The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  “You’re seeing Dancer this afternoon?” he asks. Voice suddenly flat. And tense. Flat and tense at once.

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re not doing anything tonight,” he says. “All by your lonesome.”

  “I have things to do.”

  “With Angela Bliss? Forget it. She’s on her way out. There’s nothing there for you, babe.”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “I’ll come by around eight,” he says. Rising. “You and I should get to know each other better. Now that I’m your case officer.”

  Still she is silent.

  “Eight o’clock,” he repeats. “Okay? Remember the Fitness Report.”

  “Sure,” she says.

  She peeks through the Venetian blind until she sees him drive away in the black Mercedes. Then she starts weeping. It is five minutes before she can control herself enough to phone Angela Bliss.

  “Can you come over?” she pleads. “Right away.”

  “Darling, what is it?”

  “Please…”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  They sit huddled. Holding hands. Sally relates what Briscoe said. What he implied. Nuances. And the way he looked at her.

  “He knows,” she tells Angela. “About you and me. Everything. He’s coming by tonight. To test me. And he says you’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

  “He may belying.”

  “Even if he is, it’s just a question of time, isn’t it? Before we’re separated. And he wants me to blackmail Harry with the recordings and TV tapes we’ve got. Angela, I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can’t. Sweetheart, we’ve been talking about it a long time, but now we’ve got to do it. Go over. To the Corporation. It’s our only hope.”

  “But Briscoe is coming here tonight,” Sally wails. “We need more time to find out who we defect to. Figure out what we’re going to say.”

  Angela puts a palm to the other woman’s cheek. Smiling. “Not to worry. Leave it to me. I know how these things are handled. You go have your lunch with Harry. By the time you get back, I’ll have a plan.”

  “And I won’t have to make love to that creep?”

  “Absolutely not. Don’t even think about it. Darling, do you trust me?”

  “You know I do. Till death do us part.”

  “Will you do whatever I tell you? It may be rough. Really bad.”

  “Does it mean we’ll be together?”

  “That’s exactly what it means.”

  “Then I’ll do anything,” Sally Abaddon says.

  71

  Afternoon of the same day. The Director cringes in his office. Hair disheveled. Suit impressed. Two days’ growth of beard. “Let the cretin sweat,” the Chairman had vowed. And so the cretin is. Awaiting the judgment that never comes.

  Meanwhile he tries to get through the routine of his business day. Has even installed the new computer operator as his personal secretary. Hopelessly inefficient, but so young. Tender. Too bad he has no desire to test her loyalty. Defection and termination of Norma Gravesend have neutered him. He wallows in despair.

  When his phone rings, he almost faints. Certain the summons has arrived. Picks up the receiver with a palsied hand. Answers in a cracked voice:

  “The Director speaking.”

  “Sir, this is Martha at the switchboard. I have a man on the line who insists on speaking to you personally. He won’t state his business nor give his name. How do you want me to handle it?”

  “Tell him to talk to Internal Security.”

  “I’ve already suggested that, sir. He says he’ll hang up if I switch him to anyone but you. He claims it will be to your benefit to talk to him.”

  That hooks the Director. He considers. If the call turns out to be from a crazy, he can always hang up. But if the caller really has something to offer…

  “All right, Martha,” he says. “Put him on.”

  Man’s voice: “Is this the Director of the Southeast Region?”

  “That is correct. To whom am I speaking?”

  Caller ignores his question. Asks a question of his own. “Are you supervising the Harry Dancer action?”

  The Director catches his breath. What crazy would know that?

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he answers.

  “Stop playing games,” is the impatient response. “The Harry Dancer campaign. Your case officer is Briscoe, ever since Shelby Yama got chilled. Your field agent is Sally Abaddon. Now do you realize I know what I’m talking about?”

  Shock. Has there been another security breach?

  “What do you want?” the Director asks.

  “Sanctuary,” the man says. “I am a Corporation counterintelligence agent. I have with me the field agent on the Dancer case. We’d like to discuss the possibility of coming over.”

