The Second Saladinen-auF6100573BD

The Second Saladin
by
Stephen Hunter

Also by Stephen Hunter

FICTION

Black Light

Dirty White Boys

Point of Impact

The Day Before Midnight

Tapestry of Spies

The Master Sniper

NONFICTION

Violent Screen: A Critic's 13 Years on the Front Lines of Movie Mayhem

STEPHEN HUNTER

ISLAND BOOKS Published by Dell Publishing a division of Bantam Doubleday
Dell Publishing Group, Inc. 1540 Broadway New York, New York 10036

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to
the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

The title line "Are There Really Any Cowboys Left in the Good Old
U.S.A.?" is used in the epigraph with the permission of the Algee Music
Corporation. Copyright @ 1980 Algee Music Corporation.

Copyright @ 1982 by Stephen Hunter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher,
except where permitted by law. For information address: William Morrow
and Company, Inc., New York, New York.

The trademark DellO is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark
Office.

ISBN: 0-440-22186-2

Reprinted by arrangement with William Morrow and Company, Inc.

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

May 1998

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Lucy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author would like to thank a great many friends for their assistance
in the preparation of this manuscript. A. Michael Hill and Joseph
Fanzone, Jr., were especially generous with time and good ideas. The
others were Charles R. Hazard, Jack Dawson, Wayne J. Henkel, Richard C.
Hageman, Timothy Hunter, Virginia Hunter, Tom and Bonnie Hasler, Allen
H. Peacock, Nick Yengich, Lenne P. Miller, and David Petzal. My editor,
Maria Guamaschelli, provided, as usual, extraordinary counsel; so did my
agent, Victoria Gould Pryor. My wife, Lucy, to whom the book is
dedicated, did all the crap work which enabled me to write every night;
for that alone she deserves a medal; for putting up with me she deserves
a good deal more. And thanks also to the three Bread Loaf friends-Anne
Eastman, Page Edwards, and Steve Corey-who nursed me through my reading.
Finally, special thanks to Margaret Kahn, "Khanim," author of Children
of the Jinn and one of few Americans to meet the Kurds on their own
terms, for reading and commenting on the manuscript.

We the suicide fighters, heroes of the nation, lions of black times

We shall sacrifice our lives and our property for the sake of liberated
Kurdistan.

We shall wreak vengeance upon the many guilty hands which sought to
destroy the Kurds

And that shall serve as a lesson for the generations to follow.

-HYMN OF THE KURDISH FIGHTERS

Are there really any cowboys left in the good old U.S.A.?

-LACY J. DALTON

THE SECOND SALADIN

Reynoldo Ramirez, moderately prosperous by the standards of his time and
place, imagined himself beyond surprise. He observed the world through
calm brown eyes set wide apart in a calm brown face-an Aztec face, an
Indian face, a peasant's face, a gangster's face, for he was all of
them-and nothing of his considerable bulk suggested a capacity for
astonishment; or foolishness, for that matter; or mercy. He felt he'd
seen most things by now: he'd killed men in fights with knives or fists;
he'd been shot twice, stabbed four times; he'd had three wives and
eleven children, seven of whom still lived; he'd spent six years in
three prisons; and he looked forward at forty-four to a tranquil future,
as befitted the owner of El Palacio, a bar and brothel on the called de
Buenos Aires in the northern Mexican city of Nogales, on the Arizona
border.

Yet, by the Virgin and Her glory, Reynoldo Ramirez was astounded. A
feeling that the simple rhythms of the world had been profoundly upset
crept through him as he sat with his closest associate, the ever-smiling
Oscar Meza, at their usual Number 1 table well back from the bar at El
Palacio. Yet he allowed no sign of concern to disturb the surface of his
face as he regarded the man who now stood before him.

The man was American. Or again, was he? He stood in blue jeans,
impatiently, his face sealed off behind sunglasses. He looked immensely
muscular. He was tan and hawk-nosed. And he had something quite foreign
to the usual pawing, grabbing, yakking, farting gringo: he had dignity,
which Ramirez prized most in this world, having worked so assiduously to
fashion his own.

"Why not just walk up the street and go through the gate?" asked Oscar
Meza in English. It was Oscar's job to handle this sort of negotiation.

"A simple matter. It's done ten thousand times a day. Then you are
there, eh? In wonderful America. Why trouble us with illegal proposals?"
Oscar turned to smile at Ramirez.

"Why not just answer my question?" said the American--or the
maybe-American.

The maybe-American was tall too, and his hair was blondish, light from
the bright sun; and though Ramirez could not see them, he gauged the
eyes, from the skin coloring, to be blue.

Yellow hair and blue eyes: what could be more American?

"It's a dangerous trip," said Oscar, "this trip you propose. It would
cost much money."

"I have money."

"You are a rich man? Why, I wonder, would a rich man-"

"Just talk the business."

Stung, Oscar recoiled. He had merely been sociable. Oscar always tried
to be sociable.

"All right then. Three hundred U.S., cash. No credit cards-" Oscar
turned, pleased with his joke, and smiled at Reynoldo. "Two hundred now.

Then one hundred to morrow morning when you are in Los Estados safe and
sound."

"A boy said it would be one hundred."

"Boys lie," said Oscar Meza. "It's a rule. When I was a boy I lied. All
the time, about everything." He laughed again. "Forget what this boy
said."

No flicker crossed the maybe-American's face.

"I think you are not happy," said Oscar Meza. "We want you to be happy.

Sit down. Look, have a drink, get a woman-there are some pretty ones
here and not too expensive, although you say you are a rich man. Think
it over. You must learn to relax. We want you to be happy. We can work
something out."

Behind his glasses the man remained impassive.

"I want a guarantee."

"Life is too short for guarantees," Oscar said. "Maybe we ought to make
it four hundred, five hundred, a thousand? All this talking is making me
weary. I cannot guarantee what I cannot control and I cannot control
fate."

"A guarantee," said the man.

"I said, no guarantees. Don't you hear so good, mister?"

Ramirez at last spoke.

"Once every twenty nights out, they get you, mister. That's a law. You
may go thirty-eight nights clean, then they get you twice. Or they may
get you twice, then you go thirty-eight. But one out of twenty. I can't
control it. God himself, the Holy Father, He cannot control it. It's the
law."

Oscar said, "You listen good, mister. It's the true law."

"Send this stupid man away," the man said to Ramirez. "He makes me want
to hurt him."

"I'll hurt you, mister," Oscar said. "I'll cut you up damn quick."

"No," Ramirez said. "Go away, Oscar. Get me another Carta Blanca."

Oscar scurried off.

"He's a stupid man," said Ramirez. "But useful in certain things. Now.
Say your case."

"You go a special way. There's a special way you can go. High, in the
mountains. The direction from here is west. A road to a mine which is
old and no longer used gets you there. Is this not right?"

The maybe-American spoke an almost-English. It was passable but
fractured. Even Ramirez could pick out the occasional discordant phrase.

Ramirez looked at him coldly.

"You go this route," the man continued. "Once, maybe twice a year,
depending. Depending on what? Depending on the moon, which must be down.

And depending on the drugs, which you take across to the Huerra family
in Mexico City for delivery to certain American groups. You are paid
five thousand American dollars each trip. And the last time the Huerras
gave you some extra because it went so nice. And I hear it said you
don't give one dollar to the priests of your church, because you are a
greedy man."

Ramirez stared at him. He had known such a moment would one day come. A
stranger, with information enough to kill him or own him forever. It
could only mean the Huerras were done with him and had sold him out, or
that the police had finally ...

"The last run was January sixteenth,"
the man said. "And the next one will be tonight, moon or no moon, and
that's the true law."

Ramirez fought his own breathing.

"Who sent you?"

"Nobody sent me."

"How do you know all this?"

"I have friends."

"Important men?"

"Very important. Very knowledgeable in certain areas."

"You should have come to me and explained. You are a special man. I can
see this now."

The man said nothing.

"You better watch yourself, though. Somebody might put a bullet in your
head."

"Sure, okay, somebody might. And then somebody might come looking for
him and put a bullet in his head too."

Ramirez struggled to take stock. The man had not had anything to drink,
he was not talking wildly, he was not a crazy man. He had much coolness,
much presence. He was a man Ramirez could respect. You wouldn't fool him
too easily. He wouldn't make mistakes. He would make others make the
mistakes.

"All right," Ramirez said. "But it will cost you more. The distance is a
factor, the increased risk, the danger to my way of doing business. This
is no easy thing-it's not running illegals into Los Estados. You want to
go the guaranteed way, you got to pay for it. Or go someplace else, to
some man who'll cut your throat in the desert."

"Nobody cuts my throat. How much?"

"A thousand. Half now, half later."

"You are a thief as well as anything else."

"I am a man of business. Come on, damn you, pay up or go someplace else.
I'm done with talking."

"As God wills it." He handed over the money, counting out the bills.

"Out back, at eleven. Beyond the sewer there's a small shop called La
Argentina. Wait behind it in the yard with the trucks. A van will come.

You'll be in Arizona tomorrow. Pay the man in America, or he'll give you
to the Border Patrol."

The man nodded.

"If nothing goes wrong," he said.

"Nothing will go wrong. I'll drive the damned truck myself."

The man nodded again, and then turned and left.

Oscar returned.

"A gringo pig," he said. "I'd like to cut him up."

Ramirez would have liked to have seen Oscar try to cut the man up. But
he said nothing. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief scented with
persimmon, took a sip from the new glass of Carta Blanca Oscar had
brought him, and looked about.

"Did you notice?" he said to Oscar. "Even the whores left him alone."

But now at least he thought he knew why, and he guessed that tonight the
man would have with him enough cocaine for all the noses in America.

The tall man crouched in the yard behind the small shop called La
Argentina. The odor of human waste from the open sewer in a gully next
to El Palacio was disagreeable and thick. He could hear the music the
Mexicans like, all guitars and vibration. He could see poor Mexican men
gathering in the pools of light along the cobbled street that curved up
the hill behind him. The few minutes passed and a drunk and a whore
wandered into the yard and came to rest not far from him. Their
conversation, in English and Pidgin Spanish, was all of money. The act
of sex that followed lasted but seconds.

The man listened to it dispassionately, the two rutting against the side
of the shop, in the dim light of half a moon. There was a swift cry and
they were done and then another argument. Finally a deal was struck.

Contemptuously, the woman strode away.

"Whore!" the man called, as though he'd just learned it. Then he too
left the yard.

A truck pulled into the yard; its lights flashed twice.

"Hey! Where are you?" called the fat Mexican.

The man waited, watching.

"Damn you. Tall one. Gringo. Where are you, damn you?"

At last he stepped out.

"Here."

"Jesus Mary, you made me jump. Make some noise next time."

"Get on with it."

"In back. There are others. Poor men, looking for work with Tio Sam."

"Others?"

"Just don't bother them. They know nothing of you and care nothing."

The man shook his head.

"Two hours now," Ramirez said. "Longer, because of the special route.

Bad roads, much climbing. But it will go fine. Just don't make no
trouble."

The tall man spat. He climbed into the back of the truck.

"No policemen," he warned.

The truck crawled up the dark and twisting roads through west Nogales.

The shacks began to separate, giving way to wider spaces and the vehicle
moved out of the edge of the city, into rough scrub country. Then it
began to climb slowly and after a while the road became a track, jagged
and brutal.

Ramirez had watched this progress many times; it did not interest him by
now. He was thinking of the man in the back. Yes, the man had had a
bundle with him, a pack of some sort.

It could carry twenty pounds of cocaine. Twenty pounds? Close to a
million dollars' worth. Ramirez reached inside his jacket and touched
the butt of a Colt Python .357 magnum in blue steel, his favorite
pistol.

Jesus Mary, it would be so simple.

The tall man comes out high in the mountains, dazed, probably trembling
with the chill. He blinks, shivering. Perhaps he turns. Ramirez lifts
the pistol, already cocked, and fires once into the center of the body.

Then he'd go into the business himself. no more errand boy for the
Huerras. He had the contacts too; he knew the people in Tucson.

Jesus Mary, it would be simple.

"Turn here?" Oscar Meza asked. "No.

"Keep going?"

Yes.

"Reynoldo, I-"

"Keep going."

"We are going into the mountains. I-"

"Keep straight."

Ramirez reached down and turned on the radio. He fiddled with the dial
until he found a Tucson station. He left it on, thinking of Tucson, a
flat new city on a plain surrounded by mountains. He thought of it as a
city of money, full of Americans with money, full of blond women and
swimming pools.

So simple.

The American country music rolled softly against his ear. The jarring in
the cab was thunderous. He prodded his cowboy hat lower down his face,
masking off his eyes, set his head against the seat back, and stretched
and crossed his legs. He chewed a toothpick and thought of himself as a
don, with a palatial estate in the hills outside Mexico City like Don
Jose Huerra. He thought of blond women and horses.

So how did he know so much? And who was he working for?

This was the crux of Ramirez's dilemma. In three or four sentences he
had delivered up Ramirez's most closely held secret. If he knew of
Ramirez's connection to the Huerras and the mountain route into America,
then"Reynoldo, I can tell. This gringo scares you. Say the word and I'll
go back and finish him. Nothing to worry about."

"Drive on, stupid one," Ramirez said. Oscar was really getting on his
nerves this night. He'd found him five years ago driving an Exclusivo
cab and pimping for American college boys down from Tucson; now the fool
considered himself a right-hand man. Ramirez spat out the window.

"Lights. And go slower."

"Yes, Reynoldo."

The lights vanished.

"Keep the side lights on, idiot. Do you want to go over the side?"

Oscar immediately turned on the lower-powered orange lights.

Ramirez got out a stick of gum as the truck lurched forward. Soon they
were on a ledge and the two Nogaleses were visible, the small and pretty
American one and its larger, less neat brother, spilling awkwardly over
the hills, spangles of light these many miles away. But Ramirez was not
a man for views; in fact, he was looking now in the other direction.

"There," he said suddenly. "Jesus Mary, almost missed her. I'm too old
for this."

Oscar stomped the brake and the van skidded for a breathtaking moment on
the gravel and dirt as its treads failed. Ramirez shot a bad look toward
the idiot Oscar, whose fingers whitely fought the wheel. But the van did
not slide off. Ramirez, cursing, got out, pulling his jacket tight
against him. Cold up here, so high. The men in back would have no coats;
they'd shudder and whimper in the chill. But the gringo?

Ramirez's breath billowed before him. He fished in the brush with gloved
hands until his finger closed on something taut; pulling, he opened a
crude gate wrapped with an equally crude camouflage of brush to reveal a
smaller road leading off the main track.

"She's ready," he called.

The truck eased through the gap, turning. It began to slip and drop.

Oscar double-clutched as the vehicle tipped off, it seemed to fall,
sliding down the incline in a shower of dust, coming at last to rest on
an even narrower road. Ramirez swung the gate shut and scrambled down.

The truck picked its way down the switchback in the dark. Ramirez hung
out of the cab, watching. It was tough work. Twice the fool Oscar almost
killed them, halted by Ramirez's cry, "No! No! Jesus Mary," only inches
before spilling them off into blank space. It was a younger man's game
and Ramirez's heart beat heavily. Once he even walked ahead, aware of
the dark peaks all around him, of the stars and the scalding cold air
and the half-moon, whose presence unnerved him. He'd never been here
before in the gray moonlight. He crossed himself and swore to light a
candle at the shrine of the Virgin.

Finally he ordered, "Kill it."

Ramirez climbed out of the cab and went back to the rear doors.

If you're going to do it, here's the time.

He took out the pistol. He opened the doors. He could smell the men
inside, dense and close.

"Let's go, little boys. Nothing but American money up ahead," he joked
in Spanish, and stood back to watch them clamber gingerly out. They came
one by one-five youngsters and an older man-shivering in the piercing
cold. Ramirez waited, not sure what he would do.

He backed off a little and whispered, "Hey, gringo. Come ahead. We're
waiting. Cold out here."

There was no sound from the truck.

"Hey? you fall out? What's with this hombre, eh?" He leaned forward,
into the interior, and could not quite make out if

The blow smashed him
to the earth. Before he could rise, the man was on him. He could feel a
blade.

"Patron, Patron!" shouted Oscar, rushing to them with a shotgun.

The pistol was pried from Ramirez's fingers; the man rose and stood
back.

"Hey," called Ramirez. "Don't do nothing stupid. The gun is for your
protection. From federale.

"What should I do, Patron?" asked Oscar.

"Tell him to drop that shotgun," said the man.

"Drop it," yelled Ramirez. The gun fell to the dust.

"Now get up," the man said.

Ramirez climbed to his feet, shaking his head. He'd been hit with
something heavy, something metal.

"I was just making sure you don't bounce out," he said. "Don't do
nothing crazy with that gun."

The tall man tossed the pistol into the scrub. Ramirez marked its fall
next to a saguaro cactus that looked like a crucifix. He could pick it
up on the way back.

"Okay?" he asked. "No guns now. We're friends."

"Let's go," said the man.

Ramirez walked ahead, pushing through the knot of men. He didn't wait to
see what the tall man would do. He walked ahead a short way down a path,
hearing them shuffle into line behind him. The moon's soft light turned
the landscape to the color of bone. Ramirez turned.

He spoke in Spanish, quickly and efficiently.

"Now say it for me," said the tall man. "I don't have that language."

"Just telling them how it goes from here. Two hundred meters down the
slope. Then a flat place, over a dry creek, then through some trees. A
gully, a last field to cross. Okay? No tricks. Just the truth, just a
walk in the moon. Some compadres of mine wait on the other side. And you
are with your Tio Sam, eh?"

"Then do it," said the man.

Ramirez led them down the incline, thinking of himself, stupid! stupid!
and trying not to mourn excessively the lost fortune. This hombre was a
smart one!

The ground was stony and treacherous, strewn with cactus and jumping
cholia and other bitter little plants, leather things that caught and
tore at him. The feathery moonlight fell, light as powder. Ramirez
licked his dry lips. The trees, twisted little oaks, were widely spaced
among tufts and rills of scrub and he guided the clumsy party until at
last they passed between the last of the trees and came to a stream, dry
**skip**now, leaped the bed, and gathered finally at the edge of a moon-flushed
meadow.

"Hold up, muchachos," he called. He could hear them breathing
laboriously behind him.

He scurried ahead. Here was the guarantee: a geographic freak in the
landscape, where the underlying sandstone had been drained away until
the land itself collapsed, forming this depression, this sudden,
unexpected, unmapped flat stretch in the heart of otherwise impassable
mountains. Accessible only by the lost road, it was a place where a man
could walk across, where no fences had yet been built, where no border
patrolman had ever set foot. He'd discovered it in 1963 and had been
guiding the drug shipments through since then, three, maybe four times a
year, during the dark of the moon, and never been caught.

But never before in the moonlight. He glanced at the white thing above
him, feeling its cold.

He crossed himself.

He peered ahead. A cool breeze pressed against his face.

He took a flashlight from his coat.

Out there, if the arrangements had worked, were two Americans awaiting
his signal.

Holy Mother, let them be there. Let them be efficient, dedicated gringos
who follow orders.

He blinked twice.

Come on, damn you. You had plenty of time to get ready. The money is
good.

A minute passed.

Come on, damn you.

Two blinks in answer.

He scuttled back.

"Done," he said. "Another five hundred meters. Then you pay-right,
amigos? Then they'll take you to Arivaca by back roads. And you'll be in
the American Nogales by sunup."

"Thank you, Virgin," somebody said.

"Hurry, damn you all. They won't wait. You too, gringo.

They filed past him, the norteamericano last, his pack across one
shoulder.

Good-bye, strange man. I hope never to see you again.

They picked their way across the flat in the moonlight. In a little
while Ramirez lost them, even with the moon. They'd made it, made it
easily, and then the searchlight came on and a harsh voice was yelling
over the loud speaker, "Manos arriba! Manos arriba! Hands up, hands up,
motherfuckers!

They froze in the light. Ramirez watched.

Curse my mother, that whore, he thought.

The voice from above: "Don't move, amigos. Get those hands up. Get 'em
up! Manos arriba."

They stood stiffly, hands high in the glare of the single beam.

Ramirez thought, I ought to get out of here. Jesus Mary.

For Christ Jesus' sake, run, he told himself. But he watched in sick
fascination.

An American officer-in the deep green of the Border Patrol and a
baseball cap and carrying a shotgun--came into the light.

"Face down. Down, goddammit. Descendente pronto!"

The men in the light looked at each other in panic. One young boy turned
back to Ramirez. The gringo stood erect.

"Down, down," screamed the policeman.

They went to their knees. The officer walked behind them and with his
boot nudged one forward into the sand. The others followed.

"Jimmy, get that chopper on the horn again."

"It's coming," came a voice from back near the light.

Luck. Maniac luck, the true law of God. Ramirez cursed his mother for
bearing him and himself for his selfishness to the Virgin. He made a vow
to change all that, crossed himself quickly and spat into the dust.

Clearly this was no raid; he had not been betrayed. There would have
been hundreds of them, with bullhorns, machine guns. And on, his side
federales. He'd seen it before, down below, and once had to run half the
night with an American .38 in his side. But this was just two stupid
gringos with a four-wheel-drive truck. They had been lucky; Ramirez had
been unlucky; the stranger with a million dollars in his knapsack had
been unlucky. Fate, a whore like his mother with clap and no teeth and
ribbons in her filthy hair, laughed at him, spat his way.

The border patrolman had walked around in front of them again and stood
nervously with the shotgun, shifting his weight from leg to leg.

"Buzz him again, Jimmy."

"I just did. He's on his way."

They would wait for the helicopter, for more men, before searching and
cuffing their captives.

Ramirez thought: If the tall man is going to do anything he'd better do
it now.

If he'd had the Python, he could have fired for the light, or even the
patrolman. But that was bad business, shooting norteamericanos. They
were a crazy people; they'd get you for sure. Besides the range was over
two hundred yards, a long shot for a pistol, even a big one.

Ramirez looked again. The long figure lay on the stony soil. His pack
was inches beyond his fingers.

Gringo, do something, do it now. They'll put you away for a century if
they catch you.

Ramirez rubbed his mouth nervously.

A sound of engines, low and pulsing, rose in the distance and began to
build.

"There he is," yelled the one at the truck.

"Okay," yelled the one with the shotgun, easing back a step, half
twisting. He turned his head toward the sound It happened with the speed
of a snake's strike. The patrolman turned, the tall man seemed to
elongate upon the earth, and in the same half-second he had in his hands
a small gun with a blunt barrel, and a spurt of flash broke from the
muzzle and the patrolman fell.

A machine gun! A small machine gun! thought Ramirez, astonished at the
treasure.

The others began to flee the light. A hasty shot rang out to kick at the
dust near the tall man. He stood, holding his weapon with two hands, the
left cupped under the grip for support, and fired carefully into the
vehicle on the ridge. Ramirez heard the glass shattering, the metal
shuddering as the bullets tore through. The searchlight vanished. The
tall man dropped to one knee and swiftly changed magazines in his
weapon. He rose and fired again, and the truck detonated in an oily
orange flash that filled the night with heat and color.

Ramirez blinked as the dust and gas from the blast pushed across him. He
saw purple spinning circles before his eyes from the bright flash. He
squinted them away and turned back to the spectacle before him. Rolling
flames from the ridge illuminated the valley.

The tall man had moved to the fallen Border Patrol officer. Ramirez
watched in astonishment as the tall man bent to the man he'd just slain,
and seemed to close his eyes and a hanging jaw. Then with one hand he
pushed the flattened body to its side and turned it toward Nogales. Then
he grabbed his pack and ran into the darkness.

The roaring of the helicopter became huge. Dust began to whirl and rise
and Ramirez could see the dark shape of it, lights blinking, start to
settle out of the sky. A searchlight beam sprang from the port to play
across the stones.

Ramirez drew back. He knew that inside an hour the federales would
arrive, summoned by the Americans. He knew that more Americans would
come, and more and more. He knew he'd better get the hell out of there.

He prayed that the Americans wouldn't find his gringo compadres, who'd
obviously been spooked by the passing patrol. if they found them and
they talked and they told of Ramirez ... Ramirez crossed himself. Holy
Virgin, I've lied and cheated and stolen and killed, but spare your
sinning child. He prayed intently as he scurried through the moonlight
up the hill. He saw his van ahead and knew he'd make it. He even paused
by the cactus to fetch his pistol.

"What happened?" asked Oscar. "Mother of Jesus, it sounded like a war."

"Mother of Jesus, it was a war," Ramirez said, thinking of the tall
one, for he suddenly realized he'd seen a kind of soldier.

Bill Speight pulled the Chevette to the side of the road, puzzled by
what he saw. He must have lost track of the numbers a while back-some of
these little houses out in the western Chicago suburbs were set so far
back from the street you couldn't read the figures. He reached for and
opened his briefcase and sifted through the papers.

Come on, come on, old fool, he told himself, and at last located the
address. Yes, it was 1104 Old Elm Road. Could he have gotten off the
expressway at the wrong town? But no, he'd seen the exit-he'd been
careful, very careful so far. He was in the right place.

A Roman Catholic church? He searched his memory, yet he could unearth no
remembrance of Paul Chardy that touched on any issue of religion. Had
Chardy gone strange-the brave ones had more than a little craziness in
them anyway-and joined the priesthood? Another priesthood. As if Special
Operations wasn't religious order enough. Yet he could not imagine that
famous temper hidden beneath a priest's habit, nor could he see a
largeboned, impatient, athletic man like Chardy, a man of Chardy's
peculiar gifts, listening in a dark booth to pimply teenagers telling
tales on themselves.

But he looked at the church and saw it was one of those modern things,
more roof and glass than building. A spindly cross way up top stood out
against the bright blue spring sky; otherwise the place could have been
some new convention center. Speight's watery blue eyes tracked back to
the sign and confronted it squarely: OUR LADY OF THE RESURRECTION ROMAN
CATHOLIC CHURCH AND SCHOOL, the letters white and blocky, slotted onto a
black background, and beneath them the legend: LEARN To FORGIVE
YOURSELF. Speight winced at the advice. Could he? Could Paul?

But the school part made some sense. He could imagine Chardy among
children, not among nuns and priests. For Chardy had still a little of
the athlete's boyishness, the gift for exhilaration which would
captivate children. That was his best half, his mother's half, but what
about the other side, his father's side, the Hungarian side, which was
moody and sullen and turbulent?

At that moment a class of kids came spilling out from behind the church
onto an adjacent blacktopped playground. So much energy; they made
Speight feel his age. The panorama was raucous and vast and not a little
violent, and the one bearded old geezer in a raincoat, who was
supposedly in command, stood so meekly off to one side that Speight
feared for him.

It was nearly noon. What lay ahead filled him with melancholy and
unease; he wasn't sure he could bring it off. Sighing heavily, he pulled
the car into the church's parking lot and found a place to park, marked
VISITOR-he searched for it at some length, not wanting to break any
rules-and began a long trudge to the buildings, his briefcase heavy in
his hand.

His walk would take him through the playground, where balls sailed and
bounced and kids hung like monkeys off the apparatus. All the boys wore
scrawny ties, he saw-now that's not a bad idea; his own kids dressed
like tramps--and the girls kilts. But the imposed formality didn't cut
any ice with the little brutes. They still fought and shoved and
screamed at each other, and at one point the supervisor had to bound
over to break up a bad scuffle. Kids. Speight shook his head, but he
wasn't really paying much attention.

He was worried about Chardy. You don't just go crashing back into
somebody's life after seven years-or was it now eight?-and take up where
you left off. And it was true that at the end, at the hearings, Bill
hadn't done Paul much good. He'd just told the truth, and the truth
hadn't helped Chardy at all, and maybe even now Chardy would hold it
against him. Chardy had a famous temper; Chardy had once slugged a Head
of Station.

Bill stopped in the middle of the playground. He felt a little queasy.

He wished he had a Gelusil. The church building loomed above him; he was
surrounded by children. He had to go to the bathroom suddenly. Maybe he
could find a john and get settled down, get himself composed.

But then, maybe the best thing would be to get it over with. Get it over
with fast. He'd come this far, quite a way.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a Binaca canister, and squirted a
blast of the mouthwash into his mouth. Its cool sweetness pepped him up
considerably, burying that sour taste that had collected in his throat.

I'll just do it.

He turned as a basketball glanced off his knee and a horde of little
jerks roared by in pursuit.

"Hey, excuse me." He hailed the old duffer, who was bent in conference
with two sniffling children. "Is there an office around here? Where
would I find an office?"

"Are you sure you're looking for the office, Bill?" asked Paul Chardy,
rising.

"DAMNIT! It was the coat, cloaking the man's size. And it was the beard,
surprisingly shot with gray, masking the dark half-irish face, blurring
that pugnacious chin. And the hair, longish, almost over the ears, where
Paul's had always been short, after the military fashion, like Bill's
own. And it was also the playground full of kids, the bright sun, the
bouncing, sailing balls, the noise, the church: it was all so different.

The last time Bill had seen Paul had been at an arms dump on the border.
Chardy wore baggy khaki pants then, and an embroidered coat and a
black-and-white turban and sunglasses and had magazine bandoliers
crisscrossed on his chest like some kind of bandit and had been almost
mahogany from the sun. He'd carried a Soviet assault rifle, the AK-47,
and had a couple of rocket propelled grenades in their launchers slung
over his back, and a belt full of Russian grenades.

"I-I didn't recognize you, Paul. The beard-you look so different."

"Old Bill, Jesus. I saw you getting out of the car. They still make you
rent cheap little Chevys, huh? How are you?" He took Bill's hand and
shook it. "You're looking good, Bill."

"You're lying, Paul. I'm looking old, which is what I am. You're getting
some gray yourself."

It's these kids. I look a hundred. These damned kids, they took my
youth." He laughed, and clapped Bill on the back.

"Paul, we had some trouble finding you."

"You were supposed to. That was the point."

"Well, anyway. it's some old business. Have you got a minute?"

Chardy looked at his watch, a big Rolex. He still had it. All the
Special Operations people wore them.

"This is my most open period. They work you pretty hard in these joints.

I'm off around five. Can it wait?"

"Ah." It couldn't. Get to it, they'd told Speight. Don't give him time
to think about it, to nurse his furies. Plunge in.

I know, Speight had answered bitterly. I'm not a kid at this game
either, you know; thinking, you bastards.

"Well," Speight started, feeling out positioned in his first move, "it's
only that-"

But Chardy darted off-he still had that old quickness-shouting, "Hey,
hey, Mahoney, Mahoney," and leapt into some sort of ruckus, pulling
apart two squalling, clawing ' boys. He shook the big one hard, once,
and spoke to him in an earnest, deadly voice. Speight imagined Chardy
speaking to him like that.

Chardy came back. "That little prick thinks he's tough. He likes to hit
people," he said. "His father's a cop."

"Paul, I never would have imagined this kind of a life for you," said
Speight, stalling.

"At the parochial schools," Chardy said, looking at him squarely with
those dark eyes, "you don't need a degree in education. You just need to
be willing to work like a horse for peanuts. A big-deal sports
background helps. What about you, Bill? Still playing cowboy?"

"They put me in a different section. Over in Central Reference."

"Siberia."

"Just perfect for a harmless old geezer like me."

"You show 'em, Bill."

"Paul, about the Melman hearings. You're not mad? I just told them what
I'd seen."

"Forget it. It doesn't matter."

Bill licked his lips.

"Thanks, Paul."

"Is that why you came?"

"Well, it's-"

But Chardy darted off again. Speight stood helpless and watched him
handle another crisis. Was that all these kids did, fight? But that's
all grown-ups did, wasn't it?

Presently Chardy returned. "They really keep you jumping," he said.

"They sure do."

"Well, Bill?"

So this would be it then. On the playground, full of kids, no time to
sit down and work it out in a civilized fashion. Chardy was playing him,
he could tell. It was a no-win situation, all the noise, all the
distraction. He wouldn't handle it well. A presentiment of failure
crossed his mind.

We should have sent somebody younger, they would say, back at Langley.

They would say it to his face. They could be so cold these days.

"This," Bill said, lurching ahead. He drew from his pocket and offered
Chardy-who accepted it reluctantly-his treasure, the thing that had them
running in circles at Langley.

Chardy looked at it, rolling it in his palm.

"A seven-six-five-millimeter Czech auto pistol shell. Must be ten
million of these things floating around the world."

"Look at that scratch on the rim, where the ejector rod popped it out of
the breach," Bill said.

"It's a Skorpion shell. I can recognize a Skorpion shell. There're
Skorps all over the world. African generals love the god damned things."

"Let me give you the rest of it."

Chardy looked at him. Bill could never read Chardy. The dark eyes
squinted; the mouth now lost in beard seemed to tighten.

"Go ahead."

"That particular shell is from a cache of stuff some boys from a
battalion of the One-seventy-third Airborne liberated on a
search-and-destroy in July 'sixty-seven, a big Charlie ammo dump out
near Qui Nhon. Mostly AK-FORTY-sevens, and those mean-ass RPG rocket
launchers. Some mortars, some light artillery. The usual. But also a
Skorpion. Very unusual for nam in 'sixty-seven because the Czech stuff
didn't start showing up until much later. But there was a single mint
Skorpion in this dump, still packed in grease, and thirty-five hundred
rounds of seven-six-five."

"And you're telling me this is one of those thirty-five hundred rounds?"

"Yep," Bill Speight said almost proudly. "The arsenal marks check out
exactly. See here on the base. It's marked"VZ-sixty-one." That's their
manufacturing code for the Bmo Arsenal and that lot of seven-six-five
was made in January 'sixty-six. Same lot as we found in"Nam. It can't be
coincidence. You know what happened to that ammo?"

Chardy said nothing.

"Well, sure you do, Paul," Bill said. "We took that Skorpion and
twenty-five hundred of those rounds into Kurdistan with us in
'seventy-three. In the operation we called Saladin Two, the Kurdish
show. My show, your show. Especially, at the end, your show. Along with
the other stuff, the AKS, the RPGS. Enough to start a small war. And we
did start a small war."

Bill knew all about gear. His specialty was logistics, clandestine
resupply, and he had organized the distribution of arms to guerrilla
operations all over the globe, back when he was one of the cowboys of
the Special Operations Division. He had been through some hairy moments
himself.

Chardy nodded, as if in memory of the small war and its hairy moments.

"And you recall that you gave Skorpion to a certain man?"

"I gave it to Ulu Beg," Chardy said. "Where'd you get it?"

Speight told him of the deaths of the two Border Patrol officers.

"That case was one of forty recovered on the site. He fired two
magazines. Those officers were torn up pretty bad. You know what a
Skorpion can do."

The Skorpion was a Czech VZ-61, a machine pistol. Ten inches long with
its wire stock folded, it weighed three and a half pounds and fired at
840 rounds per minute, cyclical. It was one of the world's rare true
machine pistols, smaller than a submachine gun and deadlier than an
automatic pistol.

"Bill, it's just one shell. You're dreaming. You're building crazy cases
from nothing. A shell, an arsenal mark, a scratch in the brass."

"And there's this, Paul," Bill said. He reached into his briefcase and
after thumbing through the reports from Science and Technology, the
airline tickets, the maps, he came up with a picture of a body in the
desert.

Chardy looked at it.

"How was he facing?" Chardy asked.

"He was facing east. The report says the body was moved. They think the
killer was searching for money or something. Yet the wallet was left
untouched. They can't figure it. But you could figure it, couldn't you?"

"Sure," Chardy said. "He didn't mean to kill the guy. He didn't want to.

He felt bad about it. So in the frenzy of the moment, he tries to help
his soul to paradise. He turns him on his right side, and faces him
toward Mecca, as the Kurds bury their dead."

"You saw enough of it, Paul."

"I guess I did. A Kurd is here. Maybe Ulu Beg himself "

"Yes, Paul. After all, we never got any confirmation of his death after
Saladin Two went under. And if it's any of them, it's him. And you know
how the Kurds feel about vengeance."

A bell rang.

Bill looked to Chardy. The moment was here; shouldn't Chardy be
reacting? A man he'd trained and fought next to and lived with seven
years ago in Kurdistan was here, with a gun, willing to kill.

The children began to collect in a riotous mass near a set of steel
double doors. Nuns appeared. Small skirmishes broke out.

"Mr. Chardy-" a nun called from the doors.

"Paul, it's-"

"I know what it is, Bill," Chardy said. "Goddamn you, Bill, for bringing
all this back," He turned and went inside with the kids.

So Bill had to wait after all. He found a bar, a seedy, quiet little
place in the next town up the road, and killed the afternoon with
rum-and-Cokes at a table near a pinball machine in an empty room. He
smoked half a pack of Vantages. He set the glasses before him in a neat
formation. He had five of them at the end.

He's got to come, he thought. He'll think it over; he'll see it's just
as much his job as anybody's. Ulu Beg is a loose end of a Chardy
operation, no matter that Chardy was kicked out, no matter that he's
been hiding out here, playing schoolteacher all these years. He has to
come, Bill thought, wobbly.

It's his legacy. He stood for something, all those years. He was one of
the heroes, one of the cowboys, and the thing about the cowboys, they
never said no. Nothing was too hairy for a cowboy. They were crazy, some
people said, they were animals; and lots of the staff couldn't stand
them. But when you needed a cowboy, he was there, he went in. He lived
for going in; it's why he became a cowboy in the first place, wasn't it?

Bill tried to convince himself He looked at his Seiko and had trouble
reading the hands. He'd had too much to drink; he knew it.

"You okay, mister?" The waitress, looking down at him.

"Sure, I'm fine."

"You better call it quits," she said.

"Truer words," he said, laughing grandly, "was never spoke."

The traffic had gotten pretty thick and he didn't reach Our Lady of the
Resurrection until 5:15. He parked again in the visitors' space and
walked across the empty playground to the school and entered.

He blinked in the darkness. Children's paintings hung along the dim
corridor. Speight thought them absurd, cows and barns and airplanes with
both wings on the same. side of the fuselage. The crucifixes made him
nervous, too, all that agony up there on bland, pale green walls. He
encountered a nun and overdid the smile, worried she'd smell the booze
or pick up on the vagueness in his walk. But she only smiled back, a
surprisingly young girl. Next he found a group of boys, scrawny and
sweaty in gym clothes, herding into a locker room. They seemed so young,
their bones so tiny, their faces so drawn, like child laborers in some
Dickensian blacking factory. But one was bigger, a black boy, probably
the star.

"Is Mr. Chardy around, son?" Speight asked him.

"Back there," the boy said, pointing down the hall.

The destination turned out to be an old gym, waxy yellow under weak
lights that hung in cages too low off the raftered ceiling. They must
have built this place twenty years before they built their slick
glass-and-brick cathedral. One end of it was an auditorium, with a
stageful of amateurish props for what would be some dreadful production.

Speight saw Chardy, in gray sweats, a wet double dark spot like Mickey
Mouse ears growing splotchily across his chest, with some kind of bright
band, like an Indian brave or something, around his head at the
hairline. He wore white high-topped gym shoes and was methodically
sinking one-handed jump shots from twenty or twenty-five feet out. He'd
dribble once or twice, the sound of full, round leather against the wood
echoing through the still air, then seize the ball and seem to weigh it.

Then the ball rode his fingers up to his shoulders, paused, and was
launched, even as Chardy himself left the floor. The ball rose
perfectly, then fell and, more often than not as Speight watched,
swished through. Occasionally it did miss, however, and then the bearded
man would lazily gallop after it and scoop it off the bounce one-handed,
and turn and rise and fire again, and he looked pretty good for a
man-what, now?-nearly forty. He did not miss twice in a row in the ten
silent minutes Bill stood in the doorway watching him.

At last Bill called, "You're still a star."

Chardy did not look over. He completed another shot, then answered,

"Still got the touch."

His talent with a ball was one part of the legend. During his two
stateside tours-Aisasters in other respects he'd torn up the Langley gym
league, where a surprisingly competitive level of basketball was played
by ex-college jocks; Chardy had set scoring records that, for all Bill
knew, still stood. Chardy had been some kind of All-american at the
small college he'd gone to on a scholarship, and he'd had a tryout with
a pro team.

He canned another jumper and then seemed to tire of the exercise. The
ball rolled across the floor into darkness. Chardy retrieved a towel and
came over to Bill.

"Well, Old Bill, I see I didn't wait you out."

"Did you really want to, Paul?"

Chardy only smiled at this interesting question.

Then he said, "I guess they want me. I guess I'm an asset again."

Why deny it? Speight thought. "They do. You are."

Chardy considered this.

"Who's running the show. Melman?"

"Melman's a big man now. Didn't you know? He's Deputy Director of the
whole Operations Directorate. He'll be Director of it someday, maybe
even DCI if they decide to stay in the shop."

Chardy snorted at the prospect of Sam Melman as Director of Central
Intelligence, with his picture on the cover of Time and News, Eeek as
had been Helms's and Colby's and Turner's.

"We're not even running this thing out of Operations, Paul. We're
running it out of Management and Services, their office of Security.

So-"

"What the hell is this Operations'?" Chardy asked suddenly.

He really had been out of touch, Speight realized.

"I'm sorry. You were in the mountains, I guess, when they reorganized. I
didn't learn until later myself. Plans is now called Operations."

"It sounds like a World War Two movie."

"Paul, forget Operations. Forget the old days, the old guys. Forget all
that stuff. Forget Melman. He was just doing his job. He'll be a long
way away from you. Think about Ulu Beg in America."

"All the stuff about Ulu Beg is in the reports, in the files. The
reports of the Melman inquiry. Tell them to dig that stuff out."

"They already have, Paul. Paul, you know Ulu Beg, you trained him. You
fought with him, you know his sons. You were like a brother to him.

You-"

But talk of Ulu Beg seemed to hurt Chardy. He looked away, and Speight
saw that he'd have to play his last card, the one he didn't care for,
the one that smelled. But it had been explained to him in great detail
how important all this was, how he could not fail.

"Paul-" He paused, full of regret. Chardy deserved better than the shot
he was about to get. "Paul, we're going to have to bring Johanna Hull in
too."

Chardy said, "I can't help you there. I wish I could. Look, I have to
take a shower."

"Paul, maybe I'd better make myself clearer." He wished he'd sucked down
a few more rum-and-Cokes. "These are very cold people, Paul, these
people in Security. They're very cold about everything except results.

They're going to have to bring Johanna under some kind of control-and
they want you to do it-because they think Ulu Beg will go to her. She's
about the only place he could go. But if you don't do it, believe me,
they'll find somebody who will."

Chardy looked at him with disgust.

"It's gone that far?"

"They're very frightened of Ulu Beg. They'll play rough on this one."

"I guess they will," Chardy said, and Speight knew he'd won his little
victory.

He assumed they would be hunting him, but it did not matter and did not
particularly frighten him. He had been hunted before-by Iraqi soldiers
and policemen, by Arabs, by Iranians, by Kurds even. Now Americans.

But what could they do? For he was in the mountains now. Ulu Beg felt
almost comfortable here; he knew this place. He had been born and raised
in mountains and fought in mountains and these, though in many ways
different, were in just as many ways the same as his own.

They were known as the Sierritas, ranging northward from the border for
twenty or thirty kilometers before panning out into cruel desert plain
on the way to the American city of Tucson.

These mountains were perfect, a wilderness of bucking scrub foothills
shot with oaks and bitter, brittle little plants poking through the
stony ground; until, reaching the altitude of 5,000 feet, they exploded
suddenly into stone, a cap, a head of pure rock, bare and raw and
forbidding. The saying went, "Each mountain is a fortress," and he felt
the security of a fortress up here.

Let them come. He'd learned his skills in a hundred hard places and
tested them in a hundred more and would set his against anybody's in
mountains. But he doubted Americans would try him. They were said to be
a people of pleasure, not bravery. Still, suppose they had a Jardi to
send against him?

The Kurd paused on a ledge, staring at the peaks about him, dun-colored
in the bright sun. Everywhere he looked it was still and silent, except
for a push of wind against his face.

What if it were written above that a Jardi would be sent against him?

What if that were God's will?

Who knew the will of God? What point was there in worrying about it?

Yet, still ... But there was another advantage, beyond security, to
the solitude in the higher altitudes. And that was privacy: he could
still think like a Kurd, move like a Kurd, be a Kurd. There wasn't the
press of maintaining a fictitious identity, which was as hard as
anything he'd ever done.

"You must be one of them," he had been instructed. "But it won't be
hard," they assured hiro. "Americans think only of themselves. They have
no eyes for the man next to them. But of course, certain small
adjustments must be made in your natural ways. Do you agree?"

"Yes," he said. "Teach me. I will make any sacrifice, pay any cost. My
life is nothing. It has no meaning other than as the instrument of my
vengeance."

"Excellent," they complimented him. "Your hate is very pure, and to be
nourished. It will sustain you through many difficulties. Some men must
be taught to hate. You come to it with a gift. You are holy. You make a
holy war."

"This is not holy," he had said, glaring, and watched them show their
discomfort at the force of his glare. "It is a blasphemy. I must defile
myself. But it is no matter."

He moved northward through the mountains slowly, enjoying his journey.

He crossed a dirt road late in the night in a low place. He skirted
campsites, places where Americans came to play. The sky was fiercely
blue, angrily blue, and in it a sun of almost pure whiteness, a
radiance, beat down. The clouds were thin and scattered. At the top of
one mountain he could see nothing but other mountains. One spine of
crests gave way to another. There was dust everywhere, carried by the
wind, and even patches of snow, scaly and weak, that gave when he put
his American boots through them. At twilight the mountains were at their
richest and in the shadows and the soft air they seemed almost kesk o
sheen, a certain blue-green shade close to the Kurdish heart which spoke
of spring and, more deeply, of freedom to travel the passes, to move
through what they held to be theirs by right of two thousand years of
occupation: Kurdistan.

At one point he saw a vehicle. He ducked back, for just a second,
terrified. The thing lurched up a gravel track, an ungainly beast.

Something in the way it moved: sluggish yet determined. He felt his body
tensing, and a feeling of nakedness-the nakedness of the
prey-overwhelmed him.

The vehicle pulled to a level stretch. He saw it was almost a bus,
gaudily painted, an expensive thing. Bicycles were lashed to its rear
and the top was bulky with camping gear. He sat back, watching the thing
move. It was obviously some kind of vacation truck for rich or fancy
Americans, so that they could tour the wilderness in high style, never
far from showers and hot water.

He watched it poke along beneath him, pulling a trail of dust, glinting
absurdly, its bright colors flashing in the sunlight. It was almost a
comical sight, a preposterous American invention. No other country but
America could have produced such a thing. He wanted to smile at the
idiocy of it.

America!

Land of wealthy fools!

Yet he continued to breathe heavily as the machine passed from view.

Why? What frightens me about this monstrosity? You'll be among them
soon, if things go well. Is this how you'll perform, frozen with terror
at the sight of the outlandish?

You'll never make it.

I must make it.

But it had been terror in his heart. Why?

Was it the shooting at the border? Would there be a huge manhunt for
him? Would his mission be endangered? These things troubled him, but not
nearly so much as the killing of the two men.

It put a darkness on his journey, a bad beginning Damn that fat Mexican!

They had told him this Mexican knew the best way, the safest way. The
Mexican would get him across.

What would happen to the Mexican now? He was glad he wasn't the Mexican,
because he knew now the Mexican was expendable. They would have to take
care of the Mexican, because of the stir the shooting would make.

Death, more death, still more death. It was a chain. Every little thing
leading out of the past into the future: heavy with death.

The two policemen, dead, for being in the wrong place. The Mexican,
dead. And he himself, ultimately, finally ... "If they catch you, you
have failed. They will never free you. They will use you and use you. Do
you understand this?"

"I do."

"It is not that in captivity you no longer can advance your cause; it is
that you hurt it. You destroy it. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Swear then. We will help and support you, but you must swear. You will
not be taken alive. Do you swear?"

"Kurdistan ya naman," he swore. Kurdistan or death.

He lingered in the mountains a week, for in them he went unhunted. He
lived on the flat Mexican bread in his pack and on jojoba nuts and
mesquite beans, as he had been instructed. But the land began to flatten
beneath him until on the eighth morning there were no mountains except
the ones rimming the horizon, crusty brown in the distance, and to get
there he had to cross the flatness wavering before him in the sun,
sending off a smoky radiance Of PUTE heat. It was the desert valley that
led to Tucson, a journey too dangerous for the dark.

"Beware the desert," he'd been told. "If you have to cross the desert
you are an unlucky man."

But beyond the desert lay Tucson and in Tucson lay a bus route into
America and toward the Northeast, where his destiny was surely,
written above.

He set out early. He found it a wilderness of needles, of things that
could hurt. It was, in its cruel way, quite beautiful too, an abstract
of the textures of death. Over each rise or gentle dip, through the
crumbling rocky passes, down the easy glades, up the rock buttes, each
shift yielded a new panorama. Yet what impressed him most in this long
day's journey was not the danger or the beauty but something entirely
else: the silence.

There is no silence in the mountains, for always there is wind, and
always something to blow in its path. Here, on the bright floor of the
earth, he could hear nothing. There was no wind, no noise, nothing but
the sound of his own boots sloughing through the dust or across the fine
rocks.

There was no water either, and the heat was suffocating. He thought only
of water. But there was no water and no mercy, only the sense that he
had to move ahead. Miles beyond stood a last escarpment of hills, and
beyond that had to lie Tucson.

He hurried onward, the dust thick in his throat. The saguaro cactus
towered above him, exotic and beckoning. And a hundred other needled
monsters, some whose delicate flowers mocked their ugly spikes. Small
tough leaves slashed at his boots. He raced ahead, exposed in the great
undulating flatness. He knew he had only a day to make the journey, for
he'd freeze out here at night, and the next day the sun would come and
bake him.

"A day, if it comes to a desert crossing. You've got a day. Your body
can take no more." They told him stories of Mexican illegals who'd been
led into the desert by unscrupulous smugglers and abandoned and how
they'd died in horrible agony in just hours at the hottest time of the
day.

He pushed ahead, feeling the blood pulsing in his temples. The shirt off
and wrapped about his head in the fashion of a turban gave some relief
from the heat; he wore only an undershirt over his body. But at each
rise he prayed the mountains had moved closer and at each rise he was
disappointed.

Kurdistan ' va naman.

The pack had become hugely heavy, yet he clung to it.

He pushed ahead.

In the early afternoon, there was a helicopter, low off the horizon.

Always helicopters, he thought, always helicopters.

He ducked quickly into a ravine, opening his wrist on the knifelike
leaves of some grotesque plant. The blood spurted. He listened to the
roar of the machine, an almost liquid sloshing, the rising pulse.

He crouched into the side of the ravine as the noise grew. He reached
inside the pack and touched the Skorpion.

But the noise died.

He climbed and faced the same bright frozen sea of sand and spiny
vegetation. His head now ached and the wrist would not stop stinging. In
all directions it was the same-the crests of sand, the cacti, the cruel
scrub under a broad sky and a fierce sun. In the distance, the
mountains. Ulu Beg rose and headed on, facing death.

By mid-afternoon he began to get groggy. He fell once and didn't remember
falling, only finding himself on his knees at the bottom of a slope. He
stood, his knees buckled, he went down again. He got up slowly,
breathing hard, stopping to rest with his hands on his knees. He thought
he saw that bus, that crazy bus pulling toward him, full of blond
Americans, rich and well-fed, their children riding before them on
bicycles.

He blinked and it was all gone.

Or was it? Caught in his mind was a memory of the vehicle, the
awkwardness of a thing so huge. In its tentativeness, its absurdity-but
also its determination there'd been a memory.

He called it up before him.

They had marched for days down through the mountains to the foothills
near Rawdnddz, and set the ambush well, with great patience and cunning.

Jardi was with them. No, Jardi was one of them.

There had been thirty of them altogether, with Ulu Beg's own son Apo
along because he'd begged to go. They had the new AKS that Jardi had
brought and the RPG rockets that he'd shown them how to use, and a light
machine gun; and Jardi had his dynamite, which he'd planted in the road.

They caught the Iraqi convoy in a narrow enfilade in the foothills, men
of the I Ith Mechanized Brigade who had not a week before razed a
Kurdish village, killing everybody. Jardi exploded his dynamite on the
lead truck and they'd all fired and thirty seconds later the road was
jammed with broken, burning vehicles, mostly trucks.

"Keep firing," Jardi yelled, for the shooting had trailed off after the
initial frenzy.

"But-"

"Keep firing!

Jardi was a fierce man, crazy in action, a driven man. The Kurds had a
phrase: a fool for war. He stood behind them, his eyes dark and angry,
gesturing madly, screaming, exhorting them in a language only Ulu Beg
could understand, communicating nevertheless out of sheer intensity.

Standing now, striding up and down the line, howling like a dog, his
turban pushed off so that his short American hair showed, oblivious
totally to the bullets that had begun to fly up from the dying convoy at
them.

He was in some ways more Kurdish than any of them, a Saladin himself,
who could inspire them to heroic deeds by nothing greater than his own
ruthless passion. He loved to destroy his enemies.

"Pour it on. Keep pouring it on," he yelled.

Ulu Beg, firing clip after clip of his AK-47 into the burning trucks and
the huddled or fleeing figures, watched as the Kurdish fire devastated
the convoy. He could see glass shattering, the canvas of the trucks
shredding, the tires deflating. Now and then a smaller explosion and a
puff of flame rolled up as one or another of the petrol tanks detonated.

And soon no fire came from the trucks.

"Cut," Jardi yelled.

The Kurdish fire died down.

"Let's get 'em out of here," Jardi yelled to Ulu Beg.

"But, Jardi," Ulu Beg called, "there's weapons and booty down there."

"Not enough time," said Jardi. "Look, that scout car." He pointed to a
Russian vehicle on its side at the head of the convoy. "Look at the
aerial on that baby. The jets'll be here in a few minutes."

That was Jardi too: in the middle of battle, with bullets flying about,
he was coolly noting which vehicles had radios-and estimating what their
range was and how soon Migs would respond to the ambush.

Ulu Beg stood.

"It's time to flee," Ulu Beg yelled.

But it was too late. Far down the line he saw three men break cover and
begin to gallop toward the crippled vehicles, their weapons high over
their heads in exultation.

"No," commanded Ulu Beg, "stop---"

But two more broke from the line and others turned back toward him,
frozen in indecision.

"Back," he shouted.

"We must leave the others," Jardi said. "The jets'll be here in
seconds."

But one of the men was Kamran Beg, a cousin, who had been bodyguard to
the boy Apo.

Ulu Beg saw his own child rise from the gully and begin to run down the
hill.

"What the hell," said Jardi. "Why the hell did you-"

"I did nothing. I-"

Then they saw the tank. It was a Russian T-54, huge as a dragon. It
swung into the enfilade. Tanks had never come this high before. Ulu Beg
watched as the creature swung along on its tracks, its turret cranking.

It moved with awkwardness, tentative even, despite its weight.

"Down!" Jardi yelled, in the second before the tank fired.

The shell exploded under the first three running men. They were gone in
the blast. Others raced up the hill. The machine gun in the turret cut
them down.

The small boy lay still on the ground.

Ulu Beg rose to run to him, but something pressed him to the earth.

"No," somebody hissed in his ear.

Jardi vaulted free and raced down the slope. He had abandoned his rifle
and held only a rocket-propelled grenade. He ran crazily, not bothering
to veer or dodge. He ran right at the tank.

Its turret swung to him. MacHine-gun bullets cut at the earth and Ulu
Beg could see them reaching for Jardi, who seemed to slide in a shower
of dust as the bullets kicked by him.

He lay still.

The tank began to heave up the ridge toward them.

Ulu Beg saw that they were finished. They couldn't get back up the
slope; the tank would shoot them down. A tank. Where had it come from?

He tried to clear his brain. He could think only of his son, dead on the
slope, the brave American, dead on the slope, his men, his tribe, dead
on the slope.

But Jardi rose. He was not hit at all. He rose, sheathed in the dust
he'd fallen through, and stood, one leg cocked insolently on a stone. A
wind came and his jacket billowed. From down the slope they could hear
Jardi cursing loudly, almost-the man was crazy-laughing.

The tank turret swung to him again. But Ulu Beg saw that Jardi was close
enough now and that the big gun would never reach him in time, and as
its barrel swung on to him Jardi fired the RPG one-handed, like a
pistol.

The rocket left in a fury of flame, spitting fire as it flew, and struck
the tank on the flat part of the hull, just beneath the turret.

The tank began to burn. It fell back on its treads and flames began to
pour from its hatch and from its engines. Smoke rose and blew in the
breeze.

Jardi threw away his spent launching tube and ran quickly to the
boy. He hoisted him and climbed up to them, but he had no smile.

"Come on, get these guys out of here," he said. "Come on," he turned to
shout at them, "get going, Jesus, you guys, get going!"

The boy was crying.

Ulu Beg was crying.

"You have given my son his life back."

"Come on, get going," Jardi urged.

They climbed to the mountains and were over the crest when the first
jets arrived.

Ulu Beg smiled in the memory of that day.

Ahead, the mountains loomed.

He reached them at twilight. Toward the end he'd crossed a road and
ahead he could see another road, one that crawled up the side of the
mountain, but he did not go near it. Cars moved along it. In the falling
dark he climbed cold rocks. He found a trickle of water. He tracked it
to a pool, and then found the spring. He drank deeply. He sat back. He
ate a piece of his dry bread, and drank again. He was in the chill of a
shadow but could look out and see the desert, still white and flat and
dangerous.

He climbed up. At the top, the city of Tucson lay before him. He saw a
city built on sand, on a plain, cupped on all sides by other mountains.

A few tall buildings stood in its center but it was mostly a kind of
ramshackle newness. It was nothing like Baghdad, which was very, very
old, and on a huge river.

God willed it, he thought, and I have made it.

He thought of Jardi and the tank and his son and why he had come to
America and he began to weep.

In the morning he rose with the sun. He opened his pack, pushed the
machine pistol out of the way, and found his other shirt, a white thing
with snap buttons. He pulled the shirt on.

They had prepared him well. But they had also warned him.

"America is like nothing you've ever seen. Women walk around with
breasts and buttocks exposed. Food and lights everywhere, everywhere.

Cars, more cars than you can imagine. And hurry. Americans all hurry.

But they have no passion. Any Turk has passion. Among Turks and Mexicans
and Arabs, passion runs high. But Americans are even lower, for they
feel nothing. They move as though asleep. They do not care for their
children or their women. They speak and talk only of themselves.

"In all this, you will be dazzled. Expect it. There is no way we can
prepare you for the shock of it all. Even a small city in America is a
spectacle. A large one is like a festival of all the peoples of earth.

But remember also: the grotesque is common in America. Nobody will
notice, nobody will care, nobody will pay you any attention. Nobody will
ask you for papers if you are cautious. You need no permits, no
licenses. Your face is your passport. You may go anywhere."

Ulu Beg reinstructed himself in these lessons as he came down the last
hill in the dawn li-ht to the road. He moved swiftly. The distance was
but a few twisting miles and the cars that sped by paid him no
attention. The houses quickly became thick: small places of cinderblock
in the sand and scrub. At each house was a car and in some of them men
were leaving for work. Ulu Beg walked along the street. He paused to
read the sign: SPEEDWAY, it said. He came to a group of men waiting by a
corner. A bus arrived and they climbed aboard. He walked another few
blocks and again the same thing happened. At a third corner, he climbed
aboard himself.

"Hey. Fifty cents," the driver said angrily. Ulu Beg searched his
pockets. They had told him about this. Fifty cents was two quarters. He
found the coins and dropped them in the box, and took a seat and rode
down the Speedway toward the center of the city.

He got out near the bus station and looked for a hotel.

"Always stay near bus stations. Small places, dirty rooms, cheap. But a
hotel, always a hotel. In a motel, they'll ask about an automobile.

You'll have to explain that you don't have one. Why not? they'll ask.

They'll think you're mad. In America it is exceedingly odd not to have
an automobile. Everybody has an automobile."

He chose a place called the Congress-the name proclaimed proudly on a
metal frame on the roof-across from a Mexican theater in a crumbling
section of the city. It was a four-story building with a bookstore, a
barbershop, and a place that sold gems in it, across from the train
station and behind the bus station.

He walked into the dim brown lobby.

A fat lady looked up when he came to the desk.

"Yes?"

"A room. How much?"

"It's ten-forty, dear. You get your TV and a bath."

"Sure, okay.

"Just sign here."

He signed quickly.

"One night? Two? A week? I have to put it down."

Her face was powdery and mild.

"Two, three maybe. I don't know."

"Oh, and hon? You forgot to say where you were from.

Here, on the form."

"Ah," he said.

He knew what to put. He thought of the only American he knew. Jardi.

Where had Jardi grown up?

"Chicago," he wrote.

"Chicago, now there's a nice town." She smiled. "Now I have to have that
money, hon."

He gave her a twenty and got his change.

"You go on up. Those stairs there. Down the hall. It's in the back, away
from all the traffic."

He climbed the stairs, went down the dark hall and found the room. He
went in, locked the door. He pulled the Skorpion from his pack and set
it before him on the bed and waited for the police.

Nobody came.

You did it, he thought.

Kurdi vtan ya naman.

Tewitt was nervous. First, so many big shots in the room at one time.

The special men, the elect, some of them legends, who ran the place.

Then, the equipment. He was not by nature mechanical. He was not good
with things. Wouldn't it have been easier to have brought in some
technical wizard to handle this aspect of it? Well, yes, under normal
circumstances. But these were extraordinary circumstances. Therefore
he'd just have to run the equipment himself "You'll get the hang of it,"
Yost Ver Steeg had said.

And then the slides. They were the key; they had to fall in the right
order and he'd just got the last one down from Photographic a few
minutes ago-it had been touch and go the whole way-and he wasn't sure
he'd gotten it into the magazine right. He might have had it in
backward, which would have had a humorous effect in less intense
briefings, but this one was big and he didn't want to screw up in front
of so many important people. And see Miles Lanahan snickering in his
corner, removing one point from Trewitt's tally and awarding it to
himself.

"Trewitt, are we ready?" It was Yost.

"Yes sir, I think so," he called back, his voice booming through the
room-he was miked, he'd forgotten.

He bent, switched on the projector, beaming a white, pure rectangle onto
the wall. So far, so good. If he could just find ... yes, there's the
bastard; it was a kind of toggle switch mounted in a cylinder, in turn
linked by cord to the projector. Now, if this just works like the
instructions say, we'll be ... He punched the button and there was a
sound like a .45 cocking.

A face came on the screen, young, tenderly young, say eighteen, eyes
wild with joy, crewcut glinting with perspiration, two scrawny straps
hooked over two scrawny shoulders.

"Chardy at eighteen," Trewitt said. "His high school had just won the
Class B Chicago Catholic League championship. March twelfth, nineteen
fifty-eight. The picture is from the next day's Tribune. This is a
close-up; you can't see the trophy, a hideous thing. Anyway, Chardy
scored ... ah, I have it right here ..."

"Twenty-one points," Miles Lanahan called. "Including a free throw with
time gone that gave St. Pete's a one point win."

"Thanks, Miles," said Trewitt, thinking, you bastard.

"Anyway," Trewitt continued, "you can see he's a hero from way back."

Trewitt's problem was heroes. His vice, his consuming passion, heroism.

His deepest secret was that when he walked through the streets and saw
his own bland reflection thrown back at him in shop windows he projected
onto it certain extravagances of equipage and uniform: jungle
camouflages, dappled and crinkly, bush hats, wicked knives; and the
weapons, the implements by which the hardened professionals performed
their jobs-the M-16 and AK-47, antagonists of a hundred thousand
firefights of the sixties and seventies; or the Swedish K so favored by
Agency cowboys in "Nam; or the compact little MAC-10 or -11, other racy
favorites.

"The real name is C-S-A-R-D-I," said Trewitt, "Hungarian. His dad was a
doctor, an emigrant in the thirties. His mom is Irish. A quiet woman who
still lives in the apartment in Rogers Park. The dad was a little nuts.

He was a drunk, his practice failed, he ended up a company doctor in a
steel mill. He went into an institution after he retired, and died
there. He was hard-core anticommunist though, and a staunch Catholic. He
filled the kid's head with all kinds of stuff about the Reds. And he
wanted him to be tough; he really put him through some hell to make him
tough. He-"

"Jim, let's move it along." Yost's stern voice from out of the darkness.

"Sure, sorry," Trewitt said, convinced he heard Lanahan snicker.

Two quick clicks: Chardy the college athlete; Chardy, hair sheared off,
in the denim utilities of a Marine boot.

"Marine officer training, after college," Trewitt announced.

Trewitt had known of Chardy for some time. His job on the Historical
Staff, to which he'd so recently been attached, had been to edit the
memoirs of retiring officers who were paid by the Agency to stay at
Langley an extra year and write, the idea being, first, to allow any
impulse toward literature to play itself out under controlled
circumstances and second, to compile a history of the means and methods
of the secret wars. Aspects or fragments of Chardy kept showing up in
these accounts, memories of him echoing through a dozen different
sources, sometimes under cryptonyms. He'd been pretty famous in his way.

"And here he is," Trewitt announced, clicking his button, "among the
Nungs."

Chardy had been recruited out of the Marine Corps in Vietnam in the
early days, '63, '64, where he was for a time a platoon commander and
then a company commander and finally, having extended his tour, an
intelligence officer, coordinating with South Vietnamese Rangers and
running (and occasionally accompanying) long-range recons up near the
DMZ. But an Agency hotshot named Frenchy Short talked him into jumping
to the Company, which at that time desperately needed jungle qualified
military types.

The slide on the wall now was a favorite of Trewitt's, for it seemed to
express exactly a certain heroic posture the two men, Paul and Frenchy,
among Chinese mercenaries from the Vietnamese hill country whom they'd
trained and led in a hit-and-run war way out in the deep, beyond the
reach of law or civilization.

"He did two long stretches with the Nungs," Trewitt said to the men in
the quiet briefing room in Langley, Virginia, "with a stay in between at
our Special Warfare school in Panama."

The two of them, the younger, leaner Chardy, his black Irish face
furious and pale, and the older Frenchy, a stumpy man with a crewcut,
thick but not fat, his raw bulk speaking more of power than
sluggishness. They wore those vividly spotted non-reg jungle camouflage
outfits called tiger suits-and were hatless. Paul had an AK-47 and a
cigarette dangled insolently from his lip; Frenchy was equipped with a
grease gun and a smile. They were surrounded by their crew of Chinese
dwarfs, tiger-suited too, a collection of sullen Mongolian faces that in
their impassive toughness seemed almost Apache. Wiry little men, with
carbines, grenades, a Thompson or two, a gigantic BAR-this was before
the fancy black plastic M-16s arrived in Vietnam. The picture had a
nineteenth century feel to it: the two white gods surrounded by their
yellow killers, yet in subtle ways that the photograph man aged to
convey, the white men were turning wog themselves, going native in the
worst possible way.

"God, old Frenchy Short," somebody said; Trewitt thought it might have
been Sam Melman. "He was a piece of work, wasn't he? Jesus, I remember
when he nailed Che in Bolivia. He went all the way back to Korea. He was
one of the guys we had ashore at the Bay of Pigs, one of the first in
and one of the last out."

"Frenchy was something," somebody else agreed, and Trewitt recognized
Yost Ver Steeg's voice. "I had no idea he went so far back with Paul."

"It was Frenchy who got Paul reinstated after he punched Cy Brasher,"
another voice offered.

"Paul's finest moment in the Agency," somebodys am?-said, and there was
laughter.

It's true, thought Trewitt. Chardy was thin-skinned as well as brave and
tough, and especially vulnerable to pedants and bureaucratic snipers of
the sort intelligence agencies tend to attract in great number. Both his
stateside tours, routine administrative pit stops that all career-track
officers are expected to pull, had been disasters. And in Hong Kong,
Chardy came up against Cy Brasher (Harvard '49, as he was fond of
telling people) in what was referred to still as the Six-Second War.

This was 1971, when Chardy was coming off his second long, terrible tour
among the Nungs.

Brasher was an imperious, lofty man, cursed with a need to correct
everybody. He was widely loathed but exceedingly well connected (the
Brashers) and had skated without apparent effort to Head of Station in
Hong Kong. During the first three seconds of his war with Chardy, he
suffered a broken nose and the loss of two teeth; in the second three
seconds he took several savage body blows which broke two of his ribs.

