Groaning softly, he continued to eat, thinking about Alexsandra’s ring. There were two possibilities. Her friend had found not only the painting but the ring from the painting in the Rome antique store. Which, odds-wise, came out somewhere in the neighborhood of several million to one.
It was the same ring though; he felt sure of that. Or had Alexsandra inherited it? Was that her great-great (God knew how far back it might get) grandmother? What were the odds of her friend finding a painting like that? About several million to one, again.
Which meant, of course, that in some bizarre way, Alexsandra was that woman.
“Come on,” he muttered irritably. This was thinking? He almost wished he had some paper and pencils so he could immerse his thoroughly muddled brain in something simple like a large distortion equation. This kind of thinking wasn’t getting him anywhere.
He finished eating, put the cup, plate, knife, paper and jar back into the basket and set it on the floor. That was good, he thought.
He picked up the suitcase, undid the clasp and opened it.
At least something was consistent here. He looked at the contents, nodding. Clothes, again of the finest quality. A toilet case. No gun.
And medication. “Ah,” he said. A most accommodating nightmare.
As he took his tab and pill (a small bar across from him provided water to wash them down with), it occurred to him that, actually, except for Veering and what seemed to be his effects, the situation was not impossible to decipher. His work was important to the space defense program; he accepted that now. Some conspiracy was trying to damage his work in that program and he was being protected from it.
It was the mixture of that understandable conspiracy with Veering’s wager that disturbed him. It was impossible to see how there could possibly be a connection between them. If only Nelson hadn’t mentioned Veering, indicating that there was a connection.
He realized suddenly that he had made a bad assumption back at the hotel. Opening closets and bureau drawers in the bedroom, he had assumed that all of Alexsandra’s clothes had been removed. It was just as logical to assume that they had never been there in the first place.
Simple enough, then, to remove evidence of her having been in the suite. Take down the painting, wash the wine glass. Voilà. No Alexsandra.
He looked around abruptly. He hadn’t noticed before where they were headed. Now it was evident.
Out of the city.
Chris grimaced. So much for my visit to Merry Olde London, he thought. He shook his head. Guess I won’t be having lunch with Mr. Modi, he thought. He tried to find amusement in that but had some difficulty doing so, considering that he had no idea where he was being taken.
8
Suddenly, the limousine began to pick up speed, accelerating rapidly. Chris started to ask the driver why, then realized that he could not communicate with the man; a glass partition was separating them. He looked around for a speaker he could use.
There wasn’t any.
“Well, for Christ’s sake—” He began to lean forward to rap on the window when he saw the driver glancing quickly at the rearview mirror.
Twisting around, Chris looked out through the back window.
They were being followed by a black sedan.
There was no question that the sedan was following, because the faster the limousine went, the more the sedan picked up speed.
He was being chased again.
At first he couldn’t think, he felt so dumbfounded. Who’s after me now? The same people as last night?
The limousine skidded slightly as it made a curve at high speed. Chris fell to his left, then pushed himself up quickly. He looked at the driver and felt a sudden chill as he saw the man speaking into a hand microphone. He couldn’t see the driver’s face or hear his voice but his impression was that the man’s demeanor was one of total urgency. He saw the man toss aside the microphone and grab the steering wheel with both hands again. The limousine surged forward, raking around a curve with a squeal of tires.
Chris grabbed on to a strap and held himself tightly, sucked in a rasping breath of air. He looked across his shoulder and saw the black sedan still following, a little farther back now but coming on fast. Dear God, he thought. What if they catch us? What will they do to me?
He cried out, stunned, as something cracked against the back window, grazing it. Jesus God, they’re shooting at us! he thought in horror. He could see that the window was bulletproof but flung himself to the left as another loud crack hit the glass. God, he thought, you could read about something like this a thousand times and never be prepared for the terrifying impact of it actually happening.
He clung to the seat with clawing hands, his face a mask of dread. It’s real, he thought. It was all his brain could summon. Jesus God, it’s real.
