In Out of the Cold
by Clark Howard
Edward Harmon picked up his visitor at Grantly Adams Airport and drove on the Atlantic side of the island on the way home. His visitor, whose name was Caldwell, had traveled a good part of the world, but this was his first trip to Barbados. Looking at the long stretch of white sand next to the highway, he asked, "Why are the beaches deserted? Is tourism down?"
"No, it's up a few points actually," Edward said. "There's just too much riptide here on the Atlantic side to swim. The beaches on the Caribbean side get all the activity."
"I understand Claudette Colbert lived on the island for many years until her recent death."
"Yes."
"Did you ever see her?"
"Yes, a couple of times a month before she became too old to get around. She was a very friendly lady."
"I always liked her in the movies," Caldwell said. He stared at the dashboard for a moment, as if memorizing, then said, "We were all terribly sorry to hear about Elaine. Nothing could have been done for her, I don't imagine?"
"Thank you. No, by the time she was diagnosed it had got into her bone marrow to such an extent it was irreversible. All we could do was make her as comfortable as possible until the end."
"How did the girls take it?"
"Surprisingly well. I think the three of them decided they had to bear up so that I wouldn't break down. Incidentally, now that she's sixteen, Becky is no long Becky. She's Rebecca now."
"I'll remember that," Caldwell promised.
It took them only ten minutes to get from the airport to the road that led onto Harmon's small sugar-cane estate. On an island fourteen miles wide and twenty-one miles long, one never spent much time getting from place to place. Edward's estate was modest-an eight-room house on two acres of lovely, cultivated grounds surrounded by 160 acres of prime sugar-cane field. He had been in the sugar-cane business for eight years and a widower for four. At forty-four, he was fit from doing field work himself. The grey in his hair had only come within the past year, with the knowledge that he was slowly going bankrupt. Caldwell's visit, he imagined, would bring on a few more grey strands. Edward still owed Caldwell one job, and he was reasonably certain that was what Caldwell was here for.
At the house, Caldwell was properly welcomed by Rebecca Harmon, who had assumed her late mother's place as mistress of the estate. When Caldwell saw her, he was astonished. "My God, Edward, you've sired an absolute beauty," he said.
"Thank you, Mr. Caldwell," Rebecca said quietly. "It's a pleasure to see you again. How are Mrs. Caldwell and Emily?"
"Both well, thank you, Rebecca. Both send their love. Emily's off to Bryn Mawr in the fall." He looked around. "Where are your sisters? They're probably such young ladies that I won't recognize them."
"You may not recognize them, but it won't be because they're young ladies," Rebecca said dryly. "They're more easily mistaken for field hands."
As if that was their cue, the younger Harmon girls, Amanda and Amy, twelve-year-old twins, bounded into the room and approached their visitor with tanned, smiling faces and exuberant hellos.
"Well, my goodness," said Caldwell, getting a hug from each, "you two haven't changed a bit except you're taller. I've something in my bag for each of you from Mrs. Caldwell, but you'll have to wait until dinner for it because I'm too tired to unpack just now."
Rebecca mixed gin-and-tonics for the men, a non-alcoholic drink for herself, and opened lime sodas for her sisters. The girls were allowed to join Edward and Caldwell on the verandah and visit for fifteen minutes, then they were excused so that the men could talk.
"I suppose you’ve guessed why I'm here," Caldwell said when they were alone.
Edward nodded. "I owe you one."
"Yes. If it were up to me, you understand, I'd close the books on it, call us even. But you know how the Director is. Everything has to balance or he can't sleep nights."
"I sometimes wonder how anyone connected with the agency can sleep nights," Edward said. "No offense."
"No. We all have our values and priorities in life. You slept well, I presume, during your nine years with us."
"I suppose I must have," Edward admitted.
"Of course you did. And the Director will catch up on his sleep when we settle up this little deficit of yours. As I recall, your last contract was for six jobs, and we let you leave after five. That's when you had the opportunity to buy this sugar-cane estate. I remember distinctly the Director saying, 'Let's let Harmon off the hook so he won't miss this opportunity to buy that place in Barbados. He's a good man; he'll pay us the one job he owes us when the time comes.' So, to use LeCarre's suitable little phrase, we let you come in out of the cold. But now it's time to balance the books." There was the faintest trace of challenge in Caldwell's tone when he added, "Do you have a problem with that, Edward?'
