Skywatcher

by Winona Kent

  She passed him the binoculars.

  “There’s nobody there,” he said, disappointed. He sat down again, and Giselle took back her field glasses. “Who played Peter Gunn?”

  “The Art of Noise.”

  Anthony made a face at her. “Played, acted. Not played, music. Anyway, Mancini did the original. You’re so silly.”

  Evan reclined in the front row of chairs, boots up, gun discarded. In front of him, on the stage, knelt Lesley, hands grasping the door to the shipping crate. She really had no choice in the matter: he’d used his glue without prudence; she was stuck fast.

  “How long are you going to sit there and torment me like this?” she demanded.

  Evan checked his watch. “Not for very much longer,” he shrugged. “I’ve really only got one thing to ask you. After you’ve answered it, I’ll be getting along.”

  “And the question is?”

  “Who saw to it that Rosie Mladenovicki fell from the window of that tower at UBC last week?”

  Lesley stared at him. “That’s all?”

  “It’s a matter of some importance to me,” Evan said, with a smile. “We were partners. And friends.”

  “And if I tell you,” Lesley countered, “will you cease this ridiculous confinement and let me go?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, folding his arms.

  She shifted a little on the wooden stage as her knees grew weary.

  “Then I shan’t,” she said.

  “As you wish.” He got up. “I’ll leave you with the happy thought that the box to which you are attached contains one of the explosive charges you were referring to earlier. The timing device is set to go off in”—he checked his watch again—“a little over half an hour.” He stood in the aisle, leaning on the back of a chair. “You could, of course, always disengage yourself from the metal. Nasty business, though—stripping the flesh from the palms of your hands.” He turned to go.

  “Evan—wait.”

  He waited, his back to her.

  “It was me. I did it. She’d discovered my other affiliations, threatened to go to the CIA with them. She knew I wanted the microfilm, knew I would kill her to get it. I followed her into the building—the flat was empty—”

  Poor Rosie, Evan thought. Terrified, hanging onto that telephone. Time only to make that one, final call. Time only to give the robot to Robin. He shook his head and started down the aisle, slowly, like the last member of the audience after the play had finished and the house-lights were on full.

  “Evan?”

  He kept walking.

  “Evan! You can’t leave me here! Evan!”

  He unlatched the heavy wooden door and pushed it open, stepping outside, where the air was fresh and wet and cool.

  “Evan!” she shrieked. “You bloody bastard! Evan!”

  Robin was making mittens. Charlotte watched in fascinated amusement as he wound layer after layer of gauze bandaging around his brother’s palms and fingers, padding them, covering each dark red moat of blood as it soaked through, encasing his hands in what resembled, in the end, white boxing gloves.

  He fastened the gauze with long strips of adhesive tape, then got down on the floor of the ambulance where Charlotte was sitting and helped her clean the mud off Ian’s feet.

  On the stretcher, his brother, who’d been dozing through the side effects of half a dozen Midols, suddenly awoke, yanking his foot out of Charlotte’s hands. “Where’s Evan?” he said, his eyes bleary, unfocused.

  “He’s not here,” Robin replied, without looking up. He grasped his brother’s ankle. “Give me your stupid foot, Ian, or you’ll get gout and have to hobble around like Henry the Eighth for the rest of your life.”

  “Gangrene,” Charlotte corrected.

  “That too,” said Robin.

  Ian struggled up on both elbows. “What are you doing? Why isn’t he here?”

  Charlotte touched his arm. “Lie down, OK?”

  “Evan went off about half an hour ago and that’s the last we saw of him.” Robin glanced up at his brother. “Will you lie down? Everything’s under control.”

  Ian stayed where he was. “Where are we?”

  “Dehra Dun.”

  “Still?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to two.”

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “Lie down!” Robin said fiercely, giving his brother a shove in the chest. With a small groan, Ian collapsed on his back on the stretcher. “Sorry,” Robin muttered, “but you’re such a jerk sometimes.”