Even holding on, he was unprepared for the sharp right turn the driver made and, losing his grip, tumbled sideways. Rolling, he collided with the door, gasping in pain, then scrambled to his knees. What was happening now?
He gasped again as the limousine skidded to a halt. Rising in frightened shock, he looked at the driver, then across his right shoulder as the limousine backed up suddenly, pulling behind a high hedge. Chris was flung back as the driver braked hard. He bumped his side against the seat, crying out in startled alarm.
Twisting around, he saw the driver looking toward his left. Chris shuddered as the man abruptly raised what looked like a .45 automatic, as though preparing to fire. “Jesus,” Chris muttered. He was back in the nightmare again.
Now he looked in the same direction, hearing the roar of the sedan’s engine as it sped by. Almost instantly, the sound was gone.
His gaze jumped to the driver as the man pushed out and lunged to the back door, jerking it open. “Out,” he said.
Chris stared at him dumbly.
“Come on!” the driver snarled.
Reaching in, he grabbed Chris by the arm and yanked him toward the opening. “Look out!” Chris cried.
The man paid no attention, dragging Chris from the limousine, then hauling him to his feet; the man looked afraid and furious at once. Letting go of Chris, he leaned into the limousine and jerked out the suitcase. Tossing it on the ground, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a white envelope.
He held it out to Chris, then, when Chris could only stare at him, flung the envelope on top of the suitcase.
“What am I—?” Chris started.
“Stay here till you know they’re gone,” the driver interrupted. Slamming shut the rear door of the limousine, he lunged toward the front.
“What am I supposed to—?!” Chris broke off, stunned as the driver threw himself behind the steering wheel, slammed the door shut and pulled out past the hedge and back onto the road, turning in the opposite direction from the way he’d been driving. Chris heard the big car roar away, accelerating quickly.
“God Almighty.” Chris stood motionless, unable to think. He felt bruised all over from being flung around in the back of the limo.
Now what? The man said stay here till—
He stiffened, catching his breath as he heard the sound of a car coming. He looked toward the hedge and, in a few moments, saw a dark blur speeding by. Obviously, the driver of the black sedan knew that he’d been tricked and had doubled back. If he caught the limousine now, it would only be the driver who got taken. He now knew why the man had left him behind.
Chris looked down at the envelope then; it was still on top of the suitcase. Bending over, he picked it up and tore it open at one end, slipping out what was inside.
A one-way ticket for the Hovercraft at Dover. Time: Four o’clock this afternoon.
Destination: Calais, France.
***
The Hovercraft waiting room was huge and high-ceilinged; voices of waiting passengers rang out echoingly in the large open area. The jarring sounds made Chris wince as he entered, closing the small umbrella he’d found in the suitcase.
Far across the waiting room, he saw a
food counter and some tables and chairs. His stomach rumbled; he hadn’t had a thing to eat since his modest breakfast in the limousine. Meals are certainly erratic on this adventure, he thought. He scowled. “Adventure?” he muttered.
He shrugged. Well, it was as much of an adventure as he could expect in his lifetime. He just hoped he’d see the end of it alive. If he did, he’d certainly be happy to confine all future adventures to the novels on his bedside table.
After a short hesitation, he set the suitcase and umbrella by an empty table. He’d have to assume that the suitcase would be safe; he couldn’t very well carry it and a tray of food at the same time.
As he stood in line, he wondered what would happen if the suitcase was snatched. Would they replace it again? He felt a perverse desire to deliberately lose it just to find out what would happen. The thought of aggravating “them” was vaguely satisfying. Granted, they were watching over him. Still, the hush-hush insanity of it all irritated him.
Reaching the counter, he bought some scrambled eggs, white bread and coffee. He carried the tray to the table and sat down. The suitcase was still there: Wonder of wonders, he thought. He took a sip of coffee, making a face. Yow, he thought. That’ll keep me awake for a while. Like a year.
