Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

by M. K. Wren

“I’m sorry, sir, but he cannot be reached at this time. May I connect you with somebody else?”

  “Is he at home?”

  “No, sir. Perhaps someone else could—”

  “No.”

  He slammed the receiver down, grimacing at the spasm of pain engendered by the movement, then leaned across the desk toward Mrs. Leen. She drew back slightly.

  “I will have an answer,” he said tautly, “one way or another. Now, how many more are going to die for your damned mission? Or does it matter to you? Does it matter that two innocent—” He straightened abruptly, his mouth twisted with disgust, and the image in his mind was Major Mills lying almost exactly where she was sitting now. And the sullen defiance in her puffy features was a goad to his frustration. She had the answers, but even if she were within his reach, those answers weren’t.

  “No, of course not,” he said bitterly. “I’d be a fool to appeal to you in the name of mercy or conscience.”

  “Yes, you would,” she retorted, drawing herself up. “There are some things which transcend individual lives; matters of principle; treachery which cannot be allowed—” she stopped abruptly, her thin lips compressed.

  “Treachery? What are you talking about?”

  But she only lifted her chin and glared at him, and Conan felt the rage closing in again.

  “Treachery! You have the gall to speak of treachery—and principle. You’re neck deep in murder and treason, and you can mouth smug, self-righteous nonsense about principle?”

  He paused, aware that he was trembling again; it was getting out of control, the frustration and tension, the clock ticking inexorably in his mind.

  Finally, he said softly, “I won’t appeal to your conscience, Mrs. Leen; certainly, I won’t threaten you with bodily harm. But I will point out—again—that you’re in a hopeless position, whether the mission succeeds or not. And you can’t yet be sure of its success. No court will be impressed with your so-called principles, but they might be impressed with a little cooperation at this point. Your life may be at stake here, either figuratively or literally. Don’t you understand that?”

  She pulled in a deep breath, her flaccid features jelling into numbed, stoic resignation, and he recognized in this something of true dignity, and even of courage. He felt a palling, stifling weariness that made even breathing an effort; he knew its source: defeat.

  “I’m well aware of my position,” she said slowly, the words devoid of inflection. “I know exactly how much I have at stake. Your contempt doesn’t move me. I’ve made my decision on the basis of my own beliefs and—even if the word offends you—my own principles.”

  She paused, a faint sigh escaping her, her eyes seemingly focused on nothing, and Conan gazed at her hopelessly. He could laugh at her matronly indignation, regard her rationalizations with contempt, but he could feel only numb despair at this calm, resigned acceptance.

  She would give him no answers. The clock would tick itself down to zero, and he would still be helplessly ignorant of her mission.

  She said dully, “So. You have me, and no doubt your courts will convict me. But you’ll have to be satisfied with that; you’ll have no more.” She smiled pensively, as if she were looking back to the memories of some vanished time. “I’m an old woman. It’s a fair enough exchange.”

  *

  He stared at her, the word reverberating in his mind, and it was like suddenly surfacing after a dive too deep, reaching out for the sweet, clear air and finding it there.

  Exchange.

  His mind seized the word, working at it, searching desperately for the key.

  Exchange.

  That word was the key, and yet it was some time before he could fit it into the lock that let him grasp the truth behind that closed door.

  She’d given him the key, and if there were any justice in the whims of destiny, it would be in his using that key as a tool, a weapon to destroy her conspiracy.

  And perhaps she recognized that possibility in what she read in his face now. Her round cheeks had a gray, dry look, her mouth sagged open, but there were no words; she only watched him intently, her rheumy, staring eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses.

  Exchange.

  “Oh, dear God—”

  The words were his own, but he wasn’t aware of them, and no more aware of Edwina Leen. He sank into his chair and pulled the File toward him. And he wasn’t even aware that his hands were no longer trembling.

  The heading was “Physics, nuclear.” He pulled out all the cards in that section and shuffled through them, tossing them onto the desk one after another. Then he stopped, holding one card, pushing the others aside, his eyes moving across the neatly typed lines.

