Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  “No, don’t bother. What good would it do?” Borikowski asked, slipping the man a small tip. “It’s in the next block. I wish I could afford to stay here! No, I’m at Le Grand,” he said, naming a lesser establishment just around the corner. “I think I’ll walk. It’s a nice brisk night for a walk.”

  “Oui, m’sieu!” The doorman stood for a moment, thinking “brisk” was a bit of an understatement, then retreated into the warmth of the hotel foyer and the strong light, where he could determine the amount of the tip.

  Three blocks to the north, Borikowski turned right, then left, then right again. The bus stop was just ahead.

  His destination stood near the waterfront in Old Montreal, a run-down boardinghouse not found in any KGB or Durzhauna Sigurnost safe-file, yet one which had been carefully chosen by Borikowski’s superiors.

  It was safe. The desk clerk, an aged Canuck, was poor of hearing and half-blind.

  Borikowski said, “Do you have the time?”

  The elderly man replied casually, “De temps en temps.” From time to time.

  “Which time?”

  “The first time. Every time.” The man tipped back in his chair, removed a key from the cabinet, and tossed it across the stained wooden counter. “Number twenty-nine.”

  Borikowski accepted the key and headed toward the stairs.

  Number twenty-nine had only the remains of a nine on the door but was adjacent to twenty-seven, so Borikowski tried the key, and it opened.

  Everything in the room was old and in need of replacement, including the door’s hardware. Two random kicks or a shoulder-blow would open it. He threw the suitcase onto the sagging bed, grabbed an old straight-back chair, and wedged it beneath the doorknob. Dust rose from the mattress and sparkled in the room’s harsh light. It would require at least five kicks now: time enough to think.

  The room smelled musty. A stained and faded print hung over the bed, depicting a harbor and mackinawed fisherman.

  The loosely woven window curtain tore as he pulled it open, its brittle threads baked by a decade of sun. A rusty fire escape clung to the building, the steel deeply pitted. The window was jammed shut. He tried to open it, but it resisted and he resorted to a well-placed palm thrust, and then it obliged. Bar soap helped it to run more smoothly. Below, a narrow alley shared with the bistro across the way echoed the faint thumping of a jukebox. He shut the window and worked the fraying curtains closed.

  The bed invited him: sleep. He felt as old and tired as the desk clerk, as frayed as the curtains.

  Now that he had blocked the door and secured himself an alternate exit via the window, he entered the small but brightly lit bathroom. He removed the top of the commode and peered inside. A thick black plastic bag lay somewhere inside, but he could not see it. He rolled up his sleeve and groped in the water, finally withdrawing the dripping bundle and carefully setting it onto the countertop. Inside was a Soviet-made nine-millimeter automatic that broke down into pieces, giving it the underground title of the “puzzle gun.” The package contained two extra clips, two small boxes of shells, a holster, and a silencer. To his delight, no water had found its way inside, as sometimes happened, and all was in order. He strapped it on, and felt better.

  Opening the hidden compartment on his suitcase required two separate lock combinations and moving the latches in a prescribed order. A small door popped open on one side. The tightly packed area held several chemicals and cosmetics, two hairpieces, eyeglasses, latex noses, tooth caps, colored contact lenses, and five different sets of passports and papers.

  The sink had tear-shaped turquoise stains beneath each faucet. Borikowski was not too competent at applying cosmetics, but he was more than experienced in removing them. He used rubbing alcohol, cold cream, and thirty minutes to rid his face of his ugly birthmark and Dorval identity, changing his mind now and wishing for a hot bath instead of a nap. But no time existed for such luxuries. He focused on the sudden anxiety and pushed it away.

  Forty-five painstaking minutes later he had a new wig in place—a task that should have required but ten minutes. Straight black hair now. The passport that identified a married man of forty, Dr. Franz Vogel, he pocketed, along with a pair of contact lenses.

