by Jerry Ahern
Hughes’s wife had died, Babcock knew. But not how. Hughes’s son and daughter-in-law were dead as well. He looked at Hughes. There had been little happiness for this man, his daughter-in-law the victim of a terrorist hijacking, his son a suicide, unable to live with it. Babcock wondered if he could have lived with it, either? But Hughes had, in his way.
Tltelma Hayes left the room, presumably to get the wine.
“Mayas well sit down before the lady chastises us,” Hughes said, gesturing toward a chair. Babcock took it. “Your friend Officer Hayes. He is innocent, of course?”
“Of course. And I finally got the evidence to prove it.”
“What did I hear you say?” Thelma Hayes said as she reentered the room, her voice brightening.
Both Hughes and Babcock stood, Hughes helping her with her chair, saying, “Allow me,” and expropriating the wine bottle and the butterfly corkscrew. “These are the best kinds of corkscrews, you know. The others were designed to Attila the Hun’s specs, I think.”
“What did you say about my husband?”
“I’ve got conclusive proof, but it wouldn’t hold up in court. Not the way I obtained it.”
“Black-bagging it, were you lad?”
Babcock shook his head violently. “No! It was worse than that. I essentially beat it out of Cleophus Butler.”
“Cleophus Butler? What’s a Cleophus Butler?”
Thelma Hayes answered. “An informant. He’s on the edge of a lot of stuff, Ernie told me. Ernie thought he might be able to help with some clue or something.”
“He helped a great deal, actually. But not willingly,” Babcock told them. He recounted for them—minus the gorier details in deference to Thelma Hayes—his experiences with Cleophus Butler in the automobile the previous night. “So, we know who took the cocaine, why Ernie was set up—”
“Then why can’t we go to the police, Lew? Ernie’s got a lot of friends on the force and—”
“Cleophus Butler could deny he ever said it, could tell a lie out of spite that would only further implicate Ernie, or could just clam up. And even if he did testify, his character is dubious and the best we’d have is something the prosecuting attorney could label as hearsay evidence, inadmissable in court. But I set something in motion that should help. I need you, Thelma, to gather up some things and let me drop you at Ernie’s sister’s place, just in case.”
“But what if Ernie calls?”
“We’ll have to risk that. If he calls and you’re not here, he’ll probably call his sister’s house anyway. I think I can predict with a fair degree of certainty what will happen if anything does, but you being here alone with the children could be tempting fate.” He looked at Hughes, Hughes’s face impassive. He knew him better than that. Hughes was simply waiting for him to reveal what was necessary to Thelma and reveal the rest later, exactly his intent. “If it goes the way I hope, we’ll have all the evidence we need by the time Ernie’s pre-trial hearing starts tomorrow. And with Mr. Hughes arriving, that’s just more help on our side, Thelma. Trust me on this.”
Hughes filled the three glasses with the red wine. “I propose a toast, if I may be so bold,” Hughes began, raising his glass. “To Officer Hayes’s vindication and the reuniting with his lovely wife and family.”
Thelma Hayes forced a smile. Lewis Babcock raised his glass. “Let’s drink to that, indeed!”
He downed his wine. Without looking at the label, he could tell it was definitely New York State….
Thomas Alyard stepped out of the shower. After his contact had left, taking the ampule with him, he had fallen asleep on the couch and slept there for several hours, having no idea of what time he had originally nodded off. Hunger had started to gnaw at him and he had investigated the larder before showering. Much as he had anticipated, it was fully stocked. Beer in the refrigerator, wine and an assortment of hard liquor under the counter and enough food for six men for a week. Alyard had no intention of finding five friends, so anticipated he was adequately stocked to ride things out for a few weeks before returning to Rome. By that time, the ampule would be safely out of harm’s way and the research necessary to duplicate its contents and therefore negate its potential strategic value would have begun.
He toweled himself dry. There was a good supply of towels and the apartment was even equipped with a washer and dryer and soap for when he ran out.
