“But our directive …”
“It’s my life, of course. I have an interest. But it’s yours, too. A lesson I learned the hard way.”
She looked confused. “OK, take a peek through the range finder again. Marksman C you’ll find in the really tall tree near Primrose Hill Gate.”
As he lifted the Swarovski dual scope to his eyes, parsing the foliage, Angus Fielding’s words echoed in his head. Are you so confident about your own government? Indeed, there was a certain logic there. What if Cons Ops, perhaps working with an agent-in-place on Novak’s staff, had been responsible for the assassination? Wouldn’t that help explain America’s official refusal to have any direct involvement in the operation? But then who had set him up with the sixteen million dollars? And if Cons Ops, or some other U.S. government agency, had arranged Novak’s death—why? Why was Novak seen as such a threat? This, Janson knew, was the crucial piece of the puzzle—a puzzle he had to solve not only for his own sense of justice but for his own physical survival.
His thoughts came to a halt as a crushing blow landed on the side of his head. He reeled backward, stunned, bewildered.
It was the woman. A ridged steel rod in her hand, the kind used in reinforced concrete. On one end it was wet with his own blood. She had wrenched it from the stack of construction materials behind the bunker a few feet away.
“Like the lady says, every tool is a weapon if you hold it right.” Another clout, this one just above his ear, the bar bouncing off with the sickening thud of metal against bone. The world around him seemed to waver.
“They warned us about your lies,” she growled. His vision was blurred, a red haze, but the expression on her face was unmistakable: pure immaculate loathing.
Dammit! At a time when he should have been fully vigilant, he had allowed her to lull him with her lies, her pretense of sympathy; in fact, she had merely been biding her time, awaiting an opportunity. And playing him for a fool.
Sprawled on the ground, he could hear the blood pounding in his head, like a steam engine. Groggily, he reached for the Beretta, but it was too late. She was racing away from him at top speed.
The impact of the rebar had caused a mild concussion at the least; it would take him a few minutes to struggle back to his feet. And by then, she would be gone. An enemy, an asset—gone.
He felt a wave of nausea welling from his gut, and a sense, too, of emptiness. Whom could he trust? Which sides had taken arms against him?
Which side was he on?
At this point, he could only say: his own. Could he expect allies? Did he deserve them? The sniper believed that he was guilty; would he have done anything different in her place?
He glanced at his watch, tried to rise, and blacked out.
“Annunciate radio check.”
“Annunciate, annunciate. All secure. Over.”
Vietnam was seldom quiet. Combat zones were a cascade of sounds and sights. Artillery pounded, parachute flares whistled as they illuminated the night sky like a hundred kliegs. There was the streak of tracer bullets, the whomp of choppers, the winking lights of jets. Soon, it was all as meaningless as the bleating horns and motors of rush-hour traffic. At the same time, their commanding officer had helped them develop a sense of what wasn’t routine.
Dialing his scope furiously, zooming through the marsh grasses and palms, Janson saw the clearing with two hutches. There was a cooking fire in front of one, and two VCs squatting in front of them. Were there tripflares? Three days earlier, Mendez had blundered across one; within seconds, an illumination round was automatically fired—a loudly hissing magnesium flare, which drifted slowly toward earth on a tiny parachute, casting an eerie white glow on them all. They could afford no such mistake now.
Janson radioed Demarest. At least two Victor Charlies identified. Three hundred meters away. Awaiting instructions.
Awaiting instructions.
Awaiting instructions.
There was a crackle of static from the radio headphones, and Demarest’s voice came online: “Handle contents with care. You bring them two clicks north of base camp, and pretend they’re Waterford crystal. No breaks, bruises, or scrapes. Think you can manage that?”
“Sir?”
“Capture with kindness, Lieutenant. Don’t speak English? I can say it in seven other languages if you prefer.”
“No, sir. I understand, sir. But I’m not sure just how we’ll manage—”
“You’ll find a way, Janson.”