  Charlotte watched, from the floor. Bickering brothers. Ordinary people. Well, as ordinary as you could get with a movie star for a father and a secret agent for a brother and lots of money and a house in the Properties.

  She held Ian’s left foot steady while Robin daubed away the last of the dirt and blood and began a reverse spiral wrap with a fresh roll of gauze.

  “You’re very good,” she said, passing him the adhesive tape. “Where did you learn all that?”

  “Television.” He got up on his knees and examined his brother’s face. “He’s passed out again.”

  Charlotte opened a fresh bottle of antiseptic. “Let’s do his other foot,” she suggested.

  But Robin was listening to something. His head was up, eyes alert. Charlotte paused, hearing it too. Footsteps. Someone crunching through the gravel in the alley outside the ambulance.

  “What should we do?” she whispered.

  Robin didn’t move. “Don’t be too hasty,” he said. “It might be Evan.”

  “What if it isn’t?”

  Robin looked around, thinking. “We should stay down.”

  Charlotte reached for her knapsack. “I have a gun.”

  “You do?” He sprawled on the floor beside her, on his stomach.

  “It isn’t real,” she said, uncovering the Spy Squad Special. “It doesn’t work, but we could fake it.”

  Robin examined the black-painted artifact from his father’s television spy days. “I’ll be Jarrod,” he decided, pointing it at the rear windows of the vehicle, using both hands, steadying his elbows on the floor. “‘One more step, Dr. Robin, and your teeth will be kissing your tonsils.’”

  Charlotte giggled. The footsteps in the gravel alley stopped suddenly. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  Robin clasped his left hand over the fingers of his right, squeezing the trigger. Might as well look authentic. Whoever was outside tried the rear door of the ambulance, found it locked, and shot the handle off. Robin flinched, but his arms remained steady. The doors swung open.

  It was the woman from the Jag—the Russian. Her gun was extended, aimed more at Charlotte than at Robin.

  “Drop it,” Robin said.

  “If you shoot me,” the woman warned, “I shall shoot her.” She nodded at Charlotte.

  “If you shoot her,” Robin countered smoothly, “I’ll shoot you.”

  The Russian smiled. “Where is your father?”

  “If you wanted to knock him off,” Robin replied, “you missed your chance. You should’ve done the dirty deed while we were parked on the side of the highway.”

  “I do not want to kill him,” the woman smiled. “I only wish to return his wallet.

  “Toss it inside.”

  She shook her head. “I think I shall wait.” She smiled at him again. “I am certain your arms will tire out in a few minutes’ time.”

  “I’m certain they won’t,” Robin answered, even though he was fairly certain they would. How did these standoffs end on television?

  Behind him, on the stretcher, his brother raised his head, groggily, and rolled onto his side. Robin saw the Russian woman’s eyes flash momentarily in Ian’s direction, then return to duty, her own gun not moving.

  Ian blinked at the darkness behind the woman. “Evan,” he said, his voice hazy.

  The Russian laughed, unkindly. “If you think I am going to fall for that one…”

  Ian’s hea
d lolled backwards; he closed his eyes. “Always worth a try,” he said.

  A hand grabbed the woman’s arm, immobilizing it, immobilizing her.

  “In this instance,” Evan answered, casually, “he was right. And you were wrong. Hands up. And I’ll take the gun.”

  There were three hangars in all, side by side along the short paved runway, white against the black, overcast sky. Lights blazed through windows; industry carried on within, workers busily separating the rows of earth stations, preparing to wheel them onto the tarmac.

  In the second of these hangars, the High Bagraj of New Dehra Dun had planned and built a small studio, outfitted with lights and videotape cameras, editing and production facilities. He sat in this studio now, behind a desk, a cup of coffee at his elbow, a prepared script before him—and duplicated in front of him on a teleprompter. He looked for all the world like a campaigning politician, about to address his constituency.

