by John Boyd
“Congratulations, counselor. It was a cogent, powerful, and spontaneous plea you made.”
“I was up all night getting the spontaneity, but it was useless… useless.”
His voice trailed into silence. As he gathered his papers to place in his briefcase, his usual crisp movements were slow and uncertain.
“What makes you think it was useless?”
“Norcross is going back to Washington to persuade the Joint Chiefs to persuade the President to throw the petition back to the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy. They’ll hold a hearing and you’ll be subpoenaed.”
“Why me?”
“You know where the vehicle is. He wants you under oath and testifying, figuring your patriotism and desire to save your own hide will force you to locate the vehicle. Then he’ll get his technicians aboard to try and figure out how Kyra landed undetected.”
“Where is that man’s compassion?”
“Compassion is not his responsibility. The Norad air space is.”
“How long will this delay Kyra’s petition?”
“Another week or ten days if I can head off Norcross. Forever if I can’t. But I foresaw the general’s move and reserved a flight to Washington. Now the infighting begins.”
Cohen was preoccupied. Slowly he buckled the straps of his briefcase as Breedlove, his mind in a turmoil, blurted out, “How did you know the Israeli agent Ajax was dead?”
“Slade told me last night when he and Turpin were briefing me on the religious and security angles to cover.” He straightened, squared his shoulders, and stuck out his hand. “I’m off to Washington. If I lose this one we all lose, so pray to Jesus that I win.”
He turned and strode from the hearing room. Listening to the determined fall of his footsteps, Breedlove was encouraged, but Cohen’s parting request disturbed him. When a Jewish lawyer asked for a Christian’s prayers, the situation had to be critical.
Remaining apart from the well-wishers around Kyra from the fear that his gloom might infect their joy, he overheard Slade suggest that they all take lunch at the Mandarin Palace again, to celebrate, and he heard Kyra agree. She liked Chinese food. This morning he had hoped to lunch with her without her attendants, but now he was glad he would not be alone with her, for she was intuitive and would inquire about his pessimism. With others demanding her attention, the group would remain happily unaware of the impending crisis.
Still, the conversation might get strained. Yesterday he and Slade had argued heatedly over the ring Breedlove had tossed into the basket. It cost $12,000, Slade claimed. But the ring, which had been retrieved, was not the issue. Privacy was the issue. Breedlove had refused to let Slade “wire” him.
When Kyra finally managed to detach herself from the throng, Commissioner Hunsaker walked with them to the elevator, and Breedlove dropped back to give her charms operating room. He found himself walking beside Slade and without thinking said to him, “You didn’t tell me Ajax was dead.”
“You haven’t been speaking to me.”
“That’s your fault.”
“Breedlove, I’m buying lunch. Is it a truce?”
“If you’ll tell me the truth about Ajax. Did you have him murdered?”
“We never murder anyone. We terminate them with extreme prejudice. Ajax died a natural death, and I’ll prove it to you as soon as we get to the restaurant.”
Kyra and her four guardsmen entered the Mandarin Palace from the parking lot. After they were assigned a booth, Slade sent Turpin out to get a newspaper. Without looking at the menu, Kyra said, “There are five of us, and if we all take number three we’ll get almond chicken, egg foo yong, and Peking duck extra.”
“Since I’m paying the bill,” Slade said, “that’s what I’ll order, for everybody.”
The waiter had taken their order and gone when Turpin returned with a newspaper, which he had folded to a story on an inside page. He handed it to Breedlove and pointed to a mug shot with a caption headline:
PHILANTHROPIST SUCCUMBS TO HEART ATTACK
The photograph was of the man who had introduced himself to Breedlove as Abe Cohen; there was no mistaking the jowls and drooping eyes even in the light of the booth, but the story identified him as David Asherman. His list of charities was long, but it was the last paragraph that held Breedlove’s attention.
After attending a testimonial banquet given him by the Scout Masters of America last night, Mr. Asherman died in his sleep sometime this morning according to his physician.
He had died this morning, and Slade had told the real Abe Cohen of his death last night.
“Slade”—Breedlove’s voice was harsh—“your men liquidated Asherman.”