“I appreciate the confidence, sir, but—”
“Not at all. You see, I know that I would find a way. And, like I say, I’ve got a feeling that you and I are a lot alike.”
His finger groped the ground: trimmed grass, not jungle vine. He forced his eyes open again, took in the green vistas of Regent’s Park, looked at his watch. Two minutes had elapsed. The retention of consciousness itself would be a supreme effort, yet one at which he must not fail.
The thoughts that had coursed through his brain were drowned out by another, more urgent one: There was no time.
The collapse of the axial array must already have been detected, simply by the absence of radio signals. Others would proceed into the area. His vision swimming, his head ringing with pulsing, pounding agony, he crashed through an obstacle course of cone-shaped yews until he had made his way to Hanover Gate.
A black cab was letting out an elderly couple as he staggered to the curb. They were American, and slow-moving.
“No,” the bloated and dyspeptic-looking woman was saying, “you don’t tip. This is England. They don’t tip in England.” Garish red-orange lipstick ringed her mouth, drawing attention to the vertical creases of age above and below.
“Sure they do,” her husband groused. “What do you know? You don’t know anything. Always got an opinion, though.” He was feebly looking through the unfamiliar currency in his wallet, with the care and deliberateness of an archaeologist prizing apart ancient papyrus. “Sylvia, do you have a ten-pound note?”
The woman opened her purse and, with agonizing slowness, began peering into it.
Janson watched with mounting frustration, for there were no other cabs visible on the street.
“Hey,” Janson said to the American couple. “Let me pay for it.”
The two Americans looked at him with frank suspicion.
“No, really,” Janson said. The American couple kept moving in and out of focus. “It’s no problem. I’m in a generous mood today. Just … let’s get a move on.”
The two exchanged glances. “Sylvia, the man here said he’ll pay … .”
“I heard what the man said,” the woman replied peevishly. “Tell him thank you.”
“So what’s the catch?” the old man said, his thin lips drawn into a half frown.
“The catch is, you get out, now.”
The two lumbered to the sidewalk, and stood there blinking. Janson slid inside the roomy vehicle, one of the classic black cabs made by Manganese Bronze Holdings PLC.
“Wait a minute,” the woman called out. “Our bags. I had two shopping bags … .” She spoke slowly and petulantly.
Janson found two plastic bags emblazoned with the Marks & Spencer logo, opened the door, and heaved them at her feet.
“Where you bound, guv?” the driver asked. Then he looked at Janson through the rearview mirror and winced. “Got yourself a nasty gash there.”
“Looks worse than it is,” Janson murmured.
“You better not get any claret on my upholstery,” the driver groused.
Janson pushed a hundred-pound note through the glass partition.
“That’s a bit of all right,” the driver said, his tone suddenly shifting. “You’re the boss, I’m the hoss, crack the whip, I’ll make the trip.” He seemed pleased with his taxi doggerel.
Janson told the driver the two stops he had to make.
“Bob’s your uncle,” the driver said.
The pounding in his head had the force and regularity of a jackhammer. Ja
nson pulled out a handkerchief and tied a bandana around his scalp, trying to staunch the seepage of blood. “Can we go now?” He looked out the rear windshield of the cab—which suddenly spider-webbed in the lower left corner, near his head. A subsonic bullet remained lodged in the laminated glass.
“Mother of Christ!” shouted the driver.
“Just floor it,” Janson said unnecessarily, hunching down in his seat.
“Bob’s your fucking uncle,” the driver said, as the engine roared to life.
“He is if you say he is.” Janson pushed another hundred-pound note through the partition.
“Am I gonna have any more problems?” the driver asked, looking dubiously at the banknote. They were now at Marylebone Road, merging into fast-moving traffic.
“Not at all,” said Janson grimly. “Trust me on this. It’s going to be a walk in the park.”
She was looking at him. He wasn’t imagining it.
Kazuo Onishi glanced across the smoky singles bar and then looked back at the sudsy inch of beer remaining in his mug. She was stunning: long blond hair, a pert nose, a mischievous smile. What was she doing alone at the bar?
