No Work for a Woman

by Lynda Calkins

  “He warned me too.”

  The shot, when it came, seemed only to echo the explosion that had already taken place in her life.

  *****

  She was in a state of shock, walking, driving, speaking to the doorman, with no conscious thought. She moved as an animal does back to its lair, seeking sanctuary. She said a pleasant goodnight to the elevator man and fitted the key into the door. She hung her coat in the closet and turned into the living room, aware for the first time that there should not have been a light on, but continuing blindly forward until she saw the man sitting on the sofa. And knew with sick despair that Ray had been wrong, she had been wrong, and that she had just killed the wrong man.

  “Hello, Jessica,” he said making no move to rise.

  She stared at him without speaking, the taste of defeat bitter in her mouth. Bob Rogers. The Postman. The Invisible Man.

  He held out his hand. “I’ll take the film.”

  She smiled slightly. “I’m sure you will.” She sat down.

  “Come, Jessica, don’t be difficult. It’s over. Max is dead. You have the microfilm. I knew you’d get it. I had complete faith in your intelligence and training.”

  She leaned back in the chair and looked at him. He looked, not surprisingly, exactly as he always had; neat, well dressed, and unobtrusive. The voice and the tone were the same calm unhurried ones he had used in hundreds of briefings, all points covered, all questions anticipated. The perfect detail man. He might have been offering her tickets to Madrid.

  It was his turn to smile. “What are you waiting for? The nimble wash-up when the villain helpfully explains to the heroine exactly how it was done and snarls curses when the kindly inspector emerges from the wings?” He nodded genially. “I’m afraid not, Jess.”

  The knowledge that he was right sat like a cold hard lump in her stomach. She had never underestimated his efficiency and with so much at stake, he was not likely to fail now. There would be no posse.

  She knew she was no threat to him. She had used all she had back in the gallery. The enormity of the defeat, personal, professional, emotional, threatened to choke her. “Oh, God,” she thought wildly, “I can’t disgrace myself by throwing up!”

  He sat watching her, knowing something of what she was going through. He knew the strain she had been under, the lengths to which she had pushed herself, beyond anything she had ever been called upon to do, to obtain the microfilm. He knew the emotional impact of the confrontation with Max. In spite of the fact that he knew it had been necessary, he felt a certain sympathy for her. She had won through against all the odds. And lost. But it was time to move.

  “Jessica. The film.”

  She smiled at him. Her lips were trembling slightly, but she smiled. “No,” she said gently.

  He raised his eyebrows. No? But of course she was going to hand it over.

  “Oh?” she said coolly. “Or you’ll kill me?” She looked very poised now, leaning back in the chair, but her stomach muscles were jumping like wires. She was not viewing her demise with quite the equanimity she had hoped. But she was damned if this bastard was going to know. The nausea returned and she took a deep breath.

  “Do you know what is in that damned film?”

  His look of assurance slipped just a little. He hesitated. Finally he shook his head. “No. Unfortunately, we were not able to complete interrogation.”

  She swore softly to herself. Christ Almighty. He didn’t even know there was nothing incriminating on the stupid thing at all. He must surely have thought it mentioned names. But she’d read it. There was nothing. The whole mess, every death had been totally unnecessary. It was only one step removed from the “informed sources” rigamarole. She looked at him in dull anger. It was her turn to shake her head.

  “Too many people have died for that thing. You’re going to have to get along without it.”

  He was still smiling, but there was strain at the edges, and his fists were white knuckled. His voice was reasonable. “You have nothing to gain, Jessica. My job is done. Max is out of the way, you’ll be gone, and I’ll be heading the agency. I don’t need the film.”

  “Then why the big scene? You are, as you say, home free. Of course, you can’t be absolutely certain I have it. I could have dropped it off somewhere on the way home or mailed it to the President, General Delivery, The White House, or even mailed it to you. You weren’t following me; you got here first.”

  But he shook his head condescendingly. “You were in no shape to do any of those things. And you had no reason to… you had just disposed of the enemy.”

  She bowed her head slightly, in graceful assent. “As you say.” She paused; she was beginning, ever so slightly, to enjoy herself. She was not going to throw up. “But it would be nice to know, wouldn’t it? You could never be absolutely certain that someday, when you’ve forgotten all about it (he smiled at the absurdity), that microfilm won’t surface.”

  He grew just a shade impatient. “Jessica, there is no reason for this game.” He was no longer feeling sympathetic. She could see him searching for levers. She smiled again. “It’s always a mistake, isn’t it, to remove all hope? There’s really nothing you can threaten me with, is there? You’re obviously going to have to kill me, so threatening to do so isn’t going to be terribly effective. It’s going to be interesting for both of us, isn’t it? I can’t help feeling you don’t have that much experience actually killing people who are sitting across from you.”

