Atropos

by William L. DeAndrea

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must be crazy.”

  “Somebody must,” Trotter admitted. “You have no idea what I’m talking about? This isn’t the dead body of Senator Henry Van Horn behind me on the floor? Isn’t he your father? You must understand that much of what I’m telling you.”

  Mark took a breath as if to speak, then subsided.

  Trotter smiled. “That’s right, remember the gun. The trouble with screwing a silencer onto an automatic is that you can only get off one shot at a time. You had to reset the gun to shoot the Senator again, didn’t you?”

  “You need help, Trotter.”

  “And I plan to get it. I give you credit for guts, Mark. And luck. You could use better brains. If I need help to find out what I need to find out from you, I’m going to get it. Right now, I don’t know whether to shoot you or pin a medal on you.”

  That brought a reaction. “A medal?”

  “That’s right. By killing your father here and now, you ruined a plan that Borzov—I guess you know him as Dudakov—has been nursing along since your father killed that girl.”

  “Ruined it? What the hell are you talking about? Does Regina know you’re here?”

  Trotter chuckled. “She knows a good journalist is wherever he’s supposed to be.”

  Mark was almost petulant. “You’re no journalist.”

  “I’ve got a press card.”

  Mark licked his lips. A good sign. Nerves were starting to tighten. “What did I ruin?” he demanded.

  “The plan to take the White House. Or at least to fuck up the election so bad the country would be hopelessly weakened.”

  “You’re sick, Trotter. You’re in a lot of trouble once I get out of here.”

  “I’ll worry about that after you get out of here. Bet you I won’t need more than one shot. But you still don’t get it, do you? Abweg is the deep-cover man. Abweg is the one they want in the White House. They made your father endorse Babington tonight; in a day or so, the tape leaks, the one that has the sounds of your father killing a young girl all those years ago. It’s the only way it makes sense—Borzov isn’t the type to leave a potentially dangerous tool around after he’s used it. This way, your father is destroyed, and so is Babington. Abweg promises to appoint a special prosecutor as soon as he’s in office, and similar baloney.” Trotter looked at him. “What do you think?”

  Trotter knew what he thought. He thought Borzov was a genius. He set U.S. Intelligence up to be looking for a Russian agent seeking the White House, then planned to give them the innocent Babington on a platter. If Mark hadn’t started killing audio men the Agency probably wouldn’t even have come in on this case until now.

  Mark Van Horn dropped the pose of anger and bewilderment. He raised himself up on his elbows, brought his feet up flat to the floor and spread his knees. “How did you know about the tape?” he asked.

  This was, of course, the first confirmation Trotter had that there actually was a tape. “Don’t worry about that,” Trotter said. “The only thing you have to worry about is telling me where Joe Albright is, and how to get him out of there.”

  “You’re a friend of this Albright character? He’s the black guy, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t try to stall me, Mark.”

  “You want him?”

  “Badly.”

  “What do I get out of this?”

  Without a word, Trotter kicked him in the groin. Hard. Mark wanted to scream, but he choked on it, producing something between a cough and a gurgle. His face turned red and he rolled on the floor.

  “Go ahead and scream,” Trotter told him. “Don’t hold down the noise on my account. The guard is unconscious, and Babington has undoubtedly already left the ballroom by now. Where he goes, the Secret Service goes. It’s just us, my friend.”

  Mark whined. Trotter leaned over him, grabbed his shirt and pulled him face-up again. He leaned his face close against Mark’s. The Senator’s son cowered.

  “Listen, you stupid little jerk. This isn’t a game. You don’t get to fuck around with the fate of the world because your name is Van Horn. You are in deep shit, and I hold the flush handle. You want to know what you get out of this? You get to keep your balls. If you make me happy.”

  Trotter threw him back to the floor. “Now. I’m going to ask you again. Where is Joe Albright, and how do I get him out of there?”

  There were a few rasping sobs as Mark tried to get his breath back.

  “Just one thing before you answer. You are coming with me, every step of the way, and the first time we find something that doesn’t match with what you told me, you’re going to get something that will make the kick I just gave you seem like a pleasant memory.”

