Roy Dudley If We Should Die Before We Wake 1

CHAPTER 1

   Brian Scott approached his rented brownstone tenement on New York's lower east side, idly watching the building rear its ugly head through the mist and rain. The cheap drapery covered windows of the second story stared with blind eyes at identical brownstone tenements across the street. And up the street, down the street and next door, close relatives thrust their ancient facades into the sidewalks, facades whose ornamentation crumbled from neglect and time. The mist and advancing night sympathetically wrapped a protective blanket of anonymity about the buildings, blending their faults and ancient finery into a remembered elegance that the feeble glow of the street lights failed to penetrate.

   He shrugged deeper into his cheap raincoat in a vain attempt to minimize the water trickling under his collar. A car turned the corner ahead of him and cruised leisurely up the deserted street, its lights slashing a pathway through the smokey drizzle. Almost instinctively, Brian ducked his head to avoid the spearing light.

   This avoiding of lights and the secret life he lived wouldn't last much longer. His resignation had been on file for months. Hopefully, tonight the dirt, grime and polluted atmosphere of the city, and the secret half-world of espionage would be behind.

   The rain was a slow drip from his hat brim, a stale dampness strangling the city. His feet soaked, uncomfortable in the summer wetness, Except for dimly seen figures scurrying into a tavern, the streets were deserted. These furtive creatures paused before entering, and vanished inside as if fearing the darkness. And, of course they did; darkness brought out the denizens of the alleys, the dimly seen shapes against vacant doorways, the drug pushers and the rat pack.

   Brian smiled wryly at the turn of his imagination. He had been in this business too long.

   He climbed the two concrete steps to the door and inserted a key more by feel and habit than from any help from the dim lighting. He turned the key once, heard a relay close and appeared to fumble. He immediately turned the key again, the opposite way. The lock opened with a faint click of metal, his welcome home.

   Fading into the dark entry, his eyes raked the streets. He paused at a derelict hanging to a lamp post, then swept on, into the misty distance where rain haloed the lights. He closed the door softly and turned to the stairs.

   Even as he climbed, the door to the second floor hall opened, spilling light down the uncarpeted stairway. Without glancing up, he ascended the stairs slowly, feeling a perverse pleasure in stepping on each protesting tread. God, he ought to know them after two years.

   A svelte form shadowed the light in the doorway. "I believe you missed one, the third from the bottom on the left hand side."

   "Sorry, I must have been dreaming. Did Jack arrive?"

   She stepped back, her large eyes in his face. "You forgot to say hello."

   He looked past the soft exterior to the cynical, hardened woman inside. For two years they had posed as man and wife before the world, and he knew her as he knew no other woman.

   "Hello, Cynthia." His voice was weary and he was weary.

   She curtsied mockingly and extended her hand invitingly toward the open door of the den. "In there."

   There was a vague hurt in her eyes that she allowed him to glimpse. She was a consummate actress, but the hurt was real, as real as anything in their unreal world. And she intended that he see it.

   He squeezed her hand, suddenly gentle. "After you."

   Jack Campbell was an average man of average build, and with no outstanding characteristics that would separate him for the crowd. If Brian were to paint a picture of the average man, he would use Jack as a model.

   In fact, Jack was far from the average man in the shadowy world of intelligence where he made his home. He was one of the unsung giants whose feats were unknown except as fragments to a select few. It was quite probable that enemy dossiers carried more information on Jack than was known by some of his close associates.

   "So you're quitting?" Jack asked without preliminaries.

   Brian nodded. "I'm quitting."

   "The boss asked me to extend his congratulations on your last job."

   Brian nodded his thanks. "A drink?"

   "No, thanks, business you know."

   "Perhaps some coffee?"

   "No, but thanks anyway. I just had my lunch. You have four weeks leave due you which will commence two weeks from today--midnight, Sunday

   the twenty-third, to be exact."

   "Why two weeks?"

   "You and Cynthia must break up housekeeping, pack your furniture, and prepare your neighbors for your departure. Your furniture will be properly disposed of and Cynthia will be given a new assignment. In the meantime, she must tender her two week's notice to her present employer of record."

   "She will travel to Colorado with me?"

   "No, only far enough to assure her safety."

   "My cover?"

   "You will remain Brian Scott. You were born as Brian Scott, and will be given papers to prove the fact." Jack patted a valise by his feet with a slight smile. "In here."

   "And?"

"Your company has a position open for you in Denver if you are interested. If not, you are free to find your own job."

   "References?"

   "Contact the district office for that which is required and is not found here." Again Jack tapped the case.

   "And?"

   "You will be watched carefully until such intelligence as you possess is considered valueless. Any letters addressed to your company here in New York will be answered--by us."

   Brian nodded his head, satisfied, then but turned to a listening Cynthia. "I'm sorry, but I've had enough of this work."

   She studied him, her eyes brooding, but her expression bland.

   "Anson's Gap- Sounds like a hell of place for a vacation. Anything there?"

   "Not a thing except scenery and quiet."

