Southern Florida is a network of canals. Designed for flood control. Also useful for dumping bodies. Briscoe reads the local newspapers; he knows. Figures a canal would be an ideal place to get rid of Yama and Willoughby. They might never be found. And if they were—so what?
He checks local canals. Finds none that will suit his purpose. Too close to traveled roads. Or too shallow. Or too well illuminated. And there’s the problem of a car. If he’s to give the cops a plot they can live with, he has to leave a car at the scene. Also, death in a ditch lacks the high drama he enjoys.
He forgets about the canal scenario. Scouts the Deerfield church where the two men have been meeting. Sees the possibilities immediately. It has a bell tower six or seven stories high. With a railed observation deck on top. Interesting.
Checks it out carefully. Winding steel staircase goes up to the platform. Church isn’t locked until midnight. Briscoe spends several evenings wandering in and out. Exploring. No one stops him. No one questions. Services go on in the nave while he tramps up the stairway. Timing his climb.
It begins to come together. He likes it. Goes to Ted Charon’s equipment section. Signs for a “cold” handgun that can’t be traced. A .38 Colt Detective Special revolver. In prime condition. Loaded. Briscoe also requisitions a kilo of cocaine in a plastic bag.
Now he’s got the props. Goes back to the bell tower of the Deerfield church. Carrying a small wrench. He’s alone up there. On all his visits, he’s never met anyone admiring the view from that lofty perch.
Loosens the bolts holding a section of the railing to the concrete deck. He is so clever at this work that he pads the jaws of the wrench with a rag so no nicks will be left on the bolt heads. He tries the railing. It wobbles satisfactorily.
Shadows Yama’s meetings with Willoughby for a week. Decides Wednesday night will be best. A late prayer meeting sparsely attended. By ten o’clock the church has emptied out. Maybe one or two believers in the pews, heads bowed. Minister back in his rectory.
Briscoe goes over his plan again and again. Writing out the time sequence. Studying it, then destroying it. An outlandish scheme. Depending on boldness. That he has—and the victims don’t. He’s depending on their shock, inability to react swiftly. The two of them could take him. Easily. But they are not doers.
Parks two blocks away on Wednesday night. Walks back to the church. Waits patiently in the shadows of thick bottle palms. Eventually the church doors open. People stream out. Shelby Yama and Willoughby together. Talking and laughing. Tall Corporation agent stooping to listen to the case officer.
Briscoe comes up behind them in the parking lot. They hear his footfalls. Turn. Yama is startled.
“What are—” he begins. Then sees the revolver in Briscoe’s hand.
Willoughby sees it, too. He looks at the gun, at Briscoe’s face, at Shelby Yama. The agent’s lips begin to move. Silently. Praying?
“The two of you,” Briscoe orders. “Back into the church. Through the front door. Make a hard left. Up the staircase. Let’s go.”
“Hey,” Yama says, “what is this? What’s going on?”
“Move!” Briscoe says. Raising the revolver.
Marches them back to the church entrance. Gun in his jacket pocket now. But no one around to see. Up the stairs. Slow climb. No talking. They come out onto the deserted observation deck. Sweet night. Clear sky. Stars. Balmy breeze. Everything nice.
Briscoe glances over the railing at the parking lot below. Two cars out of the way. Turns back to his pigeons. Gun out now. Covering both of them.
Shelby Yama starts talking rapidly. What’s going on? He can’t understand this. It isn’t in the script. He told Briscoe he was turning the Corporation agent. Let him talk to the Director. He’ll explain everything. Somebody’s making a big mistake.
Briscoe doesn’t listen. Doesn’t reply. His original plot calls for him to shoot Yama dead. Leave his body on the platform. Push Willoughby through the loosened railing. With one bullet in him. Leave the sack of cocaine near Yama’s body. Wipe off the revolver and drop it down onto Willoughby’s corpse.
Drug deal turned sour. That’s what the police will figure. Two pushers fighting for the dust and the gun. Both shot. One dies on the platform. One goes over and dies in the parking lot. No fingerprints found on the gun. That’ll puzzle the cops, but they won’t have the time or manpower to dig deeper. Just another dope killing. Good riddance.
