by David Drake
Kelly shrugged. “That’s fine,” he said, staggering a little with the weight of the collapsed MARS boat. “Just so long as we can stash the boat and radio here, and we can lay up until dark tomorrow ourselves.” He laughed. “I have simple tastes,” he added. “I want to get this whole thing over so bad I can simply taste it.”
The men grunted simultaneously as they set the package down in the hall. “We should have brought the other five men this damned thing’s built to hold,” Kelly grumbled. “Though I swear, it’ll look small enough tomorrow when I get to take it out to sea. Well, one more load.”
“Ah,” the sergeant said. “We thought—my wife and me, Tom. Maybe you’d like to have dinner tonight with us?”
The agent stopped in the doorway. “Doug, that’s—well, I really appreciate it. I—I’ve got something else that I”—and his tongue stumbled, but he got the next word out anyway—“need to do tonight. But I really appreciate it.”
“Well, let’s shift the other stuff,” Rowe said. He smiled cheerfully. “And good luck tonight.”
XXIV
The upper lot by the DCM’s house was already crowded when Kelly arrived. Mercedes predominated, but there were a fair number of top-quality Citröens and Renaults as well as more exotic makes. At least one of the Citröens bore cream-colored Presidency license plates with a damned low prefix: either the Minister of Foreign Affairs himself or someone high-ranking from his shop. The agent smiled and shook his head as he eased past. His VW was going to feel lonely.
Loneliness was the wrong subject for a joke, even to himself . . . especially to himself. Kelly’s stomach knotted around the liquor he had drunk in his hotel room to nerve him for the evening. Scowling, the agent pulled into a space between the GSO Annex and the line of brown-painted Conexes. The building was a metal temporary, and the Conexes were shed-sized shipping containers that doubled here—as in Nam—as lockable storage for the General Services Officer. In sum, the scene was as romantic and Eastern as downtown Milwaukee.
Kelly got out of his car, locked it, and checked his pockets. The invitation was in the breast pocket; and the grenade fuse made an unsightly bulge on the right side. Kelly removed the fuse to check it. He had put thirty wraps of plastic electrician’s tape around the charge tube and the arming spoon. Henri, the Chancery receptionist, had found him the tape without asking questions. Doug could have gotten it, but Kelly did not want to involve the sergeant.
Working by the light outside the GSO building, the stocky American pulled the cotter pin that locked the spoon in place. The tape wrappings still kept the spoon from flying up to hit the striker and ignite the fuse. The plastic tape was amply strong to hold for the foreseeable future.
With the doctored fuse concealed in his hand, the agent began to stroll up the long drive toward the gate to the Annex grounds. Under his breath he was mouthing a phrase from the folk song “Sam Hall”:
“. . . you’re a bunch a’ bastards all,
Goddamn your eyes.”
There were cars parked solidly for a block either way from the Residence on both sides of the street. Most of the vehicles had green Diplomatic plates. Those which did not were of a luxury which conferred equal immunity. Pairs of Civil Police stood at the limits of sight in either direction, directing traffic with yellow light-wands on the ends of flashlights. Another pair of blue-suited patrolmen lounged against the wall outside the open Residence gate. They were laughing and talking to one another unconcernedly, but their pistols were real and they each carried a walkie-talkie—unusual for the regular police. It was not a gate that anyone smart would try to crash.
The Fiat was right where Kelly had spotted it when he drove in, fifty yards from the DCM’s entrance and on the same side of the street. A little farther than the Zulus normally had to park from their lady friend’s front door, but not much. Kelly had not expected the car to be there, not tonight, maybe never again . . . but he had been prepared just in case. The agent’s lips were dry, his right palm sweating on the fuse assembly. He sauntered toward the car, his mind tumbling over the last stanza of the song though his mouth was too stiff to pass even the shadow of the words:
“Now up the rope I go, now up I go. . . .”