“Speaking of liquid,” Kyra said, “I’m so thirsty I’m about to burst. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Breedlove was glad she had chosen this moment to go to the restroom. He preferred not to discuss the depravity of his species in her presence, particularly not that of her own inner circle. He himself had preferred to regard these men as nothing worse than actors in a farce whose only villain was their own paranoia, but now he saw that their playacting could have lethal consequences, that their superficially attractive camaraderie bound them in a fellowship of murderous criminals. They were truly out in the cold, outside the pale of human morality.
Slade sensed his disgust and spoke to him in consoling tones. “He would have died hereafter. Our man at his testimonial dinner was an expert in heart ailments and recognized terminal symptoms. But don’t waste any sympathy on him, Breedlove. He could have murdered you without compunction, using only his feet as weapons.”
“Tell that to your audience in the goober gallery. He was personally a warm and gentle person. He could have been apprehended and held incommunicado until after Kyra was gone.”
“He could not have been apprehended under our legal system. His charities were his cover story. As far as his gentleness was concerned, Ajax was a deadly little bastard. He was a master of shalom aliel, a Hebrew martial art only the Cabalists know about, and they’re not talking. Unlike judo and kung fu, shalom aliel is not a defensive martial art, and it is designed to be fatal. The Judeans developed it to use against armored Romans, who had one vulnerable point of attack. A quick kick to the scrotum doubles the victim forward in agony and a heel to the nape of his neck finishes him off. It’s always a double-blow job, no more, no less, and your mild-mannered little man was a master of shalom aliel.”
“Which translates from the Hebrew as ‘peace forever,’ ” added the scholarly linguist, Laudermilk, “or, in the vernacular, ‘Buddy, you’ve had it.’ ”
As Breedlove fell into a simmering silence, Slade took the paper, opened it to the headlines, and exclaimed, “Hello, what’s this?”
Breedlove glanced over at the headlines:
SOVIET-ISRAEL ACCORD NEAR
“Listen to this,” Slade said, reading. “ ‘With the sudden release of two hundred and eighty long-delayed French Mystère jet fighters on order by the Israeli Air Force and hurried Russian-Israel discussions in the Kremlin, experts are predicting sudden and unusual developments in the Mideast.’
“We didn’t get to Ajax fast enough,” Turpin exploded. “The dastard sold his intelligence on Kyra to the French and Russians.”
Turpin’s use of the strong expletive indicated that he was upset, and Breedlove, himself amazed by the headlines, was shaken by the knowledge that Kyra had indeed become a pawn in a vast, international power play. The farce these actors played in was suddenly becoming a realistic drama with overtones of tragedy, not for a pedestrian secret agent but for Kyra.
“What Moscow knows, Peking will discover,” Laudermilk said.
“Huan Chung!”
The name burst from Slade’s lips, and he went visibly pale. Turning to Breedlove, he said, “Go get Kyra and take her back to the motel. Go into the restroom if you have to, and drag her off the commode, but get her out the back way, and walk naturally. I’ll be a few steps behind. Give your driver t
wo words, ‘Huan Chung.’ Now move. Turpin, take the front door. Laudermilk, pass the word and cover me. Look for sudden movements. This would be a Chinese restaurant.”
Impelled by the urgency in Slade’s voice, Breedlove moved. Entering the rear corridor, he was relieved to see Kyra emerging from the ladies’ room. Seeing him approach, she asked, “Do you have to go too, Breedlove?”
“We’re both going—out the back door. Take my arm and walk along beside me, naturally. The others are coming.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know for sure. It’s something about an Israeli agent finding out about you and telling the Russians and French, maybe the Chinese.”
When they exited into the parking, their driver was already pulling the car up to the rear exit. He opened the door and Breedlove helped Kyra in, saying, “Huan Chung.”
“The major radioed ahead,” the driver said, flipped down his sun visor, and laid a pistol concealed there on the seat beside him. It had a long barrel with a silencer. With a squeal of tires the car pulled away as Kyra asked, “Who is Huan Chung?”
“I think he’s the Chinese secret agent Fawn mentioned. Slade seems to fear him most and thinks he’s coming to get you.”
