Page 99 of Cry Havoc

“Excuse me, sir. New security protocols in place,” the larger of the two said in a pleasant enough voice. “We’ll just need to see your briefcase. Follow us.”

He gestured to a table set up against the wall in the lobby that had not been there that morning. A third man in a suit similar to the ones worn by Desmond’s two inquisitors was handing a briefcase back to another employee at the table whom Desmond didn’t recognize.

Try and stay cool.

“What’s this about?” Desmond asked, doing his best to sound normal.

“Just a random check.”

“Ah, I see,” Desmond said.

Would any of his fictional heroes say something pithy here?

He decided it was best to say as little as possible.

They stopped at the table and Desmond turned his head to see if anyone else was being selected for a search.

A random check?

There had never been security checks of any kind at the NSA.

“Sir?”

Desmond turned back to the larger man.

“Huh?”

“Your briefcase?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Desmond said. He handed the Hartmann to the security man, who set it on the table, pushed the latches to the side, and opened the case.

It was embarrassing to be singled out as his colleagues streamed past behind him. He felt better when someone he recognized was stopped and brought to the table as well. He looked at Desmond and shrugged.

The security man rummaged through the briefcase finding nothing but pens and pencils, a legal pad with a grocery list, a Kleenex pocket pack, an apple, and a paperback copy of Len Deighton’sFuneral in Berlin.

Desmond felt a bead of sweat on his temple and hoped none of the security men would notice.

“That was a good movie,” the man said.

“What?”

“Funeral in Berlin. Saw it last year with my old lady. That Michael Caine is no Connery, but I liked his character. What was his name?”

“Who?”

“Caine. In the movie.”

“Uh, Palmer. Harry Palmer. But in the book, he doesn’t have a name.”

“A book that has a character with no name?”

“Yeah, well, the novel’s better.”

“That’s what they always say. Have a good evening, sir,” the man said, closing the case and handing it back to Desmond. “Any plans for the upcoming weekend?”

Was he probing? Did he know?

“Not really,” Desmond managed. “Just going to read my book.”