Death in the Face

by Craig McDonald

  Hector said softly to his fellow author, “Aren’t you the one who always says it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive?”

  Ian waved that away. “Just a turn of phrase. And, anyway, that one is hardly original to me, dear boy. It’s just received wisdom, and you know what a slippery and disappointing slope that sort of thing can be. Better that we learn by doing, experiencing. Humans are sensory creatures, and none of them more so than the writing kind.”

  2 / Company Man

  Three more days of bone-tiring but distinctly Ian Fleming-style, idiosyncratic sightseeing had passed and their next promised stop was the one that had originally brought Hector to Japan—Beppu, where he might finally lay hands on Brinke’s writing.

  And now, so much more hung in the balance regarding that visit.

  The nearer they came to the place, the more intense Hector’s dreams of Brinke became—alternately erotic and emotionally wrenching.

  It was almost as if Brinke had nocturnally insinuated herself back into his life as a real and living presence, but one only available to him in dreams. There they shared delicious bouts in bed followed by long, lingering meals and deep conversations, his imagination providing all-too realistic Brinke Devlin-style banter and cutting—though always charmingly put—insights that left him awakening to the daily piercing reality of her terrible absence from his waking life.

  Every night he had her again in his life; every morning he freshly mourned Brinke’s loss.

  He supposed he was therefore coming to savor that nocturnal contact—far preferring time with this delectable succubus to the strange tourist life and dirty intrigue that bedeviled him by day as he moved through Japan with Ian and company.

  At some point, Hector realized he was beginning to eye bottles of sleeping pills with intent.

  Even now, Ian and his journalist buddies were off to some strange new destination, something about a training camp for something called Ninja.

  Hector had begged off from this “gallivant,” as Ian termed it, opting instead to spend some time alone in the bar with tea that was a damp echo of his preferred but unavailable coffee made to his Cuban-strong specifications. At least he still had a notebook and a pen.

  He’d neglected his own writing for too long, a dangerous thing because it too easily could become a habit to procrastinate in the forging of the prose that paid for his maverick lifestyle.

  Looking up from his notebook as he searched his mind for the right next word to describe a pretty Asian young woman he was writing into his current story, Hector saw that a man was making his way across the bar.

  The stranger was a Westerner. He was also tall, with darkish, gray-flecked hair.

  That suit and something in the man’s bearing made Hector think, CIA.

  Hector once again caught his hand drifting under his suit jacket toward his gun, because, after all, he could be wrong.

  A wave and a smile. From several feet away, the man—evidently for the benefit of the room and maybe to stay that tellingly straying hand—called out, “Mr. Lassiter, I thought I recognized you! Sam Denkins—you know from Columbia Pictures? We met last April at that wrap party in the Pacific Dining Car?”

  Hector grinned and played along, calling out, “Good ol’ Sam! It’s indeed a small world, after all.” He put out a big hand for a hearty shake and bicep squeeze, then gestured the stranger should join him.

  The man pulled up a chair as Hector closed his notebook and slipped his fountain pen in his sport jacket’s pocket. He checked his deadly Rolex for the time—making sure Ian and the others weren’t apt to return anytime soon. He said softly, “Tell me this much, up front. Is Denkins really your name?”

  “Of course not,” the stranger said softly back. “You know the drill. Frankly, after what you and Prescott Bush pulled in 1958 in Nashville, the Central Intelligence Agency is exceptionally wary of you and your allegiances, even now. You’re regarded as some sort of a rogue male to the present administration. As you’ve figured out by now, I’m Company—CIA. I’m not, however, authorized to give you my name, only to tell you there will be terrible repercussions for you if you do not cheerfully and immediately turn over the microfilm in question if it comes into your possession. Your Limey friend Mr. Fleming aside, the Pacific is Uncle Sam’s province these days. It is not a field of operation for the Brits or their fucked-up intelligence services.”

  Perfect. Another threat, from another interested party.