“Breedlove, is this whole planet mad or is it only Ben?”
“I thought it was only Slade, but after the headlines I saw in the newspaper I’m not sure.”
“Maybe Ben had a paper printed with the headlines. He’s tricky.”
It was an idea. As the driver stopped for a light, Breedlove glanced at a newspaper kiosk on the corner. Clipped to the side of the structure were several copies of the newspaper blazoned with the same headlines.
“Kyra, I’m afraid it’s not Slade who is crazy.”
The car radio confirmed the authenticity of the report, and there was no doubt about the anxiety it had aroused in Slade. When they arrived, sentries were patrolling the motel and grounds, and Turpin, who had raced ahead to inspect their quarters, was waiting when they entered. Only moments later Slade came in with Laudermilk and informed them he was setting Condition Able, the maximum security watch, for the motel.
Yet Slade’s self-possession was such he had considerately ordered their lunch brought from the Mandarin Palace, and it arrived only twenty minutes behind them. But by the time they sat down to eat the atmosphere here was far grimmer than it had been in the restaurant. Two men in plain-clothes stood on Kyra’s balcony holding automatic weapons at order arms. Across the patio two other armed men sat on the motel’s roof. Of a sudden the motel had become a bastion in a state of siege, and Kyra was a prisoner in a stucco tower, with nothing but a view of the opposite wall and two imitation coconut palms.
Breedlove knew there would be no dancing tonight at Pierre’s.
At lunch Kyra asked, “Ben, who is Huan Chung?”
“Little lady, he is no fit subject for polite conversation. I want to talk to you about your future on earth, which is going to be short. I’m getting you off this planet by next Friday or bust a gut.”
“I trust you implicitly, Ben, but please don’t injure your entrails.”
Kyra’s confidence dismayed Breedlove, remembering Cohen’s conversation, but he did not wish to shadow her optimism, and besides, Slade might be right. In any event, Kyra’s activities in the future, whether it was short or long, would be severely restricted. She would be confined to the motel, where all pretenses that it was a civilian establishment were being dropped. All employees, except room clerks, as a sop to the management, would be given temporary leaves and their places taken by security personnel.
Passwords would be used.
“Tonight’s password is ‘abracadabra,’ ” Slade said. “Huan Chung has trouble pronouncing an r. If the lights should go out some night and you’re challenged, answer promptly. Tonight, for instance, if a challenge is given and the answer is ‘ablacadabla,’ any security guard will know it’s Huan Chung and blast him back to the Celestial Kingdom with no questions asked.”
Kyra would take her meals in the dining room in the company of her personal bodyguard. To help make Kyra’s confinement easier, movies would be shown in the motel conference room. The motel was already equipped with a gym, a sauna, and the swimming pool. Kyra listened to the ground rules politely and attentively, but Breedlove sensed that she was displeased. He himself felt that she was being victimized by Slade’s professional paranoia.
After lunch Laudermilk invited Kyra and Turpin to a game of three-handed rummy. With a toss of his head Slade signaled Breedlove to join him on the balcony. Outside, flanked by the two immobile guards, whose eyes alone moved, sweeping the patio and opposite rooftop, the two men talked.
“A flea couldn’t hop across the pool area without my men spotting it,” Slade said. “At night they’ll have infrared snooperscopes, and I’m bringing in helicopters with heat-sensing devices that could spot a tomcat prowling a backyard fence a mile away.”
“Sounds airtight to me, Slade. My compliments.”
Slade slowly shook his head. Speaking from the corner of his mouth, he kept his voice low. “Men are gathering from the corners of the earth who can crack this nut easily and make off with the kernel. Our big advantage is that Kyra’s worth far more to them alive than dead. My guess is that all the intelligence Ajax got from you went to the French for the jets, but the Israelis may be feeding it piecemeal to the Russians to get more concessions. If the Russkies know about the people Kyra left on Jones Meadow, they might liquidate her and go after them, but they may not have enough information yet to know, as Norcross knows, that genetically Kyra’s people are harmless without her.”