  He left the boardinghouse via a rear staircase at the end of the hall, which descended into the side alley. Using a pencil as a wedge, he propped the door open slightly, keeping it from latching closed, so that he might reenter after the front door had been locked for the night.

  A light snow was falling.

  Out of habit, he touched where his weapon lay beneath his coat. He then looked at his watch.

  Not much time.

  He reached the theater only minutes after the final curtain must have fallen, for hordes of people began pouring out the front and side entrances, chatting and critiquing, arm in arm, in search of parked cars and empty cabs.

  The stage door was down an alley, and so Borikowski leaned against the brick of the opposing building, waiting for her. It wasn’t long before the door opened and stagehands began leaving. He stopped the first woman to exit. As she turned to face him, he saw that she was not the right woman, but asked anyway, “Have you the time?”

  She huffed, as people often do to strangers, turned her back on him, and, picking up her pace, left the alley, spike heels clicking on the cobbles.

  The next three were men.

  Then a woman exited on the arm of a man, and Borikowski interrupted, asking, “Have you the time?”

  “Non, m’sieu,” responded the soprano.

  “It is five past the hour,” grunted her escort. They left.

  The next woman wore a red knitted cap and a clumsy overcoat that sagged from her shoulders. She moved quickly. Borikowski asked her loudly, “Have you the time?”

  She stopped without facing him, then turned slowly and looked over her shoulder, as if these words had been expected. “De temps en temps,” she answered. From time to time.

  “Which time?” he asked, taking a step closer to her.

  He noticed the effect the question had. She turned completely around and stepped out of the way of two more people who were leaving now as well. She moved to the brick wall and watched until her friends had left.

  Borikowski had moved quite close to her. He could see her breathing heavily.

  “The first time. Every time,” she replied. “I don’t believe this! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I need your help….”

  “Yes, but the arrangements were to be made through the phone….”

  “I can’t wait until tomorrow morning, as you perhaps thought.”

  “Yes… but…”

  “I need you now. I’ve run into problems.”

  Another young man left through the stage door, and upon seeing the woman talking to Borikowski, asked, “Everything all right, Lydia?”

  “Yes, Henry. Thank you.”

  “See you tomorrow then.”

  “Yes. See you tomorrow.”

  They waited until Henry had turned around the corner, and then Borikowski said, “I need your talents this evening.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Come with me.”

  She led him around the corner to the left, and together they walked a few blocks to a small pub. She opened the door and, holding it for him, told him, “The other bars would be crowded with theater types. This is better for our needs.”

  “Yes, fine. But you must realize I’m on a sched—”

  “Shh. Buy yourself a drink. I’ll take care of you in a little while.”

  Once inside, she did not sit with him. Instead she went to a pay phone and called someone and had a long conversation. Borikowski had ordered and paid for a beer, and he drank it alone. He then watched her make another phone call, and at the end of this one she walked right past him and left the bar. He gulped down the remainder of the beer and went outside. She was standing in the doorway of the next shop, tucked into a shadow, her arms wrapped around herself to shield her from th
e cold.

  “Why tonight?” she inquired.

  “My cover’s blown. It has to be tonight.”

  “It will take me hours.”

  “I know.”

  “And which is it to be?”

  “Vogel. Franz Vogel.”

  “Yes. I remember. Very well. Did you bring the passport photo?”

  “Yes. I have it here.” He tapped his pocket. “Can we go to your apartment?”

  “Absolutely not! I just got through speaking with a man who is waiting there for me. No, the apartment is out. We’ll use the theater. I have a key.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “It’s our only choice.”

  “You sound angry.”

  She hesitated, staring into his eyes. She touched his chin and moved his face to see it in the light. She let him go and said, “I was told I might have to do this. To tell you the truth, I never thought much of it. I guess I’m a little surprised.”

  “That applies to the both of us. I thought I would be…” He changed his mind in mid-sentence. “…gone.”

  “Not likely.”

  “No.”

  She rocked her weight to her other leg. “I’m tired.”