  Hector smiled ruefully and rapped his knuckles on the countertop. His Japanese neighbors looked over, mildly shocked by the sudden noise, though apparently not surprised at its source. Almost as one, they turned and lowered their heads, forcing attention back to drinks and plates.

  Rubbing his jaw, then getting a cigarette started, Hector said, low and mean, “Starting off with threats is no way to treat a so-called rogue male, Agent. You must know that. And, anyway, I’ve got others threatening me, too. You’re far from first in line on that front, old pal.” A meaner smile. “You’re far from the scariest, either. Unlike some civilians back home, the acronyms FBI and CIA don’t give me the same sort of butterflies they might engender in just any old American rube.”

  The agent nodded. “Point taken. You’ve got quite a history, as we’ve both acknowledged. We tapped the phone call at the hotel several days ago. We heard that nasty exchange with the Hungarian. Rest assured, we already have Mr. Hanrahan and Miss Vicente under top-level surveillance. They’re unwittingly safe, and we’ll keep ’em that way. That I promise you.”

  Still more wonderful news.

  On his dullest day, Jimmy Hanrahan was sharp enough to spot a tail and so would probably be left paranoid and angry regarding the mystery of who was suddenly shadowing him this time.

  And Alicia? If she somehow tumbled to the fact Hector could still cast a dark shadow of intrigue and menace over her and her children—and that he could somehow do that even across the expanse of the Pacific Ocean? Well, that certainly wouldn’t do anything to help his dearly held hope of one day winning her back into his life.

  The Company Man smiled and held up his hands. “You’re right. None of this hardboiled stuff is the way to go for two like us. Instinctively I knew that, and even made the very argument to my bosses.” He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward confidentially. “I promise you again, we won’t fail in protecting your friends. And against orders, I will tell you my name is Scott Bollard. I’m Agency since fifty-six. I’ve studied your file and read many of your novels. I suppose you might describe me as a fan in every sense.”

  Hector supposed they’d see about those assertions, too, in time. For now he said, “Last time I checked, we’re allies with the British. The CIA and SIS are particularly cozy. We and the Brits have that so-called, ‘Special Relationship,’ after all, right? Why not just let them get it via Ian and share in the dirty, deadly wealth?”

  Agent Bollard shifted in his chair and looked around. “Come on, Hec—you read the newspapers. I’m sure given his past efforts for his government—and his lingering intelligence ties—Mr. Fleming has opined to you on troubling matters over there. He probably tried to alibi or to gloss them. The fact is, we simply don’t trust the British with something as devastating as the Flea Bomb. From where we sit, British SIS seems to be a sieve of classified information, most of it flowing straight to the damned Russians. These recent defections—Burgess and Maclean—are obviously alarming. And, confidentially, we believe there are more defections or at least further un-coverings of significant KGB moles in the SIS to come in the very near days ahead. Hell, please don’t get your back up about this Mr. Lassiter, because she’s certainly a dish, but they didn’t even realize what they had hiding in their midst in the person of your rather traitorous recent bedmate, Miss Branch. With all of that taken together, you have to agree the British don’t inspire much in the way of confidence any more. That Empire is over.”

  Mention of Haven got Hector’s mind going on something else. “
About Miss Branch—do you think she killed that man on the plane?”

  “Hell, we’re fairly certain she did.”

  Hector noted Scott was clinching his fists as he confirmed that grim fact. “I’m going to guess your next question and tell you flat out that Terrence Hunt was Agency. I knew him. He was okay. If that bitch killed him, and if I ever get a shot at her?”

  “I’d been told by someone that Hunt was actually named Sebastian Keene and that he belonged to something called the Black Dragon Club,” Hector said.

  Agent Bollard scoffed. “I’m guessing you were told that by either Haven Branch—for obvious reasons to build mistrust in Hunt, and by extension with the Agency—or by Mr. Hiroshi Takahashi.”

  “The latter,” Hector said, deciding to play ball on that point. “Tell me, Scott—and please, going forward, it’s ‘Hector’, okay?—was Hiroshi what he claimed to be? Some arm of Japanese security or the like?”