  DEMETRIEV, DR. ALEXEI, specializing in

  particle behavior

  Chairman, Nuclear Physics Research Institute

  Leningrad, USSR

  But the last two lines had been crossed out, and a brief notation scrawled across the card; the handwriting was his own: “Defected—present address unknown.” And now he remembered the headline that had prompted him to make that notation. PROMINENT RED SCIENTIST DEFECTS AT NOBEL CEREMONIES.

  He remembered the subsequent furor that defection had evoked, occurring as it had at such a highly publicized and public event; remembered the charges and countercharges; the volleys of diplomatic protests, vitriolic exchanges on the highest political levels; the endless meaningless television commentaries and interviews—in none of which Demetriev himself had appeared. He was hospitalized with a heart attack, and that had seemed only a glib excuse at the time.

  The American government had seized this spectacular defection as a propaganda bonanza, and it was that. It was to the same degree a source of resounding embarrassment to the Soviet government, as well as a source of anxiety on a military level; Demetriev had been active in the development of their atomic weapons program.

  Conan closed his eyes wearily, and he wanted to weep.

  A gentle old man whose life’s blood was ideas and concepts beyond the grasp of most men; a frail man with birdlike hands, grateful for every small consideration; a frightened, sick man, trembling in abject terror at revealing comprehension of his mother tongue. This man had been catapulted into world renown, a political plum, or a political disaster; a pawn in games he would never understand.

  Conan looked across the desk at Edwina Leen, regarding her with a certain detachment.

  Alexei Demetriev was a traitor in her eyes, who could redeem himself only by returning to his homeland and making a public repudiation of his treason.

  And he would make that repudiation if he returned—one way or another. If he lived that long.

  He said softly, “Alexei Demetriev.”

  She stiffened, her eyes briefly reflecting something more than resignation. Fear. And in that was full confirmation.

  He came to his feet abruptly, crossed the room to the percolator and jerked out the cord. She made no protest when he tied her hands behind her and anchored the cord around the chair legs; she seemed incapable of any reaction at all.

  He went to the desk and found a scratch pad, looking at his watch as he opened the drawer and grabbed a pen.

  7:35.

  There wasn’t time to try to call Steve again, or to wait for Charlie. With luck, if Duncan hadn’t lost the courier, they would be heading for the same destination. But if Charlie wasn’t successful and returned to the shop…

  He scrawled the words hastily, finding it an effort to make them legible or logical.

  “See file card—Demetriev is Dominic. Abduction. Call Steve to alert Coast Guard—trawlers. Going to Dominic’s house—CJF.”

  7:35.

  When was the kidnapping to take place, or was it already accomplished? And the rendezvous—there would be a boat to take them to the trawlers. How much time, if any, was left him?

  He looked down at Edwina Leen, knowing she had the answers, and knowing she wouldn’t give them to him.

  But she’d given
him enough.

  He thrust the .32 under his belt and started for the door. She watched him, her pouched eyes glazed and lifeless, but before he closed the door, she found her voice; the voice of a harpy, shrill, quivering.

  “It’s too late! Too late—”

  CHAPTER 24

  He hit the turn onto Dominic’s street too fast, and nearly grazed a telephone pole, but his foot slammed down on the accelerator a moment later when he had the car under control.

  There wasn’t time to speculate on Charlie’s success in pursuing the third man, but he saw neither the VW nor the courier’s Ford near Dominic’s house.

  Nor was there time to worry about finding Carl Berg; he could only hope Berg would recognize him or his car, and offer assistance if he needed it. And there wasn’t time to check the house across the street where the windows were still ominously dark.

  There were lights in Dominic’s windows, but the hope in those lights was dimmed by the awareness that if the old man was still inside, he wasn’t alone. Harvey Rose’s car was parked in front of the cottage.

  There wasn’t time for reconnoitering, or for caution, or even common sense. He went in by the front door, reaching it by a sprint across open ground well lighted by the street lamps; he approached the door without knowing if it would be locked, or what he could expect behind it. The .32 was in his hand, the sling hanging loose. He vaulted the porch steps, reaching out for the doorknob, and, nearly lost his balance as the door swung open. He dropped to the floor, and Harvey Rose’s shot went over his head.