The man to whom he had given the ampule-he was consciously trying to forget his name even though it was probably anything but his real name—had assured him that despite the fact the KGB and Italian Communist sympathizers would be watching every way out of the country, he had a foolproof way to get it out safely. The man had joked that it wasn’t very fast and he didn’t relish traveling that way, but “any port in a storm,” then laughed resoundingly.
Alyard tried shrugging off the memories.
He had no robe and never slept in anything but his skin, so he took a dry bath towel and wound it around his waist kilt fashion. He picked up the gun he had been given along with a supply of money and a new set of identity papers, passport and credit cards. He had brought the gun into the bathroom with him just to be on the safe side. It was a Beretta 92F, the new American military pistol. He had used them before and, if the gun were typical, he could hit what he aimed at with it. He had given his contact the Walther PPK Stakowski had given him, wanting the gun ditched in case it could be traced to anything. He had also given his contact the remainder of his identity materials which linked him to the Swiss, Thomas Rheinhold. The thing to do, always, was to think of the loose ends.
Alyard entered the kitchen. Appalonia was a marvelous cook. But, he doubted he would starve, having cooked for himself for many years before she had come along. He began planning. For the first week, he would stay in the apartment. But he wouldn’t be a couch potato, despite the ample selection of tapes for the VCR and discs for the CD player. He’d been promising himself to get back in shape and he knew just the right sort of workouts he could employ to tone up, despite the fact there was no equipment. A knowledgable man could utilize chairs, door frames, all of that.
As he started opening cans, he started working out his schedule. Up in the mornings at eight. A good workout, then a shower, then catch up on his reading over breakfast and afterward. Another workout at—There was a knock at the door.
Thomas Alyard snatched up the Beretta and turned toward the sound, his back to the counter. He wasn’t about to answer the knock. There was supposed to be no one coming to contact him. He crossed out of the kitchen and halfway across the living room, giving his towel another tuck. He had sucked in his breath so hard when he’d heard the knock at his door that he’d almost lost it.
The knock came again. And now he could faintly hear a voice. He came closer to the door, standing beside it but not in front of it so he could hear. “… Fabrizzi. There is an important message for you, Signore Alyard.” What the hell was the apartment manager doing shouting his real name along the corridor for everyone to hear. “This is Fabrizzi. There is an important message for you, Signore Alyard. The telephone in the apartment, she don’t work.”
Alyard licked his lips. He didn’t budge.
“Here. I slide it under the door, Signore.” An envelope slipped under the door. “Good-bye, Signore.”
He waited a long time, watching the face of his wristwatch, feeling the sweat start under his armpits, spread to his palms, feeling it like a cold wash on the soles of his bare feet. He gave it a full five minutes before he bent down and reached for the envelope. As he tugged at it, there was a loud hissing sound and a grey-white cloud belched from under the crack toward his face, engulfing him. He staggered back, punching the Beretta toward the door. He felt the towel slipping again and automatically reached for it, and then …
Thomas Alyard’s head ached and he was cold. He opened his eyes and realized he was naked and lying on—the dining room table?
Three faces stared down at him. “Mr. Alyard. Don’t get up. It’ll only make the headac
he worse. My name is Ephraim Vols. I’m telling you my real name because this is very important. I’m a Major with The Committee for State Security of The Soviet. Are you thinking clearly enough to know what that means?”
Alyard thought he nodded, but when he moved his head, the pain engulfed him again and his eyes closed against it. He could hear the man’s voice—Vols?
“Get this man a blanket, Piotr, before he freezes to death, naked like this.”
“Yes, Comrade Major.”
“Vassily. See if you can find something to drink. Look in the kitchen. A nice glass of whiskey would be pleasant. And remember, after all the time I’ve spent in England, when I say whiskey I mean what you or Piotr would call scotch. Check with Piotr and see what he wants. And get something for yourself.”
Alyard opened his eyes again. The face was looming over him. “I’d offer you a drink, Mr. Alyard, but I’m not sure it would be wise to mix alcohol with so much of the residue from the gas still in your bloodstream. After we’ve gone, I’d say give yourself a few hours of sleep before you touch the stuff. Just friendly advice. Take it or leave it as you will.”
