The Hydra Conspiracy Read online

  After dinner Butler returned to his apartment. As soon as he had walked in the door the phone rang.

  “This is Shankham,” said the excited voice on the other end. “You’ve been observed talking with Ivan Gudenov, a known agent of the KGB. You didn’t tell him anything interesting, I hope.”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  “You spoke with him for quite some time. What was the nature of the conversation?”

  “He offered me a hundred thousand dollars to tell him everything I know about the Agency. I politely declined.”

  “Good for you, Butler.”

  “Thanks, chief.”

  “But you’re not lying to me by any chance, are you?”

  “No.”

  “We have ways of finding out.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t take the money.”

  “I’m not a traitor.”

  “But you’re not exactly a patriot, either.”

  “I think I am.”

  “You don’t agree with the basic policies of your country.”

  “That’s because my country has acquired some weird policies over the years.”

  “Yours is not to wonder why, yours is but to do or die. Always remember that, Butler.”

  “I don’t have to. I’m not in the Agency anymore.”

  “I’d say it might be a good axiom to live by in prison, where it looks as if you’re going.”

  “Don’t count me out too soon, Shankham. Never underestimate the power of Secret Agent Butler.”

  “You’ll have a hell of a time wriggling out of this one, but good luck anyway. It’s nice to know you still have your fighting spirit. Well, good night, Butler, and keep us apprised of anything that might transpire between you and Gudenov, will you?”

  “You can count on it, chief.”

  “Happy dreams, Butler.”

  “You too, chief.”

  Butler undressed for bed, amused by all the attention he was getting. The Agency had him under surveillance, so did the KGB, and who knew what other powers were also interested in him? But in time they’d all give up and things would get back to normal, which for a secret agent like Butler is never that normal.

  Butler went to bed and closed his eyes, hoping that Wilma B. Willoughby was all right, wherever she was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Butler’s phone rang at ten-thirty in the morning, waking him up. Sleepily he lifted the receiver and held it to his face. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Butler?” asked a woman.

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Gersch would like to speak with you. Hold on, please.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Butler,” Gersch oozed in the phone a few minutes later. “I hope I’m not awakening you?”

  “You are, but it’s always a pleasure to receive a call from one’s lawyer. How are you today, sir?”

  “Quite well, thank you. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “You gave us all quite a scare there for awhile. We thought you’d jumped bail, and that’s not nice.”

  “I’m surprised that all you people would think such a thing about a man like me.”

  “I’m pleased to see that all of us were wrong. Anyway, I have good news for you.”

  “A man like me always can use good news. What is it?”

  “You’ll never guess who walked into my office just a half hour ago.”

  “If I’ll never guess, then why don’t you tell me?”

  “I’ll give you a hint. The person has a crucial bearing on your case.”

  “I’ve got it!” Butler exclaimed. “The victim herself walked into your office and said it all was a practical joke!”

  “Wrong. It was the cabdriver who drove you home from the Plaza. He read about your case in the paper and stepped forward with his trip sheet, which shows the exact time he picked you up and the exact time he left you off. According to the coroner, the victim was killed with one of your steak knives at three-thirty in the morning. However, according to the cabdriver’s trip sheet, he picked you up at the Plaza at three-forty-five in the morning, more than twenty-five blocks away from the scene of the murder. The doorman at the Plaza has already given a deposition stating that although he didn’t know the exact time of your arrival and departure from the Plaza, he knows that you arrived once and left once—or, in other words, that you didn’t rush home from the Plaza to kill the victim, then rush back again. You’re as good as scot free, Butler. How do you feel?”

  “Fabulous.”

  “I may be able to talk to the judge and get the whole case thrown out of court.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ll get back to you on this. But whatever you do, please don’t leave town again, all right?”

  “All right.”

  Butler hung up the phone and decided he might as well get out of bed and face the day. He showered and shaved and decided to go out for breakfast, but noticed that he had a lot of shirts to take to the laundry, so he folded them over his arm and took them with him, intending to drop them off before going to the restaurant.

  The Duk Toy Laundry was on Third Avenue between 79th and 80th Streets. Butler had been bringing his shirts there ever since he moved to the neighborhood five years ago, and today, as he entered the small laundry shop, he saw Duk Toy himself leaning over a Chinese newspaper at the counter, his willowy wife behind him ironing a shirt.

  Butler dropped his shirts on the counter and said, “Hiya.”

  Duk Toy looked at him and smiled. “Ah, Mr. Butler, how good to see you again,” he said in his singsong Chinese accent. “How are you today?”

  “Excellent.”

  “I am so glad to hear that. Ah, Mr. Butler, would you care to step back here with me? I would like to have a few words with you if you do not mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” Butler replied, wondering what in the world Duk Toy wanted to speak with him about.