"I still worry about this guy, Yost," somebody said.

"Lord knows I despised Cy Brasher as much as anybody. But junior
personnel just can't go around slugging station chiefs, no matter how
famous an ass the station chief is. And if we have to rely on a guy like
Chardy, then we are in rather desperate straits."

"We are in rather desperate straits," said Yost. "Trewitt?"

Trewitt obediently tripped the button, and a picture of Joseph Danzig
appeared on the screen.

"The year," Trewitt said, "is nineteen seventy-three. The year of the
operation called Saladin Two."

Danzig's famous face filled the room. There's no reason to show it,
really, thought Trewitt, for they all know what he looks like, and all
of them will remember what the Agency was like in those days, those
Danzig days.

It had been his fiefdom, his ego extension; it existed only to serve his
will. He had repaid this fealty, this slavish obedience with contempt
and derision.

All of the men in this room had felt his influence, worked in his shadow
or under his supervision, tried to guess what he wanted. Joseph Danzig,
formerly of Harvard University and then the Rockefeller Advisory Board
on Foreign Affairs, had been, under a certain President, Secretary of
State. He was almost as famous, in his own way, as that other paradigm
of academic-cum-international kingmaker and unmaker, Henry Kissinger,
his contemporary at Harvard and in many ways his rival and his equal.

Their beginnings were even similar: Kissinger born a German Jew, Danzig,
whose family name had been simplified from something unpronounceable to
that of the city of his origin by an American Immigration officer, born
a Polish one.

But Saladin II and Danzig are linked, Trewitt realized, just as tightly
in their way as Saladin II and Chardy. With out Danzig there would have
been no Saladin II. It was shaped to his specifications, blueprinted to
his calculations, implemented at his whim, and aborted by his will.

"Most of you are aware of Saladin Two," said Yost Ver Steeg, the host of
this meeting. "Those who aren't are shortly to be so. Everything that
happens now happens because of what happened then. This crisis we've got
comes to us courtesy of that famous gent up there."

"Famous gent"-an uncharacteristic attempt at levity by Yost, who is
normally, Trewitt reflected, about as amusing as a fish. Perhaps it's
his nervousness, for he's the man whose job it is to stop the Kurd from
doing whatever the men in this room are so terrified he'll do. And they
are plenty terrified, except for Miles, who isn't terrified of anything.

Yost began to summarize what Trewitt already knew. Saladin II was
pressure. It was pressure here to tilt this that way and that thiv way,
a Rube Goldberg contraption of stresses and springs and gizmos that had
as its only real purpose the spirit of keeping the Soviet Union off
balance. Not included in the higher calculus of the design-and this too
was a Danzig trademark-was a cost in human lives.

Saladin II had its origins in a complaint to an American President by
the late Shah of Iran about difficulties with his obstreperous Arab
neighbor, the radically pro soviet regime of Ahmed Hassam al-Bakr in
Iraq. What, wondered the Shah, could be done to put the squeeze on the
aggressive Iraqis and their new T-54 tanks and SAMS and pesky Russian
infantry and intelligence advisers?

Part of the answer lay in the fact that spread throughout much of the
contested region of northern Iraq and northern Iran were a people called
the Kurds, who dreamed of a mythical kingdom called Kurdistan. They are
a fierce Indo-European race of great independence and cunning, descended
from the fearsome Medes of antiquity and said also to carry the genes of
Alexander's legions, which might explain the astonishing presence among
them of blue eyes and upturned little noses and blond heads and
freckles, an island of northern fairness in the swarthy sea of darker
Mediterraneanness. The Kurds were forced to traffic with whoever would
have them-they are a cynical people, expecting little of the world; one
of their bleak proverbs is "Kurds have no friends"-and their ambitions
must be seen as pitifully tiny against the designs of the superpowers:
they wanted only their own schools, their own language, their own
literature, and to be ignored by the outside world. They wanted a
country, in other words, of their very own, which they would call
Kurdistan.

The Shah did not like them but he saw a use for them. The Kurds have a
violent history of insurrection against, against nearly everybody. In
their time they have fought Turk and Persian and Iraqi with equal
vehemence.

The answer then to everybody's problems, as suggested by Joseph Danzig,
American Secretary of State, and implemented at his specific request by
the Special Operations Division of the Central Intelligence Agency, was,
in the language of the trade, a "covert action." In plainer words: a
little war.

Trewitt clicked his button.

The new face was blurry, out of focus, taken from absolute zero angle
without consideration of the esthetics. Its subject looked like a
victim. The face, even with the startled eyes from the unexpected flash,
was young and smooth. It sported a huge moustache, a batwing thing that
pulled the features down tragically, and the Adam's apple was prominent.

The eyes were sharp and bright and small.

"We think," said Trewitt, "that this is Ulu Beg. Chardy will be able to
confirm for us tomorrow. At any rate, in one of Chardy's early Saladin
Two reports he mentioned that somebody had told him the Kurd had been to
the American University of Beirut. He evidently learned his English at
an American high school near the Kirkiik oil fields--there was a good
one there. This would have been courtesy of an A.I.D. scholarship. In
those days A.I.D. educated half the Middle East."

"And of course we fund A.I.D., so in effect we taught him his English,"
Yost amplified. - -We believe this is Ulu Beg at nineteen, during his
one year at AUB. We went to a great deal of trouble to get this
photo-it's from Lebanese police files. He was arrested late in his first
year for membership in a Kurdish literary club--for which you may
substitute 'revolutionary organization." This is the picture the
Lebanese cops cot of him, at the request of Iraqi officials. He
escaped the Lebanese pretty easily, and nobody ever touched him again
until Saladin Two."

The face glared at them.

Trewitt tried to read it. It did not look particularly Middle Eastern.

It was just a passionate young man's face, caught in the harsh light of
a police strobe. He was probably scared when they got this; he didn't
know what was going on, what would happen. He looked a little spooked;
but he also looked mad. The cheekbones were so high they gave his face
an almost Oriental look. And the nose was a blade, even photographed
straight on, a huge, bony hunk. "The key document," said Yost, "from
this point onward is after action Report Number
two-four-three-three-five-two-B-slash Saladin Two." I urge any of you
unfamiliar with it to check it out of the Operations Archive. You can
also call on your computer terminals if you're Blue Level cleared."

"It sounds familiar," said a well-modulated, cheerful voice, to a small
whisper of laughter.

Trewitt recognized the voice of Sam Melman, who, in the dismal aftermath
of Saladin II, had compiled "AFTACT 243352-B," when he was Director of
the Missions and Programs Staff in the Operations Directorate and had
therefore committed his name to the document, for it was known in the
vernacular (by the few that knew of it) as "The Melman Report."

The men who laughed with Sam would be his current staff, an Agency elect
themselves, for Sam was now Deputy Director of Operations.

Trewitt had seen the report himself. It was a sketchy thing, a few
dismal sheets of typewritten red paper (to prevent photocopying), such a
tiny artifact for what must have been an extraordinary occurrence.

"You're not going to read us the whole thing?" somebody in the dark
wanted to know. "I agree we've got a crisis, but nothing is worth that.

Sam's laughter was loudest.

"No," said Yost. "But we thought you should have the context at least
available."

But Trewitt couldn't let it pass from consciousness so easily. It
haunted him, just as Chardy, the fallen hero, in his way haunted him.

Chardy's performance before Melman, for one thing, was so strange.

Trewitt had read it over and over, trying to master its secrets, the
re were none.

Poor Chardy: Melman just barbecued him. Chardy had so little to offer in
his defense, and on the stand, under oath, was vague and apologetic,
either deeply disturbed or quite stupid or ... playing a deeper game
than anybody could imagine.

He confessed so easily to all the operational sins, all the mistakes,
the failures in judgment, the follies in action. Trewitt could almost
remember verbatim:

M: And you actually crossed into Kurdistan and led combat operations?
Against all orders, against all policies, against every written or
unwritten rule of the Agency. You actually led combat operations,
disguised as a Kurd?

C: Uh. Yeah. I guess I did.

M: Mr. Chardy, one source even places you at an ambush site deep in
Iraq, near Rawdndiiz.

C: Yeah. I got a tank that day. Really waxed that one

"Mr. Chardy. Did it
ever occur to you, while you were playing cowboy, how humiliating it
would have been to this country, how embarrassing, how degrading, to
have one of its intelligence operatives captured deep within a
Soviet-sponsored state with armed insurgents?

C: Yeah. I just didn't think they'd get me. (Laughs)

"Trewitt. Trewitt!"

"Ah. Yes sir." Caught dreaming again. "The next slide."

"Oh. Sorry." He punched the button and the Kurd disappeared. Somebody
whistled.

"Yes, she's a fine-looking woman, isn't she?" Yost said.

"Chardy wouldn't talk about her at the hearings," Melman said. "He said
it was private; it wasn't our business."

The picture of Johanna was recent. Her face was strong, fair, and
somehow bold. The nose a trifle large, the chin a trifle strong, the
mouth a trifle straight. Her blond hair was a mess, and it didn't
matter. She was all earnest angles. Her eyes were softened behind large
circular hornrims and a tendril of hair had fallen across her face. She
looked a bit irritated, or late or just grumpy. She's also beautiful,
Trewitt realized, in an odd, strong way, an unconventional collection of
peculiarities that come together in an unusual and appealing way. Jesus,
she's good-looking.

"One of the Technical Services people got this just last week in Boston,
where she teaches at Mr. Melman's alma mater," Yost said.

"The Harvard staff didn't look like that when I was there." Sam again.

"Somehow Miss. Hull managed to get into Kurdistan," Yost continued. "We
don't know how. She wouldn't speak to State Department de briefers when
she finally got back. But she's the key to this whole thing. Chardy had
a relationship' with her, in the mountains."

The word "relationship," coming at Trewitt through the vague dark in
which Yost was just a shape up front, sounded odd in the man's voice;
Yost didn't care, as a rule, to speculate on a certain range of human
behavior involving sexual or emotional passion; he was a man of facts
and numbers. Yet he said it anyway, seemed to force it out.

"Chardy will love her still," Miles Lanahan said. The sharpness of his
voice cut through the air. "He's that kind of guy."

The woman on the wall regarded them with icy superiority. She was
wearing a turtleneck and a tweed sports coat. The shot must have been
taken from half a mile away through some giant secret lens, for the
distance was foreshortened dramatically and behind her some turreted old
hulk of a house, with keeps and ramparts and dozens of gables, all woven
with a century's worth of vines, loomed dramatically. It's so Boston, so
Cambridge, thought Trewitt.

"Chardy had no brief to cross into Kurdistan. This woman had no right.

But they both were there, in the absolute middle of it, with Ulu Beg.

They were there for the end. In a sense they were the end."

Yost is discreet in his summary, Trewitt thought. The prosaic truth is
that sometime in March of 1975 the Shah of Iran, at Joseph Danzig's
urging and sponsorship, signed a secret treaty with Ahmed Hassam al-Bakr
of Iraq. The Kurdish revolution, which was proceeding so splendidly,
became expendable. Danzig gave the order; the CIA obeyed it.

The Kurds were cut off, their materiel impounded; they were exiled from
Iran.

Chardy, Beg, the woman Hull: they were caught on the wrong side of the
wire.

Chardy was captured by Iraqi security forces; Beg and Hull and Beg's
people fled extreme Iraqi military pressure. Fled to where? Fled to
nowhere. Trewitt knew that Yost wouldn't mention it, that even the great
Sam Melman wouldn't mention it. But one passage from Chardy's testimony
before Melman came back to haunt him, now in this dark room among Agency
elect, his own career suddenly accelerating, his own membership on the
staff of an important operation suddenly achieved.

C: But what about the Kurds?

M: I'm sorry. The scope of this inquiry doesn't include the Kurds.

The last details are remote, Trewitt knew. Nobody has ever examined
them, no books exist, no journalists have exhumed it. Only the Melman
report exists, and its treatment is cursory. Joseph Danzig himself has
not commented yet. In the first volume of his memoirs, Missions for
the White House, he promised to deal with the Kurdish situation at some
length; but he has not yet published his second volume and somebody has
said he may never. He's making too much money giving speeches these
days.

The fates of the three principals were, however, known: Chardy,
captured, was taken to Baghdad and interrogated by a Russian KGB officer
named Speshnev. His performance under pressure, Trewitt knew, was a
matter of the debate. Some said he was a hero; some said he cracked
wide open. He would not discuss it with Melman.

He was returned to the United States after six months in a Moscow
prison.

Johanna Hull showed up in Rezd'iyeh by methods unknown in April of 1975
and returned to the United States, and her life at Harvard. She had
lived quietly ever since. Except that three times she had tried to
commit suicide.

Ulu Beg, one source reported, was finally captured by Iraqi security
forces in May of 1975 and was last seen in a Baghdad prison.

The fate of his people-his tribe, his family, his sons was unknown.

"Lights," Yost said.

Trewitt fumbled a second too long for the switch but finally clicked it
on.

The brightness flooded the room and men blinked and stretched after so
long in the dark.

Yost stood at the front of the room.

"Briefly, that's it," he said. "I wanted to keep you informed. Chardy
arrives tomorrow."

"Lord, you're bringing him here?"

"No, not to the Agency. We're running this operation out of a sterile
office in Rosslyn, just across the river from Georgetown.

"Yost, I hope you can control this Chardy. He can be a real wild man."

"I don't think you understand," Miles Lanahan said.

He smiled, showing dirty teeth. He was a small young man with a
reputation for ruthless intelligence. He was no sentimentalist; the "old
cowboy" stuff wouldn't cut anything for him. He'd started out as a
computer analyst working in "the pit," Agency jargon for the video
display terminal installation in the basement of Langley's main
building, and worked his way out in a record two years. Everybody was a
little afraid of him, especially Trewitt.

"All right, Miles," said Yost, "that's enough."

Down, boy, thought Trewitt.

But Miles had one more comment.

"The plan," he said, "is not to control him."

Chardy sometimes thought only the game had kept him sane. At the end of
Saladin II, the worst time in the cellar, he thought not of Johanna or
the Kurds or his country or his mission; they'd all ceased to sustain
him. He thought of the game. He shot imaginary jumpers from all over a
huge floor and willed them through the hoop. Magic, they floated and
fell and never touched metal. The game expanded to fill his imagination,
to push out all the dark corners, the cobwebs, the spooky little doubts.

Later the game had become, if anything, bigger. Into it he poured all
his energy, his natural fierceness, his frustrations and
dissatisfactions, his resentment: his hate. The game, more loyal than
any human or institution on this earth, absorbed them-and him.

And now, on the night before what he knew was the most important day of
his life, the game was especially kind to him. For of late his shots
would not fall, his legs had been thick and numb, his fingers clumsy.

But all that was a memory: tonight he could not miss. From outside,
inside, but usually from the baseline with no backboard for margin of
error, he shot, the ball spinning to the rafters and dropping cleanly
through. It was only a Y-league game, mostly ex-college jocks like
himself, or black kids with no college to go to; and it took place in a
dim old gym that smelled of sweat and varnish and sported a shadowy
network of old iron girders across the ceiling.

But for Chardy there was nothing but basketball court, no outside world,
no Speights or Melmans or Ulu Begs. It was an absolute place: you shot;
it went in or it didn't. There was no appeal, no politics, no subtle
shading of results. It was a bucket or it wasn't.

Toward the end even the cool black kids were working the ball to him,
just to watch it fall.

"Man, you hot," one called.

"Put it down," another yelled.

He hated to see it end, but it did. The team he played for, which
represented a manufacturer of surgical instruments, easily vanquished a
team that represented a linoleum installer; the margin was twenty-eight
points and could have been greater. A buzzer sounded and the bodies
stopped hurtling about. Somebody slapped him on the ass and somebody
clapped him on the back and somebody shook his hand.

"You had it tonight," somebody said.

"Couldn't miss, could I?"

"No way, man, no way."

Chardy took a last glance toward the floor-two other teams, the Gas
Stations and the Ice Cream Stores, were warming up. It meant nothing,
but Chardy hated to leave it. A ball came spinning his way and he bent
to scoop it up. He held it, feeling its skin springy to his fingers. He
looked at the hoop and saw that it was about fifty feet away Shoot it,
he thought.

But a black man came galloping up to him and without a word Chardy
tossed him the ball, and off he went. Chardy pulled on his jacket and
headed for the doors and what lay beyond.

He stared at the picture. Yes. Ulu Beg. Years younger, but still Ulu
Beg.

"Yeah," he said.

"Good. Getting it was no easy thing," said Trewitt, the young one, a
wispy pseudo-academic type who was tall and thin and vague.

"Once upon a time," Chardy said. "Years and years ago."

"Okay," said Trewitt. "Now this one."

The projector clicked and projected upon the screen on the wall of a
glum office in Rosslyn a plumpish face, prosperous, solid.

"I give up," said Chardy.

"Look carefully," said Yost Ver Steeg. "This is important."

I know it's important, Chardy thought irritably.

"I still don't--oh, yeah. Yeah."

"It's an artist's projection of Ulu Beg now. Twenty years later, a
little heavier, "Americanized."

"Maybe so," said Chardy. "But I last saw him seven years ago. He
looked"-Chardy paused. Words were not his strong point; he could never
get them to express quite what he wanted-"fiercer, somehow. This guy was
in a war for twenty years. He was a guerrilla leader for nearly ten.

You've got him looking like a Knight of Columbus."

A harsh note of laughter came from the other young one, Miles
something-Irish. It was a caustic squawk of a laugh; Miles was a kind of
Irish dwarf, an oily little jerk, but he'd know what a Knight of
Columbus was.

"Well," Trewitt said defensively, "the artist had a lot of experience on
this sort of thing. He worked all night. We just got the picture in
yesterday. It's the only one of Ulu Beg extant."

"Try this one, Paul," said Yost Ver Steeg.

Johanna. Chardy stared at her. The face could have been spliced out of
any of a thousand of his recent nights' worth of dreams. It meshed
perfectly with all those nights of memory and struck him with almost
physical force.

"It's very recent," said Yost.

Chardy stared at the image projected against the wall. He felt as if he
were in a peep-show booth for a quarter's worth of pointless thrill with
other strange men in a dark place.

"A week ago, I think. Is that right, Miles?" Yost said.

"Tuesday last." Miles's voice was sure and smug and had a recognizable
Chicago tang to it.

"Has she changed much in seven years?"

"No," was all Chardy could think to say, offended by the ritual he knew
the shot to represent: some seedy little man from Technical Services, up
there with a motor driven Nikon with a 200-millimeter lens, parked
blocks away in his car or van, shooting through one-way glass after
three days' stalk.

Chardy rubbed his dry palms together. He glanced over at the three
shapes with whom he shared Johanna's image: Yost, almost a still life, a
man of deadness, and the two younger fellows, dreamy Trewitt and the
loathsome Miles What-was-it?, the dumpy little Irish guy from Chicago.

"Did you know-Miles spoke from the corner that in the years she's been
back she's tried to kill herself three times?"

A kind of pain that might have been grief seemed to work up through
Chardy's knees. He swallowed once, feeling his heart beat hard, or seem
to, at any rate. He clenched his fists together.

"I didn't know that. I don't know anything about what happened to her."

Chardy could almost feel Miles smile in the dark. He'd only glimpsed him
in the hurried introductions-Speight had said something about a computer
whiz-and remembered a short, dark, splotchy man, a boy really, not quite
or just barely thirty, with unruly oily black hair. He had the look to
him of a priest's boy, the one in every parish who'd seek a special
relationship from the father or the mother superior and draw power off
it for years. He'd seen it at Resurrection too, and maybe elsewhere;
maybe it wasn't Catholic at all.

"Once in 'seventy-seven, wrists," Lanahan amplified, once in
'seventy-nine, pills, and a real bad one last year, pills again. She
almost went the distance."

Chardy nodded, keeping his eyes sealed on the woman's image before him.

Johanna, why?"

But he knew why.

"The university has had her in and out of various shrink programs,"
Lanahan continued. "We got the records. It wasn't easy."

But Chardy was not listening. He looked at his own wrists. He'd cut them
open in April of 1975 after his lengthy interrogation by the KGB. He
knew the feeling of comfort: the blood draining away and with it all the
problems of the world. An immense light-headedness fills you, seductive,
gratifying. You think you're going to beat them.

He remembered screaming at the officer who had supervised his
interrogation, "Speshnev, Speshnev, I'm going to win." But they'd saved
him.

"Is that it?" Trewitt asked.

"Yes," said Ver Steeg, and the image vanished. Trewitt pulled the
curtains open and light flooded the room.

Chardy stared at the wall from which her image had disappeared. Then he
turned back to the others.

"So--Paul. May I call you Paul?" Yost asked. Chardy could not see his
eyes behind the pink-framed semi-academic glasses he wore, a style
beloved of high-level government administrators.

"Please," Chardy said.

"Ulu Beg knows only two people in the United States. You and Johanna
Hull. And it seems unlikely he'd come to you-for help."

Chardy nodded. Yes, it seemed unlikely Ulu Beg would come to him-for
help.

"That leaves this woman."

"You think he'll go to her?"

"I don't think anything. I see only probabilities. It seems probable
that he's aware how difficult it would be to operate in this country
without some kind of base. it seems probable, then, that he'd try and
obtain one. It seems probable that he'd be drawn to somebody he felt he
could trust, somebody who shared his sentiments about the Kurds. It
seems probable, finally, that he'd go to her. That's all."

"You could try and anticipate his target," said Chardy.

"You could. And if you anticipated wrong you might put yourself into a
posture you'd never get out of. We have no data to operate on at this
point as to his target; there are no probabilities. That may change;
until it does I've decided to concentrate on the probabilities."

Chardy nodded.

"So we have to wonder, Paul," Yost continued. It was a act of optics that
kept his eyes hidden behind the twin I i pools of light reflected in his
lenses. "You're our authority. You know them both. Is it feasible he'd
approach her? To you, I mean. Does that feel right? And if so, how would
she react? And finally, would she cooperate with us? Or, more to the
point, with you?

Miles spoke before Chardy could form an answer.

"She's not an activist type, we know. She's not affiliated with any zany
political group, she's not a demonstrator, a kook. She doesn't sleep
with fruity revolutionaries. She's quiet, she's solid--except for her
head troubles. She doesn't have a history of doing screwy things."

He fingered through some pages before him-Johanna's dossier, probably.

God, they knew so much about her, Chardy thought. The idea of this
Miles's small fingers riffling through Johanna's life offended him. His
damp hands on her picture, her documents.

Miles smiled, showing dirty teeth.

Who'll save you, Johanna, from these guys?

I will, he thought.

And then he thought of her only contact with him, an answer to the
fifteen-page letter he'd sent her when he returned from the Soviet
prison. It had been a postcard with a cheesy picture of the Doral Hotel
in Miami Beach on it, and it had said, "No, Paul. You know why."

"Paul'?"

"Sorry, I was-"

"The question," Yost said politely, "is: will he approach her, And,
would she help him?"

"She'd help us," Chardy said.

"Come on, Paul," said Miles ... Lanahan! That was it. "For Christ's
sakes, she was sold on the Kurds. If you look at her record the way we
did, you cannot escape that conclusion. She went to Iran in 'sixty-nine
with the Peace Corps. She came back in 'seventy-three to teach at the
college in Rezd'iyeh. She wrote her Ph.D. dissertation on Kirmanji, a
Kurdish dialect. She made the pilgrimage to Mahdbdd, where they had
their republic in 'forty-six, and one of her Peace Corps chums told us
she wept at the Street of Four Lamps, where the Iranians hanged the
Kurdish martyrs."

"That's all true," said Chardy. "But it's also true she's too smart to
get involved in anything stupid like you're talking about. This is a
very smart woman. She's brilliant. She just wouldn't get mixed up in
something goofy like this. Ulu Beg or no Ulu Beg."

"If he approached her, she'd help us?"

"Yes. If we could tell her we wouldn't hurt him."

"Paul, he's already killed two police officers."

"A terrible accident. And the FBI and the Border Patrol haven't made the
connection to Ulu Beg yet. Because you want to play this thing
low-profile. You wouldn't have brought me in unless you wanted to play
it low-profile, and I don't think you want the FBI nosing through some
old Agency business."

There was stifled silence in the room. Chardy had them, he knew he had
them.

"Let me tell her we'll try and pick him up and let him walk on it.

That's the key. If you say, "We're going to throw this guy in the slammer
for two hundred years," then it's all over. But if you say,

"Look, it's terrible, but we can still deal with it," then maybe you've
got a chance."

"You love them. Both. Still." It was the boy, Trewitt.

"No matter," said Yost Ver Steeg. "But I'm sure Paul understands"-he
seemed to speak to the younger man but in reality talked by echo to
Chardy-"no matter what his personal feelings are, just how potentially
serious a problem this is. An Agency-trained Kurd with an Agency
provided automatic weapon. Suppose he commits some terrible act of
random violence-like the Japanese terrorists at Lod Airport. Or kills an
important public figure. The Agency doesn't need to be tied up in a
scandal like that."

Chardy nodded. They were scared. He could see the headlines, one of the
Agency's secret little wars exploding in America's own backyard,
American blood on American pavement for the first time. They were
terrified---of what it would do to the Agency.

"You can see that, Paul, can't you?"

Yes.

"After all, it's your past, too. It was your operation originally. You
have some responsibility."

"Of course I do," Chardy said.

What happened, in the end, to the Kurds was--well, you must take some
responsibility for that, too." "Of course," said Chardy. "So if this
woman is the key, we have to find out. We have to know. And if you want
to tell her something to help, you go ahead and tell her. But remember
what's at stake.

"Yes.

The rest was unsaid, and would be represented on no paper: Ulu Beg must
be stopped to spare the Agency grotesque embarrassment.

"You'll do it then? You'll see her. You'll bring her in, you'll help us.

You'll work with us."

"Yes," Chardy said. He wondered if he meant it, or if it mattered.

After that it was a matter of details. Who would accompany Chardy to
Boston as backup, what approach would he take, how would he handle it,
what could he expect" The answer to the first question was Lanahan,
who'd done the preliminary work in "developing Johanna," in Yost's
words, and that simply it was set. They would leave in two days, the
hotel reservations were a]- ready made. But when Chardy was finally done
with them and wanted nothing more than to go find a beer, he looked up
to see he was not yet alone. The boy Trewitt, the one who had said so
little, had waited in the foyer for him.

"Mr. Chardy?"

"What's up?" he asked.

"Trewitt. Jim Trewitt."

"Sure, I remember."

"They had me working on the Historical Staff-I'm actually a historian; I
have my master's-before all this." He seemed a little nervous.

Chardy did not know what to make of this. There'd been no Historical
Staff in his time, just as there'd been no Operations Directorate.

"Uh-huh," he said.

"We work with a lot of the older men; they're asked to spend their last
year working on a memoir. So I've picked up a lot of loose information
on-well, on Agency people. Your career, the stuff you pulled, you and
some of those other Special Operations guys. Tony Po, Willie
Shidlovisky, Scamp Hughes, Walter Short-"

"Frenchy. Frenchy Short," said Chardy, warming at the sudden memory of
his best and oldest Agency friend.

"You and Frenchy. You really did some things. All that time with the
Nungs in Vietnam. Hunting guerrillas with the Peruvian Rangers." He
shook his head in admiration, embarrassing Chardy with his own gaudy
past.

"I just wanted you to know how glad I was that you're back with us. And
I wanted to tell you that I think you got the shaft when Saladin Two
fell apart."

"Somebody had to get it," Chardy said. But then he stupidly smiled at
the boy, winning his loyalty forever. He just hoped the kid wouldn't get
in the way. But then he had a purpose for him, so perhaps this business
would work out after all.

By the way, maybe you can tell me: what have they got the Frenchman
doing now?" he asked, and learned the answer instantly from the sudden
stricken look on the boy's face.

"I thought you knew. I thought they told you, or you'd heard or
something," Trewitt said. :, They didn't tell me anything," Chardy said.

"I'm sorry I brought it up. I apologize. Somebody should have told you.

Frenchy Short was killed in 'seventy-five on a solo job. In Vienna. They
found him floating in the Danube. You were off in Kurdistan."

Chardy nodded and said something to reassure Trewitt, who looked sick
with grief He told him it was all okay, not to worry.

"I just-I'm really sorry."

"No, don't worry. I should have known. I just thought he was overseas or
something. I was out of contact for so long."

"Is there anything-"

"No, no. The Frenchman always figured to catch it on a job. It had to
happen. He liked to play them close. Don't worry."

He finally sprung himself from the boy and walked in the gray gloom
across a grassy field in the center of a traffic circle toward the
Marriott Key Bridge Motel, where he was staying. He could see Georgetown
at the far end of the bridge, and the far side of the river down to the
Kennedy Center, a magnificent view of white buildings and monuments. But
Chardy wanted only to find a bar. He reflected that he had loved three
people in his life and now one of them, his friend and perfect master,
Frenchy Short, who had taught him just about all there was to know about
their kind of business, was dead and he hadn't even known it. And the
other two, Johanna and Ulu Beg, were coming back into his life in almost
the same instant after what seemed ages, as part of the same phenomenon,
linked as before; and this necessarily evoked a complicated and
melancholy response, not only because he was charged to hunt the one and
control the other, but more terribly because just as surely as he had
loved them both, he had in a cellar in Baghdad in 1975 betrayed them
both.

Ramirez did not like them. He should have loved them, for they were
throwing money around like American millionaires or Colombian cocaine
merchants, yet they were neither American nor Colombian. Tips for all
the poor girls. American whiskey only, and lots of it. Cigars, a foot
long, for themselves and for anybody else. But who were they?

Ramirez took another sip of his Carta Blanca, which was warm and flat
from sitting so long in his glass, then set the drink before him on the
table. The room was long and dark but he could see their profiles by
looking across the room into a mirror which in turn looked into a second
mirror. They had just ordered another bottle of Jack Daniel's and given
the boy Roberto, who brought it, a five-dollar bill. Ramirez knew his
clientele well: college boys down from Tucson for a night of whoring,
lonely tourists, an occasional Mexican businessman or two. It was a
prosperous enterprise but no gold mine, and it didn't draw the big
spenders such as these two.

He knew he should feel safe. He had journeyed to Mexico City after the
fiasco at the border to make personal amends to the Huerra family. He
had waited patiently for an appointment and been finally escorted into
the old man's office at the top of one of Mexico City's finest buildings
and there apologized abjectly and cravenly for his errors in judgment on
the evening in question and offered to do a penance. Could he pay a
fine, make a donation? Could he offer a service, do a task?

And Huerra, the elder, the patriach, an old gentleman with the courtly
manners of a Spanish grandee, had said, "Reynoldo, you have served our
family well and long. Two old friends such as ourselves should feel love
toward each other, not hate or distrust. It is good that you come and
ask forgiveness and I grant it to you. You are forgiven. You owe us no
penance."

"Thank you, Don Jose," Ramirez had said and had dropped swiftly to his
knees and kissed the old man's hand.

"I would ask one thing," said Don Jose.

"Anything. Anything."

"It is said you are no longer a religious man. I hear YOU do not give to
the Virgin, you do not talk to priests. This bothers me. As I get older,
I see the importance of the religious life."

"I have sinned. I have been a vain and greedy man. I have lived a
terrible life, Don Jos&."

"Go back to God, Reynoldo. God will forgive you, just as I have. God
loves you, just as I do. The Church is your mother; she will forgive you
as well."

"It is done. I will light a candle every day. I will give half to the
Mother Church."

"Not half, Reynoldo. I should think a quarter would be sufficient."

And so Reynoldo had taken up again the religious life. He lit candles,
he went to early mass, he made ostentatious donations. He became a
changed man, a new man. It lasted about two days.

He took another sip of his Carta Blanca. He looked about for Oscar Meza
who had disappeared. Had he left? Where was Oscar Meza? He looked again
into the mirror and saw the two men-one wore a fine cream suit,
elegantly cut, the other a pale blue leisure suit with an open collared
shirt, after the American style, though both were Latins-and saw that
they had lit another pair of cigars and were laughing madly at some
private joke.

What was so funny?

An hour later, Ramirez glanced at his gold watch. It was nearly 3:00
A.M. Things would die soon; the quiet hours before dawn would arrive,
when even a poor whore might sleep. Ramirez pulled his bulk from behind
his table and walked through clouds of stale smoke, past a few lingering
drunken college boys who were trying to decide which girl to give their
business to, and went behind the bar.

Instantly, the youth Roberto appeared.

"Patron?"

Ramirez threw open the register and made a big show of fingering through
the bills. He counted them twice, then turned to the boy.

"Stealing again, Roberto?"

"No, Patron."

"There should be at least a thousand here. I have watched carefully."

"A slow night, Patron.

"Not that slow. Steal only a little, Roberto. If you steal too much at
once, the big machine gets out of alignment and maybe you get caught in
the gears and squashed."

" I-I steal nothing, Patron," the youth said, but could not look into
Ramirez's eyes.

Ramirez knew exactly how much Roberto stole each night and that it was
within permissible limits, just as he knew how much Oscar stole-more and
more lately-and how much the old lady who sat by the top of the stairs
and checked peckers stole. Everyone stole; everybody took only a little
themselves, but by certain rules. There were rules. Nobody was
allowed to break them.

"Just do not get so greedy, Roberto. I want to see you live a long,
wonderful life and have fifty children. Be fruitful, populate the earth
with your seed."

"Yes, Patron."

He turned, edged his large body away from the register. He paused for a
moment, then moved along. In the pause his fingers had touched a Colt
Cobra .38 Special in a holster under the register; he plucked the little
revolver out and slid it into the waistband of his trousers, thinking, I
wish I had my big Python instead of this little lady's gun. And
thinking, I wish I lit a candle this morning.

The two men in suits continued to drink steadily at their table.

"Roberto," Ramirez called.

The boy hurried over.

Take a bottle of the finest American stuff to our two friends. Say it is
a gift of the proprietor."

"Yes, Patron."

Roberto fetched the bottle and took it to the table. The two looked up
as he explained with his stiff little bow. The two men laughed warmly
and asked where the proprietor was.

Roberto pointed.

"With great appreciation we accept the gift of the proprietor," the man
in the cream suit called in Spanish.

Ramirez nodded. Oscar Meza should have been back by now. Where was he?

"You run a nice place, Senor Proprietor," called the man in the cream
suit.

"Thanks much, my warm friend," called back Ramirez. "It is a humble
place but honest and clean."

"An excellent prescription for success in any endeavor," said the man
dreamily. He had slicked-back black hair and was pockmarked, yet he was
handsome in a mean way that attracts certain women. His blue
eyes were pure and more solemn-the sort who speaks only when spoken to, and
then curtly. Also, he needed a shave.

"Did you have a visit with my girls?" Ramirez asked. "They're the
prettiest in Nogales. In all Sonora."

"They are flowers. Each and every one. They know tricks, too, all kinds
of tricks. I suppose the proprietor taught them himself."

"These modern girls, you can't teach them a thing. They already know
everything," he said. "There's a young one with a magnificent mouth. A
mouth of uncompromising sweetness. She'll play you like a trumpet for
only a little extra."

"Is that Rita? I had Rita. Rita, a most refined and gifted young lady."

"Rita is truly a rare bloom," Ramirez called, and kissed his fingertips
in homage to her skills. Under the kiss his fingers seemed to blossom,
grow light and float away. Rita was fifty and needed dental work.

"We ought to be going," said the man in the blue leisure suit. "It's
getting late."

"You'll come back, I hope?"

"Sadly, no. Our business in Nogales is almost finished."

"A great pity. But I hope you'll remember our little establishment
fondly."

"I have a great affection for it," the man in the cream suit said,
rising enthusiastically. He had an automatic pistol in his hand and he
brought it to bear on Ramirez's center, aiming carefully, and Ramirez
shot through the table, hitting him in the chest, spinning him around.

The report in the closed space was sharp and ugly, but it did not bother
the man in blue, for he shot at Ramirez, hitting him under the heart and
knocking him back off his chair.

Ramirez felt as though he'd been punched. He fought to get his breath
back and to find feeling in his fingertips and when he looked he could
see the man in blue tugging at his wounded partner, trying to bring him
to his feet, but the man's limbs were floppy and indifferent and the
body kept collapsing forward. Ramirez pushed himself to his knees and
rushed a shot at the man in blue, missing, and fired again quickly,
hitting him in the jaw. The man sat down stupidly next to his friend. He
held his head in his hands and began to moan. He started to weep.

"Oh, it hurts," he said brokenly, with blood spilling from his mouth.

Ramirez climbed to his feet and walked over and shot him in the back of
the neck, pitching him forward. "Jesus Mary," said Roberto. "Who are
they?"

"Evil men," said Ramirez. But who were they? "Run," he said to Roberto,

"go get the Madonna. Quickly, boy, before I bleed my life away."

The boy dashed off to get one of the prostitutes who claimed to have
been a nurse.

Ramirez sat down on a chair. He still had the pistol in his hand. He
dropped it.

The room began to flutter before his eyes. He wanted a priest, he hurt
so bad. He looked at the two women on the couch, who stared at him in
horror and shock.

"Get out of here, whores!" he bellowed. "Whores may not watch a man
die." They scurried off.

He wished he'd lit a candle that morning. He wished he'd been to mass.

He wished there was a priest.

Where was the Madonna?

The van had reached a suburb of Boston called Medford, up north of
Boston ' and pulled into a crowded parking lot-acres and acres of
cars-surrounding a bar or something called Timmothy's, a single low
building of unsurpassing modesty. The name, in red neon, was written in
about fifty places: on the roof, above the doors, on a huge sign at the
entrance to the lot: This Is It! The Original! TIMMOTHY'S!

"We are here," said Lanahan, "because it's Saturday night. And every
Saturday night, this studious intellectual lady, this gifted, brave,
strong woman"--Chardy's words, thrown back at him-"comes here, or one of
several other similar institutions, and finds a man and leaves with him."

"Last weekend she didn't get home till Sunday afternoon," said the
driver, a wizard from Technical Services.

Chardy wondered if that was a smirk on Lanahan's lumpy little face in
the red glow of the neon. He felt like smacking him, but then the
impulse vanished. Lanahan was nothing to him, not worth hitting.

"Nobody from Harvard would come way out here," said the man up front.

"They stick to Cambridge and snottier places like The Casablanca or
Thirty-three Dun ster Street. This place iqaoo tacky, too crass, your
suburban crowd, polyester."

"She's in there now," Lanahan said. "That's her car." He pointed to a
green VW parked nearby.

The wizard said, "She always goes for the same type. I've seen three of
them now. Dark Irish. Big, six two, two hundred pounds."

"She's looking for some others off your assembly line," Lanahan said.

"She's looking for you."

"That's shit," Chardy said.

"We shall see. You all set? You ready? You still think you can handle
it?"

"Uh-huh," Chardy said.

"You don't sound so convincing. Look, there are other ways of handling
this."

Chardy thought, you little bastard.

"Chardy. I have to answer to Ver Steeg on this one. Don't fuck it up,
all right? Just play it cool, don't come on too strong. Don't spook this
girl. You do it wrong, she goes to the newspapers, makes a big-"

"I can handle it."

Chardy slid the van door open, stepping into the chilly, damp evening.

Spring had not yet reached Massachusetts and he walked through the ranks
of cars in a fog of his own breath. At Timmothy's a short line formed
and he ducked into it. They were all so pretty: the boys in their
twenties had expensive haircuts, parted in the middle, that fell in
glorious layered cascades; they wore rich, dark clothing, European
almost. The girls all seemed small and dark and jocular and somehow
Catholic; they would wear crucifixes on their delicate throats and not
really believe what they were here for. He felt like some kind of
grown-up among them, stiff and stupid, for he was easily a decade beyond
the next oldest person in the line. He waited patiently in his drab suit
for almost ten minutes, until at last he reached a set of doors that
were opened to admit him. He took a last look at the van, far off, under
a tall light, its windows impenetrable, and knew that Lanahan was
watching, and by extension Yost Ver Steeg and the Central Intelligence
Agency.

Entered, the bar was really a collection of bars, each to its own motif,
each equally fraudulent. It took him a while to move through all these
variations-each big room was jammed-but just as he was beginning to grow
panicky, he found her.

She sat at a table with some guy. The room was tonier than the others,
fashioned after the Victorian age, if the Victorians had discovered
plastic. Chardy felt he'd stumbled on to a movie set. But there was
Johanna, her flesh, her face, with some man: as the wizard had said, a
big man, Chardy's size or larger, in a three-piece suit.

Chardy squeezed in at the bar a discreet distance from them and ordered
a beer. He could see her in the mirror, but just barely, for smoke hung
in the dark space near the ceiling like a rain squall. She was so
intimate with this man. She touched his arm. She laughed at his jokes
and listened with rapturous attention to his anecdotes. Sheer jealousy
almost crippled Chardy. He watched as they ordered another round-bourbon
for the man, white wine for Johanna.

Chardy watched, mesmerized. When was the last time he'd seen her? He
could call it back with surprising accuracy, even now, even here. It had
been the day of the ambush, the day of his capture. She'd dressed after
the Kurdish fashion, a gushing print peasant's skirt, a black vest,
several blouses and scarves, and her hair wrapped in a scarf. But not
now. Now she wore dark slacks, a turtleneck under a tweed jacket. Her
biggest glasses, to soften the slight angularity of her face. Her tawny
hair pulled backward, though a sprig of it fell to her forehead. And
when she smiled he could see her white teeth.

Chardy thought: Oh, Jesus, you look good. He could not take his eyes off
her. If he had a plan in his head it abruptly vanished. He had some
trouble breathing; she robbed him of air. Her hands were white and her
fingers long and she reached and touched the man on the hand. He
laughed, whispered something. They finished their drinks. They stood.

Chardy stood.

They walked through the crowd into the hall. The man had his arm around
her. They got their coats from the checkroom and stepped out the door.

Chardy followed and caught them in the parking lot under a fluorescent
light as the man fumbled with the keys to his Porsche.

"Excuse me," Chardy said.

She turned, recognizing the voice instantly but perhaps not quite
believing it.

**skip**"Johanna?" He stepped into the light so that the man could see him. "I'd
like to talk to you. It's important."

"Oh, Paul," she finally said. "Oh, Paul."

"Do you know this guy?" the man asked, stepping forward.

"This doesn't concern you," Chardy said.

"Oh, it doesn't?" he said, taking another step forward. He turned to
her. "Do you want to talk to this guy or not?"

She could not answer but only looked furiously at Chardy.

"Look," the man said, "I don't think this girl wants to talk to you. Why
don't you just go on and get out of here?"

"Johanna, it's really important. It really is."

"Just go away, Paul," she said.

"Paul, you better get on out of here," the man said.

Chardy felt electric with sensation. So much current was whirling
through him he thought he might blow. She was so close. He wanted to
touch her. He felt physically weak, but he could not draw back. Terror
also gripped him. He knew he'd done this all wrong, coming on like this.

He stepped forward another step. "Please, Johanna."

The man hit him in the ear, a sucker punch. He twisted his leg as he
fell back on the asphalt. He felt for an instant as though a steeple
bell had gonged through his skull, and found himself sitting oafishly in
a puddle. He looked up, and murder boiled through his brain; but the man
who'd thrown the blow looked absolutely stunned that he'd done such a
thing.

"I didn't mean to," the man said. "But I told you to stay away. I warned
you. You asked for it. You really did. You asked for it and I gave it to
you."

Chardy climbed to his feet. "That was a stupid thing to do. You don't
know who I am. Suppose I had a gun? Suppose I knew karate or something?

Suppose I was just tough?"

"I-I told you to leave."

"Well, I'm not going to. You better not try that again."

"Wally," Johanna said. "It was stupid. He's a kind of soldier. He
probably knows all kinds of dirty tricks. Anyway, I hate it when men
fight. It's so pointless."

"Just don't hit me again, Wally," Chardy said, "and you'll come out of
this okay."

"This is ridiculous," Wally said. "Are you leaving with me or not?"

"Oh, Wally."

"You certainly changed your tune in a hurry. Well, fuck you, and fuck
your crazy boyfriend too. You two have fun; you really deserve each
other." He climbed into his car, pulled out, and roared away in a scream
of rubber.

"Johanna," Chardy said.

"Paul, stay away. Stay the fuck away. I don't need your kind of
trouble."

He watched her walk away, through the pools of light in the parking lot.

"Johanna. Please."

"Paul." She turned. "Go away. Stay away. I'll call the police-I swear I
will."

"Johanna. Ulu Beg is coming."

They sat in her Volkswagen near a park. He could see the deserted
playground equipment, a basketball court empty and dark, through some
trees. He drank from a can of beer-he'd told her to stop at a grocery
store and she'd silently obeyed-his third in twenty-five minutes. The
car ticked occasionally and it occurred to him that this American thing,
sitting in a car with a woman on a quiet night near a park, was as
exotic to him as a Philippine courtship ritual. Moisture beaded the
windshield, fogging it; the air was damp and the trees clicked together
in a breeze. She had not yet spoken and then finally she said, "You're
working for them, aren't you?"

"Yes. Temporarily."

"I thought they fired you."

"They did. They needed me back."

"You said in that letter you'd never work for them again. You said you
were all done with it. Were you lying then too?"

"No. I came back because I didn't feel I had a choice."

"Because of the Kurd?"

"Yes.,,

"Isn't it a little late to be paying off your debts?"

"Maybe it is. I don't know. We'll see, won't we?"

"How can you do it? Work for them? How can you stomach it?"

"If I didn't there'd be another man here. He wouldn't care about you. He
wouldn't care about Ulu Beg. These are cold people, from the Security
Office. They want him dead."

"What do you want from me?"

"They think he'll come to you, because he has no other place to go. Or
so they say. I'm not sure what they really think. But that's the
official line. So I'm here to get your help."

"There was a time when I would have killed you. I thought about it. I
thought about flying to Chicago, going to your door, knocking, and when
you answered, shooting you. Right in the face."

"I'm sorry you hate me so much."

"You were part of it."

"I never--"

"Paul, you're lying. It's part of the fiber, the structure of your life.

I've done some research on your employers: they train you to lie without
thinking about it. You can do it calmly and naturally, as if you were
discussing the weather." '"Agency people are just people. Anyway, I
never did lie to you. The lying goes on at higher levels. They have
specialists in it."

He emptied the beer can and reached into the sack for another one. He
wished he'd gotten another six-pack. He popped the new top, took a long
swallow.

He finally said, "There probably hasn't been a night in seven years that
I haven't thought of you and hated what came between us. That's not a
lie. But if you love him and I think you do, and I think you should-then
you've got to help me. Or he's dead."

"Don't overdo the nobility, Paul."

"Don't overdo the betrayed woman, Johanna. While you're busy feeling
sorry for yourself, they're going to put a bullet in his head."

"Paul," she finally said, "I lied too. I said I loved you. I never loved
you."

"All right. You never loved me."

"I loved the idea of you. Because you were fighting for the Kurds, and
the Kurds needed fighters."

"Yes.,,

"I was so impressed with force. I thought it was a great secret."

"It's no secret at all."

"Do you know what happened? To us? After your mysterious disappearance?"

"Yes."

"You lie!" she screamed. "Goddamn you, you lie. Again. Again, you lie.

You don't know., Nobody knows except-"

"A Russian told me. He doesn't run with your crowd.

"The details?"

"No. This Russian doesn't bother with details. He's too important to
bother with the details. He told me the numbers."

"Well, I think it's important that you know the details. So that you can
carry them around upstairs in that cold thing you call a brain."

Johanna was beautiful in the dark, now, here, after so much dreaming of
her. He ached. He wanted her, wanted her wanted her, her respect. So many
things had come between them.

"Come with me." She got out.

He followed her. They crossed the street and stood before a big dark
house. She led him up the walk into the foyer. She opened a second door
with a key and they climbed three fli his of stairs. He heard music
coming from one of the floors. They reached the top, turned down a short
hall. She opened another door. They stepped into her apartment.

"Sit down. Take your coat off. Get comfortable," she said coldly.

He sat on a couch. The apartment had high ceilings and tall old windows
and was modestly furnished in books and potted plants and odd, angular
pieces. It was white and cold. Johanna went to a table and returned with
a thick sheaf of paper.

"Here," she said. "My memoirs. It turns out I'm not Lillian Hellman, but
at least it's the truth." She paged through the messy manuscript and
peeled off a batch of pages. "The last chapter. I want you to read it."

Chardy took the chapter from her and looked at the first page. It bore a
simple title: "Naman.

"You didn't tap it?" said Lanahan in the van outside, looking at the
hulking old house.

"I couldn't, Miles," said the wizard, irritation in his tone because an
old hand like him had to show deference to someone as young and raw as
Lanahan. "Yost won't let me. You get caught doing something like that
and you got all kinds of troubles."

"I don't know how he expects us to bring this off if we can't play it
hard," Miles said bitterly. "What about the other units? Are they in
touch? Can we get in contact with them?"

"They're here, Miles. At least they should be. We've got Chardy nailed.

But I didn't think we ought to have a radio linkup in this van. We knew
we were going to be carrying Chardy around in this van. I bet if you
wandered up the street you'd spot them."

"Just so Chardy doesn't spot them," Miles said.

"He won't. They're good boys, ex-cops, private eyes. I set it up just
the way Yost says. Yost says keep Chardy in a sling, and in a sling he
goes. If that's what Yost wants, that's what I'll give him."

"Screw Ver Steeg. Ver Steeg is so small he doesn't exist. He's a gofer.

We're working for Sam Melman and don't you forget it."

Chardy read:

I did not have a great deal of time to feel grief over the sudden
disappearance of Paul, because almost immediately our bad situation
became much worse: we came under shell attack. In my seven months with
Ulu Beg and his group we had never been fired upon. I had seen
bombed-out villages, of course, but I had no experience to prepare me
for the fury of a modern high explosive barrage. There was no way to
take cover and, really, no cover. Ulu Beg had made his camp in a high,
flat place under a ridge. The black tents were lined up under the mouth
of a cave. The explosions were so incredibly loud and came so quickly
that in the first seconds I became totally disoriented. A few people
made it to the cave but most of us fell to the earth. I have never been
so scared. In the few seconds between the blasts I would look around and
try to squirm into a safer position but it was very difficult because
there was so much smoke and dust in the air.

I thought the shelling lasted for hours. When it let up I felt dizzy and
disoriented. Additionally, I had breathed a lot of smoke. I could not
stop trembling, and though I had seen many wounded men in my times in
the mountains, nothing could prepare me for the shock of a firsthand
view of what a high-powered shell can do to the human body. They could
destroy it utterly.

I struggled to get some grip on myself, but even before the dust had
settled Ulu Beg was running about. I had never seen him so desperate,
yelling at people to move.

We ran chaotically through the dust. We ran up the sides of the hill and
found a path along a ridge and ran along it, all of us, soldiers, their
wives, all their children. I can still see that sight: over 100 men,
women and children fleeing in abject panic. It looked like a scene from
the beginning of World War 11 when the Germans bombed refugee columns in
Poland. The women's dresses and scarves stood out gaudily in the clouds
of dust and I could see the turbans of the men, and their khaki
pantaloons billowing over their boots. Most pathetic, along that lonely
track, were the children, several of whom had been separated from their
parents (if indeed their parents had not been killed in the shelling).

That night we hid in caves but were afraid even to light fires. We tried
the radio, using the special channel as Chardy had instructed. But there
was nothing. I even tried, thinking my English might be recognized by
listeners back in Rezd'iyeh, but there was nothing at all. We felt alone
in the world. I looked at the mountains in new fright. They had been so
beautiful to me once, and now they scared me. If the Iraqis closed in we
could hardly defend ourselves. If snow came and sealed us in a pass, we
would certainly starve, for we had no food except what we could carry.

And several people were badly hurt, including the wife of Amir Tawfiq,
the man who commanded after Ulu Beg.

We saw Iraqis the next morning but they were far beneath us. Still, Ulu
Beg believed it to be a large formation in pursuit of us. He said it
would take them hours to reach us, but by that time we'd be gone.

"Gone to where?" asked Amir Tawfiq.

"To the border," Ulu Beg said. He said the Shah would give us safety.

Amir Tawfiq spat into the dust. The cartridges on his chest rattled. He
was about 25. Amir Tawfiq said that the Shah was a black pig who suckled
jackals. Ulu Beg told him we had no choice, and that was the end of the
discussion.

We marched through the mountains for four days. Twice more we were
shelled. The first shelling was the worst and three of the group were
killed and several more wounded. They screamed to go along with us. But
we had no choice. We had to push ahead.. My memories are quite
indistinct. At one time Russian jets seemed to hunt us. We crouched in a
long ravine and hid behind rocks--over a hundred people. We could see
the shadow of the airplane passing over the ground and hear its roar,
but could not see it because the sun was so bright. Apo, Ulu Beg's
oldest boy, hid with me.

The nights were very cold. We huddled together in caves or ravines and
were still afraid to light fires. It was at these moments I felt the
most alone. I wasn't really a Kurd. I was an American, a foolish one,
caught where she had no business to be. I didn't think we really had a
chance. We were on foot, running out of food and energy. There were no
donkeys. We had come a terrible distance, we had a terrible distance to
go and we were being pursued by men in machines who wanted to kill us.

I heard some men talking. They said we were doomed. It was all over.

We'd never get out. Ulu Beg said no. He said we had friends. Jardi's
friends. Jardi's friends would help us.

We were almost there. I asked Ulu Beg how much farther? He pointed to a
gap just ahead between mountains.

Ulu Beg asked me to come with him to talk to the Iranians.

We went down the trail and over the dusty rock, the two of us. The trail
began to rise to the pass and we climbed between the forbidding cliffs.

I fought to keep up. I wondered how the children would make this last,
hardest part of the climb.

We were so close! The nightmare would soon be over! But I was also
terrified that something would happen, so late, so close to survival.

We came over the crest. The land here was scorched. Nothing grew. For
miles and miles it looked dead. There was no vegetation, no anything. It
was the defoliated zone where the Iraqis had poured chemical poisons on
the earth to prevent border crossings and resupply from Iran. I looked
and could see where a stream had been cemented over.

We went ahead. If a Russian plane or helicopter came and caught us in
the open, we'd be killed. Still, we didn't have the luxury of waiting
for nightfall. We picked our way through this wasteland until at last,
several hours later, I could see the wire fence and the border
station-and green plants again. The station was a low cinderblock
building, with the Shah's flag billowing on a pole near it. There were
several military vehicles parked there too.

We raced to the gate. They had seen us coming and were ready. The
officer in charge was a young major of very stiff and correct bearing.

His name was Major Mejhati-he wore it proudly on a tag on the chest of
his battle tunic.

His uniform was heavily starched.

He asked me in Farsi if I was an American. I said yes. He thought I
looked American, even though I was dressed like a Kurd. He had been in
America for a year and knew what American women looked like.

I explained to him that 100 people would be coming shortly, that some
were wounded, some were children and all were hungry and exhausted. They
were being pursued by Iraqis in Russian tanks, I told him.

He asked me what part of America I was from. I don't know why he asked
that. Anyway I told him.

He considered Boston a lovely town. He told me that he'd been to some
Army college in Kansas. He told me he really liked America, America was
a very great country and that he wished Iran was more like America.

I was afraid we'd be there for hours. Iranians love to talk and move
slowly. They hate to be confronted with an actual reality.

Then he asked if these Kurds were of the Pesh Merga, the mountain
fighters making a war against the Iraqis. I said yes. He said they could
admit no Kurds. It was a new policy. He said he would be glad to have me
come into his country but it was a new policy and the border was now
closed to the Pesh Merga.

I wasn't sure I'd understood him. I thought I'd misheard. I wasn't sure
what he was talking about. I tried to get my composure back.

"There's an arrangement," I said. "Between the governments. Between my
government and your government and the Pesh Merga."

"There is no arrangement," he said. Several of his officers and soldiers
had their guns out and came over to us. They looked at us rudely.

1 pointed to Ulu Beg. I remember that I said, "This man is famous. This
is the famous Ulu Beg. He is a high officer in the Pesh Merga."

Major Mejhati said the American lady was free to come into his country
but that the Kurd was not. He said he'd have his men shoot if the Kurd
didn't move away from the border.

I told him there had been an American officer with us, an important man,
with high connections in Tehran ... But they told us that all the
Americans were gone.

Ulu Beg turned and began to walk back to his people.

I ran after him.

Chardy set the manuscript down. She was sitting across from him. She had
not even taken her coat off.

"You should have crossed the border, Johanna. That was a foolish thing
to do."

"I couldn't, Paul. Keep reading."

We ran all that day and most of the next. We headed north, farther into
the mountains. Our new goal was Turkey, where the border was not heavily
guarded. It was a bitter solution to our problem, since the Kurdsand
most of the Middle East-hate nothing more than the Turks, who for
centuries, in their Ottoman Empire, ruled in corrupt greed.

The plan was then to continue north, into Russia. I knew that in his
mind Ulu Beg was retracing the journey of Mullah Mustafa Barzani, who
fled Iran after the collapse of the Kurdish republic at Mahdbdd in 1947.

Barzani had gone into exile for I I years in the Soviet Union. The irony
of fleeing the Iraqis-who were led and supplied by the Russians-for
Turkey and then Russia, did not strike me at the time. Now it seems to
illustrate to me a basic principle of Middle Eastern history and
politics: ideology means nothing.

Finally, it was the sixth day, in the morning. We had found some caves
and at last dared light a fire. We had even found a spring that was not
cemented over.

Somebody turned on the radio-it was a standard procedure, for Jardi, as
the Kurds called him, had always tried to make his contact with
Rez5'iyeh in the morning-and suddenly, where for five days there had
been nothing, there was a signal.

There was, as I understand, a certain code sequence to be gotten through
before communications commenced. I heard Ulu Beg speaking in his
awkward English.

"Fred to Tom," he was saying. "Fred to Tom."

The radio, a Russian thing like all the equipment Paul had brought,
hissed and crackled.

I heard English words-"Tom to Fred, Tom to Fred"-and recognized the
voice. It was Paul Chardy's.

"Do you remember that part, Paul?" she asked.

It was so still in the room. Chardy looked over at her. At last he said,

"Yes, I remember," and turned back to the pages.

We waited in the clearing. The helicopters would come at four, Paul
Chardy had said. There would be six of them, and they'd have to make two
or three sorties to get everybody out. It had to be orderly, he said, no
panic, no crowding, and it would take some time but they'd get everybody
out.

The men were praising Allah the Merciful for their deliverance but Ulu
Beg said to praise Jardi and his friends from America.

We seemed to wait a year. It was really only a few hours. By now the
skies had cleared, and the sun was very hot. On higher peaks snowcaps
reflected back at us. A few scrub oaks stood about in the clearing.

The people gathered in these few trees and I could see them laughing and
lounging about, the bright colors of their clothes showing through the
brown branches.

I had gone with Ulu Beg to a ridge above the clearing where we took some
cover behind a group of rocks. I asked him if he was expecting trouble.

"I always expect trouble," he said.

His face was caked with dust. The lips were cracked and almost white,
his eyes a tired blue. He had taken his turban off and I was struck by
his hair, which was almost a brownish blond. He had very powerful eyes.

He told me to go down below to wait for the helicopters.

"I will stay," I said.

We heard the helicopters before we saw them. They rose over the crest of
the hill. It was an extraordinary sight for me. I stared at them in
almost dumb disbelief.

There were, as Paul had promised, six of them. They hovered in the sky.

On the ground, Amir Tawfiq ignited a green smoke bomb. A pillar of green
rose through the trees.

The helicopters were gray things, and had the bull's eye of the Royal Iranian
insignia on them. Their noses glittered in the sun because of all the
glass or plastic. They were much bigger than I'd imagined. They
generated a great deal of noise. They were in a formation of two lines,
three each. They lowered themselves from the sky, dark and big. I could
see the pilots in helmets and sunglasses behind the windshields.

Their rotors pulled up the dust, which spun and whirled. It rose and
stung my eyes. Green smoke whipped through the air. Wind beat against us
and I could see the leaves of the trees shaking off.

I could see the two little boys, Apo and Memed, sitting off to one side.

I could see Amir Tawfiq and his wife, whose arm was heavily bandaged. I
could see Kak Farzanda, the old man, waiting patiently. I could see Haji
Ishmail, who had been a porter in Baghdad before leaving to join the
fight in the mountains. I could see Sulheya, the old woman, in her black
scarf, who had told me stories and myths that I had recorded, and her
daughter Nasreen, who did the cooking. I could see ... well, I could
see them all, people I'd lived with for seven months and grown, as much
as is possible for a foreigner, a foreign woman even, to love.

The helicopters hung over the trees and for a while I did not quite
understand what was happening. I stood, quite stupidly. There was a
commotion in the dust down below.

Ulu Beg had turned and I heard him say, "Russians."

Men in the helicopter doorways were shooting into the trees. Dust flew.

I could see tree branches breaking. Links of color began to spit from
the guns the men were shooting. It was as if they were hosing the trees
with light. Sparks flew and fires started.

Beside me, Ulu Beg fired with his Russian gun. I could see a helicopter
tilt as the glass of the windshield broke. Kill them, I felt myself
thinking. The machine began to fall, tilting crazily. It broke up when
it hit. Its blade thrashed at the earth. It exploded into a huge oily
wave of flame which spilled through the clearing. I was knocked back.

The men in the helicopters were shooting at us. Bullets were hitting
rocks and banging off. The stench of burning gasoline reached my nose. I
was so mixed up I almost walked into the terrible panorama beneath us,
but Ulu Beg grabbed my arm and pulled me down the far side of the ridge
to a dark ravine. We tumbled down its side, sliding through the rocks.

In my sheer terror, I did not feel any pain. We moved deeper along it
until pressed into a dark crevice. I could see a helicopter overhead. It
hung there for the longest time. Ulu Beg had his Russian gun ready. But
then the helicopter rose from the sky and vanished. Two columns of smoke
rose in the sky, one huge and black and the other green.

"Did the Russian tell you about that?" Johanna asked him as he laid down
the last page.

No," Chardy said. "Not the details."

"Was the ambush the part of the other thing? Was it part of some larger
betrayal? Were you under orders? All those months when I loved you, when
you fought with the Kurds-Aid you know? Did you know how it would end?"

"Of course not."

"But that was you on the radio?"

Chardy remembered it, but not very well. It was a Soviet LP-56 model,
with double amplification and some kind of frequency scanner thing,
standard issue in Soviet armored units. He remembered the microphone in
his hand, a heavy, blocky thing. They were way behind in radios, he
remembered thinking. He had felt so numb.

"What?" she said.

"Yes," he said.

He remembered the KGB colonel, Speshnev, had been pleased with his
performance.

"Why, Paul?" she said quietly.

"I-it was very important to them to kill or capture Ulu Beg," he said.

"But why did you help them?"

"I didn't have any choice."

"Did they torture you?"

"They had some fun. But it wasn't that."

"Tell me, Paul. Why?"

"Johanna, I can't tell you. And I can't change a thing now. I guess I'm
really here to try and make it up."

"Nobody made anything up for the Kurds."

"Johanna, he's here to kill. Suppose some more children get stuck in the
crossfire? Suppose it's another massacre? Suppose somebody innocent-"

"We armed Ulu Beg. We supported him. We urged him on. Paul, nobody's
innocent,"

"Johanna-"

"Paul, get out of here. I can't help you, I won't help you. What's going
to happen will happen. Insha'allah: God's will. The Kurds say, "Do not
hesitate to let the vengeance fall on the head of your enemy." He looked
at her.

She said, "Get out, Paul, I'm so tired."

He stood.

"Don't ever try to see me again. I swear I'll call the police."

Chardy stood outside her house in the cold. He wondered if they'd
followed him and after a few minutes the van pulled up. He walked across
the street and got into it.

"How did it go?" asked Lanahan.

"Terrible," he said, sitting across from the boy in back. The van
started and he looked out the window as lights and dark houses fled by.

"Who the fuck does she think she is? What the fuck does she think this
is all about? Okay, she won't help us, we've got some tricks we can
throw her way. We'll-"

Chardy had the boy by the thick lapels of his raincoat and rammed him
against the side of the van, feeling the head slap hard against the
glass of the window.

"Hey, hey." The wizard in front turned, horrified. Take it easy, you
guys."

But Chardy planted a forearm against the boy's throat, pinning his neck
against the seat, and told him to watch his fucking mouth. Then he
released him and sat back.

The boy shook his head woozily and touched his throat. Fear showed in
his wide eyes and trembling fingers, but the fear turned to rage.

"You are an animal," he said.

Chardy looked out the window, into the dark.

They returned to the hotel sullenly. It was nearly midnight. Chardy went
to the bar and had a few more beers. He looked around the room-it was
pretty packed-for the biggest man -he could see, found him, and went to
pick a fight. But the man turned out to be timid, and left quickly, and
people stayed so far from Chardy after that that he finally decided to
go to bed.

He slept poorly, thinking of helicopters.

The phone roused him early the next morning. He blinked awake in the
gray light in a messy room. He had a headache and a sour taste in his
mouth. He answered.

"Paul?"

I"Yes?" I

Her voice held promise of a question, but did not ask it. He gripped the
phone so tight he thought he'd shatter the plastic.

She said, "I have to see you."

"Why?"

"Paul, you son of a bitch. Why didn't you stay in Chicago?"

He looked at his Rolex to discover it was 7:30.

"I haven't slept," she said. "I seem to be a little nuts. I did some
speed a little while ago."

"Take a nap, for Christ's sakes. Then meet me someplace in the open.

Outside."

"By the river. By the boathouse. Off Boylston. Anyone can tell you where
it is. At noon."

"I'll see you then."

"Paul. Please come alone. Don't bring any little men in overcoats." Ulu
Beg sat next to a black man. He'd learned that the black men were best.

Between El Paso and Fort Worth, an endless flat monotony, he had sat
with a white man who talked and talked. The tales were filled with
unknowable references-the Spurs, mortgage rates, gas prices, the Oilers,
Johnny Carson, the PTA, waterfront lots, barking dogs-that troubled his
brain. He kept a smile on his face and nodded eagerly for the hours of
the journey, and when at last he was freed found himself waxen, shaky,
slimy with perspiration.

So Ulu Beg looked for black men. You could sit next to a black man for
hours and he would say nothing. He would not see you. He would sit
encased in his own furious silence, absorbed and bitter. Ulu Beg was
somehow drawn to them. Were they America's Kurds? For, like the Kurds,
they were a manly and handsome people, intent upon preserving their own
ways. They had a dignity, an Islamic stillness he could understand. And
they were skeptical of the America around them, he could sense that too.

Yet they had never retreated to the mountains to fight. He wondered why.

He thought it might have to do with the music they always listened to,
the huge radios they carried with them everywhere.

Beyond the glass of the bus window the state of Arkansas rolled past,
flat and green.

The black man stirred. He was a large and silent man with small angry
eyes in his huge face. He rattled the newspaper he was reading. Ulu Beg
could see in black letters:

MAN TAKEN BY UFO FOURTH TIME

SALLY, BURT: SECOND TIME AROUND?

CHERYL LADD: DAVID ABUSED ME

Ulu Beg tried to get comfortable. He was not used to sitting for long
periods of time. He'd sat still very seldom in his life. He shifted his
pack, which he carried in his arms rather than storing on the overhead
rack, squirming awkwardly. His elbow poked into the black man's
outstretched newspaper.

"Sorry," he said, drawing into his seat even farther.

The black man made an elaborate ceremony of turning the page, claiming
for himself even larger amounts of space.

Ulu Beg looked past him, out the window again.

Arkansas. After Arkansas, Kentucky, Tennessee. Then Ohio. Then ... They
were strange names and stranger places. He almost didn't dare say them,
even though the drilling had improved his English greatly; and he had
memorized them, that curious, shambling route up through the middle of
America, through dirty towns of no distinction that all looked the same.

He'd been on the journey now for many days and would continue for many
more.

"There is no hurry," they had told him. "Caution is better than risk.

Three certain steps back are better than one risky step forward."

Little Rock upcoming. Memphis, then Bowling Green.

By bus, by train, but never by airplane. Americans were crazy with fear
about airplane hijackers, terrorists, killers, and so there was no more
dangerous place for a man with a gun in America than an airport.

