12 Drummers Drumming

by Diana Deverell

  I tried my father again. Still busy. Off the hook? Probably. Twice during my last visit, I’d discovered the handset dangling from its cord, as if he’d stepped away from the phone to answer the door and forgotten to return. Getting older wasn’t helping his memory.

  Back on the street again, I made a mental list of things I needed to buy: toothpaste and a toothbrush, shampoo, deodorant, a three-pack of cotton panties. What does the successful fugitive require? There had to be some practical necessities, but all that came to mind were the elimination of body odor and a supply of clean underwear.

  In the lingerie section of Woody’s, I passed two women pawing through a table of sale-priced nightgowns. A hot-eyed blonde held a midnight-blue negligee in front of her and gave her stout companion a sultry look.

  The second woman said, “Bardzo ladny.” Very pretty.

  I tuned in to the sound of Stefan’s native language, yearning for more, but the blonde ran one hand across her breasts and lowered her voice, so I caught only the suggestive tone and not the words.

  The second one laughed, old-world music rich with sexual innuendo. “Oczywiscie!” Absolutely.

  My heart lifted in my chest, as if answering a call from the man who had so often murmured that word to me. I heard it repeating in my head, this time in Stefan’s husky voice. Oczywiscie. One of the promises he made to me in the languorous moments after our passion was spent. Absolutely. Completely. Always.

  No equivocation, no half measures, no holding back. Not with his love for me, not with the work that he did. I felt my loss then, a pain so terrible, I covered my mouth to muffle my torment. I bit my finger, tasted salt, then the copper flavor of my blood.

  An anxious clerk touched my shoulder. When I looked up, she took the crushed package of underwear from my hand. Did I want to pay for it now? She accepted my twenty and counted out the change, all the time treating me with the wary courtesy we use to avoid triggering a reaction from the mentally unstable. By the time I’d finished, the Polish shoppers had disappeared, leaving behind a tableful of tangled nylon glistening like a new bruise.

  Outside, the sunlight was sharp-edged and without warmth. I pulled my coat tighter, but still I was cold. I tried calling my father from the Capitol Hilton. I sat there, phone to my ear, waiting for my father’s “Howdy.” I hung up after fifteen rings, wishing he’d connected the answering machine I’d sent him for Christmas.

  I was running out of time. In the gift shop, I bought a greeting card with a three-color drawing of Snoopy in cap and goggles, his bullet-riddled doghouse hurtling downward after an unsuccessful encounter with the Red Baron. Sitting on an over-stuffed chair at one side of the bustling lobby, I crossed out the birthday message and addressed the envelope to my father. “Your favorite appears to be going down in flames,” I wrote to him. “But we all know we’ll soon be toasting success with root beer. In my case, real beer. Hope to see you soon.”

  I shoved hair off my forehead. Too cryptic? But if I spelled out why he might be worried about me, he’d seize on it, worry like crazy. Better to bury my reassurance where he’d be likely to find it only if he needed it. I added a “Happy New Year” wish, a string of X’s and O’s, then my nickname the way he wrote it: K.C. I hiked back outside to find a mailbox instead of using the informal drop box offered by the hotel.

  I tried a few more maneuvers to expose anyone following me, but turned up nothing. Sale signs were posted in all the store windows, reminding me of a December day when my mother had taken me shopping, in search of an after-Christmas bargain on a girl’s winter coat, size 6X. I remembered our jerky progress along the city sidewalk as she yanked me first in one direction, then in another, threatened by cars passing twenty feet away. By the time we reached the J.C. Penney store, her terror had infected me. We huddled against the building, my mother crouched over me, both of us sobbing. Someone eventually figured out my father’s name and called him to come and get us.

  No matter how scared you are, you have to keep moving. I absorbed that lesson, living with my mother.

  At two o’clock, I took the airport shuttle out to Dulles. I paid for my bus ticket in quarters, no need any longer to hoard coins for the phone. I hiked from the main terminal to one of the smaller fields abutting Dulles and waited in a secluded spot with a view of the UNN hangar.