  There was a thin line of moisture on his upper lip. She was pleased. Let his stomach get tied up in knots. It was the least she could do. She was surprised to realize that her mind had begun working again. Already she had processed the fact that he knew Max was dead. That he had been there. He had had to make sure she didn’t hand that microfilm to Max. He thought he needed the film. And if he had it, it certainly would be easy to point the finger at Max. Her “suicide” would be proof. Max’s friend, unable to bear the shame, killing him and then herself. She’d been a great help. She had found the film, brought it to him, and disposed of Max. A regular fairy godmother. God, how she’d like to turn him back into a rat.

  “How did you get Max to act so oddly?”

  He smiled, refusing to be drawn. Finally he could not resist a parting shot…his sympathy and patience long since evaporated. “It wasn’t odd when you realize that he thought you were suspect. I discovered the liaison with Christov late, but I was able to use it to good advantage.”

  It was a mistake. She discovered in herself a primitive urge to destroy the man who spoke so calmly. She was startled at the depth and power of the feeling that surged through her. She was surprised to hear no trace of it in her voice as she said coolly, “While we were all being so clever, you just picked up the pieces.”

  “It’s my job,” he said simply. “We’re all professionals.”

  She was really amused now. Even the jumping muscles were beginning to relax. He really seemed to believe that she was going to play the game. She had lost fair and square; now she would do the right thing. In a pig’s eye.

  “Well,” she said, stretching her legs out from the chair, “Here we are.”

  She was calmer than she’d have expected. Max and Ray would have been proud of her. That did bring a twinge of panic to her gut. It looked like she might be finding out any minute now. She couldn’t shake a feeling of unreality, obviously a defense mechanism. For which, thank God. She needed all the help she could get. Real or imaginary. It did seem strange to be sitting here after the ordeal of the past weeks, her strongest emotion a seething rage. By all rights, she should have been a basket case. You just never could tell, could you?

  That seemed to be sinking into Bob Rogers’ consciousness at the same time. She had not unquestioningly accepted his presence and turned over the film to the next in command like the good agent she was. She had leapt immediately to the conclusion he had meant her to have no time to reach. Things were not going according to plan. Still, he had all the cards.
If he had to get along without the microfilm, he could, She had, after all, just killed a man. Her suicide would be easy to explain. It certainly would have been easier to play the sympathetic associate, get her a drink, and discover her body in the morning.

  It was still worth a try. “Would you like a drink, Jessica?”

  She smiled pleasantly. “Very much, Bob. You know where they are.”

  He nodded and crossed the room to the rosewood cabinet. “Scotch?”

  “Slivovitza.”

  “Of course.” He poured the drinks and came across the room, the perfect host. He looked unnervingly like thousands of other bright young men in Washington at that moment handing out drinks to guests.

  She reached up to take the drink, murmuring, “Thank you.” Her hand was not as steady as her voice and half of the drink went splashing onto her foot and into the rug. He put down his drink on the table next to her chair and quickly got a napkin. As he mopped up the rug, she giggled slightly; they were being so civilized. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m a little shaky.”

  He smiled sympathetically at her. It was going to be all right after all. The shock was there, however tightly she held it in. He brought the bottle of Slivovitza over, topped her glass, picked up his drink, and sat down on the sofa. She looked at him mockingly and raised her glass in salute. “Moriture te salutamus.” He nodded without smiling. He had no need to gloat. She was taking it very well. He drained the glass and looked at her in surprise as she sipped.

  “Surely that’s not the way they drink Slivovitza in Bulgaria.”

  “It’s the way I drink it. I haven’t your capacity. I can either sip two or three over a period of time or drain one like that and be under the table.

  He smiled. And froze. It was an effort to move his facial muscles. He looked at her wildly. “You put something in my drink.”

  Her eyes were hard, but her voice was cool and sympathetic. “Disgusting, isn’t it? Women simply can’t be trusted to play the game.” She smiled at him grimly. “You know, I was going to do your job for you. I brought that pill for myself. If you’d left it alone, the scenario would have worked just as you planned.”

  No longer the cool young executive, he looked at her with loathing, his face set in a grotesque grin. “You bitch!”

  “I’m certainly no gentleman. I’ve even decided to let you take the blame for Max’s death.”

  Furiously, he jerked forward, then slumped. She sat looking at him, the nausea returning. She put her head between her knees. She felt the blood rushing to her head; tears prickle her lips. The cost of survival was going to be steep. Finally, she went to the phone and dialed.

  “Captain Pearson? Jessica Winter. Can you come over?

  We have a problem.”