Chapter Seven
PAGE ONE OF FIVE
1958
Agent Armstrong has come to understand, for quite some time now, the true nature of this long term operation that he's been allegedly spearheading for these past five years. At first he figured they were just using the Roberts guy as a Floater, baiting certain interested parties with his whack job science. But then as one thing led to another, it became obvious that wasn't the case at all.
Of course, it's thoughts like this he'd prefer to keep out of mind, sitting here behind the wheel of this stakeout, going into their second day hanging around this piece of shit neighbourhood. He'd talk to his partner in the passenger seat, but the guy's a rookie, so not much to talk about there. Armstrong's not exactly the lecturing type, and the kid - Murray's his name - he doesn't seem all that inquisitive, either.
Just as well, really. Truth is, the idea of introducing an inexperienced agent at this stage makes Armstrong's blood boil. All the more because of the true nature of this operation. Which is quite simple.
It's an experiment.
Murray's hunched forward in his seat, holding a pair of field glasses plastered over his eyes. He's peering at their target – an old rundown bungalow about a half block down and across the street. The front lawn's all knee high grass and wild sunflowers, and the driveway is broken asphalt with weeds growing through the cracks, giving all appearances of an abandoned home. And right now, the place might as well be. Nobody home. But Armstrong supposes the kid needs something to do to keep himself busy.
Murray lowers his glasses and scowls at the house. He's got a round face and a buzz cut, and combined with the attempt at a tough guy look, the overall effect is goddamn comical, like a coconut trying to get serious once and for all. Armstrong takes a sip of coffee from his thermos, to cover up the grin he can feel growing on his own face. Which is a good thing, because now Murray is tightening up his scowl so that the coconut is more like a dried up prune.
“I thought our intel said they would show an hour ago.”
Armstrong laughs, a short stifled bark. “You know the kind of people these are.”
“Another fucking cell of radicals and communists...”
Armstrong turns to Murray.
“What we’re dealing with is a little more than that.”
Armstrong turns his attention back to the house. “I mean, these fools wouldn’t know it... But we do.”
Murray smiles grimly. Armstrong turns to look at him again.
“You weren’t in Seattle last year.” Armstrong says this flatly. “So this is your first time in this particular situation. ”
Murray looks chagrined but doesn’t turn to face Armstrong. “I’ve been trained for this, Agent Armstrong. I passed all the Psych. Tests-”
Armstrong waves this away and turns to look back at the house.
“Just keep your eyes open and your mind closed, Agent Murray.”
Agent Armstrong has come to understand, for quite some time now, the true nature of this long term operation that he's been allegedly spearheading for these past five years. At first he figured they were just using the Roberts guy as a Floater, baiting certain interested parties with his whack job science. But then as one thing led to another, it became obvious that wasn't the case at all.
Of course, it's thoughts like this he'd prefer to keep out of mind, sitting here behind the wheel of this stakeout, going into their second day hanging around this piece of shit neighbourhood. He'd talk to his partner in the passenger seat, but the guy's a rookie, so not much to talk about there. Armstrong's not exactly the lecturing type, and the kid - Murray's his name - he doesn't seem all that inquisitive, either.
Just as well, really. Truth is, the idea of introducing an inexperienced agent at this stage makes Armstrong's blood boil. All the more because of the true nature of this operation. Which is quite simple.
It's an experiment.
Murray's hunched forward in his seat, holding a pair of field glasses plastered over his eyes. He's peering at their target – an old rundown bungalow about a half block down and across the street. The front lawn's all knee high grass and wild sunflowers, and the driveway is broken asphalt with weeds growing through the cracks, giving all appearances of an abandoned home. And right now, the place might as well be. Nobody home. But Armstrong supposes the kid needs something to do to keep himself busy.
Murray lowers his glasses and scowls at the house. He's got a round face and a buzz cut, and combined with the attempt at a tough guy look, the overall effect is goddamn comical, like a coconut trying to get serious once and for all. Armstrong takes a sip of coffee from his thermos, to cover up the grin he can feel growing on his own face. Which is a good thing, because now Murray is tightening up his scowl so that the coconut is more like a dried up prune.
“I thought our intel said they would show an hour ago.”
Armstrong laughs, a short stifled bark. “You know the kind of people these are.”
“Another fucking cell of radicals and communists...”
Armstrong turns to Murray.
“What we’re dealing with is a little more than that.”
Armstrong turns his attention back to the house. “I mean, these fools wouldn’t know it... But we do.”
Murray smiles grimly. Armstrong turns to look at him again.
“You weren’t in Seattle last year.” Armstrong says this flatly. “So this is your first time in this particular situation. ”
Murray looks chagrined but doesn’t turn to face Armstrong. “I’ve been trained for this, Agent Armstrong. I passed all the Psych. Tests-”
Armstrong waves this away and turns to look back at the house.
“Just keep your eyes open and your mind closed, Agent Murray.”
DESMOND CHAPTER SEVEN