“Two women with one man,” Angela adds. “Who’s going to think anything’s wrong? We’re going to do it, Briscoe. Believe me.”
For the first time they hear desperation in his voice.
“Look,” he says, “let’s talk about this. You think the Corporation will be happy to take in a couple of killers?”
“They won’t know,” Angela says. “Will they?”
“The car!” he shouts. Brain befuddled. Grabbing at foolish details. “How are you going to get rid of my car?”
“Easy,” Angela says. “Wipe it clean and park it somewhere. Next block, Sally. Pull over. Leave the motor running.”
“I know,” Sally says.
She slows and stops. Hops out. Jerks open Briscoe’s door. He almost falls onto the ground. Angela scrambles after him. Presses the gun against his neck.
“Down to the canal,” she says. “Fast!”
He opens his mouth to scream. She slams the revolver against the side of his head. Stunned, he stumbles forward. They half-support, half-carry him to the canal. He is mumbling, shaking his head. They haul him to the edge of the scummy ditch.
Angela turns. Looks back at the boulevard. Waits until a heavy truck speeds by. Then motions Sally clear. Whirls Briscoe around. Shoots him twice in the face. Gouts of blood. He topples back. Head and shoulders splash into black water.
“Give me the gun,” Sally says.
“What?”
“Give it to me!”
Angela hands it over. Sally aims, closes her eyes, shoots Briscoe two more times in the chest and stomach. Opens her eyes. Stares at the other woman.
“Both of us,” she says. “We both did it. Together.”
They prod and kick Briscoe’s body deeper into the canal. Corpse slowly sinks. They watch white bubbles subside. Then they turn and run for the car.
73
Anthony Glitner, at 2:30 A.M., feels everything is falling apart. Evelyn Heimdall has not made her routine check-in calls for the past twenty-four hours. The case officer has staff searching for her. But she has vanished.
He informs Washington. In turn, Corporation headquarters tells him they are unable to locate Martin Frey. Messages fly back and forth. A Grade-A flap.
Glitner might have been able to cope, but he is still depressed by the murder of Willoughby. That sweet, eager man. So strong in his faith. Gone. To a better life, Tony devoutly believes. Still, it is hard to lose a dear comrade.
Even harder to endure the treason of a believer. And that, the case officer is convinced, is what has happened to Evelyn Heimdall. And Martin Frey. The Corporation has suffered a shattering loss. Glitner accepts responsibility for the twin defection. He should have been more perceptive, more alert. Asked for a replacement for his field agent when he first suspected her weakening.
He wonders, again, if he may be burned-out. Exhausted by continual conflict with the Department. Unending. Victories and defeats. But never with a firm sign of eventual triumph. Which leaves only faith. Thin reed at two-thirty in the morning.
Even the strongest believer must, occasionally, doubt. The Corporation may be certain. But the Corporation is a creed. A body of laws. Adherents are human individuals. Subject to all the frailties of living in an irrational world. Pain? Undeserved suffering? How to account for those anomalies in a universe parsed by the Word?
Riven, shredded by uncertainty, Anthony Glitner paces the floor. Praying for proof. Incontrovertible proof that life has meaning. That his life is valuable, his work significant. He wants assurance. A pat on the head, he ruefully admits.
When the phone rings, he leaps for it. Hoping Evelyn Heimdall is finally calling. That problem solved. His fears groundless. But it is an unfamiliar voice. Female.
“Anthony Glitner?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s not important at the moment. What is important is that I am an agent of the Department, division of Internal Security. My friend is the field agent in the Harry Dancer action. We both wish to defect. To come over to the Corporation. Can we meet and discuss it?”
Glitner is stunned. Silenced.
“Hello? Mr. Glitner? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. When do you wish to meet?”
“As soon as possible. Right now if you can make it.”
“All right. Where?”
“Can you come to us?”
“Is that wise? You may be under observation.”
Pause.
“Yes,” the woman says, “you may be right. Very well, we’ll come to you. We have the address. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Tony hangs up softly. It may be a trap—but he doesn’t think so. She sounded definite, assured, professional. Two Department agents wanting to defect. Victory!
But he feels no sense of triumph. Just sadness. And weariness. Reflecting on the faults and weaknesses of people in his profession. Burn-out comes, sooner or later. They work in such a highly charged atmosphere. At fever pitch. Eventually they are scorched.
