Touch of Magic

by M. Ruth Myers

  "It's a Rolex," Ellery said. "Metal expansion band pretty much like this, if you want to use it."

  He slipped a cheaper watch from his wrist and Channing took it, all in one smooth movement.

  "I'll get what you need and drop it off in your dressing room in a couple of minutes."

  There was no time for more. They split off like two people going opposite ways in a marching band. Yet Channing felt a sudden synchronization between them.

  A moment later she was through the door to her dressing room. Serafin stood in front of the mirror. He wore pants and a cutaway jacket, borrowed from a dining room waiter with the explanation that his own had been lost in transit. Channing wondered briefly how many untruths she'd tell in behalf of him and Ellery before she was finished. Serafin turned. He was clearly excited.

  "I've got everything set up for you, Channing. I've rolled all your silks and have your glycerin out." He noticed the watch she was starting to test with her fingers. "What're you going to do?"

  "Practice something new that I'm trying tonight. Could you go to the coffee shop and get me a ginger ale? I'm really thirsty."

  It was crazy. She half feared if he watched her practicing, he'd somehow guess what she was up to. In any case, he couldn't be here when Bill Ellery arrived with the bug.

  As Serafin reached for the doorknob a swell of caring rose in her throat that made speech difficult. This wasn't how she'd meant things to be. He deserved better than what she was giving. She'd never been much good at apologies, any more than she'd been at flirting or cooking or a dozen other things most women took for granted. Maybe she'd never been very good at saying what she was feeling, either.

  "Serafin." She hoped he'd be able to see through the clumsiness of her words. "What kind of pet would you like to have when we get home?"

  Eleven

  Applause was sounding, and Ballieu joined in politely. By his calculation the magic act would be next.

  "They have such marvelous entertainment here, don't you think?" asked Mildred Farrow with a timid uncertainty that grated on Ballieu's nerves.

  Her hair was feathered back, and she wore a white dress that looked rather nice on her. Ballieu smiled and let the back of his hand brush hers as he reached for the snifter of brandy that sat between them.

  Almost from the beginning his organization had recognized the advantage he offered for blending into settings like this, where money and imperialist tastes went hand in hand. In the first place he was not afraid of being looked at, whereas others panicked. In the second he understood the wisdom of making the little gestures, displaying the charm and playing the games that kept those around him unwary. Most important, of course, was his blondness, and the ease with which he could wear expensive suits. The belligerent, the unkempt, the wild-eyed would be caught at this game. Ballieu had never been caught.

  "And now, ladies and gentlemen, an act whose name says it all. She's -- the Magic Lady," the emcee announced.

  Ballieu set his glass down abruptly and looked at Mildred Farrow.

  "Forgive me. I didn't know this would affect me. My wife ... my wife was very fond of magic. I think I'd like to see this alone."

  He'd timed the move perfectly, and as he remained seated, Mildred Farrow got the message that she was the one expected to leave.

  "Oh... of course," she whispered.

  Ballieu sat back. Black velvet curtains were parting on stage. In front of them, at center, sat an empty, thronelike chair. It was high-backed, with plumes on the top and velvet upholstery. Suddenly smoke puffed out and a woman sat in the midst of it -- all in an instant. Ballieu found himself tensing.

  The cleverness with which she'd materialized was distracting. She held herself like a column of ebony in her long black gown. Her eyes seemed to search him out and met his without flinching. Fire flashed from her fingertips. A wand appeared.

  Anger rose like bile in Ballieu's throat. What did she know about the deal that Yussuf had struck? Was it really in jeopardy?

  A boy in a cutaway coat stepped from the wings to hand the Stuart woman a large square of red silk. She performed in silence, accompanied by music.

  Across the room, Khadija was also watching. Her hair was down. She looked like any other American woman on the prowl. Ballieu hoped she did not arouse too much interest. He might need her. More than that, he hoped she was able to lay aside her zeal in favor of alertness.