  Hiding in among the forest of dishes, Evan observed the procedure through a soundproofed window, watching as the videotape rolled and the Bagraj went into his speech. It was easy to see that the man had benefited from his years of associating with actors. He looked sincere: his face displayed an intensity and persuasive quality Evan had seen previously only in evangelists and late-night financial wizards.

  Something didn’t go precisely according to the man’s wishes, and he called for a break. Evan checked the time. Ten to two. This wouldn’t take long. He ducked out of the parabolic jungle and approached the door to the studio.

  He’d changed clothes on his way over from the dormitory, abandoning Handy Andy in the bushes—beard, hair, work boots, and all. He’d removed as much of the makeup as was possible without the benefit of cold cream. He intended to confront Larry Hamelin as Evan Harris. No need for disguises anymore. No call to continue the masquerade.

  The cameraman and sound and lighting people had congregated in the corner of the studio to discuss matters of technical importance over Styrofoam cups of coffee. Evan let himself into the room, leaving the door ajar. Hamelin did not notice him at first, being preoccupied with the amendments to his script.

  “Did Ian write that for you, or are you improvising it this time around?”

  Hamelin raised his head, startled. It took a few seconds for recognition to be internalized, for a decision to act to bubble past the muddle of words and sentences cluttering his brain.

  “Don’t call your security people,” Evan advised. “It isn’t worth your time.”

  “I suppose you’ve come to try and talk me out of doing this,” Hamelin replied, resting his elbows on the desktop, his eyes ever-watchful.

  Evan shook his head. “I don’t think I’d succeed,” he said. “You’re obviously committed to your plans.”

  “I am,” Hamelin smiled. He shuffled the papers on the desk. “Your boy did have a hand in this, as a matter of fact. I’m using the notes he sent down from Vancouver a few weeks ago. Clever, that setup. Fitch and Raymore. It must have been in the works for quite some time.”

  “Fitch and Raymore’s an established agency,” Evan replied. “They are, however, also an arm of the department. The assignment to infiltrate your community took a few months to work out. I’m not altogether certain about the details—not my area, you understand.”

  Hamelin nodded.

  “I’m curious,” Evan said. “Why did you specifically ask for Ian? You could have done all of this by yourself. Why go to all the bother of involving an ad agency?”

  Hamelin smiled. “Who better to help me out than the oldest son of my oldest adversary. Call it poetic justice. And now—what is it you want? The microfilm?”

  “And my calculator.”

  Hamelin chuckled. “A secret weapon, is it? An exploding multiplication button? An LCD primed with TNT?”

  Evan smiled.

  “Take them.” The man shrugged, holding them out. “I don’t need them anymore.”

  Evan tucked them into his jeans pocket.

  “Well? What else?”

  Evan pondered the real reason for his being there. Why had he come? The film and the calculator were both expendable. He’d made copies of the tracking codes back at the lab. It would have been a simple thing to have walked away from the place after he’d dealt with Lesley, to have allowed the explosions to proceed as planned. It would have been a simple thing…yes. But Evan possessed a conscience; he was, above all, a compassionate man. And Hamelin, in spite of the wayward direction his life had taken in recent years, was an old acquaintance. So, for that matter, was Lesley.

  “You only have a few minutes,” he said. “These hangars—all three of them—are primed for detonation. My son’s partner’s seen to that.”

  “He had a partner?” Hamelin queried.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Who?”

  Evan shook his head. “Sorry. Privileged information.”

  Hamelin was gazing at him, keen-eyed, inquisitive. “And what else has the multitalented Ian Harris been up to this evening, Evan?”

  Evan folded his arms. “He’s been to visit the shipment of crates in the cellar of your community hall. And the computer components in your auditorium.” He paused. “There’s a timed charge somewhere inside your packing crate. I’m not certain where Ian put it. I don’t think you’ll have enough time to dismantle it, anyway.” He looked at the man. “I left Lesley there. You might just manage to disengage her hands before the explosion.”

  Hamelin’s eyes had not lost their steel-gray quality. He stared at Evan. “How many minutes?”

  Evan glanced at his watch. “Now? Ten. Perhaps eleven—I could be fast.”