  “Yes. How did it go?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The performance. How did it go?”

  “Oh. Well. Quite well. It’s an adaptation of a fairy tale.”

  “I’m familiar with it. I played the role of the father once.”

  “In this play?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re an actor?”

  “Used to be. That is, I used to act on the stage. Now I act, but not for an audience.”

  “I understand.”

  They began walking back to the theater. He caught sight of her face for the first time when they passed a storefront with its lights up. She had a lovely complexion, and two of the most individual eyes he had ever seen. They appeared born of Italian blood, and made to be photographed; and even though he had noticed them in her dossier pictures, they were twice as beautiful in real life.

  When they reached the stage door she told him, “If anyone says anything, don’t answer. I’ll do the talking.”

  He nodded.

  Inside there were only a few stagehands left standing about, their voices echoing through the empty theater. They paid no attention to Borikowski, and only one person—a young woman who had tiny feet and a voice to crack glass—even bothered to offer a greeting to Lydia, and this was not a greeting at all, but a perfunctory call to business. She ignored Borikowski, as if he were a fixture on the wall, and stopped Lydia with an outthrust hand. “I keep falling out of this damn thing!” she said, pulling on the low-cut V neck of the white dress she was wearing and exposing a dark nippled breast. “Peter says he likes it to look sexy, but what with me falling out all the time I distract the audience and the second act goes to shit. See?” She bent slightly and moved from side to side and both breasts peeked out and then withdrew to behind the fabric. She remained oblivious to Borikowski’s penetrating interest. “What can we do?”

  “I’ll tape you in before tomorrow’s performance. You’ll wiggle, but you won’t fall out.”

  “Tape. That’s a perfect solution. Great! I couldn’t think what to use. Peter said a bra would ruin everything.”

  “Don’t worry, Claudia. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Great. Thanks, luv.” The woman moved past them, down the hall, and turned into an unmarked room.

  Lydia waved for Borikowski to follow. “She’s our resident prima donna. By tomorrow she’ll refuse to let me tape her. She only wanted to show off her breasts. She loves to see the reaction of strangers. She thinks every man is dying to jump on her.”

  “Aren’t they?” Borikowski asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  Lydia flashed him a disapproving look and opened a door.

  The room was a mess, a disaster area of cosmetics and wigs and bright lights. She sat him down in the center chair, so he faced the mirror, which was flanked by blinding bulbs. She asked, “Did you bring the contacts?”

  “Yes.” He set them on the counter amid the debris.

  “The wig?”

  “This is it. I’m wearing it.”

  She bent his ear over, caught an edge of the wig and gently pulled it off his head. Its edges were sticky and made smacking sounds as they came loose. She set it on the table. “They warned me you might need another face. But honestly, I never expected it to happen.”

  “I wish it had not happened. This will cost me nearly an entire day.” Borikowski liked the oily smell of the room. It reminded him of his early acting career—before his services had been enlisted. And how many years ago had that been? To him it seemed an eternity.

  He looked at her more closely in the bright light: her almond eyes were the color of milk chocolate, her shoulder-length hair mahogany. Her slender nose and small, oval mouth were made more prominent by elegantly high cheekbones and flat cheeks.

  She discarded her coat. She wore a black shirt covered with makeup, and dungarees with tears in the knees. “Well,” she said lightheartedly, “we’re here now. We’ll give you the best face we can.” But inside she was squirming. She had been all ready to go home… to go to bed with Frederick, a man who had been sleeping with her for the past few nights. This delay bothered her.

  She stripped his face with alcohol and then, piece by piece, began to reconstruct his looks, referring to his passport as her guide. She straightened his nose with a latex form, bent his eyebrows by plucking and re-gluing, elongated his eye sockets by applying a chemical that shrank his skin as it dried and left him with a convincing set of crow’s feet at either temple. She injected his lips with a trace amount of a histamine, causing them to swell slightly.

