Ike nodded. It had to be. There was no other explanation. And Kamarov’s disappearance had to be accounted for.
“Charlie, why do you think it happened?” Ike asked.
“It’s a long story, Ike. For a couple of years, we knew we had a sleeper in the Agency. We just couldn’t find him. We knew he was there and we knew he was in the European section, but that is as far as we got. So we set up an operation—one that could not work but would sucker the Russians in and get, we hoped, our man out in the open. We decided we would run guns to the Arabs against the State Department’s—hell, the country’s Israel policy. That would be too juicy for them to miss. We had Schwartz over there. If he were the traitor, we would soon find out. You would let it go down. If you were not, you would be on the line within hours screaming your bloody Semitic head off. If not you, then it had to be someone else and we thought we knew who.”
“But it didn’t happen that way. I didn’t know anything until much later.”
“Yes, that blew the whole game. We sent down the order to Peter to set the thing in motion, and then you go off and get married and become a tourist. We do not know if you knew, and pulled the slickest cover imaginable, or what. We decided to ride it for a while—see what happened.
The next thing we know, you are back in, and all hell breaks loose. The job is a botch and you quit. But if you were our guy, you would not have left the Agency. And then again, maybe leaving is your way of getting back for Eloise’s death—no, getting back at us, at them. They lose their mole. That is why it was so important we talk.
“Still, you looked like the one. And the fact that you refused to talk, and everything stopped about that time, supported the idea. Then about two months ago, it started up again. We couldn’t be sure if it was a new plant or the old one or both.
“What made you change your mind—or did you?”
“Oh, well, because you survived for three years in rural Virginia without any protection. As near as we can tell, you were never even contacted, and Kamarov disappeared.”
“So you’re saying I’m not It.”
“We don’t think you are, Ike. We never ruled you out until you told me about the shots last week.”
Not ‘It’—all-ee, all-ee outs in free.
“Last week? You two were talking about this last week?” Peter looked nervous.
“Oh, well yes. Ike here needed some help with his robbery, so we chatted a bit about things. A little of this, a little of that.…You see, Ike, once you get it into your head that Eloise was a target, not an accident, then you are led to the reason for things, to a name, a person. That is what happened to Kamarov. He found our sleeper for us. He didn’t know he had, of course. He only knew that his people didn’t shoot Eloise, so he figured one of ours did, and he was ready to tell you who, if he could find you, that is. But you were not around, so he couldn’t. And by then, our man found him and he disappeared. The reason was the hard part. I thought I knew, but wasn’t sure until today. Just now.”
“What happened today?”
“Two things. I handed you a gin and tonic without asking, and I found out Peter told you to take Eloise. He is the only one on our side who knew she was going to be there.”
Hotchkiss uncoiled from his chair and was halfway to the door when Charlie swung his arm in a lazy arc and caught him in midair with a classic karate chop. By the sound of the snapping, Ike guessed the second cervical vertebra was shattered. Hotchkiss hit the floor with a crash. Charlie got up and went to the door, propped it open, and returned to drag Hotchkiss to the elevator. He pried the doors open and dropped him down the elevator shaft.
“Funny thing about elevators, Ike. Years ago, before we all got safety conscious, folks used to fall down elevator shafts all the time. Then it got so it was damned near impossible to do that—a great inconvenience for the folks who made their living arranging accidents. Then we got these new computer-controlled jobs, and they are nothing but trouble. Program goes wrong and the elevator stops at nine, door opens at eight. I reckon Peter must not have looked this afternoon—old building like this with a shiny new elevator. It’s a real shame.”
Ike had not moved from his chair. It happened so quickly.
“Charlie, it was Hotchkiss?”
“Had to be, Ike. Remember, I told you earlier, you were predictable and you were good. You were a threat to him. When he got his orders to set up that operation, he saw the trap and knew we were getting close. You were the answer to his prayers. First, you pull yourself out of Europe, and then put yourself back in as a visitor. You will be there but you will not be there, if you follow me. So he gets you your passports, everything, and quick as a wink, you are on the spot, ready to be party to an all-time screw-up. He knows you will take the assignment—you are loyal. He also knows that he has got to get you out of Europe forever, and so Eloise is killed. You might find out about the scheme, but you are not going to be thinking straight enough to see it all. And you did what anyone who knows you would expect you’d do—walk out without talking.”