Lexington, Huntington. Always the same. Roll into a city bus station
late at night, or, if arriving in the day, wait till nightfall. Then,
with certainty, there will be a small hotel that caters to travelers
without much money, without pasts and futures-transients, the sign will
say. Take a cheap room. Leave it only to eat. Eat only in small
restaurants, where you do not have to order elaborate meals. Stay for
several days. If you stay more than three, change hotels. Then move on.

Ulu Beg was becoming something of an expert on such a life, and the
places required by it. The hotels were full of old men with bleak eyes
who spat and smelled of liquor, who would talk to anyone or no one. This
was no America of wealth and might; it was a mean place, like the slums
in any country, especially for lonesome men with problems: no money, no
homes, no job. Much hate. These men without women lived on and fed off
their hate. They hated the blacks-who hated them in turn-and they hated
the others"-that mysterious remainder of the world which they did not
fathom but which somehow seemed to have the skill to live nicely. They
hated children, who had futures; and they hated women, for not seeing
them; they hated each other; they hated themselves.

Yet they did not seem to notice Ulu Beg, or if they did, because he fit
into no category, they could not hate him. They ignored him.

SURGEON SUED WHEN BREAST SLIPS I KILLED MY BABY, CRIB-DEATH MOM SOBS

NEW CANCER CURE FOUND BY MEX DOCS

They were right. They could not prepare him for America. Nothing could
prepare him for America. They had prepared him for much but they had not
prepared him for the hate. It was as if he had never left the dangerous
streets, the gun-haunted hills, the ugly free-fire zone of the Middle
East. There was a war here too. The old men in the hotels that stank of
disinfectant and had bugs that bit you in the night-as at home. The
black men, in angry knots on the street comers: the young ones looked
like tough young Hanafis in a Sunni area. Solitary old Negroes, who
moved so slow you'd think they'd seen their own death waiting at the end
of the block. The women, both inviting and hostile. Could they all be
whores? Painted like Baghdad harlots for sure, thrusting their hips and
breasts and fat mouths at you. Yet they were brittle with a kind of fear
too. But worst of all he saw were the white men.

Masters of this world? Rulers, emperors? Conquerors of the moon?

He'd never seen masters so sullen and wan. It is worse to suffer
dishonor in this world than death, the Kurds say. Kurdistan or death,
the Kurds say. Life passes, honor remains, the Kurds say.

No white American could say such things. They were like the corrupt old
Ottomans-America a tottering Ottoman empire, as Byzantine, as greedy, as
muscieless. American men sweated because they were so fat. They did not
seem to own their own streets but merely to lease them at exorbitant
rates. God willed nothing for them, because God could not see them.

Or maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was the city. Whatever, the air
seemed blue in the cities he passed through-blue with rising smoke, with
rising steam, blue with the nighttime hues of huge lamps, blue with
hate. At any moment it would break apart and the groups would begin to
hunt each other in the streets. Beirut, Baghdad, Tehran, Tabriz: it had
happened a hundred times in his part of the world, all the hate swirling
madly until one red day it burst, spilling across the pavement. And it
would happen here. Surely that was the message in all this. He saw no
Jardis.

America had lost her Jardis. Sent them away, pushed them, driven them,
murdered them, blasphemed them, for whatever mad reason.

In his travel he saw no Jardi-not the posture which had seemed to him in
the mountains the very essence of America, which had been perhaps only
the very essence of Jardi. Jardi always pushed them on.

But Jardi had betrayed him.

Jardi, Jardi: Why?

His head ached. Jardi's crime mocked him.

Jardi, you were my brother. Jardi, I loved you. You had honor, Jardi,
you could not do such a thing.

Jardi, why? Who reached you, Jardi, who took you from us, who turned you
against us? You would have died, f Jardi, rather than betray us.

You once gave life, Jardi. You gave life to my son, Apo. Why would you
then take it, my brother?

"Little Rock, folks. Municipal Station, 'bout ten minutes. Check the
luggage rack overhead now."

The passengers stirred.

Ulu Beg looked out the window: in a mean blue city again. "Bout
motba-fuckin' time," said the black man, turning another page in his
newspaper.

MAGIC ENERGY PILLS RESTORE VITALITY

REDFORD TO DIRECT STREISAND U.S. MUST SHOW SPINE, SAYS JOE DANZIG

CHAPTER 10

Trewitt felt as if he were at an audience with Lyndon Johnson. This huge
old man who carried a nickel Peacemaker in his holster, who never
sweated through his mummified skin, who had hands like hams and eyes
like razor slits and spouted laconic Texas justice, hellfire and
brimstone: these characterv, these essays in human charisma, they always
meant trouble for Trewitt. They enchanted him and he stopped paying
attention, which he knew to be both stupid and dangerous.

Vernon Tell was a supervisor in the U.S. Border Patrol, Agent in Charge
of the Nogales, Arizona, station, and he was trying to explain to
Trewitt and Bill Speight, who were sitting in his office under the weak
fiction of being investigators for the Treasury Department's Bureau of
Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms interested in an automatic weapons
violation, just how little there was to go on in the case of the death
of his two officers, I I March last. He wore gigantic yellow-tinted
Bausch & Lomb shooting glasses and had the shortest crewcut Trewitt had
ever seen. Trewitt blinked in the heat, trying to sort it all out.

Evidently a climax in the conversation had been reached, for now the
bulky old cop and Bill Speight rose. Trewitt felt the situation
squirming out of control and wanted urgently to have it in his fingers
again-if it had ever been so in the first place-but he felt himself
rising too, drawn by Vernon Tell's creaky magnetism, and by the desire
to demonstrate to a creep like Speight that he wasn't confused.

The old officer turned to him suddenly and said, "You in Vietnam, son?"

Trewitt, startled, felt he was being tested.

"No, sir," he said.

"Well," said Tell, whose forest-green uniform was spotless even though
the air conditioning in his office was on the fritz and both Trewitt and
Speight had wilted in their clothes, "reason I ask is most nights it's
like Vietnam out there." He gestured to his window, through which, in
blazing, cloudless radiance, could be seen a representative vista of the
Southwest, miles and miles of scrub and desert and mountains and,
incidentally, as Trewitt could see, a Dog'n'suds. "They come with dope
and guns and they come just plain illegal. They come in planes and in
Jeeps and on foot. It can get pretty wild and woolly."

"I'm sure it's a tough job," said Trewitt ineffectually.

"This-a-way," said Tell.

He took them down a glossy hall under the gaze of various official
portraits and through a double set of green doors. Beyond lay a gate,
which the old cop swiftly unlocked. This led into another hall and into
an atmosphere that rose in thickness and discomfort in direct proportion
to their penetration of it. Cells, empty, flanked them, but there was
still another destination: at the end of the hall two uniformed men sat
in a prim little office.

"How's our boy today?" Tell asked. "'Bout the same, sir."

"These gents come all the way from the East to see him A

Another door opened, a room, half cell and half not, a private little
chamber. In the cell a single Mexican boy lounged on the cot, slim and
sullen.

"This is what we drug up," said Tell. "His name is Hector Murillo. He's
sixteen, from a village called Haitzo about a hundred miles south of
Mexico City. Any of you speak Spanish?"

Trewitt and Speight shook their heads.

"We think Hector came over that night. The others are dead in the
desert, or back on their side of the border, or got clean away. But from
the tracks on the site, we know at least seven men went across. One of
them, the man who did the shooting, in boots. We're still trying to
track the make on the boots."

"What's his sorry story?" asked Bill Speight gruffly, mopping his face
with a sodden handkerchief. Speight looked gray in the heat and his hair
clung in lank strips to his forehead. Upstairs he'd been spry and folksy
but the heat had finally gotten to him.

"Funny thing, he hasn't got one. We just found him wandering half-dead
from thirst and craziness in the mountains a week after the shootings.

Says he can't remember anything. Hector. C6mo estd la memoria?

"Estd nada."

"Nada. Nothing."

The sullen boy looked at them without interest, then turned and
elegantly hawked a gob into a coffee tin and rolled to face the wall.

"These Mex kids, some of 'em are made out of steel," said Tell. "But
unless we get some kind of break on the case, he's looking at Accessory
to Murder One in the State Code and Violating the Civil Rights of my two
men in the Federal."

Jesus," blurted Trewitt, "he's only a boy," and saw from the furious
glare off Speight that he had made a mistake.

"They grow up fast on that side of the fence," Tell said.

"Any help coming from the Mexican authorities?" Speight wanted to know.

"The usual. Flowers to the widows and excuses. They'll kick down the
doors of a few Nogales whorehouses.

"Any idea of who ran them across?"

"Mr. Speight, there's maybe two dozen coyote outfits in Mexican Nogales
that move things-illegals or dopein to Los Estados. And there's hundreds
of free-lancers, one-timers, amateurs, part-timers. Ask Hector."

But Hector would not look at them.

"In the old days, we'd have him talking. But that's all changed now,"
said Tell.

But Trewitt, studying the boy, who wore gym shoes, blue jeans, and a
dirty T-shirt, did not think so. You could bang on that kid for a month
and come up empty; a tough one; steel, the old cop had said. Trewitt
shuddered at the hardness he sensed. He tried to imagine what made him
so remote, tried to invent an image of childhood in some Mexican slum.

But his imagination could not handle it beyond a few simpering visions
of fat Mexican mamas and tortillas and everybody in white Mexican
peasant suits. Yet he was moved by the boy.

"Well," said Speight, "thanks for your trouble, Mr. Tell." He probably
wanted to head back to the motel bar for a rum-and-Coke. Trewitt had
never seen a man drink so many rum-and-Cokes.

"Sooner or later Hector will decide to chat with us," the supervisor
promised. "I'll give you a ring."

Do you think you could let me run through your file on the border
runners, the coyotes?" Speight asked.

"Don't see why not," said Tell.

They turned and left, and Trewitt made as if to follow. But his sense of
poignancy for the rough, brave boy alone in an American jail, facing bad
times, stormed over him. He paused, turned back.

The boy had perked up and sat on his bunk, eyeing Trewitt. His dark
brown eyes were clear of emotion. Trewitt heard the two old
men enmeshed in some folksy conversation about the old days, the way
things used to be. But Trewitt, in the cell, felt overwhelmed by the
present, by the nowness of it all. He yearned to help the boy, soothe
him somehow.

You should have been a social worker, he thought with disgust. This
tough little prick would cut your throat for your wristwatch if he had
the chance.

But an image came to him: Hector and the others in some kind of truck or
van, prowling through the night on the way to something they must have
only vaguely perceived as better. They would have been locked in with
the Kurd for hours, with a strange tall man. What would they have made
of him?

The boy looked at him coldly, and must have seen another gringo
policeman. Trewitt felt he'd blundered again. He knew he should leave;
he didn't belong in here. He felt vaguely unwholesome. He turned to
leave-and then a terrific idea, from nowhere, detonated in his head.

"Hector," he said.

The boy's eyes stayed cold but came to focus on him. Speight's words
boomed loudly behind him someplace and the supervisor and the guard
laughed. Had they noticed his absence? His heart pounded.

He could see before him a picture: it floated, tantalizing him. It was a
picture of a high-cheekboned, tall, bright-eyed man with a strong nose
and blondish hair. It was on a wall. It was the picture an artist had
projected from the old photo of Ulu Beg.

Blond. And tall. And strange.

Trewitt said, in the Spanish he had so recently denied knowing, "I'm a
friend of the tall norteamericano with the yellow hair. The one with the
gun. He is a big gangster. He thanks you for your silence."

The boy looked at him cautiously.

Trewitt could hear them laughing, old Speight and old Tell, two old men
full of good humor. Would they miss him yet?

"You were betrayed," Trewitt invented. "Sold for money by the man who
took you to the border. The tall man seeks vengeance." He hoped he had
the right word for vengeance, la venganza.

"Tell him to cut the pig. Kill him. Make him bleed," the boy said
coldly.

"The tall norteamericano gangster will see it happen," he said.

"Tell him to kill the pig Ramirez who let my brother die in the desert."

"It's done," said Trewitt, spinning to race out.

Ramirez!

He was so charged with ideas he was shaking. He couldn't stop thinking
about it.

"Okay," he said, "I think we ought to bump something back to Ver Steeg.

The hell with cables. I think we can call it in. Then we can open a link
to Mexican Intelligence-I'm sure we have some guys in Mexico City who
are in tight with them-and get a license to do some nosing around over
there. Then But Speight was not listening. He sat gazing thoughtfully
into his rum-and-Coke. It wasn't even noon yet!

"Bill, I was saying-"

"I know, I know," said Speight, nodding. He took a long swallow. Trewitt
knew he had once upon a time been a real comer, a man with a great
future, though it was hard to believe it now. He looked so seedy and
didn't want to be rushed into some mistake.

"You're probably right," he said. "That's a great idea, a fine idea. But
maybe we ought to hold off on this one. Just for a while."

"But why?" Trewitt wanted to know. They sat in a dim bar, at last safe
from the bright desert sun that seemed to bleach the color from the day
almost instantly. They were not far from the border itself. Trewitt had
glimpsed it just a few minutes ago; it looked like the Berlin wall, wire
and gates and booths, and behind it he had seen shacks crusted on
suddenly looming hills, a few packed, dirty streets-he had seen Mexico.

"Well ..." Bill paused.

Trewitt waited.

"First, it never pays to make a big thing out of your own dope. Second,
it never pays to rush in. Third, I am an old man and it's a hot day.

Let's just sit on it, turn it around, see how it looks after the sun
goes down."

"Well, the procedure is-"

"I know all the procedures, Jim."

"I just thought-"

"What I'd like to do-you can come along too, if you want; you might find
it interesting-what I'd like to do is a little quiet nosing around.

Let's just see what we can develop in a calm way."

"Mexico? You want to go to Mexico? We don't have any brief to-"

"Thousands of tourists go over there every day. You just walk across and
walk back, it's that simple. It's done all the time."

"I don't know," said Trewitt. Mexico? It frightened him a little bit.

"We'll go as tourists. Turistas. We'll buy little curios and go to a few
clubs and just have a fine time."

Trewitt finally nodded.

"Turistas, Old Bill said again.

He waited by the huge old boathouse, a Victorian hulk; it was a clear,
chill day, almost a fall day, and before him he could see the wind
pushing rills across the water. Some Harvard clown was out in a scull
working up a sweat and Chardy watched him propel himself down the river
toward the next bridge, bending and exploding, bending, exploding. The
rower developed surprising velocity and soon disappeared under the
arches, but by that time Chardy's vision had locked on an approaching
figure.

It seemed to take a great deal of time for her to cross the shelf of
worn grass that separated the Georgian mansions of several Harvard
houses from the cold Charles.

She wore jeans over boots and her tweed jacket over a turtleneck. Her
hair was hidden in a knit cap. She had on sunglasses and wore no makeup.

She looked more severe, perhaps more bohemian, certainly more academic
than last night.

Chardy walked to meet her.

"You get some sleep?"

"I'm fine," she said, without smiling.

"Let's go down to that bridge."

His head ached and he was a little nervous. A jogger, ears muffed
against the cold, loped by and then, traveling the other direction, a
cyclist on one of those jazzy, low slung bikes.

They reached the bridge at last, and walked to its center, passing
between trees only a little open to the coming of spring.

Chardy leaned his elbows against the stone railing, feeling the cold
wind bite; his ears stung. He had no gloves, he'd left them somewhere.

Chardy could feel Johanna next to him. She had her arms closed around
her body and looked cold.

He scanned the left bank, Memorial Drive, which ran through the trees.

Cars sped along it. He looked off to the right, where the road was
called Storrow Drive and studied the traffic on it, too. "This should
be all right," he said. "What are you worried about?"

"They have parabolic mikes that can pick you up at two hundred feet. But
you need a lot of gear to make it work, which means you need a van or a
truck. I was looking for a van or a truck parked inconspicuously
somewhere.

Chardy looked down at the water.

"I think," he said, "they've only let me see a little of the operation.

I think it's much bigger than they've let me know. I haven't worked it
out just yet-just what they're up to, just how much more they know than
they say they know. They've got me working with some jerk without a
human twitch in his body and an Ivy League drone and a dreamy kid. It's
got to be bigger. I just know it is. And somebody's watching.

Sam, he thought. Sam, I bet you're there.

"It's safe to talk here?" she said.

"If they really want to nail you, they can do it, no matter what. But
they don't have much respect for me now. So it's safe."

"You gave me such an awful night, Paul."

"I'm sorry."

"What choice do I really have?"

"None. If you care for him."

"I hate the fact we don't have a choice."

"I hate it too. But that's the game."

The wind was quite strong; he turned against it, looked the other way
down the curving river. He could see the rower, fighting his way back to
the boathouse.

"You hurt us so bad, Paul. Oh, you hurt us, Paul."

"Things happen," Chardy said. "You do your best and sometimes it's not
nearly enough. I just got into something I couldn't handle. I'd give
anything, my life, to have it to do over again. But I can't do anything
about it."

The wind had really become strong now, and he could see it pushing up
small waves in the river.

"Don't they believe in spring in Boston?" he said.

"Not till June."

"Has he gotten to you? Has anybody reached you?"

"No."

"Can you think of what he might do? Is there a Kurdish community, an
exile community, where he might go? Are there people who might help him?

Where can we look for him? What can we expect?"

"There's no Kurdish community, Paul. A few Kurds, I suppose. Paul,
there's something I have to tell you. Something else. It was something I
wanted to put into the book, but I couldn't. It's something I just
wanted to forget, to bury away. But it comes back on me, Paul. It comes
back at odd moments. I think it's made me a little crazy."

Chardy turned to look at her.

"Okay," he said. "Tell me."

"We went into the clearing after the helicopters left. We thought we
could help people." She giggled in an odd way. "And we did. Most of them
were ... blown apart. You've been in wars; you'd know."

It's-"

"It was like a meat shop. The bullet holes were burning, had burned
through people. There was a smell of cooked meat. Paul, one of his boys
was still alive. He had a bullet in his stomach that was burning. He was
crying terribly. He was crying for his father. Ulu Beg knelt and told
him that he loved him and kissed him on the lips and shot him through
the temple with that gun you gave him. Then he walked around, shooting
other people in pain. His own son, then maybe fifteen, maybe twenty
others. They were all screaming."

Chardy was shaking his head slowly, breathing with difficulty.

"That was what it cost to become involved with the Americans, Paul. Not
only the death of his family, his tribe, his way of life, but that he
was required to kill his own child."

Chardy could say nothing.

"We've got to save him," she said.

"Somehow we'll do it," he said.

CHAPTER 12

The pit is usually kept in half-dark and the supervisors, perhaps
sensing they are not needed or wanted, look down on the analysts from a
bank of brightly lit windows. They look like monks or angels, just pure
dark silhouettes against the light. But down on the floor, nothing
disturbs: by tradition there is no talking between the analysts---each
sits in his or her cubicle, bent over a video display terminal, face
illuminated in the weird glow of the screen, fingers clicking dryly.

It's a funny place for a war---or maybe not. Anyway, it is a war zone, a
combat theater of operations: here the real battles are fought, the
private Thermopylaes and Agincourts and Trafalgars of the Central
Intelligence Agency, in electraglow (greenish) in sans serif letters on
a TV screen plugged into an electric typewriter, observed by grim young
men who rarely smile. Agents half the world away never dream that their
shadow selves float in the currents of destiny in the great memory of
the Langley computers.

It is a simple proposition: analysts are warriors. Given a terminal with
access to the database, then given a mission by the upstairs people,
they simply hunt for ways to make things happen. They look for links,
oddities, chinks in armor; they look for irregularities, eccentricities,
quirks, obsessions; they look for proofs, patterns, fates, tendencies.

They comb, they cull, they sift and file. The good ones are calm and
bright and, most importantly, literal-minded. They just have a brain for
this kind of thing, a symbiosis with the software based on the sure
knowledge that the machine is never ironic, never witty, never clever:
it always says just what it means and does just what it is told; it has
no quaint personality, but at the same time its etiquette is remorseless
and its willingness to forgive nonexistent.

Down here also there are champions. Some men just do better than others,
by gifts of genes or drive, by luck, by nerve. Miles Lanahan was one
such. It was said he could do more with less data than any man in the
pit. He became a kind of legend himself, and got so good, made them so
scared of his talent, that he actually rose from the pit and entered the
real world, the operational realm. It had not happened before in the
pit's living memory. The current champion, however, was Michael
Bluestein.

Michael Bluestein, twenty-four, had been a math major at MIT; he had the
lazy genius, that unerring sureness of touch that scared everybody too.

He also worked like a horse. On the same Sunday afternoon that Chardy
struggled to come to terms with Johanna while evading Miles, Michael
Bluestein sat in jeans and a polo shirt (Sunday shift cavalierly ignores
the unstated dress code-another tradition) in the semidarkness in his
cubicle in front of his VDT, nursing a sore left index finger-he played
first base on a softball team (his teammates thought he worked at the
Pentagon, which he encouraged because he caught such shit if he
mentioned the Agency) and the day before, at practice, he had jammed it,
pulling a low throw from the dirt. Now, stuff flowed across his screen,
plucked up from the Ongoing Ops file on a random basis by the machine
for his delectation, for his best effort. The stuff was Kurdish poetry.

Not that Bluestein was a fan of poetry: he didn't know T. S. Eliot from
Elliot Maddox. But there was a big scam going on up at Security, and a
sense of crisis had suffused the entire apparatus. Bluestein, not immune
to these vibrations, could feel it. He didn't exactly know what, he
didn't have to know exactly what. You just took so much on trust.

Upstairs said: Kurdish, go through our data on Kurds, exhume our tangled
relations, and look for traces of a particular Kurd, one Ulu Beg.

Funny, there wasn't much. Only the legendary Melman Report, the
postmortem on Saladin II, and since Bluestein wasn't Blue Level cleared
yet, he couldn't get the code to call it up. But there was very little
else to go on; nobody knew much about the Kurds, or maybe some of the
stuff was missing from the records. There was no pre-mission dope on
Saladin II, none of the working papers or feasibility studies were
there. Mildly odd, but not unheard of. There was also no critique
scenario of the operation, pinpointing why it went sour. Again, mildly
odd, but not unheard of It wasn't that he couldn't get any more. If they
gave you the codes, you could get anything and when they wanted you to
check something, they gave you the codes. The dope just wasn't there.

But there were public documents, material acquired randomly, perhaps as
part of Saladin II's planning, perhaps as part of the postmortem, and
never examined terribly closely before. Political pamphlets, position
papers, volumes of poetry (the Kurds are extremely poetic), posters, the
text of an appeal to the U.N. in 1968 accusing the Iraqis of genocide,
the notes of Baathist (reform party) meetings, Command Council decrees,
hymns, the usual dettitus of a failed political movement, all of it
begrudgingly translated into English and programmed into the machine for
textual examination.

Bluestein looked at the poem before him. Surely the translation was a
poor one, for even allowing for his lack of enthusiasm for the material
and even allowing for the Islamic tendency toward flowery, overstated
rhetoric, it was simply awful.

We the suicide fighters, heroes of the nation, lions of black times ran
one bit of doggerel.

We shall sacrifice our lives and our property for the sake of liberated
Kurdistan.

Just awful. Only one image arrested him: that "lions of black times"
business, although it sounded something like a Roger Zelazny novel,
sword and sorcery jazz. At any rate, it certainly was melodramatic.

Across our frontiers, we the suicide fighters, we shall wreak vengeance
upon our enemy, the vengeance of the Kurds and of Kurdistan.

Crazies. Wild-eyed Moslem fanatics. Imagine writing something so
inflammatory, so pointlessly stupid.

We shall wreak vengeance upon the many guilty hands which sought to
destroy the Kurds ... Were the Kurds opening a terrorist franchise?

Was that what this one was about? Bluestein shook his head. He tended to
be moderate and orderly--he was a mathematician, after all-and the
rawness of passion, its bald fury and literary artlessness somewhat
offended him.

Bluestein had read enough. He cleared a line and typed EN on the screen,
directing the computer to remove this one and pick out something new
from the Kurdish file.

Another poem! They need an English major, not a math star, thought
Bluestein. What was he supposed to make of it, anyhow? The preliminary
note explained that this item was from a 1958 edition of Rqia Nu, a
letterpress literary, cultural, and political journal put out in Beirut
by Celadet and Kamuran Bedir-Kahn between 1956 and 1963. Its author was
identified in the note as well, well, well!-U. Beg, later a Kurdish
guerrilla. U. Beg?

Bluestein sighed heavily, and began to scroll the piece across his
screen, trying to make sense of it. It's only words, he thought. He
mistrusted words; give him numbers any time, and to hell with the Theory
of Uncertainty. U. Beg is nothing special. More of the same: standard
revolutionary garbage, full of flatulent zeal, outrage, the language
soaring off into the realm of the ridiculous.

We the Kurds must be strong and fight the masters of war who would have
us surrender.

We must fight the jackals of the night, we must be lions.

We must fight the falcons of the sky, we must be lions.

We must fight the merchants of honey who offer sweet promises and scents
of delight yet sell bitter, dead kernels that become bones under the
earth.

We must be lions.

And on and on it went. Spare me, please. Give me North Vietnamese
agricultural production tables or Libyan import quotas or the price of
oranges in Marrakech or the detonation sequence in Soviet intermediate
range ballistic missiles. What can they want, what do they expect? Get
an English major, for Christ's sakes; and Bluestein knew, because he
dated one once, fierce and goofy and promiscuous and dramatic; she'd
hurt him very badly.

He swiftly sent the item back into the computer memory and diddled up
another from the Kurdish file, and while he waited for it to arrive he
nursed his aching finger. His legs ached a little too; he was very tall,
and they didn't quite fit in the cubicle without bending in places where
they oughtn't bend. He wiggled the finger. Broken? No, probably not. He
could bend it; it wasn't swollen too badly.

A new item trundled up across the screen. Poetry? Blessedly, no. The
prelim note explained that it was an anonymous propaganda bulletin
issuing from HEZ, a radical Kurdish underground group in Iraq, dated
June of 1975, just a few months after Saladin II was closed down. It was
predictably vitriolic, a torrent of abuse directed at the United States
in general and one of its public figures in particular.

Bluestein had read a hundred of them and doubtless would read a hundred
more. Pity the people in Translation who sit there all day long and work
the stuff into English, so that it can be programmed into the computer
memory. Don't they ever get tired? Bluestein supposed they did not; it
was their job, after all. He knew they were all from the National
Security Agency over at Fort Meade and must be grinds. Dreadful,
uncreative work, and the way they were pouring it out meant somebody had
lit a fire over there too, more evidence that this thing was big and
that it had people worried. Yost Ver Steeg, the Security chief It was
his name on the system-time authorization forms, and he must have had
some clout if he could get this stuff on-systemed this fast, and take up
hundreds of pit hours in poring through it. But what could even this
Yost Ver Steeg expect? Miracles? It didn't matter how hard you worked,
how many computer hours were invested: the principle involved was the
famous one involving poultry-i.e., chicken shit and chicken salad and
the impossibility of transmogrifying one substance into the other. Like
this grim denunciation he was reading-it proved only that there was hate
in the world. We already knew that, thought Bluestein. That's why we're
here, for God's sake. So the Third World hates the First. It should
surprise nobody and it proves nothing.

Bluestein scanned the green letters, the columns of type flying across
the screen. How long is this one, how long will it go on, what the hell
is he looking for, why are they so scared, why is this so big, who is
Yost Ver Steeg, why doesn't my finger stop hurting, why did Shelly
Naskins dump me three years ago, when is that going to stop hurting and
Bluestein halted.

Something just went click.

He looked very closely at the words before him, almost saying them
aloud, feeling their weight, lipping their shape. a merchant of honey,
who offered us sweet promises"-this was an American somebody in HEZ was
describing-"and scents of delight. Yet he sold bitter dead kernels that
became bones under the earth."

Bluestein sat back.

It was the same.

Could it be a coincidence? No, not by any law of probability. Could it
be a quote, an allusion? No, if this were a famous line, the preliminary
note would have said so.

U. Beg, you bastard, he thought, you wrote the second version, too. You
were quoting yourself.

And who was U. Beg talking about?

Bluestein checked, just to make sure, and then he began to dig through
his directory for Yost Ver Steeg's emergency code. And a single image
jumped into his head: it had nothing to do with Kurds or kernels or
honey or bones. It was a picture of a huge, gleaming plate of chicken
salad.

CHAPTER 13 it was an awkward process. Chardy had not been with a woman
for a long time. Among other anxieties he was frightened that he could
not control his sudden appetite. But she understood and was helpful,
guiding his hands, touching him when he was shy, pressing him where he
was reluctant. Chardy felt himself passing through a great many
landscapes, a great many colors. Was he in a museum? At some points he
seemed to walk down a stately corridor at a stately pace; and at others
he was racing upstairs or tipping dizzily down them, terrified of
falling. it seemed to last forever. When it finally finished, they were
both sweaty and exhausted, worn in the pale light that suffused the room
from the drawn shade. He could barely see her, she was only a form, a
warmth in the darkness.

"It's been so long," he said.

She put her hand on his arm and they slept.

Around five, she roused him.

"Come on. Let's go to a restaurant. A really nice one. Let's spend some
money. I haven't been out to dinner in years. You can wear your tie.

I'll put on heels."

"Great," he said. "Can I get a shower?"

"Go ahead. It's through there."

He rose, walked absently to the bathroom.

"Paul?" Her voice had something in it, and as he turned he knew, and it
astonished him that for a moment or two--or ten minutes or three hours
or whatever-he'd actually forgotten, it had left his brain totally. Or
maybe he'd willed himself to forget it so he could initiate her into his
secret without shame.

Paul," she said. "God, your back." "Yes," Chardy said. His back: the
living image of his weakness, whitten in flesh, a testament to his
failure at the one important thing he'd ever tried to do.

"Oh, Jesus, Paul. My God."

Across Chardy's back were six clusters of scar tissue. Each identical to
its five brothers: a central scar, a knot of curled piebald about the
size of a half-dollar, a small, fiery sun, and around it a system of
tinier agonies recorded in the flesh, smaller scars, streaks and comets
and whorls of dead skin.

"Oh, Paul," she said.

She was staring at him.

"I sold you out, Johanna. I gave him you and Ulu Beg and the Kurds, I
gave him the whole operation. I guess at the end I would have given him
anything. But he didn't get it off me easily. It took him six days. Six
sessions. I figured later he knew just how much my body could take. So
he spaced it out. He took me as far as he could each day and then he
quit and went to the officers' club. And I had to think about it that
night.,,

"Oh, Jesus, Paul."

"He did it with a blowtorch. His name was Speshnev; he was the senior
KGB officer in Iraq."

He looked at her.

"The fucker made me crazy. He scrambled my brain."

"Paul. They never told me. Nobody ever told me."

"Nobody ever knew. Nobody ever asked. You're the only person that knows.

You and Speshnev."

"Paul-" She grabbed him, as though to hold him down, hold him in,
control and comfort him, but he spun out of her grasp.

"Look at this, Johanna. You might as well see it all. Look
carefully-they've healed up pretty good now." He showed her the scars on
his wrists. "I cut 'em open on a flight to Moscow. But the Russians kept
me alive."

"Please, Paul. Please, it'll be all right, it'll be fine," she said.

"No," he said. "No, it'll never be all right," he screamed. Then, with
an effort, he controlled himself. "Look," he said, "I was raised by a
crazy old Hungarian. He died in the nut house. He raised me to hate
them. That old bastard-he used to whip it into me: "Paulie, you must
always fight them, you must never rest, you must always be a fighter."
Russians, Communists. But it was the way we lived, it was the way you
lived in a city then. Fights every day, fights all the time, everywhere.

Fights against everybody. You had to be tough or you were nothing.

That's the first lesson, the one you never forgot. You're always showing
them how tough you are. You had to do sports, do basketball, show them
how tough you were out there. Listen, I was king in that world, that's
how hard I pushed myself Listen to me, Johanna, are you listening?"

He could not stop. He could not close himself down.

"Listen, Johanna, I never bugged out. I never did. I never let anybody
down and I was in some tough scrapes. I was in Vietnam for seven years,
Johanna. I was a company commander in the Marine Corps when I was
twenty-three years old, I had two hundred teenagers depending on me.

This was 'sixty-four, first year of the big battles in places nobody can
even remember today. The gooks came out of nowhere in motorized
regiments like panzer troops, with Chinese advisers calling the moves
and coordinating artillery support. And all we had were dumb teenagers
and a few tough old noncoms from Korea and pretend tough-guy lieutenants
like me, and goddammit, Johanna, goddammit, if there was ever a right
time to run, that was it"-he punched the wall behind her bed with a
sudden, terrifying fury-"and we didn't move one fucking inch. That was
some fight too, three days and nights without stop, and if you were
going to run that was the time. Out of two hundred guys in that company,
I had less than fifty left when the gooks finally quit."

"Paul, you're hurting yourself. Your hand is bleeding-please, don't do
that-"

"No, no! You have to understand what he took from me. You have to see
what this guy took from me. The motherfucker. The motherfucker!"

In his craziness he hit the wall again, crashing through the plaster.

The blood ran down his arm.

"Paul, please, please." She held him back, burying him in her warmth.

"Jesus, you'll hurt yourself-you'll kill yourself," but he squirmed
free.

"I had a hundred chances to split, to jerk off, to lie down. Johanna,
the Agency put me in some jams, Frenchy and I lived for jams, we loved
jams. We specialized in jams, we looked for them, we took some crazy,
some stupid crazy reckless chances looking for jams, Johanna, I'm a lot
of terrible, terrible things, but I was never a coward, never a coward!"
He smashed at the wall. ol

"Paul, oh, God, you're hysterical, it's all right."

But he could not stop sobbing.

"I fought him. I never fought anybody like I fought this guy but he
wanted inside my head so bad, so bad! Why? Why was it so important to
him to crack me? Did his life depend on it or something? Did he hate Ulu
Beg that much? He wanted to split my head open and get in there forever.

Oh, Jesus, why? Why, for Christ's sakes, why?"

Johanna suddenly realized what Chardy believed, and said as calmly as
she could to the weeping, bleeding man in her bed, "Paul. He's not in
there now. He's not."

"Yes, he is," Chardy said, furiously righteous in his conviction.

"You can drive him out. You can get rid of him."

"No. Never. He's in there."

"Please listen to me. Please, Please-" She tried to push the tears from
his face but was crying herself at the same time. "Paul, we'll get
better. Jesus, what a pair. What a catch for the bin, you and 1, Paul.

God, we are so screwed up, God, what a freak show-the freak capital of
America, this apartment." She was even laughing a little by now. "We'll
get better, I swear to you-we'll beat them. We'll learn how to forgive
ourselves, I swear we will."

"We'll help Ulu Beg. That will make us better."

"It will mend us. It will heal us."

She reached for his scars and touched them. Her finger traced the
cruelest of contours, traced it around whorls, in an expanding universe,
a spiral radiation outward and outward.

"Oh, Paul."

He heard her voice through the noise of his rage, his devouring
self-loathing, and at last he let her reach him and calm him and they
began to touch each other. Their mouths found each other and their
bodies grew tense with physical hunger and he wanted her in the most
piercing of ways but even as he held her, the first woman he had had in
seven years, he thought he heard the Russian.

Dark had fallen. A buzzer rang in the apartment. Chardy could not
identify the sound. She went to the wall and spoke into an intercom,
asking who was there.

Chardy heard the name Lanahan.

"Paul," she called. "They want you."

"I heard," he said groggily. "Tell them I'm coming."

The wizard drove the van through the Cambridge traffic to a bridge over
the Charles. The van reached a highway and turned toward the city and
minutes later climbed the ramp to U.S. 93 toward Callahan tunnel, and
finally Chardy said, "Where are we going?"

Lanahan sat up front, with the seat between himself and Chardy, and
would not look back.

"You spend the day with her?"

"Where are we going?" Chardy repeated.

"I'm supposed to be able to tell them where you were all day. Were you
with her?"

"I was doing my job, Miles. That's all you have to know. I don't report
to you. All right?"

Lanahan considered.

Finally he said, "We're going to the airport."

"I thought Johanna was the point of this drill."

"You sure did your bit," Lanahan said.

"Don't poke me, Miles. I'll poke you right back."

"You guys are worse than a married couple," said the wizard.

"Just drive," said Lanahan. "We've got a plane to catch." He looked at
his watch.

"You want to tell me what's going on, Miles?"

Lanahan held the silence dramatically, making some stupid point Chardy
did not care much about, and finally said, "We think we know where Ulu
Beg is going. And it isn't Boston."

Chardy almost smiled. He had just learned some thing-something that
Miles maybe didn't want him to know. Now he saw it.

Why was Miles so grumpy? He'd just gotten a big break. But Chardy knew
why.

You bastards, he thought. :, You better tell me then, Miles," he said.

"Look"-Lanahan turned-"at what level was your Political dialogue with
him back during the operation? They're going to want to know back at
Langley."

"It was pretty simple."

"Did you ever discuss the origin of the operation, its political
context?"

"This was a few years ago. I don't remember."

"Well, you'd better try."

"Well, again I'd say, nothing fancy. He was curious. He had a great deal
of admiration for America. He was passably acquainted with various
American personalities-he listened to the BBC, just like everybody in
the mid-east."

"And Johanna?"

"She talked with him. Of course. She speaks Kurdish, remember?"

"About?"

"Who knows? All kinds of things. She was there seven months.

Lanahan nodded.

"We just got a terrific break. One of our computer analysts-a real smart
guy, they say-happened across a line of poetry Ulu Beg had written way
back in 'fifty-eight. Did you know he was a poet?"

"They're all poets. Just like they're all revenge-crazy. It doesn't
surprise me."

"And then he came across an anonymous political broadside, written years
later, just after Saladin Two. It's from a radical Kurdish group calling
itself HEZ. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes." Brigade." The Pesh Merga was divided into ten hez, each composed
of three to five battalions. Back in the mid-sixties Ulu Beg fought in
big battles against the Iraqis around Rawdndiiz and was a battalion
commander in the Fourth Hez.

"Well, HEZ is the name of a bitter group of veterans, violently
anti-Western. Anyway, our analyst-he found an exact repetition of a
phrase from Beg's poems in the broadside. Exact. It couldn't be
coincidence. And the poem was too obscure for it to be quotation or
allusion."

"He wrote the broadside then?" Chardy said.

Yes. Do you know what it was about?"

"No.

"It was about a great and famous American villain, the mastermind behind
the betrayal of the Kurds. It concluded with a sentence of death." ' The
President?"

"No. Joseph Danzig."

Chardy smiled. "Old Joe," he said.

"Paul." Lanahan was furious. "Do you have any idea of the consequences
if an Agency-trained and -sponsored Kurdish guerrilla with an
Agency-provided automatic weapon were to put nine bullets into the head
of one of the most famous men in America? You might somewhere, someplace
find an obscure government document with a record of there once having
been a Central Intelligence Agency, but you'd have to work awfully hard
to find it."

But Chardy could see the logic to it. He could see the Kurd's fierce
sense of justice. Joseph Danzig had pushed the CIA, which pushed Paul
Chardy, who pushed Ulu Beg-into an abyss. Now the years have passed and
here is Ulu Beg to push back: all the way to the top man. The same
linkages, the same progression.

"Paul, you'd better stop smiling. They're very upset about this. They're
very upset. Now they have to go to Danzig, of course, and they don't
like that. They've sent people to Nogales, to try and backtrack.

They've-"

"I'll bet they're upset, Miles. Come on, Miles, tell me how upset they
are?"

Lanahan said nothing.

The van had arrived by this time at Logan, but Chardy was not finished.

"You must have really thought I was stupid, Miles. You and Yost and-who?

Sam? Is Sam in on it?"

"Chardy, I-"

"Shut up, Miles. Because didn't you think I'd notice we never spent much
time on Ulu Beg's target possibilities in the first briefings? Did you
think I'd miss that? Did you think I'd miss how important it was to keep
me in sight-to follow me? Did you think I'd miss how upset you were when
you couldn't find me this morning?"

Miles faced dead forward.

"You thought you knew who the target was. Your analysts told you so. The
same boys who said he'd head for Johanna. You thought the target was me.

"

The van swooped into the cab lane and pulled to a halt at the Eastern
terminal.

"You guys better hurry," said the wizard. "You can just make the
six-thirty shuttle."

"Just a minute," Chardy said. "That was the real plan, wasn't it? Not to
control Johanna at all, but to put me in the center ring and draw him to
me."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Chardy," Miles said
furiously. Then he said, "We had to use our assets the best way we
could. You were covered the whole way."

"By you, Miles? I'd like to see you try to stop Ulu Beg from getting
what he wanted."

"We did what was best. For everybody. Somebody has to make the hard
decisions, Chardy. That's what-"

"There's a joke in this, Miles, though I doubt you'll find it funny. The
joke is no man is safer from Ulu Beg in America than Paul Chardy."

Chardy choked on the bitter irony of it, and if he smiled now before
these men, it was because he had trained himself not to show his pain.

"In what the maps call Iraq but you and I know to be Kurdistan, Miles,
in a battle in a foreign war, I saved the life of his oldest son, and
Ulu Beg made me his brother."

for adjustment sometimes amazed him; perhaps it was his
real secret-and people were always asking him his "secret." In fifty-six
years, for example, he had gotten used to being a Jew in Poland, then a
Pole in the Bronx. He'd gotten used to Harvard, first as student, then
as professor. Then he'd gotten used to government, to politics. And
with politics, power. And with power, celebrity. And with celebrity
Lights. it seemed a journey from the darkness of ignorance to the lights
of knowledge and in more than the metaphorical sense. Literally: Lights.

He lived in them and sometimes felt as though his eyes would bum out
from the strain of the flashbulbs, the glare of the TV minicams, as they
were called (he knew the latest technical jargon), or, as now, the
lights of a television studio.

This silly woman counted herself an expert on world affairs. She was a
great toucher, as though her brains were in her fingertips. Even on the
air she'd reach across and press them with gentle greed against his
plump legs, and her eyes would radiate the warmth of love-or the warmth
of enough barbiturates to flatten a dinosaur; it was difficult to say
which-as she asked some astonishingly stupid question about the State of
the World.

It was Danzig's habit-indeed, almost his trademark that he consider
gravely each nuance, each phrase, solemnly tensing his forehead, willing
the light to drain from his eyes, before answering. He had studied
himself on television-in fact, the administration in whose service he
had labored as Security Advisor and Secretary of State (Oh, Glorious
Days!) had paid a media consulting firm $50,000 to improve his
televisability-and knew that his charm, so charismatic with one or two
people, or small groups, or meetings, or parties, almost vanished on the
airwaves, where he became an ominous, pedantic screwball. Thus he'd
adopted (at the consultant's expensive counsel) the camouflage of the
little professor. He even tended to overstate the slight Polish accent
left in his syllables, on the ground that it forced reporters to listen
more carefully, so they were less inclined to garble the quotes.

"And so, Dr. Danzig, in conclusion, would you say that we are again to
enter a period of chill? Is the Cold War to begin again, or is there a
thaw in sight?" She touched his knee again and looked at him warmly with
those vacant, bagged-out eyes. You could have flown a plane through
those pupils. More irritating, it was a question which proved
conclusively that she had been paying not an iota's attention during the
past several minutes. Still, this network paid him a handsome yearly
retainer to fly up to New York once a week or so, and perform like a
seal; and so he would.

But as Danzig took just an instant to formulate a response to the
idiotic query, blinking against the fierce light, he was aware of
several other aspects of his own circumstances.

He was aware that though this woman was stupid, and vain, and
frighteningly trivial, he'd like to make love to her just the same, even
taking into account that as a rule television women were so punchy on
barbs or their own faces, in bed they were rotten. Still, she was a
star; and to have her was in a certain way to have America. Not to
ignore the merely physical, however; of late he'd become conscious of
his own long-sublimated libido, a buried secret self. In him, deep down,
beneath the intellectual, beneath the political figure, beneath the
celebrity, beneath even the old Jew: something prehistoric, primordial,
a lecher, a rapist. He'd never needed sex before; now he thought of it
all the time. He feared it would consume him; he half wanted it to.

But serious matters also consumed him: he was aware that the first
volume of his memoirs-Missions for the White House-had just dropped two
notches on the Times best-seller list, to Number 9, and that his
paperback auction floor in Great Britain had been a meager f 2,000, a
great disappointment.

He was further aware that he was contractually obligated to deliver a
second volume of Missions for- the White House, the years 1973-1976,
within two years; and that he did not want to. He faced that particular
mission with an enormous reluctance, weariness even. There was, in fact,
over half a ton of documents stored in his office in Washington and he
had not even begun to examine them, and they would have to be absolutely
mastered before he could ever begin to deliver up his vision of the
past.

He was aware that the floor manager-more TV jargon-was standing just
beside the bulky gray camera, circling his finger madly, signaling in
the private language of television to speed it up, already.

And he was aware that standing a few feet behind the director, with a
mild look on his calm face, a pinkish, healthy hue that set off his gray
pinstripe suit, was an old friend and antagonist, Sam Melman of the
Central Intelligence Agency.

"Karen," Danzig said, "these next years will be a test of our will, our
nerve, our resolve as never before in human history. The Soviet Union
must be put on notice that its raiding parties into the free world
cannot and will not be tolerated. In this, I firmly support the
President and the Secretary of State."

"Thank you, Dr. Joseph Danzig." She turned to the camera, smiled in
brainless glee, and said, "And now to Terry, with this word."

"Cut to ad," somebody said. Onto a monitor a detergent commercial sprang
to immediate life.

"Good, Kay, that was fine"-the godly voice from the booth. "You too,
Doc, nicely done."

"You're a pro, Joe," said Kay-only the millions knew her as Karen. "You
even read the camera cues, don't you?"

God, she was a beautiful woman.

"I have been on television a few other times," he said and she laughed.

Beauty began with the teeth and hers were extraordinary. Her mouth. A
shiver ran through him as he contemplated it. He ached for her. Now that
the cameras were off them, she was not touching him. He wished she
would. A beautiful, stylish woman. He ached for her ... But she was
up, unhooking her mike, and with a last nod raced back to the show's
main set, which was surprisingly close by, just a few feet away . , in
fact.

The lights flashed off, leaving Danzig in darkness as he stood and
demiked himself He'd have to get the makeup off before he left-he looked
like a Hamburg tart. He had a speech before the Council of Life
Underwriters today at noon, for $7,500. As he unclipped the mike, his
bodyguard-a shadow, but a shadow with a .357 magnum slipped discreetly
into place a step back. Uckley today, the ex-marine-and a step behind
came Sam Melman, with his bland, pleasant smile.

"Hello, Dr. Danzig," the intelligence executive said.

"Hello, Sam."

No hand was offered. Melman stood in his quiet suit-- he must be here
alone, Danzig realized in amazement, for he saw no entourage of earnest
young men, no staff to open doors and call cabs and get coats, which
surely a comer like Melman would have by this time earned-and waited
patiently. He was a deputy director now, was he not? They'd been
curiously friendly adversaries years back on the 40 Committee, when
Danzig had been the White House adviser and Melman the slick Agency
liaison.

"Has World War Three begun?" Danzig joked, for what else would bring a
hotshot like Melman up from Langley to intercept him this early-not yet
eight?

Melman smiled quietly-he had a deceptive easy warmth about him for such
an ambitious man, a charm not unlike Danzig's own. A clever man, it was
said, who if he played his cards right might one day be Director of
Central Intelligence. Perhaps even now he had begun to fish for allies.

"Hello, Dr. Danzig. No, it hasn't, at least not the last time I checked.

A certain matter has come up and I thought I might presume on our
earlier relationship for a little chat." Sam was smooth; Sam was facile.

His modest smile and warm eyes beckoned to Danzig.

"Of course."

"Preferably outside the precincts of a network show."

Danzig laughed. Yes, sensible.

"I'm free till noon, when I've got a seminar and a speech a few blocks
away. Time enough?"

"More than enough, sir."

"Sam, let's dispense with the 'sir." But I would appreciate it if you'd
kneel and kiss my ring."

Sam laughed at this standard Danzig line.

A few minutes later they strode through the Rockefeller Plaza entrance
of the RCA Building into the brisk, dirty New York morning. People
swirled by, and Danzig coughed once, dryly, in the air.

"My limo? All right, Sam?"

"Would you be offended, Dr. Danzig, if I said I'd prefer one of our
cars?"

Danzig, for the first time, began to see the urgency behind Sam's
pleasant demeanor; the Agency didn't want anything on tape it didn't
control.

The black Chevy drove aimlessly through the hectic Manhattan traffic,
guided by a grim young man, next to whom sat Danzig's bodyguard. In
back, Danzig listened while Melman talked. Danzig held-and occasionally
looked down at-the Skorpion shell.

"And so I think you'll agree I'm somewhat understating the situation
when I say we've both got problems," Melman was saying. "And for once
your problem and our problem are the same problems."

Danzig looked at the shell. One penny's worth of metal from the farthest
corners of the earth, and everything had changed. He looked up, out the
window. Gray buildings lurched by as the car jerked uncertainly through
the traffic. New York, always such a festival of sensation. Too much
data, too many patterns, too many details, nothing coherent. Washington
was a slower, saner city; here you never knew what you were going to
get.

But it all dropped away; it meant nothing. A bullet in this world, in
this most violent of all the decades in the most violent of all the
centuries, was the ultimate reality, and Danzig was a collector of
realities.

Of course there were always risks, especially in the Middle East, all
those zealots, the whole thing so unstable, those fanatics, those bitter
exiles. It had been rumored, for example, more than once that the PLO or
various of its factions or units had put a mission out to eliminate him
during one of his trips; but nothing had ever come of it. Or here, too,
in America, there were always risks: cranks, nuts, screwballs, loonies
with preposterous grudges; you could never guard against the crazy. But
all that was generalized, distant, statistically improbable. That was
then; this was now. Were those windows bulletproof? Perhaps. And how do
you bulletproof glass, really bulletproof it? Can't the gunman simply
get a bigger gun? And in these crowds of milling, insolent New Yorkers,
angry and swarthy, could there really be this special man? Damn him,
Melman had said a good man, a trained man. "We trained him ourselves,
Dr. Danzig-that's the tough part. He's exceedingly competent. I'll show
you the files."

No, Danzig had not wanted to see the files.

He looked again at the cartridge case and realized that while he had
authorized airplanes to fly on missions in which so many tons of bombs
were dropped on so many square miles in a certain North Vietnamese city,
in full awareness of what statistically must ensue, he had never in his
life held in his fingers this smallest common denominator of statecraft:
the bullet.

He imagined one striking him, right now, through the glass, in the head.

A blinding flash? A sense of surprise, of enveloping darkness? Or would
the lights just blink Om "It's not going to do us any good if he gets
you; it's certainly not going to do you-"

"No, of course not."

"Well, I'd like to think we can work together on this thing."

Danzig didn't say anything. He stared gravely ahead.

"To begin with, we've got some suggestions."

Danzig remained silent.

"First, of course, your cooperation. That is, your silence. If the
whistle is blown, if the media are brought in-God only knows what sort
of a circus this thing could become. And it wouldn't make you any the
safer. In fact, it might put you in more danger."

Danzig could see it: pools would be formed all across America,
especially in the liberal areas, though also in the South and the
Southwest, where he was also hated. When will the Kurd get Danzig? Money
would be wagered. It would end up on the nightly news.

"Yes," he said.

"Good. Then, most importantly, we've got to cut down his access to you.

If you stay still, you can be protected. If you don't, then you can't.

You've got to cut down on your activities."

"I make my living that way. I'm booked for months. For years."

"Dr. Danzig, it's-"

"Yes, I know. Of course I'll cut down. I have to. But there are certain
commitments that--damn, why did this have to happen?"

"Then, of course, beef up your security."

"Yes.,,

"And lastly-"

"Yes?"

"Well, we do have something of an advantage in this matter. We happen to
have a man who knows this Kurd, who worked closely with him in fact. He
even trained him. He was the Special Operations Division officer who
went into Kurdistan in 'seventy-three."

"Yes?"

"His name is Chardy. He-"

"Chardy? My God, Chardy! I remember. He was caplured, spent some time in
a Soviet prison."

"Yes. I I

'"Chardy," Danzig said again, turning the name over in his mind.

"The fact is, Chardy knows Ulu Beg, how he looks, how he thinks; that
makes him immeasurably valuable. And he used to be a pretty good officer
in a shooting situation."

"Well, I certainly hope this doesn't come to that. Is he going to run
the effort to capture this Kurd?"

"Not exactly. He's no policeman. No, we had something else in mind for
Chardy, something to take greater advantage of his knowledge."

"Yes?"

"We want to place him with you."

"Good God!" Danzig coughed. "With me? I just don't believe this is
happening."

CHAPTER 15

They discovered quickly that he was dead. Reynoldo Ramirez, killed by
assailants in his own establishment in the prime of life, the newspaper
said. What assailants? The newspaper was silent; so was the Departamento
de Polici'a.

"They've been paid off," Speight said ominously.

Come on, thought Trewitt, but he didn't say anything. He had taken an
almost instant dislike to Nogales-to Mexico. Blue and pink slum shacks
hanging on the stony hillsides over a cheesy turista section of souvenir
stalls, bars, dentists' offices and auto-trim shops. He hated it. A
different quality to the air even, and the jabber of language that he
could only partially follow did not ease his anxiety. Trewiu just wanted
to get out of there. But Old Bill sniffed something.

"I want to see Reynoldo Ramirez's grave," he said. "I want to know the
man is dead."

Oh, God, thought Trewitt.

But they had hailed an Exclusivo cab and journeyed to the grave site.

The place nauseated Trewitt. No clean Presbyterian deaths in Mexico: the
cemetery was a kind of festival of the macabre, primitive and elemental.

Crosses and sickly sweet flowers and hunched, praying Virgins painted in
gaudy colors. And skulls.

Trewitt shuddered. He'd never seen the naked thing before, and here it
was lying in the dust. Or rather, they: bones and heads everywhere,
spilling out of vaults in the dusty hills, clattering out of niches and
trenches. A wind knifed across the place, pushing before it a fine spray
of sand that stung Trewitt's eyes and whipped his coat off his body like
a flapping cape. He leaned into it, tasting grit.

"There it is," shouted Bill.

They stood by the elaborate marker, even now buried in dusty flowers. A
weeping Virgin knelt over her fallen son among the weeds. Trewitt was
standing on a femur. He kicked it away. Looking out he could see scabby
Nogales, hills encrusted with bright shacks, sheer walls over bendy
little streets; and beyond that the fence of the border, like a DMZ line
cutting through a combat zone; and beyond that, American Nogales, which
was a neat and pretty town.

Trewitt looked back. In stone the marker read:

REYNOLDO RAMIREZ muiu6 EN 1982.

"There it is," he shouted. "Dead end."

Speight studied on the thing, looking it over.

"Wonder who brought the flowers?" he said.

Who cares, thought Trewitt. It would be dark soon; he wanted to get out
of there. He looked across the boneyard to the Exclusivo cab awaiting
them, its driver perched on the fender.

"Look, it's all over," said Trewitt. "He's gone. There's no link back to
the night Ulu Beg came across. Let's get out of here."

But Speight stood rooted to the ground.

"Anybody could be down there. Or nobody," he finally said.

Trewitt didn't say anything.

"Maybe we ought to check out that joint of his," Speight finally said.

"Mr. Speight, we're not even supposed to be here. Now you want-"

But Speight did not seem to hear him.

"Yep," he said, "I think that's what we'll do." He started toward the
cab, full of purpose.

Trewitt watched him go, and then realized he was standing alone in the
cemetery and went racing after.

Several hours later he found himself undergoing a most peculiar torment:
a deep self-consciousness, an acute embarrassment, a sense of being an
imposter, all cut with a penetrating and secret sensation of delight.

The girl kept rubbing his thigh, the inside of it in fact, with her
palm, dry and springy, knowing, educated in a certain way, and was
simultaneously whispering of intriguing possibilities into his ear in
Pidgin English.

"You got some nice money?"

"Ha, ha," laughed Trewitt uneasily, sipping gently at what was supposed
to be a Margarita but was most certainly warm fruit juice and ginger ale
at eight bucks a crack, gringo rate. Other girls worked the floor of
what was now called Oscar's. They were all tarts, but this one-Anita,
just like in West Side Story-was all his, or he hers, as if by treaty or
diplomatic agreement. No one impinged and he was trying to draw this out
as long as possible, while Speight made inquiries. It occurred to him
that maybe he ought to be asking the questions; after all, it was he who
had unearthed this Ramirez, had unearthed this whole Mexican thing. He
looked about uneasily, how ever, over fat Anita's shoulder, and saw in
the darkness a sleazy room full of American students and Mexican
businessmen. His loafers stuck to the floor; the odor of some kind of
industrial-strength disinfectant lingered everywhere.

"You got some money. We go upstairs, baby?"

"Well, ahh-"

No, let Speight handle it. Speight was the old hand, Speight had been
around, knew the ropes. And where was Speight? Trewitt had seen him
talking to a big boy with a moustache. Had he disappeared?

"Come on, baby. Buy Anita a little drink. A little drink for Anita,
okay, baby doll?"

"Uh, just a sec."

There. There. There was Speight, still with the moustache, talking
animatedly at the back of the room. Give it to old Speight: he may have
been peculiar in his ways, but he got things done. A pro.

"Come on, baby. Buy Anita some champagne."

Even Trewitt knew enough to nix the champagne sure to be flat Canada Dry
at $200 the jeroboam-and instead okayed something called a Mexican
Hatdance: it looked like warm lemonade with a pale pink--Jid they use
the same one over and over?-maraschino cherry in it, at only $12.50 a
throw. At this rate he'd have to cash another traveler's check before
long.

"Is okay?" asked the bartender.

"Fine, pal."

"Is Roberto." Roberto was a thin, handsome youth he could not have been
twenty yet-with a wispy moustache and soulful eyes.

"Glad to meetcha, Roberto," barked Trewitt, heartily el turista
esttipido to the hilt, and commenced a little detective work of his own.

"Say," he said, "some fella was telling me you all had some excitement
here coupla weeks back. A gunfight."

"Oh, si," said the bartender eagerly. "A man, he was killed right here.

Our boss Reynoldo. Bang-bang! Right almost where you are standing,
sehor."

"Shot down?"

"Just like the television. Real fast. Bang-bang."

"Wow.,,

"Roberto," said the girl in Spanish, "you stupid pig, keep your mouth
shut, you don't know who this asshole is," then turned to Trewitt with a
sweet Indian smile.

"What'd she say?" asked Trewitt.

"That you are the handsomest American she ever see."

"She's a fine-looking woman herself," Trewitt said, squeezing her flank.

Anita smiled at the compliment, revealing her remaining teeth. Yet
Trewitt felt a strange attraction for her. She was so low. Somewhere
deep inside his brain a tiny inflammation erupted; an image flashed
before his eyes. He tried to banish it; it would not leave; in fact it
became more exact, more perfect, more detailed. What drew him on was her
offer of perfect freedom: for money you can do anything. It was simple
and liberating. Anything. Against certain temptations he knew he was
helpless. He could be pretty low himself. He was not a virgin and had
twice been engaged; in each case he had made a goddess out of the young
woman and fled in horror upon learning she was human. Yet here was a
creature so human, so fleshy, so real, so authentic, she was driving him
a little nuts. Here was freedom; here was escape. He thought of young
nineteenth-century men who fled the hypocrisy of Victorian society and
lost themselves in the privacy of the frontier, pursuing freedom and
debauchery in the same impulse and, coincidentally, building an empire.

American, British, Dodge City or Lucknow, it didn't matter; it was the
same process. And here he was on the same sort of frontier, and here
before him was a treasure of the frontier, his for the taking.

Trewitt shook his head. He could actually see her nipples beneath the
clinging white top she wore. They were the size of fifty-cent pieces.

"Who did it, Bob? Gangsters?" Trewitt tried to get back on the track.

"Did what, senor?"

"The bang-bang. Poor old Reynoldo."

"Rest in peace," Roberto said. "Bad men. Evil men. Reynoldo has lots of
enemies and even some of his friends-"

"Shut your mouth, stupid one," snapped Anita.

"What did she say?"

"She say she like you very much."

"Well, I like her too. A lot."

"Come on, baby," said Anita, running her open hand up the inside of
Trewitt's leg, letting it linger warmly high up, "make Anita a happy
girl."

Oh, Jesus, it felt good.

He swallowed, licked his lips.

"Anita make you real happy. There's a nice hole for you-take your
choice."

Trewitt glanced about. Speight had vanished.

Trewitt thought, Well, if he needed me he would have gotten me, right?

He just disappeared. What am I supposed to do now?

"Baby, we can do anything. Anything," she whispered. "I treat you real
good. I make you real happy."

Oh, Jesus! Trewitt fought until he felt quite noble and then surrendered
to his darker self meekly, without a whimper.

"Upstairs," he croaked.

"Anita must wash your thing. It's the rule," she said.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Thing, she called it. He
winced.

"Yeah," he said, his voice so quiet he had trouble hearing it himself.

He tried to relax on the small cot but looked up to a Day-Glo Virgin on
black velvet. It was only one of several religious gimcracks strewn and
taped about the room: pictures, little painted statues, crucifixes. Was
this some kind of shrine? His pants, meanwhile, were bunched around his
knees, although he still wore his coat and tie and shirt; and a man with
a coat and tie on whose balls are hanging out feels sublimely
ridiculous. He gripped his wallet in his right hand.

Oh, this is a rotten idea. This is a really rotten idea. You ought to
get out of here. You just ought to get the hell out of here. But he
could not figure out how, and besides he'd already paid.

No door, of course. What did he expect, a Holiday Inn, complete with
shower and Magic Fingers vibrator under the bed? Only a curtain sealed
the dim little room off from the corridor and although the lights were
low, the traffic in the hall was considerable. A regular rush hour. Now
and then a peal of Mexican laughter would rise through the odor of
disinfectant-it smelled like a hospital up here and a man would swagger
down the hall.

"I be back, baby," Anita said.

She dipped out the curtain and returned in a moment, holding a wash
basin brimming with soapy water and a rough cloth.

"Rub-a-dub-dub," Trewitt joked bleakly.

She began to scrub him. She rubbed and wiped and grated without mercy to
cleanse his tender equipment and though he had not been exactly fierce
with desire in the preceding few moments, under this humbling assault he
felt himself shrinking ever further.

"Be careful," he complained. Was she trying to erase it?

"It's nice, baby," she said. "It's not real big or nothing, but it's
real good shaped, and clean. And gringos been trimmed."

Trewitt smiled tightly at this wonderful compliment.

She dried him roughly and then pulled back in triumph, flipping the
towel into the hall, where it swirled to the floor.

She stood above him, an absurdly plump woman of nearly thirty-five, in a
cheesy dress, all cleavage and density, an infinity of circles, globs,
undulating horizons. She smiled hideously. Backing off, she reached down
for her own hem, grabbed it and peeled upward, the dress constricting her
flesh as it was yanked until she popped it off with a final tug and
stood in cotton drawers, great gushy, floppy breasts with those enormous
dark nipples wobbling across her front.

Now she'd step from those drawers next-panties was too modest a word for
a garment of such magnitude-and a part of him was disgusted and debased,
while at the same time another part, recovering, became entranced. She
knelt to divest herself of the drawers, pivoting to deposit the huge
filmy things on the table under the Day-Glo Virgin, and turned to face
him, her bush a blot of darkness that seemed to separate her bulging
belly from her thunderous thighs, without which the whole mass would
collapse upon itself.

Yet the very peculiarity of the image-a huge Mexican prostitute standing
above his pale gringo body, ribsy and stark-commandeered his
imagination. The contrasts were vast and enticing: her hugeness, his
frailty; his reluctance, her greed; her expertise, his clumsiness; his
repression, her earthiness. His penis picked itself up in salute to the
intensity of the moment.

"The mouth," he commanded hoarsely.

She knelt, obedient to his wishes.

Speight waited out back, beyond the sewer, in the yard of the shop
called Argentina. He could smell the sewer, the suffocatingly dense odor
of human waste, and hear water trickling through it. It was quiet here
in the junky, walled yard but beyond, on the street, he could see whores
prowling in the pools of light from the intermittent overhead lamps. The
old fieldman in him looked for escape routes, just in case; but there
were no escape routes, no real ones. Sure, he could hit the wall if
things turned ugly, but at his age there was no way he'd scale ten feet
of brick if somebody was shooting at him. So it was a simple, no-option
proposition: he was lucky or he was not lucky.

He knew he should have briefed the boy-what was his name? It escaped him
for just a moment: Trewitt, Trewitt. But Speight never knew what to say
to such youngsters there were so many of them these days, and he knew
they thought him an old fart, long out of it, a relic, an antique. And
what could the boy have done anyway? Covered him? With what? No, he
would have complained and groused and second-guessed. Trewitt filled
Speight with depression. If he was the future, the future was bleak.

Speight didn't think Trewitt would work out.

He glanced at his watch. Oscar Meza had said fifteen minutes and twenty
had passed. Speight coughed nervously, picked some scum off his lips,
and wished they'd get there.

Five hundred dollars.

That's what it would cost for a chat with Reynoldo Ramirez, a chat with
a dead man.

Oscar Meza, proprietor of Oscar's, formerly El Pala cio, had wanted a
thousand. Speight had thought more in terms of $300.

Five hundred was all right, though he knew he'd have a tough time
sailing it by Yost Ver Steeg if he didn't come up with something nice
and solid. In the old days there was always enough money. You wanted it,
you got it. No questions asked. In those days the outfit went full-out,
first-class. Now, nickels and dimes and young smart kids who thought you
belonged in a museum or a paperback novel. He knew he thought too
frequently about the old days. Now The car swung into the yard. Speight
crouched, watching. It was an old Chevy, a '58 or '59, rusted out badly.

There must have been thousands of them in Nogales, rotting Mex cars,
with broken windows and lead-painted fenders and doors from other
vehicles.

Come on. Let's go, thought Speight.

The driver killed the engine. It died with a gasp and the car ticked
hotly for several seconds. Speight could see the two men scanning the
yard. They couldn't see him behind these crates. He could just sit
there. It wasn't too late to forget it.

But he knew he couldn't forget the $500.

The $500 was now running the show.

Oh, hell, Speight thought.

He stood, stepped out.

"Over here, amigos," he called.

Now he was finished. He'd done it, or rather, had it done. He remembered
similar moments from books, rabbit Angstrom rising from the whore Ruth,
Stingo from his Sophie-but they were no help at all. His experience was
of a different denomination, with fat Anita on a dirty bed on a sticky
floor in a room that smelled of Lysol, under the eye of a glowing
Virgin. Yet he felt rather good. In fact he was astounded by his bliss.

The actual moment, the actual ultimate instant, with the hulking woman
down beneath him, working hard, his own hands gripping something, his
muscles tense, his mind pinwheeling: yes, indeed. He smiled.

"Round the world, baby? Only feefty more dollar?"

"No. Oh, uh, no, I don't think so," Trewitt said dreamily.

"Come on, baby. We can have some more fun."

"Ah. I don't think so. I appreciate it, I really do. I just don't think
so."

"Sure, baby. It's your money."

She retrieved her underpants and pulled the dress over her head and
there she was, presto chango, the old Anita. It was as if nothing had
happened, and he realized that for her nothing had.

He pulled up his pants, tucked in his shirt, and fastened his belt.

"Ten dollars, baby."

"Ten dollars! I already paid. fley, I paid you a fair amount!

"Rent, baby. You gotta rent the room. Is not free, nothing free. For the
towel, the clean sheets"-yeah, fresh out of the dryer sometime in
1968-"It's for the big boss. He beat me up if I don't get it."

What was the difference? But this was costing a fortune. He was counting
it out in ones when he heard the siren.

He raced down the steps two at a time, almost spilling out of control at
the end as he lurched into the now-empty bar. The boy Roberto quietly
polished glasses and nearby Oscar Meza sat at a table talking with a
bulky policeman in a crisp tan uniform with a yellow tie-yes, yellow,
canary yellow, screeching yellow-whose beefy shoulder was looped with a
final ludicrous touch, a gold braid.

