Up ahead a middle-aged couple appeared at the edge of the park, walking two leashed German shepherds—Andy assumed that the door he had heard close belonged to these two. The couple saw him coming, for they both stopped short and the dogs strained against their leashes.
“Hold!” barked the husband, confused.
“Attack!” shouted his wife, suddenly afraid and anxious to see the dogs work. She dropped her leash and one German shepherd bounded toward Andy, who yelled, “No! Federal agent!”
“Hold!” the husband reaffirmed, and the dog skidded to a stop.
Then Andy cut sharply to his left, and as he did, the next dart missed him and embedded in the woman’s chest. She fell to the path without so much as a word, and her husband was unable to break her fall.
“Attack!” the husband shouted, jerking his arm in a line toward the darkness and away from Andy, who continued to run toward the park’s edge.
Both dogs raced into the darkness.
The man who had hid behind the hippopotamus stood and fled.
As Andy jumped the park’s low stone wall, he heard one of the dogs whine, followed by a painful human, scream; and as he glanced over his shoulder he saw the husband holding his wife’s head off the ground as she lay in the slush-covered grass.
Then a loud gunshot report slapped the air—and another—and the barking ceased.
Saturday, November 22
12:01 A.M.
Detroit, Michigan
The city had headed to bed. Thirty minutes ago the streets had been chaotic; now they were spotted with an occasional taxi cruising in search of a fare. Three such cabs had pulled alongside of Andy, but he had shook his head and continued to walk. His nerves had settled down only a few minutes ago. Until then he had been reliving the incident repeatedly.
His first suspicions had fallen on Testler. It had been proven time and time again that every agent had his or her price. For some it was money; others, travel; still others, the promise of enduring notoriety.
Of course, Testler could argue that he had tried to rescue Andy, but that could also be seen as nothing more than a ruse to establish Testler’s innocence, in hopes that if the attack failed—as it had—then the same bait might be used again. And perhaps the second time, the fish would be caught.
The alternative scenario involved either a phone tap—unlikely given the precautions taken—or surveillance. For Andy, this meant avoiding the hotel. To him, drug darts were almost more frightening than bullets because they were used rarely, and only when the opposition intended to try to turn or double an agent. Of all his fears, captivity and torture were the most grave.
The only other situation he could construct to account for the two men at the park was that Testler had been either bugged or followed. But he refused to believe that either the KGB, GRU, or most certainly, the Bulgarian DS, was capable of such long-range planning and foresight.
Then his refusal to believe changed to doubt; his doubt fizzled away, and he didn’t know what to think.
So he went back to thinking about Mari… and whether he should or shouldn’t.
An all-night gas station had a pay phone and a directory with its pages still intact. She was listed in the city’s white pages under M. J. Dansforth. He dialed her apartment, but no one answered. So he decided to walk to the address and make his decision then and there….
He walked beneath the overpass, a cobweb of highways to his right and left, Wayne State University trapped between. By all calculations, he was in his sixth mile and had not far to go. The highway noise was deafening and proved that not everyone was asleep. He passed signs for the Edsel Ford Freeway and the Chrysler Freeway and the John Lodge Freeway and the Detroit Industrial Freeway, all within the same two blocks. The motor city was living up to its name.
Then, for some reason, he started thinking about that night again.
She was posed on the other side of the chessboard at his house, wrapped in his seersucker robe, her leg bent and cast over the arm of the chair.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her.
She lowered her eyes. “You said that last night when we were making love. It was very nice.”
She moved a chess piece, but Andy didn’t see. She had triggered some vivid images.
God, could she make love.
“Your move,” he explained gently, not wanting to rush her.
She laughed. “I already moved.” She pointed to a pawn. “Here, from here.”
Andy slid a bishop across the board and knew her next move would take a while.
He watched her study the board, watched her ankle rocking back and forth, watched the muscles of her leg flex. A deep black voice sang from the room’s speakers, “This must be love!”
He excused himself and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, a red ribbon protruded from his pocket. He stoked the fire. She looked up from the chessboard and, upon seeing the gift, exclaimed, “Andy!”
“From Andy to Mari. All my love.” He handed her the package.
“‘Can’t buy me love,’ Drew,” she said, using his nickname and quoting the Beatles.
“I’ve been a distant stranger lately.” He paused, because her ankle stopped rocking and broke his thought.
“Guilty.” She attempted a forgiving smile, but failed.
He then admitted reservedly, “Duncan, again. I apologize.”
“Accepted.” And now her smile sparkled. She thought, You see. I’m learning. She told him, “I’m going to open this in bed. Enough of this game. Hurry up.” She pulled herself up out of the chair, the falling robe robbing Andy of a glimpse of her leg, and left.
“Andy?” she inquired from the bedroom.
As a lover, Mari was neither innocent nor ignorant. She was experienced, mature, and passionate. Just her tone of voice excited him.
He ducked through the doorway into the bedroom. She was snug in bed, moonlight etching the blankets through the delicate drapes. She managed to get the top off the tiny box, and then lifted the cotton out. “Andy…” she gasped, seeing the ring.
