The Doomsday Conspiracy

“Roberto!” a man exclaimed. He threw his arms around Robert. “How are you, mio amico?”

The speaker was a fat man in his sixties with white, unshaven stubble, thick eyebrows, yellowed teeth and several chins. He closed the door behind him and locked it.

“I’m fine, Ricco.”

Ricco had no second name. For a man like me, he liked to boast, one name is enough. Like Garbo. “What can I do for you today, my friend?”

“I’m working on a case,” Robert said, “and I’m in a hurry. Can you fix me up with a passport?”

Ricco smiled. “Is the Pope Catholic?” He waddled over to a cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. “What country would you like to be from?” He pulled out a handful of passports with different-coloured covers, and sorted through them. “We have a Greek passport, Turkish, Yugoslavian, English …”

“American,” Robert said.

Ricco pulled out a passport with a blue cover. “Here we are. Does the name of Arthur Butterfield appeal to you?”

“Perfect,” Robert said.

“If you’ll stand over by the wall, I will take your picture.”

Robert moved over to the wall. Ricco opened a drawer and took out a Polaroid camera. A minute later, Robert was looking at a picture of himself.

“I wasn’t smiling,” Robert said.

Ricco looked at him, puzzled. “What?”

“I wasn’t smiling. Take another one.”

Ricco shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Robert smiled while the second passport picture was taken. He looked at it and said, “That’s better.” He casually slipped the first picture into his pocket.

“Now comes the high-tech part,” Ricco announced. Robert watched as Ricco walked over to a work bench where there was a laminating machine. He placed the picture on the inside of the passport.

Robert moved to a table covered with pens, ink and other paraphernalia, and slipped a razor blade and a small bottle of glue into his jacket pocket.

Ricco was studying his handiwork. “Not bad,” he said. He handed the passport to Robert. “That will be five thousand dollars.”

“And well worth it,” Robert assured him, as he peeled off ten five-hundred-dollar bills.

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you people. You know how I feel about you.”

Robert knew exactly how he felt. Ricco was an expert cobbler who worked for half a dozen different governments, and was loyal to none. He put the passport in his pocket.

“Good luck, Mr Butterfield.” Ricco smiled.

“Thanks.”

The moment the door closed behind Robert, Ricco reached for the telephone. Information was always worth money to someone.

Outside, twenty yards down the street, Robert took the new passport out of his pocket and buried it in a trash can. Chaff. The technique he had used as a pilot to lay false trails for enemy missiles. Let them look for Arthur Butterfield.

The grey Opel was parked half a block away. Waiting. Impossible. Robert was sure that the car was the only tail they had on him. He was certain the Opel had not followed him, and yet it kept finding him. They had to have some way of keeping track of him. There was only one answer: they were using some kind of homing device. And he had to be carrying it. Attached to his clothes? No. They had had no opportunity. Captain Dougherty had stayed with him while he packed, but he would not have known what clothes Robert would take. Robert made a mental inventory of what he was carrying … cash, keys, a wallet, handkerchief, credit card. The credit card! I doubt if I’ll need that, General. Take it. And keep it with you at all times.

The sneaky sonofabitch. No wonder they had been able to find him so easily.

The grey Opel was no longer in sight. Robert took out the card and examined it. It was slightly thicker than an ordinary credit card. By squeezing it, he could feel an inner layer. They would have a remote control to activate the card. Good, Robert thought. Let’s keep the bastards busy.

There were several trucks parked along the street, loading and unloading goods. Robert examined the licence plates. When he came to a red truck with French plates, he looked around to make sure he was not observed, and tossed the card in the back of the truck.

He flagged down a taxi. “Hassler, perfavore.”

In the lobby, Robert approached the concierge. “See if there’s a flight out of here tonight to Paris, please.”

“Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular airline?”

“It doesn’t matter. The first flight out.”

“I will be happy to arrange it.”

“Thank you.” Robert walked over to the hotel clerk. “My key, please. Room 314. And I’ll be checking out in a few minutes.”

“Very good, Commander Bellamy.” The clerk reached in a pigeonhole and pulled out a key and an envelope. “There’s a letter here for you.”

Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed, and addressed simply: Commander Robert Bellamy. He fingered it, feeling for plastique or any metal inside. Carefully, he opened it. Inside was a printed card advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent enough. Except, of course, for his name on the envelope.

“Do you happen to remember who gave you this?”

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said apologetically, “but we have been so busy this evening …”

It was not important. The man would have been faceless. He would have picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the envelope and stood by the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that the envelope was placed in. He would be upstairs now, in Robert’s room, waiting. It was time to see the face of the enemy.