Trewitt tried to gain command of himself, but the cop looked over to fix
him with a set of dead eyes.

Trewitt smiled casually, and tried to shuffle out.

He heard the word gringo, and the two men broke into laughter.

Trewitt reached the door and stepped into the night. He could see
nothing except the railroad tracks beyond the street and beyond that,
Oscar's competition, the Casa de Jason, another nightclub. Trewitt
descended the steeply pitched parking lot to street level and turned.

Five hundred yards ahead, beyond an arcade of canopied shops adjacent to
the railroad tracks, lay the border; he could see it in lurid light, and
the beggars and cabdrivers collecting there, a cruel, high fence, a
traffic jam, booths, and a fortresslike bridge of offices overhead. He
could see no flag; but, beyond the fence, he saw something perhaps more
emblematic: the golden arches of McDonald's.

Then he saw the crowd. It had gathered just up the street at what seemed
to be a bridge at the corner of L'alle Buenos Aires and the Ruis
Cortina. Indians, a few Americans, Mexican teenaged girls in tightly cut
American jeans and blouses, but mostly policemen. Three or four gray
pickups had been parked nearby and by their uniformity Trewitt realized
they were official vehicles.

Warily, he walked into the crowd; he could hear, among other things, the
trickle of water.

It smelled here. Something? What? The odor was overwhelmingly familiar.

His nose picked it apart but could not identify it-too many other odors
were woven into it. But it was disgusting.

The crowd had gathered at the bottom of the street. It was a cobbled,
climbing street that traveled up the side of a hill, lit intermittently
by overhead lamps. He could see signs of the shops that ran partway up
the hill, before the road disappeared into darkness: a dental clinic, a
TV and stereo shop, a small food shop on the other side of the street,
and a few others. But Trewitt pushed his way through the crowd and came
soon enough to the wall, where he stood by three policemen who were
talking rapidly among themselves. Lights-there were lights back here. He
could feel the warmth, the human warmth, of people all around. He was
aware that the blank brick wall that stared back at him twenty feet away
was the wall of Oscar's, of the whorehouse; the gurgle of water was very
strong indeed, but he could not quite get to the edge, to look into
the-the whatever it was that lay before him and had drawn all these
people.

He gave a last, mighty shove, and broke through two men and came to the
edge.

The scene, in fact, was a phenomenon of light. The Mexican faces, fat
and slack, Indianesque in their unreadability, almost Asian, and the
pencil moustaches; and the indifferently blazing headlamps from the
police trucks, throwing beams that cut this way and that through the
crowd, and a jumble of shadows on the wall beyond. And the Spanish,
against it all, the Spanish in a thousand babbling tongues and
incomprehensible dialects, jabbering, spiraling through the air. And the
odor: he now recognized it for human waste, the stink of cesspool, of
outhouse, of backed-up pipes, the smell of the toilet, the urinal, the
smell of defecation. Miasmatic, it covered him like a fog, drilling
through his sinuses; he winced at its power, feeling his eyes well with
tears.

Bill Speight lay on his back in the sewer. Trewitt, at the edge, could
just now make him out. Three or four different light beams pinned the
old man against a cascade of stones and beer bottles and rusty pipes and
assorted junk. The police were talking about las botas, Trewitt
overheard as he stared at old Bill in the sewer.

Boots.

That was it: there was a delay until some high rubber waders could be
found; no man would descend into the muck without them.

A flashbulb popped and in its brightness Trewitt could see that the old
man had taken some kind of heavy-caliber or big-bore shell in the left
side of the face. Shotgun, perhaps. The features had been peeled back
off that side of his head; yet on the other, astonishingly, the old Bill
prevailed. The vision so diverged from Trewitt's assumptions of human
anatomy that he could make no sense of it.

Speight was soaked by the rushing water from a pipe. A shoe had come off
and floated downstream, where it wedged against a rock. It was an old
Wallaby.

They'd blown the side of his head in and thrown him into a sewer behind
a whorehouse, Trewitt thought dumbly. He accepted and did not accept it.

Only yesterday, as he sat throwing down rum-and-Cokes, old Speight had
numbed him with an endless tale of the Korean War, an account that could
have been in a foreign language, so full was it of obscure references,
improbable characters, unlikely events. Halfway through, Trewitt
realized he must have missed something important, for he had no idea
what the man had been talking about. Now he was dead. In a sewer. Shot
in the face.

Trewitt gripped the bricks before him for steadiness. Oh, Jesus, poor
old bastard. He realized he was trembling, that he was cold. He looked
again at Bill. Bill had been so alive just a few minutes ago. Trewitt
thought he might be sick. He didn't know what to do. He could hear the
police asking questions.

"Anybody know this old bird?"

"He was with another gringo in Oscar's. A young one."

"Where is he?"

"Still with his girl friend." There was some laughter.

"They get those boots yet?" Yes, they just arrived. Who's going down
there?"

"Call Washington. Have them send a vice-president." More
laughter. Then something occurred to Trewitt.

They-whoever they were-killed Speight for trying to find out about
Ramirez.

He, Trewitt, had been with Speight.

He, Trewitt, had asked about Ramirez.

And then, and only then, did he panic.

CHAPTER 16

On a Saturday night in Boston, in her high-ceilinged old room, Chardy
lay beside her in the dark. Sleep had never come easily for him and it
evaded him tonight. But that was fine; he would just listen to the
breathing.

The night's lacework of shadows lay across the far end of the room, webs
and links and flecks of brightness; moonlight threaded through the dark,
gleaming cold. Chardy anchored himself against the coming of a bad
minute or two by putting a hand against her arm. In Chicago there'd
never been anything to touch.

Sometimes, then, over those years-frequently, if he was honest about
it-he'd awaken weeping. A secret shame: big guys don't cry. Sometimes it
was his back, which to this day- became occasionally infected and could
be quite painful. Or sometimes a sensation, a vision, would set it off a
twinge of pain, a picture of a hot blue flame. Or sometimes something
even stupider: some police officer or fireman or boy scout's sudden
heroism, as vicariously experienced through the newspaper; or an old pro
basketball player, on the line looking at a one and one with a whole
season's weight perched on his shoulder; or a young kid, a freshman,
taking a jump shot in the last second of an NCAA game. It was the
contrast that wrecked him each time: they'd passed their tests, he'd
failed his.

Or he wept in confusion. There were so many things about it he didn't
understand even now. Some aspects of it just didn't add up. He'd break
it down and put it together again in a hundred different ways and it
still never made sense. It was like one of those awful modern novels
that everybody hated except three critics, full of fragments of plot,
surrealistic moments of great vividness, odd discordant voices, textures
achingly familiar but at the same time unknowable. He was not even
certain what he did remember and what he did not; perhaps they'd used
drugs on him. Whatever, it was all scrambled up; he could not get inside
it.

Or he'd weep in rage. Punching walls was nothing new and once he'd
broken his wrist. He dreamed of smashing heads: Speshnev's, Sam
Melman's, his own. Them all: the Russians, for destroying him; his own
side, for the cold, detached fury they'd directed at him; buddies like
Frenchy Short for never coming by, whatever the rules-though of course
Frenchy could not have come by, for even then he was dead; Johanna, for
confirming his vision of himself. And, of course, last and most:
himself. Sometimes he looked for fights. A cold need for pain would
haunt him; he'd head for Rush Street and throw himself on somebody's
girl, not caring for her at all; and the guy would have to challenge him
and the guy would always have friends and Chardy would always wear a
black eye for days, or lurch about with cracked ribs; he'd had three
teeth knocked out-he wore an old man's bridge no wand a bad laceration
on his chin, which the beard hid.

Nuts. Chardy, you are nuts.

Yet now, lying in the bed in the black New England night, it suddenly
occurred to him with swift joy that he had a kind of chance. For with
Johanna, all things were possible, a whole universe of things, He felt
he could save Ulu Beg from Ver Steeg and Lanahan. He could even save
Joseph Danzig. He could save Sam Melman. All of them linked together by
events of the past, chained and doomed, but he could break the chain; he
felt the power. Ulu Beg, last reported at the border, moving probably
toward them. He'd save him, and bind her to him forever.

He'd make Beg in a crowd coming in on Danzig, and he'd nail him with a
tackle and calm him down; then he'd talk to them; he'd get it all
straightened out, somehow.

It's only been a week; there's plenty of time left.

Ulu Beg, I'll save you. He owed him, for not only had Ulu Beg brought
him together with Johanna in the first place, seven years ago as now,
he'd also, by allowing however accidentally his target to be known,
virtually removed Johanna from the realm of interest of Miles Lanahan
and Yost Ver Steeg and whatever other dark lords the two of them served.

Chardy, whose importance seemed also to have diminished in the past
several days, was for now free to travel on weekends and be with her, as
he was now.

She moaned in her sleep, and shifted. He could not really see her, for
the moonlight did not touch this corner of the room, yet he felt her:
warmth, weight, sweetness of odor, a presence. Her arm warm and dry
against his hand.

The telephone rang.

Chardy jumped at the noise, pulled himself up in the bed, and looked at
his Rolex, which announced the hour of four.

Johanna stirred in the dark and seemed to swim for the telephone. He
heard her speak briefly; then she turned.

"For you."

He took the phone.

Miles said, "Chardy? What the hell are you doing there?"

"It's the weekend, Miles. I can go anywhere."

"Not anymore you can't."

Chardy waited, and finally the young man said in a breathless,
unpunctuated sentence, "Trewitt and Speight in Mexico and we lost
Speight somebody blew his face off with a shotgun behind some whorehouse
in Mexico where he wasn't supposed to be."

Chardy closed his eyes at the image. Behind a whorehouse. Old Bill, who
was always around.

"Paul," Johanna said, "Paul, what is it?"

"Yost wants you down here. There's an early flight into National from
Logan. We'll have somebody meet you.

Old Bill. In Mexico? Now why kill him? What had he come across? Who did
it-the opposition, some jealous boyfriend, gangsters, a hunter whose
shotgun wasn't on safe?

But there weren't any accidents in this sort of game.

"Paul. that flight. You'll be on it?"

"Yeah, sure," Chardy said, feeling suddenly that things had just changed
and that the safety of the bedroom in which he lay hidden just seconds
ago was forever gone. It frightened him a little. And then he had
another thought.

"Look, Miles, you better get some people down there to bring that kid
in. I could go myself. Without an old hand like Speight, that kid could
get himself in a lot of trouble."

"Trewitt is missing," said Lanahan coldly.

"I see," said Chardy.

"He's dead too, you know," said Lanahan.

Chardy sighed. It was how these things worked.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I suppose he is."

CHAPTER 17

Someone in the Dayton bus station had stolen his money.

Ulu Beg sat very still and tried not to panic. But without money he was
dead. Any man in America without money is dead, but he would be deader
than most, with no place to turn, no one to go to, and nothing but the
Skorpion. He was still hundreds of miles from shelter.

They had given him a lot of money.

"By their standards you are a rich man. You could buy a Chevrolet car or
a motorboat."

"I do not desire a Chevrolet car or a motorboat."

"Of course not. But remember, in America money is life. All things are
possible for the man with money, all doors open, all women eager, all
policemen friendly."

He sat in a plastic chair in a bright waiting room and tried to
reconstruct the last seven or eight minutes. The bus from Louisville to
Dayton was late, held up in traffic in Cincinnati. There had been a rush
to get off. He had been mostly among black people, emotional, and at the
arrival gate much hugging and squeezing had occurred as families
reunited. He pushed through into this main room, all pale plastic, shiny
and new. A few policemen and many more blacks stood about, also airmen
in their blue uniforms.

And that is when he felt the lightness in his pocket.

Now seven or eight minutes had passed. He knew it had to have happened
as he pushed through the blacks. So: a black person.

He examined them, wondering if the thief had fled instantly, and thought
not. His eye searched out the blacks. An old man, invalid, in huge
overcoat, talking crazily to himself. A beggar? Two tough boys with
mounds of hair dancing to radios in a comer. A dapper businessman
sitting three seats away, reading a magazine. Or a fat old woman in a
flowered hat.

He didn't know what to do; he was helpless.

In the wallet, he had over $3,000. He could not go to the police. He
ached at the loss of it.

He saw a third boy approach the two with the radios. They conferred
quietly and then a ceremony began: one, then the other, slapped the
outstretched hand, then clasped him by the wrist.

They were big young men in their late teens with unreadable faces and
brown, blank eyes.

Ulu Beg stood, gathered his pack, and walked across the bus station to
the three of them.

"You have a thing of mine. So give it back."

"Say what, Jack?" They looked at him suspiciously.

"You have a thing of mine. Give it back. Then, no trouble."

"What you talkin' 'bout, man?"

"A wallet. A wallet is missing."

"Don't know no motherfuckin' thing about no wallet."

"My wallet. I take it back now, please. Okay. No trouble."

"This dude lookin' for some trouble."

"You have my wallet," Ulu Beg said.

"Jack, take your face outa here."

"You have my wallet."

"Some kind of crazy motherfucker. Man, he tryin' for trip to
Disneyland."

"Let's get outa here. Crazy motherfucker make me nervous."

"Let's cut his ass up some."

"No, man. He motherfuckin' crazy.,,

"You have my wallet."

The three boys began to back away, confirming for Ulu Beg their guilt.

He followed them.

"Shit, man, you nuts.

He followed them into the night.

They crossed a wide street under bright lights and headed toward a
railway viaduct. They turned and walked up a small road that led up an
incline.

"Hey, boy, we going' up here, you come along and we bust yo'face."

"My wallet," he called.

He could make out their dark forms standing at the end of the road on a
kind of crest.

"Those boys hurt you bad, mister."

He had not seen the woman. She stood just a few feet away, under the
bridge.

"They cut your face up. They make you walk with a limp for a long time.

They even kill you."

"But my wallet. They have my wallet."

"Honey, 'less you got a million dollars in that wallet, you stay here.

Don't be no crazy fool "

He could no longer see them. Had they escaped? Urgently he began a kind
of run, there was nothing here except mud and cinders as the road
climbed up to track level. He reached into his pack and felt the
Skorpion. But then he wondered what would happen if he shot them with
it. There'd be a huge commotion, an extravaganza, a mess.

He reached the tracks. On either side the lights of this bleak Ohio city
rolled away. He could see tall buildings, all lit up, a mile or so away.

Boy, you some kind of motherfuckin' dumb.

"Gonna cut yo' ass bad, motherfucker."

They were behind him. He turned. He saw a blade spring out.

"Cut his fuckin' ass. Go on, man, cut his fuckin' white ass."

The boy with the knife came at him. He was the bravest, the meanest. He
led with his blade, feinted with it.

"Come on, motherfucker, come on," he shouted.

He flicked the blade toward the Kurd's throat and Ulu Beg hit him with
his open hand across the neck, crushing him to the ground. The blade
clattered away. Something lashed into his head. One of the others had a
strange fighting device of two stout sticks united by a short chain, and
he'd just caught Ulu Beg above the right eye. He twirled it menacingly
and Ulu Beg felt the swelling on his forehead.

"Gonna git you, motherfucker," the boy said and Ulu Beg leapt under the
weapon and caught the hand that held it, then hit the boy an upward blow
in the throat, knocking him back coughing and gagging. The third boy
raced down the tracks.

Ulu Beg went and took the wallet from the boy he'd hit in the throat. It
was not his. The boy lay on the ground, moaning.

"Somebody take from me, now I must take from you," he said.

He picked up his pack and went down the hill to the road. "Baby, I didn't
think you was comin' back."

She startled him again.

"I was about to call a cop."

"No. No. No police."

His sudden fierceness frightened her. She stepped back and he turned.

I"Baby," she said, "you don't want no police botherin' you, you best not
go walkin' nowhere lookin' like that."

He felt blood running down his face from where the boy had struck him
with the stick. He reached, wiped it away with the back of his hand. His
hand was bloody. More blood came to his face.

"You banged up."

He looked at her. She was in her forties, a solid-looking woman. She
wore a wig and smelled of perfume.

"Help me," he said.

"You get your wallet back?"

"No. Yes!" He pulled the boy's wallet out of his pocket. He opened it.

"There is no money here," he said.

"Where you get that?"

"From the boy."

"You done took them three?"

"I knock them down, yes."

"Honey, you best come home with me."

CHAPTER 18

Chardy arrived bleary-eyed, his nerves edgy, ready for a fight. He had
adrenaline coursing through his veins by the quart, he could feel his
eyes dilated painfully, his breath shallow and tense. In the old days,
when you lost somebody you'd go in and kick some ass. It was one of the
oldest, the best rules, a rule that would have helped Bill Speight-or
any agent-in his last moment or two. You always got back, you always
went them one better; it was all personal. There were no truces. And
maybe a part of him felt some joy, though he'd never admit it. For here
at last was a prospect of action.

But when he crashed into the office, expecting men loading magazines
into exotic automatics, others looking at maps, still others chatting
bitterly in comers, he found only Miles, sipping coffee.

"Where is everybody?" Chardy barked, at first furious that they'd left
without him. "Relax, Paul. Jesus, you look half-crazy."

"You said it was an emergency, you said to get down here, you said-"

It occurred then to Chardy that he'd misread it all. Something in
Lanahan's amused eyes, also the absence of stale, smoked-out air in the
room, the absence of cigarette butts. Lanahan lounged at Yost's desk, as
though trying it on for size and finding it fit nicely.

"Things have cooled. Considerably," Miles said, the half-smirk on his
face.

"I don't-"

"Certain realities have set in. We got some news on Bill. We've doped it
out. We've also got some orders from up above, declaring Mexico
off-limits. And-"

"Where is he?"

"Where is who?"

"Come on, Miles. I smell Sam Melman in here. I smell Melman all over
this place. Come on, Miles, where is he?"

"This is Yost's operation, Paul. This is Yost's office. You'd better get
that straight."

"I smell Sam in this. Sam's a great one for cooling down, for taking it
easy and slow, for not making any mistakes, for-"

"Paul, here are facts. Fact number one: the Mexicans have raised all
kinds of hell. We have an informal agreement with them and part of it is
that we don't run covert operations in their country without clearing it
first with them."

"For Christ's sakes, this wasn't any operation. It was some old man and
a kid-"

"We know that. But try to tell it to them. Look, it's a delicate working
arrangement: they let us have all kinds of latitude in Mexico City
around the Soviet Embassy, which is the hub of a lot of KGB activity. We
have to protect that freedom. They're very kind to us; we make a lot of
mileage off that kindness. All right?"

Chardy looked at him sullenly, unsure suddenly of a reply.

"Fact number two: oil. Oil talks in this world, loud and clear, and the
Mexicans have tons of the stuff. So over and above anything on our level
is that long-term issue. What they have and we need. We have to be very
careful with them these days so that we can drive our Cadillacs around.

Okay? We don't call them wetbacks or spies or greasers zooters. We teat
them politely, on all levels. So we're not going to bust in, shooting up
some place when-"

Kid, one-maybe two-of our people got clipped. Now in the old days-"

"It's the new days, Paul. Fact number three: we know who killed
Speight."

Chardy looked at him.

"There's no Iron Curtain involvement, no Middle Eastern involvement. It
doesn't have anything to do with Ulu Beg. There's no connection. It was
plain, ugly, stupid luck.

Who?"

"Poor Speight walked into a gang war. We have it he and Trewitt
were very interested in coyote outfits-that was their brief, their only
brief, to see what they could dig UP on whoever smuggled Ulu Beg into
this country. That, and only that. But they had to go a little further,
and got themselves into the middle of a big fight in the Mexican mafia.

It was something over a bar, the Palace, El Palacio, really a
whorehouse. Stupid Bill walked into it. Asking questions like he was
some kind of crime reporter. I don't know what got into him. It was a
terrible, stupid accident."

"I don't believe it," said Chardy.

"You don't want to believe it. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Yost believes
it."

"And where the hell is he?"

"Home."

Chardy picked up the phone.

"Give me the number."

"No, Paul. There's no point. He's had a long night, just like we-"

"Give me the number!"

"You're in no state to be talking on the phone. To anybody."

"Give me Melman's number, then. Goddamnit, Miles-"

He made a move toward Miles, realizing he was dangerously near being out
of control.

But Miles held firm.

"Just take it easy. Just settle down. Jesus, you old cowboys, you just
can't wait to stir things up."

"He didn't have the guts himself to face me, did he, Miles? Yost." He
thought of Yost-an unusual occurrence; he seldom thought of the man at
all, but only of Sam Melman-and could not really conjure up a face. He
remembered glasses and neatness and placidity and suits and that was
all. "So he left you to do the dirt work. And you'll do it. You sort of
enjoy doing it."

"Paul-"

"And now we kiss Mexican asses. Mexican! Jesus, the fucking Mexicans!"

"You better get used to the real world, Paul. You better get used to the
eighties. This isn't nam or Kurdistan or somebody's dirty little secret
war. This is America. You do things certain ways here. All right?"

Chardy looked at him with great sadness. The world according to Lanahan
was a dreadful place. In the old days, Special Ops always got its people
out or at least back; and if it could only get the bodies, then it made
certain someone on the other side had some burying to do too.

"Sometimes I wonder how things got so screwed up, Lanahan," Chardy said,
wanting Johanna very much all of a sudden.

But Miles wasn't interested.

"They're bringing the body back. There's going to be a funeral. You'll
be there, I assume."

Chardy nodded. He hated funerals but he'd go anyway. Old Bill. Frenchy.

The business had turned so cold, and it was squeezing the old ones out
so fast it wasn't funny.

He looked at Miles, an inheritor, and wondered how he could ever explain
all this to him, but the kid glared at him and muttered something about
how he'd better get himself cleaned up.

CHAPTER 19 it was one of those curious events that briefly unite a dozen
separate worlds, whose representatives, forced awkwardly to confront
each other, stood around in stiff, silent groups. Several
generations---contending generations, in fact-were there: the old
warriors, ex-OSS types; and Chardy's bunch, Cold War and Vietnam
hell-raisers; and the later, ascendant Melman crowd, drones, realists,
the computer brigade. Speight had known and been known to them all. And
outsiders, youngsters, presumably junior members of the administration
of the moment, and maybe a staffer or two from House and Senate
intelligence committees; and maybe some neighbors; and family.

Chardy, standing apart from the surprisingly large crowd ranged around
the grave site and across the soft slopes of Arlington-Washington,
falsely bright in the spring sun, gleamed across the river, through the
dogwoods-saw with surprise that the family was young. Speight had
married late then; or was it a second marriage? He didn't know. Speight
had never said. At any rate, the widow in black, veiled and weeping,
stood next to Yost Ver Steeg, and nearby were three little boys,
Sunday-dressed, hurt or baffled.

Yost stood as though dead. The widow leaned on him, but Chardy guessed
the strength was cold, not warm. This wouldn't be a Yost Ver Steeg
scene; he'd play it badly, although as Bill's last field supervisor,
protocol mandated that play it he would. His dignity was not so much
serene as merely placid; he radiated no calm into the chasm of grief.

Bill's boys did not like him, Chardy could tell, and even as the
ceremony demanded their attention, they shifted and fidgeted with
repressed energy. Yost stood without rocking, knees locked, hands
clasped dryly together. His crisp hair was short and perfect; a glare
caught on the surface of those glasses again, blanking out the eyes. He
looked like the lone executive at a miner's funeral.

Blue soldiers from a famous Army unit handled the ceremony, which was
built around the folding of the flag until it resembled a tricornered,
starred hat. It was presented to Yost, who presented it to the woman;
she in turn gave it to the oldest boy, who'd seemed to figure out what
was going on. Three crisp volleys rang out, echoing in the trees. A
bugler issued taps.

Bill Speight, dead in a foreign sewer alongside a whorehouse. The Agency
could or would say nothing about it, except in the form of an official
presence at this ceremony and, Chardy hoped, an indication to the widow
that Old Bill was on an op down there and not off whoring. Or would they
even say that? Perhaps only silence was offered at this stage; you never
knew how they figured these things on the upper floors.

Chardy looked around as the crowd broke. Wasn't that Miller, now a
writer with two awful novels and a memoir to his credit; and that
O'Brien, said to be drawing down half-a-mil on Wall Street? And he
thought he recognized Schuster, the German, in this country so long now
he'd almost lost his accent, recently an insurance salesman. Jesus,
there were others, too: all these men, survivors of the hot '50s and
'60s, of the Cold War in Europe and stations in sweltering deltas all
across Asia. You could build a pretty good operation out of the talent
just standing around here, Chardy thought.

But of course nobody would. "Poor Bill," he heard someone say. "Poor Old
Bill." thousand times he'd heard someone say it, two thousand. "Poor
Bill," Bill, so much promise, such a comer once, such a bright hope; now
this. "Poor Margaret, you mean," somebody else, a woman, said, "with
those three boys. I I

Funerals unhinged Chardy, this one more than most. Though the sky was
blue and the sun bright and the grass blinding spring-green, and the
markers white, row on row of them like an image from a bitter Great War
poem, he shuddered. Hated funerals, always had. So hushed, creepy. So
Catholic, the faith he'd flown. Must be the Irish half of him, his
mother's half. weepy at all the cheap theatrics, the tooting horns, the
flappity-flap flags, the widows, the little boys. Chardy felt a black
spell of brooding coming across him, enervating, ruining. Something
bitter leaked into his blood; he'd be worthless for hours. A headache
was due in shortly, and one of those awful sieges of selfloathing. All
his sins and failures would come marching across his mind like these
pretty blue soldier boys, Old Guardsmen, cadence perfect, bayonets
gleaming in the sun. And just for a second the torrent of people before
him parted and he saw a perfect tableau: the widow, head bent, weeping
silently; beside her the three brave boys; and beside them all, holding
her hand and seeming to encompass all their grief, Sam Melman.

Chardy had not seen him in almost seven years, since the hearings. Sam
had aged well. Dressed in a dark suit, he was a man for helping widows
and surviving sons over their grief, where poor Yost was not. It was a
talent of his, the knack for the right word, for knowing how to handle
unpleasant situations with dignity and aplomb. He was speaking to them
all. Chardy could hear him in his mind: Just call me if you need
anything. We'll be happy to help. We know how rough it is on you. We'll
do our best.

There'll be money.

Would the widow know that Bill and Sam were almost perfect
contemporaries and way, way back were seen by many as potential
long-term rivals for important jobs coming up in the future? No, she
would not; Bill wasn't the type to take the office home with him.

Chardy turned away furiously. Melman had not seen him, but surely must
have figured he'd be around. And just as surely wouldn't care. Chardy
knew it would be no embarrassment to Melman to see him; there'd be no
awkward look away, no shuffling of the feet. Sam would look him right in
the eye, perhaps even smile. "Hello, Paul," he'd say, leaving
awkwardnesses of the past far behind, "how are you? Are you doing all
right? I hear you're on a contract now. Glad to have you back." And he'd
mean it too, for in his own righteous way he'd have no doubts about his
decisions in the hearings, and it would never occur to him that Chardy
could bear him ill will. Perhaps he'd even have a little fondness for a
maverick like Chardy, an old cowboy, a relic, like Bill, of a flamboyant
past.

Chardy wished he had Johanna at that moment, something to cling to
against the rage. With hands jammed deep into his pockets he began to
climb through the shadows, away from the mob, thinking he would walk
hard for half an hour, bum off some of his anger. He couldn't afford it,
he had to be in top form, for tomorrow he met the Great Man himself.

"Paul? Paul, is that you?"

The voice was a woman's, familiar. He turned. She was plumper now-had
not aged as well, nearly, as Sam Melman. She seemed smaller too,
certainly less attractive, for once she'd been a beauty.

It really was an afternoon for ghosts, for the dead. Am I that much
older now too? he wondered.

"Marion," he said, trying to fabricate some spontaneity, knowing at the
same time that if he'd seen her coming, he'd have changed direction
immediately. "God, it's been so long."

"Hasn't it? My God, nearly eight years."

"I'm sorry about Frenchy, Marion. I only found out a few weeks ago. I
was sort of put into storage. I should have called or something." He
felt terrible. He wanted to flee this failure. He owed Frenchy, he owed
his widow, and he'd failed both of them.

"Paul, it's all right. You always took things so seriously." She smiled
her wrecked smile, too tight, and he felt as though he should touch her.

"It was all so long ago. And I heard about your problems. Nobody is
supposed to talk, but it always gets out. Walk with me, will you? Let's
talk. I saw so many people today that I once knew. But I didn't want to
talk to any of them. But then I saw you."

He fell into step beside her. They were on a path, under trees, on a
hill. It was bright and he wanted to put on his sunglasses. Washington,
like a white, phony, movie-set Rome, lay straddling the horizon. Chardy
pinched the bridge of his nose because his head was beginning to hurt.

"It's terrible about Bill, isn't it?" Marion said. "Poor Old Bill. But
he lasted longer than most," Chardy said, and almost instantly regretted
it: Bill lasted longer than Frenchy, floating in the Danube.

But she seemed not to have heard.

"What are you doing now?" he asked.

"I'm married again. My husband teaches English at a branch of the
University of Maryland, out near Baltimore.$,

"Sounds great. A nice, calm life. I guess after the Frenchman-" He let
it end, a wild memory of Frenchy Short swirling in his head. Frenchy had
cheated on her horribly, every chance he got, but who could hold
anything against the Frenchman? She'd probably known, and forgiven him.

Everybody forgave the Frenchman-it was one of his great gifts. He was
irrepressibly childish charming as black sin, without scruple,
maliciously clever, magnificently brave. He was one of those rare men
built for combat and his joyous ferocity, his sheer heat, always left
Chardy feeling pale in comparison. Frenchy had taught Chardy everything
and Chardy owed him a lot. Frenchy also invented jams and wiggled out of
them, coming most vividly alive in the violent moments of extrication.

"Even the Frenchman was slowing down," Marion said. "Near the end."

"I can't imagine a slowed-down Frenchy," Chardy said. He didn't really
want to think about it. Though it was true Frenchy also had a down
phase, a real killer of a crash, when he could hardly make himself leave
his bed.

"I don't know, Paul. He'd mellowed, or burned out. Maybe he was just
tired of it all."

"Occupational hazard," Chardy said pointlessly. He was trying to
remember about kids. Frenchy never talked about kids, he was always too
self-involved. Were there kids, little Frenchys, to feed and care about
like the three troopers Old Bill had left? Frenchy might have made a
good father-but Chardy suspected he might also have been the kind of man
best with other people's children, for whom he can play hero and never
have to change diapers. But Chardy wasn't sure one way or the other and
could think of nothing to say to poor Marion.

It is always hardest on the women, he thought. We chase around the
world, playing cowboy on Agency expense accounts; they stay here and get
leathery or brittle and try not to resent being sealed off so
completely, until one day they realize they live in an entirely
different world from their husbands'. Or maybe a call comes, with
inadequate details, like the call Bill's wife had gotten or Marion. And
then they get a folded flag from a stiff young Army sergeant, a few
words with an oily grief merchant like Sam Melman, a little pension, and
the door. This melancholy series of thoughts brought him to Johanna, for
whom he still ached. He would never seal her off, he swore; finish this
business, and that was it. No more secrets, no more operations. He was
done with it.

Marion, meanwhile, was talking with considerable animation." ... and
I'd never seen him so fascinated, not in years."

Now what the hell was she talking about?

"It meant some kind of security, too. Schlesinger was DCI then and he
fired about two thousand people in six weeks and Frenchy was terrified
he was on the next list. And he was so tired of the travel, the
violence. So I think Frenchy was happiest then. I think it was his best
time. He learned so fast; he was so good at it."

"Uh-huh," Chardy said dumbly, trying not to tip her off that he'd not
been listening and had no idea what she was talking about.

"And then the Vienna thing came up. He just had to go-one last fling, I
guess. But he loved those computers, he really did."

Computers? Frenchy Short, computers?

"The computers," Chardy said.

It didn't sound like Frenchy. Or maybe it did. Maybe Frenchy had taken a
hard look at what was coming and realized the day of the cowboy was
over. The future belonged to robots: to computers, to satellites, to
microwave processors, to lasers. ELINT they called it in the trade,
Electronic Intelligence, as opposed to HUMINT, Human Intelligence. So
Frenchy had jumped to the side of the robots, the Melmans. Curious
images floated around Chardy's head-he had no experience with computers
and so to imagine Frenchy among them was difficult.

"I just can't see Frenchy with computers," Chardy said.

"It was the future, he said. He was tired of the past."

"He was thinking of you, Marion, I guess."

"It's nice of you to say that, Paul. We both know better. The Frenchman
never thought of me."

"Marion-"

"No, it's all right. It doesn't matter. Don't apologize. But he was
thinking of you, Paul. Before he left. You were in the mid-east or
someplace. You two went back so far."

A jet filled the sky, a 727 roaring down the Potomac toward National
Airport, its noise burying their words.

The great silver craft banked as it sped by, close enough to be touched.

Its landing gear locked down. They had climbed and now stood atop one of
the hills across which the cemetery spread, and it all lay before them,
the white markers spilling into the valleys and the clumps of dogwood,
and beyond that a band of highways, a sluggish I brown river, and
finally a blazing white city. It looked I

I even more like a movie Rome from here.

"I hate Washington," said Chardy. "I hate the people, the newspapers,
the pretty women. It's no city for guys like Frenchy and me. I just hate
it." His own sudden passion amazed him. But he did hate it.

"It's just a place," Marion said.

A cool wind whipped the leaves, chilling Chardy. He'd left his overcoat
in his car, from which he was now, in his wanderings with Marion, a mile
distant.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I interrupted you. I'm not much company today,
I'm afraid."

"Funerals depress everyone. Please don't worry about it, Paul."

"Thanks."

"I was telling you that Frenchy was thinking of you at the end."

"That's right."

"He had a message for you. He told me especially to tell you. But then
he died and it was a difficult time and then I didn't see you and I
started another life. The years went by. But now I remember. Seeing you,
standing by yourself up on that hill with your new beard, I remembered.

"A message?" said Chardy, curious. "'Marion," he said, "Marion, when Paul
gets back, tell him to fetch the shoe that fits. Got that? Fetch the
shoe that fits? He'll know what I'm talking about."

"

Chardy couldn't keep a sudden cruel grin off his face.

"What does it mean, Paul?"

"Oh, Marion, it goes back so far, to another time. A terrible time. I
hate to tell you."

"You can tell me, Paul. I'm a big girl."

"When we were running our missions into the North up around the DMZ with
the Nung people, there was a Chinese opium merchant in the area named
Hsu. H-S-U. Pronounced 'shoe." Anyway, one of our patrols got bounced
bad, and we just got out of there with our hides. It was a bad, bad
time. And then somebody told us this Hsu was working for the North
Vietnamese. He was their agent; he'd infiltrated our area to eta look at
our operations. He was a very bad guy, it turned out. Well, we had our
contacts too. We set him up. We let it be known that he'd done some work
for us. His bosses didn't see the humor in it. The guy was found
floating in the river in oil drums. Several of them. And Frenchy said-we
were drunk at the time; you have to understand that-Frenchy said, "Well,
Paul, we proved the Hsu fits." It seemed very funny at the time."

She didn't say a word.

"Marion, you're horrified. Look, we were in the middle of an ugly kind
of business. People were getting greased left and right. It had come out
that up north they'd put out a fifty-thousand-piaster bounty on our
heads. You never knew which way was up and you went out on these long
patrols with the Nungs and you never knew if you were coming back. It
was a hard time, a difficult time, and nobody knows or cares about it
anymore. And a lot of things seemed funny then that don't now." He was
irritated that she seemed so offended. What did she think Frenchy's job
was all those years?

"I had no idea it would be so cruel."

"I'm sorry, Marion. I didn't mean to wreck your illusions."

"I can be an awful prig, can't I? It's not your fault. As you say, it
was a different kind of time. But what about the 'fetch'?"

What about it?

"I just don't know what he was thinking about with that. I think he
meant 'remember' or something. He was saying, "Remember the times we
had."

"Oh, it's such a strange world you and Frenchy had, Paul. I'm so glad to
be out of it. Look, here's my car." They had reached a low brick wall
that separated the cemetery from Fort Myer. Just beyond, in the Army
parking lot, was a dirty yellow Toyota.

She smiled, her features briefly lighting. She'd really been a beautiful
woman once, where Frenchy had always been especially ugly, and Chardy
had always been impressed with his ability to earn the loyalty of such a
lovely woman.

"It was so good to see you again, Paul. I'm so glad I came to this. It
was nice to step into the past again. I really do miss him, Paul. I
really do."

He thought she might cry, and said quickly, "Yes, I do too, Marion."

"Call me sometime, if you'd like. My husband's name is Brian Doelp." She
spelled it. "We live out in the suburbs, a place called Columbia.

Halfway between Baltimore and Washington. It's very nice."

"I will, Marion. It was nice seeing you too. It really was." He bent and
kissed her on the cheek.

"Can I drop you somewhere?"

"No, my car's just over there," and he pointed vaguely in the direction
of Maryland and the North Pole.

"Bye-bye then."

"Goodbye, Marion."

She climbed into the car, started it quickly, and disappeared into the
traffic of Fort Myer.

Chardy walked back through the boneyard, a tall man, bearded, hunched
against the wind, his hands in his pockets. He put on his sunglasses.

The cemetery was empty now, except for a few tourists, and he walked
among the American dead, thinking of his own losses.

CHAPTER 20

Chardy sat in the back seat with Lanahan, while some Agency gofer-a kid,
no introductions had been made chauffeured them down Wisconsin Avenue
through increasingly snarled traffic.

Lanahan droned: "And at four fifty-five the car takes you to National.

You'll be covered the whole way, Paul, backup units, checkpoints,
escort, the works."

"Just like I was in Boston, Miles?"

Miles plunged on. "By six you'll be on a Lear to Chicago. You land at
Meigs, on the lake, not at O'Hare. From there it's just a hop to the.

Ritz-Carlton in Water Tower Place, where the conference is; there's a
room for you there too."

"Miles, I don't think I'm going to make a very good bodyguard.

"Look, Paul, I thought Yost was clear on this. The last thing anybody
needs is for this guy to wax Danzig. We're going to nail him. We're
going to lay out such a net, there's no way he can get through. But if
he does, Paul, if he should get through-you're there, you'll recognize
him. Remember, nobody else knows what he looks like. You lived with him
for over a year in the mountains. Have you got the piece?"

Chardy nodded. A Smith & Wesson Model 39 9-mm automatic hung upside down
like a bat in a shoulder holster under his left arm.

"You've fired a nine-millimeter?"

"I've fired everything, Miles.,,

"Okay. Now let me brief you on Danzig." Lanahan at his most officious.

His splotchy acne was particularly bad today, fiery red. The back of his
neck hadn't seen a barber since the last ice age. Flecks of dandruff lay
across the dark shoulders of his rumpled blue suit. His short warty
fingers jabbed the air as he discussed Danzig, but his eyes were bright
with their own special kind of intelligence. They were small, sharp
Irish eyes, city eyes. Miles wouldn't miss much. He pushed ahead,
lecturing Chardy.

"They say Danzig can be very charming. He likes to talk, he's got this
way of grabbing hold of people, talking them into oblivion. So you have
to watch yourself He'll really rivet you if you don't."

Chardy thought of Joseph Danzig in all the hundred thousand pictures, on
the TV shows, in the books: everywhere, like wallpaper. Of course, all
that was a few years back, during his term in office and just afterward;
still, the whiff of celebrity would cling to him. Yet Chardy knew he'd
dislike him on principle, the way infantrymen dislike generals. For
there'd been a time when if Danzig said go, a whole operation went:
money, plans, papers, case officers, logistics people, on-site
specialists. And somebody usually got burned and usually it was a
Special Operations type--Chardy's type. Nicky Welch, greased in Laos.

Tony Chin had caught it in Laos also, or maybe it was Cambodia, a
sucking chest wound, slow death. Chardy couldn't remember. And hadn't
Stan Morris taken some junk in Angola, the African op, and been turned
into a basket case? Yes. And in every one of those scams, the outcome
was the same. At the crucial moment, Danzig had pulled back. He'd seen
the cost escalating and he'd pulled back, and Nicky and Tony and Stan
and the others had bought nothing with their skins. As had Chardy bought
nothing with Saladin II, a classic example. Once, down at the Special
Warfare school in Panama, he and a bunch of other instructors, all old
Special Operations vets, had tried to figure out how many had died on
account of Danzig's way of doing things. The list had been long.

"Look, Paul, best thing around him is to play the robot. He'll try and
provoke you; he loves to provoke people. Or he'll gossip with you; he
loves to gossip. Or he'll try and get you to pimp for him. Lately they
say he's really been chasing women. Any woman. At any rate, he'll want
to dominate you, to own you. That's how he is. If he likes you, is drawn
to you, he'll destroy you. Yost says the best thing is to just smile
mildly at anything he says, no matter how outrageous. Don't try to top
him, or get into it with him. He'll chew you up, okay?"

They had turned off the busy avenue and were crawling through a
Georgetown back street under densely matted trees that blocked out the
sun. It felt subterranean, the coolness, the shadow in the air. The
brick houses, set primly back from the street, were red and narrow and
shuttered and four stories tall and had small gardens alongside.

"Nice neighborhood," Chardy said.

"The guy's got dough. The guy's got more dough than you'd believe. He
makes about a million a year lecturing and writing. He can knock off
twenty G's a day giving these speeches." Lanahan spoke like the poor
city boy he was, his resentment as tender and red as his acne. His face
formed a snarl as he scanned the swanky Georgian facades. Chardy had
seen the look a thousand times growing up; you saw it on playgrounds
when a fancy car wheeled through the neighborhood, the hate, the envy.

But it was gone in an instant, and Miles turned back. "Look, Paul. Yost
is parking you with a very touchy, egotistical guy who can do us a lot
of harm, even now. It has to be you. Everybody wishes it could be
somebody else, somebody not so controversial. Just don't blow it for us,
okay? This is very fucking important."

Yost, nervous, handled the introductions. It was awkward: the Great Man,
plumper and older, puffier, with human flaws normally invisible on
television, such as a clump of hair in the crown of one nostril, a
missed patch of whisker, a light spray of freckles-but still, totally
and exactly and unavoidably Joseph Danzig, offering, as would any
mortal, a hand. It turned out to be a weak one, smallish, with tapering
fingers, and Chardy felt the delicacy of the thing and tried to avoid
squashing it, though it seemed to collapse into bone fragments at his
softest touch.

They sat in a downstairs study, a room that belonged in a department
store window or an ad for the Book-of-the month Club. Chardy felt like a
tourist among the shelved books, several of which must be by Danzig
himself. He looked around at leather furniture, at polished wood, at
muted damask curtains.

"It's a wonderful house," he said stupidly.

"The wages of sin, Mr. Chardy," said Joseph Danzig.

Nervous Yost kept making patter, small phony jokes at which neither
principal in this peculiar blind date would laugh.-Finally he said it
was time to go and excused himself. In the confusion of his leaving,
Chardy stole a glimpse at his watch and saw that he had forty minutes
until the caravan left for the airport. He wondered how he'd kill them.

He looked out a massive paned door-hate to have to clean the son of a
bitch, all those tiny panes, hundreds of them-across a veranda to a
backyard garden. Gardens in G-town were not large, but Danzig had more
land than most, and his garden was consequently more than ample,
reaching back to the brick wall that enclosed his yard. It had not quite
sprung to blossom, though Chardy could make out its outlines, its plan:
it was a place of severe order, of symmetry. It balanced, neat and
crisp. The plots were cut squarely into the earth and low precise hedges
ran geometrically through them. Four-not five, not three-four white
wooden arbors stood to the rear, bulked with vines, two on each side of
a simple fountain. When filled out, the garden would be a composition of
immense order.

Chardy suddenly sensed a presence. Danzig, who'd last been heard from
announcing he had to run upstairs to his office, was standing next to
him, holding a sherry. chardy had been offered one earlier and had
refused.

"What do you think of that garden, Mr. Chardy?"

"It's very nice, sir," he said lamely. Nobody had ever asked him about
gardens before. Then he added, "Do you garden?"

"Of course not," Danzig said tartly. "That is, I do not go out there
with a hoe and a little set of clippers. But I designed it. The people
who lived here before had a terrible Italian grotto fantasy. It looked
like the sort of place where homosexuals go to meet each other. I made
certain improvements. That fountain was a gift from the President of
France. The trees along the left came from Israel. The trees along the
fight were imported from Saudi Arabia. Many of the plants and bushes
come from other countries. It will never be beautiful, of course, but
then, that is not its purpose. I do not care much for beauty, and having
looked at your record I would say that you do not either. Perhaps on
that basis we'll get along. But back to the garden: it expresses an
idea, an idea I hold in extreme importance. It stands for perfect
harmony, all components kept in check by other components. Do you
understand?"

Chardy understood exactly, and the point was driven home by Danzig's
sudden, wicked, facetious smile.

Just smile mildly, they'd told him; he'll eat you up otherwise.

But Danzig had been so vastly superior, so condescending, so celestially
regal that Chardy's Hungarian blood began to steam and in his fury he
came up with a rejoinder which surprised even him.

"I worked in a garden like that for a while," he said. ' "FROM the big
house, far away, it looks great. But up close it's terrible work-sweaty,
dangerous, grubby, disgusting. You might want to talk with your
gardeners some hot July Saturday, Dr. Danzig. They might surprise you."

Behind their lenses, Danzig's eyes held him for a long moment, not quite
in astonishment but at least in surprise. He considered a moment, then
smiled again, wickedly.

"But, Mr. Chardy," he said, "to do it right-to make the right decisions,
the long-term decisions--Aemands perspective, a cool intellect. You have
to see the whole plan, the final limits. Gardening, after all, is not
missionary we ."

Danzig could not keep his eyes off him; the reflex surprised him and he
found that charming, for there had been no surprises in his life lately.

The man kept to himself.- big, somewhat sour, perhaps even shy. He was
presumably under orders to keep his distance, and the beard helped,
masking the features. But the eyes were lively, watchful.

You always wonder about them; all statesmen do. At the bottom of every
policy, every necessary decision, there are people: infantrymen, bomber
pilots, very junior consular personnel, intelligence operatives. And
here was one of the last, the cutting edge of all the chatter in
Washington offices, all the committee meetings, the working groups, the
papers.

Here was the man who had to make it happen.

Chardy had been good at it, the reports said, until his misfortune.

Danzig had seen and studied the dossier, being not at all surprised at
certain things-the military background, the athletics, the temper, the
impatience and stunned at others-the high IQ, for example. And of course
he'd seen Sam Melman's final judgment: unreliable under stress.

Well, perhaps. Yet this Chardy seemed on first glance anything but
unreliable. He seemed stolid, effective, prosaic even. The mind would be
dull, although focused. He'd be the technical type, wholly uninterested
in things beyond his arcane craft. It was hard to see him as one of the
Agency glamour boys-a cowboy, they called them most alive among far-off
little people with grudges, in mountains or jungles, amid guns and
equipment.

"I'm told, Mr. Chardy, that the most famous Kurd of all time was
Salsh-al-Dfi Ygsuf ibn-Ayy(ib, Saladin of the Crusades, who fought
against Richard Coeur de Lion and forced the Crusaders to abandon
practically all of Palestine except for a few coastal forts. Perhaps
giving crusades a bad name that we should have taken cognizance of in
our own times, eh? Did you know that, Mr. Chardy?"

"You can't be around the Kurds without hearing of Saladin," said Chardy.

"Like he was, they are superb soldiers." He paused. "When they've got
the right gear."

"Are they a colorful people? I always expected Arabs to be colorful and
they turned out to be simple boors. But what about the Kurds? Were you
disappointed in them?"

Another leading question. What capacity would Chardy have to determine
what was "colorful," what was not?

"They're obsessive. And obsessives are always colorful. Unless it's you
they're obsessed with."

Danzig smiled. Chardy insisted on surprising him. He admired the
capacity to astonish, which was rare, as opposed to the capacity to be
astonished, which was commonplace.

"You respect them, I take it?"

Chardy went blank and would not answer, as if he were holding something
back. Danzig could guess what: his outrage, his contempt, his fury, his
disappointment over his-Danzig's-"betrayal" of the Kurds. But Danzig
could figure it out. The man had been among them, had known this Ulu
Beg, had probably come to identify with them. The process was common.

And when the operation had, of every urgent necessity, to be aborted,
Chardy, and many others, would have taken great offense.

But Chardy did not express these sentiments directly. He said only,

"Yeah, you have to," turning quickly moody. It was not difficult to
calculate why either: Chardy would share with his hard-charging brethren
the conviction that the Kurdish thing had been a No-Win situation from
the start. Then why get involved, why spend the money, the lives, if
you're not prepared to stick the course? the beef would run. Danzig had
no doubt he could draw him out at great length: we needed more weapons,
more ammo, SAMS, better commo and logistics, more sophisticated supply
techniques, satellite assistance, naval support, germ warfare, psywar,
defoliants, another front, tactical nukes. It would go on and on, no end
in sight, a funnel down which could endlessly be poured gear and people
and hopes and dreams.

"You do not approve of how it ended, I take it?"

The athlete in Chardy spoke. "I hate to lose," he said.

"Perhaps if you recall, at that precise moment in history certain events
were taking place across the world."

Chardy nodded glumly. No, he wouldn't recall from living memory, since
he'd been in his cell in Baghdad that week. But he would know by now:
the Republic of South Vietnam was falling.

"A very complex and difficult time," Danzig pointed out.

"Yeah," was all Chardy could manage. His was not a particularly
interesting mind. Still: Danzig was attracted. Not to the mind, but to
the mind and the man, to the organic whole. Like an athlete who has
nothing to say but is fascinating when he runs or shoots or dodges or
whatever, that aspect-man-in-action, man-of-will, man-of force-had a
Nietzschean grandeur to it, a fascination, because it was in part how
Danzig saw himself, although in a different realm: the man who makes
things happen.

Not to declare Chardy a total original, of course. These crypto-military
types had their limits, just as surely as they had their uses.

Curiously, they almost always had a sports background; at the very heart
of their vision of the world was an image of the Playing Field, on which
there are certain teams and certain rules, and if A happens, then by all
that's logical B must follow, mustn't it? and thus to the swift, the
strong, the brave, go the spoils. A heavy, masculine, sentimental
fascism ran through it all, a painful juvenile strain. It was best
summed up by Kipling, the Imperial apologist and poet laureate of
nineteenth-century British Steel, when he coined a brilliant term for it
which caught at once the athletic component and the masculine component
and the sentimental component: the Great Game. It was of course by now a
useless, a worthless concept. Especially as the world progressed
exponentially in its complexity, became more densely and dangerously
packed with oddball nationalist groups, with sects and cults of
personality, with zealots, with madly proliferating technology, up to
and including nuclear weaponry.

Danzig took instead as his model a more recent metaphor, the second law
of thermodynamics, the entropy law, which mandated that in closed
systems, randomness, disorder, chaos tended to prevail over the long
term. Centers would not hold; all systems disintegrated. A nation was a
system; disintegration was its fate. But given this ultimate tendency,
this spiral toward collapse (which even the most immense system, the
universe itself, would some distant day undergo) small salvations were
available within the process itself. It was possible for a clever man to
make the law of entropy work for himself--or his nation.

As Clausius demonstrated in 1865, entropy grows out of all proportion to
the energy expended in producing it. His famous example is the cue ball:
dispatched into a formation of billiards, it transfers the energy of the
cue into the formation of the balls; and while the energy of the system
is thus transformed and momentarily increased, the entropy is increased
much more, as demonstrated by the balls careening madly across the
surface of the table. And that was only in two dimensions! Imagine this
concept as applied in three: the complications are incredible,
immeasurable!

The Soviets understood this principle instinctively, and built their own
mischievous foreign policy around it. But Americans had some difficulty
with it; they were not used to exalting disorder; it went against their
mind set. But to Danzig it meant that his energy-the stroke of a
cue could drive a ball or a series of balls into various target
billiards, and the results in entropy would be remarkable. This was the
heart of what the news magazines termed "The Danzig Doctrine," in whose
service the Chardys of this world labored. A series of small engagements
could be fought in the Third World; at no one place would the full
weight of the nation's will be committed, as had been done so foolishly
in Vietnam; rather in an Angola, a Laos, a Bulgaria, a Yemen, a
Kurdistan, a few special men, highly trained, superbly motivated, brave,
resourceful and expendable-would go in and raise a ruckus. The Soviets,
like billiard balls driven into fury, would attempt to respond; they
could eventually restore the local order, but the effort required
resources of personnel, rubles, and effort drawn from other parts of
their empire. And when they finally did prevail, a new battleground, in
some other sector of the globe, would be found. The cost of these many
small Third World battles was far less than any cataclysmic
confrontation between the systems themselves, via strategic weaponry.

This was reality, geopolitical reality. Danzig orchestrated it; it was
his legacy to the nation. He had the strength, the fierceness of will to
do so. If it meant that he himself had to become ruthless and cynical,
feeling the huge weight of having to betray so many times, then that was
a part of the price too. In the long term he knew himself to be a moral
man, perhaps the highest moralist, because he acted on behalf of the
greatest number of people over the greatest length of time.

And if men like Chardy, like Ulu Beg, like the Agency's generation of
cowboys had to be used up in the same process, then that too was a part
of the price; they were not innocent victims and should not be
mourned suffering was their duty, their contribution. Their ignorance of
the mechanisms that destroyed them in no way qualified them for pity or
martyrdom. They took their wages and they died.

But damn them! Of course they didn't understand, or wouldn't; of course
they'd take it all personally and insist on mad notions of honor and
vengeance, and travel half the globe to strike back. And so here was
Danzig's newest geopolitical reality-and his smallest: a big man with a
beard and a cheap corduroy suit who moved like an athlete and had a
boy's unformed rhythms of speech. And his counterpart, equally
fascinating, a Kurd, born in the wrong century, now hunting him.

It was a paradigm of the entropic absolute-fragmentation, randomness,
strangeness, disorder, dissipation of energy, in a world too desperate
to entertain such extravagances. The three of them locked crazily,
linked by coincidences, odd twists, unreal developments, veering toward
their strange fates. It was Kafkaesque, Nabokovian, Pynchonian, a
ludicrous Master Plot from the crazed imagination of some Modern
Novelist high on drugs and paranoia.

Yet Danzig, in all this, could not deny that it filled him with a
certain excitement. There was that same rush, that dizzy, swooping,
immensely satisfying sensation of being at center again.

"Would you shoot him to save my life?" Danzig asked. "I do have a right
to ask."

"It'll never come to that," Chardy said laconically. "There'll always be
people around: backup teams, men with rifles and scopes, with infrared
gear, with dogs. The works. You have your own bodyguards too. Finally,
after all that, there's me."

"Mr. Chardy, I have probably told more lies in good causes than any man
on this planet. And so I recognize a lie in a good cause. And I have
just encountered one." Danzig smiled, pushed ahead merrily. "It's not at
all difficult to concoct a scenario in which he is raising his weapon
and I am defenseless and you have-a pistol, I presume?"

"Yes.,,

"Are you any good with it?"

"Pistols are very hard to shoot with any accuracy."

"Very reassuring, Mr. Chardy. In any event, there you are. He's a man
you've fought with, hunted with, trained, whose sons you knew. And I am
a fat old Jewish professor with a bit of the heavy Polish about me and I
show up on television a lot, was once upon a time an important man and
to this day remain controversial. I am not remotely humble and can be
numbingly unpleasant to be around for long periods of time. I once had a
date with a movie starlet, I expect doors to be opened and other people
to stop talking when I open my mouth. Those are your choices, Mr.
Chardy. You have less than a second to decide."

He watched Chardy turn the question over in his mind.

"I'd fire," said Chardy eventually.

"You have not convinced me. I believe I have a right to be convinced."

"I'd shoot, that's all."

"Even though to you he is the victim and I am the villain?"

"I never said that."

"It's true, though; I can sense it. I have very good instincts in these
matters."

Chardy seemed to grow irritable.

"I said I'd shoot. It'll never come to that. I just know it won't." I

"Now that is reassuring," Danzig said. "That is reassuring indeed."

Yet, whatever Chardy's doubts, his interesting mesh of alliances and
confusions, Danzig had to admit that in the capacity of bodyguard he
functioned well. Chardy was at his side the whole time, a step ahead in
crowds, though things had been set up in such a way as to minimize
passage through public areas. The hotel, for example, was selected
because it did not begin until the twelfth floor, being mounted atop a
marble shopping center across from the Water Tower on Michigan Avenue.

Where but America-and certain Arab countries-could such a gawky
extravagance be conceived, much less executed? The wealth of the
mid-west-the sheer, staggering accumulation of capital-always stunned
Danzig, new to wealth himself, though he trained himself not to show his
shock.

Chardy seemed equally unimpressed-or perhaps he was too busy. He looked
at faces and stayed close, taking his leave only when security was
tightest--closed rooms, Chicago cops, strange men with radio jacks in
their ears, like Secret Service, but spiffier, and therefore probably a
private service, rented at government expense for the weekend. Melman
was really throwing the money around on this. God, it made Danzig happy
to imagine Melman at an Agency budget committee meeting, bluffing his
way through. But Chardy: Chardy was always there, in his one glum suit.

Don't you ever get tired, Mr. Chardy?"

"I'm all right."

"I would think for a man of your special talents, your flamboyant
background, this would be very boring."

Chardy was a robot today.

"No, sir."

"They warned you to keep your conversations with me to a minimum, didn't
they?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Chardy, you are a poor liar. You do not even try to disguise the
falsehood."

Chardy's face began to show irritation. Danzig had heard the man had a
ferocious temper. Hadn't he once beaten up some high Agency official?

Chardy stewed in silence, however, disappointing Danzig.

"Chicago is your home, isn't it?"

Chardy looked around at the lush suite, the huge bed, the silks, the
David Hicks wallpaper and carpet.

"Not this Chicago," he said.

Danzig gave his seminar on international relations to the American
Management Association on Wednesday morning in a banquet room, and then
was driven to the University of Chicago, where he addressed a hundred
graduate students after a luncheon; and then back to the Ritz-Carlton
for a cocktail party with the steering committee of the Association,
where he was charming and gossipy and wicked and where Chardy stood
around like a jerk, awkward but always close; and then on to the banquet
for his formal address, a hell-raiser on Soviet domination; and then
another hotel party, a more intimate one with the Management
Association's board of directors; and then to his room to dictate into a
recorder for an hour. An exhausting day, much photographed, talked at,
pressed upon by the occasional autograph seeker, yet he remained by and
large pleasant through it all, because of the adulation he'd received,
which he loved, and because of the $30,000 he'd just earned.

"A busy Wednesday, Mr. Chardy."

"Extremely."

"We leave for the airport at ten." :, I know. "

"No Kurds."

"Not this time."

"You've got that pistol?"

"I do."

"Good, Mr. Chardy."

Everywhere Danzig went it was the same. That's what TV did, Chardy
guessed.

Everybody was drawn to Danzig. They tracked him, came to him, were
mesmerized by him. And Danzig fed on it, he grew in it.

And these weren't teenagers either, but grown men from the world of
business, who made decisions, hired 1"

other men, fired them. They inhabited a Chicago Chardy had never seen,
and their confidence, their sense of rightful, silver-haired place,
irritated him. Most had lovely younger wives too, girls who were
beautiful and distant and did not see him except by accident. "Who's
he?"

"Some kind of bodyguard, I guess." They poured in on Danzig, to touch
him. "It's like this everywhere," the other bodyguard, Uckley, said.

"Incredible," Chardy said. They stood next to the curtains at the
banquet, in a huge room filled with blue smoke. Danzig-the top of his
head, actually-was barely visible among a gang of executives and
executive wives. In the far distance other lonely men held uncomfortable
vigil: cops, Agency goons, private dicks, and somewhere Yost Ver Steeg
must have clucked and fretted, and somewhere surely Lanahan would be
lurking.

"How much longer will this last?" Chardy asked Uckley.

"Hours, sir," Uckley replied, eyes Marine-front, neck a steel lock, lips
barely moving.

You were in"Nam, right, Sarge?"

"Yes sir. First Marines. Two tours. Good
people, good times. Better 'n this. Man's work."

No, this was not man's work. It was not any kind of work.

A discreet figure suddenly swam into the periphery of his vision, and he
turned to meet it.

It was Miles.

"Yost wants to see you. He's in the hall," Miles said.

"Good, I want to see him."

Chardy unfrozen and walked through the hall, avoiding executives and
tables. He found Ver Steeg outside, arms crossed, two new assistants
close by.

"Hello, Paul. How's it going?"

"It stinks, Yost. I want out. You can find something better for me to do
than stand around."

"Sorry, Paul. You stay."

"I can't play sentry. And I can't stand Danzig. And the most important
thing is Ulu Beg."

"Sorry, Paul. I have to put my people where it counts. What good are you
roaming around? You forget, you're the only man in America who's seen
the Kurd."

"Ah," said Chardy.

"It won't be much longer. Something's broken."

He handed Chardy a twenty-dollar bill.

"A couple of nights ago, in Dayton, Ohio, the police picked up a drug
dealer with a large wad of these. The Dayton people routinely ran the
serial numbers through the Treasury. Thank God for those computers. It's
part of the bundle Bill Speight had with him in 'seventy-three when you
guys were setting up Saladin Two. Back in the days when a dollar still
bought something in Iran."

Chardy nodded.

Ver Steeg continued. "It's not hard to design a scenario by which it
would come into the hands of Ulu Beg, is it?"

"Where'd the dealer get it?"

"He said a pickpocket was distributing generous amounts of it in certain
low spots about town."

"It looks like Ulu Beg got his money lifted in Dayton."

"Yes, it does. And without the money, he'll have a tough time getting
anywhere."

"We ought to get right out there."

"People have left. I'm leaving myself tonight. Paul, I think this is
it."

"I'll be packed in-"

"No, Paul. Not you. Sorry." Chardy looked at him.

"Somebody's got to guard Danzig, Paul. Somebody."

CHAPTER 21

Trewitt was down to $11.56 and some traveler's checks he didn't dare
cash. And ten bucks bought exactly one night in his current quarters in
scenic Nogales. The accommodations consisted of a straw bed in a hovel
clinging precariously to the side of one of the hills. His roommates
were chickens. At least the water ran-through the roof, into his face,
and down into the straw, producing, in mixture with assorted animal
droppings and liquid eliminations, an odor unlike anything he could
describe. The view was breathtaking: across a chasm of reeking poverty
to another dusty hill, on which sat-more hovels. But he was not without
a beacon in this hopeless situation. At night, if he dared, he could
creep halfway around the hill-being careful, for the drop was sheer on
that side, one hundred feet down-and make out in a notch between the
infested other slopes a wonderful symbol of the motherland: on a
pedestal, high above the cruel barbed wire and metal mesh of the border,
the golden arches of McDonald's.

Trewitt would have killed for a Big Mac-el Grande, they called them down
here.

He would have killed for a shower too, a shave, a new shirt, clean
fingernails. Had there been a mirror available he wouldn't have had the
nerve to look into it, guessing what a week in a chicken coop will do to
any man, turning him into a pitiful mock Orwell, down and out in
Nogales, in a dirty costume of his own skin and rumpled summer suit.

He'd lost his tie-when? Probably in the long running climb up called
Buenos Aires. He had seemed to climb forever, up, up, still farther up,
through chicken yards and goat pens tripping once on the wire fence and
sprawling into the dust). He was also sure he'd knocked down several
people, but his memory wasn't terribly distinct. He remembered dodging
in and out of big-finned cars, racing by small shops in which Mexicans
lounged, drinking beer. Up one hill, down another. He ran aimlessly in
the dark, in great heat, under a smear of moon in a foggy sky Near dawn
he sought shelter in a structure whose purpose he could not quite
divine. Its main recommendation was that it was deserted. He tried to
get some sort of grip on himself. He was shivering miserably, almost
sniveling (it was so tin ir, it always had to happen to him) when a fa
boy found him.

"Who are you?" the boy asked. He wore dirty jeans and black gym shoes
and a dirty white T-shirt whose neck was all stretched out.

"A crazy gringo," Trewitt answered in Spanish. "Go away or I'll give you
a smack."

The boy's scrawny chest showed in the exaggerated loop of the shirt's
neck.

"This is my mama's."

"Where's your daddy?"

"Gone to America to be rich."

"You want to be rich?"

"Sure. In U.S. bucks."

"I need a place to stay. No trouble. Something quiet."

"Sure, mister. You kill some guy in a fight?"

"It's nothing like that."

"You can stay here."

Trewitt looked around without much enthusiasm. Bales of hay stood
against one wall and shafts of sunlight fell through chinks in the roof.

The place was built of corrugated metal. It smelt dusty and shitty all
at once. Chickens wandered about, pecking at the ground. ' You got a
bath in the house? A shower?"

"No, mister. This is Mexico, not Los
Estados Unidos."

"I noticed. Look, it's a big secret, okay? Don't tell anybody. Big
secret, you understand?"

The boy vanished quickly and returned with his mother, a huge, ugly
woman with eyes of brass and a baby in her arms.

"I can pay," Trewitt said.

"Ten bucks, U.S."

"Ten's fine. Ten a week."

"Ten a night. Starting last night," she said, her brass eyes locking on
to his. The baby began to squeal and she gave it a swat on the rump.

"Ah, Jesus," said Trewitt.

"And no cursing," she said.

Mamacita came with the meal-cold tripe in chili sauce. He fought the gag
reflex; he could see the brown sauce crusting on the loops of gut. But
it was better than yesterday's fish-head soup.

"Money," she said.

Trewitt forked over his last ten.

"How's my credit?" he asked.

"No credit," she said, handing him the plate. "Tomorrow you get some
more money or you go."

He attacked the food ravenously, because he had not eaten since
yesterday.

What now? Trewitt contemplated alternatives. Could he find a way to make
contact? Take a chance, ring up the people at headquarters? Maybe then
somebody could bring him in-somebody good, somebody who'd been around, a
Chardy? But he knew the waiting would kill him. It had already been two
weeks since Bill got killed. So should he try the other alternative:
take the risk, try and bust the border himself! It was a fairly simple
proposition, a tollbooth plaza, like the George Washington Bridge. Just
an easy stroll; head for the gate. It was wide open, no Berlin-style
Checkpoint Charlies, no Cold War wall to cross like some existential
husk of an agent out of Le Carr6. For Christ's sake, you just walked up,
following the sign. Entrada en Los Estados Unidos. What could be easier?

But then he remembered Bill Speight in the sewer. He remembered he was
being hunted.

He rolled over and faced the scabby tin wall, waiting for inspiration.

He had to do something. His mind was full of bubbles-a good deal of
commotion and light and very little substance. He had a sudden blast of
insane, giddy optimism. But it collapsed almost as quickly as it peaked
and the downward trip was a crusher.

He heard a noise and turned.

"Oh," he said glumly, "it's only you."

The boy eyed him from the doorway, unimpressed. Trewitt had the terrible
sensation of failing another test. Yet the boy liked him and in the two
weeks Trewitt had spent in the barn, on most days the boy had visited
him.

"You sure never kill no one in no fight," the boy said.

"No, I never did. I never said I did. Go away. Get out of here."

"Hey, I got some news for you."

"Just get out of here." It occurred to him to take a swat at his
tormentor, but he didn't have the energy.

"No, listen, man. I tell the truth."

"Sure you do."

The truth, Trewitt knew, was bleak. He had failed utterly in his dream
of unearthing information on Ulu Beg's journey through Mexico, in
finding out whether the Kurd came alone-or with others. What he had
succeeded in doing was inserting himself in the center of a Mexican
mafia war.

Unless the one was part of the other.

Trewitt's mind stirred for just a second.

But he had to face reality. Reality was that he now had to turn himself
in to the Departamento de Policia. The whole story would come out. CIA
AGENT NABBED IN MEX, the headlines would say. Phone calls, official
protests and denials, embarrassments, awkwardnesses of all kinds.

"I found him," said the boy.

Trewitt could see Yost Ver Steeg. He could imagine himself trying to
explain.

See, we thought we found the guy who brought the Kurd across. We thought
we could learn from him if ver Steeg had no capacity for expressing
emotion. The rage would be inward. Trewitt would sense it in constricted
gestures, tightly held lips, a cool handshake.

You went into Mexico?

Uh, yes.

He could blame it on Old Bill.