As he ate, he reviewed his trip here.
He’d had to walk a long way, constantly on the lookout for the possibility of the black sedan coming back, before the truck had stopped to give him a ride. Fortunately, it had not begun to rain until he was riding.
At one point, as the lorry neared Dover, a helicopter had flashed by overhead. God, they’re chasing me by air now, he’d thought, actually believing it until it struck him how absurd the notion was.
Almost as absurd as his suspicion of the lorry driver had been, once the man had begun to question him about his work. It took him a good half-hour before he discarded the paranoiac fancy and spoke openly with the man, joking and laughing with him.
He started to think about Alexsandra. Would he ever see her again? It seemed unlikely, if he was going to France. Where would it all end? Who was going to meet him in Calais and where were they going to take him next? To some mountain eyrie in Switzerland where all the “replaced” mathematicians were sequestered to work on their individual projects? Now there was a really absurd notion.
Alexsandra, he thought. He visualized her face as best he could, trying to remember how she’d felt last night, her soft lips, her body against his, as they kissed. Was it really possible he’d never see her again? Was last night to be a single, isolated, golden page in his book of memories? The idea made him feel a sense of gloom as he ate eggs and bread and washed it down with the bitter coffee.
He had to force the idea out of his head; he didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he tried to summate what he’d been through. It was a need his mind had, to encapsulate all prior information.
One. Someone wanted to interfere with his work. They had tried to replace him. Now they were chasing him. To kidnap or kill him? No way of knowing.
Two. Someone was protecting him. They’d taken him from the United States. Now he was going to France. And then? No way of knowing.
Three. Veering’s wager was a part of it; how, he had no idea. It was the wild card in the hand he’d been dealt. He had to hold it with no way of knowing its value.
He took out the Hovercraft ticket and examined it. The reservation was attached to it. He’d noticed people lined up at a reservation window. His had already been made, for the four o’clock sail—or was it flight?
What would “they” have done if he hadn’t made it on time? Had the lorry driver been one of them, dispatched to pick him up after the emergency call from the limousine driver? Again, that seemed farfetched. They weren’t omnipotent, surely, couldn’t be. They couldn’t readjust for every unexpected incident, every single failure in their game plan. No, if he’d missed this sail (flight?) he’d have had to try and take the next one.
Or what? he wondered.
What would “they” do if he refused to play the game? If he went to the nearest hotel, booked a room and stayed there for a week, or so, reading? Would they find out he’d done it? Sneak into his room by night, chloroform him and pack him off to France anyway?
Shit, he thought. If he tried to calculate probability factors on what might happen, he’d need a computer.
Anyway, he had to go on. He vividly remembered the utter dread he’d experienced in the limousine when the black sedan was chasing them. He had no intention of booking a room and waiting. If “they” could find him, so could the others. He shuddered at the image of waking up in the dead of night and peering down the barrel of a pistol, just before the explosion sent a bullet into his brain.
He heard a noise outside the building and, draining his coffee cup, stood with the suitcase and walked to a window.
He was impressed. He’d seen photographs of Hovercrafts, but viewed up close, the craft made a startling sight. It looked like a rectangular building, constructed on a black foundation. On its roof were four immense propeller units painted red.
It was literally floating in off the water, jets of air bearing it slowly across the concrete landing pad—if that’s what it’s called, he thought. How could those same jets elevate it off the water? It seemed impossible.
Passengers were already clustering around the entrance doors. Chris slowly edged in among them. In spite of his apprehension, he felt a renewed sense of excitement at what was happening. The next stage of his journey (all right, hell, adventure then) was about to begin.
He visualized meeting Alexsandra again. Paris—surely he had to go to Paris. A surge of violin music. The sight of her approaching. Running toward one another like a couple in a TV commercial. The wind blowing through her hair. Coming together. Their great embrace, their lingering kiss.
