Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“You’re upset, Desiree. And confused. Nothing turned out as you expected. Nothing—”

“Sam, remember one thing! Remember that someone among us is not on our side!”

He shook her off, continued along the corridor. She dashed after him. They found the door to the suite open. Two men — one in a military uniform and the other in a business suit — lounged in the doorway. But Desiree knew they were lounging with a purpose. They were blocking the entrance.

Desiree immediately recognized both agents. They parted for Sam. He entered the suite. She went after him. The room was crowded. The buzz of idle conversation ended. She scanned the faces, recognized some as other agents.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” Sam said. “I went out for a package of cigarettes and was detained. Doctor Field hasn’t arrived?”

Why had Sam lied, and who was Doctor Field?

Desiree tugged his coat sleeve. His look was the kind he might give an annoying child.

“I have to talk to you,” Desiree pleaded in a voice just above a whisper.

He ignored her. “Gentlemen, we can begin without Doctor Field,” he said to the room. “I will present the initial phase. Doctor Field’s presence is not required for that, so if you other people, you people who are not supposed to be here will now kindly leave the suite, we can—”

“Doctor,” an agent broke in from across the room, “I think we are supposed to hang tight.”

“You can hang tight in the corridor, sir, if you must. What is to be discussed in this room in the next hour is not for general consumption.”

Agents shuffled. Eyes darted. Desiree took it in, then she blurted, “Sam, I must talk to you!”

A heavy silence descended on the room. All eyes turned to her. Sam looked at her, his face flushed, his eyes angry. But he whirled suddenly, caught her arm, marched her into a bedroom, and closed the door. “Young lady, I—”

“Who is Doctor Field?” she interrupted.

“Gray!”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know!”

“Why did you lie to those men out there? Tell them what happened to us, Sam! Tell them! They have a right to know they might be in danger!”

“Danger?” He snorted, yanked open the bedroom door. “Out, Miss Fleming,” he said firmly. “Right on out to the corridor.”

He turned to the main room. “All of you who are not supposed to be here — but! I am in charge now. Please leave, people. Please. Take up a vigil outside our door, if you must, but please leave the room so the rest of us can get on with our business.”

There was a general shuffling. Glances were passed. Then one agent stood and left the room. Others followed. Desiree didn’t move. Sam took her arm, put her in the corridor with her cohorts, closed the door. The agents muttered, mingled, looked at each other.

Finally one said, “All right, what can possibly happen to them in there, all cooped up together like hens in a chicken house?”

And another agent asked Desiree, “What’s the matter with you, chick? What’s bugging you?”

She rattled the whole story out. The agents stood silent, listening, digesting, contemplating. They remained silent when she had finished, then one breathed, “Why a hypodermic?”

Another asked, “And why return him? They had him.”

No one had answers and a third agent finally said, “Well, they’re all snug now. Can you imagine how many governments would like to have ears in that room in the next hour and a half?”

“Can you imagine,” murmured Desiree, “what one bomb in that room right now could do to the United States?”

She stood frozen, the enormity of her own words suddenly swelling her. She squealed and broke. She slammed into the meeting room and screamed, “Everyone out! Everyone out!”

No one moved. An agent burst in from the corridor. “Chick, have you lost your marbles?”

Desiree whipped up her skirt and simultaneously triggered the garter snaps on the front of her thighs. Two tear gas pellets popped from the snaps and burst on the carpeting.

There were shouts of protest, shouts of annoyance, shouts of disbelief. And then there was bedlam as the occupants of the room scrambled toward the open door. Desiree slammed into a wall. She stood plastered there.

She saw Sam staggering toward her, his fists digging into his eyes under his black-rimmed glasses. She pushed off of the wall and rammed her palms against his chest. The blow sent him staggering backward. She saw him go down.

“Sam, Sam—” she murmured in despair; then she whirled and shot for the open door.

The explosion deafened her. She had the sensation she was being lifted and pitched on a hot wind — and then there was nothing.

Desiree came awake in a hospital room. Holly stood beside her bed. She looked around. She was alone with her chief. She attempted to lift her head, found that she could not.

“Hi, kid,” Holly said in a gentle voice. “Don’t fry to move. You got a bum back out of the deal, but you and the others are alive.”

“Sam?” she mumbled. She felt tears brimming her eyes.

Holly remained silent.

“S-Sam, the... the secret weapon,” she quavered.

The thought was ludicrous. She thought she should laugh. She could not.