  “Debatable,” Scott said. “We think he was double. Either way, I think Branch was complicit in his murder, too—chiefly by assassinating his assassin in order to gain trust and face with you and Mr. Fleming.”

  “Maybe,” Hector said. “Either way, you seem to know nearly everything, Agent.”

  “We have eyes and ears same as everywhere,” he said, shrugging.

  Hector thought, If I had a nickel. . .

  Scott said, “Will you cooperate? Can I trust you to do the patriotic thing, to do the right thing, Mr. Lassiter? I’ve studied your file, as I’ve said. You’re not the usual leftist one finds when one scratches an author of the typical Hollywood ilk. You’re actually said to be pretty conservative in your politics and outlook.”

  “I’ve got no politics, but you know the threat to my friends,” Hector said.

  “And we’re protecting them, just as I’ve told you. Top talent is on the case. You have to trust we will do whatever is needed to keep ’em safe. We’ll do that just as ruthlessly and effectively as proven necessary.”

  “I’ll think hard on it,” Hector said. He held up a hand and said, “Please don’t press more than you have—I already lean your way, of course. Better us than them makes sense. It’s just very. . .well, it’s complicated. I’ll be hurting a dear friend’s feelings if I deny his government this damned thing. Please, try to understand.”

  Scott smiled and nodded. “The threat to your friends back home aside, I also get that you don’t want to offend your British friend. Mr. Fleming is archly patriotic—as much as I think you are—only he makes no pretenses to the contrary. It comes across in his novels in an almost poignant way—this stubborn refusal to see the sun has long ago set on the British Empire. Of course I understand the place you speak from, Mr. Lassiter. But you need to understand my position, too. The stakes are unimaginably high. If the Russians somehow were to lay hands on the Flea Bomb, and if they turned it loose in Iowa, or Ohio. . . Maybe even in New Mexico? Then it’s all over, and for all time.”

  Maybe he really did see Hector’s end of things. And anyway, the American spy earned points for his use of “poignant.” Hector shook his hand and said, “So I’ll just trust that all of your eyes and ears will keep you on the page going forward?”

  “Sure, trust in that. But also, just in a pinch. . .” The Company Man reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a small, reel-to-reel micro-recorder. It was the smallest tape recorder Hector had ever seen: not much bigger than a pack of Maverick playing cards.

  “State of the art device,” Scott said proudly, “and plausible for a writer to carry. You know, for voice memos and the like. But it’s also a two-way radio. I’m at the other end, always. It’s encrypted, so it won’t accidently come across on some taxi driver’s dispatching radio. There’s no danger of local cops accidently tapping in.”

  Scott spent about five minutes showing Hector how to use the thing—both as a tape recorder and as a communication device—then said, “Do you need a gun?”

  “The British have already provided me with a Walther PPK,” Hector said.

  A sad smile. “Those goddamn sentimentalists. So they gave you James Bond’s current gun, in other words. Jesus Christ.”

  The CIA looked around, then reached into his other coat pocket and slid something heavy and wrapped in handkerchief across the table. Hector could feel what it was, of course, if not what type of firearm, exactly. He quickly put it in his pocket.

  “Never can have too many rods in a situation like the one you’re in,” Scott said. “That’s a Smith & Wesson Model 36. It’s what the Secret Service uses. Better our gun than that German trash. It’s already loaded and has no registration numbers. I’ll have additional ammunition sent up to your room. It’ll arrive in a hollowed-out edition of The King James version of the Bible. No snoopy Buddhist housekeeper will dare touch that tome.”

  Hector thought that over—at least the British had also provided a holster. And his gifted Rolex watch was growing on him—definitely a far-sight better than his battered old Timex. He felt a bit short-changed by his own spooks.

  The two men shook hands and Hector settled up. His mind was of course going in new directions now, so his writing time was clearly well and truly over.

  His new gun weighing heavily in his coat pocket, Hector went upstairs where he treated himself to a hot shower, then took a restless nap. That resulted in another imagined tangle of arms and legs with Brinke.