Harmon shook his head. "No. As far as I'm concerned, the quicker we're even, the better. Where's the job located?"
"Montreal."
"At least it isn't in Europe. I hate Europe. It's always so cold, even in summer. I presume this is a diplomatic job. I only do-or did-diplomatic work, remember?"
"Yes, it's diplomatic. A Turkish embassy aide."
"Has enough time passed since-?'
"Yes, of course. Nearly three years. We still have the same waiting period to protect the State Department. Can you fly back with me tomorrow?"
"Yes, I suppose so." Edward gazed out over his ripe sugar-cane fields. "No big hurry to harvest this year. The crop hasn't been sold. It probably won't be."
"Why on earth not?" Caldwell asked, surprised.
Edward sighed. "The world sugar market. It has been slowly but steadily depressing for several years now. Nearly every week there are a dozen new sugar-free products on the market: sugar-free colas, sugar-free cereal, sugar-free this, sugar-free that. Sugar, as far as the health experts are concerned, has become a villain. Suddenly the word 'sweet' has become an expletive. I almost expect Valentine's Day to be cancelled."
"But surely someone will buy your crop," Caldwell said. "Surely it won't just rot in the field."
"No? It did last year."
Caldwell was incredulous. "How in the world do small growers like yourself survive?"
"Some don't. Two estates have sold out to land developers already. And not at a profit, either. The buyers know we're in a tight spot here and they're paying rock-bottom prices. Several growers are converting their land to peanuts, but that's very costly."
"How costly? For a place the size of yours, for instance?"
"I couldn't do it for under a hundred thousand."
Caldwell whistled. "That is costly." He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then said, "You know, Edward, if you wanted to come back-"
"No, thank you," Edward said quickly.
"We could always use you. And you wouldn't have to go to Europe, either. There's a backlog of work here in our own hemisphere. There's an Angolan diplomat now assigned to Mexico City who's almost due. And a Moroccan now in Caracas we're taking as a favor to another department-"
"I appreciate the offer," Edward cut in, "but no. I'm out and I'm staying out. And I don't think you should be telling me about anyone except my own man."
"You're right,'" Caldwell said.
For the balance of Caldwell's visit, the two men refrained from discussing business.
The next day, Edward had Caldwell put their bags into a taxi Edward had summoned, said goodbye to the children, and Edward instructed the driver to taken them first to Bridgetown, the island's only town of any size. "Just one quick stop on the way to the airport," he told Caldwell.
"What excuse did you give the girls for the trip?" Caldwell asked quietly on the drive to town.
"I said I had to testify on an old matter that was coming to trial."
"Very good," Caldwell approved. The taxi slowed suddenly, jolting the passengers a little. The driver stuck his head out the window and cursed a small furry animal that scurried across the highway. "What on earth was that?" Caldwell asked.
Edward smiled slightly. "A mongoose. We bring them over from Jamaica to kill the rats and snakes in the cane fields before we go in to harvest." His smile faded. "Another year or two and our taxi drivers won't have to worry about them. There won't be any cane fields."
Presently they approached the edge of Bridgetown. First came an area of small concrete-block homes with corrugated roofs, wooden doors, and wooden shutters on all the windows. Then they passed several blocks of large Victorian homes with manicured lawns, shaded by giant mahogany trees. In the market district, Caldwell was dazzled by the sight of many large black women wearing bright dresses and straw hats, selling mangoes, paw-paw, and a wide variety of other edibles from street stalls. Other women, those without stalls, had baskets of produce on their heads, balanced expertly.
As the car entered the main commercial section, they passed a statue of Lord Nelson. Edward had the driver stop at the Banc du Belgium. "I'll be just a minute," he said.
He entered the bank and went directly to a desk next to the large street window where a pretty mulatto woman was working on some papers. Her desk plate read: JANINE DYCE, TRUST DEPT.
"Hello, Edward," she said, smiling up at him. "Did you prepare the girls for me?"
"Yes. I really appreciate this, Jan. Such short notice and all." He was aware that Caldwell could see them from the waiting taxi.