Kelly’s suit was of a wool-silk blend, well-cut as befitted a man who sold big-ticket items to conservative businessmen. It was also charcoal gray. Even if any of the policemen had made the effort, they would have seen only one more shadow gliding between the parked cars and the courtyard walls. The Fiat’s gas cap was not of the locking type, though Kelly would scarcely have been delayed if it had been. He twisted it open, using only the tips of his left fingers on the knurled rim. He dropped in the taped fuse, then replaced the cap when the splash assured him that the fuse had slid into the tank proper. He gave an extra twist after the gas cap had seated, smearing his prints illegibly instead of wiping the metal with a rag. Whistling under his breath, Kelly walked back to the Annex gate before stepping into the street and the view of the policemen at the entrance. The blue-suited men straightened slightly as they saw Kelly approach through a gap in the traffic. Cars were being fed in alternate directions by the police with wands. There was not room for them to pass both ways at once with the parking as it was. The agent tipped his invitation toward the men in a mock salute, smiling. They smiled back and relaxed again, young men in long, boring duty. They were not westernized enough to appreciate the jazz from beyond the wall as music, and they were not affected enough to succumb to its snob appeal.
At the Residence entrance proper, a tuxedoed servant checked Kelly’s invitation with no more than the usual care. He gestured ceremoniously within, saying, “Refreshments are being served to the right, by the pool, sir.”
The Residence grounds were lighted by yellow paper lanterns spiked to the lawn on iron bases. Couples and small groups—mostly men—strolled on the grass among the cedars, in separate, low-voiced conversations. A sidewalk curved to the entrance and across the front of the house. At the right end of the rambling building was a blaze of electric light. The guest house was lighted also. Kelly noted with amusement that there was no reggae tonight from behind the closed, curtained windows. He walked along the sidewalk without haste, his eyes open for anyone he knew—and for anything he needed to learn.
The social area proper was a flood-lit patio to the right rear of the building. It was a full story lower than the front entrance. The swimming pool was near the courtyard wall, a lighted jewel dazzlingly brighter than the moonlit Mediterranean visible over the wall coping. A temporary stage had been constructed against one wing of the Residence, but it held only instruments and a pair of large speakers at the moment. Either Kelly had arrived between sets, or the entertainment was over for the evening.
Commander Posner was resplendent in dress whites for the occasion, talking with animation to the Station Chief near a tiled wall fountain. Kelly started toward them, hesitated, and walked to the bar instead. Three tuxedoed Algerians were decanting wine, mineral water, and a variety of fruit juices. There was no hard liquor in evidence, perhaps in deference to the fact that more than half the guests were locals. Kelly snagged one of the glasses of red wine and sipped. After a quick glance around, he slugged down the rest of the glass. Reaching around a portly, bearded man in a fez, the agent traded his empty glass for a full one. Annamaria had been right: the local vintages did have a bite.
Harry Warner saw Kelly approaching. He waved to silence the Attaché. Commander Posner turned, his face registering multiple levels of surprise.
Kelly smiled easily, the portion of his mind that was tuned to business slipping to the fore. Everything was stable, was crystalline, when he concentrated on the job. Though that was only by contrast, of course. “I won’t intrude now, sir,” the agent said, “but if you have a moment later, I’d like to check on our business.”
Warner waved dismissal. “Sure,” he said, “I was going to get another drink anyway.” The CIA officer smiled coldly at Kelly as he walked to the bar
.
“For God’s sake!” Posner whispered, “what are you doing here? This is a Section Heads Only affair!” He looked around hastily. “You know I can’t pass you your code disk here.”
“No problem,” the agent said, swallowing more wine without really tasting it, “you can hold it. I just wanted to make sure the cable got off okay.”
“Well, I said it would, didn’t I?” snapped the commander. “You’re an idiot to come here tonight, you know. How did you ever get past the gate?”
The fountain was dry, but the alcove itself was tiled in a running-water pattern. Blue and yellow slip glazes rippled over a white background. More than a hundred individually different tiles had been arranged in a unitary design which had been planned at a factory . . . perhaps four centuries before. Kelly let his eyes rest on the soothing, hand-painted curves as he said, “Oh, I had something to attend to . . . and I felt like coming, I guess that’s the reason I do most things. Thank you, Commander.”