  Onstage, in her glittering black dress, the magician had passed from tricks with scarves to filling a bucket with coins that rained out of nowhere. Next she began to work with foot-wide silver rings that linked together. At last she tossed the rings to her assistant and came to the front of the stage where she bowed to warm applause.

  "And now I'll ask some of you in the audience to assist me," she said, starting down.

  Her eyes were on Ballieu again. He watched a light flicker in them. They were hypnotic. Challenging. Dark with a strange and unleashed boldness Ballieu thought could make her careless.

  To his surprise she turned toward a woman in the audience.

  "Do you have a compact?" she asked.

  She borrowed a fifty-dollar bill from a man at another table, made it vanish out of her hand, and reappear in the compact the woman was holding.

  At last she began to make her way toward him. Ballieu could feel a magnetic thread connecting them. Her hips were narrow. The sheath of her short J-shaped knife swayed exotically. An absurd affectation, making a trinket of a knife designed to kill and maim, Ballieu thought.

  "Now if I could borrow a wristwatch," she said, stopping by his table. "You'll lend me one, won't you, sir? You look like a good sport."

  Ballieu had not anticipated she'd be fool enough to focus every eye in the room on him. He didn't like it. There was only one safe way to play the situation.

  "Of course," he said smoothly, stripping it from his wrist.

  His eyes never broke their connection, and hers never wavered. She held out her hand. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  "Yussuf set a trap. I can get you out. Terrace bar -- after the second show."

  She turned toward a nearby table, her wrist flicking smartly over as she placed his watch in front of a gray-haired woman.

  "Now, will you just cover this with your hand? You're sure it's a watch you're covering?"

  When the woman in the audience removed her hand, Ballieu saw his watch had been exchanged for a book of matches. The watch appeared in another man's pocket. The Stuart woman made jokes about timing three-minute eggs with a pack of matches and lighting a pipe with a watch, and everyone laughed.

  Ballieu waited, wondering what she'd meant about a trap. He'd expected blackmail, not this hint of complicity.

  She returned his watch. Ballieu felt a pain stab his belly and reached into his pocket to unwrap another peppermint.

  What was her game that she approached him so boldly?

  He crumpled the candy wrapper and rolled it between his palms, thinking.

  * * *

  "Nothing," said Ellery bitterly, standing at the center of Ballieu's closet and surveying again the items of clothing they'd searched seam by seam and thread by thread. Using one side of the door as an anvil, he pounded the heel back onto one of Ballieu's shoes, which he'd been inspecting.

  "That's every inch," said Walker, replacing the air-conditioning grid he'd just removed.

  They'd been in the room for almost an hour and found no trace of money, no clue who might be selling the film to Ballieu.

  "Maybe he's paying in something he can carry on him," said Walker. "A draft on a Swiss bank. Diamonds. Even shoved up his ass, maybe."

  "Yeah, maybe," echoed Ellery.

  His shoulder itched from not being able to wash it. Or maybe from healing. He was tired and thought fleetingly how good it would feel to stretch out with a drink and let down a little. But already his mind was moving on downstairs to where Channing would be finishing her act about now. There'd been no message from Max, who was watching her, so
she must be okay.

  "Let's clear in case he comes up between shows," he said, looking at the clock built into the room's TV cabinet.

  They returned to the listening post. Walker slid in under the headphones, twisted dials, and gave a sudden thumbs-up sign.

  "Listen," he said, indicating a second pair of earphones. "I think she got it on him -- I can hear voices. But either the damn thing's got static or he's crinkling paper."

  "Candy," said Ellery, listening a minute. "When I spilled that drink to get a look at his watch, he was unwrapping candy."

  Strange anomaly in a man who made war on innocent people.

  Channing was to have scheduled her meeting with Ballieu for after the second show. Ellery knew she'd hold up her end, but he wasn't sure about Ballieu. He decided to go down early and get in position, just to be safe.