  Mark told him. He gagged on the words, but he told him. Trotter was surprised that Mark hadn’t had to throw up yet—he must not have kicked him as hard as he thought he did.

  “SkyGrain, Inc. Out on Highway 41. In one of the silos. Number 16. It’s just been emptied.”

  So far, so good, Trotter thought. “How many guards?”

  “Just—just two.”

  “Names?”

  “Jeff and Ed. Jeff’s in charge.”

  “How do we get in?”

  “Flash headlights three times at the gate. Then drive to the sign that says 16, leave the car and walk.”

  “Wonderful. Can you?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Walk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, let’s find out.” Trotter grabbed Mark by the shirt again, began dragging him to his feet.

  Behind him, the door shot open.

  Trotter spun to see who it was. That was a mistake; he should have hit the floor. The figure in the doorway had a gun, and used it. A small-caliber bullet took Trotter in the right arm, stinging him like a hot needle. The silenced automatic fell from Trotter’s hand. The man in the door—Ainley Masters, Trotter thought, Jesus, how humiliating—fired twice more. One bullet took Trotter below the ribcage, the other in the chest.

  Trotter sank to his knees.

  Masters fired again. The gun made a sharp little pop, undramatic and unremarkable. This time, the bullet missed. Either that, or Trotter was past feeling it.

  No, Trotter thought. This is wrong. I’m not supposed to die now. I want to live. He wished he could figure out how he was going to manage it.

  Trotter sprawled out on the floor across the body of Senator Henry Van Horn.

  Chapter Thirteen

  AINLEY MASTERS STOOD THERE, experiencing a new sensation. He had never been shocked before, least of all by himself. If you’d asked him, he would have said he’d seen too much, been a part of too much, to be able to feel the emotion.

  He was shocked now. True, he had bought the gun, and had practiced with it. But that was mental, that was precaution. To think that he had actually had to use the gun, that he had used it successfully, that he had succeeded in killing a man, boggled the mind.

  A boggled mind, Ainley was learning, had trouble taking in details. Now an appreciation of just what he had walked into was seeping into his brain. The Senator dead. Mark threatened with death.

  “Ainley,” Mark said. His voice sounded strange. “You’re a hero!”

  “This is terrible. Are you all right?”

  Mark burst out laughing. “Not a game,” he said, and laughed harder. Hysterical, of course. Ainley thought of slapping Mark’s face, but Mark brought himself under control.

  “I’m sorry, Ainley,” he said. “Shock, I guess.” Ainley understood perfectly. “Dad’s dead,” Mark went on.

  “Who—who did I ... ?”

  “Who did you kill? Trotter. Regina Hudson’s fiancé. He was after me—Dad stepped in front of the bullet.”

  Ainley thought, at least Hank died like a Van Horn. He said, “But why would this Trotter want to—”

  “Who knows? Maybe he couldn’t stand it that I had been with his girlfriend before. I just hope he hasn’t done anything to her.�
� Mark’s face showed sober concern, but his eyes were very bright.

  “Listen, Ainley,” Mark went on. “I’ve got to go get the police. You stay here and watch things.”

  “I should handle that,” Ainley said. “It’s my job.”

  “You’ve handled this part fine, so far.” Mark bent over and picked up a gun larger than Ainley’s. He held it gingerly, by the trigger guard. “I want to get this safely in the hands of the police—it’s the gun that killed my father. It’s evidence. You just stay here and make sure nothing gets disturbed.”

  It made perfect sense, but Ainley wasn’t sure he liked it. “What if—what if he’s not really dead?”

  “Who, Trotter?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got him twice in the chest, Ainley. He’s dead. If you’re nervous about it, put another bullet or two into him.”

  Ainley shuddered.

  “You’d be perfectly justified.” Ainley closed his eyes. “Are you going to be all right?” Mark asked.