“But if he was the sleeper, their guy, the operation cost them three dozen of their agents. Would they allow that?”
“Collateral damage, Ike.”
“Good Lord. Charlie, why didn’t he just kill me instead?”
“Because if he had, it would have meant that you weren’t our man and because we, that is, our side, the other guys, and that network of yours, would want to know why and we’d find out. Someone would.”
“So he has Eloise killed and I pick up the gin and tonic as predicted.”
“Exactly.”
Ike let the facts sink in. He had been set up, and one way or another, Eloise and he, the whole business, were doomed. Once he became an attacking piece on Hotchkiss’ board, he, no, both of them were goners.
“Charlie?”
“Yeah, Ike.”
“Did you have to kill him?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Ike, I was supposed to cuff him and use him in a trade later. But you know us deskbound types get a little rusty after awhile. I must have hit him too hard. I’ll catch hell for that. Come on, let’s get out of here. Peter’s watch says he fell down that shaft an hour from now, so let’s get out of here and make sure the Super sees us leave.”
In the lobby, Charlie talked to the superintendent about rental availability and gave him his card. On the way out, Charlie peeled the E. Farnham label off the mailbox. Underneath, the name read Peter Hotchkiss.
“Oh yeah, this was his place. I thought I’d see if you lost a step,” Charlie said with a grin.
“Charlie…one more thing.”
Charlie turned.
“Who was the other shooter, the one who killed Eloise?”
“I don’t know for sure, Ike, but I think it was Peter.”
“Peter?” Ike said, amazed. “He couldn’t. He called me from Washington that day. The call came through Call Central.”
“Don’t think so, Ike. Peter had his phone rigged to forward or receive calls from anywhere—variation on call forwarding. Hell, Ike, my dad used a bookie in Baltimore named Lefty. He had a thing called a cheese box that could do it, and that was forty-five, maybe fifty years ago.
“My guess is Peter checked in the hotel across the street from the café. He called you, patched through his phone at the Agency, and set it up. It is not the sort of thing you check, you know. You said he called, he said he called. Unless you took the trouble to look at the sign-in sheets to see if he was in that night, you would never know, all very vague.
“Charlie?” Ike’s voice was quiet. “Is that why you killed him?”
“Like I said, Ike, I’m losing my touch.”
“Charlie, I’ll never understand you. You must be—”
“Ike, do yourself a favor. Do not even think what you were about to ask. Forg
et about today. It’s over. Do not make me have to come after you, too. You understand?”
Ike looked at Charlie, nondescript in baggy tweed coat, khaki slacks, frayed blue button-down shirt, rep tie, horn-rimmed glasses askew and taped together where he’d lost a screw at the hinge. “You must be a very important person, Charlie.”
“Ike,” Charlie said, his voice a warning.
“I mean, how the hell do you get away with it? You get paid to be the worst public relations man I’ve ever met, and your only accomplishment seems to be working the New York Times crossword puzzle every day.”
Charlie grinned, relieved. “But in ink, Ike, I do it in ink.”
Ike watched as he disappeared into the crowd.
Epilogue
Jennifer Ames snapped her purse shut, waved to Archie Boyer, and headed toward the revolving door.
“Have a good weekend,” Archie called out after her.
“You too,” she replied over her shoulder. She stepped out into the August heat and bounced down the broad steps in front of the Art Institute, toward Michigan Avenue. The street filled with people like herself, leaving offices, leaving work, and heading for bus stops, the El, or parking lots, on their way home.
She almost missed them. A gesture, a raised hand of greeting, caught out of the corner of her eye, made her turn and look at the three figures at the foot of the steps. She saw the girls first, miniatures of their father, but different, darker. And then she saw him. He looked younger, taller. The lines that once etched his face, the roadmap of his pain, were smoothed and softened. He smiled and she realized with a start that she had never seen him smile before.
She looked down at the children, their eyes wide with wonder.
“You must be Karen and Julie,” she said to them, and then to him, “Hello, Harry,” and made no attempt to stop the tears that began to fill her eyes.
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