  The Director holds the phone away. Stares at it with amazement. Tiny flame of hope begins to flicker.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” the Director says. Hastily. “You’re talking about defection?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” the Director says. Expanding. “I think that can be arranged. We have a program that—”

  “Cut the shit,” the caller interrupts. “I said we want to discuss the possibility. You know the Atlantic Avenue bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway?”

  “Yes.”

  “They raise it every thirty minutes. On the hour and half-hour. The moment it closes after two o’clock this afternoon, we’ll meet you in the middle, on the span. Then we’ll talk. You come alone.”

  “The two of you will be there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I must insist on bringing an associate.”

  Silence. Then: “Who? Ted Charon, your Chief of Internal Security?”

  Again the Director is startled. Man seems remarkably well informed. Which supports the genuineness of his proposition. “Yes, Charon,” he replies. “Two on two. It’s only fair.”

  Silence again. Finally…

  “All right. On the Atlantic Avenue bridge. Right after two o’clock. Be there.”

  Click.

  The Director sits back. Pulls a deep breath. If the call is legitimate, what a coup! Turning two important Corporation agents. Weakening—maybe fatally weakening—their Harry Dancer operation.

  More important, maybe saving the Director’s ass.

  He and Ted Charon arrive at the bridge a half-hour early.

  “I’ve got two cars,” Charon says. “One at each end. Three men in each car. If we can’t cut a deal, we can still grab them. If you say so, sir,” he adds.

  “Let’s play it by ear,” the Director suggests. “Keep your men back until we find out what they want.”

  Charon looks around. “I don’t see any other occupied cars parked at the bridge ends. Or anyone who looks like heavies. Maybe they are coming alone.”

  They wait patiently. Bridge parts and rises at two o’clock. Two cruisers and a sailboat pass up the Waterway. Bridge closes. Barricades rise.

  “All right,” Charon says. “Let’s go.”

  Walk slowly to the middle of the span. Stop, backs to the railing. Look in both directions. Nothing.

  “Maybe they’re not coming,” the Director says. Beginning to sweat again. “Maybe they spotted your cars and took off.”

  Charon refuses to take the blame for failure. “They’ll come,” he says. “It was their idea, wasn’t it?”

  Finally, they see a couple sauntering toward them from the western end of the bridge. Man and woman. Holding hands tightly.

  “That could be them,” Charon says. Takes off his cap. Wipes his brow with a handkerchief. Alerting his men.

  The four meet. Stand staring at each other.

  “Director?” the man asks. He is young. Handsome. Olive skin. Woman is almost as dark. Solid body. Short, sun-bleached hair. She looks frightened.

  “That’s correct,” the Director says. “
And this gentleman is Ted Charon, our local Chief of Internal Security.”

  “Could we see some ID, please,” Charon says.

  The two strangers look at each other. Man nods, takes out his wallet. Woman fumbles in her purse. They hand plastic cards to Charon. He examines them. Looks up to compare faces and photos. Returns the ID cards.

  “Martin Frey and Evelyn Heimdall,” he reports to the Director. “That checks out with our intelligence. The lady is Corporation field agent on the Dancer case. Frey works out of Counterintelligence in Washington.”

  “You want to come over?” the Director asks them.

  “If we get what we want,” Frey says.

  “Which is?”

  “The usual protection. Plus a promise that the two of us can stay together. Work together. We’re a team. That has to be understood.”

  “And what do we get in return?” Charon asks. “Besides a team.”

  Frey shrugs. “Whatever we’ve got. Codes. Personnel rosters. Recruiting techniques. Names, dates, and places. We won’t hold back. We know we’re gambling on your good faith, but we’re willing to take the chance. We can be very valuable to the Department.”

  “More than just the intelligence we can deliver,” Heimdall says. Speaking for the first time. “Valuable to the Department as active agents. We know our jobs. And we’re enthusiastic.”

  “You realize what it entails?” the Director says. “No one resigns from the Department. You’re aware of that?”

