A Perilous Eden

by Heather Graham

  Adam shoved his hands into his pockets as he moved along the street, smiling slightly at the garish beauty of the bright neon lights. It was late, but the usual hawkers were still out. Prostitutes were selling their wares not ten feet from the theatergoers, resplendent with their minks and sables and silver hair.

  New York, New York. There was nothing like it.

  Some said that a big city was a big city, but Adam didn’t think so. Oh, they were alike in some ways. London, New York, Paris—even Tokyo. They all had their blend of humanity. A multitude of languages, a multitude of faces, blending together, scurrying around. But each had its own tone, its own throbbing pace that made it unique.

  One of the prostitutes called out to him with a welcoming smile. He turned, and when she looked into his eyes, her smile slowly faded, and she hurried down the street.

  He pulled up his collar. It was almost summer, but the nights still carried a chill. Breath mingled with exhaust fumes and the steam from the sewers to create a low-lying blanket of mist.

  He passed a church, almost tripping over one of the bums who lay sprawled over the steps.

  “Got a quarter?” the man whined.

  Adam laughed dryly. “Whatever happened to a dime?”

  “Inflation, man. Inflation.”

  Adam dug in his pocket for a dollar. What the hell, he had a wide-open expense account for once in his life.

  “Thanks!” the bum called out delightedly.

  “My pleasure,” Adam said dryly.

  He turned down the avenue. Things were quieter here; the streets more deserted—more respectable. Most of the store windows were covered with bars.

  His footsteps slowed without conscious thought; he discovered that he was peering between steel bars to stare at a full-length mink in a gray so soft and radiant it was like spun silver.

  Sonia would love such a coat, he thought, then gave himself an angry shake. Sonia would have loved such a coat. He had to stop thinking of her in the present tense.

  Yet a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he stared at the coat. Perhaps it was not so bad. He could think of her and smile at the memories. Sonia, who could don khaki, bind up her hair and run blithely to the front of a battle line, could also gasp with delight over a fur, swirl like a princess in silk and purr like a kitten in bed.

  Had. She had done all those things.

  Funny how he couldn’t get it right in his mind. Maybe because he’d never really seen her. He’d seen men die in almost every conceivable fashion: shot, knifed, burned, exploded. He’d killed men in almost every conceivable fashion himself—that happened when survival became the issue.

  But when they’d brought him to see the charred bodies of his wife and child, he just hadn’t been able to see them. His mind had just rebelled. It hadn’t been Sonia, and it hadn’t been Reba.

  If Sonia had died on the line, died fighting, he might have managed to handle it. Because still, after all these years, he had the sense that there was a right and a wrong. There were battlefields, and then there were places where people lived. Where they shopped, where they mailed their letters. Where they went for long walks and played in parks.

  Children, babies, infants … just had no place in it.

  A cold sweat coated his body, and he gave himself a little shake, then started down the street again, glancing at his wristwatch. He was late.

  But the memories had come on strong. So strong that he paused before a model dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. The dummy was posed with hands on hips, body slightly tilted, a beautiful, mischievous smile in place.

  So much like Sonia. Even the hair—dark, flyaway. She had been in jeans the day he’d met her. She’d been trying to change the tire on an old Volkswagen. He’d offered to help, but she’d refused him, cheerfully saying that she had things under control. Then the rim and the tire had flown off in her hands; she’d landed on her rear in the mud—and laughed at herself.

  “Well, of course I can do it myself. But I suppose, if you’re willing, I can also use some help!”

  She’d never been in a man’s bed before, but she was in his that night. For her, it had not been a question of morality; it had been a question of what she wanted. And she wanted him. He could remember the feel of her that night. Like satin. She’d been young and firm and incredibly beautiful, and touching the fullness of her breast had been intoxicating. He’d never known such an intense feeling of satisfaction as he had from her, yet it was the aftermath that stayed with him, that haunted him.

