Windfall. Desmond Bagley

      ‘I guess you could call me that,’ said Hardin tiredly.

      ‘This Hendrix in trouble?’

      ‘Not that I know of, Mr Parker. Could be the other way round, from what I hear. Could be good news for Hendrix.’

      ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Parker. ‘We’ve lived here eight months.’

      ‘Who did you buy the house from?’

      ‘Didn’t buy,’ said Parker. ‘We rent. The owner’s an old biddy who lives in Pasadena.’

      ‘And you don’t know the name of the previous tenant? He left no forwarding address?’ There was not much hope in Hardin’s voice.

      ‘Nope.’ Parker paused. ‘Course, my wife might know. She did all the renting business.’

      ‘Would it be possible to ask her?’

      ‘I guess so. Wait a minute.’ The door closed leaving Hardin looking at a peeling wooden panel. He heard a murmur of voices from inside the house and presently the door opened again and a woman peered at him then disappeared. He heard her say, ‘Take the chain off the door, Pete.’

      ‘Hell, Milly; you know what they told us about LA.’

      ‘Take the chain off,’ said Milly firmly. ‘What kind of a life is it living behind bolts and bars?’

      The door closed, there was a rattle, and then it opened wide. ‘Come on in,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘It ain’t fit for a dog being out today.’

      Thankfully Hardin stepped over the threshold. Parker was a burly man of about forty-five with a closed, tight face, but Milly Parker smiled at Hardin. ‘You want to know about the Hendersons, Mr Hardin?’

      Hardin repressed the sinking feeling. ‘Hendrix, Mrs Parker.’

      ‘Could have sworn it was Henderson. But come into the living room and sit down.’

      Hardin shook his head. ‘I’m wet; don’t want to mess up your furniture. Besides, I won’t take up too much of your time. You think the previous tenant was called Henderson?’

      ‘That’s what I thought. I could have been wrong.’ She laughed merrily, ‘I often am.’

      ‘Was there a forwarding address?’

      ‘I guess so; there was a piece of paper,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ll look in the bureau.’ She went away.

      Hardin looked at Parker and tried to make light conversation. ‘Get this kind of weather often?’

      ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Parker briefly. ‘Haven’t been here long.’

      Hardin heard drawers open in the next room and there was the rustle of papers. ‘The way I hear it this is supposed to be the Sunshine State. Or is that Florida?’

      Parker grunted. ‘Rains both places; but you wouldn’t know to hear the Chambers of Commerce tell it.’

      Mrs Parker came back. ‘Can’t find it,’ she announced, ‘It was just a little bitty piece of paper.’ She frowned. ‘Seems I recollect an address. I know it was off Ventura Boulevard; perhaps in Sherman Oaks or, maybe, Encino.’

      Hardin winced; Ventura Boulevard was a hundred miles long. Parker said abruptly, ‘Didn’t you give the paper to that other guy?’

      ‘What other guy?’ asked Hardin.

      ‘Why, yes; I think I did,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘Now I think of it. A nice young man. He was looking for Henderson, too.’

      Hardin sighed. ‘Hendrix,’ he said. ‘Who was this young man?’

      ‘Didn’t bother to ask,’ said Parker. ‘But he was a foreigner—not American. He had a funny accent like I’ve never heard before.’

      Hardin questioned them further but got nothing more, then said, ‘Well, could I have the address of the owner of the house. She might know.’ He got the address and also the address of the local realtor who had negotiated the rental. He looked at his watch and found it was late. ‘Looks like the day’s shot. Know of a good motel around here?’

      ‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘Go south until you hit Riverside, then turn west. There are a couple along there before you hit the turning to Laurel Canyon.’

      He thanked them and left, hearing the door slam behind him and the rattle of the chain. It was still raining; not so hard as before but still enough to drench him before he reached the shelter of his car. He was wet and gloomy as he drove away.

      His motel room was standard issue and dry. He took off his wet suit and hung it over the bath, regarded it critically, and decided it needed pressing. He wondered if Gunnarsson would stand for that on the expense account. Then he took off his shirt, hung it next to the suit, and padded into the bedroom in his underwear. He sat at the table, opened his briefcase, and took out a sheaf of papers 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