“This one’s for fun… but maybe one of these days—”
“Shhh, no promises, Andy. Remember?” She reached for his hand. “Only hopes.” She took his hand and buried it in kisses. “Gifts or no gifts, I do love you.”
Andy smelled the cognac on her breath and wondered how much she had had to drink. He could never quite tell.
She lay propped against a pillow, toying with the ring, which was now on her finger. She said, “A diamond and two small emeralds. That’s good luck, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Yes, well, it is. It’s a very nice present.”
“You’re the one, Mari. For me, you’re it.”
She teased, “What is this? A game of tag?”
“Could be,” he replied, crawling onto the bed.
She softly touched his forehead. “There. I tagged you. You’re it now. Why don’t you climb in here and tag me back?”
He took off his clothes, slipped between the covers, and pulled against her warm body. He touched her where she liked to be touched, and kissed her where she liked to be kissed, and before long she began to purr happiness.
Mari liked to be kissed.
Then she moved beneath him like a gentle wave; and for a few wonderful minutes he knew the true meaning of bliss.
Later she said, “You know, Andy. I’ve told you about Vassar and my aff—”
“Weakness for foreign tongues… no pun intended.”
“You’re cruel,” she moaned, about his reference to the Dean of Languages and a love affair that had nearly cost her her certificate of graduation. “And I’ve told you about my fascination with power—”
“With Washington.”
“Same thing. And my father and I… and all of that.”
“And that he saved your sheepskin by making a generous contribution.”
“That was money.”
“That was power. It was also an act
of love. You overlook those things with him, Mari. That’s not healthy.”
“You’re lecturing.”
“You’re right.”
“All this time together, and I still don’t know a damn thing about one of the most important people in your life. Now’s your chance. Tell me about him.”
He lay back, discontented. “Listen, sometime I’ll fill in the details. I loved the man, Mari. He’s dead. That’s enough.”
“Not for me.”
He thought for a moment. Lines creased his forehead. “Okay.” He resigned himself. “You ever have someone swear you to secrecy as a kid?”
“My brother Ryan did once. He had bought a switchblade in the city and made me promise not to tell.”
“Good enough. You must keep this to yourself. It’s illegal for me to talk about it.”
“Illegal. That tends toward the dramatic, Andy.”
She obviously wanted to keep this light. But for Andy the weight was apparent, even in the expression on his face. His voice was low. “Duncan and I each did two tours in Vietnam. In ’72 we were recruited to Army Intelligence. Shortly thereafter we were recruited by the Federal Government.”
She chuckled nervously, a forced laugh that he paid no attention to. “You’re with the FBI?”
“Sort of.”
“The CIA?”
“Sort of.” After waiting for her to say something, he said, “You’re angry.”
She looked at him curiously.
“I couldn’t tell you,” he said defensively.
“I’m not mad at you.” She blinked. “Surprised, is more like it.”
“We worked together for years.”
“Spies?”
“Sort of.”
“Jesus Christ, Andy. You’re a spy?”
He smiled at her. “I can’t tell you exact details…. I became seriously ill while on an assignment in…” He caught himself. “Anyway… I had a rendezvous all set up. We were trying to capture a top Bul—a top agent. Since I was sick, Duncan took the assignment for me.
“He left at eight o’clock on a balmy September evening when the Mediterranean looked like a piece of molten turquoise. I remember he made some joke as he stood by the door. Something about me arranging it all….” A lump of clay the size of a tennis ball lodged in Andy’s throat. He gave himself a moment to digest it before continuing. “I remember sensing the operation had soured—as we call it. I told him that, and he scoffed at me: ‘Enough of your profound intuition. That’s called a fever.’ He smiled and left.”
Mari began to cry, and hated herself for it. “And he never came back?” she asked.
“It should have been me, Mari.”
“That’s not right to say.”
“Still, it should have been me.”
She sobbed quietly for a few minutes and then collected herself and adjourned to the bathroom. Annoyed that she had allowed herself to come unglued, she turned and said spitefully, “You can’t live in the past, Drew. That’s what you always say to me. Jesus Christ! I don’t believe this!”
***
“I don’t believe this.” She was standing above him. He was shivering on a street bench facing her apartment building, which was large and intimidating in the pale night sky.
12:45 A.M.
She was wearing tight blue jeans, small spiked heels, and a tweed English riding jacket. Her blouse was white cotton, and since the jacket was only buttoned in the middle, he assumed she was cold.
“Hello.”
“Hello, yourself,” she returned, pulling her arms around herself to fight off the cold and her swelling anxiety. “You look horrible.”
“Thank you. You look wonderful.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
“Well, what are you doing?” she asked nervously.
“Waiting here for you.”
“Why didn’t you wait inside, in the lobby?”
“To be honest… I wanted to see if you came home alone or not. I wanted to think.”
She nodded, all knowing. “I’m alone.” She paused. “Have you thought?”
“I’ve thought.”
“So. Let’s go inside. I’ll fix you some tea.”
He stood slowly, his bones creaking, and she reached out and hugged him strongly. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, and wondered how all this time between them could suddenly disappear. He heard her sniffle.