Sure, thirty days. Next case, he mocked himself. She was an agent. She’d done her job. The assignment was over. She was on to something else. He’d never see her again.
“Oh, shut up,” he muttered to his cynical brain. A woman next to him glanced over, eyebrows raised. He started to apologize, then let it go.
Reaching the gate, he went outside and started across the windswept tarmac, toward the Hovercraft. It looked really huge now, like some vehicle from outer space. It was difficult to comprehend how such a giant structure could float over water. But then he still found it hard to believe that a 747 could get off the ground, even knowing the science of it.
He followed the line of passengers up a flight of steps, ascending slowly, yawning as he did. His eyelids felt a little heavy. No surprise there. He’d done a lot of walking today, not to mention the ongoing stress, continuing jet lag and many months of non-rest. Even black bilious coffee wasn’t strong enough to resist all that.
The cabin resembled that of an airliner except that the windows were rectangular and curtained in white. There were three seats on either side of the aisle, each outer seat with a yellow pad drawn down over its back, the middle seat with a white pad.
Chris stopped at a row about halfway down the cabin. The interior was so spacious that the crowd of passengers had thinned out; there was no one in the rows in front of or behind him.
Chris slid his suitcase into the overhead rack and sat in the window seat. His eyelids felt heavier now. He doubted if even the glaring overhead fluorescent light fixtures would keep him awake. Too bad, he thought. He’d enjoy watching the channel-crossing. Twenty-one miles, he recalled. Incredible that Germany hadn’t made it across in World War II. He remembered a film in which Nazis on the shoreline of France looked through a telescope at the English coast. They had been that close; it was mind-boggling.
He leaned his head back with a tired sigh, eyes closing. Just a nap, he thought.
The shuddering of the Hovercraft as the bottom jets began firing air startled him awake. He felt groggy but he did want to watch this part, anyway. He leaned in close to the window, pushing aside the curtain to see. He smiled as he felt t
he entire structure slowly rising from the tarmac. Too much, he thought.
The Hovercraft, still shuddering, began to edge slowly toward the channel. Chris looked at the water ahead. It was very rough. Would the Hovercraft be affected by that? He got motion sickness very easily. Some hero I am, he thought. High blood pressure. Motion sickness. Half-asleep. Ready for anything, folks, he thought. Bring on the bad guys. I’ll bore them to death.
Now the Hovercraft was starting to move out over the water. Chris grinned sleepily, seeing a cloud of air-blown water flaring out from underneath the lower edge of the craft. By God, the damn thing was actually floating above the water!
He chuckled to himself. Considering the intricacy of the work he did, it was amusing that the Hovercraft impressed him so. Shows you how much I get around, he thought. A helicopter ride would probably blow my mind.
Completely above the rough channel water now, the Hovercraft began to pick up speed. Well, hell, it is impressive, Chris thought. Flying across the water at a height of nine or ten feet, supported by columns of air? And moving how much faster than a boat? Five times? Chris grunted, smiling. Unbelievable, he thought.
Then his eyes would not stay open and his head slumped back. He heard the muffled roaring of the jets below. Just rest your eyes a while, he told himself. Mom always said that. He made a faint noise. Mom, he thought. He had to try and get in touch with her, let her know he was all right.
He felt his brain turning over backwards, slipping into darkness. Yet he still felt the shuddering of the Hovercraft, heard the sound of the jets. Was he asleep or awake? Or halfway in between?
He heard a voice. He thought he heard it anyway; he wasn’t sure. The voice was muttering something. He couldn’t make out the words. It wasn’t a pleasant voice. It had a harsh edge to it, a bullying quality.
Finally, he heard what it said:
“You don’t seem to know that time is of the essence,” said the voice, accusingly.
Chris winced as he felt a light slap on his left cheek. He grunted. Jesus, how could this be a dream? He’d never felt a sensation like this in a dream; had he?
7 Steps to Midnight Page 16