"How did Rebecca take it?" Janine asked.
"The usual way. She thinks she's old enough to manage without you. I'm afraid she might be surly."
"Not for long," Janine promised. "I have a new hairstyle book from Paris. I shall win her over with French fashion. Of course, you may not recognize her when you get back. What about the twins?"
"Oh, they're delighted, little devils. They'd rather mind anyone than their big sister, and they adore you." He handed her a slip of paper with Caldwell's name and private telephone number in Washington on it. "You can reach me through this man if anything comes up."
Janine rose and walked him back to the street door. She was an extremely shapely woman, wearing a sleeveless white dress that fit snugly top and bottom. Her dark hair was swept back to keep her neck cool. Like most other female office workers in Bridgetown, she wore no hosiery. Edward knew that Caldwell was probably observing Janine with a good deal of interest as he said goodbye at the door and returned to the taxi.
"Extraordinary-looking woman," Caldwell commented on the way to the airport. "Not all native, I take it."
"Her father was Welsh," Edward told him. "He ran a fishing boat, did a little liquor-smuggling on the side."
"Is she your-that is, are you serious about her? If I'm prying, just say so."
"No, you're not prying," Edward said, even though Caldwell was. "Jan and I have talked about marriage. We've decided to wait until Rebecca is a little older. There's some friction there. Not that it matters much any more. With the value of holding plummeting the way it is, I can't think about marriage."
"Pity," Caldwell said. "Striking woman."
They took the noon Pan Am flight to Miami. Over drinks, Caldwell talked about how quickly one's children grow up. It seemed only yesterday, he mused, that his daughter Emily had been playing dolls with Edward's daughter Rebecca, and now Emily would soon be at Bryn Mawr. It was the third or fourth time Caldwell had seen fit to remind Edward that Emily would be going to an exclusive, expensive college, He couldn't have made his point any better if he had added "Poor Rebecca" to his comment.
At Miami International, they laid over an hour, then took an Eastern flight on to Washington. On that two-hour flight, Caldwell talked about a house in Georgetown his wife Grace had her eye on. It was larger than the one they were in and had a rose garden, even a small wine cellar. Naturally there was an outrageous price on it. Caldwell supposed they'd buy it, though. After all, it was only money.
Yes, Edward thought, money you have because you stayed with the agency, money I don't have because I didn't. Money you have because you played it smart and opted for the security, money I don't have because I bought a sugar-cane plantation, looking for peace of mind. He listened to Caldwell tell him in a dozen different ways that he was a fool. When he'd finally had enough of it, he closed his eyes and pretended to doze.
At National Airport, Caldwell asked, "Are you sure you won't stay over for the night? Grace would love to see you again."
"I'd like to see her, too," Edward lied, "but I think I'd better get on with the job while I'm psyched up for it. You understand."
"Of course. We'll go right to the office then."
Caldwell's offices were in a large building on 15th Street. The lettering on the door read simply: CAPITOL DIRECTORY EXCHANGE. In a large outer office, the walls were covered floor to ceiling with bookcases, the shelves of which were filled with telephone directories and street guides from virtually every major city in the world. By day, two cover agents, both women, both multilingual, staffed the office and ostensibly handled requests for information from the directories. Actually, they were code clerks, decoding class-three transmissions, low priority and non-secret, brought to them by a messenger every morning.
Caldwell's private office was behind the first one, and it was there that he and Edward went when they arrived from the airport. From his safe, Caldwell selected a file folder and handed it to Edward. Without looking at its contents, Edward put it into his briefcase. Then Caldwell handed him a small leather case about the size of a paperback novel. Edward examined it, impressed.
"These cases used to be plastic," he observed.
"I like to upgrade things when the operating budget permits," Caldwell said smugly. "These make very nice little shave kits when you're done with them. Is there anything else you need in the way of equipment?"
"No, this will do," Edward said.
"Will you be stopping by on your way back?"
"Probably not."
"You'll call me, then?"
"Yes. Same number?"
"Same number, same phone line, sanitized every twenty-four hours," Caldwell confirmed. He held out his hand. "Good luck, old man. Not that you'll need it. Not you. One of the very best, that's how I always think of you. And if you ever decide to come back, as I told you yesterday-'
"Thanks," Edward said, shaking hands.