“Thanks.”
“Glad to see you can talk, at least. I’m not sure what’s in it, but we used it once before and I got a whiff of it. Bloody awful smelling and even that one sniff gave me a headache for an hour or more. Ahh, Piotr!”
Alyard had closed his eyes again, and now felt a blanket being draped over him, a draft that chilled him to the bone as it settled.
“Once you’re up to it, just let me know and we’ll help you off this table. I apologize for that, but when we let ourselves in, you were closer to the table than the couch and I wanted to make certain you still had a pulse. Problem when you go playing around with chemicals with human beings. Everyone’s so different. What will put one man to sleep might kill somebody else.”
Alyard opened his eyes again. Vols’s face was pleasant looking. He even smiled faintly, like a benign father or a physician. His eyes were a washed-out blue and he had sandy brown hair and was light complected. If this Vols fellow had worked in England for the KGB, with his speech, his manner and his appearance, he would have seemed the typical man on the street.
A shorter man-Vols was apparently on the tall side-handed Vols a tumbler and Vols sipped at it. “Decent.” Vols nodded. “KGB safe houses are usually stocked with terribly cheap liquor. I think it’s from maturing with vodka. There’s a difference from brand to brand, of course, but it’s not so noticeable as it is with whiskey or bourbon or rum. But the CIA always goes first class, doesn’t it?”
Alyard didn’t say a word.
“You’re wondering how we found you. Well, it wasn’t your fault, so relax on that. Mr. Fabrizzi has worked for us for years, usually just filling us in on who used the safe house here and the like. But this was rather on the important side. You should have heard the flap it caused on Derzhinsky Square when it was learned the Americans of all people had stolen the ampule. I mean, that’s the sort of theatrical thing one expects from the British. Right out of one of their thriller novels. Secret agents and all of that. Don’t go contemplating avenging yourself on old Fabrizzi, by the way. He’ll be long gone and out of your reach by the time we’re through talking and that headache’s worn off.”
“Not to introduce a note of discord, but you’re not getting shit out of me. And anyway, I don’t know anything.”
“Ahh, but you do, Mr. Alyard. I hate sounding so depressingly formal. Do you prefer Thomas or Tom?”
“Whatever.”
“That’s an odd diminutive for Thomas—a joke, Thomas. Feel like sitting up yet?”
Alyard started to try, fell back, felt hands catching him so he wouldn’t knock his head, at last sat up. He felt stupid, naked except for the blanket sitting in the middle of the dining room table. And he felt more vulnerable than he ever had in his life. Which was, of course, what they wanted; he knew that as surely as he knew that he was.
“Let’s get Thomas off the table and into a chair or someplace comfortable. Ahh! That reclining chair.”
Alyard felt strong hands on him, getting him into a standing position for a moment, the blanket falling away and he was naked. And then the blanket was wrapped around him and he was helped to the recliner and helped to sit. All that was missing was them tucking him in and singing him a lullaby.
He closed his eyes against the pain in his head, then opened them again. Vols was perched on the arm of the couch, holding his whiskey tumbler and staring down at him almost sympathetically.
“First up. Let me apologize for barging in like this and taking over your flat. But soon as you’ve helped us with a few details, as I mentioned before, we’ll be off packing.”
“Going far away?”
“Good—packing. No, but I may, yes, depending on how far the ampule has gone. You see, Thomas, you and I have a lot more in common than you’d suppose. I mean, certainly, we’re on opposite sides. You fight for truth, justice and the American way and all, and I fight for the slimy tentacles of Communism and repression and all that rot; but, both of us have roughly similar jobs and we’re both caught in the middle on this. Are you a friend of David Stakowski?”
Alyard didn’t respond.
