Sammy had been the first real friend he'd ever had. He'd understood Ellery's sense of humor. They'd talked about things -- all kinds of things. Sam's family had begged Ellery to join them for holidays, something his own parents, as they Christmased in Vail and summered at Lyford Cay, had never done. Ellery had found a secondhand boat like Sam had always wanted and made a little payment on the side so the price came down to what Sam, with a family to feed, could afford.
Sam was the gentlest and most decent man he'd ever known. They'd been partners for almost four years.
Ellery shook his head. Must be the pain pills they'd given him in the emergency room that were making him entertain such random thoughts. Through the door to a connecting sitting room he could see the steel-gray hair and straight back of Oliver Lemming, director of special projects, his boss. On the phone already in their makeshift command post, and had probably been up all night. Going into the bathroom, Ellery scrubbed his face to alertness, combed back the healthy mop of hair he noticed again was getting too long, then made his way into the sitting room, fastening his slacks.
"How you feeling?" Oliver turned at the first hint of sound. He was small and trim, plainspoken. Once an agent himself, he understood better than most the delicate balance between practicality and bureaucracy. Ellery liked him.
"I'll make it," he said, easing onto a couch.
Oliver pointed to coffee.
"Have some. Hope you don't mind my bunking where Sam was. It made most sense under the circumstances."
Ellery nodded. One of the things he admired in Oliver was the man's sensitivity. Even faced with the need for expediency, Oliver didn't overlook the fact that a man had lost his life, didn't step in as though they were all interchangeable parts.
The older man stood up to straighten his back, wincing a little. He looked worn, and his face was showing a stubble of beard. The phone beside sev-eral legal pads filled with scribbling rang again. Oliver held a brief conversation.
"Shouldn't have let me sleep so long," said Ellery when he'd hung up. "You get any yourself?"
"Couple of hours." Oliver grimaced again, still rubbing his spine. "Haven't learned a lot. Ballieu's dropped from sight. I figured no point us both losing sleep." His shaggy eyebrows drew together. "We're in a real mess here. I'd feel better if you'd checked into the hospital with that shoulder, but I'm damn glad you didn't."
The compliment did more good than painkillers for Bill Ellery. He took a long slug of coffee. Compliments were something he'd never had many of while growing up.
"What'd you find out about the girl?"
In spite of weariness, Oliver's eyes gave a twinkle.
"No wonder you don't have a love life, son. They like to be called women these days. Anyway, she's thirty-two."
He drew a breath, and Ellery knew that whatever came next wasn't going to be to his liking and that Oliver knew it.
"Bill. I think we can use her for bait. To catch Ballieu."
The older man raised a hand to silence his protest.
"I know. You saw her make Yussuf's gun disappear. You told the police and they asked, and she told them she never saw a gun. I still think she's clean."
Ellery could feel his jaw hardening. Barely ten days had passed since two government couriers on their way to the engraving office in Washington had been ambushed and killed, the passport film they were transporting stolen. Through Interpol, which had an informer, State had learned Yussuf had set up the sale of the film. He was the go-between. And Oliver wanted to trust the girl who'd been with him the night before?
The gray-haired former agent sank into a chair across from him.
"You saw for yourself, she's good at sleight of hand," said Oliver. "Fourth-generation magician, or would have been if she'd turned professional, I understand. She's traveled a lot...."
Ellery was deciphering scribbles on the yellow legal pad in Oliver's hand. Notes on Channing Stuart. U.N. clearance. Ph.D. in hydro-geology -- why the hell would a woman study something like that? It intrigued him. There was a list of countries she'd worked in ... people who knew her. Oliver had clearly put in a long night tracking this down. He was speaking again.
"Bill. She could convince Ballieu she's taken over Yussuf's network. She could go to that meeting. She could get close enough to do sleight of hand on that film, substitute a piece that's imperceptibly flawed for the real thing. We'd be able to spot anyone who used one of their phony passports. Police in a dozen countries could lock up would-be hijackers, potential kidnappers -- "
"Holy Christ, Oliver! Have you been sniffing talc or something?"
