Although he did not intend to dwell on it, Harry knew he had probably made a mistake, perhaps a serious one, in risking his cover to save John Finway’s life. The fact of the matter was that he had simply reacted instinctively, allowing the real Harry an important vote; the real Harry had decided to save a courageous woman’s husband and the father of her three children. The real Harry liked happy endings.
He was definitely ready for Administration, Harry thought. He assumed it would be far easier to war-game and move pieces than it was to be a piece yourself, no matter how many parts you played.
As things turned out, Harry mused wryly, he might as well have been sharing a room with Finway. The small rooms assigned to singles were in a block, and Harry’s room was next to the lawyer’s. The walls were thin, and by placing his bed against the wall, he’d been able to monitor Finway’s restless stirrings throughout the night. When he heard the other man go out around four, Harry had quickly dressed and gone after him. If Peters had a secret partner, Harry had reasoned, it was likely that the responsibility for killing John Finway had now fallen to the man. It was reasonable to assume that Finway would have difficulty sleeping, and Harry knew that a killer could be outside somewhere in the night, waiting for just such an opportunity.
Harry hoped it was true; if there was a man waiting for Finway, Harry would have him. He knew how to quickly extract information from a man. That done, he thought, it would simply be a matter of killing Peters, telling the Finways the truth, then getting out of San Sierra by one of three secret routes before the Sierrans got really serious about checking documents, something they were sure to do after two deaths among the tour group.
He’d trailed Finway as the man had wandered restlessly, aimlessly, all over the hotel grounds, and then finally headed down to the beach as the sun had begun to rise. Because of Finway’s circuitous route, Harry had missed Peters when the blond-haired man had first run up the beach. Still, Harry had seen the assassin long before Finway. For a fleeting moment Harry speculated on what Peters was doing on the beach so early in the morning, but then dismissed the question as unimportant in the face of what was about to happen. To Harry’s sharp, trained eye, Peters’ reaction—the subtle shift of his body weight and the position of his hands—carried the clear message that John Finway was a dead man.
But then, Harry had thought with a grim smile of satisfaction, so was Peters. Peters might have Finway, but he had Peters. In a very short time he would be on his way home to Harley Shue’s acerbic congratulations and his promised Administration post.
The only problem was that John Finway would be dead.
That’s why he was always afraid, Harry had thought. The arithmetic of his business never worked out. Figures lied, columns never balanced. One day, if he didn’t get out of the field, he was going to end up a missing digit that was simply ignored. The blind accountants at the CIA would just keep right on adding and subtracting.
The next moment he’d been sprinting across the sand.
Shue would chain him to a post in the HEW mailroom if the Director of Operations knew what he’d just done, Harry thought as he ground out his fifth cigarette in the gritty, black soil at his feet. The hell with Shue.
He waited at his position until John Finway walked past on the beach below, then got up. Keeping at a safe distance, he followed the lawyer back to the hotel. He went to the desk to buy a pack of cigarettes and stayed a few minutes to banter with the desk clerk. They exchanged puzzled glances when the lobby lights dimmed, but the power came back on almost immediately. Harry turned and walked across the lobby to the elevator.
When the elevator doors sighed open on the second floor, Harry found himself looking down a windowless corridor that was without lights. The power was still out on this floor, and a number of people were out in the hallway alternately cursing Communists, looking inquiringly at one another, and entreating the dead light fixtures. Harry ran to Finway’s room. He was prepared to jimmy the lock if need be, but the knob turned. He let himself in and slammed the door shut behind him.
The air in the room was thick with the acrid smell of burnt hair and plastic. John Finway lay in a hot pool of sunlight on the floor of the bathroom. Harry ran across the room, knelt down beside the lawyer’s body, and felt for a pulse. There was none. However, Harry noticed that, despite the ghostly, waxen pallor of Finway’s flesh, the man’s body was still warm and the joints flexible.