“Well, in any event, we’ve packed David off to Moscow by now, I suspect. He’ll get a severe talking to and spend a few weeks in prison somewhere until this is all sorted out, but then he’ll be sent back to your people in some sort of trade. But, and this is merely personal observation, but, you might think of assigning David to more or less standard intelligence duties. He’s really not very good at this cloak and dagger sort of thing. Just a bit of advice.”
Alyard didn’t say anything.
“As I was about to say, you and I do have one thing in common. We’re trapped in the middle. I mean, you didn’t steal the ampule with the virus. And it wasn’t stolen from me. You were sent in when David botched things up on his end, and I was sent in when the security people at the facility and the Albanians botched things up on their end. We’re both rather like clean-up men or something, Thomas. I’ll find the ampule regardless, but I could use a bit of help from you. I don’t expect you to talk freely, of course. We’re both professionals. I’m going to give you a shot of some new type of truth serum just developed. It’s perfectly safe, but I don’t think it would have mixed too well with alcohol either. And if I were you, I’d turn this rather disappointing experience into something positive. The truth serum is very new and once you’ve awakened, I’d rush off to a chemist and look up getting some blood drawn before it’s completely metabolized so it can be analyzed. Could be a real coup for you and ease the career-dampening effect this might have otherwise.”
“What the hell kinda guy are you?” Alyard couldn’t help but say it.
Vols smiled, genuinely it seemed. “I’m a patriotic Soviet citizen doing my duty. Over the years, I’ve found that sadism and other mental quirks can make a chap lose sight of things. If I’d been specifically told to scorch the earth of anyone involved in this, then you’d be dead as soon as you talked. But, lucky for both of us, no such instructions were passed down. Killing you would achieve absolutely no purpose. And the last thing anyone in our business should want is more of the David Stakowskis in the ranks. Incompetents are dangerous. We both know that. Now, if you’re feeling up to it, let’s have the left arm. And don’t struggle. There are three of us and you’re not exactly in fighting form at the moment at any rate. Broken needles are unpleasant. By the way?”
“What?”
“You’re not allergic to peanut oil, are you? I understand that’s one of the components of this new truth serum. I have some of the old stuff, but that’ll only delay me and prolong things for you and the results will be the same.”
“No. I’m not allergic to anything that I know of.”
“Lucky you! I have a terrible time with evergreen pollen in the late spring. Piotr, you hold his arm. Vassily, swab that spot with alcohol first, then ad
minister the injection.” Vols took a swallow of his scotch. “And by the way, no need to worry. This is a spanking-new needle. We’ve been very cautious with that sort of thing since all this AIDS flap started. Go ahead, Piotr.”
It was like living in a nightmare where everything was so totally insane and yet it was impossible to escape. He let them give him the needle. Stakowski had caused it all with his incompetence and if he resisted, all he’d get would be a broken needle in his arm and they’d try again.
Vols asked him to count backwards from one hundred and Thomas Alyard did as he was asked. It only seemed natural….
The car’s heat was too high and Darwin Hughes reached over and turned the fan down to its lowest setting. The door opened and Lewis Babcock slipped behind the wheel. “I turned down the heat a little. It was stifling in here.”
“No. Thelma’s always been a little cold-blooded. You know?”
“Women are more sensitive to temperature changes but have greater tolerances for the extremes. Now. What have you set up, Lewis?”
“What have you set me up for?”
“You mean, why am I here? It’s a long story.” Babcock threw the car into gear. Hughes looked up at the house and waved to Mrs. Hayes, who was watching from a yellow lighted window, the drapes drawn back. “I was approached by a Brigadier General, a man named Robert Argus. He has Presidential authorization as well as authorization from House and Senate leadership on both sides of the aisle to reactivate us. The three of us. He swears up and down that what happened last time wouldn’t happen again.”
“He’s talking out of his hat.”
“Probably so, lad, but you must admit the possibilities would be intriguing.”
“Well—and I appreciate you helping out here, regardless of your motivation—but you can count me out. I’ve started setting up a practice. I’m going to start a real life.”
“I’ll tell you what, lad. Why don’t we put aside this matter until we’ve resolved the matter at hand. What’s on tap for tonight?”