   "No thanks, I like brighter lights than the stars."

   Jack came to his feet and extended a lean hand. "Sorry it took so long to process your resignation. You know how those things are."

   Brian smiled wryly, but shook Jack's hand cordially enough.

   "Quite all right, now that the papers have come through."

   Brian closed the door behind his departing guest and turned to see Cynthia regarding him. She had assumed her mummer's mask, her face expressionless.

   "A celebration? cocktails?" she asked lightly.

   "Depends. Are we celebrating my resignation, or are we drinking to your new assignment?"

   "There's a difference?"

   "Perhaps only to me."

   "My, you are touchy tonight." She stressed the third word with just the proper amount of amusement.

   "Cynthia Scott, nee Bergen, nee Andrews--actress, stenographer, agent number two five one, and so forth."

   "That hardly covers the lot. You forgot a few."

   "Terribly sorry, but I really believe actress would cover the whole bit."

   She smiled brightly. "And you're so kind, darling."

   "Aren't I though?"

   He couldn't be certain, but a transitory feeling that might have been hurt or appeal tinged her face. Of course, that too could be a part of the act. Long ago he had learned not to read anything into her expression. If espionage were a vocation, acting was a full-time avocation. He sometimes wondered if she believed it necessary to act out the emotions people assumed she experienced, feelings that, in reality, were alien to her being.

   "You have reached some profound conclusion concerning me?" she inquired.

   She had been a hard teacher, but had taught him to act too--a matter of self-preservation. He smiled now. "I merely argued the merits of a cocktail lounge versus a good restaurant."

   "May I cast my vote for the cocktail lounge?"

   "Be my guest."

   Late that night, Brian carried a thoroughly saturated Cynthia up the stairs to their flat. She had exhibited a surprising capacity for double martinis, dancing, and vodka on the rocks, in that order. As drink had clouded her mind, she had allowed her mask to slip fractionally. Now he was no longer certain where in the welter of subterfuge and dissimulation the real Cynthia lay.

   He placed her on her bed and sat beside her for a moment, studying the beautiful face, now relaxed in drunken slumber. Somewhere under her facade of sophistication and cynicism lay a woman not far removed from other women, her needs little different from others of her species.

   He undressed her and placed her between the covers. In their two years together, he had never seen her drunk and with her defenses down.

   He lay in his own bed, troubled by this enigmatic creature who managed to be vindictive and forgiving, cynical and idealistic, and all things to all men according to the dictates of her mind, her humor, or her instinct.

   The intervening two weeks held fourteen uneasy days for Brian.

   Cynthia no longer fit the mold he had cast for her. Sometimes he believed the relief of his imminent departure had changed her subtly.

   At other times, he was certain his departure had hurt her in some ineffable way.

   He was wary of this new Cynthia who changed characters like an actress changing costumes. He arrived at the flat late and left early, avoiding her as much as decently possible. She had always had an indefinable power to hurt him, and he wished to hold to the neutral ground they had occupied for the past year.

   He stopped the car before a hotel in Columbus, Ohio. Here they would enter together and he would leave alone. He left their suitcases with a very efficient doorman whose conservative uniform provided light for the block. He explained to this paragon that he and his wife would return in a few minutes to claim the luggage. They were leaving the car for servicing.

   Brian drove two blocks, turned the corner, pulled into the curb and glanced at his watch. Right on schedule.

   "Ten minutes, darling," said Cynthia. "What shall we do with it?"

   "Speculate on the mysteries of the fourth dimension?"

   "Something much move tangible. How about the mysteries of life??yours?"

   "You tell me."

   "What are you going to do with it?"

   "See if I can untangle a few threads from the ball of yarn."

   "Interesting," she murmured with a smile. "And you're going to accomplish this while astride your aerie in the mountains?"

   "No, I believe the first strand of thread may lie in some local pub under a load of whiskey. Alcohol does expand the mind, doesn't it?"

   "It is generally termed a depressant by our medical experts."

   Brian clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "So much for experts."

   "And women?"

   "Some are interesting," said Brian cautiously.

   "And others?"

   "Are not."

   "And the obvious question?"

   "What ever you may be, you are never obvious, Cynthia."

   "If I am now?"

   "A few minutes hardly seems sufficient time in which to explore such a complex subject as Cynthia."

   Her face had turned softer and more womanish. Brian glanced around uneasily and in vain for their contact.

   "Two minutes, Brian, shall I begin the countdown?"

   She placed her hand gently on his arm. "You could have been a gentleman and lied about me." Tears lay banked against her eyelids.

   Brian decided this was not a part of the act. "You are stimulating, Cynthia." He glanced at her again, but her momentary lapse was under control. "Too much so at times."

   "Try not to hate me too much, Brian--now and later."

   "Hate you? That would be difficult to do," he protested feebly.

   "Here comes our gentleman, leading a very normal gray poodle and wearing a very conservative blue suit with contrasting brown oxfords. It would seem the coast is clear. Shall we go?" Her voice was calm, almost serene.

Copyright © 1998