See, Old Bill said that But Ver Steeg would have a hundred ways of
letting him know he'd screwed up. What were you doing there? Well,
uh, didn't you cover Speight? No, I sort of lost track of him. And Chardy
would look and see a hopelessly incompetent kid. And Miles, that seedy
little dwarf, would glow. Another rival x-ed off the list, another
potential competitor screwed, shot down in flames. Miles would smile,
showing those brackish teeth, and clap his tiny hands.

"You found who?" Trewitt said.

"The guy."

"What guy?"

"You know."

"I don't know a goddamn thing. Who, you little-" He lunged comically at
the boy, missing. The boy laughed as he danced free.

"Him, man. Him. The bartender, Roberto."

"Roberto?"

"Roberto, the bartender. Who would not shut up. Remember?"

Sure, Trewitt remembered. What he couldn't remember was laying his sorry
story on this kid here.

"I told you?"

"Sure. You come from the bar. Oscar's. Stay out of there, you say. A bad
place. The bartender, a bad guy, an evil man."

Maybe Trewitt did have a vague memory of the conversation.

"So now you can go kill this guy Roberto. With a knife. Come OD, I'll
show you where he lives. Cut his belly. My brother done that to a guy
once and is still in prison."

"You watch too much TV."

"Ain't got no TV, man. What you gonna do? Cut that cocksucker?"

"I don't know," said Trewitt.

The boy pointed in the dark.

"There. That's the one."

Trewitt traced the arc indicated by the small finger until he could see
a certain house among a group of four of them, neither more nor less
prosperous than its neighbors, a cinderblock shanty of flat roof and no
windows.

"You're sure now?"

"Sure? Sure I'm sure."

The moon smiled above through a warm night. He and the boy were across a
muddy lane in southern Nogales, miles from Trewitt's homey barn. They
crouched in a gully, which Trewitt had come to believe contained sewage.

But perhaps not; his imagination again?

"You better be right, amigo.

"Sure I'm right. You have a nice tip for me, okay? For Miguel, a little
money?"

"Right now I couldn't afford an enchilada," Trewitt said.

He checked his watch. Nearly five, sun coming up soon.

"And Roberto," said Miguel. "Soon Roberto. You'll see."

The light began to rise, revealing eventually a familiar landscape-the
shacks on the muddy street, some shuffling chickens, sleeping dogs,
puddles everywhere, pieces of junk strewn about. Into this still
composition there at last came the figure of a man-a youth
really-strolling along. :, He's late," said the boy. "You ought to kill
him."

"I just want to talk to the guy."

"You should have seen what my brother did to this guy. He got him right
in the guts. He-"

Shhhh, goddammit.

The bartender approached, picking his way among the puddles. He looked
familiar to Trewitt, though thinner, more delicate than the American
remembered. His hair was pomaded back and he had the thinnest moustache
over his upper lip. He wore a leather coat over his jet black pants and
white ruffled shirt. He looked to be about eighteen.

He walked, hands in pockets. Trewitt had studied judo, though he had
never earned a belt, and when the boy paused at his gate, directly
across from him, Trewitt lunged from the gully in two muscular bounds,
got his arms on Roberto, and quickly and savagely broke him to the
earth.

The youth squealed, but Trewitt gave him a squirt of pressure through
his pinned arm which calmed him fast; then he shoved him into the gully
and leaped after. He punched him twice, hard, in the ribs, and got him
into a wristlock. Trewitt was far too brutal, for Roberto offered no
resistance and only yelped as the blows landed, but Trewitt was working
off weeks of rage and frustration. He sensed the wrist he was gripping
give, and saw the fear bright in Roberto's eyes-and felt at once
ashamed.

"I have no money, I have no money," wailed Roberto.

"I don't want money, goddammit," screamed Trewitt in English.

"Cut him," yelled the other kid, Miguel, watching from above with great,
cruel joy.

"Shut up, you. Silencio!"

"Let me go, sir. I have only money for my sister and my mama and my two
brothers and our dogs. Do not hurt me."

"Why was the old gringo killed? Come on, talk, goddammit!"

He gave the wrist a quarter twist to the right.

"Ow! Oh! It hurts so. Ouch. No more. He went for the wrong woman."

Trewitt tightened up on the wrist.

"The real reason, dammit."

"You're hurting me."

"Of course I'm hurting you. Come on, goddammit, talk." He squeezed.

"Ahhhhhhhh!

A cock crowed and Trewitt looked nervously about and saw no movement,
though a goat in a pen down the way seemed to stir. He knew he'd better
get on with it. In a few minutes this place'd be crawling with people.

"Why, why?" he bellowed in righteous fury. "Ahhhh. Let me go, please.

Don't hurt me no more." Trewitt relaxed his grip a bit. "Next time I
break it. Why'd they kill the old man? Why?"

"He ask after Ramirez."

"Okay. So?"

"The story they tell is that Oscar Meza set Ramirez up to take over his
place. And here's this old gringo asking questions. And Oscar no like
the gringos and he no like the questions."

"Oscar?" said Trewitt.

"Yes. Let me go. Oh, please, mister, it hurts so bad."

Trewitt almost did. He was exhausted and he was running low on energy
and purpose. But his fury boiled up again darkly.

"No, goddammit, there's more." There had to be. He gave the Mexican
another jolt.

"Ohhhh. No, I swear. On Jesus, on the Virgin. He kill me if he finds
out."

If there wasn't any more, then Trewitt was in big trouble. Next step? He
had no next step. This wasn't an intelligence operation, it was a gang
war. He'd stumbled into the middle of it, and now the whole Mexican
underworld was after him. Or was the youth lying?

He tried to think of what one of the old cowboys would do in his place.

Chardy, a hero, a pro, an operator's operator. What would they do? Maybe
the kid was lying; maybe he wasn't. There'd really only be one way to
make certain, and that would be to take him all the way. Put him on the
black edge of death and see what he said.

Trewitt knew in an instant that Chardy would be capable of a higher
brutality here, for wasn't the other side of bravery just the numb
capacity to hurt and feel no guilt? Suppose now, suppose a Chardy broke
the kid's fingers, both hands, then his kneecaps, then his nose, all his
teeth, then his wrists, and finally the kid broke. And this Chardy-type
then used the dope he got from the kid and turned it into a real coup.

Became a hero. A legend would grow, a reputation; maybe a career would
blossom. But nobody, least of all Chardy, would remember the hurt youth,
humiliated, debased, raped almost, in a gully in a scabby Mexican slum;
the boy used, tossed away.

Weariness suffused Trewitt. His will vanished. "Ah, Christ," he
muttered, knowing he could hurt his victim no more. He felt the youth
slip away.

"Go on. Beat it. Scram," he said.

The young bartender fell back, rubbed his mouth and then his aching
wrist and crossed himself quickly for deliverance.

"You should not do this," said Miguel, perched on the lip of the gully.

"You should make him talk."

"Shut up. I cut your throat, little shit," said Roberto, making a
listless lunge that sent the younger boy scurrying.

"Go on, get out of here. Both of you." For now Trewitt could not stand
the sight of either of them.

Trewitt sat back in disgust and exhaustion. Next step? Departamento de
Policia. And damned quick, before somebody from the mafia blew him away
over the ownership of Oscar's. Still, he dreaded it; it meant the coming
to an end of a phase of his life. For surely he was done at the Agency;
that much was clear-after a mess-up like this, there'd be no future.

It was also clear. to him that he deserved to be done at the Agency. He
simply was no good at this sort of thing he hadn't the hardness, the
cunning, the fury. They never should have sent him; they should have
sent somebody who knew what he was doing. He hadn't even taken the
Clandestine Techniques course out at The Farm in Virginia, a basic intro
to the dark side of the Agency.

He wondered where the nearest Federal Police station was. Enough
adventure for one day, and it was not even 6:00 A.m. He treated himself
to a last smile for his own dumb folly-it was kind of funny, except for
poor Billand set off in search of saner possibilities.

"Hey, mister," somebody called-Roberto-"I tell you a lie."

Trewitt turned. The youth stood with a taut look of defiance on his
face. What, did he now want to mock Trewitt, or even, out of some
Mexican macho thing, to fight him?

The younger boy lurked close at hand, eyeing the two curious
antagonists, still hoping for a little action.

Hey, mister," said Roberto, "you got some money for Roberto?"

"Kid, I ought to-"

"'Cause, mister, Roberto thinks Reynoldo Ramirez is still alive. And he
thinks he knows where he is."

CHAPTER 22

She wanted to walk.

"I just want to walk. Could we walk all weekend? I
don't know how to explain it."

"Sure," Chardy said.

"I just have to walk. Do you understand? I want to be with you but I
want to walk too. All right?"

"No, it's fine. Show me this place. I want to see this place."

She took him down Mass Ave to MIT and back again. They went up Garden
Street, and she showed him Radcliffe. They got lost in the little places
along Brattle. Then they went onto the campus, and walked among the red
brick Georgian buildings, under the vaults of the trees.

"How was your week, Paul? Your trip?"

"Terrible. I don't do anything. They won't let me do anything. I just
hang around Danzig, except when they've got him locked up--like now.

How was your week?"

"I didn't get much done. I didn't make any progress. It was depressing.

I'm glad it's the weekend. I'm glad you're here."

The place was lousy with undergrads. They all dressed like hoboes in
baggy, sexy rags, junk-shop clothes, insouciantly graceful. They seemed
to Chardy like barbarians.

Frisbees sailed all over the place, skimming the ground, bouncing. Some
rock group sang an amplified tune called "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap"
from a speaker in a window.

"Look," he said, "let's sit down. Do you mind? You've really worn me
out, all this trooping around."

They found a bench and sat quietly for a long time.

"This is quite a place," said Chardy lamely. "I always wondered what one
of these places looked like. I went to college in a little town in
Indiana. You could hear the grass grow. On Saturday night we used to
hang out at-"

He stopped, because he could tell that she wasn't ]istening.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"Oh, I don't know," she said.

"Look, something is wrong, I can tell."

"I think what I like about this place," she said, "is the safety. Paul,
there are people here who never come out. They are troglodytes. They
live totally interior lives. They spend forty years studying a certain
molecule in an amino acid or a certain sixteenth-century Italian poet.

It's very safe. Nothing intrudes."

Safe? Chardy looked out on the crowd scene before them.

"Johanna-"

"Paul," she went on, "I get so scared sometimes. I lie there and I think
of all the things that could happen. I think of him, of Ulu Beg. I think
of the Kurds, a lost people. And I think of us, and how we're so
responsible for it all, how we tie it all together, and how we haven't
really done anything. Sometimes my mind gets going so fast I can't get
it settled down. I don't sleep. I don't eat. Paul, I can get very crazy.

You have no idea how crazy. I can act very strange."

He turned to touch her but saw she was not agitated. In fact, he'd never
seen her so calm.

"Paul," she said suddenly, "teach me something. Will you? Help me."

"Anything."

"Teach me bravery. Your kind of bravery, a man's kind of bravery. War
bravery, battle bravery. There must be a trick. You were so brave.

Whatever else, for so long you were so brave. That attracted me from the
first. I fell so in love with it. Teach it to me. I'm sick of being
scared."

"I don't know much about it anymore. It used to be so important to me. A
guy I thought was the bravest man in the world-the guy that taught me
everything---ended up floating in the Danube. He left me a message, and
it had an eene ring to it. He told me to fetch the shoe that fits. The
shoe fits? It was a joke, I thought. But now I don't know. Frenchy was
trying to tell me something. About all this. He was scared too, because
he was going in solo and Frenchy hated to work solo."

"He was a hero?"

"In our line of work, he was the best. Yes, I suppose he was a hero. Yet
even the Frenchman came unglued at the end. His wife-his widow-told me
about it. He grew up, he burned out, he got tired."

"Still, he died for something. Scared and tired and old, he died for it.

That's really it. That's the lesson I want to learn. This Frenchman-he
went ahead. He pressed on."

"Yes. You'd have to give him that."

"He died for something he believed in?"

"The joke is, when you think you're dying, the last thing you think
about is what you believe. You think about crazy things. I thought about
basketball." I thought about you, he thought.

"Still, it's the act that counts, not the motive. That's a shoe that
fits."

"I suppose it does."

"Paul, I want to go back to the apartment now. Can we go back and make
love?"

He looked at her in the hard light. It was noon, the sun harsh, the
breeze stirring old limbs in this leafy place. Slivers of light cutting
through the overhead canopy lay about them on the ground, on the walk.

She was without color, a severe profile, almost stylized in her beauty.

"Of course we can. Sure. Let's go. Let's run back."

She laughed.

"Johanna, I hardly recognize you."

"No, I'm fine. It's you, Paul. I really do draw from you."

"Johanna, I-"

"Please, Paul. I want to go back. Let's go. The shoe fits.

He had always thought beautiful women a breed apart, and maybe they
were, some mutant species, made crazy by all the hits on them, or made
cynical, contemptuous of the twerps kissing their asses so desperately,
or, the worst, made devious, unable to respond until they had figured
out just what they stood to gain or lose. But not Johanna: she seemed to
him none of these things except achingly, innocently beautiful as she
sat before the mirror working on her hair, an abundant woman, flawless
in the late afternoon light, after their lovemaking. "Jesus, are you fun
to watch," he called from the bed.

She smiled, but did not look over.

The telephone rang. Chardy rolled over to look at the ceiling.

Johanna said, "It's for you. A woman."

He took the phone.

"Hello?"

"Paul?"

The tone, queerly familiar, seemed to arrive from another universe.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Paul, it's Sister Sharon."

"Sister Sharon! How are you? How in the world did you find me?"

The nun taught at Resurrection, back in his other life. She had the
third-graders, and was a funny, quiet, plain girl, so young, who'd
always liked him.

"Paul, it wasn't easy. You left an address with the diocese to forward
your last check; one of the secretaries gave it to me. It was a
government office in Rosslyn, Virginia. I went to the library and got
out the Northern Virginia phone book and looked up the government
offices. I finally found one with the same address. It took an hour. I
called the number. I got a young man named Lanahan. I told him who I was
and he was very helpful."

Lanahan. Sure, he'd break his Catholic neck to help a nun.

"Finally he gave me this number. Am I disturbing anything)"

"No, uh-uh. What's up?"

"There's a telegram for you. It came to the school. They were just going
to send it along but I thought it might be important."

Who would send him a telegram?

"I had to open it to see if it was an emergency."

"WHAT's it say?"

"It's from your nephew. He wants money."

Chardy, an only child, had no nephew.

"Read it to me."

"Uncle Paul," it says, 'onto something, need dough. I
beg you. Nephew Jim."

Trewitt.

"Paul?" Sister Sharon said.

"It's fine, it's fine," he said, but he was calculating. Trewitt had
found a soft route back in, trusting no one except his hero, and
reaching him through his whole other life. Trewitt, you surprise me.

Where'd you get the smarts-from some book?

"Is there any kind of address?"

"Just Western Union, Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. Is it all right?"

"It's fine. A college kid, a little wild. Always in trouble, always
after me to bail him out."

"I'm glad it's not serious. Paul, we all miss you. The boys especially.

Even Sister Miriam."

"Give 'em my love. Even Sister Miriam. And, Sister Sharon, don't tell
anybody about this. It won't do the kid any good. He's probably in some
jam with a girl and he doesn't want his folks to know about it."

"Of course, Paul. Goodbye."

She hung up.

"Johanna, I have to go out. Is there a Western Union office around here?

Come with me."

"Paul. You look ecstatic."

And Chardy realized he was.

CHAPTER 23

For the moment, the Kurd could wait, Chardy could wait, it could all
wait. Other things occupied Joseph Danzig.

He was astonished. What little rabbits they were. He had lived most of
his life in a kind of sexual sleep; then, at forty-seven, catapulted
into an absurd celebrity, made preposterously powerful, imprinted upon
the collective imagination, he was also granted, almost as a fringe
benefit, an astonishing freedom with women. Not that they were attracted
to his body-it was a wreck, a blimpish shamble of wrinkles, almost
toneless muscles, a wilderness of wattles and fissures, a great, white
dead thing-nor even his power (for they could not partake of that) nor
his mind (they never talked about anything). They sought him not for
cocktail party conversation or to get jobs with the State Department or
for exclusive interviews to advance their careers in journalism or to
punish their husbands or lovers.

Why then?

He asked one once, a lissome Georgetowner, thirty-four, ash-blonde,
Radcliffe, old Washington/Virginia connections. They were at the time
both naked and had just consummated the act with passion though not a
great deal of skill-in this field, Danzig was well aware that he was
merely an adequate technician. With prim efficiency Susan, for such was
her name, was preparing to dress, arranging her Pappagallos, her Ralph
Lauren double-pleated slacks, her cashmere turtleneck (from
Bloomingdale's, he guessed; it's where they all dressed these days), her
subtly checked tweed sport coat that re-created almost hue for hue the
Scottish heather.

"Susan," he said suddenly, "why? I mean, really: Why? Be honest."

"Well, Joe," she said, matter-of-factly-and paused. He knew she was the
mother of two girls, three and five, and that her husband was a Harvard
law grad in the midst of a flourishing career with the FCC. "Well,
Joe"-naked she was small and fine, with tiny shapely breasts and
delicate wrists. She was slender enough to show ribs and had creamy,
mellow skin. She had tawny hair, expensively taken care of, and had been
a champion golfer and an excellent doubles tennis player. "I guess you
could say I was curious."

Curious!

He had shaken his head then. He shook it now; he was with a
twenty-six-year-old congressional aide, a bright Smith girl he had met
casually at an embassy cocktail party. They had just accomplished an
exchange of favors intense and satisfying and wholly meaningless. They
were on the top floor of the Georgetown house in what had been a
previous owner's music room-a wide space that drew in light from the
brightness outdoors and splashed it abundantly around. Meanwhile, birds
sang and bees buzzed and the flowers and bushes in his garden grew under
the skillful nurture of a Philippine gardener.

The girl-by coincidence her name was Susan too, which was perhaps why
the first Susan had so recently been in his mind-was dressing quickly
and without, it seemed to him, regret. The room stank of sex, a peculiar
odor, of which he could never get enough when aroused but which
disgusted him afterward. He was, in fact, a little nauseated with
himself. He had come, of late, to enjoy certain deviations from the
standard male-female menu, certain varieties of dish or sauce. It was
always the same: what had seemed exotic, astonishingly inviting,
fascinating, erotically creative almost, seemed now merely unwholesome,
to say nothing of unhygienic. He wanted badly to brush his teeth and use
mouthwash, but was unsure of the etiquette: would such a gesture seem
impolite? She had not brushed her teeth and she had used her mouth quite
as industriously as he had used his (and simultaneously). He felt gross,
an ogre. Yet it was not his fault. These girls these days! A nod, a
nudge, a gentle suggestion as oblique and encoded as a secret cipher,
and off they went like Bangkok tarts after treasures their mothers could
not have conceived of, would not have even had the vocabulary to
describe. And they expected--demanded-- he reciprocate.

Such odd creatures. Their minds, really, were different from men's. For
one, they were more grown-up, less romantic (as a rule, no matter that
it defied the popular stereotype), more organized. Their brains were
full of little compartments. This Susan, the other Susan, too, all the
Susans, could fellate him like tigresses, smile, get dressed and return
uncontaminated to their other lives. They'd go back to husband or lover,
having entirely separated their adventure of the afternoon from their
reality of the evening. Meanwhile, he or any man would brood and fret
and remember, feel tainted and unworthy, clinched with guilt.

Astonishing!

No now he stood wrapped in his robe at the broad window, peering down at
the mazelike garden beneath him.

"It's quite attractive, don't you think? This new one works awfully
hard, although I don't think he understands me. I certainly don't
understand him."

"Huh?" Susan said, getting her haunches (she was not quite as slim as
the first Susan) into her pantyhose with a final pump of the pelvis.

"The garden. I was talking about my garden and the new gardener."

"Yeah," she said, self-absorbedly.

"It has such order. It is a very pleasing design."

"Joe," she said, "I'm going now."

"Huh?"

She laughed. "I can see how much this all meant to YOU."

"I'm sorry. Do I seem preoccupied? I do apologize. Forgive me, won't
you?"

"I just said I was going."

"I'll see you out, of course."

"No. That's fine." She worked quickly on her makeup. Seeing her sitting
before the mirror, one fine leg stockinged and crossed over the other
Danzig loved their legs), in her sensible plum wool suit, mundanely
studying her own face and making improvements in it, he stirred.

With a moan of lust singing between his ears, he walked to her almost
uncontrollably and reached to touch her breast, inserting his hand
quickly between her buttons and the elastic of the bra, feeling the
weight, the heaviness of it.

"Joe! God, you frightened me!"

"Don't go."

"Oh, Joe!"

He had his whole hand inside her cup now and the nipple was between his
third and fourth fingers and he was squeezing it with what he took to be
finesse.

"Please, I do have to go.

"Don't. Please." He was startled at the urgency of his need.

"Joe, really-"

"It's still early. Please. Please."

He could feel the nipple tighten.

"Oh, God," she muttered.

He bent and began to lick her earlobe, another trick he thought
especially stylish; they all loved it. He reached and touched the inside
of her leg and ran his finger up it and rubbed her, feeling the
contours, the definitions, the fleshy rolling mounds of her cunt through
her pantyhose. He kissed her on the mouth, their tongues groping.

For a second time they were finished and Susan rose to dress.

"Please," she laughed. "I'll get fired if I don't get back. You're a
maniac."

He smiled, seeing it as a compliment. He had not had sex twice the same
day before in his life, much less in the same hour. He was astounded at
his power. What was reaching him?

He looked and she was at the mirror working on her face again,
dispassionately. He watched her sadly. Women were leaving him all the
time; it had never bothered him before.

"I'm going," she said, "thiv time." She laughed; she was a friendly
girl, good-hearted.

"I'll call you."

"Sure," she said.

"No, I will."

"It's all right, Dr. Danzig."

"Call me Joe."

"It's all right, Joe, I do have to go. "Bye."

"Goodbye, Susan."

And she really did leave. He could hear her steps receding in the hall
until she reached the stairwell and descended. A minute later he heard a
quiet thud as the door closed. He wondered if the agents down below were
polite to her. He hoped so. Damn, they'd better have been; if they
weren't, he'd have them reassigned faster than the coming of night. He
told himself to check on it later.

Now he stood again at the window. He felt vulnerable, unprotected. Could
this odd state of affairs be traced to the presence of this phantom Kurd
assassin, who everybody is so confident will be shortly apprehended
wandering desperately in the greater Columbus-Daytoncincinnati triangle?

Perhaps. But he felt, rather, another presence, a brooding thing that
pressed at him from beyond the wall.

For beyond the wall was another room, almost the twin of this one. It
was high-ceilinged and immensely bright. Potted plants stood green and
smart against cream-white walls, and muslin curtains softened the blaze
of the sun. It afforded a view almost the duplicate of the one he now
enjoyed, the downward vantage to the mazelike perfection of the garden.

That room, like this, was neat and orderly; that room, like this, had a
red-hued Persian on the floor; that room, like this, had a desk, a
mahogany worktable, a sofa bed. But unlike this room, that room had: one
Xerox 2300 tabletop-size copier, four cans each of Xerox 6R 1 89 toner
and Xerox 8R79 fuser oil, three IBM Selectric typewriters, one DCX Level
III Dictaphone, six Tensor steel-jointed lights, several dozen pounds of
Xerox 4024 dual-purpose paper, to say nothing of carbons, erasers, Bic
fine-line pens, Eagle No. 3 pencils, a Panasonic Point0-Matic electric
pencil sharpener, a blotter. And against one wall, tightly locked and as
yet unopened, his files, his logs, his documents, his reports, his
minutes, his clippings, his borrowings-his past.

That was the room of the book, and it terrified him.

In that room, in one thirteen-month period of intense effort, he, three
research assistants, two exceedingly patient secretaries, and two
editors down from an august publishing firm on Madison Avenue, had
written a book. It was a book largely of triumph.

But soon another book was due from that room and there was, as Danzig
saw it, no sadder thing in this world than a room in which a book must
be written if you do not want to write the book.

Danzig did not want to write the book.

He preferred to ad-lib speeches and doodle in television and avoid his
wife and pursue the limelight and make love to an endless procession of
curiously pliant young or youngish women. But not the book: the book
would take him back to the season of catastrophes, the year 1975, when
Vietnam came tumbling down, take him back to sad, groping days with a
new and short-lived President. It would be a book of defeat.

He secretly feared he'd lost his edge, his ambition. Poop Here one day,
gone the next. His reputation was that of a fiercely ambitious man, a
ruthlessly ambitious man; and perhaps once it had been true. But another
Danzig, a softer, a lonelier man, a man more anxious to explore the
realms not of power but of the senses was beginning to emerge from under
the shell of the old Danzig. He hoped it was a process of transformation
or transfiguration. But he was terrified that he'd reached the age of
entropy.

He thought he'd call another girl, because he did not think he could be
alone in this room, next to that room, another second.

CHAPTER 24 it occurred to Chardy that he would not tell them-not Lanahan
here, not Yost, especially not the man whose presence he thought he felt
in it all, Sam Melman-about Trewitt, about Mexico.

"Paul, I guess you'll just have to get back to Danzig," Lanahan said.

"Ver Steeg"-Lanahan said it bitterly, for he was turning out to be no
fan of Yost's-"says he'll have it wrapped up in a day or so."

They sat in the Rosslyn office, a ghost office, full of echoes and
silence and stale air, on the Monday morning following the news from
Trewitt.

Miles was bitter-he was not on the Dayton team. He had been shelved, it
seemed, in favor of men Yost either trusted more or feared less.

"Relax, Miles. You'll get a shot at Ulu Beg. Yost won't get him in
Dayton."

"They've got Dayton sealed. They've got it nailed. It's only a matter of
time," said Lanahan bleakly. He was sweating. Drops of pure ambition ran
from his hairline.

It occurred to Chardy that Lanahan flatly, coldly did not want Yost to
take the Kurd. Not without having a hand in it himself.

"No, Miles. Yost doesn't really know this guy. He thinks he's some
gun-happy Third World terrorist. Just a brainless shooter, a man with a
gun and a screwball cause. He doesn't realize: Ulu Beg's got it.

It? What?

But Lanaban didn't ask, merely stared angrily at Chardy. "Little rats
like Yost don't catch hero-types like Ulu Beg," he finally said.

"Something like that."

"Chardy, it's all nonsense. That's a silly notion, a schoolboy notion.

It's full of romance, myth. It's full of bullshit. Ulu Beg is being
hunted by men armed with computers, sophisticated electronics and
optics. And manpower. Carte blanche. All they want. Bodies and more
bodies. A whole agency full of bodies. You make him sound like Geronimo.

He can only be caught by the righteous. It's out of the last century,
which, in case you hadn't noticed, ended some time ago."

"Okay, Miles. Don't say I didn't tell you. I almost like you, Miles. You
want into the big time so bad."

"Just leave it alone, Paul."

"You want in. You want buddy-buddy with the Harvard boys."

"Just forget it, Paul. I have to tell Yost where you are. You better get
where you're supposed to be."

No, Chardy would not tell Miles about Trewitt. Because Trewitt had no
brief for Mexico, because there would be all sorts of problems if
Trewitt was suddenly operating in Mexico, which Yost had specifically
forbidden.

And it also meant one other thing, which may have pleased Chardy the
most and explained his decision the best: for the first time he knew
something they-all of them-didn't.

Let Trewitt have some time, some space. Maybe he could come up with
something. But what, or who?

Chardy smiled.

I just put some money on Trewitt, he thought. Dreamy Trewitt, preppy
kid, all eagerness and sloppy puppy love, full of insane, ludicrous
notions of adventure. Weighted with legends, inflated with heroes-a fan
really, as far from shrewd, grim, pushy little Miles as you could get.

Chardy thought of the good men he'd backed and who'd backed him in his
time, heroes from Frenchy Short on down; and here he was with his chips
on Trewitt.

"What's so funny, Paul?"

"I don't know. It all is, Miles. You, me, all of it."

But Miles wasn't smiling.

"You better get going, Paul. The great man is waiting. And you better
get ready to move this weekend. There's a job coming off."

Chardy turned, stung.

"I thought he was staying put-" He'd had plans for the weekend.

"It just came up. But maybe Yost will get lucky before then."

I'He won't."

"Don't worry, though. You're going to Boston."

CHAPTER 25

Her name was Leah; she never asked him his. After the first day she
began to call him Jim. He never questioned it.

She was a tall, strong woman with furious wide eyes and a flat nose and
long fingers that were miraculously pink inside. Her hair was cut short
as a boy's and she had three wonderful wigs-red, yellow and jet
black-which she wore depending on her mood. Her skin was brown, almost
yellow, and she was a proud woman with a grave and solemn air until she
had a few glasses of wine, which she did every night, when she laughed
and giggled like a loose-limbed girl. She worked in the basement of a
place called Rike's and he never understood what Rike's was, except that
it had to do with clothes because she brought him some: a suit like an
American businessman's, a raincoat, a dapper hat.

"They for you, baby," she said.

He looked at the clothes. He could not have clothes, a wardrobe, because
he had to move quickly. He could have no luggage, no luxuries. Wealth
was of no interest to him. He turned to look at the black woman, whose
face was eager.

"They are beautiful, Leah. But I cannot wear them."

"But why, baby? I want you to look good. You afine looking man, tall and
strong." She'd had several glasses of wine.

"Leah," he said. "I cannot stay much longer. I have to go on."

"Why you in such a hurry, Jim?"

"Ah." He was evasive. He almost thought he could trust her but he knew
he'd never be able to explain. It would take so long and go back so far.

"I have a special place to go. Someone special to see."

"You up to something," she said, and laughed explosively. "You up to
something sly. I seen that look before. I been seeing that look for
years and years and years. Somebody 'bout to take something from some
other body. Just you don't git caught, hear?"

That was Leah: she would not judge. He fit into her life as smoothly as
if she'd practiced all this, as though she'd taken bleeding men home
time and time before. She asked nothing except his company, and if he
never went out, if he had no past and would not speak of the future
except in the most guarded and general terms, then she would accept
that.

"Why, Leah? Why you help me? I can give you nothing."

"Baby, you remind me of somebody. "Dey take my wallet' "-she imitated his
voice-"and up that hill you go, like to get yourself killed dead.

And one minute later you comes down. Never seen nothing like it since MY
brother whipped Sheriff Gutherie's boy Charlie back in nineteen
fifty-eight in West Virginia. Everybody says, "Bobby, he's going smack
you, boy." Bobby, he just say, "He took my money," and Bobby go on up to
the house and he kick that boy bad and he get every last cent back.

Nobody seen nothing like that 'round there in years and years." She
laughed again at the distant memory.

Bobby sounded like another Jardi.

"A brave man. A soldier, this brother Bobby?"

"Oh, Bobby, he was something'. He won the West Virginia High School
four-forty-yard dash in 'fifty-seven. My baby brother, oh, he was
something'. White people say he robbed them. He got sent to prison, up
in Morgantown. Somebody stick a knife in him. He wasn't in that place no
more than three weeks when they killed him."

"A terrible thing," said Ulu Beg. He had been in a prison in Baghdad for
a long time, and knew what things happened in prison. "God have mercy on
him."

"Mamma died after that and I came to Dayton and here I been ever since.

I been at Rike's twenty years now. It ain't the life I wanted, but it
sure is the life I got."

"You must be strong. You must make them pay."

"Make who pay, Jim? Can't make nobody pay nothin'." She took some more
wine.

The apartment was small and dark, in an old building with garbage and
the smell of urine in the halls. The lights had all been punched out and
people had written all over the bricks. Ulu Beg had recognized the
English word for freedom scrawled in huge white letters. Everybody who
lived there was black; when he looked out the window he could only see
black people, except occasionally in the police cars that prowled
cautiously down the street.

"Don't worry none about them, baby," she had said. "They ain't comin' in
here.

"Say, Jim," she said now, "just who are you? You white? You look white,
you walk white, you talk funny white. But you ain't white. I can tell."

"Sure, white." He laughed now himself "Born white, die white."

"But you ain't no American."

"Many peoples come to America. For a new life.

That's me-I look for the new life."

"Not with no gun, Jim. I looked in your bag."

He paused a second. "Leah, you shouldn't have."

"You on the run? Running to or running from, Jim? It don't matter none
to me. Have some wine. You going to i I waste somebody's ass? It don't
matter none to me. Just i don't get caught, you hear, because they put
you away in a bad place forever and ever, Jim. You the strangest white
man I ever did see."

He stayed a long week. He made love to her every night. He felt full of
power and freedom with the black woman in her small apartment in a
ramshackle city in the fabulous country of America. He rode her for
hours. He lost himself in the frenzy of it, sleeping all day while she
worked, then taking her when she returned. He had her once in her
kitchen.

"You a crazy man. I'm pushing the damn broom round Old Man Rike's store
all day thinkin' 'bout crazy Jim."

"You're a fine lady, Leah. American ladies are fine. They are the best
thing about America."

"You know another?"

"A long time ago," he said. "A real fighter, like you, Leah."

"A white girl?"

"White, yes."

"No white girl know nothin' 'bout no fighting."

"Oh, this one did. Johanna was very special. You and Johanna would be
friends, I think." An odd vision came to him-he and Leah and Jardi and
Johanna and Memed and Apo. They'd be at a meadow, high in the mountains.

Thistles were everywhere, and the hills were blue-green. Amir Tawfiq was
there too; they were all there. His whole family was there; everybody
was there. His father, also Ulu Beg, hanged in Mahdbiid on a lamppost in
1947, he was there too. There were partridges in the trees, and deer
too. The hunting was wonderful. The men hunted in the day and at night
the women made wonderful feasts. Then everybody sat around in the
biggest, richest tent he had ever seen and told wonderful stories. Jardi
talked about his own crazy father, the Hungarian doctor. Johanna told of
her sister Miriam. Leah told of her brother Bobby, and even as these
people were mentioned they came into the tent also and had some food and
told some stories and raised a great cheer. Kurdistan ya naman, they
cheered, Kurdistan va naman.

"Jim? Jim?"

"Ah?"

"Where you been? It sure wasn't Dayton."

"It's nothing. Tomorrow I will go. I have to go. I stay too long; I must
move on."

She looked at him, her eyes furious and dark.

"You go off someplace with that gun, they kill you. No lie, they kill
you, like my brother Bobby."

"Not Jim," he said.

"Baby, don't go. Stay with Leah. It's nice here. It's so nice."

"I have to go on. To meet a man."

"To the bus station? Cops catch you sure."

"No cops catch Jim."

"Sure they do. Where you going?" 11 Big city."

"Big-city cops catch you in a bus station sure. I know they will."

"I have to go."

"Jim," she said suddenly, "take my car. Go on, take it. It just sit
there."

An awkward moment for him.

"I cannot drive an automobile," he said.

She threw back her head in laughter, sudden and light and musical.

dog "You some dude, baby, you some old dude." She laughed again. "Hon,"
she said, "you the strangest white man I ever heard of You so strange
you almost ain't white."

CHAPTER 26 And so she said she'd drive him.

To Trewitt the world seemed considerably more attractive with a full
meal in his belly, a shower, a night in a decent place-the Hotel Fray
Marcos de Ninza, not exactly Howard Johnson's, but it had TV and running
water, hot if you waited long enough. And locks on the door. So a little
confidence had returned to Senor Trewitt with the arrival of Chardy's
money; not that a sudden shadow, the report of a car backfire, a hard
set of Mexican eyes flashing his way didn't still wreck him, but he was
at least done with cowering in a barn.

Look at me. Look at me! So pleased he thought he might burst, in love
with this new image, for he was a clandestine operator now; he was an
agent. He felt he'd finally joined a fraternity that had been
blackballing him these many years.

Look at me. Look at me! And he did, too. He could not keep his eyes off
himself in shop windows, in the mirror of his room-lean young man,
quiet, willful. The eyes deep and quick. The hand never far from his
weapon.

For Trewitt was now an armed man.

He'd sent the boy out with $50 of Chardy's money and specific
instructions.

"An automatic. Not some ancient Colt or Remington or Pancho Villa
special. An automatic, short-barreled if possible, but I'd settle for
one of those Spanish nine-millimeter Stars or even a Llama from Spain if
it's big enough, nine mil at the least. Can you do it?"

"Sure I can."

"Don't screw me now."

"I'm no screw YOU."

"Just don't."

The boy returned with a worn yellow box, its faded label displaying a
pale square of print. In, of all unlikely things, Italian.

"Italian?" wondered Trewitt, much concerned, and ripped the box open
greedily. "Jesus, a Beretta," he said in wonder. "Must be fifty years
old."

The small blue pistol glinted up at him, antiquated and stubby. It had
an odd prong flaring off the butt-stock to give it an Art Deco look. Ten
oily rounds stood upright in a tray along the box's edge.

"That's all you could get for fifty American?"

"Inflation," the boy explained.

But Trewiu was secretly delighted with the small automatic. He fired one
of the precious 7.65-millimeter rounds that night into a gully wall. The
pistol was accurate to maybe seven feet, something out of an old
Hemingway novel, fresh from the retreat from Caporetto, but it was his,
his alone. its weight in his waistband pleased him, and he carried it
with a round in the chamber, but at half cock, pushed around on his hip.

He tried his draw too, in private moments, groping quickly for the
weapon. He needed to improve, and vowed to spend half an hour a day in
practice.

Look at me! For the pistol was only the beginning. The shop-windows and
the mirror also threw back the vision of a dashing young gangster in a
yellow leisure suit, a double-knit polyester thing only recently arrived
from Taiwan, and a white-on-white imitation-silk shirt (also Taiwanese)
with a huge flappy collar and no buttons above the sternum. He looked
like a pimp, an assassin, a failed movie star in the getup, a zoot suit,
a blast of sheer arrogant yellow that would have burned the retinas of
his friends. The bad taste of it was awe-inspiring and of his old self
only his Bass Weejuns, tassel loafers in a muted oxblood, remained,
because the Mexican shoes all ran to three-inch heels and seemed to be
made of plastic.

And Trewitt had one more treasure of considerable significance to him:
he had a new recruit, No. 2 in his network. The bartender Roberto had
signed on. He had been sacked by Oscar Meza for stealing and like many
another Latin male, unjustly dismissed only for playing by what he
understood the rules to be-they had been Reynoldo Ramirez's rules, after
all-was insane with a desire for vengeance, la venganza, and dreams of
glory. He too had an image problem: he wanted to be a tough guy, a knife
fighter, the kind of man whom all the women wanted.

Roberto's story: One of his less pleasing jobs in the brothel involved
the sorting of laundry, going through the towels. "The whores use a lot
of towels," he explained, and Trewitt kept his face blank, remembering
the job done on his privates by Anita with just such a towel.

"And guess what I find, three weeks running, every Tuesday?"

Trewitt could not, or would not.

"Bandages with pus. Yards of adhesive tape with hair in the sticky part.

Bloody linen."

"Maybe somebody got rough with the girls."

"Not that rough," said Roberto.

"So where's it from?"

"I try to keep my eyes open. Where, I wonder, where does the Madonna go
on Tuesday afternoon?"

"Who's this Madonna?"

"The upstairs lady. The pecker-checker. Fat and ugly. Eeeeeiiii. She
been a nurse or worked in the hospital or something, I don't know. She
takes care of the girls."

Trewitt nodded, thinking about it. Where did the Madonna go?

Now it was Tuesday, and behind cheap sunglasses, in his yellow outfit,
Trewitt lounged on a bench in the hot shade of a mimosa tree. He was
among Indians, country peasants, shoe shine boys, hungry scabby dogs, an
occasional cop, a more than occasional gaggle of Exclusivo cabdriver
pimps, in a small park at the comer of Pesquirica and Ochoa streets.

Beyond him were railway tracks glittery with broken glass; beyond them
another hundred yards, the Casa de Jason; beyond it, the Ruis Cortina
and on the other side of the Ruis Cortina, tucked into the rising bulk
of a sandstone bluff otherwise bristling with shacks, Oscar's. Weeds
fluttered in the gritty breeze; skinny dogs and kids fled this way and
that; banged-up Mexican cars roamed up and down the streets, jammed
full. The sky was blue; the sun was hot.

But Trewitt just sat, one leg tossed over the other, and kept his eyes
pinned on a small figure beyond the tracks, just down the block from the
nightclub. The boy Miguel. Somewhere closer yet lurked the other boy,
Roberto. The three had been so arranged for some time-since ten, and it
was nearly one. The heat and the boredom were beginning to get to
Trewitt. Not long ago he'd bought a chicken tortilla and a Carta Blanca
from a street vendor, downing them both quickly, and was now just a
little logy. He had not yet adjusted to Mexican time, in which nothing
happens quickly, and was stifling a yawn when the boy leaped.

The boy leaped, then Trewitt. He was up in a shot, panic huge and
bounding through his brain.

The car, goddammit, the car!

He sprinted up the street where, among the '53 De Sotos and the '59
Edsels and the '63 Falcons, there was wedged an '80 Mexican Chevette,
rented that very morning from Hertz at the hotel under his real name, a
big chance. Trewitt reached it, unlocked it, jumped in.

It was maybe 300 degrees inside-the car had been baking for about three
hours in the sun. Still, Trewitt got the key into the slot, started it,
cranked the wheel and pumped the pedal. The car accelerated rapidly to
almost ten miles an hour and seemed to have some trouble getting into
second gear, and just then the younger boy, having threaded his bold way
across the tracks and through the traffic, reached him and climbed
aboard.

"Go, mister, go."

"Where? Where?"

"Down there, down there!" the boy screamed.

Trewitt rammed the car across two lanes, took a hard left just beyond
the Casa de Jason, and skyrocketed over the tracks on a dirt crossing.

Where the hell was the other kid? But Trewitt saw him running hard, his
hair flying, his face dark and angry. He had seemed to appear from
nowhere-a trick these Mexican kids had-and slid into the back.

"Okay, man, turn right fast," he commanded.

Trewitt turned and sped into downtown Nogales, for just a few seconds
under the bluffs of shacks and then into a flatter part of the city.

"She's in a green Chevy. Just ahead. Hurry, man."

But Trewitt could not hurry; he was suddenly in traffic up to his
eyeballs.

"A Mexican freeway," shouted Miguel, laughing.

"Goddamnit," shouted Trewitt.

"Hurry. Hurry."

"How the hell can I hurry?" Trewitt complained. All of Mexico out for a
drive that afternoon. The traffic lights all fouled up, strange
directional signals giving him orders he couldn't understand. Somebody
honked and cursed. The sidewalks were dense with people who roamed in
and out of the small stores and spilled aimlessly into the streets. An
ice-cream wagon was parked in the middle of an intersection. Kids fled
in and out.

"Wow. You almost hit that cocksucker," said Miguel.

They moved at a stately pace. Trewitt searched ahead through the jumble
of automobiles and people. He couldn't see a god damned "There! There, I
see her," yelled Roberto, who'd been craning crazily out the window.

"Watch it, kid," Trewitt warned, but joy flooded him.

In Le Carr&, this would have been handled differently, Trewitt told
himself as he bombed and bobbed and lurched sweatily in and out of the
traffic, guiding the sluggish yellow Chevette among the dented '50s
hulks that dominated the streets. Goddamn this woman-she had the only
fast car in the country.

In Le Carr6, it would have been bleak, icy professionals, drab men with
sinus problems and wretched home lives, following one another through an
Eastern European drizzle. Every brick, every nuance of thought or action
accounted for, every alleyway diagrammed, every bitter irony
underscored; here, instead, dusty crowded streets, ice-cream wagons,
fruit wagons, kids in plastic shoes, hills set with powder-blue shacks,
a hot sun, a dry, dusty wind, streets whose names he'd never learn, two
Mexican boys shouting into his ear.

"She turned."

"No, she didn't."

"Which is it?"

"She turned."

"No, she didn't."

"I can't see her."

In Le Carr6 tail jobs were handled by teams working in units of four,
with silhouette changes, a control van with something childish scrawled
in the dust high up where no child could reach. In Czecho or one of the
old territories, or on Hampstead Heath, but with Moscow Rules. Le Carr6
knew the nuts and bolts, the trade craft, knew it cold.

"She turned."

"No she didn't."

"Aw, shit," he bellowed in exasperation, braking the car to one side of
the road in a shower of dust. A scrawny chicken hoppity-flipped in front
of it from a hole in somebody's coop and wandered off the shoulder onto
the roadway, where it was immediately smashed by a huge Mercedes
Pepsi-Cola truck, knocked up into the air as if in a cartoon to spiral
down leaking feathers and drumsticks, and land with a thud in the dust.

"Jesus Mary, did you see that?" Miguel asked.

Trewitt had seen it and began to wonder if anywhere in the works of John
Le Carr6, chickens got creamed by Pepsi trucks and if so, what that
decent, weary, brilliant old professional, that traveler in the shadowy
labyrinths of espionage, George Smiley, would have made of such a thing;
but at that moment, blocks ahead, he saw the green Chevy.

From the avenue they climbed another hill, then down, then up again.

Perched all about in no order save that of first claim were tarpaper
shacks, corrugated tin roofs, wire fences, pink or blue one-roomers;
Trewitt was beginning to believe there was but one street in Mexico and
that he'd been down it a thousand times.

He could read the dust floating in the air, however, which told him the
Madonna's car had screeched through moments before, and now and then he
could see the vehicle, disappearing on a crest above or careening wildly
beneath him as he hurtled down the same hill.

"Where are we?" he asked his guides.

"People from the desert or the mountains end up here," said Roberto.

"The poorest of the poor. Reynoldo, he comes from this place."

"It's a very bad place," said the younger boy. The car ahead vanished.

Trewitt siewed to a panic stop, skidding. But beyond him there was no
dust.

"Oh, goddamn," he said. "She must have turned off."

"Dammit. I I

He looked back, forward. it was the same, the muddy little streets
twisting up and down, the sheds, the wire coops, the TV aerials.

"Back up. Slow."

He began to back. He could have used one of Le Carr's four-man teams
about now. "There. There, I see it." It was Miguel.

"Yeah, yeah," said Trewitt, for he saw it too, pulled off at a funny
angle halfway up a nearby hill.

He pulled ahead slowly, turning a comer, and parked near a small store,
the Abarrotes Gardenia.

"Okay," he said, breathing hard, "Miguel, you go on back to that house.

You're least likely to attract attention. Play it cool, huh? Nothing
stupid. Just see what you Can see, okay? Roberto, you drop on back to
that little store. See what the guy behind the counter says. Don't force
it, just see-"

"Okay, is okay," said Roberto, sliding out.

Trewitt waited. He slouched behind the wheel of the car, his cheap
sunglasses slipping down his nose. He felt preposterous, a costumed
clown playing games. It was hard to accept any of this. But he could
accept Bill Speight, in the sewer: that was real. He wondered if any of
the others ever had this sort of problem, ever felt themselves playing
absurd parts among unlikely characters. He doubted it; they were trained
men, and would think always in terms of their training, look for
expediencies, for angles, for escape routes. They'd be so occupied, so
busy, they'd have no time for the longer view. Trewitt had only the
longer view. He'd never been trained in the clandestine arts; he was an
analyst, a historian. Nobody had ever thought about dumping him into an
op. Yet here he was.

The boy Miguel returned first.

Trewitt jumped as the boy slipped in. Damn, he'd been silent.

"I couldn't get too close. There wasn't much cover. I didn't want to
wreck the whole thing."

"That was probably smart."

"But I got into the garbage. Here." His trophy: a crusty strip of gauze,
pink-brown and stiff.

"That's blood, all right," Trewitt said, stomach queasy all of a sudden
at the elemental essence of the artifact. "And lots of it."

"Si," said the boy.

"Now if only Roberto would get here."

But Roberto did not get there. A long time seemed to pass. They sat in
the car in the alley. Maybe the youth had decided to forget la venganza
for the time being and had skipped out. Or maybe But Trewitt knew smart
field operators didn't sit around chasing maybes in their brains. No
percentage, nothing but grief in it. Still, he couldn't stop his mind
running off. Maybe he'd run into a gang. Maybe he'd but the youth arrived
suddenly.

"Where the hell have you been"

"

"In the Abarrotes Gardenia.,,

"You were in there an hour.

"I had some trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Trewitt had to know.

"Suspicious old men in there. They watch me close. Who am 1, what do I
want? So I tell them I was from down south, I was going to go to el otro
lado tonight. The wire." "They buy it?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no. But I did
not think I ought to run out. So I had a Pepsi-Cola."

"So you were drinking a-" "But then two others showed up."

"Americans?"

"No. Latins. Tough ones too, gangsters."

Trewitt nodded grimly. He didn't like the sound of this.

"They hurt him pretty bad, the owner. Hit him with a gun, a pistol."

Trewitt turned, the boy leaned into the light, and Trewitt saw an ugly
red swelling above his eye.

"Jesus, Roberto-"

"Hit me too, the cocksuckers. Tough boys, real evil ones."

"What did they want?"

"They wanted to know about a wounded man. They'd heard there was a
wounded man in the neighborhood."

"Did he tell them? This old man?"

It was that or die. He told them."

"Dammit," Trewitt said. He reached
with a pale hand and touched the automatic in his belt.

"They must be there by now," said Roberto.

"Fireworks," said Miguel gleefully. "Fireworks."

CHAPTER 27

"Goodbye, Leah," he said. "God will be kind to you."

"Baby," she said, "you be careful. Don't you do nothing stupid. Don't
let no cop bust your head. Stay away from cops, you hear?"

"I do," he said.

The city was huge. It was no Baghdad, nor even any of the other American
cities he'd seen, but something, more America than he'd seen in one
place, America piled high, America all over the place, America crazy,
bewildering, America spinning itself out. There was no rhythm to this
place. It was all one speed, which was fast, and one tone, which was
loud.

"Don't let no big-city boys take you to town," she said. Behind, a cab
honked. The traffic fled by. The air was gray and cold and dirty and
smelled of exhaustion. He looked down a canyon of buildings and the
details were too multitudinous to be absorbed. His head sang in pain;
sullen men on the sidewalk looked at him.

"Jim," she said, "honey, ain't nothing here for you. Come on back. Come
on back to Dayton."

I can't. "

"You got that same look as the time you went up them tracks.

You got Bobby's look. You come back to me. You hear? You come back to
Leah. You promise me that."

"I will, Leah. By my eyes, I will."

"Don't know nothing 'bout no eyes, Jim. I just want you back."

"I'll come," he said, and stepped to the curb and she drove away.

He was near the bus station and he found another small, dirty hotel. She
had given him $ 1 00 and he paid the clerk $15 for the night. He stayed
in the room for a long time, two days. The next part of the trip would
be the most difficult.

It took him a long time to find the right place. He knew the name, the
address even-from the telephone book and one night, late, he found a
black man.

"I want to find a place. This place." He showed him the page ripped from
a phone book.

"Jack, you talkin' to the wrong man."

"Tell me how to get there."

"Man, you gotta take a bus. Make a transfer. Take another bus. Jack,
that's enemy territory. Ain't no way I'm going there."

"What bus? Tell me of this bus."

"Jack, back way down. Take a cab, rent a Hertz car, ride the train or
the subway. Man, stay away from me."

"You must help."

"No way, Jack."

Ulu Beg shoved some money at him. "Here. Show me. Show me."

"Jesus, Jack, you must be hungry.

it was a small place, tucked away in an obscure old section of the city.

He memorized the route, returned late the next night. The neighborhood
was quiet then. He waited across the street, watching in the shadows
until he was sure the place was empty. Then, at last convinced, he ran
across the street and hid in the back another ten minutes. Occasionally
a car rolled by, and once a police vehicle crept down the alley, but he
lay still until it passed. He stood finally and tested the door, which
did not give to his effort. He'd expected nothing else. He moved to the
window and examined it carefully.

"Bars you'll see right away. But look especially for wire. Everybody in
America has wires connecting them to the police or to alarm bells,
because in America everybody steals from everybody all the time." He was
beginning to see that they were very cynical about America; they hated
it. But their vision of it was usually correct and their counsel well
taken; he always obeyed. "In the window, along the edge of the glass,
the wires. It's a small place in a poor part and they probably can't
afford anything fancy. But in America, who knows? A salesman may have
come along and sold them something fancy. It happens all the time in
America. There may also be a dog. If so, it must be killed immediately."

He looked again at the window: no wires, nothing.

He reached into his pack and pulled out a short-bladed knife. He leaned
forward and---expertly, as he had been taught-inserted the blade in the
slot between upper and lower windows. It was so easy. He worked the
blade to the lock quickly and nudged the point against the lever of the
lock. Twisting and shoving the blade, he got the lock to move-it fought
him for just a second, and then popped free. He withdrew the blade and
quickly lifted the window.

He listened for the yapping of a dog. Only silence. He looked each way
in the alley; it was empty. From the open window a current of warm air
rushed toward him, carrying a familiar range of odors with it. But he
could not pause to admire them; he tossed in his pack, and followed.

He lay on the floor, letting his eyes adjust in the dark. A splash of
light from the street cut across the floor. It was a simple room, with a
few tables encased in cloths, their chairs stacked atop them. Ulu Beg
moved swiftly across the floor to a door on the other side and came into
the kitchen. It smelled largely of strong industrial soap, but even
under this blinding American smell he could pick out the familiar:
scents of lamb and chicken, of falafel and grape leaves, of honey cake,
spinach and cabbage, kibbe cakes, mint, other spices. It all felt good
in his nose and the temptation came to tear open the cupboard, but he
didn't; first, because the longer he stayed, the more danger he was in,
and second, because to yield would be to admit how he missed what he'd
left, how the grief at losing it cut so very deep.

He moved swiftly. He opened his pack and there, under the wrapped
Skorpion, removed a tin.

They had explained it to him very carefully.

"Americans, who live in vast houses, aspire to more primitive things.

They cook over coals, like hill people, and think this makes them rugged
and vital. You may buy the fluid by which they light their coals
anywhere for a dollar without suspicion. It's less volatile than
gasoline and less pungent; it is, quite simply, perfect."

He opened the linen cupboard and squirted the fluid into it. He moved
through the kitchen, squirting rapidly. He could smell the fumes filling
the air in the dining room; he doused the curtains and sprayed patterns
on the walls.

Then, with a match, he ignited the curtain. The flames spurted in one
hot instant, billowing up with a crackling hiss, filling the room with
light. He winced in the power of the blaze, watching it go from one
puddle to another, in each unleashing a pool of flame that splashed
through the room.

He stood for just a second by the window; he could see half a dozen
fires in the room, each feeding and leaping. Two joined to become a
single larger one; then a third joined in. Through the door of the
kitchen he saw bright flames.

He hoisted himself through the window, feeling the air cool and sweet in
his lungs. It seemed to him that once in a battle against the Iraqis
he'd been trapped in a burning building. A memory of encircling flame
came to him, but he could not remember how or when. He only remembered
the same joyous feeling as the cool air hit him.

Gripping the pack tightly, he cut down two alleys and was on a far
street when he first heard sirens. A police car rushed by, light
flashing.

Another thought came to Ulu Beg and he rationed himself one more bitter
smile: for had not Jardi once made a prophecy? Some day, Jardi had
promised, you'll burn Baghdad. You'll bum it to the ground.

As before, Jardi was right.

Ulu Beg turned and walked more quickly into the night. CHAPTER 28

They could see a Ford parked outside the shack. "That's it," cried
Roberto. "That's their car." Trewitt grunted uncomfortably.

"Now go shoot those guys," said Miguel.

"Just a minute I I said Trewitt. He looked about in the twilight and saw
nothing, no policia, no other humans. It was the quiet hour in this
slum. Usually there were chickens about and goats and children and old
ladies and tough young men. But up and down the crooked little lane he
could see nothing.

"Use that gun," coached the younster. "You got a fifty-dollar gun. Go up
there and shoot those cocksuckers."

This kid was really beginning to get on Trewitt's nerves. Sure, use the
gun. Who do you think I am, kid, G. Gordon Liddy? An immense bitterness
settled over Trewitt. His options were so bleak. it was not fair.

Sure," the older boy now, "go on, shoot those shitheads."

"You just don't go shooting people," Trewitt instructed. But his
thoughts were beginning to focus on the pistol, for there seemed no
other place to focus them. He sure wasn't going up there without it. A
crappy little Beretta probably fifty years old, older than he was, a
veteran of the Abyssinian campaign, where he was a veteran of nothing
beyond several libraries. "You better do something fast, mister."

"I
know, I know," said Trewitt, who did not want to do anything at all,
much less anything fast. "Maybe we ought to wait," he said, through a
sudden accumulation of phlegm in his throat.

Both boys looked at him. How did he ever get stuck in this anyhow, with
an ancient pistol and two kids?

"Okay, okay," he said.

The sun, a huge orange ball, a grapefruit, rotting and opulent,
descended behind a line of sleazy blue and gray hovels.

"You better do something, mister," Roberto said.

A scream rose from the house. They could just barely hear it.

Trewitt reached for the pistol, and found that it had worked its way
around until it was almost in the small of his back. He plucked it out
of his pants with two fingers. He looked dumbly at the thing, oily and
ugly and squat. He couldn't remember if it were cocked or not. His mind
was empty.

"I think somebody just got killed," said Roberto.

Trewitt finally remembered the principle of the automatic pistol and
threw the slide with an oily klack, ramming back the hammer. A perfectly
fine cartridge spun out of the breach. Goddamn, it had been cocked.

Roberto handed him the bullet.

Trewitt popped the magazine out of the handle and reinserted the slug.

He slid the mag back up until it locked. He got out of the car and stood
for a second on shaky legs, trying to devise a plan. Yet the more he
thought, the more nervous he became and in the end he simply ran up
toward the shack, keeping exactly in line with the corner, out of view
therefore of the windows. He ran low, as he'd seen it done in the
movies, and his Weejuns kept slipping in the mud. He made it to the
house and paused for a second at the door. He heard muffled sounds of
agony. Somebody was getting punched around pretty bad. Yet he could not
move, was frozen to the earth, his tasseled loafers sinking into the
very planet itself. The two boys had left the car also and were watching
him.

At last Trewitt tested the door with his shoulder. It would not budge.

He leaned again, harder-nothing. He heard somebody hitting somebody.

Oh, fuck it all, he thought.

These words seemed to liberate him. They filled him with violence and
courage. He leaned back on one leg and with the other leg drove his
Weejun against the door, blasting it open.

There were two of them, as Roberto had said. It did not occur to Trewitt
that he had fired his pistol-he had no sensation of recoil, heard no
report--but indeed he must have, for one sat down with a sudden
terrified oafishness, mouth open, eyes open, hands flying to midsection.

The second man recovered swiftly from the shock of the flying yellow
apparition that was Trewitt and struggled to free a pistol from his own
belt. But Trewitt had the small automatic pointed at him from a range of
about four feet and was shouting "Stick 'em up " insanely, his eyes
bulging, his veins swelling, and something of his abject horror must
have communicated itself to the man, for he threw his hands up.

"Don't move. Don't you move," Trewitt commanded. But the man moved. He
smiled and waved his hands to show that they were empty and walked over
to his friend.

"Don't you move. Freeze, goddammit," Trewitt shouted. "I mean it, I'll
ing into the man's neck.

The man smiled, still waving his hands to prove his harmlessness and
bent to pry his dyspeptic partner from the floor.

"Kill him", somebody yelled.

"Don't move. Goddamnit, don't move," Trewitt shouted.

The two began edging toward the door.

"Kill them. Shoot them!"

Trewitt could see the white face just above the dark blur of his pistol.

The range was less than five feet. The man wore a white shirt inside a
dirty seersucker coat. He needed a shave. He had veins in his throat.

One of his teeth was brown.

"Kill him. Kill them," came the command. "Shoot!"

"Freeze," Trewitt ordered. "Goddamnit, He fired-into the ceiling-to show
he meant business.

The unwounded man just looked at him numbly-he was terrified too,
Trewitt could see, pupils dilated like dimes, his lips smiling a
lunatic's grin-but he just kept shoving his friend toward the door.

Until he reached it.

Trewitt aimed at the fleeing figures as they ambled down the hill and
off into an alley. He still had not decided not to shoot. It still
occurred to him that shooting was a possibility. Yet he could not fire.

They disappeared.

"Yeeeeeeee-owwwwww," howled a fat, mad Mexican, corkscrewing from a
chair even though his hands and feet were bound and hopping about like a
toad. "You should have killed them, Mother of Jesus, you had them, you
should have shot them bang right in the face."

"I did shoot one," Trewitt protested.

"You should have killed those cocksuckers," Miguel said.

"Well," Trewitt began to explain. But his eyes hooked on the woman.

The pool of blood-blackish and thick-in which she lay had almost soaked
her clothes strawberry. So much? He was astonished. She lay like a doll,
terribly, totally dead, deader than he could ever imagine anyone being,
if only because a woman, if only because innocent of this whole business
and slain for random cruelty, if only because defiled by the pints of
her own blood soaking her, its vaguely menstrual associations troubling
his brain. Her face lay in it, tilted, one nostril half under the
surface of the pool. Her eyes were mercifully closed. The wound in her
throat had drained and was clean.

Her mouth was partially open and he could see teeth and tongue. Her
dress had collected around her waist and her thighs were bubbly with
cellulite-Trewitt, the Beretta still in his hand, was mesmerized by
these details-and her calves and shins badly needed a shave.

"Mother of Jesus," the fat man was saying in Spanish, you hear her
scream? She wake the dead." Somebody had untied him. His face was
swollen from the beating he had so recently absorbed and he was rubbing
his sore wrists. He gave a little chuckle of astonishment. "She sure was
loud," he said again. "Old Madonna, squawking till the end. Old ugly
lady. Mother of Jesus. Jesus." He laughed again. "Hey, mister, how come
you didn't shoot those two bastards? This could be big trouble. I don't
think you did much damage with that little gun. You have given that one
a stomachache, but they'll be back. If you have an advantage in these
things, you should always use it. It's a hard lesson, but you've got to
be strong if you want people to respect you."

Trewitt puked chicken tortilla and Carta Blanca all over himself, all
over his yellow polyester suit, his tassels, his Beretta. He went to his
knees, broken and helpless by the rebellion of his gastrointestinal
system, and felt it all come up, all over everything.

"Hey, what's with him?" asked Ramirez.

"Patron, I don't know," said Roberto. "Maybe the food don't sit good in
his belly."

"That's a very bad mess, mister. It's going to smell something terrible.

"

"Oh, God," Trewitt moaned. Would no one comfort him? No. He took off his
jacket and wiped his face and hands with an unsoiled section of sleeve,
then chucked it into the comer.

"We better get out of here, Patron," Roberto said.

"Who is this crazy American anyhow?"

"He just showed up one night. Asking questions. His friend got killed.

At your place. Oscar's place, now. He fired me. He fired all your old
people. He's a big man."

"I'llthrow him in the sewer one day, you'll see."

"Can't you shut up? I mean," Trewitt bellowed in moral outrage, 'just
shut up!" in English.

Ramirez looked over at the trembling American, then at Miguel. "Who's
this kid?" he asked. "Just some little snotnose with the American.,, "We
better get out of here," said Miguel. "At least he's making some sense,"
said Ramirez. "You got a car, Roberto?"

"Yes, Patron. The gringo's. How do you feel?"

"Those whoresons hit my face pretty hard. And my chest is on fire. But I
don't feel as bad as the Madonna. Jesus," he called to the corpse, "Ugly
Woman, you saved my life." He turned back to Roberto. "I never seen such
an ugly woman. Ohhhh! Ugly!"

Roberto led Trewitt to the car. Trewitt sat in back, groggily. He still
held the pistol in his hand.

"Somebody better take that pistol," Ramirez said, "before the American
shoots somebody else."

The gun was pried from Trewitt's fingers.

They all got in and Roberto began to drive down the twisting hilly road.

Twice he hit garbage cans and he killed a chicken and just missed some
kids.

"Where to?" Roberto asked.

"Ask the American Patron here, the American boss," CHAPTER 29 said
Ramirez.

"Oh, Christ," said Trewitt, whose mind was too fogged to bother with the
Spanish, "don't ask me."

Yost Ver Steeg would catch Ulu Beg in Dayton and be the hero. Yost! So
hard for Miles to see him in a heroic light-or in any light.

Miles nursed his grudge bitterly, and under careful tending it became a
fearsome thing, providing him huge amounts of energy. He hated them all:
Yost and his chum Sam, Harvard buddies, watching out for and helping
each other, without regard for him; and on the other side, Chardy, from
another tribe altogether, jock, all heat and rage and power, who
wouldn't even see the slight Miles, he was so busy gazing into the
mirror admiring his own heroism.

Miles hated them, but this turn of events had its curious benefits.

First, he was amazed at how totally Yost had committed to Dayton. A
slipup could spell massive disaster; then bye-bye Yost, and there'd be
nothing Sam could do to help. But, secondly, Yost's absence had a
positive side: it gave Miles a taste of responsibility. Back in Ross
lyn, people now reported to him. Sullen Chardy, though that was
worthless. But others too, though they clearly didn't enjoy it. Miles
didn't care what they enjoyed.

The wizard, for one, who'd come down from Boston for the day with
reports on the surveillance of Johanna, He sat in the and was astonished
to find Ver Steeg gone. office now, eyeing Miles uncomfortably, as Miles
paged through the transcripts.

"I've marked the potentially significant ones," the wizard said.

"Fine," Lanahan said abstractedly. The exchanges were so boring, so
banal. He tried to act them out in his head.

C: I miss you.

J: Oh, Paul, why can't you be here?

But he could not bring them to life. They lay beyond his capacity to
imagine, his realm of interest.

"She's not cheating on him, shaking up on the side, anything like that?"

"Uh-uh," the wizard said. "Or if she is, the phone transcripts don't
show it. Look at may twenty-sixth."

Lanahan found it.

"Who is this guy?"

"A boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend."

Lanahan read:

Someone told me they saw you with a guy. Twice. In two places, on two
weekends.

Yes. An old friend.

You were holding hands.

Yes.

Johanna, are you in love with this guy?

I suppose.

Is he that guy you'd never tell me about? The guy you met overseas, when
you were in Iran? The spook?

David, I have to go.

Johanna, I just want to make sure you're happy. Are you happy?

OWWR

I am, David.

Good. Then I'm happy too. It really makes me happy that this guy has
brought you out of your funk.

Thank you, David.

If you ever want to talk, to chat, just shoot the breeze, or if you're
ever lonely or need somebody to see a movie with, you know where I am.

Okay?

Okay.

I just want you to be happy. That's what I want.

Thank you, David.

Okay. Goodbye.

Lanahan smiled. This David wanted Chardy out of the Picture and himself
into her bed, that's what he wanted. "I just want you to be happy."
Lanahan shook his head again.

At twenty-eight, he was as cynical as a Roman whore. In all human
behavior he recognized but two motives: What's in it for me? And, what
can I keep you from getting?

"So she's clean? She's okay?"

The wizard backed off immediately. He was an older man, plateaued out,
stuck in Technical Services. He'd go nowhere, he'd been nowhere. He
swallowed, a little uncomfortable on Lanahan's spot.

"I just record it," he said. "I don't judge it. That's for the
analysts."

"But you're an old pro, Phil," he said. He thought the name was Phil.

"You've been around. Off the record. She's clean. Come on. For me."

The wizard tried a joke. "You're not recording me, are you?"

Lanahan laughed. But yes, in a sense, he was recording him, if only in
his head for possible future use.

"Of course not, Phil."

"It's Jay, Miles. But she's clean. Or she's got an operation going
that's so deep cover even she don't know about it.," He offered another
smile, but Lanahan didn't respond, noting the grammatical error under
stress, figuring the man's true origins had just shown. Working class,
just like me. Only he stayed there; I transcended "How about visual
surveillance?"

"It's way off. He cut us way back. Mr. Ver Steeg."

"He wanted people to take to Dayton with him," said Lanahan. "I stop
by the house every third or fourth night and pick up the tapes. Then I
have a girl transcribe it."

II But there could be up to a three- or four-day lag?"

"That's right,
Miles. it's the way he wanted it."

"He smells the Kurd in Dayton," said Lanahan. "He smells a deputy
directorship."

He scanned routinely through the transcript, seeing nothing beyond the
mundane.

"Okay, well-" he halted.