“Kaz, is that honey on the bar stool hitting on you?”
So it had to be true: even his friend Dexter had noticed.
Onishi smiled. “Why do you sound surprised?” he smirked. “The ladies know a true stud muffin when they see one.”
“Must be why you’ve gone home alone the last half a dozen times we’ve been here,” said Dexter Fillmore, a bespectacled black man whose own luck wasn’t much better. The two had known each other since their days at Caltech; now, they never discussed work—since what they both did was classified, that issue simply did not arise—but they had few secrets when it came to affairs of the heart, or just plain affairs. “I’m an eligible bachelor, I make a good living: the ladies should be taking a number and getting in line,” Onishi regularly complained.
“Would that be an irrational number or an imaginary one?” Fillmore would snicker.
But now it looked as though Kazuo Onishi had himself a live one.
The woman’s third glance definitely had some linger to it.
“Call in the referee,” Onishi said, “’cause we’re looking at a knockout.”
“Come on, you’re always saying how much a girl’s personality matters,” Dexter protested playfully. “What could be more superficial than to make judgments from across the room?”
“Aw, she’s got a great personality,” Onishi said. “You can just tell.”
“Yeah,” said his friend. “I bet you love the way her personality fills that tight sweater of hers.”
And now the woman was walking toward him, daintily holding a cosmopolitan. His luck was definitely changing.
“Somebody sitting here?” she asked, pointing to an empty chair near Onishi. She sat down and placed her cocktail next to his beer mug, then signaled a waitress for refills. “OK, I don’t usually do this, but I was waiting for my ex-boyfriend who still has issues, if you know what I’m talking about, and I swear, the bartender here starts hitting on me. I mean, what’s up with that?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Onishi, looking innocent. “So where’s the boyfriend?”
“Ex,” she said pointedly. “Just got a call on my cell phone, said a sudden emergency at work came up. So whatever. Trust me, I wasn’t looking forward to it, anyway. I think the only way he’s going to stop calling me is for him to get a new girlfriend.” She turned to Onishi and smiled a dazzling smile. “Or for me to get a new boyfriend.”
Dexter Fillmore finished his beer and coughed. “I’m going to get a pack of Camels. You guys want anything?”
“Get me one,” Onishi said.
After Fillmore left, the blonde turned to Onishi and made a face. “You smoke Camels?”
“Not big on smoking, huh?”
“That’s not it. But, please, we can do better than that slot-machine shit. You ever try a Balkan Sobranie? Now that’s a real cigarette.”
“A what?”
She opened her handbag and pulled out a metal tin. It contained a row of black unfiltered cigarettes with gold tips. “Fresh from a diplomatic pouch,” she said. She handed him one. “Try it,” she said. A lighter materialized in her hand as well.
A girl who’s good with her hands, Onishi thought as he took a deep drag. Promising. He was also relieved that she hadn’t slipped in the what-do-you-do question yet. He always answered that he was a “systems administrator for the government,” and nobody ever asked further, though if they did, he had a practiced line about “platform interoperability” involving the Departments of Agriculture and Transportation. It was so stupefying that it was guaranteed to repel further inquiries. But the real reason he was glad she hadn’t asked was that the one thing he did not want to think about was his job. His real job. In recent days it had become so stressful that his shoulders began to ache as soon as he went to his office. What a string of bad luck they’d had. Fucking unspeakable. All that sweat, all those years—and the goddamn Mobius Program was imploding. He needed to get lucky in some other department of life. Hell, he deserved to get lucky.
The beautiful blonde’s eyes lingered on his face as the thick smoke filled his lungs. Something about him seemed to fascinate her. A new song came on: the one from the soundtrack of that big new World War II flick. Onishi loved that song. For a moment, he felt he might fly away with happiness.
He coughed. “Strong,” he said.
“It’s what cigarettes used to be like,” she said. She spoke with a very faint accent, but he couldn’t tell what kind. “Now be a man. Suck it in.”
