Now and then - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,11

it’s domestic?” I said.

“Ah,” Ives said and smiled. “You remain clever, don’t you.”

“As best I can,” I said. “When I’m not drunk.”

“Always a difficult condition,” Ives said and drank some of his ugly beer.

Ives was tall and angular, slightly stooped, with a wiry neck. He was wearing one of those checked soft hats like Bear Bryant used to wear, and a Burberry trench coat, with a plaid bow tie showing.

“Off the record,” I said.

“Of course,” Ives said. “When you and I talk there is no record.”

I nodded.

“Last Hope,” I said.

“And you’ll keep me in the loop,” Ives said.

“Yes.”

Ives leaned a little closer to me, and his voice dropped. I had to listen hard.

“Last Hope is an odd organization, and very difficult to characterize,” Ives said. “It is run by a gentleman named Perry Alderson. No one is quite convinced that it is his real name. But we know him by no other.”

“What does it do?” I said.

“We’re not sure,” Ives said softly. “It appears to be a kind of brokerage for terrorism.”

“Brokerage?”

“They put bombers in touch with bomb makers, assassins in touch with people seeking an assassination. They collect information and sell it to people who need it.”

“How big is the organization?”

“Don’t know. It’s not possible from where we are to figure out who is a member and who is temporarily with them, being brokered, so to speak.”

“More than Alderson?”

“Probably. But he’s the visible one. There are a few people who seem primarily to be protectors, and there may be more important people in the shadows behind him.”

“Funding?”

“We don’t know if it’s funded,” Ives said, “and if so by whom. We surmise that they are paid for their brokerage efforts.”

The rain was back and Kenmore Square was brilliant with it in the late-afternoon traffic rush. There was a lot of commotion at the entrance as umbrellas were opened or closed, raincoats were donned or removed.

“Is it operative on any kind of scale?” I said.

“Nationally, we think, though the base camp seems to be here.”

“They have a relationship with any foreign power?”

“Several,” Ives said. “We think. Probably in the Middle East, and Central Asia, possibly in South America, maybe some parts of Africa.”

“That’s as specifi c as you can get?”

“Alderson has visited those places. People from those places have visited him.”

“That’s it? What kind of spy operation are you running.”

Ives almost winced visibly at the word spy. I knew he would. It’s why I used it.

“We have a great many irons to heat in the fire,” he said sort of stiffly. “It’s a big fire. In fact, we have a lot of big fires. We can’t spare many people on one small blaze.”

I nodded.

“Alderson any kind of ladies’ man?” I said.

“There are women around him. We don’t know what his relationship with them might be.”

“Know the names of any of them?”

“No.”

The wind shifted and the rain blew hard against the plateglass window that looked out at the crisscross of Beacon and Commonwealth which created Kenmore Square. Ives and I both watched it rain for a little while.

“Is there anyone who might be with him more than others?”

I said.

“The lady in the tower?” Ives said.

“Not exactly,” I said.

“What exactly?” Ives said.

I told him some of it, leaving out the identities of Jordan and Dennis. Making no reference to the FBI. Without the FBI it wasn’t a very compelling story. But I was stuck with it. Ives drank some of his beer thoughtfully, and put the glass down carefully.

“Ah, young Lochinvar,” Ives said. “You are a lying sonova bitch.”

“I have told you nothing that isn’t true,” I said.

“And left out much that is,” he said.

I smiled.

“Your profession has made you cynical,” I said.

“As it should,” Ives said. “As would yours, and yet you remain sentimental.”

“What makes you think I’m driven by sentiment?”

“I know you, Lochinvar. Our first collaboration was over your young lady, I believe.”

“Long time ago,” I said.

“Indeed,” Ives said. “I also know your word is good. I’m willing to let you run a tab, because you said you’d keep me in the loop, so sooner or later, I will be.”

The bartender came down to see if we needed a refi ll. We didn’t. I gave him a twenty and told him to keep the change. He did. When the bartender departed, I looked at Ives.

“Despite your appearance,” I said, “and the fact that you talk funny, it is good now and then to be reminded that you’re not just another jerk from Yale.”

Ives smiled, as he stood and buttoned his trench