  “My lips itch,” he said, not speaking well.

  “It will go away. So will the swelling, somewhat; but the redness will remain.”

  He watched in the mirror for three hours as she applied her expertise to his face, astonished at how relatively quickly the change occurred.

  At one-fifteen she stopped brushing his hair and asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re as good as they said you were,” he told her, with a perfect high-German accent lacing his words.

  “Your accent is very convincing.”

  “Thank you. That part of the job I have under control.” He stood and extended his hand to her.

  They shook hands.

  “I will mention how cooperative you were… and what a fine job you did. That’s the most I can do.”

  She nodded, led him into the hallway, and switched off the room’s lights. “I’m glad you are happy with it.”

  “Yes. It’s a very good job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, I only hope we don’t have to meet again… not that I would mind, but—”

  “I understand,” she assured him, opening the door to the alley.

  “You will remain by the phone in case?”

  “Yes. I’ll be home all day tomorrow as planned.” She locked the stage door and pocketed the key.

  “Good-bye, then.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Friday, November 21

  12:21 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Terry Stone’s oak desk held a brass captain’s clock, a family photo, and too many phones to count.

  A small wet bar in the far corner was flanked on either side by the colorful spines of books. On the knotty, nut-brown walls a van Gogh seashore print hung proudly, and opposing it, an enlarged color photograph of a thirty-eight-foot ketch heading downwind, its bright blue spinnaker fully billowed. A computer terminal and a Sony television were juxtaposed on his large desk. Its oak slab, in appearance, seemed more like a landing field for small aircraft than a place for paper and pen.

  Behind the unmoving Terry Stone a large and unusually thick window revealed a tightly angled corner of the impressive Air and Space Museum. The skies dumped sl
ush on the town. The President of the United States of America was frozen in a photograph, smiling through the scratched framed glass, on the wall next to the window. The faces of many different men had been placed there over the years. And each a friend to Terry Stone.

  Janie Luzo, Terry Stone’s plain-looking, middle-aged secretary, gently shook the Old Man’s shoulder, waking him from an unplanned nap. He had fallen asleep in his chair. Seeing his head tilted to one side and his mouth hanging open reminded Janie how aged Terry Stone was: bony face, thin white hair, postured shoulders, aqua-blue eyes. Stone’s chin pointed sharply and his large ears matched his ability to listen well. That was what Janie attributed Terry Stone’s success to: he was the grand master of listening.

  “Humm? What is it?” Stone groaned.

  “The NSA called, sir. They’ve received a package from Canada. Your eyes only. I thought…”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I called Marvin, sir. Your car will be ready in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you. I’ll freshen up and be right there. Oh, and would you pour me a traveler?” he asked his secretary.

  “Decaf?” Her small eyes showed fatigue.

  “No, I’m afraid I’ll need the real thing tonight.” He focused on the clock and saw they were well into the early hours of another day: 12:30 A.M. “Boy, I really dozed off, didn’t I?”

  “It’s good for you, sir. You should be home in bed. They shouldn’t ask you to stay up all night like this. It’s unhealthy.”

  Stone thought, Only Janie and Marvin can talk to me this way. Then he said, somewhat insincerely, “Duty, Janie. It’s all in the name of duty.” He winked.

  Minutes later, clad in winter coat, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, he was walking through the hallway of his “hidden” offices. He felt good about sending Janie home, but felt sorry for the janitor up ahead meticulously mopping the floor. The man was bent over the bucket, his posture wrecked by years of it. The area reeked of ammonia and detergent.

  The custodian saw the Old Man approaching and immediately moved his bucket. Stone was cautiously attentive of his full cup of coffee. The janitor bowed and that embarrassed Stone. After crossing the slick floor, Stone returned the bow. The custodian grinned toothlessly, unable to hide his pleasure. Stone mumbled something about team efforts and thanked the man for his individual contribution. It made the man’s day, week, year. He couldn’t wait to tell the wife.