  * * *

  The terrace bar was the noisiest of Palacio Sol's late-night action spots. It was open-air, with a tile floor and a mariachi band.

  Under lantern light a few couples bumped along on a postage-stamp-size dance floor: a trim older duo who executed their intricate steps flawlessly and without expression. A pair of lovers. A fat retiree hanging on to a girl with long black hair and a sulky mouth. Channing stood for a minute, watching, screened by a piece of grillwork that held pots of geraniums. Her heart beat so deep in her chest and so coldly, it was hard for her to get her breath.

  She tried to pick out details that would reassure her. Ellery sat hunched above a glass, appearing indifferent to the scene around him. Walker was at a table laughing with two young women. Henri Ballieu sat a little apart, in the shadow of a low wall. Alone. She felt strangled by sudden hate of what he stood for, but along with the feeling came an unexpected and numbing fear.

  What if she couldn't do it?

  What if she couldn't look in his eyes and hide what she felt and make him believe her story?

  But she was a Stuart. It was time for her to perform.

  Squaring her shoulders, she began to walk toward Ballieu's table. His head raised almost at once, as though he could smell her.

  He looked at her as she sat down. He didn't speak. Neither did Channing. Around them the sights and sounds blurred together, fireworks exploding in bursts of noise and color. She could feel the air between them throb as they challenged each other. The hate she felt for him flowed into her, molding her and giving her the ruthlessness of the role she played.

  "I worked for Yussuf," she said boldly. "I know about Marinka, Colón -- everything."

  She waited to let the names sink in. His only response was the faint shrinking of his pupils.

  "I've taken over his network," she said. "I want to be on good terms with your organization. Yussuf was setting a trap for you, but there's a way around--"

  So swiftly she didn't have time to flinch, his hand moved, pinning her wrist to the table.

  "Disengage the timing device."

  His words were the glint of a knife edge, a threat that need not be articulated. Channing's breath stalled. She didn't know what he was talking about.

  "I can't."

  Instinctively she knew it was the thing to say. She got her balance back. Ballieu's hand pressed harder against her wrist.

  "What do you mean you can't?"

  The pieces fell into place before her. This explained why he was waiting.

  "The timing device was Yussuf's idea," she said. "I can't undo it. But I can see that you get out with the film. If I'm not there when you pick it up, you won't walk away."

  It was someone else speaking in her voice, someone as coldly composed as Ballieu himself. The man across from her sat back. At the edge of her vision she saw Bill Ellery do the same, as if he'd been about to rush them.

  "I don't like threats," said Ballieu. "Or blackmail."

  "Which is why you killed Yussuf?"

  There was a wine bottle on the table. And two glasses. She reached and filled one, uninvited.

  "I'm making a peace offering, not threatening. I'm not asking a cent except what you owed Yussuf for setting up the deal."

  "Why?" There was no indication at all in his face of what he was thinking.

  "Didn't I make it clear enough? I want to keep doing business with you."

  He hadn't decided yet what to make of her story. That was how she read it. Which meant, she told her knotted nerves, that she had a chance.

  "The magician thought he could ambush me?"

  His eyes were pale and chill. He was pretending unconcern. Or was he pretending?

  Channing gave a knowing look. She rose.

  "Let's say he expected to sell the film twice. To you, and then when you were out of the way, to another buyer. Of course, if you don't want my help, you can always try to shoot your way out."

  She turned. He made no move to stop her. He wasn't biting, and her mouth felt dry with worry.

  A few tables over, Ellery was tossing a couple of peanuts into his mouth, slouching toward the door without so much as a look in her direction. Channing set her teeth, thinking of an airport sprayed with blood if Ballieu got what he wanted.

  She looked at him across her shoulder, adopting the same careless tone she'd used in their whole conversation.

  "Think about it."

  She walked briskly back to her dressing room. Her determination not to think Ballieu might be behind her, or what he might do if her story didn't offer the protection Oliver Lemming thought it would, held her erect. This was war. She understood that now. She'd understood it sitting there across from Ballieu.