Neither wanted to let the other go, but the embrace was over quickly. Stepping back, Mari said, “I’ve never forgiven you for not calling. I left so many messages…”
“I know…”
***
He and Mari had been dining in a small Italian restaurant in Georgetown, watching the parade of summer people through the window. The two of them, at a small table covered with a red-checked tablecloth and glowing mock-kerosene lamp, had sat beneath a hanging Boston fern, neither talking, a good bottle of Chianti nearly empty.
Mari was beginning to slur her words. Again.
It had been another long, hot day in the city and she was tired and on edge. Andy had fiddled with his butter knife, tapping time to a melody only he could hear.
“Are we spending too much time together?” he had asked sincerely.
Mari, snapping out of her dull trance, had taken a moment to answer. “Oh… no. I don’t think so.” Then she had looked at him strangely. “Why do you ask that?”
“We seem to have run out of things to say to each other. You look kind of bothered. Or is it bored?”
“Me? No. Not at all. I was just… thinking… that’s all.” Then, she said truthfully, “It’s one of the things I like about you and me, Andy… silence isn’t anxious.” She had wiggled her finger at him, as if lecturing. “So talk.”
Why do I take things so seriously? he had wondered. Why, when Mari’s gift is spontaneous comedy? Is it because of Duncan? Or am I just using him?
She had said, “I’m supposed to be afraid of scaring you off… and I guess I am. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I see we’re getting down to the fine print,” he had complained, leading her into it, yet wishing to avoid it.
“You’re damn right we are,” she had blurted. “I’m in love with you, mister! You may not like the idea, but that’s the way it is! What are your dreams?”
Then she was crying. Others in the restaurant were staring.
“I don’t have dreams, Mari. I still have nightmares. I think you’re tired.”
“Damn you! That doesn’t count as an answer. That doesn’t come close.”
A stubby little man with a white apron wrapped around his waist had delivered two steaming plates heaped with fresh pasta, and had cleared away the empty bowls. He had looked at the two of them sheepishly, attempting to excuse his presence.
“Mari, you’re a prize. You know that’s how I feel. But commitment is another thing.”
“Oh, we’re not committed, is that it?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I can’t believe you, Andy!”
“Mari, you don’t have to make this into a—”
“Big deal?”
He had closed his eyes, thinking, Oh shit, here it comes.
“This is not a big deal?” She finished her Chianti in three swallows and spat at him with her eyes.
“Mari. You’ve had too much to drink.”
Then she had stood up, forcing the chair back all at once, and had wavered upon outstretched arms while leaning over the table toward him, her face made grotesque by the lamp’s yellow light and harsh shadows. “Bastard!” she had hissed. “That’s a cheap shot, mister. You just lost your screw for tonight. That’s all you keep me around for anyway.”
“Mari!” he had interrupted. “It’s however you want to make it.”
“I don’t want to ‘make it,’” she had snickered, thinking herself clever. “No thanks, professor. Good night.”
Andy had sighed.
To his surprise, she had walked o
ut without so much as a glance, and had melted into the teeming masses. He had picked her up at work, so he knew where she was headed. She would take a cab back to her office building and drive the three blocks home. He knew her well enough not to worry about her driving the three blocks; and though he had been tempted to try to catch up with her, he had left her alone.
Instead, Andy had dragged his fingers across the packets of sugar, absorbed in the sputtering sound.
Then he had turned over the check.
***
Stupid idiot! he agonized. Don’t fuck this one up.
He had driven to the Potomac’s Oxford Club Boathouse. If he had been by the ocean, he would have stood in the waves. If he had been alone in the woods, he might have shouted. Instead, he had inserted his copy of the club key into the door, and had let himself in.
***
On the other side of town, Mari’s evening had taken its own course. She had made the short drive safely, but then had left her keys in her purse. She had left her purse in the car. And she had locked the car. It was a Volvo wagon—dark blue—and she had been in no condition to challenge its locks.
So she had rung Mike Gannett’s apartment.
Mike Gannett had challenged the Volvo and had retrieved her purse and keys.
Mike Gannett had been invited in for a thank-you drink.
Mike Gannett had made a pass. And Mari had been only too willing.
***
That was when Andy had taken his first pull on the twin oars and felt the scull shoot forward, watching the dock of the boathouse lift and fall, lift and fall, the low wake lapping at its floats. Stroke, stroke, stroke: he assumed a cadence of heartbeats, counting five and pulling. Five and pulling. The cadence quickened, until he pulled for a final time and tucked away the oars like a bird tucking away its wings at landing.
The needle slid along the mirror, and the moon rose in the sky.
He had showered and toweled off and changed back into his clothes.
He had driven back to apologize, or to try to.
He had used the key she had given him.
He had switched on the bedroom light.
And there they were.
1:00 A.M.
Her apartment was on the seventeenth floor. Its living room was spacious, the walls covered with colorful modern art. It was comfortable: thick shag rug, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a piece of the city as well as Lake St. Clair, powder blue couch, and a mahogany coffee table with mahogany legs.
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