He took another drag.
“Special, isn’t it?” she said.
“A little harsh,” he said, tentatively.
“Not harsh, rich. I swear, with most American cigarettes you might as well be smoking typing paper.”
Onishi nodded, but in truth he was beginning to feel more than a little dizzy. It must really be strong tobacco. He felt himself flushing, and starting to sweat.
“Oh my poor dear, look at you,” the blonde said. “You seem like you could use some fresh air.”
“Might do some good,” Onishi agreed.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk together.” He started to reach for his wallet, but she put down a twenty, and he was feeling too faint to demur. Dexter would be wondering what happened to him, but he could explain later.
Outdoors, in the cooler air, the dizzy feeling persisted.
She reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. In the streetlights, she looked even more beautiful—unless that was more evidence of his dizzy state.
“You don’t seem so steady on your feet, you know,” she said.
“No,” he said, and he knew he had a silly grin on his face but could do nothing about it.
She made a tsking noise of mock reproach. “Big hunk like you, laid low by a Balkan Sobranie?”
Blondie thought he was a big hunk? That was encouraging. A major positive data point in the multivariate mess that was his sex life. His grin became wider.
At the same time, he found his thoughts growing oddly scrambled, though he also found it hard to care.
“Let’s get in my car and go for a drive,” she said, and her voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away, and something inside him was saying, Maybe this isn’t a good idea, Kaz, and he found he could do nothing but say yes.
He would go with the beautiful stranger. He would do what she said. He would be hers.
He was only dimly aware of her smoothly shifting the gears of her blue convertible and driving off somewhere with the controlled movements of somebody who had a schedule to keep.
“I’m going to show you the time of your life, Kazuo,” she said, her hands brushing his crotch as she reached over to lock his door.
A thought glinted and flashed: I never told her my name. It was followed by another thought: Something is very wrong with me. And then all such
thoughts disappeared into the dark void that was now his mind.
PART THREE
Chapter Eighteen
The Hasid, nervously clutching his battered hard-sided briefcase, walked over to the railed edge of the upper foredeck in an old man’s shuffle. His eyes were vaguely fearful, owing more, it seemed, to his temperament than to his particular circumstances aboard the Stena Line HSS. The giant twin-hull ferry took just four hours to travel from Harwich to Hoek van Holland, where special trains, stationed right alongside the ferry, brought passengers to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station. The high-speed ship did all it could to make the trip comfortable: on board were several bars, a couple of restaurants, a number of shops, and a movie theater. The Hasidic man with the battered case did not have the appearance of someone who would avail himself of these diversions, however. He was a recognizable type: the diamond dealer—could there be any doubt of it?—who had no interest in such luxuries as he purveyed, like a teetotaler running a distillery. Other passengers glanced at him and looked away. It wouldn’t do to stare. One would not want the Hasid to get the wrong idea.
Now the salty breeze ruffled the man’s full white beard and earlocks, his black woolen coat and trousers. The round black hat remained firmly planted on his head as the man continued to take in the pewter sky and the gray-green seas. The vista wasn’t inspiring, but the Hasid seemed to find comfort in it.
A figure like him, Janson knew, became invisible by virtue of standing out. If the spirit gum on his cheeks itched, and the woolen cloak was uncomfortably hot, it was easy to produce the low-grade anxiety that his role called for. He let the breeze cool him, dry his sweat. There wasn’t any reason to doubt that he was who his passport said he was; from time to time, he took out a small, plastic-encased photograph of the late Rabbi Schneerson, considered by many Hasids to be the messiah, or mosiach, and regarded it lovingly. Such details mattered when one was in character.
He turned around slowly, hearing the footfalls of someone approaching him. His stomach dropped as he took in the man’s round-brimmed hat and severe black garb. It was a Hasid—a real one. A fellow Hasid, he told himself urgently. You are who you pretend to be—it was an honored koan of spycraft. Another, though, was not to be an idiot about it.
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