  A Boeing 707 jet was outside the hangar, and a service crew was getting it ready. At two-thirty, three men arrived with a vanload of equipment. They had the unkempt look of behind-the-camera TV people and I let myself relax. During the next fifteen minutes, friends or spouses dropped off two women—one blonde, one redhead—and a balding man, all weighted down with luggage and grocery bags. Still no sign of the FBI. When the pilot and the co-pilot appeared, I followed them on board.

  The jet was the size and vintage of the old Air Force Two still used by the Secretary when I first started with the State Department. The section directly behind the cockpit was taken up by the same high-speed communications equipment that was mandatory on planes carrying top officials. But that was the end of the resemblance. Instead of the plush forward accommodations, there were aged economy-class airliner seats. Four were grouped around a scratched table; the rest were scattered in pairs along both walls of the plane. The cargo area had been given over to extra fuel tanks, and every bare piece of floor in the passenger area was taken up by tied-down electronic equipment, luggage and other paraphernalia I didn’t recognize.

  The six other travelers appeared to be veterans of the unglamorous side of all-news programming. The three early arrivals had claimed the table and started a poker game. The bald man was reclining with his eyes closed. And the two women had taken a pair of seats together. The redhead was in the process of lighting a Tiparillo. She exhaled a cloud of smoke and asked me in an abraded voice, “You Casey?”

  “That’s me,” I said. I gestured toward the empty seats. “Make any difference where I sit?”

  “Don’t take the one next to George,” the redhead said. “He snores. Besides, Lura’ll probably want to sit with you.”

  “Lura?” I headed for an empty double in the rear. “She said she wasn’t traveling today.”

  The redhead coughed, a pre-emphysema wheeze that left her breathless. The frizzy blonde beside her said, “Lura’ll be here. You can count on it.”

  The redhead elbowed her. “But not early. Never early. You know Lura.”

  I dropped into the seat, hoped my alarm didn’t show. Lura’s sudden change of plans made me uneasy.

  I was buckling my seat belt when she arrived, her cherry-red pumps clicking up the stairs like castanets. In spike heels, she wasn’t five feet tall. She dropped into the seat beside mine. “You all set?” she asked.

  “All set. And surprised to see you.”

  “You’re surprised? Can you believe my producer is making me spend my New Year’s Eve in Germany?”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  Lura shrugged. We’d taxied out to the end of the runway. The pilot revved up for takeoff and the engine noise was deafening. She asked loudly, “So how come you needed a ride so bad? Some reason you couldn’t buy a plane ticket like an ordinary person?”

  I leaned closer. “I’m meeting an old friend. It’d be better for me if I could keep that quiet.”

  She gave me a knowing look. “The spy?”

  Shocked, I looked at her hard. When I talked to Lura about my personal life, I left out a lot of details. She’d never heard the word “spy” from me. Now we were airborne; no way to escape. I made a show of settling comfortably into my seat and tried to sound as if I were talking about a man who was alive. “That was in Poland, years ago,” I said. “He works for a Danish business now.”

  “Let me guess. Could his employer be Universal Export?”

  James Bond’s original cover job. Cute. I gestured impatiently. “A shipping company.”

  She snickered. “So what’s the problem?”

  “My security clearance is under review. I don’t wa
nt to slow things down.”

  “Going to Europe to get laid—that’ll slow things down?”

  I shrugged. “You know how they are. Can’t handle a woman who’s got a sex life.”

  “A sex life with an ex-Commie spy, you mean. You should stay away from him. Or maybe you don’t give a damn about your job?” She was quiet for a few seconds. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, more conspiratorial, and her sentence didn’t end in a rising inflection. “I know about your security problem.”

  5

  Startled, I said, “State Department Security interviewed you?”

  “Why not? Who knows you better?” She was smiling and the perfect evenness of her teeth reminded me of a fox’s incisors. “But the guy wasn’t from State. Would you believe FBI?”

