Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

DECEMBER 1978

There are no job fairs for assassins. Recruitment is a delicate business, and Billie Webster has no idea that her number is about to be called. She is sitting in a holding cell in Austin, Texas. She has spent the night propped against the cinder-block wall, listening to the usual sounds of a city jail on a Saturday night. A prostitute has fallen asleep with her head on Billie’s shoulder, and even though she smells like body odor and weed, Billie doesn’t make her move.

She hasn’t made her one phone call because she has just broken up with the second-year law student at UT who usually bails her out and doesn’t know who else to call.

So she waits, letting the prostitute snore on her shoulder until the duty officer comes and barks out a name. “Webster!”

Billie gently moves the prostitute aside and stands. The duty officer jerks his head and opens the cell, cuffing her before taking her arm and leading her down a narrow hall. She is still dressed in the denim flares she wore to the protest, but they are stiff with blood and there are red half-moons caked under her nails. The duty officer takes her through a series of doors until they come to one marked private. He unlocks the cuffs and opens the door, gesturing for her to enter as he reattaches the cuffs to his belt.

Inside is a scarred table and a pair of chairs. A man is sitting in one, reading a newspaper as he smokes a pipe. He is dressed in civilian clothes but something about his posture says he’s spent time in uniform.

The officer jerks his head for Billie to enter. “I will be just outside, sir,” he tells the man, but he looks at Billie when he says it and she knows it’s a warning.

She enters and the door closes behind her. The man looks up and waves her over with an unexpected smile. When she gets closer, she sees that the newspaper is the funnies section.

The man chuckles a little as he folds the newspaper. “Marmaduke,” he says to himself. He watches as she sits, looking her over carefully as she returns the favor. She is dirty, her dark blond hair tangled and in desperate need of a wash. She is wearing a thin sweater and bell-bottomed jeans embroidered with palm trees and rainbows, and there is something oddly touching about the notion of this girl sitting in her dorm room, setting each little stitch. It pleases him to think of her doing something so precise. It means his instincts about this girl are right.

She sees a man on the wrong side of sixty, she guesses, with the wiry muscles of a whippet and tidy, sandy hair mixed with white. His mustache is thin and dapper, and he wears casual clothes—khaki pants and an oxford-cloth shirt—with the air of a suit from Savile Row. Billie has not yet heard of Savile Row. It will be many months later that she learns about custom clothing and realizes that he has been her introduction to proper tailoring.

His features are set in an expression of calm interest and he seems amused by her scrutiny. “Good morning, Miss Webster.”

He looks at her swelling, bloody knuckles and doesn’t attempt to shake her hand. It is considerate, and she likes him for it.

“What’s this all about?” she asks.

He smiles, a patient, good-natured smile. “All in good time, Miss Webster. I hope you are not in too much discomfort from your injuries? That contusion above your lip really ought to be stitched,” he says reproachfully. There is a faint British accent to his words, and she likes him for that too.

“I’m fine,” she tells him.

“May I offer you refreshment? A pastry or a cup of coffee? The police canteen does not have much variety, I am afraid.”

Billie shakes her head and he sits back, apparently satisfied that the obligatory courtesy has been observed.

“Good, good. Introductions, then,” he says, rubbing his hands together briskly. “My name is Richard Halliday. Major, Her Majesty’s Army. Retired.”

“What does that have to do with the Austin PD?”

He ignores the question and moves the newspaper aside. Underneath is a manila folder with her name on it. “ ‘Webster, Billie.’ ” He pauses to look at her. “I admit, that surprised me. I rather thought it might be short for something. Wilhelmina, perhaps.” She stares at him and he goes on reading snippets of his notes. He plows through her IQ—142; her school records—spotty with superb standardized test scores blighted by “discipline issues”; and the fact that she has gotten into college on a scholarship and some institutional pity for the fact that she lived in an unlicensed foster home while in high school. She holds up a hand when he starts on her loner tendencies.

“Major, is this for my benefit? Because I actually know all of that.”

He closes the file. “I represent an organization,” Halliday says slowly. “A clandestine organization, so if you wouldn’t mind keeping this meeting to yourself, it would be greatly appreciated.” He pauses and raises his sandy brows to give her a chance to nod in agreement. “Very good, thank you. As I was saying, I represent an organization that is in need of talent—specifically young, new talent that can be shaped and molded in accordance with our purposes for a very special endeavor.”

“Is it porn? It’s porn, isn’t it?”

The narrow mouth almost smiles. “It is not pornography, no.”