But now, high in the sky, Briscoe finds that plan flat and unfulfilling. It is a lordly scene. Black vault of heaven above. Pricked with glittering stars. And below, sparkling lights of earth. He feels the power of the night. Is filled with its majesty.
King of it all. He wants to throw down those who oppose his will. His faith. They cannot inhabit high places, but must be tumbled to destruction. Cast out and cast down. Removed from the kingdom of darkness.
“Listen,” Yama says, “can’t we—”
Briscoe leaps suddenly at Willoughby. Puts a hard shoulder into the man. Railing gives way with a screech. The Corporation agent offers no resistance. Topples backwards. Arms and legs outstretched. Flying.
Unexpectedly, the Department’s case officer tries to fight back. Struggling. Clawing. Biting. No match. Briscoe wrestles Yama to the edge. Tosses him over. Leans to watch the dark form float and hit. Atop Willoughby. Dead embrace.
Briscoe drops the bag of cocaine. Sees it split open in a white cloud. Forces himself to turn away and start down the stairs. Walking slowly, calmly. Gun back in his pocket. If his life ended at that instant, he would be happy. Fulfilled.
Strolls back to his car. Drives home. Remembering, savoring the moment. Casting out. Descent from heaven. In the finest traditions of the Department. There is poetry there. Something moving. Exciting. Religious experience.
For the Others are religious, too. In their way.
64
The Chief of Operations kneels at his prie-dieu. Too distraught to think clearly. And so turns to prayer. For poor Willoughby. Other agents have died in the line of duty. But the pain never lessens. The Chief wishes he had a power akin to canonization. He does not. There is a bronze Honor Roll to which Willoughby’s name will be added. His only reward. On earth.
The Chief drags himself back to his office. Forces himself to make a list of victims in the Harry Dancer affair. Jeremy Blaine. Herman K. Tischman. Shelby Yama. Willoughby. All lost in the struggle for one man. Is it worth it? Four lives for one? The arithmetic baffles him. He cannot define the moral choice.
Depression corrodes his will. How can he possibly justify such sacrifice? Four for one? A blasphemy. Unless…Unless the one is gold, and the four are dross. But that presupposes quality. Anti-dogma. Are we not all equal in God’s eyes? Perhaps. But not in the Chief’s eyes.
He calls Anthony Glitner in Florida. Speaking over an unscrambled line.
“Tony,” he says, “I wish to express my condolences on the passing of our dear friend.”
“Yes,” Glitner says. “Thank you, sir.”
“I know how you must feel. Believe me, I do. But we cannot let this unfortunate accident keep us from our duty. If anything, it should strengthen our resolve.”
Silence.
“Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Chief doesn’t like Glitner’s tone.
“Tony, do you want to be replaced? It won’t count against you.”
“No, Chief. I’ll see it through.”
“You feel up to it?”
“Yes. I’m a little numb at the moment. I’ll come out of it.”
The Chief tries to be hearty. “Of course you will! Temporary setback. You’ll recover. We’ll all recover. Is there anything you need? Personnel? Equipment?”
“Not at the moment, no, sir.”
“How is the field agent taking it?”
“No problems.”
“None? That’s odd.”
“Yes,” the case officer says, “isn’t it?”
When he hangs
up, Glitner reflects that it is odd. News of Willoughby’s murder has little effect on Evelyn Heimdall. She murmurs conventional expressions of sorrow. Then regains her bubbly manner. Spinning a breezy tale of her growing intimacy with Harry Dancer. How the man is responding to evangelizing.
The case officer, a diffident, self-effacing man, conceded he may not be tempermentally suited to honcho the Dancer operation. He cannot compete with Briscoe’s brutality. Glitner is cerebral; physical violence is foreign to him. As it was to Willoughby. Dead Willoughby.
The question of Evelyn Heimdall is subtler. But no less frustrating. And frightening. He is aware of her new looseness. “She’s coming apart at the seams,” he tells himself. Then wonders if he is imagining. Counterintelligence agent Martin Frey reports her straight. But Glitner’s doubts persist.