He looked again, more closely Goddamn! he thought.

"You see this?"

"Huh?" The wizard rushed over, transfixed in the terror of having made a
big mistake.

"Oh, that," he said with relief, "sure, I saw it"-he had to make that
point-"but I didn't see anything in it." He laughed. "So Chardy's nephew
in Mexico needs a few i I

I bucks? It didn't seem to me-"

"No, you're right-" Lanahan had always known how I to lie smoothly.

"Look, give me a few more minutes with this stuff, okay?"

"Sure, Miles,"
he said, and left.

Lanahan leaned back in the immensity of his victory.

A great excitement raced through his limbs.

What was his next step?

Tell Ver Steeg?

No, the hell with Ver Steeg. Tell Melman? Go straight to Melman, secret
lord in all this? Should he go straight to Sam, who already liked him?

His imagination inflamed suddenly. Here was a ticket up another step.

Up, up! Briefly he saw himself on the deputy director level by thirty.

Thirty.1 Youngest in history by seven years (he'd once checked) and the
only Catholic to have risen that high. The image pleased him. He toyed
with it, turned it in his mind, savoring its hues. He was not given to
daydreams except on the topic of his own career, whose secret rhythm and
contour he loved. He saw himself with power, prestige, respect.

He picked up the safe phone to call Melman.

"Operations."

"DD's office, please."

"One second."

"DD's office."

"This is Miles Lanahan. His Eminence available?"

He's on another line. Can you hold?"

"Yes, I can," remembering her
vaguely as a severe single woman.

In the dead silence of hold, he turned it over in his mind.

Trewitt alive in Mexico. Chardy was running him.

What the hell did it mean? First, he was amazed. Chardy that devious?

Chardy, sour, touchy jock, cowboy, sap for women? What could he be up
to? What game is this?

Lanahan turned it over and over.

Was Chardy working on his own? Did he have secret communications,
connections, links? Or could the whole thing be innocent?

Nothing was innocent. Ever.

Could Trewitt have set Speight up?

Could Chardy be working for the Russians?

This idea did not disgust him at all; in fact, it thrilled him. It
filled him with wonder and amazement, almost awe. God, could he go to
town on that! Jesus, he could build an empire off that. The guy who had
nailed Philby had eaten free lunches off it for years.

Miles considered it more carefully. The Russians had had the guy for a
week, worked him over bad. In fact, had cracked him wide open, had
turned him inside out, the clear implication of the Melman report. Then
the Agency had tossed him out.

And maybe in his seven long years of exile he'd hardened and bittered.

Perhaps he'd come to hate those who let him languish in that cell in
Baghdad, while the Russians worked him over. What did he expect, an
airborne assault to free just one man? Chardy just wasn't being
realistic, a common flaw among cowboy types. But in his exile, his
bitterness, he'd come to hate his own people. Lanahan could understand
the psychology of it: he was another outsider, with the stink of dark
churches and novenas and holy mumbling about him, and was short and
splotchy and damp and unlovable, and the patricians who ran the agency
would always look upon him with distaste. Lanahan could imagine Chardy,
among those kids, at that bleak school, surrounded by crucifixes of the
faith that had failed him in the clinch, turning blacker and blacker by
degrees until the only conceivable course would be betrayal, treachery.

And in a flash Lanahan saw the end game: the Russians would set up the
Kurd for Chardy, who'd blow him away. He'd be a hero again, the
resurrected man, would be readmitted to the inner circle, on the way up
again. Giving the Russians what they'd always wanted, what they'd never
been able to get, a man up high on the inside.

Lanahan's heart thumped.

"Melman."

"Ah. Oh, Sam."

"Yes, what is it, Miles?" Melman's voice was crisp and driving and its
suddenness scattered Lanahan's thoughts.

"Ah," he fumbled, "did those reports of the security setups for Boston
reach you, Sam?"

"Yes, they did. Just this morning."

"I was just checking. I wasn't sure if Yost had sent them on before he
left."

"Yes, it's here, it looks good."

"Is there anything from Dayton yet?"

"They have several reported sightings. The reports I get are optimistic.

He's got the bus stations, the railway stations, all of it closed up."

"Good."

"Incidentally, how's Chardy doing?"

Tell him, he thought.

"Complains a lot. Wanted to go to Dayton."

"That sounds like Chardy."

"He sits around over there at Danzig's just like you wanted. I I

"Good. That's where he's needed."

"I'll see that he stays there." "You're running things in Boston?"

"Yes sir. It's only a weekend thing. Up Friday night, back Sunday
morning. No sweat. I've got Boston PD cooperation, I've hired some
private people. Everybody involved is cooperating."

"It sounds good, Miles. I'm sure you'll do well."

"Thank you, Sam", Lanahan said. Tell him. Tell him.

"Was there anything else?"

No.

The line clicked dead.

Now why hadn't he said a thing?

I didn't have enough dope. But in subtle issues like these there's never
enough dope.

Because even now I can't believe such deviousness in Chardy?

Perhaps.

Because something was wrong? Somewhere, deep inside, Lanahan was
puzzled. Something was wrong and he didn't know what to do about it.

CHAPTER 30 chardy knew it was a bad idea but he couldn't help himself He
was so close and Danzig was in his room safely, snoozing away on creamy
Ritz sheets, and he told her he'd try to make it and the cabby smiled
when he said Cambridge and now here he was, $8 the poorer, heading up
the walk of the hulking old house. He buzzed in the foyer and she let
him in and he bounded up the dark stairs with energy that seemed to
arrive in greater amounts the nearer he got. He plunged down the old
house's hall, not caring that he thundered along like a fullback, and
saw her door open.

"You made it," she called.

"Even Danzig sleeps. He's got a busy day tomorrow. He checked in early."

He embraced her; they kissed in the doorway.

"I'm so glad."

"Jesus, I'm beat, Johanna, I'm so old. Look at me, an old man; I can't
take this running around."

He went inside. He could see that she'd been working on her book at the
typewriter, where books and manuscript pages were collected. He went to
the refrigerator and pulled out a beer can and popped the top. He
swilled half of it down, then paused long enough to shed his jacket and
fling it to the couch.

"A pistol?"

"They want me to carry it. Johanna, how are you? You've been working, I
see. Did you get a lot done on the book? I want to read it. I bet it's
good. I bet it wins prizes. Let's just sit and talk like we've been
married for fifteen years and bore each other to death. Come on, tell me
everything. Tell me everything you've stored up. It's-"

"Paul, that gun really bothers me."

He realized suddenly she was upset. It hadn't occurred to him; he'd been
full of his own joy at seeing her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize they bothered you. Let me dump it
someplace."

"Paul, not the gun itself, gun as object. Guns don't scare me. Paul,
that gun. It's for shooting him."

"Johanna, it's a sidearm issued for an Agency security operation. They
want me to wear it; they expect me to wear it. It's that simple. Nothing
has changed."

"Paul. You were going to help. You said your first allegiance-"

"I'm on a security detail. They expect me to carry a gun. They expect me
to protect him from Ulu Beg. If they feel I'm not willing to do that,
then they have no more use for me. They'd get rid of me and I couldn't
do anything."

"I hate it. Take it off-hide it. I don't want to look at it."

"Okay, sure." He peeled off the complicated holster, a harness of
elastics and leathers and snaps, a mesh of engineering surrounding and
supporting the automatic, and tucked the whole ungainly thing under his
coat.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"But it's not. I can see."

"No, it's not."

"I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

"It's really hopeless, isn't it? We're just pretending? It's gone too
far; there's nothing we-"

"No." He went to her and took her shoulders in his hands- "No, we can
bring it off. We just need that first break. I have to be able to get to
him. If I can talk to him, reason with him, explain things, then I can
go to them, I can get them to help me set up a deal. I'll go to god
damned Sam Melman; I'll crawl to him, if that's what it takes."

"We haven't brought anything off. We're here. I I just sitting

"They think he's in the mid-west. Somebody stole his money, they think.

I've been trying for a week to get them to send me out there."

"So they're closing in, and here we sit. Talking."

"I'll make something happen, I swear it. I'll go to Sam on Monday, soon
as we get back. I'll tell him the whole story. 1-1 just can't offer more
than that, Johanna. I don't have anything more than that."

"Somehow it's just not working out. They're closing in, you're spending
your time with Joseph Danzig a thousand miles away, I sit around working
on a book that I can't finish, that I can't make good, and-and we're
just not in control. It just isn't working."

"Johanna, please don't say that. It's working perfectly. I'm getting
them to like me; I'm getting some influence. You just watch. And they're
not going to catch Ulu Beg in Dayton. He's too smart. For Christ's sake,
I trained him. He'll be all right. Johanna, I think he'll be out here
within the month. I know he'll get in contact with you. Or with somebody
who knows you. He'll have thought it all out; he'll be very careful.

Johanna, we'll bring it off, I swear we will."

m sorry, Paul. I went for a walk down by the river today. A helicopter,
one of those traffic things, came screaming over the trees. It spooked
me-it really did. I told you I was a little nuts.

Oh, God, Paul, I get so scared sometimes."

"Okay, okay, I understand. I understand."

But she had started to cry.

"You've never seen me like this, Paul. But'l can just crash for days,
sometimes."

"Johanna, please. Please." He tried to comfort her.

"We're just not doing anything," she said. "We're just sitting here. The
whole thing is falling apart. It's just no good."

"Please don't say that. It is good. We will get it done."

"Oh, Paul. Since I got back, I've just become a basket case. I have a
terrible darkness inside me."

"Johanna, please." It terrified him that he could not reach her, that
she was sealed off.

"Look," he said, "would this help? I think I could get by, late
tomorrow. Danzig's got some kind of party not five blocks from here, on
Hawthorne. It's with old colleagues, faculty people. It's not on any
itinerary. I know I can skip out, about eleven o'clock. Would that help?

And then Monday I'll go to Sam. Shit, I'll go all the way to the DCI.

I'll get the whole thing changed around, all right? I'll get all the
guns put away. We'll work a deal of some kind, I swear it."

"Oh, Paul." She was still crying.

"Is that some kind of help?"

She nodded.

"Here," he said. "Just let me hold you for a while. All right? Just let
me hold you. We'll get through this. I swear we will."

He felt her warmth and thought he loved her so much he'd die of it.

She was not sure when he left finally; she drifted off and he had not
awakened her. When she finally did awake it was around five; and he had
covered her.

The television was still on, and she recognized the movie, White
Christmas, with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye. The scene involved a reunion
among some ex-GIS at some hotel in Vermont that a general owned. It
seemed a ridiculous movie to run in Boston in the spring.

But she did not have the energy to turn it off. She felt almost ill,
feverish at the very least. She did not feel like doing a single thing
and wondered again about her strength, her sanity. She tried to lock her
mind up in White Christmas: idiotic Danny Kaye raced around; Bing just
stood there and sang. Who were the women? Rosemary Clooney-whatever
happened to Rosemary Clooney? Vera-Ellen. Did Vera-Ellen have a last
name? Was it Ellen? Ms. Ellen? Johanna had seen the movie years ago on a
giant screen; she remembered it now. The theater had been
air-conditioned. The movie was Technicolor. She saw it with her big
sister, Miriam, who was killed in a car crash, and her brother, Tim, who
was now a lawyer in St. Louis. All this had been years ago, epochs ago,
in the Jurassic of the '50s. She remembered it with brutal clarity and
had no urge to fabricate it, to make myths out of it. Miriam had been
very pretty and bright, but she'd left them, Johanna and Tim, all alone,
because she'd snuck off with her boyfriend, whom Mommy and Daddy didn't
want her to see anymore. Miriam was bad. She was fast. There was no
controlling her. She had the hots. She had lots of boyfriends and
worried Mommy sick. She was always in trouble. She was beautiful and
bright and wicked and when she'd died her freshman year at Vassar in a
car crash with a Yale football player (who survived) nobody was
surprised. Johanna remembered that somebody whispered that Miriam got
what she deserved. She was a bad girl. She deserved it.

Johanna started to cry again. She cried for Miriam, of whom she'd not
consciously thought in years. Poor Mir. She was so bright and pretty and
not until Johanna was in her twenties did she know what she should have
said to anybody who said Miriam deserved it. She should have said, Fuck
you. Miriam deserved the world. She was bright and pretty and good.

Miriam was good. She was so good.

I am bad, thought Johanna. I'm the bad one.

She shifted her position slightly, with great weariness. Paul had sat
there. And he was the man she loved. She would give herself to him. She
would do anything for him, anything he wanted. She loved that chalky,
locker-room body, that Catholic's body, with its slight coating of fat
under which there was great strength. It was a big, loose limbed, hairy
body (Paul had hair everywhere; he left a trail of hair), a scarred and
hurt body. But she loved it. He was not brilliant and she loved that
too. She'd known brilliant men her whole life and now she hated them.

Clever, wicked, tricky, cunning bastards. Intellectuals, geniuses,
artists. Great scholars, predatory lawyers, egomaniacal doctors. She was
tired of brilliant, interesting men without guts. All the trouble in the
world came from brilliant, interesting men without guts who loved to
hear themselves talk. They were all babies. They were the real killers
of this world.

She reached and touched the rumpled fabric where he had sat. It was not
at all warm. He must have been gone for a long time. Her fingers
lingered against the material; she sat up, shook her head, and reached
across the coffee table to where a rumpled issue of the Globe Jay.

Chardy's feet had even touched it. She picked it up again-as she had a
thousand times before-and opened to the metro page.

FIRE GUTS mid-EASTERN RESTAURANT

A three-column headline over a ten-inch story explained in the mundane
voice Of daily journalism how arson was suspected in a blaze on Shawmut
Avenue in which a restaurant called The Baghdad had burned down.

Noon of the second day after the fire, You will pick him up across from
the restaurant, they had told her. The technical term for this kind of
arrangement was a blind link, and it was the most secure, the most sure
method: no phone contact, no dead-letter boxes, nothing by mail, nothing
at all. It's for operating in an enemy country.

Tomorrow, noon tomorrow. She would pick up Ulu Beg. Here, in Boston, ten
thousand miles from the mountains. And Joseph Danzig would be that same
night only five blocks away, unguarded.

She'd gotten Chardy out of there now. She'd done half the incredible. If
she could get Ulu Beg in, she'd have done the other half.

She was not as he remembered; she'd been a hard, youthful figure then,
boyish and strong and active; a part of Jardi and very much not a part.

Now, in the automobile, she was nervous and plump and dry-lipped and
pale.

"Your trip. Hazardous?" she asked. "Somebody stole my money."

"Yet you got here so much faster."

"A fine lady drove me. A fine black woman."

"There was trouble at the border."

"What? Oh, yes."

"They know you're here. They've guessed what you're here for."

They drove in bright sunlight through sparkly Boston streets. Everything
here was made of wood. There was so much wood, wood in abundance. Wood
and automobiles: America.

"How?" he said finally.

"The bullets from your gun. They traced them to nineteen seventy-five."

He nodded. Of course.

"You should have brought a different gun."

Yes, he should have. But they had insisted, hadn't they? It had to be
this gun. They had given him this gun. This would be his gun.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "They're convinced you're in Ohio still.

That's where they're looking for you. We have an incredible chance. The
best chance we'll ever have. You would say it's all written above."

She told him about Danzig and the party that night, that very night. She
told him how relaxed they'd be, since the party was a private thing,
among old friends. She told him she had gotten the university faculty
guide and found the address of the one member of Danzig's old department
that lived on Hawthorne. She could take him there late tonight and point
him. She told him that the only man who could recognize him would not be
there. "Who?"

"Chardy.

His face did not change. In many ways it was a remarkable face; the nose
was oversize, like a prow, and the cheekbones high and sharp. The eyes
were gaudy blue, small and intense. In the mountains he'd worn a
moustache, huge and droopy, but now he was clean-shaven. He looked
almost American. He did look American. She was astonished at how
American he'd become, in blue jeans, with a pack, a tall, strong Man who
could have been a graduate student of athletic bent, an adventurer, an
outdoorsman, any vigorous thirty-five-year-old American, and the streets
were full of them, fit, lean joggers, backpackers, professional
vacationers.

"You are his woman again?"

"It seems so."

"He is with us, then?"

"No. He doesn't know. He came back into my life because of all this. I
realized at once that I had to become close to him again. I could learn
things from him, and through him I could convince important people that
I was harmless."

But you are his?"

"It's not important.,,

"But you are?"

"Yes. He's a different man too. They were very hard on him. His own
people. And the Russians tortured him horribly. They burned his back
with a torch. He's a very bitter man, a hurt man. He's not the same
Chardy at all."

"He works for them again?"

"He does."

"I will never understand Americans."

"Neither will I."

"You will betray him?"

"Yes. I have thought about it. I will betray him. The political is more
important than the personal. But I ask a condition. It's very important
to me."

"Say it. I I

"There will be other people there. People from the university. They are
innocent. You must swear not to hurt them. To kill Danzig is justice. To
kill these others would be murder. I can't commit murder. I saw too much
of it committed myself."

"You Americans," Ulu Beg said. "YOU make war, but you don't want there
to be any bodies. Or if there are bodies, you don't want to see them or
know about them."

"Please. Swear it. Swear it as a great Kurdish fighter would swear it."

"I can only swear what I can. But what is written, is written."

"Still. Swear it. Or I can't help. You'll be on your own. And we've both
figured out long ago that on your own you have almost no chance."

He looked at her. Was she insane? He saw it now: she was crazy; she had
terrible things in her head. Who could keep promises with bullets
flying?

"Swear it. Please."

"On my eyes," he said.

"All right."

They pulled into a parking lot a few minutes later.

"Here." She handed him a key. "It's a motel. I've rented you a room at
the far end. Go there; stay inside. Clean up. There're some clothes in
the room, American clothes. I hope they fit. I'll pick you up at ten. He
said he'd come to my place at eleven. We'll wait outside until we see
him leave. Then I'll help. I'll help you get inside. I'll help with the
other business too."

She fumbled with her purse.

It was a small, cheap revolver.

"I bought it in the city."

"I have a weapon. I don't want you there with a gun."

He turned to leave, but she reached for his arm.

"I'm glad you came. I'm glad it's nearly finished."

"Kurdistan ya naman, he said.

CHAPTER 31

Only Chardy and Uckley, the security man, remained. They stood
discreetly in one comer of the living room in their lumpy suits. Lanahan
was off somewhere playing Napoleon, and the private detectives engaged
by the Agency had not accompanied Danzig from the television studio.

Dramatic people swirled about, bright and glittery, and in the center of
it all sat Joe Danzig. In point of fact, at no time in their brief
association had Chardy seen him quite like this: a sheen of perspiration
stood out on his forehead and upper lip and he held a half-empty scotch
glass almost like a Scepter. He knew everybody here--or most of them-and
he had taken his coat off and loosened his tie and collar, an absurd
costume, since he still wore his vest. They came to him, the younger
ones with some respect, the older ones Out of camaraderie. Chardy was
surprised to see so many kids. He thought kids hated Danzig, architect
of bombing in Vietnam; but no, they did not, or these kids did not.

Danzig listened earnestly and awarded the brightest with a smile or a
nod which pleased them immensely. And the women: the women especially
were drawn to his preposterous, rumpled figure. They crowded around him,
touching and jostling. Even in these clever precincts? Chardy had no
idea what being on television meant, what celebrity meant.

"They love him, don't they?" he said to Uckley.

"They sure do, Sir," said Uckley.

The room had jammed up and become bright and hot with people. It was not
so much furnished as equipped, largely with spacey-looking hi-ri
components, a jungle of plants and books. Somebody loved books, for they
were ceiling to floor on three of the walls and the other was bare
brick. There were little steel spotlights mounted on racks on the
ceiling, throwing vivid circles of light on Japanese prints and twisted
modern paintings. It was like some kind of museum; somebody had spent a
lot of money turning this living room into a museum. Chardy was catching
a headache and all the noise and smoke pitched it higher. It looked like
Danzig would be here for hours-until the dawn, among the horde of
intellectuals.

Not all, but most, most had the same look: the high, pale foreheads, the
glasses covering wasted eyes, the delicate wrists. They all had weak
hands and looked sick. Funny, after the Marines, Chardy knew a uniform
when he saw it, and here were uniforms: suede shoes, baggy chinos and
plaid shirts, and an occasional little off-color tie. Everybody was
drinking wine; everybody was talking, gesturing with unfiltered
cigarettes. A woman drifted by in leotard and tights, smoking a cigar.

She had a slightly crazed expression on her face and was made up like an
Egyptian goddess.

Chardy checked his watch. It was 11:20.

"Have you seen Lanahan, Sarge?"

"No, Sir," said Uckley.

Chardy hunted through the mass of bodies and at last spotted Miles
sitting by himself in a comer. He turned back to Uckley.

"Look, do you think you can handle this?"

"There's nothing to handle, Sir."

"I'll stay if you'd prefer."

"No, Sir."

"I may be back in a little while."

"Take your time."

Chardy shook himself free of the wall and edged through the crowd.

Lanahan sat disconsolately by himself "Not Your crowd, Miles?"

Lanahan looked up, but did not smile. "I don't have a crowd," he said.

"Look, would it be a big deal if I slipped out a little early?"

"It would be a very big deal."

"Well, I'm going to do it anyway. Why don't you talk to somebody, have a
good time? Meet some people. You look like the village priest at the
great lord's manor for the first time."

Lanahan looked at him through narrow dark eyes in a field of skin
eruptions. Flecks Of dandruff littered his small shoulders.

"You shouldn't joke about priests, Paul."

"Miles, I'm going. All right?"

Lanahan didn't say anything.

"Come on, Miles, cheer up."

"Just go, Paul. You don't have any responsibility; you can sneak off.

I'll stay. I'm expecting a call from Yost anyway. I I

"Be back shortly," said Chardy. He fought to the hall, squeezed down it
to the door, where an older woman Stood talking to several others in the
overflow.

"Leaving so early? Did you have a coat?"

"No, I'm all right."

"Glad you could come."

"I had a wonderful time," he said.

He stepped out the door, went down three steps, and followed the short
walk to Hawthorne Street.

"There he is," she said.

They watched Chardy pick his way down the steps, pause at the sidewalk
for just a second, and then head down the street. They watched in
silence until he disappeared.

"Just Danzig. Nobody else. Please, you swore."

He turned and looked at her with a cold glare.

"Please," she said. "You promised. You swore."

"I go now."

"I'll come too."

"No," he said. "I can go alone. Many people, no guards. People come and
go. America is open, they told me."

"Please. I-"

"No.,,

"I'll be here then. To drive you away."

"No," he said. "It doesn't matter if I get away. Get away yourself, now.

Cross that border now, Dada Johanna."

He climbed from the car and strode across the street, a tall, forceful
figure.

She watched him move. A pain began to rub inside, between her eyes. She
sat back. She could not face the future, the explanations, excuses,
attention. It all seemed to weigh so much. She thought of it as weight,
mass, as substance, a physical thing, pressing her down. She fought for
breath. She thought of facing Chardy in the morning. She thought of the
pain her parents would feel. She could not imagine it.

She watched. Ulu Beg knocked on the door. She could not see his gun;
he'd hidden it, probably under the tweed sport coat.

The door opened. She could see them talking. What would he say? She
wanted to cry. She was so scared.

Chardy knocked on Johanna's door. There was no answer. "Johanna?" he
called into the wood. "Johanna?" Now what the hell was going on?

CHAPTER 32

Trewitt's fever rose and rose and rose, pulling him through an absolute
kaleidoscope of discomforts, each spangling and fanning into something
more unbearable, and since his imagination-the basic stuff of this
journey through the fever zone-was prodigious to begin with, the trip
was incredible. His fantasies were built of gore and sex and they
centered on the body of the woman lying in her own blood. But soon they
began to lessen in intensity. Gradually, by the second night, his head
began to clear somewhat. it was very cold. The air hurt to breathe- He
pulled something about him, a thin blanket that offered no protection.

On the third day he awoke to find himself in a stone shack with no glass
in the windows, a stove that burned only junk wood, and a dirt floor
across which there scampered a flock of chickens herded by a couple of
listless mutts. He felt as though he'd come to in the middle of a movie
and looked about for stock figures. But no: only the titanic figure whom
he now understood to be Ramirez, in his (Trewitt's) yellow pants with
his (Trewitt's) Beretta in the waistband, reading a photo-novel whose
Spanish title translated into "A Smart-Alecky Young Miss. Gets Her
comeuppance," while munching on a greasy drumstick from El Coronel
Sanders, of Kentucky; Trewitt could see the striped barrel on a shelf),
his cowboy boots up on the table.

Trewitt hauled himself up, wobbling the whole way.

"You want a wing? We got a wing left," was Ramirez's welcome-back to the
man who'd saved his life.

"I feel like shit," said Trewitt groggily, in English.

"You look like shit," said Ramirez, also in English.

Trewitt moaned. Somebody had looped a metal band around his forehead and
was tightening it with great strength and dedication.

"Where are we?" he finally asked, shivering and noticing that his breath
soared out from his lips in a great billowing cloud.

"Hah!" bowled Ramirez in great delight. "Jesus Mary, they really give it
to this girl!" He looked at the comic with warmth and enthusiasm. "She's
a real stuckup princess. They give her a smack on the bottom with a
great big paddle. You're in the mountains, my friend. Way up high. A
long way from the city."

Trewitt twisted so he could see out the window. In the distance,
glittering in the sun, stood a ragged line of peaks. The haphazard
up-and-down of the composition could have been a graph of his fortunes
these last several days.

"Reynoldo was born down there," Ramirez said, "in the village, before
electricity. He used to come here to hunt." He smiled, exposing two gold
teeth which Trewitt had not noticed before. Gold teeth? This was getting
to be like a movie.

"Who were those men? The killers," Trewitt asked in his Spanish.

"Who knows? It's a big mystery. Mexico is full of mysteries. It's a land
of mysteries." Ramirez laughed.

"Gangsters? Pimps? Dope runners?"

Ramirez finished the drumstick and threw the bare bone across the room
into a comer, where a dog scuffled after it, and wiped his hand on his
pants. Trewitt was beginning to feel as if he'd awakened in the cave of
the Cyclops.

"They make pretty good chicken," said Ramirez. "That Colonel. I bet he's
a rich man."

He yawned, then looked over at Trewitt. "Mister, I'll tell you
something. A man has to piss, somebody gets wet. Do you understand?"

"Ahh-"

"Oscar Meza, he get wet. The Huerras of Mexico City, anybody. It could
go back years and years." ' Shakily Trewitt stood, discovering as he
unlimbered from the skimpy blanket that he was now in cheap cotton
trousers, the trousers of a rural peasant. He went to the doorway.

Outside he saw a goat pen, a trash heap, a dirt road falling away
rapidly, and a brown surge-scabby, scaly, dusty, stony-cold, and
silent---of peaks.

"Where the hell are we?"

Below he could see a flash of trees and valley, and some cultivated
land. But this was wild country, raw and high and scruffy.

"Near El Plomo. In the Sierra del Carrizai. Due west of Nogales. About
sixty miles."

"Where are the others?"

"Down below. In El Plomo. This is a big adventure. The little one, he
cry for mama last night. But now he's okay."

Trewitt nodded, hurt. Poor little guy. Why the hell hadn't they let him
go? Now he was God knows where, involved in this.

"They'll be here soon. But, hey, mister. Who are you?" The Mexican
watched him carefully.

"Just some guy who got mixed up in some stuff," was Trewitt's lame
response. "I was looking for adventures too."

"Crazy people want adventures. Reynoldo wants to die in a nice bed
somewhere. With a bottle of beer and a nice soft fat woman who don't
give you no trouble."

Trewitt, leaning in the rough doorway, looked down the little road for
the yellow rented car. Boy, was he going to have a bill!

"At least," he said, "we're safe. This is a good place to lie low."

"Yes, it's real safe up here," Rwnirez laughed. "Yes, it's real safe."
The grin radiated blazing -humor.

"What's going on? What's so funny?"

"The answer is I called my good friend Oscar Meza from El Plomo. I told
him all about this wonderful, safe place."

Trewitt stared at him. At first he thought he'd discovered an unusually
perverse sense of humor in a surprising locality. Only when the man's
fiery, crazed grin did not break into something softer and wittier did
Trewitt acknowledge what had been laid before him, and its force struck
him with a physical blow.

Finding next a sudden rush of strength, he began to shout: "You did
what? You what? you what? that was really stupid, you told him?"

Trewitt looked down the road. At any second it could yield a carload of
Mexican hoods. And they had a Beretta. With four rounds left.

"Hey, mister, come look at this," Ramirez called.

The Mexican led him to a comer, pulled aside a dusty rag to reveal the
lid of some kind of cabinet or chest buried in the earth. Kneeling, he
unlocked and opened it. He pulled out a rifle with a telescopic sight.

"We do some hunting up here," he said. The grin did not diminish, yet to
Trewitt it had turned savage.

There was a sudden sound, and Trewitt thought he'd die.

CHAPTER 33 But it was the yellow car returning.

When he reached the door he had no idea what to say, no plan.

He knocked on the door, wondering what God willed for the next few
minutes.

The door opened and he found himself face to face with a woman of
'advanced years who wore a look of great, eager American friendliness
and who said only,

"Hello."

"Yes, hello, how are you?" he replied.

Something he did-he'd never know what-must have perplexed her.

"Yes? Are you here for the party?"

He had no idea what to say. Beyond the door lay a dim corridor and at
its end a brightly lit room choked with smoke and people. He could sense
them crowded in there; the noise was intense and laughter bellowed
heavily in the air.

"Yes?" she repeated. She wanted to help him. He could tell.

"It's all right," he said.

"Oh," she said, "You must be Dr. Abdul."

"Yes. Dr. Abdul."

"It was so nice of you to come. Joe admires your work intensely, even if
he doesn't quite agree on Egyptian hegemony.,,

"I look forward to talk."

"Come in, of course. Let's not stand here. Oh, you're so tall, I had no
idea."

"Yes. It is a gift from God."

"Yes, I suppose so. How long will you be with the department? Do you
return to Cairo at the end of the term or in the winter?"

"Term.,,

"Oh, I hate those short appointments. Jack and I were in Munich, but the
grant only lasted eight months. You can't get a real sense of a culture
in less than two years. How do you like America?"

"Ah. I love it."

"Good. Go on in. Jack is over by the wall at the bar. He'll get you a
drink. And if you can fight your way to Joe, say hello to him for me. I
haven't said two words to him since he arrived."

"Ah. Thanks."

He stepped by her and walked down the hall to the noise. A few couples
talked privately, lovers perhaps, in the darkness. He edged by them and
stood in the room, at the edge of the crowd.

Danzig knew she was his. She was beautiful too, and very young, exotic.

She may have been mulatto even, or a Eurasian, or some odd mix of
Filipino and Russian. She had not yet spoken to him but she was staring
at him. He knew it was a preposterous idea and that the technical
problems-how to get her back to the hotel, how to get her back from the
hotel-were immense. Yet he wanted her!

She'd come with a man probably. But who? That tall dramatic one staring
furiously from the doorway? Perhaps, but Danzig, who was by this time
quite exhausted with conversation, and not a little drunk, decided to
risk it anyway.

"Ah, miss?,,

"Yes?" Faint accent.

"Ah, I couldn't help wondering. Are you a student at the university?"

"No, Dr. Danzig. My husband is an associate professor in the Physics
department."

"Oh, how pleasant. I'm sure I couldn't begin to understand the first
thing about his work. He must be very brilliant. Is he here?"

"No. I came with my lover." She said it quite matterof-factly, but
clearly to shock him, to see something register on the famous face. "You
spoke with him earlier. He's that brash younger man in Political
science. Jeremy Goldman," Danzig vaguely remembered somebody who might
fit that description, but the details were hazy.

"Yes, yes, he made a number of interesting points. A very interesting
man, as I recall. I don't think he cares for me.,,

"Oh, he loathes you. He loathes everybody. But he's fascinated."

"May I ask ... pardon me if I seem forward, I really mean no harm and
am an extremely harmless man"-the famous Danzig self-deprecation,
charming and cruelly vain-"but do I fascinate you?"

"Well," she said, pausing. Her face was beautiful, witty: very thin,
with high, fiercely chiseled model's cheekbones, the eyes vaguely
Oriental, the lips full as Plums. "I would say-a little. Yes. A little."

"Well, what an excellent compliment. How nice you are to an old and
rather vain man. May I ask further again, I don't mean to be forward and
please stop me if in any way I am intimidating you-"

"Oh, I'm not intimidated."

"Well, may I ask then, is he around? And do you plan to leave with him?

I'm sure you do; I don't mean to press YOU."

She made a cool pretense of looking around the room.

Chardy! Danzig realized suddenly that Chardy could drive them back to
the hotel and then take her on to her place. But would he mind?

Of course not. He'd better not mind. He looked too, but for Chardy.

Ulu Beg could see him now. He looked thicker than in pictures, the hair
flecked with gray, the eyes beady behind the thick glasses, the stomach
plump and straining in the vest. He leaned over a bit, his ungainly body
slightly atilt, talking earnestly to a woman. Twice, in fact, he'd
looked at Ulu Beg directly, freezing him. But the eyes quickly returned
to the woman; he spoke in a low insistent voice.

Ulu Beg edged through the crowd. He bumped some body.

"Excuse me," somebody said.

"Well, I-"

"Who's the-"

"Well, sorry, I seem to-"

"Oh, are you trying to get-"

At last he was sixteen feet away. He reached back under his coat and
felt the Skorpion. He cautioned himself to draw it slowly and steadily
and to fire with both hands. His fingers touched its hardness, its
metal.

Yet he hesitated.

A fat man talking to a pretty girl in the middle of his civilization.

He'd killed a hundred men, but all were soldiers and would have killed
him. He tried to think of his sons, one dead, one so hideously wounded
that he himself had done the final act out of mercy and love. The memory
flooded over Ulu Beg and the stench of burning fuel seemed to come alive
in his nostrils and he could feel the dust heavy in the air from the
rotor blades and the bullet strikes.

Someone jostled him.

"Sorry, old man," said a man in a sweater and a pipe.

Ulu Beg turned. The woman was laughing at something Danzig had just
said, and the man himself was smiling, chatting confidently.

"Drink?" somebody asked Ulu Beg. He turned to look at him in
astonishment. He had no sensation of removing the weapon.

"He's got a gun," somebody was screaming. "Oh, God, he's got a gun!"

Ulu Beg pivoted, raising the weapon with both hands until the fat man on
the sofa filled the sights.

The noise rose, a light fell, shadows reeled in the room.

Danzig stood in stupefied terror and raised his hands.

Ulu Beg fired.

Glass everywhere. Chips of wood, pieces of table, ruined books. Danzig
lay on the floor. He could see the carpet. Somebody was still shooting.

Make it go away.

Oh, God: Make it go away.

The girl was crying, "Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, Jerry, oh, Jerry, Jesus,"
and bled badly, all down her front. She was on the sofa. He could
not-would not-move to help.

Danzig lay still. Uckley had fired at least twice before the tall man
had killed him.

"Where is he? Where is he?" The boy Lanahan, the Agency man, a pistol in
his hand, danced in fury and terror.

"Oh, Christ," someone shouted, "oh, Jesus Christ, he had a gun, a gun.

Sirens.

Sirens: somebody had called the police.

Danzig would not look up. The tall man. Had he left? God save him from
the tall man.

He lay on his stomach curled up behind the couch. Three times he'd been
hit, maybe a fourth, knocking him backward. Where was the doctor? Please
let there be a doctor. He thought his heart would explode. He needed a
pill.

Danzig began to cry. He wept uncontrollably. His chest hurt awfully. He
had wet himself in fear and didn't even care. A great, furious self-pity
welled through him. He had figured out that he would not die. The
vest-the material was called Keviar, very expensive, spun steel and
high-density nylon, developed for his trips to the Middle East-would
stop the bullets. But what if it hadn't? Why did his chest hurt so? He
could not stop crying or shaking.

"My God," somebody was still shrieking, "he had a fucking gun."

Chardy heard the sirens. He started to run down the hall. By the time he
got outside at least three squad cars bad sped by. Chardy ran after
them. Across from the house he found her, in the car. The muzzle blast
had blackened the side of her face and her eyes were closed. The pistol
was still in her hand. Across the street, police cars and ambulances
with their flashers all squirting red and blue light into the night had
gathered, but Chardy didn't even look. He opened the door, laid her
gently on the other seat, and got in, turned the key, and drove away.

CHAPTER 34

"Nada, the boy said. "Nothing."

"You're sure?" Trewitt demanded.

"Si. I said, nada. Nothing."

Trewitt, stung, exploded. "Goddamn," he said bitterly. "Goddamn. What's
wrong with him?" The fury cut through him. "Goddamnit. You're sure?"

"He said, didn't he? Mother of Jesus," said El Stupido, as Trewitt had
begun to think of Ramirez, a great fat greasy farting boorish creep.

"All right," said Trewitt.

But it was not all right. It was another day. How many now, five, six, a
week? Trewitt could discover in himself no talent for waiting. He would
have made a lousy sub skipper, bomber pilot, sniper. This sitting
around, playing one of Peter Pan's lost boys in the Never-Never-Land of
this Mountainside, yet with real guns and a pig like this El Stupido for
companionship-he glanced over and saw his antagonist reading the same
goddamn book! "A Smartalecky Young Lady Gets Her Comeuppance"! Ramirez
could read it over and over and over, his lips forming the words in the
balloons over the photographs of the actors, and still chuckle in deep
and profoundly satisfying amusement when the little maid got swacked on
the butt with a two-by-four at the end.

"Aiiieee!" He looked up happily. "Hey, come look at this one, Senor
Gringo. They really give it to her. Right on the back bumper!"

"And no others? No visitors, no questions?" asked Roberto, fourth member
of this hilltop Utopia.

"Nada. Not in El Plomo," said the boy. "What's for supper?"

"I can't figure out why he hasn't gotten back to me. What the hell is
going on back there?" Trewitt said selfrighteously. But he had deep
suspicions. The El Plomo postman-he was also the mayor, the sanitary
commissioner, the general store owner, the traffic cop-had been
recruited, for a substantial fee, of course, to drive fifteen miles to
the nearest town of consequence and dispatch another telegram via Our
Lady of Resurrection to Trewitt's own particular saint, Saint Paul.

"UNC," the telegram had read, "FOUND BIG TACO BUT MUCHO OTHERS WANT
RECIPE SPICY GOING SEND HELP EL PLOMO SIERRA DEL CARRIZAI

NEPHEW JIM"

But what if the public official had taken the money and said screw the
gringo and his telegram and headed for the nearest whorehouse?

Trewitt shook his head. His rage, which was mostly self-pity, was
inflating exponentially. Who the fuck knew what was going on back there
anyway? Maybe Chardy had gotten the can. Maybe he should have sent his
first message to somebody sensible like Yost Ver Steeg. Forget the
cowboy; go for the corporate executive.

Trewitt began to pine, to mourn, for lost opportunities. Maybe it wasn't
too late, sure, even now, send an open wire to Yost, care of Langley,
Va., dear Yost, it may surprise you to know that ... But But it was
true Bill Speight had been murdered. It was true there were men trying
to murder Reynoldo Ramirez. It was true all this began almost
immediately after the Kurd, Ulu Beg, had come across the American border
in a blaze of gunfire, assisted by Reynoldo Ramirez. And it was true
that at any second an odd squad of gurnnen might arrive. The linkages
were not definite but they were certainly suggestive. Somehow it all fit
together, though try as he might he could not exactly imagine how or
why.

Who was pursuing them?

There's your key, Trewitt. Mexican gunmen, trying to rub out El Stupido
for his nightclub, or for a past betrayal, or for ... Or some other
forces Trewitt shivered.

Behind the scabby line Of mountains the sun collapsed into a great
hemorrhage of purple swirls. Beneath, the valley was quiet and dark.

Down there on those gentle slopes grew maybe fifty million bucks' worth
of marijuana. It was a wild country, bandit country, gun country. Around
here everybody carried guns. It was a violent place.

Trewitt advised himself to deal with the reality of the situation, and
forget the overview for the time being. Forget also his desperate
prayers for Resurrection. He was going to have to get out of this one by
him-self.

He took the rifle off his shoulder, a Remington Model 700 in 7-mm
magnum, with a 6X scope. Ramirez had two, for desert sheep, which once
or twice a year the old Ramirez-prosperous vice lord and
whoremonger--came up to stalk.

"Hey, some food is here," called Roberto.

Trewitt reslung the rifle. Food meant more beans and rice, which meant
farting all night, and he knew he had the two-to-six shift when the
farting would be at its worst.

Jesus Christ, that was something Le Carr6 never wrote about.

CHAPTER 35

This was his third day; by now he had established his talents and been
nominally accepted, though no one had ever asked his name or inquired
where he came from.

They knew more important things about him: that he could hit from
twenty-five feet out if given the shot, that he would dive for a free
ball, that he set picks that would knock your teeth loose, that he was a
furious rebounder, and finally, that he was honest.

"You do the pros, old man?" the tallest, the star, said to be a postman
in real life, put to him sullenly.

"I had a week in the old Chicago Packers camp. But I couldn't stick it."

"Say, Jack: you think I could make it in the pros?"

Chardy paused a fraction of a second. He was, after all, a vulnerable
figure, the only white man on the playground, even if the dome of the
United States Capitol could be seen in the distance, across the river,
an immaculate joke for the thousands of black teenagers who threw balls
through hoops here.

"No," he finally said. "No way. Sorry. You're just not good enough."

Chardy thought the postman might hit him. He was maybe twenty-two, six
five, and had some great moves.

He'd probably had a year or two of college ball before flunking out, or
quitting.

But the postman thought it over and seemed to back off. Perhaps he was
too elegant for a punch-out, or too smart; or perhaps he secretly knew
the truth of Chardy's judgment; or perhaps he sensed that Chardy didn't
give a shit about much of anything and would have fought him to the last
bloody blow.

"Then let's play, old man," said the postman. "Let's do it," Chardy
replied, and they began again.

Chardy had by this time worked his way up to the best court, where the
most talented players went five-on-five full distance. At first the
blacks had let their rage show: they'd crowded and roughed him, and he'd
been knocked to the asphalt more than a few times. But he fought back
with elbow and hip, and his shots were failing. He was still the
jump-shooter. You never forgot. It never left, that gift. He went for
net, not rim or backboard, although these skirts were woven of chain,
which clanked medievally when the ball fell through them. It was as
though a kind of enchantment had fallen over Chardy. He played to lose
himself forever, to hide, to vanish in the game, the glorious game. He
knew only that he had to play or die. His limbs had ached for the sport.

He'd left Boston and driven straight from National into D.C., stopping
only at a sporting-goods shop in a suburban mail to buy a luxurious pair
of shoes-Nike hightops, leather, the pro model-and a good Seamco outdoor
ball, and headed deep into the city until he saw a playground, a good
one, a big one, across a bridge in a meadow between a highway and a slow
river. The place was called, after the river, Anacostia. He knew the
best ballplayers would go there.

He felt he could play forever. At thirty-eight, he felt sixteen. If
there was a heaven on this earth, he had at last found it: a playground,
two hoops, and a shot that was failing.

Jesus, was it falling.

"Fill it."

"Drop it."

"Put it down, man."

"Jam it."

"Damn, you hot."

He hit four in a row, then five, then six before missing. He fired
rainbows that fell like messages from God, dead center, without mercy.

He tried tap-ins and finger rolls and fall away jumpers and drives off
either hand. He fought to the baseline to receive a pass and curled
backward through two defenders for a reverse lay-up. The ball felt like
a rose, it was so light and smelled so sweet. In a trance he shot a wish
from forty feet, only to watch it drop without a rattle. Even the
postman gave him a tap on the butt after that one.

But eventually, in the hazy hour of twilight of the third day, when the
moths had begun to gather in the cones of the fluorescent lights that
would illuminate the hoops until midnight, into this athlete's Eden
there came a snake. Chardy pretended not to notice; but how could he
miss the only other white face among so many black ones, even if it was
far away, behind the windshield of a nondescript car.

Whoever was stalking him had patience. He waited like a grim statue in
his car through several more games, even allowing Chardy to drink a can
of cold beer that someone offered from a six-pack.

Finally, almost into full dark, as Chardy was firing from the baseline-a
rare miss, too--the door popped and a short figure emerged.

Lanahan. They'd sent Lanahan.

Chardy missed the next two shots, and the man he was theoretically
guarding put in two buckets.

Lanahan, in his disheveled suit, wandered over shyly, paused, and
finally found a seat in some bleachers adjacent to the court.

Chardy missed another shot. All of a sudden he could not buy a basket. A
terrible weariness suffused his limbs.

"Come on, Jack," the postman ordered.

The ball came to him on the perimeter. Inside, a man on his team slipped
open and Chardy should have hit him at the low post with a bounce pass;
greedily he merely faked it. Chardy dribbled back and forth, the ball
rising to meet his eager hands. He searched for an opening. Another
teammate slipped out to set a pick and Chardy drove suddenly to it,
losing his defender in the process.

He set himself for half an instant, and felt the ball rise and almost of
itself decide to flee the thrust of his two hands as he leaned from
behind the pick. The ball, obediently, disappeared through the basket.

Chardy got two quick baskets after that, and the postman finished the
run with a ringing slam-dunk. Chardy raised his hand, announcing the
desire to sit one out, and a high-school boy of great repute but few
words jogged in emotionlessly to take his place.

"Nice stuff, man," the kid said.

Chardy plucked a towel off the grass and circled the court to the
bleachers. He flopped down a row behind Miles, stretching his legs out
before him and working over his face with a towel. One of his knees was
bloody. He couldn't even remember a fall.

"You're good," said Miles, watching the new game before him, the cuffs
and shouts and bounces now reaching them through the heavy summer air.

"I had no idea how good."

"I seemed to be on tonight," said Chardy.

"We had a lot of trouble finding you."

"I just had to play some basketball."

"Sure."

Chardy watched for a while. Before him, in the glow of the overhead
fluorescents, the postman and the new kid went after each other.

"That tall guy is pretty good," Lanahan said. "Not the kid, the other
guy. He could play in the pros."

"No, he couldn't," said Chardy. "Who gets the ax? I saw the papers. We
got out of it pretty good. I didn't see any mention of the Agency or any
mention of the Kurds. Thank Christ, Danzig didn't kick off anyway on a
heart attack with all the excitement."

"Two people did die, Paul."

"Three. Johanna."

"Well, I meant in the shootin "Johanna was shot," Chardy said
stubbornly.

"Paul, it's really not possible for us to see her as a victim."

"No, I suppose it isn't."

"In any event, nobody ever connected her with Danzig. We didn't
ourselves until yesterday. Somebody must have moved her if she was close
to the shooting."

"She was across the street."

"So it was you?"

"Yeah."

"That was smart, Paul, It was real smart. It could have gotten so
complicated, so lurid if the papers had tied it all together. Can you
imagine Time?"

"I wasn't thinking about the papers, Miles."

"It doesn't matter what you were thinking about, Paul. It only matters
what you did."

"You still haven't told me who got the ax. But I can guess. Not you, or
you wouldn't be here. Not me, not with Ulu Beg still around with his
machine pistol. I'm still an asset. That leaves-"

"He didn't do very well. He deserves what he's getting. He authorized
the cutback on the surveillance of Johanna. He over committed to the
mid-west. Sam called it a dreadful performance."

"Ver Steeg is out?"

"Way out. They bumped him over to a staff job in
Scientific Intelligence. Something to do with satellites. He's one of
the old guys; he goes way back with Sam, so they didn't fire him.

Imagine what they'd have done to one of us, Paul?"

So Sam's running things. They've moved it to Operations? He's calling
the shots?"

"Well-" Miles smiled. His fiery skin seemed neon in the fluorescent
light. His teeth were still bad.

"You, Miles?"

"I was lucky. I didn't catch the flak. And they needed someone who was
all read-in. So I'm field supervisor."

"But under Sam?"

"Sam's a smart guy, Paul- He's had his eye on me for some time. We work
well together. But I'm not hero about Sam. I'm here about you."

"Suppose I say no? Suppose I say I'm tired of it, it's only going to end
in more senseless killing?"

"Well, you can't say no. You signed a
contract. We could make it pretty sticky. Your name's on the dotted
line. You can It just back out. But Paul, consider. Danzig really wants
you. He believes in you."

"The jerk," Chardy said.

"Paul, look at it this way. Danzig wants you, Danzig's got clout. That
means Metman wants you. Melman's going places, Paul. He'll get the top
job one of these days. He's one of the inside boys. Paul, you and me,
we've always been on the outside and we'll always be on the A outside
unless we have an insider really pulling for us. Somebody who's old
Agency, Harvard, WASP, upper management. That's Sam, Paul. He can really
help guys like us, Paul, two Irish-Catholic Chicago street kids.

He wants to start over with you,. Paul. Clean slate. No 'seventy-five
hearings, no recommendation for termination. It all disappears. Paul,
you could have your career back. You could have it all. If Sam owes you,
Paul, you're in extremely good shape when he lands on the top floor. He
could take you with him."

Playing the seducer in the Anacostia night didn't suit Miles. His
features were too squirrely, his acne too fierce. As he spoke his tiny
dark eyes lit with conviction and he jabbed and gestured with his small
hands. He pressed, crowded, yipped. A good case officer--Chardy had
known a few in his time--could charm you into selling your mother, but
Miles had no talent for it. It was a question of timing, of rhythm; he
came to the point too fast.

Metman must be on the desperate side to have resorted to a clumsy
operator like Lanahan. It was a curiosity: Why couldn't Melman have come
up with somebody smoother? No, he was recycling the people he'd started
with, simply shuffling them around. For some reason he wanted to keep
the operation contained, keep the number of players down.

Chardy looked across the river. The unlovely city gleamed cool and
glossy on the far shore. The Capitol, arc-lit and melodramatic, loomed
frozen against the night. Near it, also lit for drama, rose the shaft of
the Washington Monument--cathedrals in the Vatican of government, a
faith which just now Chardy saw as desperately hollow, as much a hoax as
the Catholicism in which he'd been raised.

But did he have a choice? Of course not. Which perhaps was Melman's real
message in sending this awful kid.

He thought of Johanna and his promise to her. Was it invalidated by her
treason? Or Ulu Beg? What did Chardy owe the Kurd, who had made him a
brother? He wondered about all sorts of things too: why was Melman so
desperate to have him back? Why had Melman been so driven to destroy him
seven years ago? Who really was running Ulu Beg? And what about pitiful
Tre,@Aitt, stuck out on his secret limb in Mexico?

He knew that whatever the answers were, they would not be found on a
playground.

"Let's go, then, Miles," he said.

CHAPTER 36

Danzig sat in his bathrobe out back, by the garden. There were at least
seven men around, three of them with radios. And beyond, in the
thickets, still more men. Government cars orbited the block too:
nondescript Chevys with two men in suits and Israeli submachine guns.

And helicopters? Perhaps even helicopters.

"You certainly appreciate scale," he said to the man next to him. Sam
Melman laughed.

"With all the taxes you pay, you deserve something a little special," he
said. "How's the chest?"

Danzig winced. The Kelvar vest had stopped all three slugs and diffused
the impact; still, they'd cracked two ribs and left him nearly immobile,
with bluish bruises running from inside his arm across his chest to his
stomach. He'd been kept sedated much of the past few days, the pain had
been so acute, and he remembered it only vaguely. His wife had appeared
heroically at his bedside and gone on television shows with communique's;
she seemed to enjoy the process and it gave her something to do.

Meanwhile an ocean of telegrams poured in, sweet words from men who
loathed him, mostly composed under the impression he would soon die
the early reports had been confused).

"My chest is splendid," said Danzig. "It's wonderful. I I

"I saw the medical reports. I bet it hurts like hell."

"It hurts terribly," Danzig said. "Please spare me any witticisms.

Laughter would kill me." He looked off glumly into the garden, a full
green universe by this time. "I suppose if it took you three days to
find Chardy, your own man, who was not even hiding from you but was
playing basketball in a public park not three miles from here, you
haven't had much luck with the Kurd."

"No. But the troops are out now. We are optimistic. It's wide open now,
so perhaps it all worked out for the best. Now we'll get him. It's
really all over."

"It certainly didn't work out for that poor girl." Danzig could remember
watching her die. He could place the exact moment: a certain sloppy
repose slid through her limbs and her head fell back spastically. A
beautiful woman held herself with a certain discipline and pride; it was
a universal. And when he saw that go, he knew she was finished. There
was blood on her everywhere. Later he found out a ricochet had torn
through her aorta. Curious and frightening, the ways of this world: from
fifteen feet a man had fired a sophisticated modern weapon at him and,
because of a trick of technology, failed to harm him seriously; this
poor woman, whose only crime was to be present, had paid with her life,
falling victim to a missed bullet that had deflected off of something.

Their parallel fates were an accumulation of statistical improbabilities
that were astonishing.

"It's tragic, yes," said Metman. "Tragic and pointless. But we didn't
bring the Kurd. The Kurd came himself."

"Still, you can't be pleased with the Agency's performance.

"Of course not. But steps have been taken to prevent a recurrence."

Danzig nodded, but what had really happened was that the system had
broken down. Entropy again, the factor of disorder and randomness.

They'd had him in a net tight as a drumskin for weeks, but gradually it
had worn down of its own volition, and the Kurd had slipped through. And
no amount of precaution could prevent it from happening again.

"Here, Dr. Danzig." Melman handed him something. It was a mashed piece
of copper. "That one would have killed you. That's the one. Thank God
for the vest."

Danzig preferred to thank the Secret Service and the U.S. Army whose
Natick Research and Development Laboratory had developed Kevlar for his
early trips to the Middle East.

I'll m not sentimentally attached to little souvenirs," he said. "Is it
of any significance?"

"No. We've a dozen more."

Danzig stood and awkwardly threw the bullet into the lawn; the pain came
in a sudden wave, but watching the thing disappear into the grass gave
him a kind of pleasure he felt even as he doubled over, wincing and
grunting. He wished he could make all the bullets in the world
disappear.

"All right, Sam," he said, turning, "tell me. Who's trying to kill me?"

Melman studied him with some detachment. A cool customer, this Melman.

No wonder he was doing so well now. A faint smile crossed Melman's
well-bred face.

"A Kurd. They're a violent people. They don't appreciate the subtleties
of your strategic thought."

"Please. I'm not a stupid man. Don't address me as one.

"Dr. Danzig, we have no information, not the tiniest scrap, to suggest
anything other than-"

"Who recruited the woman, the Harvard instructor? The one who so
conveniently has committed suicide and is therefore beyond our
questions?"

"She was with Ulu Beg in the mountains for over seven months. They
endured the collapse of the Kurdish revolution together. Perhaps they
made an agreement then. He simply got to her and-"

"You were watching her."

"Intermittently. She'd been investigated and declared clear. The officer
in charge made a grave error. He made several grave errors. He has been
removed to other duties."

"Yet this Kurd and this girl had enough know-how to outwit your
professionals."

"They were also exceedingly lucky. Don't forget that. They had Chardy in
their pocket. They had you in Boston.

And still they failed."

"They got a good deal farther than luck can explain."

"Dr. Danzig. I say again, we have no information to suggest that this is
anything more than it seems. A conspiracy of two people."

"Somebody's pulling the strings. No matter what your information says or
doesn't say. Somebody's ... and I want to know who."

But Melman said nothing, until after several seconds.

"Dr. Danzig, I think you've been reading too many thrillers."

Not long after, Chardy returned to Danzig's life, in a new suit. If
Danzig expected contrition he did not receive it. Contrition is
bullshit, Danzig's most important employer had once observed, and the
man Chardy exemplified this principle to the utmost. He looked a little
thinner in his new clothes. All that exercise? But he had that same
shambling reserve, a quiet, athletic containment. Yet he had recently
lost a lover, who had in turn betrayed him and, most cruelly, made a
fool of him, had he not? He should have been destroyed, fired at the
least. A failure of judgment, calculation, sheer common sense, of the
highest order. Danzig had seen the reports and was aware, where Chardy
was not, of the considerable emotion of an anti-Chardy faction among
senior Agency personnel. How headquarters people loved to see a former
glamour boy brought low! Danzig had observed this principle where it
applied to himself, he was not surprised to see it at play in the issue
of Chardy.

The man Ver Steeg was behind some of it; before his reassignment he had
attempted desperately to place all blame on Chardy. He had lobbied
feverishly, calling in old favors, bending the ears of old
acquaintances. His rage found willing ears; ripples of discontent spread
through the Agency and the larger government of which it was ostensibly
a part. The story of Chardy's cuckolding by the idea of murder for
vengeance against Joe Danzig spread and spread; even the President might
have heard of it. At the end of his string, the desperate Ver Steeg, on
whom full blame was decreed to fall for his commitment of resources in
the Dayton area, had even said Chardy was a part of it: the three of
them, working together, Chardy, the girl, the Kurd.

But it had been Danzig himself who demanded that Chardy not pay Yost Ver
Steeg's price.

Danzig wondered about his own motives. A curious question for him: why
this thing for Chardy? Was it that he felt a kinship with Chardy,
casting himself in the ex-champion's role that so many seemed to reserve
for Chardy? Or perhaps also it was that Chardy had a simplicity to him
that Danzig had not encountered among the sophists of his many circles.

And certainly another part of it was Chardy's aloneness, which by itself
recommended him to Danzig, who in an untoward moment of self-acuity
admitted to a ferocious Italian interviewer that he enjoyed acting alone
and knew that Americans were drawn to the spectacle of the lone fellow
performing great deeds.

Cowboys. So in this way, as a pure reflection of certain of his own
aspects, was Danzig attracted to Chardy. There was also the fellow's
lip; he was a great and furious retorter, a man of fierce pride, a real
fighter, which engaged Danzig.

Chardy also had no grief, he was a mighty represser, goal-oriented, who
hammered his feelings deep inside himself and would admit no weakness.

Danzig knew this to be dangerous-indeed, almost self-destructive-but
also the only way really to accomplish things. Chardy had exiled his
feelings from his body; his face was blank and a trifle dull, as usual.

If the dead woman had been and still was, by some sadomasochistic twist
in personality, dear to him, he would not show it. It was quickly and
smoothly business as usual. The events, bloody and horrible, of the week
post, seemed not to have happened at all for Chardy.

"You said he'd never get close, Mr. Chardy. He got to within fifteen
feet while you yourself were off in pursuit of dubious pleasures."

Chardy nodded. 11 I was no good guessing the future. Poor Uckley had to
pay for it."

"Uckley was a professional. He knew the risks. A sizable sum was settled
on his family. It is exceedingly dispiriting to be shot at. Tell me-you
are said to have some expertise in this matter--does one ever adjust?

"Never," Chardy said.

"But we seem to have survived again, haven't we?"

"Thanks to the vest."

"Do you know, I've been wearing it so long I'd forgotten about it?

Forgotten absolutely. I thought he had me. It must have been ten
seconds-which can be an eternity before it occurred to me I would not
die."

Chardy had no response.

"Is there news?"

"No, sir. Nothing."

"I'm not leaving this house until they catch him."

"That makes sense."

"Will they catch him?"

"They say they will."

"I know what they say. They say it loudly and often. Yet I sense a
certain softness in their position. Their performance so seldom lives up
to their promise. What do you say?"

Chardy thought for a second. Then he said, "No. Not for a time. What
they keep forgetting is that I trained him."

"An ego, Mr. Chardy? How pleasant. That makes two of us.

CHAPTER 37

Lanahan's rise was sudden and wondrous: he reported directly to Melman.

He called Melman

"Sam." There was no Yost between them; it was as if a generation had
been sliced out of the hierarchy. That is, Yost, the bishop, was gone;
Lanahan reported directly to Sam, the cardinal. He had responsibility,
control, power. He had people. He had nice little perks-a driver, a
girl, a coffee cup that miraculously never seemed to empty.

"And they seemed to be getting along?" Sam asked in his mildly
interested way, referring to Chardy and Danzig. "Yes, Sam." Miles rubbed
his chin, where a pimple had burst that morning. "For some reason Danzig
likes Paul. My people can't figure it out."

Melman sat back. "There's an attraction to Paul, with out a doubt."

I

"Yes. -"He has a certain World War Two glamour. Some of the older men,
the old OSS types, had it too. And a few of the Special Operations
people too. But only Paul, these days. It can be very exciting stuff."
wen'l-not that Lanahan would disagree with Sam on anything of
consequence; still, he'd throw out an occasional inoffensive
counterpunch so as not to be thought the total yes man-to a certain
juvenile turn of mind, yes. Poor Trewitt loved Chardy, and look what it
got him. It surprises me," he blasted ahead confidently, "that a realist
like Danzig could fall for a bullshit artist, a cowboy, like Chardy."

"He's scared, Miles. That's the psychology of it."

"I suppose."

"You're monitoring them? I mean, without being overly obvious about it?"

"Yes, Sam. Of course."

"Anything else?"

Ah. This looked to be a good moment to lay on Sam the story of Trewitt
in Mexico and the secret link to Chardy via Resurrection, which Lanahan
had been storing away for just the right moment. He took a quick look
about Sam's bright office, and leaned forward as if to begin to speak.

"Now there is one thing, Miles." Sam cut him off. "I've been meaning to
speak to you about this. I foresee one potential problem. I've already
run into traces of it in Danzig."

Was this a test?

Miles said nothing. He still felt as though he'd blundered into an
audience with the cardinal.

"Miles, both these men-Danzig and Chardy-have tendencies toward
paranoia. Well-documented, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes.,,

"What bothers me is that if their bond becomes too close, there's no
guessing what they might concoct. And certain ideas can be very
dangerous to our line of work. Remember the great double-agent scare of
the mid-seventies? No, of course not, you were just starting. And you
don't remember the fifties either, when I was just starting.

At any rate, this sort of thing can wreck a division, a whole
directorate. The whole shop. Do you follow?"

Sam peered at Miles intensely. He had pale, shallow eyes. Sam was a
handsome man. Smooth, brilliant Sam. Everybody wanted a little of Sam's
famous calm charm.

"Yes, sir," said Miles.

"Let's declare a first operating principle. A bedrock, a foundation. And
that's that this is first of all a security job. A matter of protection.

Perhaps even protecting Danzig from himself. As long as you see it in
those terms, and remember that the enemy is Ulu Beg and Danzig's own
paranoia, you'll be able to keep your bearings."

What was Sam warning him against?

"Miles, you're doing well. You've managed, early on, to get into a
crucial position on an important operation. You realize there are men
around here who've tried for years to get where you are, and have never
made it?"

Melman smiled, showing white, even teeth. His charm, remote from public
view, was well known in the Agency. It was not a pushy charm, or
flamboyant; rather it was a warm thing, enveloping. He had a way of
including you in a pact against the world: you, he, united, would stand
in tight circumference against the outsiders.

While yielding fully to it, Lanahan at the same time acknowledged it for
what it was: a treatment, a technique of manipulation. But he had an
immense urge to give Melman something for the privilege of being
included. He felt in the presence of a charismatic priest, a great
priest, and wished he had a sin to offer up so this man could forgive
him.

Trewitt in Mexico.

"Sam-"

"Wait, Miles. Let me finish."

He fixed Miles in his calm gaze, seeming to draw him in, to make him
absolutely his. "Paul hates us. You have to understand, though I wonder
if you're old enough, the kind of man he is. The kind of grudge he's
capable of manufacturing. A certain kind of mentality can tighten, can
fix, on a situation and turn it inside out.

And come to believe-genuinely believe-his own version of it. It's a
lesson in the human capacity for self-deceit, the power of will over
reality. Chardy has this talent; it's a characteristic of the fanatic
and it's what makes them such potent, such powerful, such astonishing
men. In a way I admire it, and wish I had a little of this power for
myself. For these men, to admit any but their own vision is to doom
themselves. Their strength is their will, their absolutism; their
weakness is their inflexibility.

"Miles"-he looked especially hard into Miles's dark, small eyes, nailing
him back against the chair-"you've seen his file. The Russians turned
him; they broke him in two. He gave them the Kurds, and the woman he
loved, driving her from him forever, turning her against him in the
cruelest of ways. And make no mistake, love is a very powerful, an
almost magical force for a man like Chardy. You've no idea how a man
like him needs it. So God knows what kind of construction he's put on
his own betrayal; and God knows what her death has now done to him."

Miles nodded. He felt curiously full of faith; in his own Church, in the
Agency, and in Sam. Some of Sam's wisdom entered his soul, as if Sam had
willed it there.

"Miles, there'll come a time when he'll test you. He'll demand you make
a choice. A choice between himself and us. And I warn you, he can be
very attractive. He has that rough grace that commands. In a crisis he
radiates energy and purpose. You'll see it in his eyes. I'm convinced
that the reason Speight was killed and Trewitt is missing is that they
exceeded their instructions from Ver Steeg and were off on some crazy
mandate from Paul. You saw what it brought them."

Tell him, thought Miles. Tell the priest. Confess. He was in a dark
booth and could only feel the power of the man's love, his warmth, his
infinite wisdom through the screen. He ached to tell. Tell him:
Trewitt's alive. He's still on the case. You're right, Sam, Chardy the
treacherous is working something.

"Miles, Chardy is not stupid. He seems stupid, he can play dumb better
than any man I've ever seen. If you read through the transcripts on the
Saladin Two inquiry, you'll think you're seeing a stupid man, a man so
shocked and addled and fatigued that he is unable to defend himself But
I never laid a glove on him. It was a brilliant performance. I never got
inside him. There's something in that head of his, something he never
even let us see. And now he's got Danzig; he's made some sort of pact
with Danzig. The whole thing troubles me immensely. Yet I can't get rid
of him, as I'd want to. He bungled it terribly in Boston, walking out
like that. I'd love to ship him to the North Pole, and I would too; but
I can't, because of Danzig. So Miles, only this warning: Watch Chardy,
watch him carefully. All right? He's much more than the man he's letting
you see."

Miles nodded reverently. Yet he was befuddled by the passion in Sam. He
felt he'd missed something somewhere; he was a little frightened. He
realized now that Melman hated Chardy. Hated him, feared him: weren't
they the same?

Tell him, Miles thought. You have it in your power to please the
cardinal, to bind him to you forever and ever. He will give you the
Church; he will make the Church yours. You will move through its halls,
through its hushed and purple rooms, to its most privileged sanctums.

Miles wished he could genuflect.

Yet he saw also there was a secret and dangerous game between Melman and
Chardy-a game whose stakes were so high neither man would speak of them
directly.

"Sam," he heard himself saying, "you can count on me."

When would the boy return?

"He should have been back hours ago," Trewitt said irritably.

"He probably stopped to steal a chicken," Roberto said. "The little
snotnose." Roberto had taken over the Beretta, his proudest possession.

He sat under a scrub oak polishing as obsessively as he'd once polished
the glasses behind the bar at Reynoldo's. He had already fired three of
the remaining seven bullets for practice Trewitt shifted uncomfortably
beside him. As he moved he bumped into his own armament, which had been
propped against a log in front of him. He'd had some practice too; with
the scope, it was like shooting at the star of a drive-in movie.

"No," he said, "he's had plenty of time. They left yesterday-in the
postman's Jeep they could have been back by one. it's almost five now."

"Forget it. What does a little snotnose know? He don't know nothing."

"He knows enough to get back in time. Dumb kid." The kid was important
because he was a kid and Trewitt liked him, but also because he carried
another telegram for Chardy, care of the Resurrection. If this try
didn't work, Trewitt had resolved to go out in the open, the hell with
the risk. He was done with waiting.

"Don't wet your pants. He'll be back. Little snotnose.

Trewitt picked up the rifle, slid it back against his shoulder. They
were two hundred yards upslope from the stone shack. The move had been
Trewitt's idea, arguing that if they were at any moment apt to be jumped
they couldn't just be caught in the shack; they had to have a plan.

Ramirez looked upon this strategic innovation with great curiosity, and
then went back to his smart-alecky maid and her comeuppance.

But Trewitt insisted, and ultimately prevailed. Still, some plan. The
plan was to blow the brains out of anybody who poked around.

And what if Chardy showed up? Well, Chardy wouldn't show up. There'd
been some kind of screw-up.