  Ainley ran his hand over his chin. “Yes. Yes, Mark, I’ll be fine. I saw the Senator leave the ballroom, go through the curtain, you know, and I wondered what he was up to, especially since it was obvious he didn’t want to be noticed. I went around to the stage door, and found the guard unconscious. So I took out my gun and came in. I heard some strange sounds, and I found that room and you—”

  “All right, Ainley. Save it for the police. I’ll be right back.”

  Mark clapped him on the shoulder, then left. Ainley still worried about him, though. As soon as he was out of sight, Mark had made a sound that was quite like laughter.

  Regina Hudson was standing in the lobby of the hotel, losing her temper by inches. The Senator’s endorsement and Babington’s appreciation of it had been over for twenty minutes now. Mark was supposed to meet her immediately after. She did not like being stood up, even by a Van Horn.

  But it was more than that, more than who Mark was or what he and Regina had been to each other (whatever that was). Most of her anger was directed at herself. She had agreed to this. She was supposed to be the publisher of the nation’s most powerful newspapers, and here she was, waiting in a hotel lobby like a blind date. Or at best, a cub reporter.

  To hell with it, she decided. Worldwatch will live without the interview. I’ll get to a pay phone, she thought, I saw one just outside the ladies’ room while the Senator was making his speech, find out where Allan is, and spend the night with him the way I spent the afternoon. I’m an executive. I hire competent people. Let them get on with it.

  She’d taken two steps in the direction of the ladies’ room when the elevator opened, and Mark Van Horn stepped out. Dammit, she thought.

  “Regina,” Mark said. He was a little breathless, and he seemed to be walking strangely, but he appeared ridiculously happy to see her. He wore no tie, and was carrying his jacket over his arm. “I’m sorry I’m late. I ran into some people.”

  Regina sighed. “Oh, it’s all right. Nice speech.”

  “What?”

  “Your father made a nice speech.”

  “He always does. He’s good at it. I suppose you want the family angle.”

  Regina smiled in spite of herself. The Van Horns probably had a gene for knowing what the press wanted and giving it to them. “Where do you want to eat? We’ll go as soon as Sean Murphy gets here. He went to check our coverage of the party. There’s a pretty good steak house down the street, I understand.”

  “Do you have a car with you?”

  “Well, yes, I do. But I don’t really want to drive anywhere, Mark—”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “—I mean we’re right in the middle of town, there must be a dozen places that ... What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Yes, you do.’”

  Regina felt something poke her in the ribs. She looked down. Mark lifted the jacket over his arm enough to show her the gun.

  “Yes, you do,” he said again.

  Mark looked at Regina as she drove. Her chin was firm; she kept her eyes on the road. The little bitch had guts. If she’d been less inhibited in her love life, they could have done great things together.

  “Take the ramp for the highway,” Mark told her. A little bit of pink tongue flicked across her upper lip. “Oh,” Mark went on. “If you’re thinking of flooring it and threatening to crack us up if I don’t get rid of the gun, go ahead and do it. You won’t live past seventy-five miles per hour. Right now, Regina, I’m a man with nothing to lose. The police and the KGB and God knows what else is after me. You are alive only because I’m betting that not even the KGB would want to monkey with the American press. Got it?”

  Mark wondered how much of that he meant. He was sure the KGB would be on his ass—all the reasons he’d postulated for their keeping him alive went out the window once you bought the idea that the Russians’ plan had been to deliver Dad to the wrong candidate, then destroy them both. And Mark did buy it. It was beautiful, it was safe, and it was nasty. It was exactly the kind of thing he might have thought of himself.

  Then why hadn’t he?

  He told himself to shut up. He couldn’t think of every goddam thing, could he? The thing he had to think of was what he was going to do now.

  “What are you going to do now?” Regina asked. The bitch had been reading his mind.

  “Shut up and drive.”

  “I mean, you’re obviously in trouble, Mark. But you can’t be in worse trouble than my mother was. Allan Trotter helped her; maybe he could help you.”

  Mark had to laugh. “I doubt it,” he said. “Trotter’s dead.”

  Regina gave a little gasp at that. She said nothing more, but her chin was trembling now. Mark derived an obscure satisfaction from watching it.