Harry clenched his right hand into a fist and brought it down hard in the center of the other man’s chest. He slowly counted to three, then punched the chest again. Keeping his right fist poised over the chest, Harry used his left hand to open Finway’s mouth and bring the dry, coated tongue up from the back of the throat. He hit the chest a lighter blow, then bent forward and blew a quick, strong puff of air into the other man’s lungs. Without losing his three-count rhythm, Harry felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
Harry hit the chest again, then resumed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. There was a flutter in the pulse under John Finway’s jaw.
“Come on, Finway,” Harry whispered as he waited a three-count, then blew another puff of air into the still lungs. “Breathe, damn you! Don’t let that fucker tag you out!”
The lights in the room flickered and came back on; the air conditioner resumed its soft, resonant hum. Harry started to lean over again when Finway suddenly moaned and coughed; his body convulsed twice before he abruptly rolled over and gagged. Harry gripped the man’s forehead and upper abdomen from behind, gently, rhythmically pressing and releasing, helping him breathe until the first, tentative spasms of his lungs had evened out. Then Harry quickly wet some towels to cool the man.
“Don’t try to sit up!” Harry snapped as Finway struggled to get on his hands and knees. “Just stay right where you are!”
Harry ripped the blanket off the bed in the next room, then came back into the bathroom to find the other man swaying unsteadily on his feet, bracing himself with both hands against the ceramic wash basin.
“What the hell happened?” Finway mumbled thickly.
“Nothing serious,” Harry said, wrapping the blanket around the lawyer, picking him up, and carrying him to the bed. “You just died.”
The charcoal-gray eyes closed for a few moments. The eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened again. “Who’re you?”
“David Swarzwalder. We met at JFK. Who’re you?”
There was a prolonged silence broken only by the metallic drone of the air conditioner and the hoarse breathing of the man on the bed. Finally the answer came: “John Finway.”
“Good. Now let’s hear you recite the alphabet.”
Finway’s eyes closed again. “Why?” he asked dreamily.
“The average brain tends to get upset when its host dies,” Harry replied laconically, watching the other man closely. “I thought it might be interesting to find out how many IQ points you’ve lost, if any.”
The other man lay still for a long time, then slowly sat up on the edge of the bed. “I know the alphabet,” he said distantly, “but I feel as though there are other things I can’t remember. There are gaps.” His laugh was short and sharp, without humor. “I just can’t think of what they are.”
“That’s to be expected,” Harry said, keeping his eyes on the other man’s face. What Finway did or did not remember, or when certain memories came back to him, would make a crucial difference to a lot of people, Harry thought. He and Peters shared one interest in common: they didn’t want the Sierrans to have the slightest notion that anything was wrong. It was why he had not yet called for help; he had to try to evaluate just how much memory loss John Finway had sustained and then decide what to do about it. “A severe electric shock will leave you with some amnesia. With luck, it will only be temporary. It could last a few minutes, days, maybe a few weeks.”
“What gave me the shock?”
Harry went into the bathroom and pulled the plug of the electric shaver from the wall. He quickly inspected the
blackened, exposed wires and torn insulation, shook his head. He was certain Peters had stripped the insulation and crossed the wires, and he was fairly sure the man had used some kind of miniature transducer to amplify the current, but there was no way to prove it. Peters had done a thoroughly professional job, Harry thought, but it could provide a clue as to the type of weaponry Peters intended to use against Salva; he would know what to look for when he searched Peters’ belongings.
He went back into the other room and handed the shaver to Finway. “That did it.”
The lawyer turned the blackened shaver head in his hands, then dropped it on the bed. He looked at Harry and smiled thinly. “I think I’ll switch to a straight razor.”
Harry didn’t smile. Finway was not a player, he thought; he wanted the man home and out of danger. “Judging from the way you’re talking and moving around, I’d say you don’t have any brain damage. But I’m not a doctor. We’ll have to have someone look at you.”
“Brain damage?”