But Trewitt was determined. He'd get this Ramirez back somehow, whether
he wanted to or not, back to Chardy. There, Chardy, what do you think of
that? You decide, Chardy. Trewitt had no other chart to work by. His
head was still packed with confusion. All espionage tends to end in
farce, Malcolm Muggeridge had said, and boy, he sure had this one
figured out. Trewitt was not certain whether he'd decided on this course
of action or whether it had been decided for him. Things just happened,
and here he was, halfway up a dusty mountain in a hot sun on a clear day
with a sniper's rifle in his hands.

Above, a hawk pirouetted, slid on a thermal, high, remote, coldly
beautiful. Trewitt watched the bird with idle envy: the grace, the
power, the freedom, the dignity commandeered his imagination. The
lovely thing skidded back and forth brainlessly on the currents,
wheeling into the valley, then soaring upward again.

Trewitt wiped a drop of sweat off the end of his nose and studied its
dampness on the end of his finger, and did not see the car. choked up,
there it was, a Mercedes 450 SL, But when he looked, gunmetal gray, sitting
before the shack. Roberto was squirming into cover next to him. "Jesus
Mary, now we going to see some stuff." Oscar Meza got out from the
passenger's side, held his hands wide to show that he was unarmed.

"Reynoldo," he called to the mountain, II can you hear me? These people
here want to talk to you. That's all, Come, have a
little talk, little talk. They s . Don't be no fool, Reyand we will let
the little one go noldo, it's just a little talk."

There was silence. Take your time. You got fif "Reynotdo, think it over.

teen-"

The shot rang out crisp and clear. Oscar Meza sat back on his expensive
fender, holding his middle. He breathed deeply. His sunglasses fell off.

His knees cracked and he pitched forward on them. Then he fell the rest
of the way.

"Goddamnit." bellowed Trewitt, "he shouldn't have-" Ido sure can shoot a
gun."

"Right in the guts! Reyno dead man by the car. For Trewitt stared
stupidly at the a long moment nothing happened. Then the car began to
leaving its fallen passenger. it moved as gently back up, garage into
any though it were pulling out of any suburban sane, pleasant street,
turning as its driver swung its nose to bear in the fight direction.

Then, slowly, it began to descend the dirt road.

"Shoot! Shoot the whoreson- I cannot see him," commanded Ramirez from
his cover.

"What?" Trewitt said.

"Shoot him! Mother of God, shoot!"

Without thinking, Trewitt brought the rifle to his shoulder, throwing
the bolt. He felt the press of the stock against his shoulder, the
weight of the rifle in his hands. His eye went naturally to the scope
and after a moment of blurred dazzle in which nothing made sense, he
caught a glimpse of the gray car as it plummeted toward safety. Against
the cross hairs, through the rear window, there now appeared, almost
magically-a head. A man's head, held low as he hunched in terror behind
the wheel, holding the car in a straight line for the turnoff, gathering
speed.

Trewitt readied himself.

"Shoott Shootl" Roberto commanded.

Only seconds remained until the car reached the turnoff and would be
gone. Trewitt took a whole breath, released half. The head lay in the
foreshortened reality of the scope, just beyond the muzzle. He felt he
could touch it.

Shoot, Trewitt told himself. The 7-millimeter would bum into the skull,
exiting, hugely, through the face, taking features and bones and eyes
and brains with it, spraying them indiscriminately against the
windshield. Trewitt felt a split-second's nausea at what he was about to
do. He took the slack out of the trigger "Shoot!" Roberto hooted.

The car swirled around the turnoff in a great rooster tail of dust, and
was gone.

"What is wrong with you? Are you sick, man?" asked Roberto.

"I-I didn't have a very good shot," Trewitt said. "I couldn't see
wasting a bullet."

"You should have shot anyway."

"Well, I didn't want to throw a bullet away."

The youth looked at him suspiciously.

Trewitt sat back.

"I don't know why he shot that guy," he said to nobody. "I don't see
what that accomplishes." Oscar Meza lay a hundred or so yards down the
slope on his stomach. Trewitt could now see that he was wearing an
expensive suit and fine boots. He was a curiously formal figure in the
litter of the yard.

"That son of a bitch kick me out of my job," said Roberto.

But Trewitt now had to think about the boy. What about the boy?

"They'll kill him now," he said.

"Kill who?" Roberto asked.

Trewitt's desolation was total. It became rage. He wished he'd shot the
man in the car, blown his fucking head to pieces. "The little boy.

Miguel." '"He should have stayed with his mama," said. Roberto.

Trewitt sat back against the tree, the rifle next to him. Around him the
bleak mountains lay in dusty splendor. He looked for the hawk but it had
vanished. He looked about: he seemed to be on the face of the moon.

"Hey, Patron," Roberto called to Ramirez, who ambled toward them, "the
norteamericano wants to 90 down the hill for the little snotnose kid."
You just get killed, mister. Hey, how come you didn't shoot? You should
have shot him."

"I couldn't see him very well," mumbled Trewitt.

"That's a fine telescope on that gun. You should have been able to see
him real good. Maybe you weren't working it right." , "He's just a kid!"
Trewitt screamed, leaping to his feet. "Come on! we can't stay here.

Let's get going. Maybe it's not too late." He began to stride manfully
down the slope. He turned when they did not move and fixed them in a
steely glare.

"Let's get going," he commanded icily.

"You must be a real crazy-head," said Ramirez. "Go down there? They just
kill you. They're going to kill you anyway, but why rush it?" He
laughed. "I'm hungry. Let's get some food. They'll be back pretty soon."

"WE'VE GOT TO SAVE THAT KID!" boomed Trewitt again.

"He is a crazy-head, Patron," said Roberto. Wonder filled his eyes.

The two Mexicans, laughing between themselves, walked past him to the
shack.

Trewitt stood alone, the rifle tucked against his hip. He watched the
fat man and the youth. They stepped over the body of Oscar Meza and
ducked inside.

Then Trewitt started down the hill to the shack for some tortillas too.

CHAPTER 39 chardy was made uneasy by the approach of night. He enings,
for during them, had a history of unpleasant ev late, when he was among
the things that he could not control by sheer will crawled out to harry
him- And when he , across from the blinking had found Johanna in her car
police lights, the rushing officers and medics, the gathering crowd, he
was aware that in some strange way a trap had been sprung in his mind.

He had stared at her, knowing exactly what had happened, and why, and
how: he saw it now. A pain came and took his breath away and almost
knocked him to the sidewalk.

He had thought he heard somebody tell him to be reasonable.

The memory would not die; it had increased the next several days, all
through his time as athlete, among the postman and his friends.

Be reasonable, somebody was telling him The voice was sane and calm; it
was almost compassionate.

"Paul. Be reasonable."

Chardy was alone in his little Silver Spring apartment, on the night
after he returned from Danzig's. A baseball game was over on the tube,
it was that late. He'd had a few beers. He'd laid out his new suit, a
clean shirt, and his shoes for tomorrow. He felt like another beer, but
realized he was now out and wondered if it made sense to dress again and
drive around until he found an all-night liquor store or a bar with
package goods.

Be reasonable, he told himself.

But the voice was not his. It was affable, pleasant, colloquial,
American. It was the voice of a pudgy man, about fifty, with merry,
alert eyes and thinning blond hair, almost white. He wore a Soviet
major's uniform, army, with artillery boards and insignia, but he was
KGB all the way. The uniform made this point explicitly: no Soviet
military careerist would be seen in a Third World country in such a
disgraceful uniform, rumpled, spotted, humorously unpressed. An orthodox
man could not wear such a uniform under pain of instant censure and
discipline; thus the wearer was not an orthodox man. He enjoyed special
privileges. He was permitted his eccentricities.

"Paul," he had said, "come on. Let's be reasonable, shall we?"

Chardy's Arabian Nights, which were not 1001 in number but only six,
were beginning to reassemble in his mind this night in his little
apartment.

"It's so difficult, this business," said Speshnev. "I'd much prefer to
be your friend. I really would. Will you please talk to me? Please,
Paul."

But Chardy would not talk. He remembered instructing himself. don't give
them anything. If you start, you will not stop. Don't give them
anything. The first surrender is the only surrender; it is total, it is
complete. Time. Play for time.

He studied the cell. Down here, the walls sweated. The air was moist,
almost dense. This room had probably been cut from living stone a
thousand years ago, by slaves.

who knew what pains it had witnessed? Had it always been a torture
chamber?

"Paul, let me explain how it works. I'm going to have them burn a hole
in your back. The pain will be-well, it will be indescribable. But I
think you can get through it. You are a very brave man. I think you can
get through it. Then tomorrow, Paul, tomorrow, I'm going to have them
bum another hole in your back. You'll have all this evening to think
about the hole they're going to bum. You'll know exactly what it's going
to feel like. There will be no surprises. Paul, the day after that, I
will burn another hole. You'll have a night to think about that one too.

And on and on, Paul. On and on and on. If we run out of back, then we'll
move to the chest. Do you understand? That is the future, Paul. That's
all the future there is." You can do it, he told himself. You can stand
it, he told himself.

Oh, it's going to hurt so. Oh, Christ, it's going to hurt.

You can do it, you're Chardy, you're so tough. You've been begging for
this one your whole life. To see how tough you are.

They burned the first hole in his back.

"Paul, it's so absurd," Speshnev told him on the second day. "What do
you gain by resisting? We win in the end, of course. But think further:
What do we win? Frankly, not much. We win a momentary advantage, a half
a point's shift in momentum. Perhaps I win a promotion, or at least
advance a few inches closer to promotion. And what of it? Is the world
really changed? Is one system that much better off than the other? Of
course not. Let's face facts: our two nations face each other on a
thousand different battlefields, a thousand different contests each
second. Some we winsome you win. But nothing really changes. The process
of change is implacably slow and no human endeavor may be seen to affect
it. So what sense does it make to resist us? None at all. It's
thoroughly ridiculous, an exercise in playground heroics. Now, in this
cellar, you are being a hero, an authentic American hero, fighting the
pain, the psychological pressure, fighting alone without help, without
hope, standing against everything we can do to you. It's incredible;
it's quite moving. You have my respect. I couldn't have done nearly so
well. I'd have cracked in the first session. I'd certainly have cracked
by now. You are a champion.

Paul, must I have them bum another hole in you? Must I? Will you force
me?"

Chardy's wrists were tied before him; he could see old stone and smell
his own sour perspiration. He'd spent the night thinking about his back.

"Paul, please. Help me on this. We can work together."

They burned the second hole in his back.

"How was your evening, Paul?"the guards say you screamed all night.

They Say You woke several times with nightmares. I would imagine the
psychological pressure is immense. I know this business weighs heavily
on me as well. I hope we can finish it today and that you're able to
cooperate. What do you say, Paul? Do you think you'll be able to help
me?"

Chardy was silent; in his peripheral vision he could see Speshnev
standing behind and beside him in his rumpled uniform.

"Paul, now let's think about this. At this very moment an American from
the IBM Corporation is selling a Russian from the Committee on
Scientific Research highly sophisticated computer software whose
intricacies are a thousand times more complex than you or I could ever
understand. A traitor? No, it's done in the open! Business men! With the
support and endorsement of both governments. it's simply trade. Also
being sold are licenses for the bottling of Pepsi-Cola and the
manufacture of Ford Pintos. in exchange we fork over tons of our
desperately needed minerals, crude ore, and so on. So against this
panorama of exchange, this Technicolor extravaganza of commercial greed,
of ideological co-option, what can you expect to accomplish? Paul, be
reasonable. You prevent one man, me, from becoming a full colonel. It's
really quite humorous, Paul. I wish you'd work with me on this."

They burned the third hole in his back.

"Paul, they tell me you had a terrible evening. The guard says he thinks
you did not sleep at all. And you do look feverish, Paul. Frankly, you
look awful. You look terrible. I think yesterday I let them go too far.

That wound is terrible. Paul, if you could see it you would be
disgusted. And the flies. The flies must drive you insane. Paul! How
much longer can you let this go on. You are destroying yourself "

Chardy had given up, by this time, any idea of heroism. Courage had no
meaning in a cellar among men with blowtorches. He'd quit caring for the
Kurds; they could have the Kurds, they could have Ulu Beg and his band
of lunatics. And the Agency-what good was it? They'd let him hang on
ropes for three days now, in his own filth, in a cell with rats, a
medieval place full of damp straw where other men screamed in the night,
and his nightmares were huge and terrible and he could think of nothing
but the torch.

"It's not as if anybody cares," Speshnev said. "Do you really think all
those Ivy Leaguers care? I mean, think about it, Paul: have you been
really satisfied with your treatment from them? Haven't they always
regarded you with contempt as some sort of working-class adventurer,
just a shade above a mercenary? Do they even bother to conceal their
superiority?

Tell me if I'm not right: they all wear pinstripe suits and black shoes,
don't they?' I'm right; I know I'm right. They seem to pad along. They
wear those pink-rimmed glasses, plastic things. They all know each
other, and each other's fathers, and all went to the same schools. They
play squash. They send their children to the same schools. They all live
in the pleasanter Washington suburbs. McLean or Chevy Chase. They drink
wine and know about French food. They speak a different language. And
you terrify them. You scare the pants off them because you are one of
those rare men with talent. How ordinary people hate talent! They
despise it! It terrifies them! You have a talent for action, a will, a
courage. They envy it fiercely and they hate you for it. Think about it,
Paul. Be reasonable. Are those men worth suffering these torments for?

Think about what I'm saying, Paul. They'll leave you here to the next
century. They have no capacity to imagine what you are undergoing. Paul.

It would be so easy to tell me."

And it would. Speshnev wanted the frequencies, the times of
transmission, the code system of the radio linkup with the Kurds. It was
so simple. The frequency was 119.6 Mhk, nothing fancy at all, but the
Kurdish receivers and the Agency transmitter in Rez5'iyeh were
calibrated exceedingly fine so there was very little band waver going in
or out. Radios were an Agency specialty. You had to be parked right in
the groove to intercept and if Speshnev didn't get the frequency he had
no chance. The codes were easy too: Fred to Tom on the odd days, Tom to
Fred on the even ones. It was so simple it was primitive, straight out
of a World War 11 OSS handbook. He could tell Speshnev in ten seconds.

He could be off the hook in ten seconds.

"Please don't hurt me again. Please," he said.

"You'll cooperate?"

Chardy twisted on his ropes until he made eye contact with the Russian.

He begged forgiveness with his eyes and the Russian responded.

"Don't you understand?" Chardy said hoarsely, whispering. "I-1-just
can't." Johanna was among the Kurds. He'd have to give them Johanna and
he would not. They burned the fourth hole in his back.

By the fifth day Speshnev was growing desperate. Chardy could hear him
pacing in the cell, hear his boots scrunching on the straw.

Chardy tried to think of Johanna.

"The early bums are festering badly, Paul. There are maggots in them,
and flies. The infection looks gruesome. The pus is something terrible,
Paul. I'd like to get a doctor in here. I don't know how you can stand
the pain. The pain must be intense."

He had never seen her naked. He never would see her naked. It had always
been in a sleeping bag. He tried to imagine her naked. He tried to put
her nakedness between himself and this room.

"Those flies can lay eggs, Paul, that get into your bloodstream. Your
blood distributes them throughout your body. They hatch in odd places,
Paul. They hatch in your lungs, in your toes, in your genitals, in your
heart, in your brain. Paul, all those little insects in you, eating you
up. All that corruption and filth spreading through your body, devouring
you, absorbing you."

Her breasts. He tried to imagine their heft and weight, the size of the
nipples. He concentrated desperately.

"Paul, a little antibiotic and the problem is instantly taken care of.

It's just a pill, a shot, and modern medicine takes over, vanquishing
the invaders. Or they eat and grow fat on your flesh, grow corpulent on
your organs, Paul. And out there, eating you from this side, Paul, is
the torch. Always the torch, Paul. The torch is here. Tell me, Paul, are
you ready for the torch again? Paul, you are making it so hard on me.

But you force me to do my duty. Help me, Paul. Let me save you from the
torch and the insects, Paul. Help me."

But Chardy was thinking of nothing else in this world except Johanna and
could not help him. They burned the fifth hole in his back.

The Russian was desperate on the sixth day.

"Damn you, Paul! Damn you, Chardy, the codes! The codes, damn you. The
frequencies."

Chardy hung on the rope. Before him, the wall. He could hear the wheel
of the cart as they brought the heavy acetylene torch in. He had never
seen it, but he'd heard it bang against the walls, heard the squeak as
its metal wheels rolled across the stone floor. He had no idea who was
working the torch, who actually applied it, but for certain, whatever
happened, happened at Speshnev's direction.

He could hear them now adjusting the nozzle, could hear the soft
turning of valves as the gas and oxygen mixed. He smelt the gas, as he
always did, and he began to gag reflexively, to choke and twist on his
ropes, to retch up food that wasn't there.

"It's here, Paul. The torch. It is once again the hour of the torch. Are
you ready, Paul? The torch is here; he's got it lit. Its flame is blue,
Paul. Its pain is indescribable. He's going to wait a second, adjust the
flame."

Chardy's head lolled idiotlike on his chest. Drool played across his
chin. Very little was real to him except the torch, whose approach he
could feel all the way to his inmost cells. The rope cut into his hands.

His fingers looked like blue sausages. Blood ran down his arms. He hung
in his own waste.

"Paul, don't make me debase you again! Don't!"

Chardy fought them with his last weapon. It was his game. He tried to
think of basketball. He tried to keep the game at the front of his
brain. He tried to remember what he loved most about it: the pebbly feel
of the ball as it came up to his hand on the dribble; the exultation
that fired through his veins when a long one went in, especially late in
the last period in a close game; the sheer fury, the physical ferocity
of the struggle under the boards. He saw himself in a vast dark gym. He
could not tell if there were fans in the seats or not, for he could not
see. He could not make out the people he was playing against either:
they seemed to be shadows, swatting at him, throwing their bodies at
him. But he could see the hoop, the only spot of light in this great
arena, an orange circle, crisp and perfect, its white net hanging
beneath it. And he could not miss. He kept putting it in. He kept firing
that ball up there and it kept going through. He could smell his own
foul sweat, and exhaustion clouded his vision. His legs didn't work and
fatigue blurred the precision of his moves. He could get it in, though.

He thought he could get it in.

"Paul, it's working now. The torch is working now. We are ready. They
tell me you screamed all night, Paul. You're feverish, you're in great
pain. You've fought so hard. But you're not going to make it. You are
not going to make it, Paul. I've won. You knew I would. Paul, it's a
matter of time. It's only a matter of time. The torch is ready.

Chardy could hear two grunting men shove the thing over, hear the squeak
of the wheels.

Paul?

"Please," Chardy said. "Please don't."

"Are you ready, Paul?"

"Please. Help me. Don't hurt me. I'm begging, oh, Jesus, I'm begging
you. Don't hurt me. Please. Don't hurt me. Don't hurt me."

"Burn him.,,

"No. NO! PLEASE, OH, JESUS, PLEASE DON'T HURT ME!

PLEASE! I'm BEGGING! OH, SHIT, I CAN'T TAKE IT! PLEASE!"

"You'll talk then?"

Chardy hung on his ropes. He tried to pray. Dear God, spare me. Spare
me, please, dear God. I pray to you, dear God, help me. Please, help me.

"Paul. Your answer?"

Chardy whispered.

"What? Louder, Paul. Louder."

Chardy tried to find the words. His tongue caught in his throat. He
could hardly see. He was so scared. He could feel his heart thumping.

"Yes, Paul? Yes?"

Chardy croaked, "I said, fuck you, cocksucker."

They burned the sixth hole in his back.

Chardy lay in the ropes. How much time had passed? Pain-time or real
time? Pain-time is different: longer. In pain-time, years, decades. In
real time, maybe three hours. It was just night. He stared at the
crumbling stone. He heard rats in the darker comers of the cell. He knew
that tomorrow he would crack. It would be tomorrow. He was not even sure
he could last the night.

He heard the cell door open. Off schedule. Were they going to give him
his seventh day's dosage now, and cheat him of the pleasures of brooding
upon it? But he couldn't turn to see. His neck barely worked.

Rough hands cut him down. He fell limbless to the straw. He was dragged
toward light. They lifted him up.

"Ahhhhhhh!"

"His back, watch his back, you fool."

"Yes, Agha."

He seemed to sit.

"Get him some water."

It was presented in an earthenware cup, held for him because his gray
hands would not work. He felt the rough texture of the vessel with lips
and tongue as the water sweetly entered him.

"Enough.

The water was taken away.

"Paul? Can you hear me?"

Chardy could not focus. He squinted and recognize the voice. He could
almost see the face and then it swam into clarity. The Russian peered at
him intently.

Chardy smiled stupidly, feeling the skin of his lips crack and split. A
tooth fell out. His head lolled forward; he raised it again. He shook
his head.

"Paul, listen to me. We've captured another Kurd from Ulu Beg's group. A
deserter. We broke him with the torch just minutes ago."

Chardy thought about it. He almost passed out. More water was poured
into his mouth, until he almost choked. the only one who knows the
fre-fre fre-"

"Frequency, Paul. Frequency."

"Frequency."

"Paul, he didn't have to tell us about the frequency or the codes. He
told us enough. He told us about the woman.

Chardy stared groggily at the man. His back fired off on him, curling
him in a spasm of pain.

jo-jo-jo-?" he began weakly.

"Yes. Listen carefully. Here it is, a one-time-only offer. I'm not going
to give you much time. You've got about thirty seconds. Paul, either
give us the information or I swear to you, I'll bring you her head. If
you talk, maybe we can get her out. We can try, at any rate. She's
beyond anybody else's help. The Agency can't help her. The Iranians
can't. She's with his group and we're closing in and we'll have them in
a matter of days, a week at the most- Only one man can help her, Paul.

You, Paul. You decide, Paul. Does the woman live or die? You tell me,
Paul, or I swear that within the week, in this very chamber, I will hand
you her head. I'll take it from her myself.

Chary had begun to cry. He found the strength to lift his hands to his
eyes to shield his shame. Fat tears fell onto his filthy body and ran
into the straw. He choked on them.

"Paul. Ten seconds."

Speshnev stood.

Chardy fought for his strength as he watched the Russian go toward the
light. He felt himself slipping into the straw. He watched the others
join Speshnev at the door and begin to file out. Speshnev pulled the
heavy door closed behind him.

"No," screamed Chardy. "No. God help me. God help them all. God forgive
me. No. No. No."

"There, there, Paul," he heard the Russian crooning, as he lifted
Chardy's head gently from the straw. "It's going to be all right. You're
being reasonable at last."

They cleaned him quickly after he told them, and shot him full of
pain-killer. The rest he remembered poorly. They took him up several
floors to some kind of operations center. He sat at a Soviet artillery
radio, an older model. It had evidently already been adjusted to proper
frequency. Several technicians hovered about and he

7-AN

Nm could tell that his condition shocked them. He almost passed out
twice.

The radio crackled.

"What do you want me to say?"

Speshnev told him about the helicopters, and Chardy told Ulu Beg, and
then they gave him some more painkiller and he went to sleep.

He awoke in a hospital room, on his stomach, in the presence of two
Soviet Marines with AK-47s. He was much improved, though groggy. Bright
sunlight flooded in through the window, and beyond he could make out the
city. They brought him a glass with some high-protein concoction in it,
mostly egg and wheat, and he sucked it down.

The door flew open and the Russian came in.

"How are you, Paul? How are you?"

Chardy had no answer and looked at him stupidly. He could only think
that he had just begun a day where there would be no torch.

"We broke it, Paul. Yes, we did it. I did it, Paul. Broke it, broke the
revolt. We broke the Kurds, Paul. All American advisers have been
ordered back to Rezd'iyeh. The mission there will be closed down. The
Shah has arrested the Kurdish emissaries in Tehran, and closed the
border. it's all over."

He looked carefully at Chardy.

Chardy had trouble concentrating. Even now his memories were beginning
to jangle on him, to mix and twist and fabricate themselves. His back
felt numb. He'd been jacked up to his eyeballs on narcotics. He could
hardly I r remember his own name.

He looked away. Stupidly, he lurched from the bed. One of the Soviet
Marines grabbed him, but he pulled away and stumbled to the window. He
looked across Baghdad from a fifth or sixth story and saw a filthy
sprawl of stone slums and crappy modern buildings spilling to the
horizon. A sluggish bluebottle struggled against the dirty glass. The
sun was shining, though a hump of clouds gathered in the distance, over
the mountains far to the north.

"A wonderful city, eh, Paul? Beautiful Baghdad, storied Baghdad, city of
princes and miracles. Beautiful, isn't it, Paul?"

Chardy said nothing. He sensed the Russian beside him.

"Ah, Baghdad! Do You know in my last post I had a fine view. I could see
a river, a giant old Ferris wheel, white baroque buildings. Europe.

Civilization. Perhaps now I will be going back there."

"The girl," Chardy said. "Johanna. Please?"

"Well, Paul, the news is optimistic. We believe she got out. We have
examined the bodies and hers is not among them. Unless she was killed
earlier, of course, in which case of course I can take no
responsibility. But-"

"Bodies?" Chardy said.

"Yes, Paul. We killed them. We killed them all."

Chardy fell to his knees. He began to weep. He could not stop himself.

He sobbed and gagged. He tried to hide his face from the Russian
towering above him.

"You are truly a broken man, aren't you, Paul? I wonder if you'll ever
be any good again? At anything? I hope when you get back you can find
this woman and get her to marry you. You've certainly paid a dowry.

Perhaps the highest in the world. You can marry her and live in the
suburbs and work for an advertising agency. Tell me, Paul. Was it worth
it?"

That night, on the flight to Moscow, Chardy managed to open both his
wrists with a broken glass. He bled considerably, but they caught him
and would not let him die.

Chardy blinked awake in his apartment, alone in the cold night.

Be reasonable, he told himself He rolled from the bed, went to the
refrigerator. There was no beer; he had not gotten any. Was it too late?

He badly needed something to drink.

He looked at his Rolex and discovered it was the hour of four. He stared
out the window above his sink. A sprawl of streetlights lay beyond the
filthy glass.

Chardy stood barefoot in the kitchenette. He got himself a lukewarm
glass of water in a plastic glass and was too spooked to chase down ice.

He thought of Johanna, who was dead, and Ulu Beg who soon would be. He
thought of Speshnev too, and even thought he heard the Russian's voice
now, lucid, full of reason and conviction. Speshnev said, and Chardy
heard it as if the man were here, now, in this room: "In my last post I
had a fine view. I could see a river, a giant old Ferris wheel, white
baroque buildings."

Chardy could see nothing. This was the suburbs; there was nothing to
see. Chardy thought of the Russian looking at his white baroque
buildings, and marveled that in the man's mind there was room enough for
pleasant views and baroque architecture and the theory and practice of
the torch.

He shook his head, took another sip of his water. He looked at his
watch, to discover that only a minute had passed since he'd last
checked. He knew he'd never get back to sleep. He looked again into the
darkness and at that instant, that exact instant, it hit him with such
force as almost to drive him through the linoleum that in only one city
in the world could there be such a congruence of rivers, Ferris wheels,
and white baroque buildings. He'd been there himself.

The city was Vienna, where Frenchy Short had been found in the Danube
after a solo job.

CHAPTER 40

The strange patterns of fortune that swirled through it all disturbed
him, made him deeply suspicious: things were always baffling, always
astonishing, constructed as if with an Arab's cunning. The curious
passage by which, as Chardy left the arena, Ulu Beg entered-as if it
were written above that their meeting be postponed for a different day.

Then again, the Kurd reflected, the play of whatever force had kept the
fat Danzig alive. From fifteen feet he'd fired, seen the clothes fly as
the bullets hit, seen the man knocked down. He'd seen it, with his own
eyes. Then by what magic did Danzig survive?

DANZIG SHOT AT CAMBRIDGE PARTY 2 KILLED IN GUN BATTLE

FORMER SEC'Y IN STABLE CONDITION' Was it some American trick, whose
subtle purpose no mind could divine?

Or had he in fact failed?

He had read the newspaper until he came to an explanation. A vest to
stop bullets! A vest!

And then, when he thought he was done with surprises, he'd turned a last
page and found still another, a familiar Mom face gazing at him from
under another disturbing headline:

Harvard staffer found dead in Roxbury She was dead. Two strangers also.

Two ex-brothers, one hunter, one hunted, pass in the night. And after it
all, this Danzig still lived.

Ulu Beg sat back wearily and rubbed his hand across the stubble of his
beard. He was tired, his eyes raw. He'd been on the move now a week
since it happened and he was running low on money. He needed a shave, to
wash, to rest. was crowded, He looked about him. The train station even
at this late hour. Outside it was raining. America was supposed to be
full of miracles, and yet this train station smelled of the toilet and
was dirty and hot. It was also full of peculiar people: madmen, old
ladies, mothers with wild children, sullen soldiers, rich dandies; in
all, a much stranger range of passengers than the buses. Or maybe it was
his desperate mood or his fatigue, and the knowledge that his chances
were growing more slender each day; he would never reach Danzig; he
would be caught.

He had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Nobody would guide him. He'd made
a terrible mistake a few minutes ago, confusing a quarter and a
fifty-cent piece and there'd been a scene at a little coffee bar and a
policeman had wandered by to straighten things out. Even now the officer
was watching him from behind a pillar.

The Kurd looked at the clock. In a few minutes--unless the train was
late and they were always late-there would come a train that would take
him to Washington. tn Washington, he would find Danzig's house. He had a
picture of it still from a newspaper he'd read weeks ago in Arkansas.

Somehow he'd find it. And this time he'd get close enough to place the
muzzle against the head before he fired.

He sat back, looking up at old metal girders. His head ached. The rain
beat a tattoo against the roof. The smell of the toilet reached his
nose. He felt himself begin to tremble. He wished he could sleep but
knew he must not. He thought he might have a fever.

He wished he had some help. He wished he knew where he was going. He
wished he knew what was written above. He wished he knew what surprise
would come next.

A man sat next to him and after a few seconds turned and said, "Do you
care for a cigarette?"

It was Colonel Speshnev, CHAPTER 41

Now Roberto was gone too. Trewitt had seen him die, shot in the lungs at
long range.

"May Jesus take his soul," said Ramirez, crossing himself, "and may He
take the soul of that abortion out there with a rifle and telescope and
wipe His holy ass with it.

Trewitt was wedged behind some stunted cripple of what passed for a tree
in the higher altitudes of the Sierra del Carfizai. He shivered at the
memory of Roberto's sudden passing, which was-when, yesterday? the day
before? And he shivered also for the cold, which was intense, and
thought briefly of all the coats he'd owned in his life, nice, solid,
American coats, parkas and jackets and tweeds and windbreakers, a whole
life written in coats, and now, now when he really needed one, he didn't
have it, didn't have a god damned thing. "mother of God, this is one
fine mess," said Ramirez. "Jesus, Mr. Gringo, I wish you'd hit that fart
in the car."

Trewitt wished he'd hit him too. He also wished Ramirez hadn't shot Meza
and maybe had talked to "them"- whoever they were. He also wished he
wasn't on this mountain. A shower of pebbles now descended on him, and
he turned to watch the big Mexican slither off. Wearily, Trewitt knew he
had to join him. The trick was to keep moving, keep crawling and sliding
and hopping from rock to rock and gulch to gulch and knob to knob. They
were being stalked by-how many now? Who knew? But bullets came their way
often, kicking up vivid little blasts where they hit. Scary as hell. You
never knew when it was coming.

At the same time Trewitt was almost beyond caring about moving on. His
terror had eaten most of his energy, and his exhaustion had claimed what
was left. He bled in a hundred places from assorted cuts, bruises, and
nicks. He was rankly filthy and his own odor revolted him. A terrible
depression, a sensation of worthlessness, a sense of having once again
fulfilled his own lowest expectations of himself haunted him.

You really are no good, Trewitt. You really are a fuckup. You always
were; you always will be.

He watched the Mexican slithering through the rocks like a wily lizard.

Something else troubled Trewitt about all this: there was only one way
to go, and that was up, but what happened when they got all the way to
the top and ran out of mountain?

We make a stand. Big heroes," Ramirez said.

"Maybe we ought to try and talk to these guys."

"Okay. You go talk. Go ahead, be my guest, you go talk."

"Who are they?

How many are there? Is this Kafka?" Ramirez had no opinion on Kafka. He
had no opinion on the identity of his pursuers either. But he thought
there were at least five.

This Ramirez was something: totally incurious, totally indifferent to
all things beyond himself. Trewitt knew he himself only existed to
Ramirez as a kind of pointless but exotic addendum to reality, a kind of
minor character good for a page or two in the Cervantes-scale epic of
the Mexican's own thunderous life. A norteamericano-Ramirez despised
Americans, but it was nothing personal, for he despised Mexicans as
well. He despised everybody, everything: it was a mark of greatness, a
symbol of the kind of huge, greedy will that in more primitive times
might have made of Ramirez some kind of legend, a Pancho Villa, an Aztec
chieftain, a dictator. Or was this Trewitt's imagination roller coasting
all over the place once again? For on the other hand, the more prosaic
hand, Ramirez was just a large, stupid peasant with a peasant's slyness
and hard practical streak.

Yet he was important.

Somehow he fit into a pattern Trewitt could not understand.

He was important enough to kill, which made him important enough to
save.

"Hey, Mister Gangster Man. You coming?" the Mexican called in his border
English.

Trewitt rolled over and began to squirm up the mountain. At least where
he was going there was a view.

CHAPTER 42 chardy awoke with a headful of ideas, but before he could
begin to decide how to pursue them, the telephone rang.

"Chardy."

"Chardy, it's Miles. Listen, you better get over here. We've got a bad
situation on our hands. Danzig."

"What's wrong?"

"He wants you. And only you. He doesn't want us. At all."

"Miles,

"Chardy, you have to get over here. The guy is acting crazy. Get over
here, goddammit.,, Chardy dressed and arrived within an hour and found
Miles pacing the library, pasty under his acne, surrounded by other
somber agents who would look at nothing.

"Take him up", Miles directed coldly.

Chardy turned to leave with a younger man. But Miles grabbed him.

"Paul. Just calm him down. All right? Just take it easy with him. Don't
stir him up. Okay? Don't let me down on this, all right'?"

"Sure, Miles," said Chardy.

Chardy rose through the levels of the house with the other agent, coming
at last to the top floor.

"It's down there," the man said. "Third door. His office."

"He's really flipped?"

"He called Miles a Russian dupe. Miles. The little priest. He said we
were all KGB. He said he was being held against his wishes. He tried to
call Sam Melman. Miles almost died. He said he knew reporters all over
town, he was going to have a news conference. He was going to tell them
the Agency was trying to kill him-the whole thing was an Agency plot. He
ordered Miles out of his house. He told him to go hide at the cathedral.

He told him he could have the DCI over here in fifteen minutes. He told
him he was looking for a gardener, would Miles like the job? All the
time he was in his bathrobe, with his cock hanging out. He smells like a
wino. All in all, it was quite a morning. And before nine. Jesus,
Chardy, I want off this one. A bad op can stink up your records for
years. I want to go back to South America, where it's safe."

Chardy thanked him and went to the door. He knocked.

"Chardy?" The whisper was ominous. 11 Yes."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

Locks clicked and tumbled; the door cracked open.

"Quick."

Chardy slipped into the twilight. The shades drawn, all lights off. In
this darkness Chardy stood, momentarily paralyzed. Behind him the door
clicked shut.

His eyes adjusted. The room, large, was cased in books. Files lay all
around, sheets of paper, index cards, clipped articles, photocopies. Two
card tables stood inundated in paper. Two desks against a far wall bore
heavy loads as well.

"Sit down. Over there."

Chardy walked, slipping Once on a pencil. Cups, glasses with a few stale
ounces of liquid in them, were everywhere. He sat gingerly on a folding
chair.

"What time is it?"

Chardy smelled something sour as he turned his wrist to see his Rolex.

"Nine," he said. "In the morning."

Danzig, unshaven, sat across from him in a bathrobe.

His hair swirled about his head, unwashed. The odor was from him.

"They say this room isn't wired," Danzig said.

"I don't think we wired anything," Chardy said.

"Where have you been?"

"I had to go home. I was only gone a night."

"You look tired."

"I haven't been sleeping well."

But Danzig wasn't interested in Chardy's sleep. Now, with an almost
comically exaggerated look of conspiracy, he seemed to swoop in on
Chardy, his features enormous, rabbinical, his eyes quite mad. His odor
was overpowering.

"It's all a setup, isn't it? It's completely phony-it's a scheme, isn't
it? Or are you part of it? They tried to ruin you, you know. When you
came back from prison. Then just weeks ago after the shooting. I saved
you. I intervened. Chardy, they want you dead. They hate you too. They
hate me. For something I did, something I know. And it's all part of-,"
He stopped suddenly and began to weep.

Chardy was embarrassed for him. He watched silently.

"Chardy. Help me," Danzig said. "Don't let them kill me.

"if YOU stay here, you'll be all right. Just stay here you have nothing
to fear from these men downstairs."

A sudden spurt of energy jerked through Danzig; he lurched up, twisting
away, staggering through stacked books and sheets of paper and files,
slipping, knocking them aside.

"You and I are natural allies in this thing. We are. We're the same man,
really. Yours the physical component, mine the intellectual. Help me,
Chardy. You've got to promise; you've got to help me. They're trying to
get rid of both of us, don't you see? You and 1, we're linked.

Somehow."

Chardy watched him stagger through the room.

"Do you swear to me, Chardy? You'll help me?"

"I-,,

"The Kurd is a triggerman. Don't you see? Perhaps he doesn't even know
the real reason behind all this. The woman was another pawn. Perhaps you
are still a third. It's a plan, a plot, a design only they know. Why? I
have to know. Why?"

Chardy said, "They tell me only that it s as straightforward as it
seems. That Ulu Beg is here for vengeance, because he feels
we-you-betrayed his people and let the Russians kill them."

"Do you believe that? Chardy, look at me. Do you believe that? Really,
deeply, do you believe that?"

"I don't know," said Chardy. "I just don't know."

"It's phony. And I'll prove it."

"How?"

"The answer is here. In this room."

Chardy looked around the dishevelment. Yes, some body had been looking.

"Do you know what I've got here? I've got a duplicate set of the Agency
operational reports for the years during which I was Secretary of State;
I've got the records; I've got the secrets; I've got all the analyses,
the-"

"How the fuck did you-"

"I've had it for years. I had my friends in the Agency too, you know.

For some time there was a considerable Danzig faction. I used a lot of
the material for my first book. It's in here, in these records. I'll
find it. But I need time. And they know I need time."

"I just-"

"Chardy! Listen!"

Danzig had closed in on him and stood inches away. His eyes Aleamed; he
seemed on the verge of a seizure. He touched Chardy.

"Chardy. This man is a foreigner. He's six feet two inches tall and
probably doesn't know the difference between a nickel and a dime. He
doesn't know what a hamburger is. Tell me this: Why hasn't he been
caught? They said it would be days. it's been weeks. They've got him
somewhere. They're manipulating him into place."

"Just stay here. Stay in this room. Don't leave this room unless I tell
you to. You'll be all right. You have nothing to fear."

"You'll get me my time?"

"You've got your time. Trust me."

Trust Chardy? Trust him? That was the core of the problem: trust whom?

Trust Sam? Trust this dreadful altar boy Lanahan? Trust the renegade
Chardy?

Danzig sat back. He was into the second week of a headache, His chest
still hurt. Chardy had gone.

"I won't be around today," he'd said. "I'll be back tonight. I I

"Where are you going?"

"You check your files, I'll check mine," Chardy had said.

Danzig sat back in the chair. He was afraid he might start
hyperventilating again. He tried to escape his memory of the Kurd and
his weapon and that terrifying moment when the molecules seemed to
freeze and the man stood there fifteen feet away, about to fire, and
Danzig knew he would die. He remembered the eyes, blazing, set.

Something vivid and graceful about him, strong. The terrifying thing
about it all was that it fascinated him. That's the Jew in me, he
thought. I can talk it out, think about it, compare it to a thousand
books and essays, examine its themes and motifs, its subtextual
patterns, make epigrammatic witticisms about it, and yet I cannot do one
thing to survive it.

He considered himself by way of contrast and the contrast was bleak. For
fifty-six years he had not paid the slightest attention to his body. He
abhorred exercise. He looked down at his belly, a slack mass protruding
from his robe. Too much weight, too weak, too slow. He imagined himself
scrambling up a hill or down an alley, the Kurd after him. He would slip
and scrabble. The Kurd would come on in huge athletic strides. Danzig
had nothing, nothing to fight him with. All his brains, his glory, his
power: nothing.

What would he do? He knew the answer. He would die.

His headache leaked down his spine and into his back. A Jew in an attic,
hiding. The same old pattern, ceaseless. Centuries of attics. It came
down to this, finally, didn't it, this game they play when they are
bored. The game is Kill the Jew. Kill the stinking kike, boys, kick him
in the stinking teeth, kick his stinking ass. Kill the Jew, boys, kill
him.

He shook his head. Madness stalked him-he knew it. History haunted him.

It had been said of a dreadful king once that he was at his best when
things were easiest, and Danzig had always loathed him for it. Other
images came before him: Jews marching into ovens, slaves politely
assisting their traffickers, Christian martyrs smiling in the flames or
animal pits. The weak perished: another law, as binding as that of
entropy and, in a certain way, related.

All right, he told himself- to work.

He rattled through the papers before him, various drafts of ideas,
theories of conspiracy, lists of men and organizations that could
benefit by his death. The list was impressive.

Maybe you are the fool, he thought, and issued a joyless laugh at the
absurdity of his own predicament. Maybe you are just another crazy Jew;
go on, go to Miami Beach, relax.

But a step creaked and he knew it was an Agency security man with an
Israeli submachine gun and an earplug and he went back to work.

The Promotion sat like an anvil on Lanahan, bending him to the earth.

His small eyes were even shiftier than normal and he was breathing
raggedly and too hard. He would not let Chardy alone, had followed him
through four rooms now.

"What did he say, Paul? Did he say anything about me? Did you calm him
down? You know he said I was working for the Russians, he really did.

Paul, he's crazy. Paul, is he settling down? He said he was going to
call reporters. Oh, Christ, can You imagine if-"

Chardy had seen it before: the brilliant underling who knows 3 percent
more than any man who ever gave him an order finally gets the chance to
give a few himself and is destroyed by it. He who talked so loud behind
the backs of others is now devoured by imaginary conversations behind
his own; he trusts no one, wants to know everything.

"I think he's calmer now. He had a bad night."

"I always did think he was a little manic-depressive; you could see it
even when he was in his prime. What's his beef?"

"The standard, Conspiracies, secret plots, that kind of stuff. Nothing
you haven't heard before. He's finally real catch one in the back of the
neck. Besides he might be tearing him apart."

"Okay. I want you around. In case he throws another one of those horror
shows."

"He's all right now. He just wants to go through his files. "Still, you
stay here. it's what Sam wants; it's what I want.

Just in case. You can reach him. Nobody else can. it's that-"

"I've got something to do, Miles."

"Chardy-"

" Sorry -"

"Chardy."

"Fire me, Miles. See how that goes over with Danzigsee what he does
then. See if you make archbishop then, Miles." Chardy smiled. "Be good,
Miles. Don't forget late mass."

He turned and stepped out the door into the bright Georgetown morning.

Chardy made the Chevy in the traffic of Colesville Road, out near the
Beltway. it was green, with a high aerial. Nothing ever changes, does
it? You'd think they'd get new cars, but they were always dark Chevys.

He slowed, it slowed. He sped up, it sped up. He pulled into a station,
it pulled to the side of the road.

He filled the tank and paid the kid.

"Isn't there a town called Columbia around here?"

"It's out further.

Straight out. About ten more miles."

"Thanks."

He pulled back into the lane of traffic and the Chevy moved to join it
too. Chardy lagged a little, and cars started to honk behind him, then
swing by him- Several people cursed as they wheeled past. He was going
about twenty in a thirty-five zone, and stopping occasionally are, @ N
with indecision. Suddenly there were no more cars behind him except the
green Chevy, which could not pass. In his rearview mirror he could see
two grim young faces staring fixedly ahead. He stopped for a light.

When the light changed, Chardy dropped into reverse and hit the
accelerator. The two cars met with a huge smash that whipped Chardy back
against his seat. He shook his head clear for just a second, came up to
first, and fired out of there. As he drove away, he could see the
smashed grille of the car behind him, and a pool spreading under the
engine block. One of the agents was out, screaming.

"Chardy, you motherfucker!"

Chardy sped down Colesville.

He paused. So unlike D.C. or any eastern or mid-western city. Perhaps
something of California or an easterner's dream of California. Chic wood
houses, fading fashionably from brown to gray; windows full of ferns;
sensible cars like Volvos and Rabbits; loopy, winding streets that led
nowhere except back to their own beginnings. He'd wandered in the
rolling, hilly utopia for an hour now, searching out a fanciful address:
10013 Barefoot Boy Garth. Could there really be 10,000 houses with
10,000 Volvos and 10,000 ferns on this garth? And what the hell was a
garth, anyway? But at last he'd connected. He'd found the garth-it was
just a street-and come to a grouping of mock-Normandy farmhouses whose
numbers were of the proper dimension. He tracked as he traveled, until
he saw it, on a circle linked to the main road, a solid place. He pulled
in, noting a child's plastic trike on its side, bright orange and slung
low. So maybe there were kids. Or maybe the guy she'd married had them.

He got out, stepped over the trike, and headed up a short walk.

He knocked. Suppose she wasn't there and he'd wasted this long drive? He
should have called first. But suppose she didn't want to see him? You
could never tell; perhaps in the aftermath she'd thought the better of
stirring up the old memories.

A muffled voice came from behind the wood "Who's there, please?" A
little fear? Did people worry out here in paradise too?

"Marion, it's Paul Chardy."

The door shot open.

"Paul, my God!"

"Marion, hi. I should have called. Something brought me out here and I
thought, what the hell?"

"How did you find me? Nobody can find anything in Columbia the first
time."

"Lucky," he said, sparing her the tale of his lost Hours.

"Come in."

He stepped into a hall and she took him down a step into the living
room, which was cream-colored, filled with plants and light and spare,
clean furniture.

"It's very nice."

"Sorry about the mess. My husband's kids are with us this month."

"Don't worry about it. You ought to see my place."

"Sit down, Paul. Can I get you some coffee?"

Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

She went to the kitchen as he sat down on the sofa.

"Paul," she called, "it's so nice to see you."

She came back with two cups.

"I remember that you drank it black."

"I haven't changed. Remember that night in Hong Kong? Frenchy and I were
just in from Vietnam. You met us at the airport. "Sixty-six or
'sixty-seven?"

"Nineteen sixty-six."

"Sixty-six, yeah. And how we celebrated that night?

We went to that place out in Happy Valley. The Golden Window, I think it
was. Right next to the furniture plant, and you could smell the lacquer
and hear the buzz saw next door. Remember that place had all those fish,
six tanks of them? They glowed? Jesus, and we got drunk. Frenchy and I
did anyway. And we were supposed to check in with Cy Brasher the next
day at oh-eight-thirty. And you had that taxi driver find a place that
was open at about five. And you ordered coffee and made us drink it.

Black coffee. And wouldn't let us go back to the hotel. You really saved
our tails that night, Marion. Do you remember?"

"Yes, I do, Paul."

Chardy sat back, took a drink of his coffee. "That was some night."

"And wasn't there a girl who wouldn't leave you alone? At the Golden
Window. And then you disappeared on us for three days after you got
through the thing with Cy Brasher."

"Oh, yeah," Chardy said.

"And of course we knew where you'd been."

"Oh, yeah," said Chardy, leering as if he remembered the tart. And then
he did, a Eurasian girl. She lived in a crappy little apartment in the
city with three children. She'd given him a dose, too. And Frenchy had
her, but that was on another trip, when Marion wasn't around.

"Marion, I just can't get it out of my head. We really had some times in
those old days."

"I used to think about it too, Paul.,,

"But you quit? God, how? I'm still stuck back in the sixties."

"You were very young then. That was your youth. You always remember your
youth. And for me I suppose it had to do with starting a new life. A new
family. New friends. You just have a different circle."

"But you must miss him. The Frenchman. I miss him terribly.

"I do, Paul. Of course. Frenchy was one miss him all the time."

"Old Frenchy. He taught me so much. Oh, he taught me a lot."

"But Paul, it can be dangerous back there. I never told you this--or
anybody -this. But after Frenchy died, I had a very rough time. I had to
go into a place for a while. And they made me see how he was killing me.

And I had to let him go. I had to let it all go, and move ahead."

"I wish I could." "You can. Frenchy always said you were the
strongest."

Ah, Frenchy. The old bastard. Marion, where did they put him? I'd love
to go see him. Just once, for old times' sake." e place. He was "He's in
Cleveland, Paul. A very nic cremated, and he's in a vault in a nice
cemetery outside Cleveland."

"Maybe I'll go there sometime," Chardy said.

"Paul, have you been drinking?"

"Not enough," he said, laughing loudly.

She nodded, disturbed. She was still a pretty woman; or rather he could
still see her prettiness underneath her age, her thickness. She'd seemed
to turn to leather. She was so tan she glowed. Her legs were still slim
and beautidess, he seemed to remember.

She'd been a stewardess. Frenchy always had a gift for
stewardesses responding to him. I'm just so mad he was dead, all that
even know. The bastards could have told me that, at least."

"I never liked the secrecy. I hated all that."

in a million. I

"Ah, they don't know what they're doing." He dismissed them with a
contemptuous and exaggerated wave of his hand. He laughed loudly, threw
down some more coffee. "Christ, the bastards," he said.

Marion watched him. "You have been drinking."

"A bad habit. Nothing serious. I drink, I shoot my mouth off. I make
enemies, I take afternoons off. I get sentimental, look up old friends."
He laughed again. "Look at me now. Chasing ghosts."

"Paul, you need help."

"No, no, Paul's fine. Old Paul, the strong one. He's the strong one.

Frenchy really said that?"

"He did."

"I loved him. Marion, I have to know. What did they do to him?"

She seemed to take a large breath. She stood at the Window. She looked
out upon other Normandy-style mock farmhouses.

"It's such a Pretty neighborhood, Paul. it's so leafy and bright. It's a
wonderful place to raise children. They have pools all over the place
and playgrounds they call tot lots." They have little shopping malls
they call 'village centers." It's a wonderful place. I'm so happy here."

"Marion. Please tell me. I have to know."

"Paul, I don't want to go back there. I had so much trouble. You don't
know how much trouble I had. I think it would be better if you left.

This just isn't working. I can't go back there. Do you know how hard I
had to work to get to this place, Paul? To have this life? This is the
life I wanted, Paul, I always wanted."

"Help me, Marion. Please help me. I need your help."

"You're not here for the old times, Paul. You're not here out of love or
loyalty. You're still in it. I can smell it on you, Paul."

She stood by the window. "It's so important, Marion."

"It really was awful, wasn't it, Paul? All the things you and Frenchy
did. You thought you were such heroes, such big men, flying all over the
world. Your duty, you called it. You were fighting for freedom. You were
fighting for America. But you were just thugs. Gangsters. Killers.

Weren't you? Maybe that's the shoe that fits."

"I don't know, Marion. I don't know what we were.,,

"Frenchy told me, years later he told me, that in Vietnam accidents
happened all the time. The wrong people always died. And in South
America the soldiers you worked with were brutal men, who hated
everybody. There was just too much violence sometimes, it couldn't be
controlled. It just slopped all over the place."

"Terrible things happened. That's what it was about."

"'Hairy." Isn't that the word? That was Frenchy's favorite word. "Very
hairy, babe," he'd say when he came back, just before he drank himself
insensible.

What it means, though, is that a lot of people had just gotten killed in
some terrible and arbitrary way, for no reason. Isn't that what it
means?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you know, Paul, that Frenchy didn't make love to me for the last
five years of his life? Tried, tried hard. He just couldn't do it. The
war was eating him up. It was destroying the great Frenchy Short. He was
trying to get out before it killed him and he knew he wouldn't make it.

He knew. That last trip, he knew.

"He knew?"

"Here they come, Paul. Look."

Beyond the yard, beyond the fence, two boys and a girl in bathing suits
and sneakers were running down the street, the smaller boy way ahead,
running crazily, chugging like a cylinder, the second boy too cool to
notice, the girl taking up the rear, laughing.

"They're good kids, Paul. So good. I only have them a month and five or
six weekends a year, and they didn't come out of my body but, Jesus, I
love them, Paul. Oh. Jesus, I love them."

She turned; he could see she was crying.

"Paul, you'd better go. I really don't have the energy to make
introductions. All right? Just go; just get out of here."

"Marion. Please help me. How did Frenchy die? Go back, just one time.

It's so important. You have no idea how important it is.,, She started
to sob. He went quickly to her, but when he touched her she recoiled.

"I'm all right," she said fiercely. "I'm fine." Her face had swollen;
her eyes were red and wet.

"Did he drown?"

"That's what the Austrian death certificate said. But-"

"Yes?"

"Paul, when they were getting him ready for cremation, I got a call at
the hotel. This was in Cleveland. It was the mortician. He asked me to
come by. I drove over in the rain in a rented car- He was an old man,
the only one there. He said he was sorry to bother me, he didn't want to
make any trouble. The instructions said closed casket. But somehow
something had happened in the mortuary. The box had been opened by
mistake. He wanted to know if I wanted to make any kind of inquiry.

Something was wrong; I should know about it. He was just trying to
protect himself, he said. So I said, what is it, what is wrong?

"Paul, he took me back and he showed me. I had to look at it, Paul.

She paused.

"How did Frenchy die, Marion?"

"They killed him with a blowtorch, Paul. My beautiful, beautiful
Frenchy. They burned him to death, slowly. They burned his face off."

CHAPTER 43

At last there was peace.

Ulu Beg slept a great while, arising to cleanse himself and to pray. He
slept, he ate. He lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Hours passed,
days perhaps.

"We will simply have to go again," Speshnev said in his crisp English,
their common language.

"Okay," said Ulu Beg.

"A vest," said Speshnev. "A vest that can stop a Skorpion from close
range. What a fine American invention."

"The head. Next time the head."

"Of course."

"But when?"

"Soon, my friend. But for now, relax. Enjoy this place."

"Where are we?"

"In the State of Maryland, on a peninsula. This old estate was built by
a man who made millions of dollars manufacturing---cars? airplanes?
washing machines? No.

Mustard! For sausages. Ten thousand acres, gardens, pools, tennis
courts, a nineteen-bedroom house, two guest houses, a collection of
exquisite paintings, Chippendale furniture, rare old books. From
mustard! And now the taxes are so high, only the Union of Soviet
Socialist Republics can afford them!"

The fat Russian smiled with great appreciation of his own humor; he had
spoken with such precision that Ulu Beg was certain it was a treasured
speech, delivered a thousand times before. He saw from the Russian's
expectant eyes that he was presumed to see the wit in it too, and he
smiled politely, although he didn't know what this 'mustard" was.

Rewarded, the Russian sat back. They were in an opulent bedroom of a
guest cottage down a path from the main house. Outside, a pond in which
swans glided gave way to a marsh. And from the front one could look and
see three distinct zones: a meadow, a marsh, and a sparkling body of
water, flat and calm. This world was green and blue-kesk o sheen in the
Kurdish-and quiet. A gentle breeze frequently moved across it; it was a
vision he took great sustenance from.

"I am still overcome with what you managed to accomplish," the Russian
said. "You traveled across a foreign country to strike your blow. Then,
having done so, you fled through an extensive manhunt. And when we
finally made contact, you were planning your new attack. You are an
extraordinary fellow."

The Russian's technique was to flatter excessively. Ulu Beg had grown
used to it; still, he wondered how much steel was beneath all this flab.

The Russian had gray eyes-kind eyes, really-and blondish hair that in
some lights was almost white. He wore rumpled suits and moved comically,
yet this excess weight seemed also to conceal great strength. The
Palestinians who had helped train Ulu Beg at the Raz Hilal Camp near
Tokra, in Libya, called him, for reasons Ulu Beg never understood,
Allahab, meaning, literally, The Flame. Ulu Beg took this to refer to
the purity of his passion, his strength.

"Do you need anything? A woman? A boy? We can arrange anything."

"I am content," said the Kurd. He was somewhat offended; he was no
buggering Arab. "Some rest. Freedom from pretending. Then another
chance. This time I will not fail."

"Of course. The secret of my success-which is considerable, I might
add-is simple. They ask me in Moscow, "Speshnev, how do you do it?"

"It's easy," I tel I them. "Quality people." I use them here. I use them
in Mexico. I-"

Ulu Beg blinked.

"The best people," Speshnev amplified.

"Oh." A compliment. The man would go to any length. "You are most kind."

"It's only true," Speshnev said.

Ulu Beg nodded modestly. When -would this fellow leave? The Russian's
warmth and nearness were overpowering. Ulu Beg felt suffocated in love.

The Russian reached and touched his shoulder.

"You are an inspirational man. Your story, your deeds, your heroism will
last for centuries. Your people will make a great hero of you. They will
sing songs."

But even as this ornate thought was expressed, it seemed to evaporate.

The Russian rose gloomily, went to the window. He stared out of it
painfully, not seeing the marsh and the sky and the bay. Russians were
said to be a moody people. How quickly they changed.

"it is the contrast," he said. "I cannot stand it. It hurts me. It
physically hurts me. The contrast between you and the other."

He brooded on the placid landscape. In the radiant light, his hair
became almost pink, the color of his jowly face.

"The other?" said Ulu Beg.

"Yes," said Speshnev. "The man who troubles my dreams."

"A man troubles mine too," said Ulu Beg.

"But not the same man. You think of the larger betrayal, the historical
betrayal, the political betrayal. Of your people, as an act of state by
the Americans to advance their own cause. You think of Danzig and the
justice denied you, the justice deferred. You think of coldblooded
calculations made thousands of miles away by men in suits looking at
maps. I think of something hotter, more immediately personal."

Ulu Beg followed nothing of these Russian ravings, moody wanderings
through a gloomy landscape. The intensity was surprising, for in his
normal life the man was the jovial type.

"I think of a man with a talent, a great genius. The talent is for evil.

He is an artist, inspired, a poet."

Ulu Beg looked at him uncomprehendingly. Yet the Russian seemed not to
notice and plunged madly on.

"You know, in this business it is not uncommon to get to know your
opponent. Most often he is a chap such as yourself--decent, hardworking,
a man you can respect, a man whom you could befriend were it not for the
obvious politics. Yet once in a career one encounters what can only be
called this talent for evil. It is not cold; it is hot. It is a kind of
lust or need or obsession. A fervor. An absolutism that has nothing
whatsoever to do with cause. It has no motive other than selfhood. It is
the highest human vanity. I speak of a man who would sell his brother or
torture someone helpless, not for politics or adventure but purely for
the sensation of ego triumphant."

The short man gestured violently. Ulu Beg watched him, befuddled and
unsure. Where was all this taking them? What significance had it? He had
a terrible feeling of increasing complexity-what had been so simple
must now take on another dimension.

J, "I speak," said the Russian, "of the man you call vdi.

"But, Colonel-"

"Stop. If you thought you knew this man, you do not. You know only a
part of him, a part he allowed you to see. You know the soldier. But let
me tell you another story."

Ulu Beg nodded.

"After we captured him, I girded myself for the struggle, knowing full
well how tough he'd be. He was, after all, an operative, a professional,
for the American intelligence service. But such was not the case; in
fact, exactly the opposite happened. He saw immediately how tight a bind
he was in, where his best interests lay. And thus he did more than
cooperate or collaborate. He gave us your group, for his own skin, but
also, I tell you truly, for his own pleasure, his own pride. I confess I
was shaken by this, perhaps even intimidated. I knew I should kill him,
take him off the surface of the earth. Yet I hesitated; who could kill a
helpless man? That indecision cost me dearly. He quickly insinuated his
way into the favor of the Iraqis. I couldn't touch him. In fact, the
last twist, the helicopter deceit: that was his idea. I argued against
it--we had won, after all, by then. But no, he insisted on a gesture.

Think of the future, he told the Iraqis; here is a chance to make a
gesture of such contempt, no Kurd would face the light for a thousand
years. After all, he maintained, Ulu Beg is famous; let his end become
famous as well.

"I tried to convince them, to dissuade them, to make them see reason. Be
reasonable, I pleaded. But he had won them over.

"Do You know no Russian pilot would fly that mission? No, our boys would
have no part of it. The Iraqis flew it themselves. And Chardy went
along!

"Naturally, I lodged a formal protest. But then I was arrested. He had
me arrested! He had convinced the Iraqis that my opposition to the
mission proved I was a traitor to their cause.

"They took me to a cellar, Ulu Beg, in that same prison where I found
you years later. And Chardy interrogated me. Ulu Beg, can you imagine
what he used on me? He used a blowtorch. He burned six holes in my body.

I fought him for six days; I fought with all my night and will, Ulu Beg.

And finally, when I was nearly dead, he brought me to the point of
confession. I would have signed anything at that point. But somehow I
found the will to resist one last hour. I lasted six and a half days,
Ulu Beg, under the cruelest of torments. Insects picked at my wounds. He
mocked my beliefs; he used the name of the woman I loved against me. It
was a profane performance. I was only saved at the desperate
intervention of my own people, who at last located me. Chardy
disappeared soon thereafter. I never saw him after the cell."

He looked at Ulu Beg. He was perspiring quite heavily now, in the memory
of his ordeal.

"You see how our quests are united, Ulu Beg. You will kill Joseph
Danzig. And I will kill Paul Chardy."

"Al CHAPTER 44

The postman was in a cruel mood that evening. He took somebody out with
an elbow and people started staying away from him. After a while it got
a little ridiculous and Chardy said, "Hey, listen, you're playing way
out of control, man. Just calm it down. You haven't-" and the postman
hit him in the mouth.

"Watch yo' face, motherfuckin' white trashman. Watch yo' fuckin' mouth."

Chardy picked himself up from the asphalt. A black circle formed around
him.

"All right," he said. "No problem. Didn't mean anything."

Then he dropped the postman with a shot to the cheekbone.

He was never sure who called the ambulance. It seemed to get there
awfully fast. There was a great deal of confusion and he was explaining
everything to a young cop.

"You better stay off this Playground," the cop said. "You want to play
basketball, you go to the suburbs. Go out to the University of Maryland.

Go to the Y. But don't come here, and then when they shove you around,
don't punch anybody. We find bodies out here all the time, mister. I
don't want to have to find yours."

"You better let us check it out," the medic said. "Your pupils look a
little dilated. You might have a concussion and they can be tricky. You
might need some stitches to close that cut. You got Blue Cross?"

"Sure."

"Then let us check you out, man. Just to be safe.

"My car's here. I'm not going to any hospital."

"In the wagon, man. Let me look at that eye in the wagon."

"All right. Christ."

He climbed into the back of the ambulance and the medic opened his black
bag and took out a .357 magnum and said, "Now just relax, Mr. Chardy."

They took him to a small Catholic hospital in Southeast Washington,
Saint Teresa's, and led him in, handcuffed, through a loading dock, up
an old freight elevator, and down a quiet hall to what at one time must
have been an operating theater but was now just a high-ceilinged room
with tables and a few blackboards about, where a single man waited.

"Unlock him. Sorry. You like to do these things neatly. You're being
watched, of course."

"Who the hell are you? What's going on?" Chardy asked angrily.

"Just sit down and relax. They say you've got a temper, but try to
control it. Just for once, okay? Here, this'll help." He opened his
wallet and showed off the card, which sported a photo of a square,
blocky face next to an announcement of the presence, in official
capacity, of Leo Bennis, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation. Chardy looked from the plastic-covered image to the real
Leo Bennis, softer in life and a little older, and smiling mildly.

"Howdy," Bennis said. "You're a hard man to track down.,,

"Feds. What the hell do you want?,,

"Let's say we've become fascinated recently with a certain situation."

"Make an appointment with Mr. Lanahan. He's the boss now. He's a very
busy man. He can probably see you sometime next spring."

"Paul, you're so hostile. You're seething with hostilities and
resentments, Just calm down. Be nice."

"This is your party. You set it up; you brought it off. Get to the
point."

"We always get this when we deal with the Agency. You people are such
prima donnas. You think you're such gods."

I-I think I'd like to go. Is this official? Are you making an arrest?

No? Then I think I'd like to go.,, "Paul, I saw a movie last night. Let
me tell you about it. It was a western."

"Bennis, just what the fu-"

"It was about an old gunfighter, a cowboy. Off teaching school. Suddenly
his old outfit asks him to buckle his guns on again. Sure, he says, why
not? Anything for the old outfit. But my, my, some Strange things begin
happening. To name just one, he goes out to see the widow of an old
chum. All of a sudden, bingo, in the middle of the day, off he goes. And
when two of his pals tag along, he ditches them very neatly. He knows
what he's doing, this old cowboy. Of course he doesn't ditch us. Because
we know what we're doing too."

"Where were you?,,

"Overhead. Chopper. We had six cars. Nobody was with You for more than a
mile, and the chopper coordinated it all. I was in the chopper, Paul.

We've got quite a unit going on this thing." He smiled.

Chardy looked at him. "Okay, so it's a big deal to you. So what?"

"Back to the movie, Paul. Why'd the cowboy go to the widow? Did the
cowboy smoke out some kind of link that might put the pieces together
for everybody?"

"Maybe he's just a sentimentalist."

"Won't wash. Then why bother to drop the Agency tail? Why doesn't he
want the Agency to know he's a sentimentalist? In fact, there's all
kinds of things he hasn't told the Agency. He hasn't told them about his
nephew in Mexico. He sends the nephew money, his own money, from his own
pocket. Everybody else thinks the nephew is dead. Now isn't that
curious? What do you suppose is going on in the western, Paul?"

"I never go to movies."

"I don't either. Hate 'em, in fact. But I'm kind of worried about this
old coot. He's playing an awfully funny game. And we're only beginning
to catch on to how funny this game is. What-s the Agency trying to pull,
Paul? How come they sent losers like Trewitt and Speight down to Nogales
under Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms cover? How far out is Ver Steeg?

How far in is little Lanahan? How come the Agency requested us to
program our computer to kick out any dope on seven-six-five Czech auto
pistol ammo? And, on the other hand, never requested assistance in
looking for Ulu Beg? Our people are good, Paul. They could have helped.

Except they would have had to ask a lot of questions, Paul. And maybe
somebody doesn't want a lot of questions asked."

"They must hire you guys for your imagination. You ought to write books.

Are you done? Can I go?"

"Oh, I wish you'd be my friend, Paul. I really do."

"It's getting late."

"Just remember what happens to the solo artists, Paul. Give it some
thought. This business eats up the solo artists. Frenchy tried to go
solo, and he got waxed, didn't he? And Old Bill, in the sewer. Teamwork,
backup units, technical support, infrared surveillance, computerized
files that's the ticket now."

"Go back to the movies, Leo. There's nothing anywhere that says I have
to help feds poking around."

Bennis smiled. He had a bland government-issue face, an office face,
baked in twenty years of fluorescent light. He was pudgy, in his
forties, with sandy hair.

"Paul, I know you think I'm just a cop. Right? A cop here to horn in on
a wobbly Agency operation, a red hunter, a security goon hungry for a
bust. That's what you think."

"I don't know what your game is. I just don't want fifty guys crashing
in on me. I have to work this thing out on my own. I really do. YOU want
to recruit me? Sorry. I'm working strictly for myself."

"Let me ask you, Paul, you think that kid can hack it down there? That's
bandit country. A cowboy like you, maybe. But that kid? That's some
first string you're running. A beat-up old cowboy and a kid four years
out of college, held together by a nun in Illinois, and up against you
don't even know what, except that you know people keep getting dropped,
and nobody can get a line on Ulu Beg. You're the one with the
imagination if you think you're going to get anything Out Of it except
what Speight got. Here, let me show you something. Take a look at this.

"

He handed Chardy a typescript with several lines underscored in red.

Chardy read it.

"Where the hell did this come from?"

"Came into Johanna's apartment long-distance, the day after she died.

We've managed to track down the guy that answered; he's a Boston cop who
was there as part of the civil investigation. He didn't know anything
about you or Ulu Beg or the Agency. He said he'd take the message in
case he ran into you. But he never did. He must have forgotten. Cops-you
can't trust lem."