"I'm dead serious. We know when and where Ballieu's to pick up that film. We don't know who has it. Even if we find out, we'd only have two fish. This way we could catch a whole freezer full."
Already Ellery was on his feet and pacing.
"Uh-uh." He saw where this was leading. "Clean or not, the girl's an amateur, Oliver. I don't want her blood on my hands -- and the plan's crazy."
"You're the only one I'd trust. You're the best we have."
Ellery shook his head stubbornly. He wasn't falling for flattery. If Channing Stuart was honest, then she must also be naive. She might be smart, but she wasn't a match for someone like Ballieu. He already had Sam on his conscience. He could feel the man who had been his mentor studying him.
"What happened to Sam wasn't your fault." The director's voice sharpened. He sucked irritably on a pipe he'd produced from his pocket. "You don't have a choice. It's an order."
Ellery turned, mouth hardening. He wasn't used to the pulling of rank.
"Get your jacket," his boss said, easing back. "We'll grab breakfast somewhere."
Ellery held his irritation for another moment, then let it go.
"Great. Know a place that serves liver?"
Aware a truce had been offered, Oliver shook his head in perplexity.
"You have the damnedest sense of humor. Come on. We'll eat, then touch base with the boys at FBI. After that I want to head up to Altadena to visit the lady with the fancy fingers."
* * *
"You going to send me back to Mexico like they did my folks?"
Channing, leaning against the mantelpiece in her breakfast room and watching the boy who had just spoken shovel more eggs and bacon into his mouth, fought an urge to laugh. Why spoil her perfect record of irrational acts since Yussu’s death?
First she'd palmed the gun. Then she'd brought Serafin here. Now she discovered she was harboring an illegal alien in her sunny breakfast room. His parents had been caught and sent back twice. His mother had been near death with cancer, anyway, he'd told her this morning. Serafin had eluded the authorities. He wanted to stay.
Rundell, shoulders stooping, came in to slam a pot of jam on the table.
"You'll get yourself in trouble," he hissed.
Channing hadn't requested jam. The irascible houseman no doubt had kept his ear pressed against the other side of the swinging door.
As Rundell stalked out again, Channing wondered if she should blame her recent behavior on premature senility. Or perhaps on the fact that she'd lived too long away from civilization, drawing guidance from her own judgment where laws were few. There was, of course, the possibility of plain strong-headedness.
"Are you going to send me back?" demanded Serafin. His voice had a wobble that he tried to hide.
Channing checked the coffee cup sitting beside her on the mantel. It was empty.
"I don't know ... no. Of course I'm not going to send you back."
She had money, didn't she? She wasn't exactly the mothering type, but they'd get along. How could she turn her back on such a determined and obviously self-possessed kid?
"Why'd you hide Yussuf's gun?"
Her fingers raked the hair at her temples as she sought an answer.
"Impulse, I guess. Goodness knows what the newspapers would have made of a gun -- you know how they are."
Serafin was a darkly handsome boy, his eyes un-nervingly wis
e. They followed her gravely as she came toward the table to refill her coffee cup.
"You don't know any trouble Yussuf was having?" she said, prodding. "No arguments or anything?"
What weighed on her mind this morning was why anyone would shoot her friend. When she'd asked the police the previous night, they'd shrugged it off -- the city was full of nuts.
Serafin shook his head.
"He said he was going to retire after his next booking. He said he might take me with him."
The news saddened her. Yussuf's arthritis, she guessed. What was a magician without his hands? If they'd had time to talk, if she and Yussuf had gone to dinner as they usually did, she supposed he'd have told her his plans.
Her thoughts were stopped by the whoosh of the swinging door. Rundell reappeared, in his official mode now.
"Two gentlemen to see you, madam. They say they're from the State Department."
The announcement derailed Channing completely. The police she could understand, but the State Department? It couldn't be about Serafln. Too fast. And they wouldn't know he was here. What else could it be?