He left as quickly as he could inoffensively do so.
Back at National, Edward was able to get on a Delta flight directly to Montreal, with a short stop in Boston. He had a drink, picked at the in-flight dinner he was served, finally left most of it, and ordered another drink. Even after leaving Boston, when there was no further food service, no movie, nothing going on in first-class to occupy his attention, even when the seat next to him was vacant and he had all the privacy he could have asked for, Edward still did not open his briefcase and study the file Caldwell had given him.
All he knew about the man in Montreal was that he was a diplomatic aide in the Turkish legation. That, of course, could mean anything-a multitude of diplomatic transgressions often came in the form of an "aide." The man might be an Intelligence agent, a high-ranking military officer, a scientist, a cryptanalyst, even an assassin. Edward hadn't kept up with world politics much since leaving the agency, but he did recall from his previous training that Turkey had iron and steel interests, chemical and oil-refining interests, and had been expanding its already broad tobacco interests. So Ankara had quite a lot to protect-its diplomatic "aides" might be anything.
But Edward wasn't interested in any details about the man at the moment. Even though he had resigned himself to the job at hand and knew he owed it to the agency-and had known all along that someday the agency would collect-he nevertheless detested having to do it. He detested having to leave the warmth of his Barbados home for the cool, thin air of Canada; detested the long airplane trips, the waits for luggage, the tasteless food and pre-mixed drinks. Most of all, he detested being away from his girls, hated missing even for one evening the hour before bedtime when they usually gravitated to his study one by one in their pajamas and robes, to "bother" him while he was working on the plantation books.
Not that there was that much bookwork to do anymore. Everything was debits nowadays-no cash flow, no contracts, no harvest or delivery dates, just a constant stream of outgoing cash, slowly depleting his savings. But no matter how bleak the day had been, Edward's spirits were always bolstered by that last hour before their bedtime which his daughters devoted exclusively to him. It was then that he learned so much about them, so many facets of their makeup that he might easily have missed. Rebecca's concern that her thighs were too heavy. Amy's unusual interest in animals and her growing desire to become a veterinarian. Amanda's still frequent dreams about her dead mother. During that hour in the evening, they seemed to discuss more openly those matters which they kept to themselves the rest of the time.
The girls had Janine to sit around and "bother" tonight, Edward mused as he stared at his own reflection in the plane window. They would probably all be having bedtime tea and cookies in the large guest bedroom where Janine would sleep while he, several thousand miles away, would be alone in some hotel room. He doubted he would close his eyes the entire night.
Thinking of Janine, Edward hoped that she and Rebecca would soon learn to get along. It was jealousy, of course, that caused Rebecca to act the way she did toward Janine. Elaine, Edward's late wife, and Janine had been close friends almost from the time the Harmons had settled on the island. While she was growing up, Rebecca had been fond of her mother's friend. It was only after Elaine's untimely death that Rebecca's attitude had changed. Suddenly, with her mother out of the picture, Rebecca seemed to feel that Janine was an intruder.
Edward supposed the feeling was justified. The girls had seemed to know instinctively when he and Janine, about six months after the funeral, had become intimate. From Rebecca's point of view, he supposed that was a threat, and an unfair one at that: Janine had a way to gain favor with Edward that she herself, Rebecca, did not. It didn't bother Amy or Amanda that Janine occasionally stayed over on the weekend. But to Rebecca it was a disgrace. She was mistress of the estate now-she planned the meals, oversaw the household help, and paid the domestic wages. Even during the school year, she got up early every weekday morning so she would have time to take care of her household duties before leaving for classes. Everything about the house functioned perfectly well under her direction. Janine wasn't needed at all-except by her father. For the one thing that his eldest daughter could not provide.
Janine assured Edward that as Rebecca matured, the situation would become less of a problem. "As soon as she meets the right young man and goes to bed with him," Janine said, "she'll forget about what you and I are doing and concentrate on what she and he are doing. It will resolve itself-you'll see."