Because of the rawness of their decisions. Life or death—and nothing in between. Every choice vital, every act essential. They are spiritual surgeons. Is it any wonder that their hands might falter?
He wrenches his mind from these dismal thoughts. Begins to straighten up his disordered motel suite to keep busy. Plans how to handle these two would-be converts. What they will ask, and what he will offer.
It is not total compensation for the death of Willoughby and the dereliction of Evelyn Heimdall. Still it is a—
Stops suddenly. Recalls his brooding of an hour ago when he yearned for a sign. Assurance that his faith is justified, his life of value. Is this the portent he seeks?
Door bell rings. He moves to answer. Smiling.
74
The day is a glory. Early morning sun brave in a pellucid sky. Palm fronds rustling; gentle northeast breeze dries and cools. Ocean calm with small pages turning an endless volume onto the beach.
“This is why we came to Florida,” a neighbor calls, and Harry Dancer nods and smiles.
Sitting close to the water. Wearing his faded khaki swimming trunks. Knees drawn up and clasped. Sees kids frolicking on the strand. Joggers. Shelters. A few bright floats bobbing out there. Catamarans getting nowhere. A young creamer falling off her windsurf board. White foam over the nearest reef. Everything familiar and cherished.
Stares out and beyond at the gently curving earth. Water and sky color one enormous globe. No sharp corners. Just lulling arcs. Wooing the eye, soothing the spirit.
“Take a swim, Syl?” he asks. “Way out?”
“Maybe,” she murmurs. “Later.”
She is lying prone beside him. On a big beach towel printed with a portrait of Mickey Mouse rampant. Her bronze body dazzles. He looks at her with love and longing. Never to know completely this total woman.
“The best loves are incomplete,” he says.
“If you say so, professor.”
He reaches out to touch a glowing shoulder. One fingertip. Brief contact.
“What was that for?” she asks.
“Just to make sure you’re there.”
She chugs a single laugh. “Oh, I’m here, darling. Always will be.”
“Promise?”
“Absitively, posilutely. I wouldn’t leave you alone.”
“No,” he says, “don’t do that. Bring you a drink? Sandwich?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Caviar? Champagne? Diamonds? Rubies? Emeralds?”
“Now you’re talking.” Then she lifts, props up on an elbow, stares at him. “You’re awfully generous this morning. And romantic.”
“A mood. It’ll pass.”
She grunts, puts her cheek down on her forearm again.
“No,” he says, “it won’t pass. I love you so much, Syl. It scares me. Losing you would be an amputation. The best part of me.”
“You’re not going to lose me.”
“Keep telling me that,” he begs. “It’s the only
thing that keeps me going.”
“Don’t you think I feel the same way? What would I be without you? Couldn’t endure it.”
“Sometimes…“he says. Feeling foolish but wanting to say it. “Sometimes I think of us as more than married. Blood-related.”
“Sister and brother?”
“Yes,” he says, “but twins. You know?”
“The closeness,” she says. “Yes, I do know. A beautiful thought.”
“It’s the way I feel.”
She reaches behind her back. Hooks her bra strap. Sits up. Leans on his clasped knees. Grins at him.
“Incest,” she says. “That’s what we’ve got going here.”
“Something like that,” he agrees. “Something wonderful.”
They smile, turn toward the invisible horizon. Squinting against the sun’s glow. They look at forever. World without limit. Everything stretching. Sylvia takes his hand. Holds it tightly.
“It’s all ours, Harry,” she says. “Isn’t it?”
“Has been,” he says. “Since I met you.”
“And it will never end,” she vows. “I swear to God.”
They sit there. So near, so near. Seeing the bright, living beach scene. Part of it, but apart from it. World of their own. The two sufficient.
“That swim,” he says. “I’m going to take it now.”
“Are you sure you want to, love?”
“Have to,” he says. “Need to. No choice.”
She squeezes his hand tighter. “All right, Harry. I’ll be with you.”
He rises slowly. Stretches. Flexes his shoulders. Walks easily down to the water’s edge. Stands a moment, ankle-deep. Looking out at the gentle depths. His gaze becomes unfocused. Seems to see a tide rolling backward. Spilling froth far out. Ready to bear him. Beckoning.