She is on a high. Wildness there. He sees her drifting out of the Corporation’s orbit. Doesn’t know how to bring her back. He decides to push. Discover how far she’s gone.
“I like Florida,” he tells her. “Do you?”
“Love it, love it, love it,” she says. Snapping her fingers. Doing a dance step. “Sooo relaxing. I feel a hundred years younger. Don’t you?”
“At least,” he says. Smiling. “I must get out to the beach one of these days. Get some color.”
“Of course you must. Tell me when. We’ll make a day of it. Picnic lunch. Bottle of cold wine. The whole bit.”
“Sounds great.”
“And you’ll see my new bikini,” she says. Laughing at him. “Two postage stamps and a Band-Aid. Dancer loves it.”
“I can imagine,” Glitner says. Not liking this talk. Against his will, aroused by it.
He is almost convinced she is ready to turn. But that would mean that Martin Frey is either a hopeless incompetent or a partner in her betrayal. Either way, the Harry Dancer action is compromised.
Tony Glitner, glooming over the permutations and combinations of this unsavory situation, decides not to send a panic signal to the Chief of Operations. The case officer is responsible for his field agent. He will not sacrifice her until he has proved her treachery.
He knows how he might do that. It dismays him.
65
“Ted Charon is on line two, sir,” Norma Gravesend says.
“Thank you, dear,” the Director says. Pushes the button.
“Yes, Ted?”
“Director, I wonder if you could stop by my office for a moment? Something’s come up on that matter we discussed a week ago. Could you drop by for a moment?”
“Of course. Be there immediately.”
In Charon’s office, the Internal Security Chief says, “I thought it best if we met here to talk about the Norma Gravesend investigation.”
“That was my original suggestion,” the Director says testily. “What have you got?”
“We’ve had close surveillance on her for the past week. She’s making contact at the public library with a middle-aged man. Passes a book to him every time they meet. We tailed him to his home. Did a B&E while he was out. His name is Leonard Gabriel. He’s got enough radio equipment in his house to reach Mars. We were unable to find any code books.”
Two men stare at each other. Gradually the Director’s ruddy face drains to chalk. Realizing what this means. Wondering how long he has been harboring a Corporation mole in his private office. Isn’t that what the Chairman will ask?
“How did you get on to her, sir?” Ted Charon asks. Sympathetic, but already trying to establish his distance from this breach of security.
“Instinct,” the Director says. “I always had my suspicions. What do you suggest we do now?”
Drawing me in to share the blame, Charon thinks. Not what do I do now, but what do we do now. The bastard wants me to clean up his mess.
“Pick up this Leonard Gabriel,” Charon says. “Wring him dry. I’ve got some experts; Gabriel will talk. Then we go to Norma. Tell her what we’ve got. Convince her that her only hope of survival is to turn again. Become a triple agent. Help us feed disinformation to the Corporation.”
The Director feels a thrill of hope. Perhaps his neck is safe after all. If they can persuade Norma to switch sides again, surely the Chairman will be more lenient in the punishment he decrees. He might even be willing to let the Director continue in his present position. With nothing worse than an official reprimand.
Two days later they call Norma Gravesend into the Director’s office. Lock the door. Show her Polaroid photos of what’s been done to Leonard Gabriel. Watch her face closely. Hoping for tears and hysteria. See only stony strength.
“Did you have to do that?” she asks. “To that dear man?”
“Do you deny you were part of the conspiracy?” Charon says.
“Don’t waste your time,” she advises. “I deny nothing. I admit everything. I’ve been a Corporation agent ever since I came to work for that monster.”
Jerks a contemptuous thumb at the Director. He begins to sweat.
“Norma,” he says. Trying to be avuncular. “Before you say anything more, dear, think of the consequences. You don’t have to share Gabriel’s fate. There is a way you can redeem yourself. And save yourself.”
“I’m already saved,” she says.
“Work for us,” Charon urges. “Just keep doing what you have been doing. We’ll tell you what to send to the Corporation.”
“No,” she says. Lifting her chin. “I expected that someday I might have to face this, and I made up my mind. I don’t care what you do to me. I will not go against the Corporation. It’s all I have.”