For a long time, Edward had hoped Janine was right. He had longed for the day when they could marry and he would have a complete family again. Now, however, with the world sugar market so depressed, there was little hope of that. He couldn't very well invite a woman to wed into bankruptcy.
When the plane finally landed at Dorval International outside Montreal, Edward passed through a cursory Canadian immigrations check and proceeded to the baggage-claim area. While he waited for his one suitcase, he used the courtesy phones to check around for a room. He located one at the Meridien in the Complexe Desjardins and reserved it. When his bag appeared on the luggage carousel, he claimed it, walked past a Customs agent in the Nothing to Declare lane and found a taxi.
It was near midnight now and the usual forty-minute ride downtown was reduced to twenty-five by the light traffic. By half past midnight, Edward was checked into his room. By one he was unpacked, had showered and taken a Tagamet for his ulcer, and was in bed. By five past one, the man who doubted he would close his eyes that night was fast asleep.
He slept nine hours. When the sound of the maid vacuuming in the hall woke him up, he thought something was wrong with his watch. Only after he called the desk and verified the time did he believe it. It was the travel, he told himself. And the drinks on the three planes. And, a little perhaps, his age. Forty-four wasn't thirty-six.
He ordered breakfast in the room and showered and shaved while waiting for it. When it arrived, he had the waiter set it up next to the window. From where he ate, he could look down into busy Ste. Catherine's Street. He ate slowly, leisurely-to his surprise, enjoying the food. Then, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, he brought out the file Caldwell had given him and began studying it. A Montreal street map was included in the folder, and whenever Edward came to an address in what he was reading he located it on the map and marked it for reference in relation to where his hotel was situated.
The subject of the folder was one Gole Burgaz, who had been assigned for the past two years to the Turkish legation as a diplomatic aide. He had formerly held the same post at the Turkish Embassy in Washington for three years. Edward found and marked the legation's address on the Boul de Maisonneuve. Burgaz lived alone in a small apartment on the Avenue Lorne. He was known to frequent the Bluenose seafood restaurant on Place Ville Marie, Ruby Foo's Chinese restaurant on Decarie Boulevard, and the Le Fadeau bar on Claude Street. Edward carefully found and marked the approximate location of each on his map.
When he turned to the personal page on the subject, Edward saw that Gole Burgaz was thirty-six, five feet nine, one hundred and forty-five pounds. His hair was black, complexion olive. Nose hooked. Prominent ears. Thick brows. Usually dressed in sportcoats and slacks instead of a business suit. Bought most of his clothes at Four Seasons Menswear on Sherbrooke Street West. Family status in Turkey was unknown. Believed to be a graduate of the Turkish State College of Mines at Bafra.
A metallurgist, Edward thought. Probably involved in securing and smuggling stolen gold out of Canada to his own country. No doubt he had performed similar duties while posted in Washington. Edward studied three photographs of Burgaz: one a copy of his diplomatic passport photo on file with the State Department, another an ID photo from a federal driver's license application, the third an enlargement of a telephoto shot taken of him leaving his embassy in Washington. He was not a particularly sinister-looking man-except around his eyes.
Sitting back and finishing his coffee, Edward decided he would try a direct approach first, at Burgaz's apartment. It was Thursday. A high percentage of people stayed home on Thursday night, allegedly because that same high percentage planned to go out socially on Friday night. If, Edward thought hopefully, he could make the contact at Burgaz's apartment, it might very well be possible to complete his distasteful assignment the first day and be done with it. What a piece of luck that would be. Get back home after only two nights away. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was a little after eleven. Plenty of time, he thought, to make his preparations.
He braced himself. "All right," he said firmly, aloud, "let's go. Get the goddamned thing over with."
At eight-thirty that evening, Edward parked a rented car in the next block down from Gole Burgaz's apartment building on Avenue Lorne. He was careful to park where there were already a number of other cars on both sides of the street. The car he had rented was a black Renault, one of the most common vehicles on Montreal streets.
On the front seat beside Edward was a package in the shape of, but slightly larger than, a square hatbox. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. A hand-lettered label on its top bore Burgaz's name and address. Edward was now wearing a grey deliveryman's jacket which he had purchased, along with a cap, at a uniform shop that afternoon. Above the bill of the cap was a cloth patch which read: DELIVERY SERVICE.