  They both nod. The four talk another fifteen minutes. Details of the actual surrender. When, where, and how. Professionals dispassionately discussing terms of treason. Documents to be signed. Safe houses. Reassignment. New roles for the converts.

  Finally, the Director looks at Ted Charon.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “Let’s take them,” Charon says. “They’ve got no place else to go.”

  72

  Evening of the same day. Sally Abaddon and Angela Bliss go over their plan a half-dozen times. Looking for things that might go wrong. Figuring how they will react. Trying to anticipate Briscoe’s countermoves. They are frightened by the man’s strength and brutality.

  “Where did you get the gun?” Sally asks.

  “It’s mine,” Angela says. “Department issue. Everyone in Internal Security gets one.”

  “Have you ever used it?”

  “Not off the range, no. But I’m a good shot. Sweetheart, are you sure you can see this through?”

  “I’m sure,” Sally says. “We don’t really have any choice, do we?”

  “No choice at all.”

  They discuss renting a car. Decide that will complicate things unnecessarily. Wonder about the need for rope or handcuffs. Injection of drugs. Anything to immobilize him.

  “No,” Angela says. “We’ve got to keep it as simple as possible. The fewer things that can go wrong, the better. Oh God, I’m nervous. Are you?”

  Sally holds out a trembling hand. “Look.”

  “I know, darling. I feel the same way.”

  “What we’re doing—going to do—it’s not the best way to start our new life, is it?”

  “We’ll be forgiven. It’s justified. He’s an evil, evil man. He takes pleasure in hurting people. I know his record.”

  They are in Sally’s motel room. Surrounded by all the tawdry props used to lure Harry Dancer. Now it has the dead and dusty look of an unused stage set. They cannot bear to look at the fleshy nudes on the walls. Orange-tinted mirrors. Sad, kitschy furnishings.

  “Can we make love?” Sally asks. Suddenly. “Please. It’s important to me.”

  “Yes,” Angela says. “Oh yes.”

  Naked in each other’s arms. Shivering with fear and delight. Their plot an added spur. Brought closer by danger. Risking all for each other. Their embrace is desperate—and all the sweeter.

  They have learned each other’s bodies. Confessed wants and hidden pleasures. Their love-making is assured and giving. It has the tang of newness, leavened by love. Their fresh world expands; they see no limits.

  “Let me,” Sally says. “My turn.”

  Angela’s thin, hard body has become dear to her. Something to cherish. Bone and muscle, skin and vein. All warm and eager. Mouths seek. A conspiracy of two. Secret agreement. Love is theirs alone. They surround, protect, and nourish it.

  In their ardor, doubts vanish. There is nothing they might not do. Kisses banish fear. Probing tongues confirm their resolve. Coupling, they become stronger. Decision reinforced. Two are one body, one will.

  Drawing apart, they stare into each other’s eyes. Stroking, stroking. Murmuring things. Feeling sheen and satin. Pressing. Tugging. Smiling at their puppy play. Flooded by happiness. Swollen with bliss. Both throbbing with a single pulse.

  “No matter what happens…” Angela says.

  “Yes,” Sally says, “no matter what…”

  They loll. Groaning with content. Then rise, dress, make final preparations. Both wear black jeans, black T-shirts, black sneakers. Midnight assassins.

  “The important thing,” Sally says, “is not to let him use the Special Powers.”

  “He won’t get a chance,” Angela says. “Trust me.

  They share a drink—a single vodka loving cup.

  “Dutch courage,” Angela says.

  “We don’t need it,” Sally says. “We have each other.”

  “Always,” Angela vows.

  Briscoe is late. It is almost eight-twenty before Sally, peering through the blinds, sees the black Mercedes roll up to a stop across the parking lot.

  “He’s here,” she announces.

  Two women embrace. Clutching tightly. Pressing.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Angela takes up position behind the door. Sally turns off the overhead light. Leaves only the dim bedside lamp burning.