“I told you: you were dead when I found you.” Harry added a slight emphasis to the word “dead” and looked for the fear he hoped to see in the other man’s eyes. There wasn’t any.
“I feel like somebody’s been using my head for a basketball. I thought I was supposed to see glowing figures and feel good. I didn’t see anything.”
“If you’ll pardon an atrocious pun, I suggest you may have made the wrong connections in your previous life—the one you were enjoying just before you plugged in the shaver.”
“I want to thank you for saving my life, David,” Finway said. He lifted his hands in a kind of supplicating gesture, then dropped them back to his sides. “Damn; talk about not knowing what to say. I guess I owe you a drink. Make that a case.”
“Accepted. And I understand.” Harry walked across the room to the telephone, but did not pick up the receiver. “You’re going to need a lot of rest, John. You’ll have to go home. Do you remember where you live?”
Harry waited while the other man thought about it. “I’m a lawyer,” Finway said slowly. “I have a wife, three children. I live in … New York State. Pomona.” He paused, glanced inquiringly around him, then looked at Harry. “Where the hell is this place?”
Harry continued to study the other man’s face. “Think about it, John. Try to fill in those gaps.”
The lawyer rose and walked unsteadily to the window. He stood there for almost five minutes, staring out. “San Sierra,” Finway said at last. There was another pause lasting close to a minute, then he suddenly stiffened. “My wife!”
Finway remembered, Harry thought. Now he picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the main desk. “What about your wife?” he asked casually.
The other man turned slowly from the window. His face was now even more drawn, his eyes haunted, as if he had merely segued from one nightmare into another even worse. “I was about to say that my wife must miss me,” Finway said absently. He blinked several times, then looked sharply at Harry. “I remember you too, David. I do and I don’t. Something about you seems different.”
Harry spoke a few words to the desk clerk, explaining what had happened, then hung up. He tried to wriggle back into the skin of his character, but he couldn’t remember exactly who it was he had been playing. He decided to let it pass, to be the real Harry for a few more minutes.
“She won’t have to miss you much longer,” Harry said slowly and deliberately. “They’re sending someone up to take you to a hospital, it’s faster than waiting for a doctor to come here. I’m sure he’s going to suggest you go back. You’ll be home in time for dinner.”
“I can’t go home,” Finway said, absently shaking his head.
“You have to. You were almost killed.”
Harry kept his face blank as the other man stared at him oddly. “I have business here,” Finway said at last in a strained voice. “I just can’t go home yet.”
Harry cursed silently to himself. He knew that whoever was coming up would arrive in moments, and he made a decision. He picked up the ruined shaver head from the bed, turned it over in his hands. “Odd how this insulation just frayed away.” He reached down inside himself and brought up a nervous laugh. Company was coming, and it was time to slip back into character. “You have any enemies, John?”
Shadows moved in the other man’s eyes, and he frowned. “What are you talking about?”
There was an urgent knock at the door. Harry opened it, to find Raul and Maria standing in the corridor.
“What’s the matter?!” Raul asked quickly. His voice was even higher pitched than usual, and there was a clear implication in his tone that he would be personally offended if either of the men in the room had a complaint.
Harry tossed the razor to Raul. Startled, the squat, ruddy-faced man juggled the appliance in his hand but managed to hang onto it.
“My friend just had a close shave with that thing,” Harry said, tittering and smiling ingratiatingly at the glowering Sierran. “Electric shock. It knocked him right out. I figured you people might want to have him checked out by a doctor.”
“Electric shock?” Raul’s thick, dark eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying there is something wrong with the wiring in the hotel?”
Maria spoke sharply to Raul in Spanish, then walked rapidly across the room and gripped Finway’s right arm with both her hands. Finway started to protest, but by then Raul had followed the woman’s lead, taking the lawyer’s other arm and helping to usher him toward the door.