Without pausing in the car even for a minute, Edward took the package, got out, and-in case anyone was casually watching him-walked in the direction away from the Burgaz apartment building. He went all the way around two blocks and approached Burgaz's building from the opposite corner. Anyone seeing him enter the building would not have seen him get out of the car, and vice versa. In the building's small foyer, he quickly scanned the row of bells and pressed the one marked: 2C-G. BURGAZ. A moment later, a voice asked through the intercom, "Yes? Who is it, please?"
"Delivery service, sir," said Edward. "Package for Mr. Gole Burgaz."
"Package? For me? Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Gole Burgaz."
"Who is it from?" the voice asked. There was now a trace of suspicion in its tone.
"Just a moment, sir. I'll have to check my bill of lading-" 'Edward made a few rustling sounds with the brown paper in which the package was wrapped. "It's from Four Seasons Menswear, sir," he announced.
"I don't remember ordering anything from them. Anyway, why would you be delivering at this time of night?"
"We deliver up until ten P.M., sir." Now Edward put a deliberate edge of irritability into his voice. "Do you want me to take it back, sir?"
Silence. Thinking. Waiting. Then: "All right, bring it up."
A buzzer release sounded on the inside door and Edward pushed through it. On the way up to the second floor, he held the package against his chest with his left hand and put his right hand into his coat pocket. He worked a hard-rubber pressure injection ring onto his right index finger. The hard-rubber circle that fit around the top joint of his finger covered a soft-rubber tube which contained a quantity of liquid chlorpromazine. On the underside of the band, next to Edward's palm, was a small hypodermic needle. The slightest pressure from Edward's thumb on the side of the band would cause the tube to act as a syringe and force the chlorpromazine through the hollow needle. Edward had the ring in place by the time he walked up to the door of apartment 2C. Gole Burgaz was standing in the open door waiting for him. Edward smiled as he walked up and asked, "Mr. Burgaz? Here you are, sir."
Burgaz had to take the box with both hands-it was too large to do otherwise. As he did so, Edward quickly raised his right hand to the Turk's neck and pressed the needle into his sternohyoid muscle, releasing the chlorpromazine. Burgaz immediately dropped the package and jumped back, which was exactly what Edward wanted him to do. Edward stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind them.
"Who are you?" Burgaz asked nervously. He began to tremble.
Edward smiled a tight, wry little smile. "I'm a diplomatic aide, like yourself."
Burgaz backed away, his trembling increasing. He put a hand on his neck. "What did you do to me?"
"I injected you with a drug used to treat violent schizophrenics. At the moment you're losing control of your muscles. I'd sit down if I were you."
Burgaz paled and looked down at his knees as they buckled slightly. His body seemed to weave and go slack.
"You really had better sit down," Edward warned. As he was speaking, he was doing other things-taking off the deliveryman's coat and cap and folding them neatly together, unwrapping the package he'd brought with him, opening the box it contained, and removing its contents: an attaché case, a neatly folded suitcoat which matched the trousers he was wearing, a necktie to go with his open-collared white shirt, a hat, and the small leather case Caldwell had given him the previous evening.
Opening the case, he removed the hypodermic ring and placed it carefully in a pocket next to a vial of chlorpromazine. Watching as Burgaz staggered to a chair and sat down heavily, Edward put the leather case, the folded deliveryman's coat, and the cap into the attaché case, then collapsed the box and put it and the wrapping paper on top of the other articles. Closing the attaché case, he set it by the door,
After locating the bathroom, Edward returned and helped Burgaz to his feet. "Come on now, up we go. That's a good fellow."
Burgaz's head flopped about weakly. He tried to speak but his words were slurred and disconnected. "What-me-can't-who-"
"Into the bathroom," Edward said, as much to himself as to Burgaz.
In the bathroom, Edward carefully lowered the helpless man into the tub. Staring with Burgaz's shoes, he began undressing him. As he did, he spoke quietly and matter-of-factly to him.
"You have no muscle coordination, Burgaz, and you can't speak too well or shout, but I know that your mind is completely alert and fully aware of what is happening. So I'm going to tell you why it's happening.