“Then what purposes?” Billie asks. He flinches a little and she realizes that direct questions are not going to be welcome. She would do better to come at him sideways like a crab.

“That will be clear in a moment,” he assures her. “I think it best if I explain the general mission of the organization. Have you heard of the OSS? The SOE?”

“Office of Strategic Services and Special Operations Executive,” Billie says. He raises one brow and she shrugs. “I read a lot.”

“Indeed.” The eyebrow settles back into place. “Then you no doubt know the OSS was founded during the Second World War to coordinate espionage efforts across the branches of the American armed forces.”

“Spies,” she says flatly.

“Spies,” he acknowledges. “After the war, the OSS developed into the Central Intelligence Agency. The story of the Special Operations Executive is a bit different. It was formed under the direction of the Minister of Economic Warfare and largely guided by Churchill himself. Many civilians were involved in extremely dangerous resistance and sabotage work all across Europe.”

“The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare,” she says.

This time he does smile, but it is insubstantial, a ghost smile, flitting over his mouth and then gone again. “One of many nicknames. The Baker Street Irregulars was another. In any event, after the war, the SOE were not transformed into a government agency like the OSS. A few, a very few, agents were transferred into the other intelligence organizations of the British government.”

“What happened to the rest?” she asks.

“Disbanded,” is the succinct reply. He strikes a match and touches it to the tobacco packed into the pipe. He pulls hard, sending wafts of sweet smoke into the air. It smells like wood and cherries, the sort of smell that should have hung in the air of a private club or a stately home. It smells like money. He goes on. “After the training, the courageous service, the breathtaking acts of sacrifice, the entire organization was sacked. It was a black day,” he adds.

“You were one of them,” she says. It isn’t a question. The tightness around his eyes tells the whole story.

“Just so,” he says briskly. “And instead of going home and licking our wounds, a few of us joined together with some of our opposite number from the former OSS.”

“English and Americans joining together in a spirit of ‘screw you’ to their respective governments,” she says with a grin.

“In a manner of speaking, although we like to keep a low profile. We operate best in the dark.” He draws a breath, pipe smoke spiraling over his head. “The dissolution of the SOE was distressing, but equally objectionable was the number of Nazis who slipped through the cracks after the war, disappearing without a trace into the ether, frequently taking with them the greatest treasures of Western art. They spent the better part of the ’30s and ’40s looting museums and private collections, and a mere fraction of what they stole has been recovered.”

He looks a little wistful, probably thinking of all those Canalettos and Caravaggios lost to history thanks to Göring’s sticky fingers, she suspects. He goes on. “We simply could not endure the idea that these monsters would not face justice, that everything they stole would never be recovered. And without the imprimatur of an official government agency, we were free to do something about it.” He pauses to take a drag on his pipe, his mouth tightening on the stem. “When our group was first founded late in 1946, we relied entirely upon word of mouth to gather recruits. We brought in former members of the Polish and French Resistance efforts, Italians and Spaniards who had fought against Mussolini and Franco. Our recruits were Dutch, Belgian. We were open to working with anyone who might share our interests.”

“No Russians? They were our allies during the war.”

His expression is oblique. “At the conclusion of the war, it was made clear that the Russians, while perfectly content to exact justice upon war criminals, were rather less interested in repatriating stolen works of art to their rightful owners.”

“You mean they wanted to keep the art they found.”

“As it happens, the Soviets have a gift for looting to rival Göring’s,” he says dryly. “They decided to keep whatever artworks they recovered and call it reparations. So, when we formed our organization, it was clear that we would have to pursue our mission without the cooperation of our former ally.”

“Hunting down Nazis.”

“Hunting down Nazis. In the past three decades, we have amassed quite a count,” he tells her, his smile grim around the stem of the pipe. “But our original group of agents have grown old and tired, some of them have died in the field. We have slowly been recruiting fresh talent to replace them.”

“Wait, you’re hunting Nazis still?” She blinks. “Aren’t they all dead yet?”

“Regrettably, no. Some of them are still at large. But our mission has expanded beyond our original goals. The addition of anti-fascists from Spain and Italy has meant broadening our scope of operation. We have neutralized dictators and other such undesirable persons around the world.”

He stops to let the last sentence hang in the air along with his pipe smoke. She keeps her face carefully blank. If she objects or looks shocked, what will he do? Dismiss her politely? Have her returned to her cell? Or has he already told her too much to let her go?

She studies him and he returns the look calmly, drawing on his pipe and waiting, his lips quirking up slightly as if he were faintly amused at her scrutiny and content to let her take her time.

“ ‘Neutralized’ is a pretty bland word for killing,” she says finally.