  Duk Toy lifted the gate at the counter and led Butler back to a small kitchen where rice and bean sprouts were cooking on the stove. They stood next to the round wooden table, and Duk Toy clasped his hands together.

  “Ah, Mr. Butler,” Duk Toy began, “I have recently learned that you’ve been fired from your position with the Central Intelligence Agency of your great country, and moreover I have learned that you are in very great trouble with the police. So therefore I was wondering if you might want to unburden yourself to me—for payment, of course. Specifically, I would like to have your thoughts on the CIA spy network within the People’s Republic of China, as well as the conspiracy your country has entered into with the Soviet Union against the People’s Republic of China. Also we would be very interested in knowing the extent to which the Chinese Mission to the U.N. is bugged, and anything else that you think might be of help to my government.”

  Butler stared at him. “My God, man. Don’t tell me you’re a spy too?”

  Duk Toy grinned. “Fooled you, huh?”

  “You sure did. This is some cover you’ve got here.”

  “Our intelligence service is not so backward as you might imagine.”

  “Evidently not. Why, every Chinese laundry in America could be a spy station.”

  “Could be.”

  “But tell me, what kind of information can you get in a laundry?”

  “You be surprised at how people like to chat with their laundryman. They tell him more than they realize.”

  “I never told you anything.”

  “But I have been watching you, Mr. Butler. From studying your laundry I know all your habits. Lipstick stains on your collar, for instance. Other types of stains in your underwear. The type of deodorant you use. The type of shaving lotion, hair tonic and so forth.”

  “What possible good can that do you?”

  Duk Toy raised his finger in the air. “Ah hah, that’s top secret stuff. I can’t tell you that. If I did I wouldn’t be a good spy. You know how it is. But you are not a spy any more yourse
lf. They have treated you in a most beastly fashion. Why not unburden your heart to me and tell me everything you know? We pay you much money. Fix you up with pretty Chinese girls. What you say?”

  “No.” Butler turned to leave.

  Duk Toy held him by the shoulder. “Please reconsider. Give it some thought. Don’t make hasty decision you might regret afterward.”

  “No.”

  “But Mr. Butler, my superiors have told me that if I don’t convince you I will have to return to the People’s Republic of China and work on a farm commune near the Gobi Desert. There is nothing in the world that’s worse than a Chinese farm commune near the Gobi desert.”

  Butler shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Duk Toy, but I think you’ve made a mistake about me. I’m not a spy, as you seem to think. I’m only an ordinary real estate broker, and if you’ll excuse me I must be off to keep some appointments.”

  He shook Duk Toy’s hand off his shoulder and moved toward the door, but the Chinese came running after him.

  “You cannot fool me, Mr. Butler!” Duk Toy whispered. “I know what you are. But it’s okay, your secret is safe with me! And if ever you wish to have a little talk with me about the things we discussed, you know where to find me.

  Butler shook his head in disapproval as he walked down the sidewalk to the little restaurant where he liked to have breakfast. Everywhere he turned he found a spy. Nations spent billions on their spy networks, while neglecting social problems within their own societies. He picked up a newspaper and entered the restaurant, sitting at a table in the corner. He always selected tables in corners. They made him feel secure.

  The waitress came over and he ordered his customary huge breakfast, then opened the paper. The first thing he saw was a big ad from the Noble Oil Company. It was one of the new series of ads the company had been running lately, and it didn’t try to sell oil, gasoline or any other products of the company. Instead it was an editorial extolling the virtues of the American economic system.

  It discussed how wonderfully the system worked and how good it was for everybody, while neglecting to mention the widespread unemployment in the country, the vast areas of slum housing, the racial discrimination, poverty, starvation, corruption in government, decline of the public education system, rising crime rate, pollution of the environment and so forth. It didn’t say that the American economic system had caused all these problems and showed neither the ability nor the willingness to solve them. The Noble Oil Company editorial was so full of bullshit that it almost made him lose his appetite. He wondered how people could believe such utter nonsense and outright distortions of truth.

  The waitress brought his breakfast and he dined grumpily. He’d read someplace that if you were in a bad frame of mind when you ate, the food would turn to poison in your stomach. But he couldn’t help himself. Con artistry always irritated him. But then he brightened. The Institute had designated the Noble Oil Company as his next employer. He couldn’t wait to get in there and inflict some damage.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After breakfast, Butler decided that what he needed most was a good workout at his local YMCA. It was on Second Avenue, and he walked there, whistling a merry tune.

  The gym was nearly empty at that time of the morning. He changed into trunks, put on a pair of boxing gloves, and worked out with the heavy bag, trying for power in hooks, jabs and uppercuts. Then he shadowboxed in front of the mirror, working for speed and perfection of form.