  There came a not-asked-for nor even particularly useful offered insight as dream Brinke rested her damp cheek above his racing heart and ran fingernails through his graying chest hair.

  She smiled and said, “Don’t look so gloomy, darling. After all, by definition, betrayal is only possible where first there is actual love.”

  ***

  About four, Ian, Dikko and Tiger returned. The quartet gathered in Dikko’s bathroom this time, the taps turned full up again.

  Ian was clutching a book of English translations of Basho’s poetry. He said, “Bashing up on some of this, so to speak. Tell me, Hector—writer to writer—does this speak to you?” Ian then read:

  “Tired of cherry,

  Tired of this whole world,

  I sit facing muddy sake

  And black rice.”

  “I’m afraid it really doesn’t,” Hector said to Ian. “Speaking of poets, we’ve been wandering Japan for a week and then some. When do we cross paths with our old friend Mitsuharu Kaneko?”

  “Fear we’re still trying to come to an accord there,” Ian said, pocketing his book of Basho’s works. “I’d far rather do it sooner than later, and I expect you feel the same, of course. But Mr. Kaneko is concerned about the violence that’s become attached to our quest—most particularly to you, my dear Hector. That exploding leg did terrible damage to all trust. These headlines are chipping away at our poet’s belief in our dependability to take possession of this deadly information he holds and to move it to safe and appropriate hands. For the moment, our poet’s playing very hard to get.”

  Ian hesitated. “There’s something else I must confide now. Our poet friend has taken possession of Miss Devlin’s things you came to collect. Evidently that happened some many days ago.”

  Hector was seething. “How long have you known about that?”

  “Just an hour or so.” Ian sighed. “I don’t know the poet’s motives for doing that Hector. I see you’re furious and I share your feelings. This is all getting very muddy and messy.”

  “Terrific,” Hector said. “Just wonderful. So what comes next while we wait for this poet to presumably find some fresh trust in us and to give me what is mine—I mean Brinke’s writings, of course.”

  “He’s to ring us up again tonight,” Ian said, “In the meantime, I think it’s appropriate to at last check out our Hungarian friend’s health farm. Hearing no objections, we should do that first thing in the morning, I think. Are you game, Hector? Death respects a disdainful eye, yes?”

  3 / Here’s Mud in Your Eye

  Sitting in the back of a
cab with Ian—Dikko and Tiger were in their own hack trailing somewhere behind—Hector said softly, “So, this new Bond you’re over here to research—I’m hearing rumblings you mean to kill Bond at the end?”

  Ian shot him a look. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then said, “Old friends have clearly been talking out of school. Besides, you’re the man who killed Heath Dirk—killed him quite unequivocally and outright, as I recall, and with no possibility for reprieve or resurrection ala Mr Conan Doyle’s Sherlock. Hell, even the poor protagonist of your first novel, Rhapsody in Black? My God, what you did to that poor chap, leaving him to fall into a lingering darkness? You’ve never been shy about leaving your heroes bloody and desolate. Or even dead. No sentimentalist, Mr. Hector Lassiter.”

  Ian sniffed and said, “And, anyway, I can hardly kill the infernal goose just as he’s starting to at last produce his golden eggs, can I? Ann, ironically and especially now, wouldn’t have that either, not a bit of it. Kill James Bond? No, what I see is something more Doylean, more Sherlockian by design. Something closer to The Final Problem leading to The Empty House, so to speak.”

  Hector tried to make sense of all that. He said, “You’ve always had a knack for titles, Ian. I’ve always envied you that. What’s this one to be called?”

  Ian smiled and said, “You Only Live Twice. It’s taken from a humble, left-of-the-mark haiku I attempted a time back. Got the syllable count all wrong, but I do still love the phrasing and the sentiment. Goes like this: ‘You only live twice. Once when you’re born and once when you look death in the face.’”

  Yes, Hector thought, his British peer certainly did have a way with his titles. He said—and meant it, “That’s pretty damned wonderful, Ian.”