Breedlove did not know it either. He was hearing confidential information from a man who suddenly seemed unaware of his low security rating. Apparently Slade was organizing his thoughts out loud, talking to himself from the corner of his mouth.
“With his amazing deductive powers Huan Chung won’t make that mistake. He’ll deduce that Kyra’s the key to the operation and come after her. Your love feast with Kyra yesterday morning at Mason’s clued me into one of his possible methods. He might enter the patio in disguise, climb the palm tree—he’s a human fly—concealing himself from the guards on the opposite roof by using the trunk. Along here he’d be beyond the peripheral vision of the balcony guards. He’d climb on up to the fronds, hang there till the time was ripe, drop to the balcony—he’s a superb gymnast—dispatch the guards with karate chops—he’s a karate master—and enter the apartment unseen.”
Slade was in error. True, the palm fronds would support a man’s weight—they had steel spines—but no one could hang there undetected by the guards on the roof across the patio. But obviously Slade, thinking out loud, was merely weighing possibilities.
“Of course he has other approaches,” Slade continued. “He could get into her room disguised as Fawn, and there you can help. When you greet Fawn each morning in the Quinault language, check her accent carefully. Now, I know how you feel about being bugged. My own opinion is that any man who is too jealous of his privacy is usually up to something he shouldn’t be, but I am concerned about Kyra’s privacy. The few days ahead are going to be trying on her, with Laudermilk casing her body and Turpin hell-bent to save her soul. They’ll tear her to pieces if she can’t get a little rest, so I’m going to lay the law down to them about their visiting privileges.”
Here Slade was showing depths of compassion Breedlove had not glimpsed before.
“I’ll have to throw the burden of the Kyra watch onto you, Breedlove. As a favor to her, I’d like for you to carry a cigarette lighter, even though you don’t smoke. This lighter is not a microphone. It’s a beeper. I’ll show you how it works.”
Slade pulled an ordinary cigarette lighter from his pocket and flicked its lever. It didn’t light, but a klaxon blasted somewhere in the building and the riflemen on the opposite roof leaped to their feet. Slade flicked the lighter again and the klaxon sounded twice. The men across the patio settled back d
own.
“That was a drill. When you sound it, it’ll not be a drill. If you hear a thump on the balcony followed by two quick thuds, don’t look. Sound the beeper. If Fawn’s accent sounds a little off, sound the beeper. We’ll not criticize you for being too quick on the trigger. Out of respect for your privacy, and Kyra’s, I’ll keep the television monitors out of your quarters if you’ll carry the beeper.”
“Of course, Slade. I’ll be glad to carry it.”
“Good, and when you sound it, I’ll know Huan Chung is here.”
“Tell me, Slade, who is this Huan Chung?”
“Who is Huan Chung?” Slade repeated the question slowly, rhetorically, his shoulders slumping forward into his storyteller’s stance. Breedlove detected a slight movement in the erstwhile immobile balcony guards. They were leaning forward to catch every word of Slade’s story.
Chapter Twelve
“Huan Chung,” Slade’s tale began, “happens to be the most fantastic character in the history of espionage. More insidious than Fu Manchu, a greater hypnotist than Doctor Lao, his symbol is the black lotus. He leaves the black lotus behind him as sort of a calling card, but it is part of his mystique never to use a cover name. Whenever he registers at a hotel, it’s always as ‘Mr. and Mrs. Huan Chung,’ for reasons I’ll soon make clear.
“His only known legitimate hobby is the practice of parlor magic, mostly sleight of hand or legerdemain, although he has perfected a less legitimate sleight of end or leger-de-derrière trick no other magician has ever duplicated. He has several other illicit hobbies, chief among them being to figure out new ways of dispatching his opponents. Mind you, I did not say ‘his enemies.’ Huan Chung kills with a creative flair, but there’s nothing personal about his artistry.
“Huan Chung was born—dropped rather—by a Commie female during the Long March. Some say his father was Chairman Mao, but he is the acknowledged son of no man. He was raised in a commune and at the age of six could recite the whole ‘Little Red Book.’ He’s such a dedicated Commie he chews ginseng root so he can pee red.
