Smart Bombs by Len Levinson

Author:Len Levinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Thirteen

Each of the defectors was put in a separate room with no windows and a guard at the door. Butler’s room was a small sitting room with two sofas facing each other and a number of chairs sprinkled throughout the room. On the wall hung a portrait of George Washington, and Butler stretched out on the sofa, his hands behind his head. He was safe. He’d done it again. And now he’d have to get to the nearest office of the Institute as quickly as he could to relay the latest information on the Doom Machine.

The door of the office opened and in walked a man of forty-five wearing a blue Brooks Brothers suit with white shirt and red tie. His bald pate had freckles on it, he had a nose like a button, and he looked as though he played tennis every day.

“Hi there,” he said, extending his hand to Butler.

“Hello.” Butler stood and shook his hand.

“No—don’t get up—that’s all right.” The man pulled up a chair and sat beside the sofa that Butler was using. “My name’s Hardy, Alfred Hardy, and I’m one of the assistants to the Ambassador.”

Butler smiled politely, but he knew this guy was from the CIA. Who else would want to interview a bunch of people who crashed through the gates of the Embassy?

“Rather exciting thing you just did, what?” Hardy said.

“Yes,” Butler agreed.

“Would you mind telling me your name?”

“Not at all. It’s Butler.”

“You have your passport with you?”

“Afraid not.” Butler patted the pockets of his KGB uniform. “This isn’t mine.”

“Can you tell me in your own words what has happened, Mr. Butler?”

“Well, I was in the Soviet Union on business, and for some reason the KGB picked me up and threw me in prison. I escaped with a few other people, managed to hi-jack a car, and made it over here.”

“That’s incredible!” said Hardy.

“But true,” replied Butler.

“What were you doing in the Soviet Union in the first place?”

“I was sent here by my company, the Bancroft Research Institute, to do some business with the Russians, but before I knew what hit me, I was arrested and put in prison.”

“You don’t know why?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmmmm. And did you ever see any of the other people before?”

“No.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“The guy who owned the car is evidently pretty high up in the Soviet government.”

“Hmmmm. I see. Would you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Butler?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, by the way, could you give me your social security number?”

Butler did.

“Thank you. See you in a little while.” Hardy bounded out of his chair and headed for the door.

“Have you got a cigarette on you by any chance?” Butler asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Hardy spun around, returned to Butler, took out a pack of Marlboros, and gave him one. He lit it, then left the room.

Butler crossed his legs on the sofa and puffed the cigarette. He knew that Hardy would run his name and social security number through the computer and find out that Butler was an ex-CIA man with a strange past.

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