Both men were shaking their heads when they parted.
Annamaria was nowhere to be seen; neither was her husband. For all his bravado in attending the affair, Kelly rather hoped that he would not meet the Ambassador again. He was not sure what either of them would say.
The general language of the gathering was English, though there were varieties of it that had more to be translated than understood by a native speaker. At the hors d’oeuvres table was an obvious member of the jazz group, a gangling blond man in slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a red vest. He towered like a derrick over an Algerian girl who was perhaps older than the fifteen she looked. The American was offering the girl stuffed olives and very earnest conversation. To the musician’s other side was another, shorter, American in a light sport coat. He was equally earnest and far less relaxed.
The musician finally turned to the shorter man and said, “Say, Cal, can you speak to her? Don’t think she knows any American at all.”
“Gerry, when is the set going to start?” the other man demanded.
“When Dee gets out of the shitter, I suppose, Cal,” the musician said. He turned back to the girl. “Go tour-direct somebody else, man,” he added over his shoulder.
The girl was very nice indeed. She was wearing clothes from Paris with a style that belied her youth. Kelly grinned and started to join the couple as an interpreter. The girl was obviously flattered at the attention—and obviously, as even Gerry had surmised, completely innocent of English. Before the agent could speak, however, the musician made one last thrust at international understanding. He bent down so that his face was on a level with the girl’s. Then he asked with the exaggeratedly slow delivery of a Voice of America language lesson, “Would . . . you . . . like . . . to . . . fuck?”
Kelly turned, choking to keep from spraying out the mouthful of wine he had just taken. Annamaria stood three steps behind him, wearing a black silk dress and a look of delighted amazement.
“Angelo!” she cried, “you did come! What a surprise.” She touched Kelly’s hand in friendly greeting.
The agent checked his watch. “Well, I . . .” he said. “Things happen and things, ah . . . things change.” He wished to God his glass was not empty. “Look, Anna, I need”—he looked at his watch again, this time to take his eyes off the woman—“I’d like to borrow a phone for just a moment. But I”—he faced her but lowered his voice—“I don’t want to fall over your—his Excellency. I’ll go next door if I need to.”
“Not at all,” Annamaria said, using her fingertips on the back of Kelly’s hand to draw him after her. “We’ll use the extension in the front hall, if that’s all right. Rufus has been upstairs with—” her own voice fell “—someone from the MFA since the reception line closed. If he does come down, he’ll go out by the back door anyway.”
The wisteria overhanging the entrance was a rich purple fragrance that penetrated the flagged court within. It even touched the hall beyond. The ceiling light was small, but it glanced in more than adequately from the blank, white walls. A phone sat on a circular table, beside a coat rack of age-darkened wood. “I’ll wait around the corner,” Annamaria said, gesturing toward the instrument and walking on. “Call when you’re through.”
The agent opened his mouth to say that was not necessary; but then again, the less known. . . . God, she was lovely. Kelly’s mouth was dry again as he dialed the six-digit number he had memorized from the register on Sergeant Rowe’s desk. Dryness was good. It would change the timbre of his voice, and a trace of nervous anticipation was just what the doctor ordered on this one.
“Yes?” said a woman on the other end of the line. Kelly had never met the Ambassador’s secretary, but it was her home phone he had dialed.
“Buffy,” the agent whispered urgently, “this is Chuck Reeves. You’ve got to get him out fast. The Ambassador’s going to cover up for last night by getting them all thrown in Lambese Prison on open charges. The Minister’s just agreed and the arrest team’s on the way. If he’s still there in five minutes, he’ll only leave the prison when they put him on the roads!”
Kelly slammed down the phone on the yelp of alarm from the other end. He was smiling, and it was not a nice smile to see. Then he looked down the hall and saw Annamaria looking back at him, alerted by the clash of plastic. Christ, he was trembling again. “Let’s get out of here,” he said in an attempt at a normal voice, “and—but, hell, I’m sorry, you’ll have things to do.”