  She slid into her dressing room, closed the door, and sagged against it with relief. Sensing a presence, she snapped herself back together. Her eyes jerked open. Bill Ellery lounged against her dressing table, one leg hooked over the corner. She started forward, but he intercepted her, catching her shoulders.

  She felt his tension. And his unvoiced question.

  "I don't know if it worked. He didn't take me up on the deal." Her voice lacked the steadiness she was used to, but she knew a part of the reason was anger. If a few men like Ballieu could plunge the whole world into chaos, then by God a few like her and Ellery could make it sane again.

  "Learn anything?"

  "Yes. There's some sort of timing device. He asked me to disarm it."

  "A time bomb in reverse." He let his breath out slowly and stepped back. "That's why he hasn't run. Yussuf must have put the film in some sort of vault they can't open."

  He smelled of soap and shaving cream. Channing could see the outline of his Adam's apple.

  "Not right here in the hotel." She found that possibility too farfetched.

  "No. Somewhere near here. If we can find out where, that's our ace in the hole."

  She didn't understand and must have shown it, for his mouth began to relax in the first traces of a smile.

  "You can make things vanish; I can take bombs apart. Are you okay?"

  Ellery knew he shouldn't have touched her just now. It hadn't been necessary. But she'd looked drained when she'd come through that door, and then immediately had bluffed, pretending she wasn't. He wished he wasn't starting to see so many sides of her and that she hadn't performed so well. It was making things harder.

  She had nerve enough for any three people, but nerve wasn't enough. You had to know when to be scared. She hadn't been trained... didn't have a gun... would, he was starting to feel, equate backing down with failure. And her life was in his hands.

  "You're doing a damn good job," he said.

  He wondered whether she still dreamed about the doctor in Beirut.

  "Let's call it a day," he said abruptly.

  * * *

  Ballieu prowled his room lifting pictures off the wall and looking in lamp shades. The people watching him would have searched his room in his absence. The question was whether they'd been foolish enough to leave more of their electronic bugs.

  He finished his circuit. Nothing. They were smart enough to realize that if he'd torn out the last ones, he'd
search again. They were taking care not to scare him away. They were counting on him to lead them to the film itself. He'd disappoint them.

  His only worry was over the woman who'd met him in the bar. Could she be telling the truth? The magician Yussuf had no political loyalties, only a love of money. He would not have been above such a trick. And the woman herself seemed fearless. It was possible.

  The phone rang bringing him to instant alertness. No one should be calling him here. A pulse of high-frequency sound to rupture his brain? No, they wanted him to lead them to the film. Perhaps it was only the desk, or one of the women he'd met. He answered.

  "Don't say a word," a male voice cautioned. It was the seller's voice. "Your watch has ears. The woman who put it there is working for their side."

  Ballieu held a minute in disbelief, then slammed the receiver down savagely. Bitch. Cunning American liar. Was it possible she could have done it right before his eyes?

  He ripped his watch from his wrist, bent the segments apart, and saw the evidence. His fingers reached out to destroy it, then pulled back as he smiled.

  Twelve

  Ballieu slept late and awoke with a sense of tranquillity that seemed to drag at his body. For the first time in years he had dreamed of the village where he had been born. Light dancing as it could only in the sun-drenched lands of the southern Mediterranean. Lushness. Colors. The wavering call from the minaret that, though he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't scorned Allah as a fairy tale fit only for children, nevertheless had soothed like music. The clear and lingering images haunted even as they beckoned to him. He could almost smell the dust in the streets. From somewhere inside him there trickled an unknown rivulet that he recognized as fear.

  Shaking off the torpor that was pulling at him, Ballieu sat up. He ran a forearm over his face and found it bathed in cold sweat. Absurd. Ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing that mattered, anyway. He flung the sheets from him and, with cool and practiced discipline, brought all the resources of his mind to bear on the problems at hand.