  But what am I going to do? Well, Ainley had probably gotten tired of waiting for the police by now. He was undoubtedly telling them that Trotter had killed the Senator in an attempt to get Mark. He would tell them that there might be reason to believe something bad had befallen Regina Hudson, too. And what had happened to Mark? Could Trotter have had an accomplice?

  It might not have been the best idea to plant all that for Ainley to recite—for one thing, it would make him and Regina the subject of a police search. Still, it was a good story for later.

  And all Mark could do now would be to do his best to make it stand up. He had to tie off loose ends—the girl, Albright, Jeff and Ed—then convince the cops the three men had been Trotter’s accomplices and that they’d killed Regina. If the fact that Jeff and Ed worked for Gus Pickett tainted that old bastard, too, Mark wouldn’t cry about it.

  After that, he’d show up at the police station like a good boy, yet another Van Horn hero. That would take care of the police.

  Then he’d gather up Ainley Masters and go back to the home state, to the home compound, triple the security, and stay there as many months or as many years as it took to get the KGB off his tail.

  He’d do it. The Van Horn brains, skill, and luck might have skipped his father, the poor dumb bastard, but Mark had them in full measure. Trotter had thought he was finished, but Trotter was wrong.

  Mark was beginning to realize that for Mark Van Horn, there were no defeats, only temporary setbacks. Whatever we do, it must be right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DON’T MOAN, DAMMIT! WHATEVER you do, don’t moan.

  Trotter kept telling that to himself, shouting, screaming it over and over silently in his mind. Lying there on the floor of that godforsaken dressing room without moaning was the second-hardest thing he’d ever done.

  The hardest was not reacting when Mark Van Horn casually suggested that Ainley Masters put another bullet or two into him. That wouldn’t have been a moan—it would have been a cry of rage, or a whimper.

  Sooner or later, he would have to make some kind of noise—it was inevitable. When he did, he’d also have to make a move, because Ainley Masters was still there, about three feet away from him, still holding the gun.
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br />   Trotter couldn’t see him. He’d blacked out temporarily when the third slug hit, and landed with his eyes closed. He didn’t dare open them—what if Masters was looking at him when he did? He could feel his back muscles tighten at the idea of the bullet that would crash his spine and finish the job.

  He forced himself to relax; to take shallow, almost imperceptible breaths through his nose. You’ve been trained for this, he told himself. You’ve been trained for everything. Use it.

  All right. All right.

  For starters, he was alive. That alone put him ahead of the game. Three slugs at that range, even with a little popgun like Masters’s .25, could very easily have been lethal. Mark Van Horn had been positive that they were—that branded him an amateur. All Mark’s shooting had been done with heavier guns.

  Trotter was in a lot of pain, but there was no blood in his mouth or nose.

  That meant that the bullets had missed his lungs. His right arm was killing him, he doubted if it would be any good at all; his chest felt as if he were lying face-down on rocks.

  Trotter had to make his move soon. Now. He didn’t like what he’d heard them saying about Regina. Not at all. Van Horn could use her to—

  Trotter made himself stop. He couldn’t afford to worry about that until he got out of there. He couldn’t get out of there without thinking.

  It was easy to see what was working against him—unarmed, wounded, possibly unable to move at all—either or both of the bullets that hit his torso could be lodged in his spine, in which case this entire train of thought became academic. So forget about that, too. Either he could move, or he couldn’t. He’d find out soon enough.

  All right. Assuming he could move, what did he have going for him? Two things. Surprise, for one. If Trotter could do anything at all, it was a lot more than Ainley Masters would be expecting from a dead man.

  Trotter’s other advantage was experience, or rather Ainley Masters’s lack of experience. If Masters had any idea of what he was doing, he would have sat down in that chair in front of the dressing table so that he’d be able to sight a straight line past Trotter’s (and the Senator’s) body to the hall. That way, he could correct Trotter’s condition if he showed unwelcome signs of life, and he could make sure that anybody who wanted to enter the room was a friend.