  She’d asked him how he’d become an American when his mother was an Israeli. He’d explained that he should have been Russian, or Polish, and she’d thought he was kidding. He had laughed, too, then started whispering obscene things to her in Russian. In the end she had laughed some more, and they’d made love again. When they were done that time, she got him talking about the service, about the jungle, about the terror of being in a war. He’d learned then that she was still in the military; she’d talked about it easily.

  “It’s just something we do here, Adam. It wasn’t so long after the war that I was born. We were raised knowing that we must always fight, that we must preserve our land to preserve our lives.”

  She was fascinated by his command of languages.

  “It’s a gift,” she told him.

  “You’re a gift,” he’d responded. And she’d laughed and told him that she’d known his Russian had been dirty, but she wanted him to say beautiful things to her in Italian and French—weren’t those the languages for lovers?

  In the days that followed, he began to see Israel through her eyes. Her commander came to meet him one day, and he found himself engaged in a full-scale discussion of munitions and explosives. He’d seen Sonia and the man exchange glances, and that night, with her hair tangled across his bare chest, he’d asked her if she was seducing him for herself or for the Israeli military.

  “Both,” she had admitted eagerly. “Adam, we need you. You’re vibrant, you’re a fighter! You’re part of all this. It’s in your blood, whether you wish to admit it or not. We need you.…”

  “We?” he’d asked her, and despite her gentle touch, his body had stiffened.

  “I need you.…”

  And it was true. She needed him. Israel needed him. The United States was allegedly at peace.

  He married Sonia; he became an Israeli. He took a special-assignments job with the government, and he kept fighting.

  It had taken five years for Reba to come along. And Sonia, despite her desire to keep working, had never been so ecstatic over anything as she had been over motherhood. They’d lain one night with the baby between them, checking her fingers and toes and laughing over her fuzzy black hair. And Sonia had said, “Oh, Lord, Adam! That we have created her … I love her so much it terrifies me.” She’d shuddered then, almost as if she’d had a premonition. “Oh, Adam! We must promise ourselves—if something should happen to me, you must love her all your life. You must guard her all your life.…”

  He’d laughed. Sonia’s job was at a desk then. “Nothing is going to happen to you. We will grow old and fat together and make her insane because we won’t let her date until she’s thirty.”

  Sonia hadn’t laughed. “Promise me, Adam!” He had seen how serious she was, so he had kissed her tenderly and held her, and sworn that he would joyfully protect both of them with his life.…

  But he’d never had a chance to exchange his life for theirs.

  A passerby walked a wide berth around Adam, and he realized that he was staring at a dummy in a T-shirt, and that his hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides. He started walking again. Now he was really late for his appointment.

  He quickened his pace, and moments later hurried down the steps to Astors. Toni was already there, alone as he had requested. He was supposed to be a tourist, and tourists always saw their relatives. They partied, they had a good time.

  And in this case, Uncle Sam would pick up the check.

  “Adam!�
�

  His cousin, radiantly smiling, threw herself into his arms before he reached the table. He returned the embrace, then set her from him. She was too slim, he thought, but that was the way Toni liked to be. She was healthy, anyway. Her cheeks were nice and scrubbed pink, and her dark eyes were brilliant. Her hair was chopped short, blow-styled, chic. Very New York, Adam thought with a grin tugging at his lip.

  She’s already ordered his Scotch, neat. It was on the table.

  “Adam!” she said again, sitting across from him. He knew that she was studying him. She didn’t say that he looked good; she gave him the same curious gaze the prostitute on the street had given him. Except that her smile didn’t fade.

  “How are you?” she asked anxiously.

  “Good,” he told her, taking a sip of his Scotch, then idly running a finger down the glass. He gave her a smile. “And you. I saw the play—you were great.”

  “Oh, Adam! It was off-, off-, way off-Broadway. But you came, you really came? You saw it all?”

  “Heard every word!”

  “Thanks,” she said softly. Then, “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged and pulled out a cigarette and lit it slowly, casually. “Just visiting,” he said at last.

  “You should have warned me! I would have planned more than a late-night drink. How long are you staying?”