Annamaria’s heels clicked even through the thick carpeting as she strode back to the agent. “If his Excellency the Ambassador can disappear,” she said, linking arms as she had before, “surely her Excellency the Ambassador’s wife can do the same. My car?”
“No, I . . .” Kelly said. “I don’t really need to go anywhere. Let’s walk over to the Annex grounds, that’s—” The stocky man met her eyes, finally. He smiled without the murderous delight of a moment before. “Just want to talk, that’s all.”
They were another indistinguishable couple on the lawn as soon as they stepped beyond the lighted sidewalk. It was warmer than it had been for the past few evenings. Annamaria had not bothered to wear a wrap. Her dress was slashed off the right shoulder, leaving her skin to glow in the ambient light. Worth a glance, even in the darkness, but the attention of all those nearby seemed to be focused on the scene taking place at the guest house.
The front door was open, a harsh rectangle in contrast to the light diffusing through the window curtains. A slim woman with a splendid Afro stood in silhouette in the doorway, shrieking back into the house.
Annamaria missed a half step in wonder. Kelly continued walking, his gentle momentum drawing the woman on. “What on earth is Buffy doing?” Annamaria marveled in an undertone. “Goodness, if word gets back to Rufus that she’s had a public scene with her boyfriend tonight, with everyone here, she’ll be shipped back to America by the next plane. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “he’ll have someone else sign the orders.”
A tall black man stamped angrily out of the house, snarling something to the woman. His shoes were in his hand. “God damn you!” she screamed in reply. “Go on! I won’t have them taking me too!” Her gesture was imperious. She looked like a back-lighted statue of Queen Ti.
The man bent to don his shoes, then changed his mind and loped for the gate. The house door slammed. He looked back over his shoulder and light from a window fell on his face. As Kelly had assumed, he was the man who had held the claws the night before. The American agent kept his right hand unobtrusively under his coat tails, thumb and forefinger resting on the steel hilt of his utility knife. There was no cause for concern. The Zulu was not looking at him, was not really looking at anything at all tangible. His sculptured face bore an expression melded of fear, anger . . . and the indescribable tension of something that knows it is hunted.
“Lovely sky,” Kelly remarked conversationally as they walked through the gate a moment later. He nodded past Annamaria toward the two policemen on duty there. One nodded back,
but they were more interested in the Fiat. Its headlights dimmed with the starter whirr, then flared as the engine caught. Police the world over suspect the unusual, and a Zulu running from a diplomatic function with his shoes in his hand was nothing if not unusual. “Electric lights every few yards may make the streets safer,” the agent continued, “but it’s a shame the way they hide the stars over most cities.”
Annamaria looked at the American strangely. Her mouth quivered with the questions that she did not express. The Fiat pulled away hard enough to make its tires and engine howl. Kelly paused on the curb. The black-haired woman clung to him with a shade of nervousness. The policemen tracked the car with narrowed eyes as it accelerated past them. One man fingered his walkie-talkie.
Gasoline had been dissolving the plastic tape ever since Kelly had dropped it in the tank. Thirty wraps, thirty minutes, as a rule of thumb. The tape must have finally parted under the spoon’s tension a moment after the Zulu had started his engine. The timing could not have been closer if Kelly had been waiting to put a rocket-propelled grenade into the Fiat as it slid past.
The first result was a mild thump, as if the car—twenty feet down the street—had rolled over an empty box. The booster had gone off in the sealed gas tank. The explosion itself was almost lost in the engine noise. It was quite sufficient, however, to rupture every seam in the tank and spray gasoline over the road and the car’s undercarriage.
A fraction of a second later, five or so gallons of gasoline ignited. Because the fuel-air mixture was unconfined, the result could not technically be termed an explosion. The whump! and the fireball from the finely-divided mist made a damned close equivalent.