The way she'd dealt with that fat shaykh who'd tried to force himself on her last night in the UAE? If complaints were lodged against her, there was always the chance she'd lose her clearance for working in countries where diplomacy was needed. What else could go wrong?
"I'll see them in the study," she said, and began to move briskly. Nine times out of ten you could circumvent trouble with a good offense.
The study that had been her grandfather's was on the second floor and was the room in the house where Channing, away for such blocks of time now, felt most at home. As a child she'd spent countless hours here, sitting on the massive desk or on her grandfather's lap, watching, learning, practicing. She slipped behind the desk and waited, standing, as Rundell showed the two men in. The one with silver hair held out his hand.
"Dr. Stuart? I'm Oliver Lemming. This is my associate, William Ellery."
The second man was in his late thirties. His mouth was hard, with a hint of underlying humor that might be too biting for some people, Channing suspected. But that was irrelevant.
"I suppose you're here because of the swing I took at that lecherous old Shaykh Omar," she began. “Well let me tell you, I had every right! I had witnesses, and it's well known he's harassed other foreign women -- "
"Dr. Stuart." Lemming's voice showed signs of weariness as he cut in. "We're not here to make trouble. We don't know a thing about Shaykh Omar. We're here to ask your help. May we sit down?"
Puzzled now but still wary, she gestured toward chairs. Lemming sank into one in front of her desk, but Bill Ellery strolled toward the window. He eyed the life-size portrait of her grandfather on one wall; her grandfather's folded cape, his wand, and top hat on a chest that was really a sword cabinet. Slouching slightly against the window, he turned to eye her carefully too. Daylight through the glass behind him highlighted glints of black and red in his brown hair. He didn't like her.
That was all right with Channing. Men, particularly those quite sure of themselves, often didn't like her on first meeting. Bringing them around was fun. If she chose to do it.
Oliver Lemming was speaking.
"Dr. Stuart, Bill here says Yussuf Bashim had a gun last night and that you made it disappear."
Damn. Now she recognized him. The man on the stage.
Bill Ellery watched her weigh and decide her answer, all in a split second. She had freckles up to the rolled sleeves of her white shirt and across the bridge of her nose. An assertive chin. Quarrelsome.
"All right," she said. "I did it. I know it was dumb. But I'd known Yussuf all my life. I couldn't stand the thought of seeing his name dragged -- "
"How much did you know about his business?" Ellery cut in abruptly.
He could see her brain turning, trying to figure this out. He hadn't made much time in his life for women -- relax too much and he might not be as good at the job as he ought to be. Still, this one struck him as different.
"What he earned? Who handled his bookings, you mean?" she asked. "Not much."
If she was clean -- and he was starting to think Oliver was right on that point -- she'd never stand a chance in the role carved out for her. She was fast, he'd give her that. But too much of her thought process showed; it would be a giveaway.
"What about contacts in other countries?" he said, pressing on.
She shook her head. "What does the State Department -- "
Channing was starting to feel uneasy, but before she could finish her question, the man in front of her desk spoke again.
"Ms. Stuart, we don't have time to be nice about this. Your friend Yussuf was as crooked as they come. In the past five years he'd set himself up quite a network, supplying things to various terrorist groups around the world -- weapons, explosives, counterfeit currency, you name it."
The arms of her chair felt cold and unfamiliar as Channing groped for them.
"You can't be right! He was -- "
"We have photographs of him with people, Ms. Stuart. We have other proof. We'd been letting him run loose because he could lead us to bigger fish. He had quite a game going, but he was still just the go-between. Last night he was killed by one his customers. We're not sure why."
Numbly she let his words flow over her. Yussuf's killer was a terrorist named Ballieu. He was after some film. The deal had been scheduled to take place at Yussuf's next booking.
Serafin had told her Yussuf planned to retire after his next booking. What she was hearing must be true. She sat erect to keep her head from sliding into her hands in grief.
