Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Yes,” he said slowly.

“And Blue and Gray? They’ve concentrated on design?”

“Design and trajectory.”

“You’ve been briefed on both?”

“Yes.”

“Could you design a TX by yourself?”

“No.”

“But could someone else, let’s say a team skilled in design, trajectory, function, take what you know about the TX shape and components and put together a working facsimile?”

“Well, it’s possible.”

“All right, now let’s reverse it. I assume you have discussed function with Blue and Gray.”

“To a degree.”

“From what you have passed along, could they design and successfully trigger a TX?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You are positive?”

“My work has involved gas, Miss Fleming. It’s—” He paused. His lips thinned. His jaw became set. “I’m not going to say anything more about it, to you or to anyone else.”

“Blue and Gray do not know enough about this gas to—”

“They do not.”

“Then that’s it, Sam. That’s why you and I are here. I don’t know where I’m going to be dumped, but I think you are going for a plane ride.”

He scowled.

“You may find yourself in Hanoi, Moscow, anywhere, in the next few days. Be prepared.”

“I won’t tell them a thing!”

“You may have a change of heart. There are ways to break a man. And in the meantime here’s something else to think about. Someone among us is an informer. Blue, Gray, one of the military people, one of the agents—”

Desiree Fleming explained and he had difficulty believing until she said, “No one else knew what suite the Herchenfelders had, Sam. Yet last night there was an extra call to the room. Today, Gerald hit the right door.”

He suddenly looked defeated. “If you can’t trust your own, what’s the world coming to?”

“You’re building the weapon, Sam.”

The door opened. Gerald came a step into the room, stopped. “Doc?”

Sam stood frozen.

Gerald broke into a grin. “Come on, Doc. It’s just going to hurt a little bit.” And then he looped a fist upward that clipped the point of Doctor Samuel Herchenfelder’s jaw and dropped the scientist to the carpeting.

Desiree shot up from the bed, became mesmerized. The woman was in the doorway behind Gerald. She was smiling. She held a gun in her hand.

“Please?” she said politely.

Desiree folded back down on the edge of the bed. Sam was groaning, twitching on the carpeting. Gerald flipped Sam on his back, hooked hands in Sam’s armpits and pulled him from the room. The woman nodded to Desiree.

“Breathe easy, dear,” and closed the door again.

Desiree had the sinking feeling that she had seen Doctor Samuel Herchenfelder for the last time.

She was wrong. Ninety minutes later, Gerald came for her, took her into the front room. Sam sat stiffly in a deep chair. He looked totally confused, but unharmed. He was dressed. He was neat. The woman stood beside his chair. There was no gun in her hand now. She was smiling. She said, “All right, Gerald; return them to the hotel.”

The sedan was outside, the olive-colored man at the wheel. Gerald put Sam in the front seat again, got into the back seat with Desiree.

“Roll, Frank,” he said.

“Right.”

Desiree jerked, then shuddered. Frank’s voice was high-pitched. She was sure he was the man who had shot at her in the fog the previous night.

At the hotel, Gerald waved them out of the car. They stood together on the sidewalk. The sun was bright. People scurried around them. The sedan rolled away and disappeared in the glut of traffic. Desiree caught Sam’s arm. “Are you all right?”

He drew a breath, looked around. Suddenly he looked down at her. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I just don’t understand.”

“Don’t figure you’ve got a corner on that market, buster.”

“What time is it?”

Desiree looked at her wrist watch without thinking. “Five minutes before two.”

“My meeting!”

Sam crossed the sidewalk. She caught him in the lobby of the hotel, stopped him. “Wait a minute,” she cried out. “What happened to you back there? What did they do to you when they took you from the room?”

He looked briefly confused before he said firmly, “They gave me a shot.”

“A... what?”

“A shot with a needle. They gave me a hypodermic. I slept. In fact, I feel as if I’ve slept for a week. I feel as rested as I’ve felt in months.” He moved off.

“Sam, wait!”

He frowned at her over his shoulder, continued to stride toward the bank of elevators. “I’ve got to make the meeting, Desiree,” he said. “The others will be waiting.”

“No! Wait! Something isn’t right! Why would they give you a shot? Why did they bring us back here? Why—”

“We’ll discuss it later,” he said and entered an elevator. She darted in to stand beside him. The elevator was crowded. Neither spoke as they were lifted to the eighth floor. They were the only two to get off on eight. Sam turned down the corridor toward the suite. Desiree caught his arm.

“Sam, think!”

He frowned on her. “I am thinking. I’m thinking you suddenly have become a nuisance. Please let go of my coat.”

“Sam, you can’t go through with the meeting!”

“I... what?”

“I have a feeling, Sam! Don’t ask me what it is! I just have this feeling! It’s as if something is going to blow up in our faces!”