  “FBI.” I couldn’t keep the shock out of my voice.

  “You don’t think I’d tell them anything they didn’t already know? But you don’t want the FeeBees to find out you’re zipping over to Europe to meet the Pole, am I right?”

  I said, “You’re right.”

  “Must be really hung up on this guy. He invite you home to meet his mom yet?”

  “Both his parents are dead.”

  “An orphan? That’s a problem. You know these old-world types can’t marry without the family’s approval. Maybe he’s got a big brother or something?”

  “No such luck,” I said. “There was a half brother, but he died before I ever met him.”

  She pursed her lips, made a worried sound. “Doesn’t look like there’s much chance this Pole will make an honest woman of you.” Then she laughed. “Or is that his main appeal?”

  “Could be right about that, too,” I said.

  “Well, I’m always glad to help a horny friend.” She studied her nails. “Fair’s fair. You did me a favor down in San Sal. Now I’ve done you a favor. So we’re even?”

  Something was off. I’d called in my biggest marker to get on this plane. I might as well have stamped “URGENT” on my forehead. But Lura was pretending our whole transaction was routine. I tapped my fingers on the armrest, then forced myself to stop. “We’re even,” I said.

  “Tell me again,” Lura said. “How was it you got mixed up with this guy?”

  “We worked on a project together.”

  “Right. A project.” She paused as if she were letting an old conversation come back to her. “And the two of you really pissed off some people. So now there are some Arabs out there, want to blow you away?”

  I hadn’t told her that. And the FBI wouldn’t have mentioned it. Where was Lura getting her information?

  My laugh sounded genuine. “Nobody’d bother with me. My role was peripheral.”

  The expression on her face told me she didn’t believe a word. My shirt was wet under both arms and I could feel more sweat along my hairline.

  She asked, “Spoken to your dad lately?”

  Warily, I said, “Thanksgiving. I flew out to spend a few days with him.”

  “You know how much he loves you?”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Oregon, actually,” she said. “I visited my mom over Christmas. Your dad joined us for dinner one night. He tell you we had a nice chat?”

  “Sure didn’t mention your mother and love in the same sentence.”

  Lura laughed. “Not fated, I agree. No, your dad wanted to know, could he talk freely to me about you?”

  And she’d said yes, of course. So I said, “You know fathers. They tend to embellish the facts.”

  “Your dad never stretched the truth in his life. Remember, when we were kids, you started telling everybody he’d been some hot-dog fighter pilot in the war? And he marched you around, practically door-to-door, doing a retraction? ‘Dive bombers, not fighters.’ ‘Purple Heart, not a Silver Star.’ ” She laughed again. “You’re not saying that Victor Collins has started making up stories?”

  “ ‘Embellish’ was the word I used.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He treats my career as his hobby.” My turn to laugh. “Like his collection of airplane memorabilia. Always adding another piece. Some more authentic than others.”

  “What he told me about you sounded authentic enough. Then I thought about my sit-down with that fat guy from the FeeBees. Didn’t make much sense to me at the time. Him so earnest and concerned about your loyalty and patriotism. I couldn’t understand why he was making such a big deal out of you and the Polish guy. Then your dad fills me in. Wow, Casey, it knocked my socks off.”

  Lura leaned closer, her hand on my arm. “That’s why I called you, soon as I got back to D.C. The thing’s so damn sexy. Nice American girl saves the free world. Her reward? Death threats from the Abu Nidal Organization, FBI harassment and a career shot down in flames. Make a great news story. You’ll tell me the whole thing?”

  I shifted in my seat, freeing my arm. “Old news. Not even good background. You’d never get on the air with it.”

  “FBI interest in you is old?”

  “A routine check,” I said. “No story there.”

  “Maybe you could give me a zippy angle?”

  “Wish I could.” I forced a smile. “But there isn’t one.”

  “You sure about that?” she asked.

  “So that’s why you came along. Hoped I’d give you some hot story of international intrigue.” I managed a chuckle. “Sorry to disappoint you, Lura, but I’m my same old boring self.”

