No, I couldn't imagine.
Even as I stood in the lobby of the hotel, listening to the waves of applause cannonading, the cries of "Bravo! Bravo!" I wondered if I was doing the right thing. But there wasn't anything to wonder about, really. It was total war, and in a war many sparrows fall. Even eagles. I didn't think the brass back in Washington could ever give me a big argument about that. Not with the evidence I had.
I stationed myself just before the mammoth revolving doors of the hotel. I don't know why I did that, either. Something was bugging me. Was it the thought that I wanted to be wrong? That I could change my mind about the whole thing? All I know is that I wanted to see him before he left for the airport.
Say it isn't so, Henry.
Then he stalked from the ballroom, the doors opening before him, mobs of people with faces shining and hands clapping spewing out behind him. His massive white head towered over them. The brightness of his eyes and the darkness of his dinner clothes contrasted magically. Voices rose in excitement. The throng surged for the swinging doors that led out to the main entrance.
London policemen and civil servants cleared the way. Glaring flashbulbs popped; newsmen fired a stream of questions. Henry Hallmark smiled broadly and pushed on. The tall and powerful old man from the past. The one who wanted to change his future.
He saw me suddenly. A great change swept over his smiling face. He halted, beckoning. The crowd surging forward with him checked in headlong stride. People spilled out all around. I edged forward. Henry Hallmark extended his hand. I took it.
"Mr. Noon," he said heartily. 'I'm glad I have the chance to say good-bye."
"It's your day." I said.
"Is it? Yes, yes. I wanted to thank you for all your kindness to me and to Mrs. Hallmark—"
"How is she?" I asked pointedly.
''Fine," he lied. "She is to meet me in Paris. I'm flying out tonight. My own Cessna. I like flying—"
All about us voices volleyed back and forth, nearly drowning out his words. His big hand released its pressure on mine. For all his warmth and strength, my hand felt clammy now.
"Good-bye, Mr. Noon. Till we meet again."
"Good-bye, Mr, Hallmark."
He went on, the throng moving along with him like a rushing river. The white-haired head bobbed like a cork on a human wave. The clamoring mob thrust for the main entranceway. The hotel was in an uproar.
Henry Hallmark had begun the first phase of his flight from America. His flight from freedom. I suspected the flight would have many phases. Hallmark still had a lot of preparations to make for the grand denouement. In the meantime, he'd keep Esme safely under wraps with drugs. And when the right moment came, perhaps in a week, maybe in a month—he might even wait a year—I supposed you could pick up a newspaper and read how Esme May Cody Hallmark, wife of the great Henry, had suddenly died in her sleep. Mouths had to be closed, mouths that could say too much. Tell too much.
My mood was rotten. I took it into the bar, losing the mad hum and buzz of the mob scene that must be taking place on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Henry Hallmark entering his Cadillac, waving to his fans, the people of London. The fine smile, the magnificent head, the paterfamilias of the world.
The lounge was dark and subdued. And empty, save for a ruddy-faced bartender with a quiet voice. I ordered a dry martini. Very dry.
I looked at the watch on my wrist.
The explosive device secreted among the parachutes on the Cessna was timed to detonate precisely fifteen minutes after takeoff. That would place the aircraft over open country.
I tried to smile at my reflection in the frosted, pebbled mirror behind the stacks of bottles lining the bar.
In approximately forty-five minutes a dangerous menace to world peace would be removed. The greatest menace of all. The false face, the Pearl Harbor grin, the double-crossing father image. The great American who wanted to color it Red Chinese. Another Manchurian candidate all ready to set up shop and go into business. Henry Hallmark. Humanitarian, diplomat, statesman, and traitor.
But he would die a martyr in an exploding Cessna over the low hills of la belle France. America would mourn for him, weep for him—and would never know the Judas he had become.
It was a joke, really. A double-barreled joke. I had become the assassin, the killer of the man I had come across the world to protect. That was worth getting drunk on. Getting swacked and plastered and blotto on. I ordered another martini.
Somehow, it was better that way. Except for one thing.
How was I going to tell the Chief?
Assassins Don't Die in Bed Page 16