  “I leave tomorrow morning—caught one of those cheap charter rates to Paris. I thought I’d tour around a bit. Maybe catch a few of the Greek Islands.” He didn’t want Toni to know that he might be back in the United States. Toni didn’t know anything about Michael Adams. With any luck, she never would.

  She breathed a little sigh as if she were relieved. “Oh, God, Adam, I’m so glad to see you doing things. That’s what you need, you know. Are you really okay?”

  He forced a smile into his features. “Sure.”

  “You’re—over it?”

  “Oh, come on, Toni! You know people never really get over things like that. Am I stable and functioning? Yes—can’t you tell?”

  She laughed and stirred her drink. “Yes, I guess so, Adam. I just wish—well, I wish your mom had never left the States. I wish you’d never gone to Israel. God help me, because I loved Sonia, but I wish that you’d never met her.”

  He lowered his lashes, staring at his glass. She was treading on dangerous ground—ground he never entered himself.

  “Don’t say that, Toni,” he warned.

  She might have blushed; he couldn’t really tell. “Of course, I’m sorry. You really were such beautiful people, she so dark and lovely, you so gloriously blond and tanned and muscled! But don’t you see, Adam? I think that’s half your problem. You’re trying to replace Sonia—”

  “Toni!” he admonished in exasperation, looking at her, and even she quailed a little at his glance.

  She tossed back her head and picked up her drink a little belligerently. “Sorry, Adam. What are you going to do—shoot me?”

  “Toni—”

  “Oh, Adam! I really am horribly sorry!” There was true regret in her tone; Adam edged his teeth together. Maybe the subject could be changed now. “Forgive me?” she said softly.

  “Toni, of course—”

  “I’m just going to say one more thing, Adam, and then I’ll promise to keep my mouth shut. You’re looking for a goddamned heroine, and they just don’t come in packages, you know!”

  “Toni, leave it.” He paused, his mouth tightening, his thoughts suddenly shifting. As Toni spoke, he conjured up another face. A very different face. Sea-green eyes, a wild mass of tawny blond curls.

  It was the woman he had seen from the park bench and then again at the memorial, with Ted Larkspur. There had been something about her.… She had met his eyes, for one thing. She hadn’t looked away, and she had never denied to herself that she was staring at him. There had been something courageous in that gaze; it had caught his attention when nothing else could.

  He remembered how she had been dressed at the memorial. He could remember everything about her, he realized. She had been dressed simply, with an attractive, understated sophistication. The lady came from money. Washington society. She wasn’t the type of woman he needed now. Right now it didn’t matter who a woman was; it barely mattered what she looked like, as long as she was clean. He had realized that so long as he still breathed, he had basic needs. But he felt like an emotional void; he had nothing to give in return.

  Still, she had interested him. He had even acknowledged to himself that he found her to be very beautiful, and perhaps more. There seemed to be so much life and emotion and passion within her eyes.

  It was probably a good thing he was leaving the country. She meant something to Larkspur, and he liked Larkspur. He shouldn’t associate with anyone close to the man.

  “Adam? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes. You said that I needed a heroine. Damn you, Toni—”

  Toni held up her hand. “I’m done! I’m done! Why don’t you plan to stay a few more days, Adam? I’d love to have a little get-together—”

  “I can’t stay, Toni. I’ve already made my travel arrangements.”

  “So you change them!”

  “I can’t,” he said flatly. Then he looked at her. “Hey—if you want, you can come out and spend some time with me in between shows.”

  “Uh-uh,” she said emphatically. “I already did the whole Israeli thing, you know. That time I came out before and stayed all those months. First of all my damned luggage was stolen—everything I owned! Then they searched me—and refused to let me get on the plane as they were suspicious—because I’d been there three months and didn’t have any luggage! No thanks, Adam. I love you like a brother—or as much as you let anyone love you!—but not again.”

  “Hey—we haven’t had a hijacking in years,” he reminded her, a little tersely, she thought. “I’d say we have the safest airlines in the world.”