Now Oliver Lemming was asking her to work with them. To pose as the heir to Yussuf's empire. They'd provide her with names, make her story convincing, be on hand to protect her. They wanted her to substitute a flawed piece of film for the good one, through sleight of hand.
"You could help us put away a lot of people who'd otherwise be out hijacking planes and planting bombs," he said soberly. "You could save a lot of lives."
Did they know?
Channing's fingers slid across the desk toward the photograph, the one possession that made this room hers now. Tony. Still in his surgeon's clothes. His arm around her on a day they had laughed together.
She owed this to him, for the things he had believed in.
She owed it to cancel out what Yussuf had done.
But was she good enough?
The man by the window was watching her hand on the photograph frame. His expression was too alert. He was seeing too much. Channing turned the picture face down and took her hand away.
"You think I can do it because Ballieu saw me with Yussuf. I'd play Yussuf's next engagement so it looks like I'm taking over his cover, his network, everything."
She repeated it back like a parrot. It wasn't fear that kept her from a decision, only uncertainty that she could bring it off. Yes, she could do coin tricks, card tricks ... but a full twenty-minute act coming after some vocalist or stand-up comic? And could she look into the eyes of a man who had done what Ballieu had done and pretend to play games with him?
"We've got forty-eight hours to get into position -- one plan or another," said Oliver, rising. "We've got to have your answer tomorrow. Bill will check with you."
From his spot by the window Ellery spoke through his teeth.
"It's dangerous. Do you understand that?"
She nodded mutely. Her head was reeling with the truth about Yussuf. She wished they'd leave. Bill Ellery shrugged and moved past her desk.
"I'll be in the middle of Venice Beach tomorrow at four," he said. "At one of the jewelry stands." And then they were gone. Channing drew a deep breath, leaned back in her chair, and tried to think. She wished now she hadn't made herself responsible for Serafin, but once she started something, she didn't back down. Walking to the window where Bill Ellery had stood, she threw it open. It was going to be hot today, and Rundell was going to scream about wasting the air-conditioning,
but a little fresh air always helped her brain.
Bailieu, as he drove past the house for a second time, saw a window open. It hadn't been, on their first pass at seven this morning. He wondered if this Khadija they had sent with the money, this female with insolent eyes who was supposed to help him, had been so observant. Bailieu had chosen to drive expressly so she could notice such things. Immediately she had resented it. She had sneered that today their organization believed in equality. She was one of the young ones, fat on her own importance. Bailieu was not pleased. He would have to teach her some lessons.
"An easy entry." The sneer was back in her voice. Her slitted eyes crawled up the house. "But unnecessary, with the meeting only two days away. We -- "
"When there is any question, I do not take risks," Bailieu said coldly, interrupting. He had always worked alone before. He did not like explaining his actions. "This woman could spoil the meeting. The cassette the magician gave her could have names. Information about our organization. Anything. She could make demands on us, as he did."
The cause of people's liberation would not be slowed by blackmailers. Let sniveling governments afraid to pull a trigger play that kind of game, he thought.
Kadija shrugged, her boredom evident. Her black hair was braided against her neck. She wore a tight jersey, tight slacks. Though she couldn’t be more than twenty-two, years of conditioning showed in the curves of her body.
“You’re in charge,” she said, but a challenge showed in her eyes. And they burned too brightly. She was overeager. So passionate in the zeal that she might make a misstep.
Ballieu noted all. He would have to watch her carefully.
For the moment he knew by her fervor and training that she was more than capable of the job he had assigned her.
“Find the cassette,” he said. “Then get rid of the Stuart woman.”
Four
Channing stood in the study facing the portrait of the man known to his audiences as the Great Sebastian. After all these years it still hurt, the last things he’d said to her here in this study. She knew he hadn’t meant them. Yet sometimes she’d wondered herself, was she a Stuart? Knowing the skills she’d ... been born with, maybe ... had she turned her back on her birthright?
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