  Conan fired from his knees, the bullet sending a shower of plaster from the ceiling above Rose’s head. It wasn’t bad marksmanship; it was a warning shot, and it served its purpose.

  The policeman froze, staring at him as if he were an apparition.

  “What the hell—?”

  “Drop the gun, Rose.”

  Conan came to his feet, his gaze never shifting from Rose, who still seemed to find him incomprehensible; but he let the .38 police special slip out of his hand and fall to the floor with a startling crash.

  Only then did Conan allow himself a split-second glance at Dominic, who was slumped in an armchair a few paces to Rose’s left. The old man was bundled up in his heavy, oversize topcoat, gazing at Conan in a paralysis of alarm, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, his arms twisted awkwardly behind him. Tied.

  Conan focused his full attention on Rose, approaching him warily, the gun raised.

  “Turn around, Rose.”

  “Now—now, wait a minute.” He was crouching, his eyes glazed, the pale irises circled with white.

  “Back up—now!”

  Rose’s gun was on the floor perhaps six feet away, and Conan moved in closer.

  “No!” Rose bellowed. “I ain’t takin’ the rap for—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence; he was lunging for the gun. An insensate cry of rage as Conan kicked it out of reach, then a hurtling charge.

  Conan side-stepped, but not fast enough to avoid one flailing, grasping hand. He spun around, letting Rose’s momentum throw him off balance, then pulled his knee up hard. Rose doubled over with a strangled cry of pain, and Conan brought the gun down on the back of his head with every ounce of strength he could muster, feeling a savage sense of satisfaction as Rose dropped to the floor dead weight.

  But the exertion brought him to his knees, teeth clenched against the pain. He held his right arm against his body, fighting for breath, his eyes squeezed shut.

  *

  “Mr. Flack—Mr. Flack, are you be…all right?”

  Dominic, still in the chair, regarded him anxiously. Conan nodded, bringing his eyes into focus on Rose. He was collapsed in an ungainly heap, out cold.

  “Yes,” he said finally, easing his arm into the sling. “I’m all right.”

  But Dominic—no. Demetriev…

  Conan’s head was clearing now, and the sense of urgency returned with a rush verging on panic. He picked up the .32 and pulled himself to his feet, then moved to Demetriev’s chair and knelt beside him.

  The old man’s breathing was labored, much too fast, his face deathly pale. And if everything about Anton Dominic had been a protective subterfuge, his heart condition wasn’t a part of it; it was entirely real.

  “Dr. Demetriev, are you—?”

  The old man gasped, staring at him fearfully.

  “How…how are you know—?” Then some of the fear faded. “Are you also be with FBI?”

  Conan reached around behind Demetriev’s back, frowning as he encountered the cold metal of handcuffs. The key. Rose must have the key.

  “No, I’m not with the FBI,” he replied absently, “but I’m—what’s wrong?”

  The fear was in his eyes again; fear that was nothing less than terror. But his gaze was focused beyond Conan, on the front door.

  Conan’s jaw went tight, the self-contempt constricting his throat.

  Fool—damned fool…

  A hoary Western adage ignored: keep your back to the wall.

  A light footstep and the click of the door closing.

  “Just freeze—both of you!”

  There was a gun behind that voice; he didn’t have to see it to know it was there. And he had a gun in his own hand; a gun the man behind him couldn’t see.

  He looked into Alexei Demetriev’s terror-pale face.

  To attempt to use his gun now couldn’t be regarded as even a remote possibility. Not when Demetriev might be caught in the cross fire.

  But the gun…

  Conan moved quickly, without taking time to think it out. He thrust the .32 into the pocket of Demetriev’s overcoat. It was a heavy material, and…

  “I said freeze!” The voice was closer, and it had a cold bite to it. “Just move back from the old man, nice and slow. And get your hands up where I can see them.”

  Conan rose slowly, bringing his left hand up at his side, and backed away from Demetriev.