  He had become interested in boxing when he was fourteen, after having been mauled in a schoolyard brawl. At sixteen he entered his first Golden Gloves competition and won the Atlanta title in his weight class, but lost the state finals to a black guy from Savannah. The next year he beat the black guy from Savannah but lost the East Coast title to a Polish guy from Baltimore, who’d knocked him out. Butler realized he’d never be good enough to become the heavyweight champion of the world, and if he couldn’t go all the way, there was no point in competing any more. But he’d developed an amateur’s love of ring science and kept training to stay in shape.

  Later that morning he went into the ring with one of his regular sparring partners, a man named Siegel who was a night intern at New York University Hospital. Siegel had once been a Golden Gloves champion from Brooklyn and he still was pretty good, although he’d gotten heavy.

  Siegel lumbered around the ring and threw hard punches haphazardly. Butler was a bobber and weaver, always on the move, always looking for an opening, slamming home lefts and rights strategically, Siegel rocked Butler twice in the first round, but Butler didn’t have a glass jaw and kept coming back, always a good counterpuncher, especially effective in the clinches. They went three rounds and Butler thought he could’ve laid Siegel out a few times, but was afraid of losing him as a sparring partner. It was difficult to find someone who’d get in the ring with you.

  When the session was over they took showers and talked about Mohammed Ali and Leon Spinks, whether Jimmy Ellis could beat Ali, whether Joe Louis could have taken Ali, how Rocky Marciano would have handled Ali, and whether anybody at all could have taken Ali when he was in his prime before the Boxing Commission stole his title.

  After the workout, Butler walked home on Second Avenue wondering what to do with himself for the rest of the day. He wasn’t accustomed to having so much free time on his hands. A tall blonde walking toward him gave him the eye. She wore cowboy boots, skintight jeans, an expensive fur jacket, and lots of makeup around her eyes. Suddenly Butler realized what he wanted to do for the rest of the day.

  He winked at the blonde and said, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she replied, smiling and continuing to walk.

  He changed direction and walked beside her, both hands in his trench coat pockets. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  She pointed uptown. “Two blocks that way.”

  “Can I come along?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “None of us has that much time to waste,” he replied with a wink.

  Her name was Sheila and she lived in a modern white brick tower on the fourteenth floor in an apartment with a stereo, and furniture that didn’t seem very expensive but was tastefully arranged. They took off their coats and sat on the sofa, talking of what they did for a living (she claimed to be a model, he said he was an actor), the recent movies they’d seen, good restaurants in the neighborhood and so forth. They inched closer to each other on the sofa, touched in a playful way, started kissing and squeezing, and shortly thereafter went to the bedroom, where they quickly stripped for action.

  “Oh my goodness!” she said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Is that it?”

  “It sure is.”

  “But it’s so big!”

  “Come on—it’s not that big.”

  “It is too!”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “I’m not exaggerating!”

  “Now you’re embarrassing me.”

  “How can I be embarrassing you?”

  “I’m sensitive about that.”

  She gave it a little squeeze. “About this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said huskily. “I wouldn’t be ashamed of it, if I were you.”

  “I didn’t say I was ashamed of it.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “I get embarrassed when people talk about it.”

  “You poor thing.”

  “It’s one of my quirks, I guess.”

  She squeezed it with both her hands. “But it’s so big.”

  “There you go again.”

  “It’s like a big salami.”

  “And I’m told it’s even more delicious.”

  “Really?”

  “So I’m told. Maybe you won’t agree.”

  “Butler!”

  “What’s the matter?�
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  “I couldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “Sure you could.”

  “It’s too big, and my mouth is too small.”

  “It’s not that big, and your mouth isn’t that small.”

  “But I’m afraid of it,” Sheila whined.

  “Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “You’re just saying that because you want me to give you head.”

  “I’ll bet you give great head,” he said, licking her lips.

  She squeezed his cock again. “What makes you think so?”

  “Because your mouth is so pretty.” He kissed her lips. “Haven’t you ever done it before?”

  “Well...”

  “You know you have.”

  “Well...”

  “So why not? Afterwards you’ll be glad you did.”

  “But it’s too big,” she protested, squeezing his cock and squirming underneath him.

  “It feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’ll feel much better in your mouth.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Sure you could.”

  “No, I really couldn’t.”

  “Yes you could.” Butler rolled over onto his back, and his cock stood straight up in the air like a lighthouse. “Isn’t it pretty?”

  She sat up and looked at it. “Yes, it is rather pretty,” she confessed.

  “Why don’t you touch it?”

  “Will it bite me?”

  “No. It likes you.”

  “Aw, the sweet thing.” She got onto her knees and took it in both her hands, looking down at it. “You know, I think it’s smiling at me.”

  “It is, because it likes you. And it wants to kiss you.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes.”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said, licking her lips.

  “Oh, go ahead.”

  “If you insist,” she sighed, lowering her face and kissing the bulbous head of his rod. “Mmmm.”

  “Like it.”