"Nearly three years ago, when you were posted in Washington, you abducted a little eight-year-old black girl from a public playground. You took her to your apartment and for five hours you molested and sexually abused her. The police caught you but you couldn't be punished-you had full diplomatic credentials and under the diplomatic immunity agreement between nations you couldn't be prosecuted. The police were required by international law to release you to the Turkish embassy. Your government subsequently transferred you to the legation here in Montreal."
Edward had the limp man stripped of his outer clothing now and proceeded to remove his underwear. He put all the clothes in a pile next to the tub. When Burgaz was naked, Edward raised each of his of his knees and slid his head and torso down into the tub.
"That little girl you molested has been in a psychiatric hospital ever since. She has terrible nightmares about you. Doctors don't know if she'll ever be the same again."
Burgaz watched in wide-eyed terror as Edward closed the bathtub drain.
"The government of the United States has decreed that you should be punished for your crime against that child, irrespective of your diplomatic immunity. I've been sent here to carry out that punishment."
Edward turned on the water in the tub.
"Goodbye, Burgaz."
The next morning, on an Air Canada 747 non-stop flight to Miami, Edward reflected that paying the agency the job he had owed it had not been such a trying experience after all. Mostly it had been the thinking about it that had been so bad. The job itself had gone remarkably well. There had been no problem at all leaving Burgaz's apartment. Edward had simply put on the necktie, suitcoat, and hat, picked up the attaché case, and left. Anyone who had seen a deliveryman enter the building would have seen a businessman leave. Outside, instead of turning in the direction from which the deliveryman had come, Edward walked directly toward the next block where the Renault was parked. Minutes later, he was gone. It had been one of his smoothest jobs ever. It was oddly satisfying to know that he was still good at it.
When he got to Miami International Airport that afternoon, Edward claimed his bag and rechecked it on a three o'clock BWIA flight to Barbados. He used the time between flights to buy souvenir T-shirts for his daughters and Janine, then got a handful of quarters and found a phonebooth from which to place a call to Caldwell's sanitized private number in Washington.
"The assignment's completed," he reported.
"Really?" said Caldwell. Edward could picture his eyebrows going up. "But I don't know why I'm surprised," Caldwell admitted, "you always were one of the best. Did you know, Edward, that I never graded you less than Excellent on your quarterly fitness report? More often than not, it was Outstanding."
"No, I never knew that," Edward replied.
"Edward," Caldwell insisted, "you must consider coming back to us. Listen, I'll personally guarantee no European assignments. We have more than enough work right here in this hemisphere to keep you busy for at least two years."
"No, I'd never come back," Edward interrupted. "That's final."
"Never say never, my boy," Caldwell chided. Edward remained silent. Finally Caldwell sighed in disappointment. "All right, Edward. It's your decision."
"We're even now, right?"
"Even, yes. Listen, stay in touch at least. Christmas cards, that sort of thing. For old time's sake-"
"Goodbye, Caldwell," Edward said, and hung up.
The BWIA flight got Edward back to Barbados at seven-thirty. Twilight was just beginning to settle over the island. As Edward waited in the open-air baggage-claim area, he breathed in the warm, fragrant breeze that, as usual, was blowing gently in from the west. From nearby trees, he could hear the cooing and cawing of night birds. A few minutes later, he was in a taxi, riding along the Atlantic side of the island. There was no sun left on that side, but it was still light enough to see white waves breaking on white sand. From the island side of the highway came the unique smell of flying fish being fried somewhere.
As the taxi neared Bridgetown, it passed a few small outdoor bars where people were sipping colorful fruit drinks or Banks malt liquor by dancing lantern light. Someone was strumming a guitar-a slow calypso song. Edward thought of Janine-her dark hair piled high, her wide, frank eyes and smooth brown body. He thought of his daughters and how much they loved the island. He thought of his sugar-cane fields and how they would look converted to peanut plants. He thought of Elaine, buried in the island cemetery, and how hard she had worked to help them make their start there.
It was too much to give up.
"Stop at the telephone exchange in town, driver," Edward instructed.
He placed a call from a private booth and had it charged to his home number. Caldwell answered on the second ring.
"You were right," Edward said. "Never say never."
At the other end of the line, Caldwell laughed softly.