  She looked at the table and spoke softly. “I’m an American, Adam. Nothing else. I’ve no desire to be anything else. I don’t want the violence, I don’t want the desert, I don’t want any of it! Terrorism is taking over, and I want safely out of it, thank you.”

  He wasn’t going to argue with her—their time together was too brief. He turned the conversation back to her play, and they talked about the world at large.

  She hugged him goodbye. “Adam—take care. Let things go lightly for a while, huh?”

  He grinned engagingly, or what would have been engagingly, if only the warmth had touched his eyes. They seemed to glitter in the muted hallway light. “Sure. Hey, I’m on vacation, aren’t I?”

  He tweaked her chin as he had often done when they were kids; he the older cousin, she the adoring little girl in tow.

  Adam walked away, giving her a last cheery wave. An arresting man in a smart leather jacket and jeans, blond hair catching the soft light.

  Except that it was an illusion. There was nothing soft about him.

  Cannes

  May 22

  It hadn’t been difficult to arrange Michael Adams’s meeting with the leader of Cell Six of the Death Squad—or Freedom International, as the group chose to identify itself when members happened to meet with the press. They were to have lunch at the Café Antoine near the beach, a rather stereotypical French sidewalk café with red and white striped sun umbrellas set atop the tables. Men and women sipped their coffees or espressos or mineral waters and dined on cheese, watching the passersby or looking at the beach, where the beautiful and the not-so-beautiful stretched their naked and near-naked bodies beneath the sun.

  Adam saw Ali Abdul as soon as he entered the café. There were other Arabs at some of the tables, but there was something striking about the man Adam had come to see. He was in his sixties, wearing a burnoose, and he barely moved as his sunken eyes surveyed the street before him. He was not alone. He was with a younger man in a business suit, a dark, intense man of about forty.

  That was Khazar Abdul, Adam knew, A
li’s son, and next in line for cell leadership. Whereas Ali was rumored to be cool, collected and rational at all times, Khazar was known to be a hothead. Ali murdered for a reason—Khazar lived with a hatred that made him volatile, at best.

  Adam paused briefly, his eyes scanning the rest of the patrons. He was certain the Abduls were far from alone. The café was filled with tourists of many nationalities: French, Italian, Arab, Spanish, German, Swiss, English and American. But they weren’t all tourists. Abdul would not risk the chance of assassination.

  Adam moved forward, heading for Ali’s table. A man stood and brushed against him. He felt the gun in Adam’s jacket pocket and reached deftly beneath the material for it. In accented French he apologized for his clumsiness. Adam lifted his hands and assured him, “De rien. It’s nothing.” They weren’t going to let him get close to Ali with a weapon.

  He went over to the table, feeling tension constrict his throat. These men had been responsible for the death of his wife and child. His muscles were tightening. He had to relax. He had to forget. For now.

  Ali Abdul was on his feet, greeting Adam like an old friend, giving him a kiss on each cheek. Khazar rose more stiffly than his father, but he, too, went through the motions of a friendly greeting, his dark eyes studying Adam intently.

  He doesn’t trust me, Adam thought. But then, he was certain that Khazar didn’t trust anyone.

  “So you are Michael Adams,” Ali said quietly when they were all seated. The old man’s eyes were sunken. His health could not be good.

  “Yes, I am Michael Adams.”

  “And you are anxious to join our little group in our endeavors.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?” Khazar asked.

  His father cast him a warning glare. To Adam, Ali offered a rueful grin. “Yes, we are curious as to why. Many of our number fight for religion—”

  “And many do not,” Adam said.

  “And many fight for our support in their struggles against the oppressors in their homelands.”

  Half the revolutionaries in South America wanted an in, Adam knew.

  He leaned back in his chair, summoned the waiter and asked for an espresso. He waited until the demitasse was set down and the waiter was gone before he answered. “The money, gentlemen. I’m sure that my reputation preceded me, just as I came to you because of all I had heard. I may bear a few grudges against a certain superpower, but my concern isn’t religion or freedom. In fact, it isn’t really anything at all except that I want the money, and …” He paused, leaning forward. “I like the action.”