Wades into a winy sea. Doesn’t dive, but waits until he floats away. Then strikes out with calm deliberation. Steadily swimming. Pulling toward forever. Lifting arms, moving legs. Toward his goal.
On he goes. Breathing smoothly. Smiling with happiness as he feels his muscles’ strength. No limit. Past the waders, the shouters. Past the floats and boats. Into the quiet where all he can hear is the susurrus of his own tender waves: Sssylvia, Sssylvia, Sssylvia.
How long? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care. He lifts his head occasionally. Peers. Makes certain he is heading toward forever. Feeling the start of weariness. Comforting warmth. Arms and legs beginning to flail. Churning now. Body rolling.
Happy with his weakness. Sensing the end. Hearing “Sssylvia, Sssylvia, Sssylvia.” He does not have to call her name. She is with him. Her love draws him on. Reaches for her with leaden arms. Seeking. Aching to reclaim.
Wallowing. Drained body slowing. Until, gasping, he lets the sea enter his open mouth. And gives himself over with joy. Sinking slowly. Bubbles jagging up.
And he is home.
75
The Chairman, in his office at Cleveland headquarters, is enduring questioning by the Department’s Inspector General. Snide man with the smarmy smile of a mortician.
“We lost Sally Abaddon and Angela Bliss,” he says. Accusing.
“And we gained Evelyn Heimdall and Martin Frey,” the Chairman reminds him.
“Briscoe was eliminated.”
“So was Norma Gravesend.”
“What about Shelby Yama?”
“What about Willoughby?”
They glare at each other. Then simultaneously sigh.
“The operation was a disaster,” the Inspector says.
“There I agree with you,” the Chairman says.
“The bottom line is that we lost Harry Dancer.”
“The bottom line is that no one lost or won Harry Dancer. Everyone concerned, Department and Corporation alike, underestimated the man. There was more to him than we realized.”
“You should have known.”
The Chairman shrugs his fat shoulders. “As I have observed several times, Inspector, we are not dealing with packages of breakfast cereal. Our targets are living, breathing human beings—with all the hopes, fears, prejudices, and foolish dreams that implies. This is not a science, you know; it is an art.”
“Apparently our artists are not exceptionally talented.”
The Chairman slams a meaty hand down on his desk top. “I will not have my ability questioned,” he says wrathfully. “The statistics are available to you. They clearly show that my record is excellent. I win many more than I lose.”
“More, perhaps,” the Inspector sniffs, “but not many more. Chairman, our disappointment in the outcome of the Harry Dancer affair is not solely based on the loss of a single potential recruit. There are also budgetary considerations involved.”
“Money,” the Chairman growls. “It always comes down to dollars and cents.”
“We are running a world-wide operation,” the Inspector General says. “We would be derelict in our duty if we were not constantly aware of income, expenses, personnel costs, and cash flow. Now let’s go over your projected budget for the coming year. I believe that revisions are required in some of your more, ah, optimistic estimates.”
“Yes, Inspector,” the Chairman says. Surrendering.
At almost the same time, a somewhat similar postmortem is taking place at Corporation headquarters in Washington. The Chief of Operations and case officer Anthony Glitner are toting up the balance sheet on the Harry Dancer action.
“About even, sir,” Glitner concludes. Voice dulled, dispirited. “Lost some, won some.”
“And no one won Harry Dancer,” the Chief adds. Searching through his pockets for antacid tablets. “It was not one of our more glorious campaigns.”
“My fault,” Tony says. “I let it get out of hand.”
“Nonsense,” the Chief says. “You’re not to blame. The whole thing hinged on the personality and character of Harry Dancer. Our failure was insufficient intelligence. I have already composed a memo on the subject. From now on, our analyses of possible converts must be much more detailed. In-depth probing. So we know exactly whom we’re dealing with.”
“Do you think that would have helped in this case, sir?”
The Chief stares at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Perhaps the man was unknowable.”
The Chief finds a single, dusty Turns. Pops it into his mouth. “Tony, I prefer not to dwell on the mysteries of the human spirit. The important thing is to concentrate on conversions. That is our only reason for being.”
They sit in silence a few moments. Heads lowered. Brooding.
“Sir,” Anthony Glitner says, “where do you think the soul of Harry Dancer is now?”
“Oh…” the Chief says. Wearily waving a hand. “Out there somewhere. Floating…”
The Loves of Harry Dancer Page 23