  “Mind if I make that just one hand, Joe?”

  A low, grating laugh that made every muscle in his body tighten.

  “Sure, ol’ buddy. I hear you’re having a little trouble with your arm lately.” Then as Conan started to turn, “No, you don’t. Not yet.”

  He felt the barrel of the gun against his back and waited as he as searched, looking down at Demetriev, feeling a sick despair at the fear in his eyes, and the hopelessness. And more than that; pain.

  “Okay—over against the wall.”

  He complied, turning as he reached the wall to find himself looking into the muzzle of a .45 automatic. He could have predicted it would be a .45. The man behind the gun would find that kind of firepower satisfying.

  Joe Zimmerman, the All-American Failure.

  The third man.

  *

  Zimmerman’s mouth twisted into a sardonic grin.

  “How about that, Cone? Your ol’ buddy, Joe Zimmerman. Surprise.”

  “Not really, Joe.”

  Zimmerman’s lips curled. “Yeah? The old lady clue you in? I thought I lost you a while back. Or was that you tailing me?”

  Conan didn’t answer, too chilled with the quenching of that hope—that Charlie might still be on Joe’s trail. But Charlie would go back to the shop; the note was there. But how long…?

  And Berg. Where was Carl Berg?

  “Should’ve known the old lady’d talk,” Joe muttered. “Can’t trust a woman for this kind of work; a little pressure and they fall apart. Okay, Cone, where’s your gun? Pull your arm out of that sling.”

  He obeyed, letting Zimmerman satisfy himself that nothing was hidden there, and even that small movement renewed the aching.

  Joe searched him again, his hands moving jerkily, then he pushed him back against the wall with his hand at his throat.

  “Listen, buddy, don’t try holding out on me!”

  “Joe, I didn’t even own a gun.”

  “Yeah? So who put Rose out of commission? You, with one bare hand?”

  “You do
n’t think that’s possible?”

  Zimmerman hesitated, glancing contemptuously at Rose, who still showed no sign of regaining consciousness.

  “Knowing ol’ Harv, maybe it is, at that.” He released Conan, then reached into his coat pocket, his features drawn and tense.

  “Please—” Demetriev’s querulous voice. “Do not be hurting Mr. Flack. I…I will go with you, but please—”

  “You’ll go with me, all right,” Joe snapped. “Now, shut up and don’t move, if you don’t want your friend hurt.”

  Demetriev gazed at Conan in mute appeal.

  “Joe, for God’s sake, he needs a doctor.”

  “He’ll get a doctor—in due time,” he responded indifferently, pulling a length of nylon rope from his pocket.

  “Damn it, in due time may be too late.”

  Zimmerman tensed and the gun came up.

  “If you’re so damned worried, just be quiet and play along with me. You give me any trouble, it’ll only slow us down that much more.”

  Us.

  Conan was silent, trying to make sense of that word, wondering if he were included in that us; wondering now why Joe hadn’t already used that gun.

  Joe said curtly, “Put your hands out—wrists crossed. And slow. Seeing as how you’re having a little trouble with your arm, I’ll just tie your hands in front. I don’t figure you’ll be doing much—”

  The rope. Zimmerman intended to take him, too.

  The reaction was almost instinctive, his left hand knotting into a fist, smashing up toward that mouth that was still curled in a faint, contemptuous smile.

  Joe ducked, the blow glancing off his cheek, his face suddenly red with rage. His left hand shot out, closing on Conan’s shoulder, shoving him hard against the wall.

  Conan groaned, and he couldn’t react fast enough to avoid the quick slash of the gun barrel. It smashed against his jaw, and he felt the floor tilting under him, found himself slipping helplessly, the shrieking blackness closing in.

  *

  He heard the dry movement of air in his throat, and a silence all around him, except for someone else’s breathing close by; quick, shallow breaths.

  His hands. A fumbling and jerking, ropes tightening around his wrists. It had only been a matter of seconds. He was slumped on the floor, his back against the wall, the left side of his face throbbing, a warm, seeping dampness under the bandages on his shoulder, the sling hanging loose and useless.