He removes the pipe, setting it carefully into an ashtray before leaning forward a little, lacing his fingers together and looking her squarely in the eye. “Tell me, Miss Webster, haven’t you ever thought to yourself that some people simply need killing to make the world a better place?”

“God, yes,” she breathes.

His smile is unexpectedly charming. She can see him suddenly as he must have been during the war, thirty years old or so, dressed in a dapper suit, maybe even a tuxedo. He would be betting large in a casino, taking a sip of a dry martini, and making plans to slip into a darkened suite that night to strangle a German general or steal a priceless jewel.

“Miss Webster?” he asks gently. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking if you were thirty years younger, I’d be halfway in love with you.”

He retrieves his pipe, settling it comfortably between his teeth. “Well, based upon our reports of you, Miss Webster, I might be a bit of an improvement upon your usual choices,” he says with a straight face and a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Now,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “I have been tasked with finding just the right people for an undertaking called Project Sphinx.”

“And what is Project Sphinx?”

“Our recruits are grouped into small training classes, the better to assess them and to foster their talents. Project Sphinx is the first class of its kind in the history of our organization. It will comprise only women, Miss Webster. The first all-female squad of assassins. It will be trained by my sister, Constance, the most highly decorated woman in the SOE and a legend. I’m frankly terrified of her. She was the supervisor of an all-female tactical team that parachuted behind German lines in 1945. They were called the Furies.”

“They sound sweet.”

“They were strafed by German artillery on the way down,” he says evenly. “Constance, code-named Shepherdess, was the only survivor.”

“Sorry,” she mutters.

He looks at the scattering of freckles across her nose and takes pity on her youth. “They ran seventeen successful missions into occupied territory before they were wiped out. Constance has never been inclined to train an all-female team since, but she has decided the time is right.”

He sits back with an expectant air. Billie is confused.

“What does all this have to do with me?”

His smile is enigmatic. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I have a friend, a contact here, who happened to take note of you when you were brought in last night. She telephoned, and I flew here first thing this morning.”

“Flew here? Where were you?”

“Washington. DC.”

She stares. “Why would you fly here for me?”

“Because of this,” he says, taking a manila envelope from beneath the folder. Inside are her effects, and he takes them out one at a time. “A wallet with a bus pass, a driving license issued by the state of Texas, seven dollars and forty-three cents, a Mexican peso, and a photograph of a pretty teenaged girl with a baby. There is no inscription, but judging from her dress, I would estimate it was taken in 1958?”

“It was 1959, actually,” Billie corrects.

He smiles thinly. “Your mother, I presume?”

“My mother.”

He continues on, pulling objects from the envelope. “A half-smoked marijuana cigarette, something called a Bonne Bell Lip Smacker—” He pauses to remove the cap and give it an experimental sniff.

“It’s a lip balm,” she tells him helpfully. “Root beer.”

“Ah. Sarsaparilla,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “I used to love the stuff when I was a boy.” He goes on. “And this,” he adds, plucking a paperback book from the envelope. It is a cheap edition and well-worn, with the spine broken in a dozen places. The text is marked up with green ballpoint, and he turns to a dog-eared page where a few lines of text have been underscored heavily.

“A Taste for Death. By Peter O’Donnell. A Modesty Blaise fan?” he asks mildly.

“She’s my favorite character.”

“Why?” The question is fast and so is the answer.

“Because she doesn’t apologize for anything. She had a rotten start in life, but she’s made the best of it. She lives on her own terms. She knows who she is and what she wants, and she does what she is good at. And she has a good time doing it.”

“But without a husband,” he says, watching her closely. “Without children.”

“I don’t want those things either,” she says, and although it’s the first time she’s ever said the words aloud, she realizes they have always been true. “I don’t want them,” she repeats. “I want to work. To make my own life.”

“What sort of work?”

“Anything that doesn’t require learning shorthand,” she retorts, but he is giving her a long, level stare and she tells him the truth. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m good at yet, but I’d like to find out. And I’d like to travel. I really want to see what’s out there.”

He purses his lips. “You have made several notes in the book, but this one intrigues me the most.” He clears his throat and reads with authority. “ ‘I am interested in justice, not the law. There is an unfortunate difference.’ ” He looks over the top of the book with bright eyes. “Tell me, Miss Webster, why have you highlighted that particular passage?”

She opens her mouth to say something brash but suddenly can’t. So she tells him the truth. “Because I think it’s right. Justice and the law aren’t the same thing. You tracked down Nazis, right? What they were doing was technically legal. But it wasn’t just.”