  “You think I’m going to drop everything, just like that? You think I’d sacrifice my own safety to save the skin of that woman?”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Evan said. “Yes. If you care about her. And I believe you do.”

  Hamelin got to his feet. He was still glaring at Evan, his eyes intense and dark. But his mouth had started to work; his hands were nervous. He stepped away from his desk, edging toward the door. Outside, Evan could see yellow-shirted guards, approaching, curious.

  “Go,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”

  The man fled. He took the most direct route, across the airstrip, over an open patch of ground. Evan had done it in three minutes—but he’d been driving the ambulance.

  “If I were you,” he said, to the technical assistants who’d been listening to the entire conversation, lounging in the corner with their coffee, “I’d get out, too. You don’t have much time.”

  They stared at him as he walked through the studio door, past the assembly of guards, out onto the tarmac. How long would it take them to realize? He broke into a jog. The ambulance was around the back, motor running. He dived into the front seat, slamming the door behind him.

  “Drive!” he said to Robin. “Go!”

  His son rammed the vehicle into gear and squealed the tires as he pulled around on the airstrip. In the side mirror, Evan could see the guards spilling out of the hangar, arming themselves…

  “Get down back there!” he shouted.

  Clutching her knapsack to her middle, Charlotte huddled on the floor beside Ian. She reached out and hugged him close, burying her nose in the soft wool of his sweater as three shots went whizzing by the side of the ambulance.

  “What did you find in my wallet?” Evan asked, as Robin careened off the runway and onto the access road leading to the parking lot.

  “A thing,” Robin said. “Flat. Silver. Like a watch battery.”

  “Listening device.” Evan’s eyes were on the mirror. “I was wondering when she’d get around to trying something like that. The other night in Vancouver she was pretending to be a bag lady outside the public library. Didn’t think I’d recognize her, the silly woman.”

  Charlotte wondered at the wisdom of leaving the Russian spy trussed up with bandages in the closet of one of the rooms in the dormitory. She’d escape; they always did, the
lesser of these enemy agents. She’d go back to the KGB and file her report, and do whatever it was lesser enemy agents did until it was time to be called into action again.

  She threw both arms around Ian’s neck and hung on for her life as the ambulance suddenly leaped forward, coughing and spluttering, stalling, coughing again.

  “I don’t believe this!” Robin screamed. “I don’t believe this!” He kicked the accelerator as the ambulance lurched a final time, then coasted to an abysmal stop just outside the Dehra Dun gates. “You didn’t gas up! You never put any gas in this thing! I don’t believe it! What kind of spy are you, anyway?” He slammed the gearshift into neutral as Evan vaulted out of the front and dodged around to the back, yanking the rear doors open.

  “Come on,” he said, gesturing to Charlotte. “Run for it.”

  Robin bounded out of the driver’s seat. He hurled the keys at his father.

  “That way,” Evan said, ignoring him, nodding at the trees. “Both of you. Quick!”

  “What about you?” Robin demanded. “What about Ian?”

  “I’ll look after your brother. Go. Now.”

  He crawled inside the ambulance and bent over his eldest son. “Come on, old thing,” he said, giving him a gentle shake. “One last effort, and you can sleep for a week.”

  Ian opened his eyes. “Are we going home?”

  “Soon, yes.”

  “Do I have to walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  He struggled up onto his elbows, his head hanging lopsidedly over his shoulder.

  Evan glanced around. “You two still here?”

  “We’ll help you,” Charlotte said. “You can’t get him to the helicopter all by yourself.”

  Robin clambered inside and propped his brother up so that he was between Evan and himself. Charlotte grabbed his feet.

  “Where’s Charlotte?” Ian whispered, as he was lifted off the stretcher.

  “Down here. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh…” His voice trailed off, disappearing. “Good…”

  They dived into the bushes as a blaze of gunfire erupted over their heads, bullets whizzing through the air, ricocheting off the trunks of the trees, splattering into the dirt and wet, dead leaves.