“Stupid woman!” the Director shouts at her.
“You may change your mind,” Charon says. Turns to the other man. “Do I have your permission to work on her, sir?”
“Yes, yes. Just get her out of here and do what you have to do.”
When they were gone, the Director sits slackly. Deflated. Thinks of how much Gravesend knows about the inner workings of the Department and what she must have told the Corporation. Worse is what she knows about his private habits. All that now in his dossier in Corporation files. He squirms with embarrassment.
Her betrayal shocks him, then angers him. After all his kindnesses to her. Repaid with vile treason. The Director’s eyes sting as he reflects on the injustice of it all. His personal life made public. Subject of crude jests, no doubt. His career endangered. His very existence at risk.
Sighing, wiping his eyes, he takes out a pad. Begins to compose a message. Wondering how he can possibly inform the Chairman of what has happened without making himself seem an incapable dolt. Worthy candidate for termination with extreme prejudice.
66
Briscoe’s game plan is working wonderfully. Sanction of Shelby Yama gives him the title of Case Officer. As well as the power. Now he can lean on Sally Abaddon for results. Threaten reprisals if she doesn’t obey orders.
Even better is the Norma Gravesend defection—the talk of the entire Southeast Region. Briscoe figures it means the end of the Director. If that happens, and his job is open, who would be better suited than Briscoe? Especially if he scores a win in the Harry Dancer campaign.
Problems there. Abaddon swears she’s bringing Dancer around. But offers no proof. Angela Bliss, supposedly running a security check on the field agent, reports Sally is clean. But Briscoe is getting bad vibes from the whole operation. And too much is at stake to ignore his instincts.
He assigns himself the task of tailing Abaddon. Discovers that, as she claims, she is seeing Harry Dancer two or three times a week. But, Briscoe notes, their meetings are short, and becoming shorter. Lunch. Dinner. A few hours in Sally’s motel or Dancer’s home. But they no longer spend a night together.
Sally and Angela spend nights together. Frequently. And poolside days together. Shopping trips. Movies. Strolls on the beach. It may all be part of Angela’s job: getting close to the subject. And then again it may be a different kind of intimacy.
That doesn’t shock or offend Briscoe. The D
epartment approves amoral personal conduct. What worries is how the relationship of the two women may affect the outcome of the case. If it endangers the winning of Harry Dancer, then Sally Abaddon will have to go. And Angela Bliss.
Briscoe is a sexless man. His needs are power and status. Even money is a secondary consideration. But he can act, if he must. And only by acting, he decides, can he test Sally Abaddon’s loyalty to the Department.
It is not a role he relishes. But her future, and his, may depend on his performance.
67
The dying ask questions that cannot be answered. “Why me?” Resignation comes slowly. But before that is a period of unfocused fury against the living, the happy, healthy living. Finally: acceptance. Smiling-sad remembrance. Revisiting the past.
Harry Dancer, so far down he believes he is never going to come up, recalls Sylvia in that mood. Nostalgia for everything. Old songs, old times, old friends. “Remember when—” obsesses her. She seems intent on re-creating a life. Finding value in her few years. Making them shine with a golden glory.
With loving patience, he joins her in the summing up. Indulging himself as he indulges her. Hoping to dull the pain. Instead, sharpening it to knife-edge. Two misers counting their wealth before it is lost.
“I want to go to the club,” she tells him. “By myself.”
He looks at her. “All right.”
“I want to sit at the bar. A single woman. Then you come in and pick me up.”
A ghastly idea. He feels like weeping. But knows what she seeks. Reassurance. To be wanted again. Reclaim her youth. Playacting an adventure. All pretend and make-believe. But precious to her. Vital. He is determined to see it through.
“Let’s do it,” he says. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll take a cab. Get there about eight. You drive up around eight-thirty.”
“Fine. What are you going to wear?”
“You can’t know. I’ll be a stranger to you.”
Following evening. He dresses swiftly. Leaves the bedroom to her. Takes a small gin out onto the patio. Sits there until he hears a cab arrive. House door slams. Cab takes off.
The Loves of Harry Dancer Page 20