His expression is suddenly cool. “Is that how you justify what you did last night? I understand it was meant to be a peaceful protest, but you attacked a police officer.”

“I didn’t attack him. He was trying to provoke us, calling us names and taunting us.”

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Now, now. Sticks and stones, Miss Webster. Was that really a good reason to assault a police officer?”

“He was an asshole.” Billie shrugs. “He deliberately used his position to target people who had a right to be there. He pistol-whipped a girl, and so I—”

“Took his nightstick and clubbed him with it until he was able to subdue you and take you into custody with only minor injuries—an outcome, Miss Webster, that I suspect has more to do with luck than skill,” Halliday finishes. But Billie can see the slight twist to his lips and realizes he is smiling.

“You think it’s funny,” she accuses.

“I think it is familiar,” he corrects. “It is precisely the sort of thing my sister would have done in her youth. Justice over the law,” he says.

He settles back with an air of expectation. “Now, do you think that you would be interested in taking the next step towards employment with us?”

She is quiet for a long minute.

“Miss Webster?”

“Who pays you? You don’t get taxpayer money because you don’t work for any government.”

“Does it matter?” His voice is pleasant, but there is no mistaking the fact that he is humoring her.

“It matters,” she says patiently, “because whoever cuts the checks calls the shots. Who calls your shots?”

“Among the agents who left the SOE when it was disbanded were several with particular aptitude in finance. They took employment in the City.”

“The City?” she asked. “Which city?”

“The City is how we refer to the financial district in London, rather like your Wall Street. In fact, we have some Wall Street fellows as well. They were able, with the help of a few significant donations from sympathetic benefactors, to establish a fund which has grown to impressive proportions.”

“Who runs this organization? What do you even call it?”

“I cannot divulge the official name, but amongst ourselves, it is called the Museum. We have field agents and a research department and a Board of Directors to oversee the Museum’s activities around the world, dispatching those field agents to safeguard democracy, to thwart absolutism, and to enact justice.”

“Whose justice?” she asks.

“The justice demanded by democratic principles agreed upon by the founders of the Museum—the men and women who were among the original SOE and OSS recruits, although, as I have said, their numbers have begun to thin in recent years.”

He is silent a long moment, assessing her, weighing something. She wants to break the silence, but she lets the quiet fill the space between them and he eventually nods. He reaches into the briefcase at his elbow and opens a file. It is dark blue with a small logo of falling stars surrounded by a gold motto: Fiat justitia ruat caelum.

Billie has just enough Latin to translate the motto and she smiles to herself. Let justice be done though the heavens fall. He extracts a sheet of paper, which he pushes across the table towards her. “If you decide to work with us, the charges pending against you currently will be dropped. Your arrest record will be expunged and your academic records destroyed. Neither the university nor law enforcement will have any proof you attended this college. If you sign this contract promising not to speak of what we have discussed here, it will be taken as a formal submission to be considered for appointment to the Museum as member of our Exhibitions department.” He takes out a fountain pen and unscrews the cap, placing it neatly next to the paper.

“Exhibitions? Are you sure it’s not porn?”

“Exhibitions is the name for the department that handles fieldwork. All of our operational terms are taken from museum vernacular. It was a deliberate choice to distance ourselves from our militaristic and bureaucratic roots.”

Billie studies the form. It looks like standard boilerplate stuff, the sort of thing covered in a Business Admin 101 course, with a modest stipend to be paid while she completes training. This is to be conducted in an unspecified location, and if she proves satisfactory she will be offered formal employment.

“Training to kill people,” she says slowly. She sits back, looking at the pale purple type on the page. It has been mimeographed, like worksheets for a second-grade phonics class, and it smells like soup.

“Training to protect the same values for which every Allied soldier in the war gave his life,” he says quietly.

“I’m not a soldier,” she reminds him.

He taps the book. “Neither is Modesty Blaise. Neither is my sister. And still they fight.”

This time Billie is quiet for a long moment, and Halliday is smart enough to stay quiet too. She looks down at her lacerated knuckles. “Can you teach me how to do damage to the other guy without hurting myself?”

“That,” he says with a smile, “is our speciality.” Speciality. When else in her life is she going to meet a man who says “speciality”?

She picks up the pen. “Alright, Major Halliday,” she says, sweeping the nib of the fountain pen across the page in a scrawling signature. “Make a killer out of me.”

He reaches for the form, smoothing it neatly before retrieving his pen. He screws the cap on slowly and gives her a knowing smile. “My dear Miss Webster, that is rather the point. We don’t make killers. We simply find them and point them in the right direction. We know what you are.”