  His knock is like the man himself: sharp, loud, authoritative.

  Sally opens the door wide.

  “Hi!” she says.

  He steps in. Almost smiling. Angela pushes the door closed. Moves up behind him. Puts the muzzle of her revolver behind his left ear.

  “A gun,” she says. “Loaded. Don’t move.”

  He stands motionless. Sally pats him down. No weapons. She takes his keys. Angela prods again with the revolver. He says nothing. His silence scares them. They see his glinty eyes roving. Calculating.

  “Go, Sally,” Angela says.

  Abaddon slips out the door. Closes it softly behind her. Bliss moves back a few paces. So she can’t be taken if Briscoe whirls suddenly. Revolver steady in her fist.

  “No Special Powers,” she tells him. “Unless you want to die.”

  “You haven’t the balls for it,” he says. Speaking for the first time. Arid voice.

  “Try me,” she says.

  Then they stand with no more talk. Angela waits for Sally to bring the Mercedes up close to the motel. So they won’t have to march Briscoe across the parking lot at gunpoint. Finally she hears a light horn tap. The signal.

  “All right,” she says, “we’re going out now. You first. I’ll be right behind you. Get in the back of the car. Press yourself into the far corner. Keep your hands in plain view. If you think you can take me, be my guest. I’d love to pop you right here.”

  But he attempts nothing. Almost docilely he follows orders. Goes out the door. Gets into the back seat. Far over. Angela follows him in. Holds the gun with both hands. Aimed at his chest.

  “He’s behaving, Sally,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  Abaddon drives out onto Al A. Turns south.

  “You’re defecting,” Briscoe says. Licking his lips. “Going over to the Corporation. The two of you.”

  “That’s right,” Angela says. “We’re getting out.”

  “So?” he says. Shrugging. “What’s that got to do with me? You want to go? Go. I can’t stop you. But why involve me? We’ll just assign another field agent to the Harry Dancer ac
tion. It’s not as important as you think it is.”

  “If you were any other man,” Angela says, “I’d believe you. But I know your record, Briscoe. I know the kind of devil you are. You might let us walk away, but you’d never let us live. You couldn’t take that defeat. All your plans, your ambitions, down the drain. Wherever we went, you’d come after us. And eventually you’d find us. We’d have to keep looking back for the rest of our lives. The Department might cross us off the roster and let us go. But not you. You’d never forget or forgive. Because we made you look like an incompetent fool. And you’d come gunning. Isn’t that right?”

  He doesn’t reply. Looks straight ahead through the windshield. Watches as Sally makes a right onto Atlantic Boulevard. Heading west. They cross the bridge where, several hours ago, Evelyn Heimdall and Martin Frey surrendered to the Department. But none of them know that.

  “Let’s make a deal,” Briscoe says.

  “No deal,” Sally says. Voice sharp.

  “Just listen a minute,” Briscoe says. “It makes sense. Take me to the airport. I promise to behave. Put me on the first flight out. Anywhere you say. That’ll give you time to contact the Corporation. They’ll give you protection. I’ll be in the air, out of the picture for hours.”

  “Forget it,” Angela says. “You’ll come back and start looking for us.”

  “I give you my word of honor I won’t.”

  The women laugh.

  They drive in silence awhile.

  “You know,” Briscoe says, “every now and then I think about switching. Tell me why you’re doing it; I’m really interested.”

  They don’t bother answering.

  “Getting close,” Angela says to Sally. “Another street or two. No U-turn. You’ll have to go around the block.”

  Traffic is light in a fine drizzle. Sally starts the wipers. Drives slowly. Leans forward to peer ahead. Makes the turns. Comes out onto Atlantic Boulevard again. Heading east. Briscoe glances out the window. Sees the shimmer of streetlamps on the dark surface of a canal.

  “Not here?” he cries. Offended by their amateurism. “With lights? Traffic? At this hour? You’re out of your minds!”

  “We’ll take the chance,” Angela says.

  “We have nothing to lose,” Sally says.