  “You certainly are that,” she agreed. But her tone was off.

  I faked a yawn and leaned back, shutting my eyes. Lura was making me nervous. The less conversation we had, the better. I wanted to kick myself for giving in to the impulse to trade war stories with my father. Talking about things that had happened to me years ago didn’t constitute a breach of national security. But I’d told him anecdotes that I didn’t ever want to read in the newspapers. I’d asked him not to repeat what I’d said, and I’d figured there was no risk he’d do that. I hadn’t figured on Lura.

  My dad never claimed to be a certified war hero, but he was an ace to me. I hungered to be one for him.

  My weakness. It had made me act as if I were ten years old again. If I knew Lura, that lapse was going to cost me.

  I tried to lose myself in the vibration of the seat beneath me, the steady throb of the engines, the musty odor of old fabric. The diesel-like rumbling transported me into an old nightmare where my fear never lessened, though I’d suffered through it ever since the night Stefan and I fled from Poland. I smelled the ocean, tasted the salt of the Baltic, shivered under its cold spray. The ferry lurched and I clutched the railing, legs apart, braced to stay upright on the deck. Somewhere beyond me in the midnight darkness was a gun. Somewhere out there was the gunman who had pursued us from Warsaw. Nazer al-Nemer, a murderous member of the Abu Nidal Organization. Had he killed Stefan? I heard an Arabic curse. A scratching, scraping noise. Saw the darker shape of a man crawling. The glint of metal that was the missing gun. The clawlike fingers closing around the pistol grip.

  My body paralyzed, except for my right leg. Moving like a thing apart. Booted foot settling gently at the base of the man’s skull. The brittle sound as the boot pressed against the delicate bones. Crushed the cervical discs. Ground the particles of bone into dust. I looked down, expecting to see Nazer al-Nemer. But this time I saw Stefan, his face in an agony of death, mouthing words I couldn’t hear.

  I woke up shaking, my neck stiff, my throat dry and my cheeks damp. Loving Stefan had brought violence back into my life. And that violence had taken him from me.

  Beyond the few unblocked windows, the blackness had faded to navy blue. Lura was asleep next to me, her features relaxed into innocence, an expression I never saw when she was awake.

  I fumbled my way into the toilet and splashed water on my face. The paper-towel dispenser was empty. I used my sleeve.

  The poker game was still going. The bald man had a stack of newspapers next to his right hand and a sa
ck of fruit by his left. I begged a Washington Post and a banana and settled myself in a vacant seat.

  The jet was slow, weighed down by the extra fuel. A commercial airliner would make the trip in six hours; we’d be lucky to get there in nine. But I couldn’t complain. I’d gotten away, thanks to Lura.

  Lura. She’d phoned me. And my father had tried to reach me, so worried he’d gotten out his emergency-contact number and called Harry. He must’ve also left a message on my machine. But who’d left the third one? And who’d removed the cassette? Not the FBI. They’d surely taped every incoming call. Their man wouldn’t have removed my cassette. Not after he’d been so careful to cover his tracks.

  I must have had a second visitor. Someone who came in after the Feds had been there. Someone who hadn’t bothered to rewind and replay the cassette first. If he had, the digital readout would have disappeared. Someone who wanted the recording itself. And didn’t care if I knew it.

  The FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign came on and the plane shuddered its way into a cloudbank. Lura stumbled to the rest room, carrying a makeup case. Someone passed me a paper cup of lukewarm coffee. Lura reappeared after fifteen minutes, her hair artfully arranged in a smooth cap, her skin glowing with moisturizer and her eyes carefully lined and mascaraed.

  The plane slid out of the clouds into drizzle, the raindrops glistening like slug tracks across the Plexiglas window. We bumped onto the Hamburg runway soon after that and taxied to a parking area.

  We left the plane via a set of portable stairs. An airport bus idled at the bottom, streaking the slick tarmac with amber and red reflections from its lights. The wet air was sticky with the fumes of jet and diesel exhaust.