“John!” the real Harry said loudly. He waited until the lawyer looked back over his shoulder, then fixed Finway’s eyes with his own. “San Sierra isn’t all it’s cut out to be,” he continued deliberately. “Things here aren’t what some people say they are. Let them send you home.”
Raul started to protest, but the raven-haired Maria cut him off with a sharp word and an angry shake of her head. The Sierrans led Finway out of the room and down the corridor. Harry stood for a few moments staring thoughtfully out into the rectangle of orange-carpeted, empty hallway, then walked across the room and closed the door.
Tuesday, January 22; 1:15 A.M.
Alexandra
Having dressed in a slanting shaft of moonlight, Alexandra finished putting up her hair, combing out one thick strand in the center, positioning the heavy barrette, snapping the strong steel needle home into its clasp. She heard Peters stir in the bed across the room, and she wondered how long he had been awake.
“Where are you going?” Peters’ voice was sharp, alert.
“For a walk. I need some air.”
There was a sharp click and the radio came on, filling the room with soft music.
“Don’t be stupid, Alexandra. You don’t know who could be walking around out there. Why call attention to yourself?”
“I can’t sleep. I need to let off some steam.”
“Worried about John?”
“Of course I’m worried about John!” She took a deep breath, lowered her voice. “My husband was almost killed yesterday.”
“He’s all right now.”
“How do you know?! I tried to get some information from Raul today, but he just looked right through me and started to talk about how Sierran doctors are the best.”
“Never ask Raul anything. He’s a bureaucratic asshole who thinks anything that goes wrong is part of a conspiracy directed against him. There were rumors flying around after people saw John being taken away in an ambulance, so Constantina made an announcement in the afternoon. You were out running. John’s perfectly all right. He was brought back before dinner. You didn’t see him?”
“No. What did Constantina say happened?”
Peters’ voice was a shrug in the darkness. “She said he’d had an accident with his electric razor. Shock.”
“I wonder,” Alexandra said distantly.
“You wonder what?”
A dark, jagged thought—that her ruthless dragon partner, in an attempt to assure the successful completion of their task, h
ad somehow been responsible—had jabbed at the quick of her mind when she had first heard of John’s accident. Now it came again, but she pushed it away. Under the circumstances, she felt that she had no choice but to trust Rick Peters; to allow such a poisonous suspicion to grow would almost certainly destroy the delicate relationship they had to maintain and project in order to accomplish their task.
“John’s famous for championing Leftist causes,” Alexandra said at last, voicing an alternate suspicion. “Whoever’s out to assassinate Salva could have decided to kill John out of spite, for ‘old times’ sake.’ If so, he may try again.”
Peters made a grunting sound of disapproval. “No way, Alexandra. You’re not thinking clearly. The man hired to kill Salva is no meatball. We’d have picked up on an amateur like that before the plane left Kennedy; he’d have been sweating blood. Uh-uh. Our man leaves his politics home when he goes to work. He doesn’t give a damn about anything but killing Salva. Why would he risk everything to kill a civilian who had nothing to do with it?”
Alexandra closed her eyes and sighed. “You’re right, of course. God, I wish John would go home.”
“So do I. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like he’s going to.”
Alexandra heard a soft rustling sound as Peters sat up on the edge of the bed. When she looked across the room the man appeared as a dark, amorphous shape vaguely silhouetted against the grayish blur of the sheets.
“I’m going out, Rick.”
“Christ, Alexandra,” Peters said huskily, a new urgency in his voice. “You’re not going to try and see John, are you? You have no right to risk jeopardizing our position. You can’t balance the success of this mission against your anxieties about John. I told you he’s all right physically, and you told me he’d hold up mentally. He knows goddam well you could end up in a Sierran prison if he makes a mistake.”
“Don’t tell me the obvious, Rick,” Alexandra said coldly, “and don’t try to tell me my job or responsibilities. Of course I’m not going to try to see John, but I am going out. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Turn Loose the Dragons Page 14
