going to do now, Ben?’
Hardin shrugged. ‘What’s to do? I’m a trained agent, that’s all. Not many skills for civilian life.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Gunnarsson earnestly. ‘Look, Fletcher and I are setting up shop in New York.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Same racket, but in civilian form. The big corporations are no different than countries. Why, some of the internationals are bigger than goddamn countries, and they’ve all got secrets to protect—and secrets to find. My God, Ben; the field’s wide open but we’ve got to get in fast before some of the other guys who were canned from Langley have the same idea. We wait too long the competition could be fierce. If this Watergate bullshit goes on much longer retired spooks will be a drug on the market.’
Hardin took a swig of beer. ‘You want me in?’
‘Yeah. I’m getting together a few guys, all hand picked, and you are one of them—if you want in. With our experience we ought to clean up.’ He grinned. ‘Our experience and the pipelines we’ve still got into Langley.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Hardin.
‘Only thing is it’ll take dough,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘How much can you chip in?’
Money and Hardin bore a curious relationship. A dollar bill and Hardin were separated by some form of anti-glue—they never could get together. He had tried; God, how he had tried. But his bets never came off, his investments failed, and Hardin was the centre of a circle surrounded by dollar bills moving away by some sort of centrifugal force. He had once been married and the marriage had failed as much by his inability to keep money as by the strain imposed by his work. The alimony payments now due each quarter merely added to the centrifugal force.
Now he shook his head. ‘Not a thin dime,’ he said. ‘I’m broke and getting broker. Annette’s cheque is due Tuesday and I don’t know how I’m going to meet that.’
Gunnarsson looked disappointed. ‘As bad as that?’
‘Worse,’ said Hardin glumly. ‘I’ve got to get a job fast and I have to sweet talk Annette. Those two things are holding my whole attention.’
‘Gee, Ben; I was hoping you’d be with us. There’s nobody I’d rather have along, and Fletcher agrees with me. Only the other day he was talking about how ingeniously you shafted that guy in Dar-es-Salaam.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Okay, you don’t have money, but maybe something can be worked out. It won’t be as sweet a deal as if you came in as a partner but it’ll be better than anything else you can get. And we still want you along because we think you’re a good guy and you know the business.’
So a deal had been worked out and Hardin went to work for Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc not as a partner but as an employee with a reasonable salary. At first he was happy, but over the years things began to go wrong. Gunnarsson became increasingly hard-nosed and the so-called partnership fell apart. Fletcher was squeezed out and Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc became Gunnarsson Associates. Gunnarsson was the ramrod and let no one forget it.
And Hardin himself lost his drive and initiative. No longer buoyed by patriotism he became increasingly dissatisfied with the work he was doing which in his view fulfilled no more elevating a function than to increase the dividends of shareholders and buttress the positions of corporate fatcats. And he was uneasy because a lot of it was down-right illegal.
He fell down on a couple of jobs and Gunnarsson turned frosty and from then on he noted that he had been down-graded as a field agent and was relegated to the minor investigations about which no one gave a damn. Like the Hendrix case.
Hardin lay on the bed in the motel and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. Come on, Hardin, he thought. You’ve nearly got a Hendrix—you’re nearly there, man. Think of the bonus Gunnarsson will pay you. Think of Annette’s alimony.
He smiled wryly as he remembered that Parker had referred to him as a ‘private dick’. Parker had been reading too many mysteries. Natural enough, though; wasn’t this Chandler country; Philip Marlowe country; ‘down these mean streets a man must go’ country? Come on, you imitation Marlowe, he said to himself. Get off your ass and do something.
He swung his legs sideways, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for the telephone. From what he had gathered the owner of the Parker house operated from her home in Pasadena, and it was still not too late in the evening to talk to her. He checked the number in his notebook and dialled. After a few buzzes a voice said in his ear, ‘The White residence.’
The White House! He suppressed an inane chuckle, and said, ‘Mrs White?’
‘It is she speaking.’
‘My name is Hardin, and I represent Gunnarsson Associates of New York. I understand you own a house in North Hollywood.’
‘I own several houses in North Hollywood,’
