“Well, that's not unusual, is it? Cold air makes lots of people want to go take a piss.”
“You're a real hypochondriac. You know that? First it's pneumonia. Then it's bladder problems,” said the smallest man.
The tall man said, “Will you two cool it?”
A moment later the porch light came on, blinding them for a second or two, and the door opened.
A tall, beefy, rather good-looking man in his late thirties scrutinized them through the storm-door screen. He had a broad, reddish face with a granite-block chin, sharp mouth, Roman nose, and quick dark eyes under bushy eyebrows. He kept his eyes as narrow as paper cuts while he studied the three of them. “What is it?”
“Are you Carl Altmüller?”
“Yes. Who're you?”
“CIA,” the tall man said.
“What do you want here?” Altmüller asked, surprised.
The tall man held his agency credentials up to the screen where Altmüller could see them. “We'd like ten minutes of your time to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“A case we're on.”
“What case?”
The tall man sighed. “Could we come in and discuss it, please? It's damned chilly out here.”
“Amen,” said the agent who wore eyeglasses.
Unlocking the storm door and pushing it open for them, Altmüller said, “I don't know any damned thing that could possibly interest the CIA. Now that's a fact.”
Stepping inside and following Altmüller down a narrow pine-floored entrance hall, the tall man said, “Well, sir, quite often people know things of which they aren't aware. It's quite likely that something you might find inconsequential, something you saw and which meant nothing to you at the time, will be the exact clue that we've been searching for all along.”
In the comfortably furnished living room, an attractive blonde was sitting on one end of the couch. She was wearing a tight blue sweater and a short white skirt; her legs were long and well tanned. She took a sip from an icy drink and smiled at them.
“This is my fiancée,” Altmüller said. “Connie Eaton.”
“Good evening, Miss Eaton,” the tall man said. “I'm sorry to interrupt.”
She glanced at Altmüller and then back at the agent. “Oh, that's all right, Mr.—”
“Buell,” the tall man said. “Ken Buell.”
“Now what's this about?” Altmüller asked, offering them neither chairs nor drinks.
Smiling at the woman, Buell said, “Would you mind going out to the kitchen for a few minutes?”
“Not at all.” She stood up and quickly pressed her skirt with her one free hand.
Turning to the agent beside him, Buell said, “Keep Miss Eaton company for a few minutes.” When Altmüller started to speak, Buell turned to him and said, “What I've come here to see you about is a top-secret matter. Miss Eaton must not listen in on us. And you must not discuss this with her when we've gone.”
Altmüller frowned and said, “I don't understand this.”
The woman squeezed his arm and said, “It'll be all right, Carl.” She smiled at the agent who wore eyeglasses and said, “The kitchen is this way, Mr.—”
He did not pick up on the cue as Buell had done. Instead, he said, “God, it's nice to be in a warm house! The heater isn't working in our car, and I feel like an ice cube.” He followed her across the dining room and into the kitchen. He closed the kitchen door behind them.
“Would you just have a seat on the couch, Mr. Altmüller?” Buell asked.
As Altmüller perched on the edge of the couch, the third agent put down the attaché case which he had been carrying and opened it on the coffee table. He took from it a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a cotton pad, a small vial of yellowish serum, and a hypodermic syringe wrapped in a sterilized plastic envelope.
Altmüller's eyes widened. “What's this?”
With that reassuring manner common to the best and worst medical doctors, Buell said, “Mr. Altmüller, you really have nothing at all to worry about. I'm certain you can understand that in a matter like this, with the national security hanging by a thread, extraordinary measures are required.”
“What are you talking about? What the fuck are you talking about? What could I have to do with the national security?”
“In time, Mr. Altmüller. I'll explain in time.”
Altmüller stood up. “Explain now.”
“In a situation like this, when the future of our country is in doubt, we can take no chances,” Buell said. “We must—”
“You're talking nonsense,” Altmüller said. “I'm not a spy. I'm a nobody. There's nothing I know that—”
“With so much at stake,” Buell said, raising his voice slightly, “we must be absolutely sure that you're telling the truth.”
“What is that stuff?” Altmüller asked, nodding at the vial. “Is it hyoscine? Amytal? Pentothal?”
“Oh, no,” Buell said. “In the agency we are able to take advantage of all the newest discoveries, the latest drugs. This is much more effective than Pentothal.”
The third agent broke open the plastic envelope and took out the syringe. He soaked the cotton pad in alcohol and wiped off the membrane that capped the vial. He popped the needle through the membrane and drew yellow fluid into the syringe.
“You need a warrant,” Altmüller said belatedly.
“Relax,” Buell said.
“The CIA doesn't even have domestic jurisdiction.”
“Relax.”
His hairline suddenly beaded with perspiration, Altmüller took a step toward the agent who held the needle.
“Sit down,” Buell said quietly, coldly.
Numbed by confusion and weakened by fear, Alt-müller stared at the silenced pistol that had appeared almost magically in Buell's right hand.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Don't forget your fiancée in the kitchen.”
Altmüller glared at him.
“We only want to ask you some questions.”
Opening his mouth and then closing it without speaking, Altmüller sat down.
“Roll up your sleeve,” Buell said.
Altmüller made no move to obey.
Raising the pistol, Buell put a bullet in the back of the couch, two inches from the big man's shoulder.
Shaken, Altmüller rolled up his sleeve.
The other agent took a length of rubber tubing from the attaché case and tied it tightly around Altmüller's biceps. In seconds the dark vein bulged out of the smooth skin just above the crook of the arm. The agent picked up the syringe, punched the needle through the vein, pulled it back slightly, drew blood into the syringe where the yellow fluid turned orange, then shot the drug into Altmüller's body.
As the smaller agent began to put away the medical equipment, Altmüller looked at Buell and said, “Ask your questions and get the hell out of here.”
“The drug won't take effect for another minute or so,” Buell said, still covering the big man with the pistol.
A minute later Altmüller's eyelids drooped. His mouth sagged partway open. He leaned back against the couch and let his hands fall, palms up, at his sides. His voice was weak, distant: “Oh… Jesus… Christ!”
Buell put away his pistol and took a sheet of paper from his wallet. It was a list of forty names. He took a felt-tip pen from his shirt pocket, uncapped it, and held it next to the first name on the list. Standing over Altmüller, he said, “Do you know a federal marshal named Frank Jaekal?”
Glassy-eyed, Altmüller did not respond.
Buell asked the same question again, in a firmer, louder voice this time.
“No,” Altmüller said weakly.
“Do you know a federal marshal named Alan Coffey?”
“No.”