The realization had come rather slowly to Janvert that the file he had found and read was more sensitive than he had imagined and that a probable alternative to his joining the Agency had been a markerless grave in some southern swamp. He had never participated in a “swamping,” as Agency old-timers put it, but he knew for a fact that they occurred.
That’s how it was in the Agency, he learned.
The Agency.
No one ever called it anything else. The Agency’s economic operations, the spying and other forms of espionage only confirmed Janvert’s early cynicism. He saw the world without masks, telling himself that the great mass of his fellows had no realization whatsoever that they already lived in what was, for all intents and purposes, a police state. This had been inevitable from the formation of the first police state that achieved any degree of world power. The only apparent way to oppose a police state was by forming another police state. It was a condition that fostered its mimic forces on all sides (so Clovis Carr and Edward Janvert agreed). Everything they saw in the society took on police-state character. Janvert said it. “This is the time of the police states.”
They made this a tenet of their pact to leave the Agency together at the first opportunity. That their feelings for each other and the pact thus engendered were dangerous, they had no doubts. To leave the Agency would require new identities and a subsequent life of obscurity whose nature they understood all too well. Agents left the service through death in action or a carefully guarded retirement—or they sometimes just disappeared and, somehow, all of their fellows got the message not to ask questions. The most persistent retirement rumor in the Agency mentioned the farm; decidedly not Hellstrom’s farm. It was, instead, a carefully supervised rest home that none located with precise geography. Some said northern Minnesota. The story described high fences, guards, dogs, golf, tennis, swimming, splendid fishing on an enclosed lake, posh private cabins for “guests,” even quarters for married couples, but no children. Having children in this business was considered equal to a death sentence.
Both Carr and Janvert agreed they wanted children. Escape would have to occur while they were overseas together, they decided. Forged papers, new faces, money, the requisite language facility—all of the physical necessities were within reach except one: the opportunity. And never once did they suspect adolescent fantasy in such dreams—nor in the work that occupied their lives. They would escape—someday.
Depeaux was objecting to something in Merrivale’s briefing now. Janvert tried to pick up the thread: something about a young woman trying to escape from Hellstrom’s farm.
“Porter’s reasonably certain they didn’t kill her,” Merrivale said. “They just took her back inside that barn that we are told is the main studio for Hellstrom’s movie operation.”
From the Agency report on Project 40.
The papers were dropped from a folder by a man identified as a Hellstrom aide. The incident occurred in the MIT main library early last March as explained in the covering notes. The label “Project 40” was scribbled at the top of each page. From an examination of the notes and diagrams (see enclosure A), our experts postulate developmental plans for what they describe as “a toroidal field disrupter.” This is explained as an electron (or particle) pump capable of influencing physical matter at a distance. The papers are, unfortunately, incomplete. No definite line of development can be determined from them, although our own laboratories are exploring the provocative implications. It seems obvious, however, that someone in the Hellstrom organization is at work on an operational prototype. We cannot be certain (1) whether it will work or (2) if it works, to what use it will be put. However, in view of Dr. Zinstrom’s report (see enclosure G) we must assume the worst. Zinstrom assures us privately that the theory behind such a development is sound and that a toroidal field disrupter large enough, amplified enough, and set to the correct resonance could shatter the earth’s crust with disastrous consequences for all life on our planet.
“This is really a plum of a case we’re handing to Carlos,” Merrivale said. He touched his upper lip, brushing an imaginary mustache.
Carr, who was seated slightly behind Depeaux and facing Merrivale, noted the flush of sudden red at Depeaux’s neck. He didn’t like that obvious, pandering statement. The morning sun was shining in the window to Merrivale’s right, reflecting off the desk with a yellow brown underlight which imparted a saturnine cast to the operations director’s face.
“That movie-company front has got Peruge’s wind up, I must say,” Merrivale said. (Depeaux actually shuddered.)
Carr coughed to conceal a sudden hysterical desire to laugh aloud.
“Under the circumstances, we don’t dare go in and root them out, as I’m sure you can understand,” Merrivale said. “Not enough evidence in our kip. Your job, that. This movie front does offer one of our most promising points of entry, however.”
“What’s the subject matter of this film?” Janvert asked.
They all turned to look at him and Carr wondered why Eddie had interrupted. He seldom did that sort of thing casually. Was he fishing for some of the information behind Merrivale’s briefing?
“I thought I said,” Merrivale said. “Insects! They’re making a film about bloody insects. A bit of a surprise, that, when Peruge first mentioned it. I confess my own first guess was that they were making unsavory sex films and—ahhh, blackmailing someone in a sensitive position.”
Depeaux, sweating under a profound aversion to Merrivale’s bogus accent and manner, squirmed in his chair, resenting the interruption. Get on with it! he thought.
“I’m not sure I understand the sensitive conditions around Hellstrom’s operation,” Janvert said. “I’d thought the film would supply a clue.”
Merrivale sighed. Bloody nitpicker! He said, “Hellstrom is something of a madman on the subject of ecology. I’m sure you know how politically sensitive that subject is. There’s also the fact that he is employed as a consultant by several, I repeat, several persons of extremely powerful influence. I could name one senator and at least three congressmen. If we were to move frontally against Hellstrom, I’m sure the repercussions would be severe.”
“Ecology, eh,” Depeaux said, trying to get Merrivale back on track.
“Yes, ecology!” Merrivale made the word sound as though he wanted it to rhyme with sodomy. “The man has access to considerable sums of money, too, and we’d like to know about that.”
Depeaux nodded, said, “Let’s get back to that valley.”
“Yes, yes indeed,” Merrivale agreed. “You’ve all seen the map. This little valley’s been in Hellstrom’s family since his grandmother’s day. Trova Hellstrom, pioneer, widow, that sort of thing.”
Janvert rubbed a hand across his eyes. He was sure from Merrivale’s description of Trova Hellstrom that the intended picture was of a tiny “widow woman” fighting off attacking redskins from a blazing log cabin, her brats passing a bucket brigade behind her. The man was unbelievable.
“Here’s the map,” Merrivale said, extracting it from the papers on his desk. “Southeastern Oregon, right here.” He touched the map with a finger. “Guarded Valley. The closest civilization is this town here with the unlikely appellation of Fosterville.”
Carr wondered: Why an unlikely name? She glanced covertly at Janvert, but he was examining the palm of his right hand as though he had just found something fascinating in it.
“And they do all of their filming in this valley?” Depeaux asked.
“Oh, no!” Merrivale protested. “My God, Carlos. Didn’t you read enclosures R through W?”