It was a wiretap transcript of Sister Sharon trying to reach Chardy with
a message from Trewitt.

"He sounds like he's onto something. And he's in trouble," Chardy said.

"We got it two days ago from one of your Technical Services people up in
Boston who was closing down the tap on her phone. And our next step was
to put an intercept on any Western Union messages that came through to
you care of your old school. This just came through and it's why we
decided to bring you in tonight."

Chardy read:

UNC WHERE You? HAVE JEWELS NEED HELP BAD

BANDITOS ABOUT EL PLOMO MEX NEPHEW JIM

"El Plomols a town in the Carrizai mountains, west of Nogales, just over
the border. The message was sent Tuesday by a Mexican national. It looks
like Nephew Jim's out on a very dangerous limb. Now we could go to the
Agency about this, go to Miles Lanahan and-"

"No," Chardy said.

"No, of course not. So what we're going to do, Paul, is we're going to
go down there, yes we are; we're putting together a little party tonight
just for that. You see, Paul, we do like you. We want you to come
along."

"Then let's go," said Chardy.

CHAPTER 45

Dawn was coming.

Trewitt forced his tongue across his dry lips, scanning the rocky slope
before him. He could see nothing except scrawny grass, the spill of
boulders, the crumbling mountainside itself.

"Hey? You okay?" Ramirez called.

"Okay, I guess," Trewitt said.

But he was not. The wound no longer hurt and the bunched shirt pressed
hastily into it had at last stanched the bleeding. But he felt like he
was going to fall out of his head. He'd vomited twice during the night
too, whether before or after he was hit he was not sure. But at least
with the sun would come some heat and perhaps he could stop shivering.

"They coming pretty soon now, Jesus Mary. Hey, you got any bullets
left?"

Trewitt thought he did. Somewhere. In a pocket. He thought he'd look for
them in a little while. What was the rush?

"Kid, hey, kid. Kid! You all right?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

"'Cause, goddamn, it look like I almost lose you there, and Ramirez
don't want to be on this mountaintop alone." He laughed. He seemed to
see something funny, insanely humorous, in all this.

Trewitt tried to concentrate on what was swimming out of the night
before him: the slope and, three hundred feet down, a line of crippled
oaks and pines.

And behind him? Nothing but blue space and miles of worthless beauty.

They had run out of mountain. They were at its top, backed to the edge
of a sheer drop-off. Hundreds of feet of raw space Jay just beyond the
crest.

Trewitt became aware of a warm, wet sensation near his loins. He thought
he was bleeding again. No, it was his bladder, emptying itself
unaccountably. He was surprised he had anything left to piss and
disgusted and ashamed for having lost control until he realized the
bullet had probably wrecked the plumbing, the valves and tubes down
there-it had hit him in the back, just above the waist, and not come
out.

"You gonna die, kid?"

Trewitt thought, probably.

He rubbed his hand across his face and felt his matted beard. He sure
wished he had a drink of water. He could smell himself-and he'd always
been so clean. He wished he could get warm. He wished he didn't feel so
doped up. He mourned the child. Why did they have to hurt the child? It
was terrible about the child. Trewitt began to cry. A tear wobbled down
his nose; it was so close to his eye it seemed huge and luminous, a
great light-filled blur refracting the world into dazzle. But it fell
off. The scrawny grass, the rocky slope, the dusty mountains all
returned, lightening in the rising sun, under a mile of gray-going
silver sky. The sun rose like an abundant orange flare to the east.

A shot rang out, kicking up a puff of dust nearby.

"Wasn't even close," said Ramirez. "Come on, whores," he screamed in his
richest Spanish, "you can do better than that."

Through his cracked lips, Trewitt again offered his one question:

"Who are they?"

"Who cares?" Ramirez answered. "Evil men. Bandits. Gunmen, gangsters.

Mother of Jesus, I'd like to kill me one. Mother of Jesus, send Reynoldo
a present so that he will not die with a curse for you on his lips." He
threw the rifle suddenly to his shoulder, and fired.

"Missed. Virgin, you disappoint me. He drew back. Son of a whore." He
recocked, the spent shell popping out and rolling down to Trewitt, who
hid beneath him in a gathering of rocks.

"I think maybe they're going to rush us now. Why not? It's light; they
won't shoot each other up. I'll introduce you to them in a few seconds,
Mr. Norteamericano. I'll introduce you to Senor MacHinegun and his
friend Senor Other MacHinegun, and his friend Senor Still Another
MacHinegun. And there's Sehor Telescope Rifle. I want them to meet my
good friend over here, Senor Gringo Crazy Fool Who Wanted
Adventures-Hey, what is your name? You must have a name?"

"Trewitt. it's Trewitt", Trewitt said, anxious to get the information
into Ramirez's brain for some reason.

"Mr. Crazy Gringo Trewitt Who Wants Adventures. Well, he sure got
himself a hell of a one, didn't he? In Old Mexico. Hey, Mr. Crazy Gringo
Trewitt, I think they going to come any second now, oh, yes, any
Mother-of-jesus moment, and then we'll see who the whores are, Hev you
seen ho"-Is, come on, get it over with, whores, ha, they'ain't gonna
stick their heads up, no sir."

He carried on like that crazily for a while, imploring them to come at
him, begging them, blaspheming their mothers and their fathers and their
children and their pets. He finally seemed to run out of energy.

"Oh, Jesus," moaned Trewitt.

"He won't help you now, Mr. Crazy Gringo, no He won't I don't see no
Jesus around. I don't see no Virgin, I don't see no priests, no sister,
no nothing. No church up here, no Holy Mother. I'd like to get me that
black whore's abortion with the telescope rifle. Oh, Holy Mother, give
him to your sinning child, Reynoldo, just give him to me so I may shoot
his balls off, please, I'll go to mass every day for the rest of- Hey! '
Huh? Oh, I must have dozed off."

"A fine time for a nap, Chico. Hey,
mister, I don't think you gonna get off this mountain. I don't think
Reynoldo Ramirez gonna make it off either."

Another shot struck the ground.

"Close, he sure was close on that. Jesus, I never thought I'd end up on
a mountain with no place to go. I figured I'd get it from some crazy
woman. Women, they're all whores, crazy as monkeys. They cut your
kidneys out to eat, you let 'em. I figured one'd get me good. Never
figured on no mountain with no gringo, no sir. Madonna, Give me more
time, damn you, She's such a holy bitch, that woman, She wants you to
light Her candles, but then when you need a miracle She ain't around.

GIVE ME MORE TIME, VIRGIN. Oh, yes, si, here he comes, one of our
friends, yes, I think I have him"-he lifted the rifle-"yes, yes, so
nice"-and fired-"missed, you whore, you son of a black whore, he just
ducked back. I just miss him by a hair-"

"Oh, Jesus, I think I'm dying," said Trewitt.

"I think you are too. I think I am too."

Trewitt tried to bring himself to a sitting position. He was tired of
lying down on the rough stones. But he couldn't. His rifle skidded out
of his grip. He coughed once and was amazed to notice a strand of pink
saliva bridging the gap from his lips to the rifle, a scarlet gossamer,
delicate and tense.

Finally it snapped and disappeared.

"Oh, Mother. Mother. Mom. Jesus, I'm so scared."

He tried to grab on to something.

"Hold it down, okay? Your mama ain't around," said Ramirez.

"Help me. Help me, please."

"Sorry, Chico. I got worries of my own."

Shock, golden and beautiful, spread through Trewitt's body, calming him.

It was a great smooth laziness flooding through him.

From the side came a sudden burst of automatic fire. It chewed across
the rocks in which they hid, and Trewitt felt the spray of fragments as
the bullets exploded against the stones and knew enough to shrink back.

He heard the Mexican scream. Then Ramirez fired his rifle, threw the
bolt furiously, fired again, screaming, "Black dark whores, flower of
pus, human filth." He paused.

"I think I got him." He was breathing laboriously. "But he got me too.

Oh, Virgin, forgive me. I want a priest. Virgin, forgive your sinning
child."

Trewitt heard the rifle land on the ground and begin to slide down the
rocks.

The man with the automatic weapon sent another burst through the stones,
kicking up dust and splinters. Trewitt shrank back.

"Hey," shouted Ramirez, "come and kill us, abortions."

"Mother. MOTHER!" shouted Trewitt, trying to jackknife up.

Another burst ripped across the crest.

"I'm dying, oh fuck, I think I'm dying."

"Here they come," said Ramirez. "Here come our wonderful friends." He
was holding one bleeding arm awkwardly. He bled also from the scalp.

"Oh, look at the whores. Whores. I spit on the whores. Soldiers. Look,
Virgin, soldiers."

They were quite brazen by this time. Six, it turned out. Six men, most
with AK-47s and one with a Soviet Dragunov sniper's rifle, coming up the
slope. They wore tiger suits, baggy camouflage denim, and red berets.

Professionals. Real commandos. Trewitt lay and watched them come.

"Hey, we fought them abortions pretty good, Mr. Crazy Gringo. Hey, I
give you one hell of an adventure, one crazy hell of an adventure. We
made 'em bleed some, we did. The whores. We took some whores with us.

They had to bring in a fucking army to come take us away."

The men were half up the slope, their assault rifles at the high port.

They were not merry with triumph at all, but moved with vivid economy of
line and gesture, impassive and implacable, hard-core military, in a
hurry to be done with it.

"Whores," Ramirez was saying. He was weeping too, and had fallen to his
hands and knees but kept trying to stand. There was blood all over him.

He kept trying to get a leg under himself but it would not work and he
pitched forward. "They had to get an Army to get us. You whores! You
bags of pus and shit. Virgin, I ask your forgiveness, for I have sinned.

I seek to make a contrition. Accept your child Ramirez. You whores! Come
ahead, whores, and be done. Ramirez is not frightened. I am so
frightened. Lord Jesus, I am frightened. YOU BAGS OF SHIT!"

But his imprecations could not speed them-they came at the same grim
pace, picking their way through the rocks.

Trewitt sat upright in a sudden spasm. He had the feeling of being in
several worlds at once. His wound had opened and he bled profusely. He
sat in a puddle and felt dirty. He wanted his mother. He mourned Miguel.

A big bird flew overhead, its dark shadow skipping across him. It
roared, a big flapping bird, huge as anything he'd ever seen in his
life.

"Mother, OH, MOTHER, PLEASE!" he shouted.

The black bird hovered above him; it was a helicopter and it caught the
assault team in the open. It had come from nowhere-from below the peak,
hurtling up the sheer wall behind Trewitt and Ramirez. A Huey, painted
black, no insignia, its roar like a bottle fly's, slow-moving,
insistent. Trewitt's vision blurred and he could not track the details
in the sudden commotion of dust and gunfire, but he saw a long burst
cutting across the slope after the scattering commandos. Tracer bullets
pursued the running men and took them down. The chopper swung after two
who escaped the kill zone, pausing atop each to blow him away. The last
man-he had the Dragunov-threw his weapon far and raised his hands. Above
him the bird circled, then hung. The commando stood in an oval of
whirring dust thirty feet beneath the stationary machine. Suddenly the
helicopter shot skyward. It rose free of gravity, as though escaping the
soldier beneath. The man detonated in a startling clap and flash.

"Jesus, Mary, he had a bomb," Ramirez said.

The helicopter was above them now and then had settled a hundred feet
away. Trewitt could not hear a thing but he twisted to watch as, out of
it, sprang three men in blue uniforms and baseball caps with M-16s.

Trewitt raised his hand to greet his rescuers and recognized the first
of them as Paul Chardy, who was pausing only to jam another banana clip
into his weapon before racing to him.

Trewitt died somewhere in the air during the hop to the other side of
the border. Chardy did not see the exact moment; perhaps there was no
exact moment. Trewitt had never been fully conscious after the rescue.

He lay blood spattered and filthy on the floor-deck, in the patois-of
the Huey. Chardy had been here before, a thousand times; in Vietnam in
the '60s, in Peru, and always it was the same: the huge roar, the wash
of bright light and turbulent air from the open port, the vibrations,
the stench of fuel, the stink of powder from recently fired weapons-and
the dead man on the deck.

They'd thrown a sheet across his face and tried to tuck his limbs
neatly, but an arm fell free in the airborne pounding and twisted the
hand into delicate frieze. Trewitt: he sure didn't look like the dreamy
young man Chardy had seen in Rosslyn, in a suit, in an office, in the
middle of a civilized afternoon. He looked like any grunt, a soldier,
dirty and tired and dead. It occurred to Chardy that he knew so little
about him.

And there was nobody to ask, for Trewitt had no friends among
them-besides Chardy the two FBI special agents sitting across from him
in the gloomy space, with impassive faces, really just police beef. And
then that other curious treasure, a Mexican, huge and wounded and
sullen, eyes insane, who said Jesus Mary, Jesus Mary over and over. Who
could he be?

Chardy looked at him. The man's arm was stiff in a U.S. government-issue
gauze bandage and he leaned groggily against the quilting of the forward
bulkhead.

Who are you? What's in that stupid head of yours? What secrets, you pig?

With a suddenness the pitch of the engine dropped and Chardy felt the
craft descending. A cascade of white light rushed in upon them as the
bird finally settled dustily into the reflection of the sun off the
desert floor, and seconds later, with a jolt, they had landed and the
engine died.

Blearily, they got out. Men rushed over, numerous FBI special agents and
Border Patrol officers. Chardy stood alone in the great heat as the
activity swirled around him, men who knew what to do. He fished about in
his pockets, came up with his sunglasses, and hooked them on to drive
off the glare of the penetrating radiance of this latitude. They were at
a Border Patrol installation astride the Camino del Diablo, the devil's
road, in southeastern Arizona, a freeway for illegal immigrants and dope
traffickers, whose ease of transit this new installation had been built
to impede. An American flag hung limp against a bright blue sky. Away
from the Quonsets and cinderblock sprang brown sandy hills, a little
spiny greenery, and rocks. Chardy had been here before too, a thousand
times: a little jerry-built outpost where men occasionally died.

He looked back to Trewitt, now a form under a blanket on a stretcher
beside the quiet helicopter.

"Coffee, Paul?" asked Leo Bennis. "Or iced tea? We've got some iced
tea." 11 No."

"Jesus, I don't know how he lasted so long with a bullet through him
there."

"I guess he was a tough kid," Chardy said. "He did okay. He did fine."

"Hey, mister?"

It was the Mexican.

"Hey, you cannot do this. Take me from my country.

You must take me back."

Chardy didn't say anything to the man. Shouldn't somebody be looking
after him?

"You'll be taken care of," said Leo. "Don't worry."

"It's going to cost plenty, I tell you that now. Plenty, huh'."' He
smiled. Then he said, "Hey, that boy, crazy Ilia boy, he don't know
nothing. You got to wipe his nose for him. I thought all gringos was big
men. Ain't you got no better guy than this?" He smiled, showing his
bright teeth.

CHAPTER 46

Chardy smiled back, then hit him in the nose, feeling it smash as the
man went heavily down into the dust. He would have killed him too,
except that Bennis and ultimately several others held him back.

Lanahan's moment of terror was approaching fast now.

He ran a raspy tongue across leather lips; he looked at his watch, the
water glass before him, then at Sam Melman's water glass across the
table. His mouth and throat begged his brain for water, but he had sworn
to himself to yield nothing to the men in this room-all of them older by
at least ten and more likely fifteen years, none particularly friendly,
the Operations Directorate elect at the weekly division-head meeting at
Langley-and so he would not take any more water than his mentor over
there. But Melman had a notoriously high discomfort threshold and could
do without water for hours. He had not touched his, not at all. The guy
next to him must have blown a couple of networks to the Russians that
very morning, because he'd already tossed away a glass and a half. And
there had to be bad news due from Soviet Bloc too, because that man was
really sucking the fluid down while looking about with a kind of
abstracted horror seen only in meetings-a wash of pallor and a mad
Wittiness of the eyes, a radiant and all-encompassing fear.

But Sam, across the table, sat in calm splendor. He reached across the
polished wood, showing a quarter-inch of cream-colored French cuff, and
idly caressed the glass.

PW

Lanahan watched his fine fingers on the cool vessel, then diverted his
gaze to his own glass, just a few inches from his fingers. It stood
under a rectangular fluorescent light whose glow made the glass seem
impossibly vivid.

Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. The line rattled
around in his skull idiotically, something remembered from parochial
school; it would not go away. He concentrated to drive it out.

At the other end of the table a studious fellow off the European desk
was detailing at tedious length a recently completed transaction with a
Soviet naval attache in Nice. it was a pointless and self-serving
narrative, full of allusions to people and events Lanahan had no
knowledge of. Hearing classified stuff like this had long ago lost its
titillating charge and the speaker's loquacity was agonizing; for
Lanahan knew that after Europe stood down, it was Far East's turn; and
then came Special Projects. And Melman, among so many other things, was
Special Projects. He looked again at the agenda in pale, blurred
mimeograph before him as if to make certain and saw, yes, yes, under the
Special Projects rubric, it was still there:

Danzig Update (Lanahaii sup'v.)

He reached and touched the glass. He touched it with one stumpy finger,
felt its smoothness. He knew mystically, out of a private bargain with
himself, that if he gave in to the temptation and drank the water,
catastrophe would follow inevitably. It was foreordained; it was
certain. Yet, suicidally, that only made the water more attractive. His
throat ached for it. He looked at his watch. Thirty seconds had passed.

Lanahan was in a real jam. He could not find Chardy. Chardy had
disappeared on him. He'd shaken his two babysitters and not been seen
since early the previous after noon. He had not been at his apartment.

And Miles had been under special instructions to keep watch on Chardy.

And he knew Melman would ask about Chardy. And that if he tried to lie,
he'd blow it. And that if he told Melman that Chardy had something going
with Trewitt in Mexico, he was in deep trouble. And he knew that if
Chardy had gone to the Russians, he was in desperate trouble.

Miles's tiny hands formed fists. Why had those guys let Chardy get away!

How could he be expected to run things with third-raters like those two!

It wasn't fair. He shouldn't have been responsible for both Chardy and
Danzig. It was too much, especially with Danzig acting up too.

Far East had the floor. A rear admiral-though he'd worked in the Agency
for years now, he still wore his uniform, his vanity-he spoke in
austere, oblique phrases, reading through half-lenses from a typewritten
page before him on a topic so obscure Lanahan had no chance of
comprehending. Yet almost as he began, he finished, and sat back
blankly.

"Discussion?"

"Walt, on the Hong Kong apparatus? Are those the same people Jerry Kenny
used back in 'fifty-nine?"

"Some. Old Li, of course-he's been around since the war. But the real
energy is from the younger people, the post-Chiang generation."

Who the flick is Jerry Kenny? Lanahan wondered.

"Okay. Just wanted clarification. I don't think Jerry was terribly fond
of Li."

"Li has his uses."

"I suppose."

"More?"

Oh, Lord, Lanahan thought; and then he thought, Chardy, you
motherfucker-and was astonished at himself for uttering, even in his own
mind, such a filthy word.

"Sam. Aren't you next?"

Melman was talking. He had them, Lanahan could tell. He had them, was
lulling them, rolling them this way and that: the operation in synopsis,
high points, low points, fates of some long-gone participants, status of
the survivors, constant flattering references to his Number 1 right hand
man and field supervisor, Miles Lanahan, at which Miles could only nod
and smile tightly.

He's setting me up, Miles thought. He knows I've screwed up!--he must
have his sources; he's just setting me up.

Miles patrolled tongue along lips again. Oh, Christ, it was hot. He
hoped the perspiration hadn't beaded up on his forehead; he wished he
could get to the john; he was dying for a sip of water.

Where was Chardy?

Why didn't I give him to Melman earlier. I had a scoop, good stuff. I
had to play it too fine, push it too hard, shoot for an even bigger ..

He could still hand over Chardy. It wasn't too late. He owed Chardy
nothing. He remembered guys like Chardy from high school and college:
jocks, heroes, they thought they owned the world; they thought they
deserved more space. The priests loved Chardys; they'd barely nod to a
bright but tiny boy like Miles. Chardy carried the glory of the faith;
Miles only did his job.

Where was Chardy?

He'd had a team there all night. Nothing. He now had people at police
stations, at hospitals. They could reach him still, in seconds, even
though he had only seconds remaining until he was up, only seconds the
hell with it, thought Lanahan.

He took a swallow of water, and another; it was gone. He'd finished it
in one shot. He could feel horrified eyes on him; had he made some gross
gulping noise? Had a tradition been shattered, his career ruined? It
turned on such small things, after all: not on who your dad was or where
you went to school, but how much water you drank and whether your socks
were right and did you know when to laugh and what to laugh at?

He rubbed his nose, where a blemish throbbed.

"Miles?"

"Ah!"

Not listening.

"Your status?" Sam looked at him with great kindness and expectation.

"Well"-his voice a pitch too high; he brought it down-"well, Sam and
gentlemen"-the wrong note, didn't mean to seem obsequious; the trick
here was presence-"it's currently a holding situation...Dr. Danzig is to
some degree cooperating with us by staying put, and we've got that house
sealed up."

"Miles, what kind of liaison are you working with the FBI?"

"Extremely low-level. One of their supervisors offered me a blank check
but I thanked him and backed off. I didn't see any point in involving
them any more than necessary. They wanted to ship over bodies, but you
never know who is reporting to whom.,,

"What about Secret Service?"

"I consulted with them on setting up my perimeters; they were quite
helpful. But they didn't offer people and I didn't ask for people. We've
got our own men in the house and grounds; in addition, we've got
vehicular patrols orbiting the house, as well as an emergency CP in a
house down the block. It's very tight. They almost arrested me.

"They did arrest me," said a well-known acquaintance of Joseph Danzig's,
to much laughter.

Miles began to hope that

"And what's Danzig's status?"

"Ah. He's under great strain. It's a very difficult time for him, and
for us. He's bearing up, although not without his little outbursts."

"How are your people doing?"

"I've no problems to report. They seem to be doing well. They're
professionals; they know what's expected."

"Anything else, Miles?" asked Sam.

"That's it. Nothing more to say."

"Well, unless there's any discussion-"

"Isn't Chardy on this one?"

"Yes," said Miles.

"Now, Paul was a fieldman. Talk about pros. One of the real cowboys."
The voice was warm with nostalgia, with dewy memories for what some of
the men in this room must have thought of still as the Good Old Days.

And fuck him. Fuck him to hell. Out of nowhere, out of a sweet weakness
for a dreadful past, had Chardy's ugly name come up and onto the table.

Miles looked quickly to the far end of the room but could not identify
the speaker. They all looked the same anyway: gray, pleasant, bland men
in suits, vaguely aloof, prim smiles, calm eyes.

"Danzig likes him, I've heard," somebody else said curiously.

"He seems to have conceived an affection for Chardy. The strain, I
suppose," said Miles. "I don't think it's-"

"Didn't Chardy do some time in a Soviet prison? Miles, do you think it
wise, considering-" But Melman cut in swiftly: "David, we're all aware
of Paul's flamboyant-and checkered-past. it was my decision to bring him
into this, because he was linked to Ulu Beg. In all frankness, one of
our first thoughts was that he would be the Kurd's target; we wanted to
make him more visible, in that case. It didn't work out. Now he's
important because-"

"I know he's important. Is he reliable?" The voice was ugly.

"It's a risk I think we should be willing to run. We are monitoring him
carefully."

"I say any man who beat up Cy Brasher deserves a medal," somebody new
said, again to a great chorus of laughter.

"I'm not shedding any tears for Cy Brasher, Sam, but that's exactly the
kind of wild-eyed, out-of-control behavior that this Agency can no
longer afford. That's why I ask if he's reliable. And that's why-"

"So far, Paul has done his work diligently," said Sam.

"Except for Boston," said David, whoever David was. "If I read those
reports fight, if he'd stayed on station, the whole mess-"

"Or again, it might have been worse. And if he had panicked, and not
thought to move that suicidal woman's body away from the scene, a minor
catastrophe might have exploded into a major scandal. Paul cuts both
ways. He can help you in a way nobody else can, and he can hurt you to
just the same extent. So you've got to keep him on a very short chain.

Miles wouldn't have the job he's got if I weren't satisfied he's a good
man with a chain. Miles, what have you got him doing now? Is he still at
the house?"

Sam certainly had mastered the techniques of blandness. This was the
question that would destroy Miles fight now, before all these division
heads, and it had been asked in the softest, the most reasonable tone
Miles had ever heard. Sam sounded again like a cardinal.

"Well, he's-" Miles began, wondering where he would end, at the same
time enchanted, fascinated, by the catastrophe of the moment. But
exactly as his mind purged clean of words, some factotum-Miles hadn't
ever seen him enter-leaned and placed before him a message, which Miles
proceeded to read in a confident voice as though he'd known it all
along, despite the fact that he was as amazed as any of them to discover
that late last night Chardy had been playing basketball with some
inner-city kids on a lit playground in Anacostia and some rough words
had been exchanged and poor Paul had been beaten rather severely.

"He's in Saint Teresa's, in Southeast."

He smiled at Sam.

"Is there any more water?"

CHAPTER 47

Now they had him in a far city and a secret place. He had been tended
and cleaned and cared for. He had expected a trial to begin soon and
knew that he was guilty. It didn't matter the crime, he'd committed so
many. Jail held no terror-he'd been there and knew he'd flourish if his
health held-but he missed his dry heat and his beer and his girls and
his food. He missed the Madonna even, old ugly cow. At least he'd
escaped the Huerras. It would be nice to head back to Mexico City when
this was all over and cut the old man's throat. He'd flop like a fish
when he bled. But Ramirez knew he'd never get close enough. Still, in
this cool, dull American room it was a pleasant thought to fill his head
until the trial. He wondered if they'd give him a lawyer; they'd already
given him a doctor to fix his three gunshot wounds and his broken nose.

He never knew it worked like this. He thought maybe they'd broken a law
too, but he also realized that in this world, if you were strong and
bold and well equipped, there were no laws.

But there was no trial. And the Americans were not interested in his
crimes. They didn't care for the drug smuggling, the illegal-running,
the whoremongering. They cared for only one thing: pictures.

"Pictures? You bring me all this way to look at pictures? Pretty
strange."

"We have." His interrogator spoke Spanish. Tape recorders whirred, the
lights were bright, some kind of apparatus had been strapped around his
chest and arm, and tense men huddled about his bed. Whatever he knew
must be pretty important.

"Show me pictures, then. What the hell? I want you to be happy."

"Look carefully at this one, Senor Ramirez."

He squinted through his swollen eyes.

"Jesus Mary. He didn't have no beard," Ramirez said in his border
English. "And he was dressed regular, like some kind of norteamericano.

I thought he was. But that face."

"You brought him across the border?"

"Si.,,

"And there was shooting."

"I shoot no one. That one done the shooting. I swear it. I shoot no one.

I didn't even have no gun. He took my gun before. He's a very smart
hombre, I'll tell you. He came to me in my place and say, "Hey, mister,
you take me to Los Estados, I pay you good." And I tell him-"

"All right, Mr. Ramirez. We're very short on time. Here, look through
these. I have here over two hundred photographs of men. I want you to
look at them closely. You tell me if you've seen any recently."

The faces flicked past. A dreary group--out of focus, blurry. Men in
uniforms of strange countries, men photographed at long distance, men in
cars or the rain. Most had hard features, the sharpness, the seediness
of Europeans; only a few were Latino.

A familiar set of features suddenly were before him. He studied hard.

"Leo," somebody said, "the needle just jumped through the roof.,"

"That one, Mr. Ramirez?" Now he knew why he was here.

"Never seen him."

"Leo, the needle's still climbing. It's going into orbit."

"Mr. Ramirez, our machine tells us you're lying. You have seen this man
before."

Ramirez settled his vision in the far distance. Wire mesh ran through
the windows-so he was in a prison then, was he? They really had him.

"Mr. Ramirez, we're not here to prosecute you. You are not part of any
legal proceedings. Nothing you say will be held against you. In point of
fact, officially this is not happening. We need your cooperation."

Ramirez sat and stared placidly ahead.

"Mr. Ramirez. Look on it as a debt of honor. The United States, your
friendly northern neighbor, sent a young man to save you from your
enemies. Then a helicopter. Your life was saved twice. It seems to me
you owe us. I IIT's a debt of honor. I know how important your honor is.

"Is no debt," said the Mexican. "The debt was made no good when the man
with the dark beard hit me in the nose. I want some money. Is no honor
here. Your people, they have no honor."

"Now that's a mentality we can deal with," somebody said.

"Okay, Sal, cut the smart stuff," the one called Leo said. "All right,
Mr. Ramirez, how much?"

"I want," said Ramirez, "two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred dollars?"

"Two hundred, U.S. In cash."

"I think we can afford that," said Leo.

"Now," said Ramirez.

Leo reached into his wallet, counted out some bills. "I have only
twenty-three dollars on me now. And some change."

"How much change?"

Leo searched his pockets. "Sixty-three cents." ?

I take it all. You get the rest later."

"Twenty-three dollars and
sixty-three cents, here you are," Leo said. "Haggerty, make a note of
that, okay?"

"Sure, Leo. We won't stiff you." There was some laughter.

Ramirez began to speak.

"He wore a cream suit. He try to kill me. He get me here," and he pulled
open his robe to show them the recent wound. "He and another little pig,
a fat pig who didn't say much and needed a shave."

"Probably Sixto. They worked as a team in Nicaragua."

"What happened, Mr. Ramirez? This is a very dangerous individual."

"I shot him in the guts and his friend twice-in the head. With a little
Colt I used to keep at the register."

Nobody said anything for a long moment.

"Jesus Christ," somebody finally said. "Did you hear that?"

"Is he lying?"

"Leo, we get no increase in respiration."

"He got 'em both? Jesus, Leo, can you believe that?"

"I know," said Leo. "They didn't even bother to hire anybody. They went
after him themselves, with their best people, right from the start."

"That would make those guys Chardy wasted on the mountain part of that
crack Cinco de Julio commando brigade that raised so much hell in
Angola."

"They really went after him with the cream, Leo. They wanted him greased
something bad."

"Christ," said Leo, "wait till Chardy hears his friend Mr. Ramirez took
down a full colonel and a major in Cuban Military Intelligence."

CHAPTER 48

The nun smiled and said that yes, Mr. Chardy could have visitors, at
least until four, when the hospital would be cleared. There were
visiting hours again at six, until eight.

"Thank you, Sister," Lanahan said-at his most charming. "And how are
you?"

"I'm fine, young man," she said. "I'm so glad to see you're still
in the habit, Sister. You don't see it so much anymore. I don't care for
these new uniforms. Some don't even wear uniforms, which is quite a bit
too far out for my taste. The habit communicates such seriousness, such
dignity."

"That's the way we feel, young man."

"Goodbye."

Miles, warmed by the conversation, rode the elevator UP four stories and
turned down one hall and then another, tracking room numbers. His soles
clicked crisply on the linoleum. He walked through doors and along
corridors, surprised that the place was so huge. Crucifixes adorned
every wall, and pictures of Jesus and Mary. He smiled at the nuns. It
had been-how long since he'd been in an exclusively Catholic
institution? So long. Too long. He thought of asking where the chapel
was, and stopping for A a moment. The warmth and love of the place
embraced him. And pleased him; Chardy, in a place like this? It would be
good for him.

At last he found the wing.

NEUROLOGICAL, the sign said. It figured. Chardy, the nut-case, in the
loony department. He stepped through double doors. No nuns or priests
here, not even a doctor in this bleak green corridor. He paused,
counting the room numbers.

CHARDY PAUL, read the typed card framed next to the doorbell.

He paused again. The door was closed. What crawled on his spine? A
feeling of things wrong, dead wrong, all about him. His profession,
however, inclined him to paranoia, and one succeeded in it by virtue of
controlling these devouring sensations. Yet still he felt sucked in.

Gray light came through the window just down the way at the end of the
hall, displaying a slice of the panorama of the city, though one without
monuments.

Lanahan's attack at last quelled itself, and he felt okay again, ready
to check in on Chardy, to see him with his own eyes, to know that
everything was all right; and then to have it out with him, the whole
thing, who was boss, the cavalier attitude, his whole rotten bad
attitude that had poisoned things since the very beginning; and then
finally to the business of Trewitt, which he meant to pop on him by
surprise to break him down with; and then to call Sam, make a fresh
start. And therefore spare himself any further rites of terror such as
the one he'd undergone at the Ops meeting yesterday.

He knocked.

"Yeah?"

It was Chardy.

"Paul, it's Miles," he called, and sailed in. "Paul, When Miles came at
last to reorient himself, he was astounded to discover that through some
Alice in Wonderland trickery or illogic, he had become the patient. He
had a terrible, a profound sense of a fundamental change in the fabric
of his reality, as if in stepping through the door he'd exchanged one
universe for another, fallen down the rabbit hole.

Several men stood around him, and were not friendly, among them Paul
Chardy, dressed, sporting no trophies of a beating. If anything, Chardy
had done some beating recently, for the knuckles of his right hand wore
a blazing white gauze strip.

Paul, what the-" "Just relax, Miles."

Paul, this-"

Miles, be quiet." Chardy's teacher voice, Chardy's teacher look,
authoritative, unarguable. What Chardy was this? A Chardy in command?

What the hell gave Chardy the right?

But Miles shut up. He'd been deposited firmly into a straight-back
chair, trussed not by bonds but by the weighty presence, the will, of
others. Who were they?

What kind of hospital was this, anyway?

"Miles," Chardy said, "we start with one question. One important
question."

He's not wired yet," somebody said.

It doesn't matter," said Chardy.

Hey, Paul, this-"

"Shh now, Miles. Shhh. Trust me."

Chardy solicitous? What kind of new Chardy was this?

For yes, this was a new Chardy. Had he found his religion, or lost it?

He'd never seen a calmer Chardy, a less hostile Chardy. Where had
Chardy's chip gone, the one that weighed a ton that he carried around on
his shoulder? Where was that ex-jock's snarl, that willingness to punch
out, fuck the consequences? It was as though he'd had a face-lift or a
brain-lift or something.

"Look," Chardy began, almost pleasantly, "one little question. Help us,
okay? We know you were monitoring me; we know you had guys on me; we
know that guy in Boston who was recording Johanna was reporting to you.

So you saw the wiretap transcripts. Right?"

Lanahan looked sullenly at Chardy.

"Sure you did, Miles. You wouldn't have missed a chance like that. Now
here's the big question. A call came to me. From Illinois, from
Resurrection. From a nun. You may remember helping her find me. Anyway,
she read me a telegram. Okay?"

"Okay, Paul."

"Did you see it?"

A moment of triumph. Lanahan could not help the little smirk.

"Yes," he finally said.

"I knew you would. Didn't I say so, Leo? Miles is very, very smart.

Here's the tough one. Let's take it another step, and we need the truth
on this, Miles. I'll have them blast you full of sodium p if I have to."

Somebody looped a strap across Lanahan's chest and drew it tight.

Another man leaned over him, pushed his sleeve up, and bound onto his
arm an elastic band.

"Hey, you have to have my permission to polygraph me," he said.

"Now, now, Mr. Lanahan, let's just be patient. He's all set. Let me get
a control reading here. Is your name Miles Lanahan?"

"Miles?"

Lanahan was silent.

"Come on, Miles, play the game. Answer the man."

Miles looked at the ceiling, at the men in the room, so many of them.

"Who are these guys, Paul? Just what the hell-"

"I'm Leo Bennis of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Lanahan.

These people are on my staff. They're all professionals, and they all
have high-level security clearances. All right?"

But L,anahan shot a look of horror at Chardy.

"Feds! Jesus Christ, you went to the feds. Oh, Paul, I'm so disappointed
in you. Oh, Jesus, Paul, Sam is going to screw you, he's going to-oh,
Paul, that's just the worst-"

"They've been on this thing for a little while, Miles. And they
listened. You guys wouldn't. Nobody else would. So I had to go play with
them. It's their ball. Come on, Miles, let's get going. Give the man
your name so we can get the game started."

"Paul, you-"

"Miles, this wouldn't be going on if we didn't think it absolutely
fucking had to. Had lo. Come on, Miles. Come on."

Miles looked around again. It was said that Chardy had been worked with
blowtorches before he finally cracked. But that had been different, a
kind of war. He'd had time to get ready; he'd been trained. Miles looked
around the room, then back to Chardy, whose glare leaned in to him. He
broke away from it, looked elsewhere. But there was no mercy for him
anywhere in this room.

"My name is Miles Lanahan."

"Where do you reside?"

Miles gave the address.

"What's your mother's name?"

Miles answered.

"Okay," the technician said. "it would be better if he wasn't so
excited, but I guess that can't be helped. I've run them on jumpier
guys. Go ahead, Chardy."

"Okay, Miles. What did you make of the telegram?"

Miles took a deep breath. Here was a test he was going to pass.

"You're running Trewitt. In Mexico. Trewitt's alive."

"See, Leo, I told you he had a nose for this stuff. He's sharp; he can
do an awful lot with very little dope. Okay, Miles. Here's the last big
one. Who did you tell?"

"Paul, these guys are just using you. They don't give a shit; they're
just conning you. They love to scramble the Agency. Paul, you're going
to get in so much trouble. Paul, this isn't-"

"Shoot him up, Leo. Miles, I have to know. It's very important."

"Don't stick me, goddammit. Keep that thing away."

He looked around the room, finding it surprisingly big. He saw that once
upon a time it had been an operating room: high ceiling, bright yellow
walls ribbed with pipes. Now it was-what? HQ for some weird fed
operation, Judas Chardy up there rubbing asses with G-men.

Sam's words came to him, delivered only days ago, clear and penetrating:
He will make you choose. He will tempt you, test you. He's clever,
smart. You've never seen the man he really is.

"Miles, let's go. It's confession time. Who'd you tell?"

"Nobody."

"What kind of reading you get?"

"Respiration's flat. No jump. Unless he's stoned on downers or a real
pro at riding these things, which he might be."

"I was never on one of these things in my life," Lanahan said irritably,
offended at the notion.

"Why, Miles? Why didn't you tell Sam? It was a big scoop. It was your
ticket to the top."

"Because I couldn't read it. I played it over two hundred ways and I
still couldn't read it. I wanted to develop it, or hold it in reserve,
and pull it out when it really counted, or when it took me someplace."

"You played it just right, Miles. We're very lucky nobody in that outfit
is quite as bright as you."

"Good old Miles," Leo said.

Miles saw that the tension in the room was considerably released. Now
what the hell?

"Trewitt got a guy out of Mexico-yeah, Trewitt, Dreamer Trewitt-that a
lot of people want dead. But somehow Trewitt did it. It only cost his
life. A Mexican smuggler and vice lord who brought Ulu Beg across the
border back in March. He's in the room next door, under my name, right
now."

"I don't-"

"This fat slob had one secret and one secret only. Not that Ulu Beg was
in America-we knew that. But that the Cubans were running interference
for him, backtracking to wipe out his tracks."

"Jesus, Paul, what would the Cubans-"

"Come on, Miles. The Cubans are acting for the Russians. This means Ulu
Beg isn't here on his own, but as the final part of a Soviet
Intelligence operation."

"They should know that at the Agency. We should tell them that at the
Agency."

"No. Because if they know that at the Agency, the Russians will very
quietly put a bullet in Ulu Beg's skull and back off. We've got to let
them push it the last step, so that we can flip it over on them."

Miles said nothing.

"All right, Miles," said Chardy. "Now I'm going to tell you how you're
going to stop them. Stop Ulu Beg and a Russian named Speshnev, who's
running their op, who thought it up. Miles, you're going to be a cowboy.

A computer cowboy."

CHAPTER 49

Danzig sat in his office, amid the litter, the empty cups, the
craziness. The room seemed full of black bats, broken glass, the stage
props of melodramatic insanity; on the other hand, it also seemed just a
dirty room, a room in which once a book had been written but which was
now a mess. He sat inertly. He could hear, hear the slow drain of time
slipping away: most peculiar. The world is made of atoms, as we know,
and even smaller particles; what can this thing we call time be, except
the passing of one particle, then another, as they transform themselves
into another dimension?

Crackpot stuff, of course. Yet lately he'd been taking refuge in the
crackpot, the harebrained, the addled, the twisted, the hopelessly banal
stupid ideas of this world. The Bermuda Triangle, for one, held a great
fascination for him, as did this notion of Chariots of the Gods. Can
Aliens in pre-Biblical times really be responsible for this lurid thing
we call civilization? Can an Alien influence, a Martian shadow, be
divined in his current predicament, rich as it is in literary irony? Are
moonmen behind it Or again: Bigfoot? Fascinating creature, the missing
link; they even had it on film. It looked strangely like a man in a
monkey suit-but no matter! It was a system of belief, a way of
organizing data coherently. Which Danzig at this point in time lacked,
and he was not willing to sit in judgment on any other man's techniques
for doing so. There were others too: saucers, phrenology,
Rosicrucianism, Mormonism, Scientology, nudism. All systems of belief,
perfectly logical, askew in only one tiny detail which, like one
degree's missing in a compass reading, took them further and further into
the ether the farther out they got, yanking them off into the realms of
the purely crazy. Yet comforting! Full of abiding love!

Offering safety!

I have no safety, Danzig thought.

What I mean is ... What do I mean?

He looked about. Files spilled into files everywhere.

He needed a way to organize it. No matter how insane, how Rosicrucian,
how bizarre, he needed a single theory by which the thing could be
looked at, tested, then, if false, disregarded.

He needed science.

What he had was madness.

The room terrified him. It was the entropy principle, once again:
randomness, disorder, the release of pure energy to no meaningful
purpose other than disaster.

There lay the file on BANGLADESH, in one terrible isolated comer,
starvation and treachery reeking from the jumble of typed pages (he
remembered the photos of the Paki intellectuals bayoneted to death by
teenagers for the benefit of the Western cameramen). And over there,
huge one, most of it blurred papers, that thin stuff from State with a
mad mix of CIA documents thrown in for good measure, CHINA, carbons,
wads of it (he remembered Chou in the great hall: curious, a pinnacle
moment in Western and Eastern civilization, the two cultures meeting as
equals for the first time in two million years of human hood, and all he
could remember about it now, having talked and written about it
extensively for almost a decade, were the terrible Chinese toilets,
pissholes, sinks, shitdrains of primordial infection); and over there,
tidier, a much smaller pile, indicative of how history had really passed
her brave, pretty buildings and picturesque mountains by, W. EUROPE;
then AFRICA, undeveloped, a few niggardly papers; and a huge and messy
pile for SE ASIA, where history had paused for seven long and bitter
years; and finally-he hadn't the nerve to face it-mid-EAST, all the
little countries, the passionate, violent, rich, desperate little lands,
a horror of exile and betrayal and steel will, profligacy. Who could
make sense of it? No man. Not even a man of outstanding intellect and
ambition, a Danzig.

He spun (barefoot in tattered terry-cloth robe, his flat veined feet and
yellowed toes before him) to face it: mid-EAST. It covered half a room.

He'd begun, one time or other in his hibernation here, to divide the
huge archive into smaller piles, IRAN and IRAQ and SAUDI ARABIA and the
terrible, terrible little PALESTINE and a huge ISRAEL. It looked like a
fleet, a formation, stacks and stacks of paper: working papers, reports,
indexes, trade tables, economic profiles, intelligence reports,
satellite photos, computer printouts, abstracts, memo drafts, think-tank
bulletins-the gunk, the stuff, the actual plasm of history. And all this
was A-level documents, the cream of the cream. In the basement there
lurked still another ton and a half of ungraded documents; and in a
warehouse in Kensington still more, press clippings, embassy
invitations, routing slips. No man could master it all, the
complexities, the strange subtleties. And in it somewhere, in one file
or in a hundred, lay the ANSWER: who was trying to kill him. And why. No
wonder he was going insane. Who wouldn't? It's a miracle I haven't gone
crazy before. No wonder I seek solace in crazy ideas, fascinated at the
bizarre halls through which human minds can drag the hulking bodies that
surround them.

He stared at the piles, aware finally of his own sour odor. He felt like
a character in a Borges story lost in a paper labyrinth, time having
been decreed to stand still. Truly: he was in a situation that could
only have been designed by a blind Argentinian librarian-genius. Yet
there was no other place to be. He could not leave. They would kill him
if he left the labyrinth.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Now, suddenly, the bridge of his nose
hurt. It had supported glasses for all his adult life; yet now, in an
hour of maximum stress, it too revolted. His body ached; he was
disgustingly flatulent; his head ached, always, always, always. All
systems were breaking down; he could not concentrate for more than a few
minutes (he kept whirligigging off on wild tangents). Each time he set
out to do something, he thought instantly of something else equally
urgent, and veered to it immediately. Consequently, nothing even neared
completion. He was becoming Howard Hughes, walled genius, brilliant
lunatic, out of touch with any reality except the lurid one between his
ears.

I am out of control. I am an exile in my own house, my own brain.

He stood suddenly, but in the effort lost contact with the reason for
standing. By the time he was fully up he could claim no reason for the
move. He sat down again, just as suddenly, and began to weep.

How long did he weep? It must have been hours. His self-pity took on
Homeric weight and gravity. He wept forever. Night was falling. He was
growing weary. Twice men had crept down the hall to listen. He was
trying to control himself, but he could hear them listening.

Oh, help me, please. Somebody. Please.

Who would help him? His wife? She was worthless.

They had not fucked in years. When he spoke he saw her eyes wander to
the ceiling; she had the attention span of a grasshopper. Sam Melman?

Help me, Sam, please help me. But Sam was too greedy, too smooth, too
ambitious.

Help me, oh, please help me.

Lanahan? The little priest, whose adolescent acne still erupted on his
bitter young face, so bent, so determined to succeed. Yet Lanahan was
more insane than he was, even.

Help me, help me, oh, help me.

Help me, Chardy, help me.

He wished Chardy were here. Yet he hated Chardy also. Not Chardy; Chardy
was another disappointment. Chardy had disappointed him too. Chardy had
looked at him dumbly. He'd sat there stolidly, eyes dull, radiating
aimless violence. Chardy was another fool.

Danzig stared into dim space, working himself into rage over Chardy's
stupidity. Chardy didn't know a thing. Chardy was entirely a figment of
Danzig's imagination; he was an invention, a contrivance, an assemblage.

He was a simple soldier, man of violence, narrow of mind and
imagination. Danzig had foolishly built him into something he was not.

It was where his illness had begun, this business of Chardy. It was the
first sign of his weakness. Hadn't Chardy almost gotten him killed in
his carelessness with the Harvard woman? Hadn't Chardy allowed the Kurd
to get within killing distance? Chardy was no good. He was ordinary in
the worst sense.

He hated Chardy. It occurred to him to call Sam Melman this second and
demand that Chardy be fired, be let go. No, more: that he be punished,
disgraced, imprisoned. Chardy was no good. You could not depend on
Chardy. Once Chardy had come aboard, the whole thing had begun to fall
apart. His rage mounted. He saw Chardy arrested, interrogated,
humiliated. He saw Chardy in prison among lunatics and blacks and
hillbillies. Chardy violated, Chardy abused. Chardy ruined. Danzig
absorbed a great satisfaction from the scenario. He drew warmth and
pleasure from it and at one point actually had the phone in his hand
miracle that he could even find it in the rubble) and had dialed the
first two numbers.

But then he froze.

Perhaps they wanted him to hate Chardy. Perhaps they had driven a wedge
between him and Chardy, knowing them to be natural allies, fearing the
potency of any allegiance between them. Maybe, therefore, it would be
better to ... Once again, he sat back.

My mind is going nowhere. I'm agitated at nothing. They are taking my
mind away from me-this Kurd, whomever he works for.

His bowels began to tense. The scalding need to defecate came over him.

He thought he would mess himself, foul his own nest, the ultimate
degradation.

My own systems betray me also. They are in revolt.

He passed a terrible burst of gas. Its odor nauseated him. He ran into
the adjacent bathroom and sat on the toilet. He sat there for a long
time, even after he had ceased to defecate, making certain the attack
was over.

I can still do one thing, he thought.

I can still shit.

He reached for the toilet paper and unreeled a long train of sheets,
gathering them in his hand. Yet as he pulled loose the last of them,
separating it at its perforations with a smart tug, something fell away
to the floor. In the dark he could not see. He leaned over, his fingers
on the tile. He felt a piece of paper. He brought it quickly to his
eyes.

Metternich, it said.

Nil Danzig cleaned himself, rose, and went swiftly back to his office
and to the shelves.

He picked up Metternich, Architect of Order, by Joseph Danzig, Harvard
University Press, 1964, and began to page through it.

A piece of paper fell out.

You must flee, it said.

They will kill you, it said.

It told him where to go, and when.

It was signed Chardy.

CHAPTER 50

"A" right, Miles. Now we're going to talk computers.

"So talk," said Miles. He would just sit back and be pleasant. He would
not get anybody mad. It would all work out and then he'd go to Sam so
fast "No, Miles. You're the one who has to talk."

Miles said, "I can't tell you anything about computers. All that stuff
is highly classified."

Leo said, "I can still shoot him up."

"No," Chardy said, "we need him sober."

He turned back to Miles.

"Miles, we're very close to something very big. And it's come to pass
that you've got the key."

Miles just looked at him blankly.

"The files. All on computer discs, right?" Chardy asked.

Miles answered with silence. But his eyes must have signaled yes, for
the conversation continued. But he wasn't sure where this computer angle
had come from all of a sudden. It seemed to come from nowhere. Or maybe
it had been there all along, and he just didn't know.

"Harris got the contract, didn't they?" asked a new ce. "The
fifteen-hundred line of terminals in the pit. They bump 'em up to
seventeen-fifties yet?"

An expert. They had an expert.

He said nothing.

"Mr. Lanahan, if you want I can show you photocopies of the contract.

We're on pretty solid ground."

"Paul, why are you doing this to me?"

For the first time Chardy showed his temper.

"Look, nobody's done a thing to you. People are dead on account of this
business, have died horribly, pointlessly. People were ruined, people
were destroyed-"

"Paul-" Leo was trying to hold him back.

"That's the way it's played, that's how rough a game it can be. And you
still don't have a clue. Nobody's ever even breathed hard on you. So
don't tell me you're having troubles, Miles, because I just don't have
time to listen."

He'll make you choose, Sam had said. Sam had known. Sam must have had
his suspicions all along, had it doped out, tried to warn him, give him
some strength. Sam had known it would fall this way: Sam and Paul locked
in it for Miles's young soul.

"It doesn't really matter," said the expert. "If you can fly the
fifteen-hundred you can fly the seventeen-fifty. It's keyboarded up the
same, has the same command vocabulary. It's just bigger, more flexible,
and has a much faster response time, which can be important if you're in
a rush."

"I'm not sure the seventeen-fifties have gone on-line," Miles finally
said. "They were slated to go in earlier this year, but that stuff is
always behind. I've never worked at a seventeen-fifty. In my time in the
pit, we were fifteen-hundred all the way. If you know so much, then how
come-"

"Okay, Miles, fair question. Here's the answer. We think there's a piece
Of information buried in the Langley computer memory. And we-"

But Lanahan, computer genius himself, instantly saw the flaw in the
supposition and could not hold himself back.

"That's crazy," he said in utter indignation. "That'@ the largest, the
most carefully tended, the bevt system ir the world. It's limited access
all the way; it goes off ol generators on-site. There're no lines into
it, no lines out ol it. You couldn't possibly tap into it, or tuck
something intc it."

"The guy who buried this item buried it a long time ago, back in the
first days, when the system was being sei up. He worked there for a
little while. And he buried ii very carefully."

"Tell him," Lanahan petitioned the expert, "tell hirr, that the capacity
of the Langley computer is two billion bits. You can't imagine a number
that big. That's all the libraries in the world; that's a trillion
words. And it's all broken down into individual units or entries called
slug! and the slugs are in directories. And there are directories inside
of directories. You fetch a directory by its code. it',, got ten
thousand coded entries. One, just one of those gets you another
directory. Same thing again. You've goi codes inside of codes,
combinations. It's the biggest combination safe in the universe.

First"-he looked around desperately-"first you've got to have access to
a terminal in the pit. I mean, physically you have to get into the god
damned building, past all the checkpoints, ride the elevator down, and
get a terminal, and the terminals are always busy, every morning, every
night, every afternoon every second of the day."

He took a deep breath and saw that he was not impressing them.

"Then," he went on, "then you've got to have the
code, or code sequence. I mean there's no dial-in forion to help you.

You've got to know it, know it cold. And it can be anything-the
different directorates have their different styles. It can be letters;
it can be numbers; it can be a sequence of both, a combination; it can
be-"

He paused again. Damn them, when would they be impressed?

"The whole thing is built so that only a guy who knows exactly where
he's going has a chance. It's built to keep people from stumbling into
things. You have to know. You've got to go from directory to directory,
from slug to slug. It's not the sort of system you can browse through.

It's a labyrinth. Paul, forget it. I worked in that room for two years.

I was a champion down there. It can't be done. We used to try and figure
out just as a joke how you could crack the system, but it can't be done.

Paul, I know. That was my war. I never lost."

He looked beseechingly over at the expert.

"Tell him," Miles said.

"We need that information," was all the man said.

A moment of silence came to the room. Somebody snorted; somebody
coughed. Miles had a feeling of loss, of hopelessness. He was so alone.

He felt like a martyr, trussed for a chestful of pagan arrows.

He now saw what they expected.

"Forget it," he said. "Paul, just get it out of your head. Do you think
I'm crazy?"

He stopped, breathing hard.

But Chardy was just looking calmly at him.

"It's academic, Paul. Even if I got in, even if I got 'em to plug in the
right disc, even if I got a terminal-even if I got all that, I still
wouldn't have a thing without that code. You can't even-"

"Miles-"

"You can't even begin to think about it without that code. It would be
like walking into the biggest library in the world and randomly pulling
volumes off the miles of shelves-"

"Miles-"

"-in search of an index card somebody once taped to a page.

It's-"

He ran out of words.

"Miles," said Chardy, "we've got the code."

Lanahan was suddenly cold. He shivered. When had he gotten so cold? He
rubbed his dry lips. How could all this be happening so fast? Father,
help me. Father, tell me what to do. Father "Give me a break," said
Miles.

"I can't give you a break, Miles. You're our break."

Miles said nothing.

"The thing we're looking for was put in place by a guy named Frenchy
Short, an old Special Operations Division cowboy who spent six months in
Computer Services, right when Harris got the contract and the new system
was installed. Frenchy left me a message right before he went off on a
solo job to Vienna, where he got killed in a bad, bad way. It's the sort
of thing an old agent would do, and Frenchy at one time was one of the
best. Frenchy left me a message with his wife; she was supposed to tell
me if he got killed. But things happened, and I didn't get to see her
for six years. Finally, a month or two ago, I got that message. Fetch
the shoe that fits, Frenchy told Marion to tell me, Miles. Fetch, these
FBI geniuses say, is the key. It's a computer command; it's how you
order the computer to bring something up out of its guts so you can look
at it. The code is the shoe that fits, Miles. It's H-S-U. That's
pronounced shoe in Chinese. So it's H-S-U or S-H-U or something like
that. A smart operator, they say, with just that much, could probably
dig it out."

Miles looked at him. He was so damned cold.

"What's down there? What are you fishing for? What's the shoe that
fits?"

"The reason why poor Frenchy sold me--sold Saladin Two, sold the
Kurds-to the Russians. To a KGB officer named Speshnev. The reason why
he blew us. And the man for whom he did it."

"Paul, I-"

"Miles, haven't you caught on yet? To what this is all about? You're a
smart guy. I'm surprised you're so slow."

"Paul-"

"Shhh, Miles. Let old Paul tell you why. Miles, the Russians are going
to a great deal of trouble to eliminate Joe Danzig, because when he gets
to a certain section of his second volume of memoirs he'll be the first
man in history to look carefully at the operation we called Saladin Two,
the operation in which we channeled arms and ammo to Kurdish insurgents
in northern Iraq from nineteen seventy-three to nineteen seventy-five.

You see, somebody in the Agency, one of Danzig's fans, has slipped him,
among a lot of other stuff, the operation files. And when he looks at it
carefully, analytically, as he's sure to, because a lot of his
reputation depends on how he justifies it, he'll see that according to
our own files, the Soviet helicopter ambush was sprung in the middle of
the afternoon of the sixth day after I'd been captured. But the Russians
didn't crack me until the evening of the sixth day."

"They had it set up," said Miles.

"That's right. They had it beat from the start. They knew it all-the
codes, the frequencies, everything. They got it from Frenchy Short, in
Vienna. But what they needed to hide the fact they'd gotten it from
Frenchy was somebody to take the blame. That's why it was so important
to Speshnev to crack me open. He already had the script. He had a voice
expert do me reading the phony stuff to Ulu Beg-that's how well set up
it-was. Then that night, I read the same words into a dead mike."

"Paul-" Miles wanted to stop the terrible onrush of information.

But Chardy wouldn't let him off. "Frenchy sold us out on orders, Miles.

Somebody didn't like the way it was going in Kurdistan, and what it
would do for the careers of the people involved, especially Bill
Speight's. So he sent Frenchy to blow the operation and clear out fast.

But Speshnev was too smart; he caught Frenchy and took him into a cellar
and broke him down with the torch. And he found out who'd sent him, and
why. And then he owned that man, Miles. He owned him."

"Paul-"

"Miles, don't you see it? Don't you see what this is all about?"

"Yes, I do," said Miles. "The Russians have a man inside.

CHAPTER 51

Ulu Beg sat by the pond watching the swans. They were curious creatures,
elegant, savage, evidently brainless. He watched the necks, so sleek and
graceful, and the quick thrust of the head, a snapping, biting strike,
when a bigger one would drive a smaller one squawking from his mate.

There was an old Kurdish proverb: The male is born for slaughter. its
grimness seemed confirmed in the ugly drama on the placid pool.

He lay back, depressed. Beyond the marsh he could see a boat on the bay;
behind him was the great house. And he knew that nearby, like discreet
shadows, the two security men sat. Their patience, their willingness to
endure excessive idleness, seemed to him a particularly Russian trait.

Russians could watch ice melt, flowers grow, clouds pass.

But he did not really care about Russians. Dreamless days evolved into
dreamless nights to become dreamless days again. The weather held fair;
the bay, the blue of the sky, the dun of the marsh, the birds-these were
the constants of his life now. He had not thought of Chardy, of any of
it, for a week now, ten days. A gull fluted in the air, spiraling down,
then lunging up. The sky against which it performed had epic space to
it, vast and oceanic, with a few clouds near the horizon to give it
scale. He would sleep, he thought. He had not prayed in days. There
seemed no point. He thought of Leah occasionally.

Yet at that lazy, drifting moment a man approached from the trees. He
looked beyond Ulu Beg, up the lawn, and the Kurd turned to follow his
gaze. He could see the figure-white, he wore some kind of white
suit---of Speshnev coming down the lawn from the house, leading a
retinue of aides.

"How are you?" asked the Russian.

"I am fine."

"All rested now? They tell me you pass peaceful days, nurturing your
strength."

"Yes. I feel good."

"Strong? Strong as a horse?"

"Yes, strong."

"You were watching the swans?"

"It's a pleasant spot."

"Well, I've got news. Excellent news. Come on, let's walk.

They walked along the edge of the pond.

"First. From Mexico. I'm anticipating certain developments. A
troublesome loose end has finally been dealt with. Your old friend, the
fat Mexican. Remember him?"

"Yes. I I

"They have him cornered on the mountain. He cannot hurt us. When he
dies, all record of your connection to us dies."

"Good."

"Necessary. Awkward and risky, but necessary. But there's more.

"Yes.,,

"Real news. We've been at rest for so long because our quarry was at
rest. The man Danzig, under great strain in Boston, had retired to his
house. He was beyond our r-reach.

"And this has changed?"

"Yes. Information has reached us that he's left his house. Not
officially either. He's escaped his own bodyguards, fearing them because
of his mental imbalance. He's out in the world, on his own."

"And Chardy?"

"Chardy's in the hospital. Badly beaten during a child's game. An
excessively violent man, Chardy. Always in some kind of trouble or
other. His own people distrust and detest him."

"But what good can this do us? The Americans can organize a huge hunt
for this man Danzig as soon as they see he's gone. They'll catch him
soon: a fat old man, trying to evade his own police. He's no trained
man. We cannot hope to rival them in this search."

"Ulu Beg," said Colonel Speshnev, "we have an extreme advantage over
the Americans in this matter. We know where Danzig is going. We sent him
his instructions."

CHAPTER 52

Thank God for baseball.

Danzig could hear the volume of the television set rising through the
back stairwell. The agents talked animatedly among themselves. The
system was breaking down: its vitality was spent; its energy had leaked
away.

Suppose Ulu Beg had come here? What would these men have done? Where
was their commander, the altar boy whom nobody liked, the dreadful
little Lanahan. He certainly could not be here, for whatever his flaws,
his individual failures of taste, he ran a taut ship; but now the agents
clustered in the study, gathered around the game on television. Orioles
against Yankees. Baltimore and hated New York. The provinces against the
imperial city; of course. A natural, rich in drama.

Danzig paused in the littered kitchen. His housekeeper had left for the
The agents had disturbed her by turning the kitchen into a sty.

Empty Coke cans, sacks of cheese snacks, pretzels, crackers, everywhere.

It was like a fraternity house.

Hoots rose from the study. Something important must have happened, but
Danzig slipped into his backyard. Shouldn't there be a man back here? It
terrified him that his escape from his supposedly impregnable house was
progressing so smoothly. It occurred to him that the mandate of these
men had been to keep others out, however, and not him in; thus their
defense would be calibrated for the perimeter, not the interior. He
walked into the cover of the grape arbor and disappeared in the
complexities of his garden. Yet he knew the way. He found the gate and
paused, waiting for a challenge. Down the way in the dark alley he could
see the glow of an orange cigarette tip.

So there was a man.

Then he heard a voice.

"Tango Bum, this is Foxcroft. Tango Bum, do you copy?"

A pause.

"Hey, Charlie, Yanks score? I heard you guys shouting. Twice? Off
Palmer? Christ, that showboat. Okay, thanks.

The cigarette arched out and bounced in the gravel of the alley. He
could barely make out the shape of the man, visible against the lights
out on the street, who walked to the cigarette butt and disgustedly
ground it out.

Danzig stepped out and walked in the opposite direction, staying close
to the wall. He passed swiftly to his neighbor's backyard, where huge
bushes overhung a low fence, and against them he felt safe. He walked
swiftly on. He had escaped.

One alley led to another until he reached Thirty-second Street, which he
followed to Wisconsin Avenue, there disappearing in the crowd that had
begun to gather in the warm spring night. He stopped at a drugstore to
buy a pair of $5 sunglasses-they cost him $10, of course-with which he
hoped in some way at least to stall the recognition process, if not
actually halt it. They were vulgar things-gold, swoopy, a Phantom
pilot's glasses that mocked the shape of angel wings or teardrops; the
surface of the lenses was a mirror also, very much the style. If the
clerk noticed him, he did not give it away; perhaps he was jaded by
important government types slipping into the store at all hours to make
degrading purchase'--the Supreme Court justice who loads up on laxative,
the famous hostess who buys a strawberry douche, the senator who
purchases a salve for his hemorrhoids--or perhaps he simply did not
recognize the former Secretary. It puzzled Danzig, who was used to being
recognized, who expected it. Yet as he moved out of the store and into
the crowd, sporting the ludicrous goggles, a feeling of curious
invisibility began to seep through him. He had wondered, as he
engineered his getaway, how he would handle what he expected to be the
most difficult of all problems, the gawkers, the tourists, the autograph
hunters, the fleshpressers, all of whom, he supposed, would be drawn to
his famous face, sunglasses or no. Yet he nonv slid through the crowd,
down the jammed avenue, past the smart shops, virtually unnoticed.

It occurred to him that celebrity was largely trappings; that is, in a
limousine, at a dinner party, at a meeting, a press conference, a
seminar, people were prepped for him, expecting him, ready to genuflect
to the heat of fame. Out here in the spontaneous world, it was every man
for himself in a battle for sidewalk territory, for space near the
windows full of fabulous swanky goods. His famous face on a magazine
cover demanded respect; on a plump body clothed in nondescript polyester
sport clothes, animated by a frantic awkwardness, among the many, it
received only indifference. Though once or twice police cruisers prowled
by, leaving him uneasy. Yet, he counseled himself, they had not in all
likelihood discovered his absence; perhaps they would during a
seventh-inning stretch. And again, what crime had he committed? None.

What law had he broken? None. And therefore, what recourse had they?

The answer was the same: none. Yet he knew legal niceties would not stop
them; in his (or their) best interest they would snatch him from any
public thoroughfare.

As he moved through the streets, wary in the crowd, eyes down, moving
tentatively on his stubby legs, pausing now and then for a furtive
glance about, a sense of d@jd vu flooded through him. He had lived this
moment before. But when, where? A dream? It had the quality of dream to
it: the details, the seething streets, the young flesh all about,
carnival rhythms, glossy goods on display. He associated it all with
music, and could almost hear the tune. It played in his skull. South
American? Asian? No, no, it had a Teutonic ring to it: it was the

"Horst Wessel Song," sung by valiant hordes of young athletes strutting
through the streets on a glorious and torchlit spring night in the year
1934 in the city of Danzig. He was eight, with his father. He was a Pole
then, but also a Jew, in a Polish city that was also a German city. Very
much the same feeling then as now. So much animal strength about. So
much color and muscle. Perhaps it was these odd lamps strung through
Washington which had about them the earthy quality of torchlight. He
could see no banners and remembered from those days the gammadion cross
festooning everything, hanging everywhere. It had no evil association
then to his young eyes; he found it a curiosity. He asked his dark
father, who watched the parade bleakly.

"It's a German thing," his father had said. "Pay it no heed." It was the
first time his father had drawn a distinction between himself and
others. It filled the young boy with unease. The man the boy became
remembered in crisp detail that moment: the sense of unease overcoming
innocence. A signal moment in a young life, perhaps the first moment he
realized his future would not be European. And he remembered his father,
who got them out in '37, giving up a career in the University.

Danzig stood in the street, and felt in a totalitarian shadow once
again. He glanced at his watch-a Patek Philippe, beautifully elegant,
gold-and saw that he had three hours before meeting Chardy. He looked
about nervously for sanctuary and located it at once-a movie theater
down M Street. He walked swiftly to it and was pleased to find it
uncrowded. He paid his admission-at last he thought somebody recognized
him, because the girl gave him the oddest look-and ducked inside. Only
then did he realize where he'd come.

No man sat next to another in here, in the darkness no man would look at
another. On the screen, in blinding lucidity, so big and tangled that he
could make almost no sense of it, a giant mouth sucked a giant penis,
riding the shaft up and down. He could not tell if the lips were male or
female; he wondered if it mattered. Moans and cheesy music issued from
the screen. Danzig sat down, terribly embarrassed.

Yet at once he began to feel safe; in here, certainly, nobody would pay
any attention to him.

CHAPTER 53

Mies, Chardy had said, it has to be you. You have to go in and fish it
out.

Now he was by the first checkpoint, Badge Control, had traveled the
length of the D Corridor and reached the elevator. He passed several
sets of guards patrolling the halls even now, after hours; they'd smile
politely and look straight to the ID he wore around his neck on a chain.

He waited until the elevator arrived, stepped in it. He descended in
silence, feeling the subtle suction of gravity. He could see the green
light flicking through the floors. Finally he touched bottom and the
doors opened to deposit him in another green hall where guards waited.

"Hi," he said, overplaying the breeziness, and they looked at him with
barely concealed uninterest. "Lanahan, Operations. Headed to the pit."

Their eyes locked on the image of himself annealed into the plastic of
his badge, then to the letters around the edge which designated his
rights of passage, then up to the living face, then back to the picture.

"You've got to sign, Mr. Lanahan."

"Sign? You didn't used to-, I

"They changed it last month, sir," the younger guard said evenly.

"They're always changing things, aren't they?" Miles said, scrawling his
name on a card.

"Just a second," said the guard. He took the card, inserted it into a
device that drew it up by roller and spat it back just a second later.

"The machine says you're all right. Here-" With some ceremony the guard
reached into a drawer and removed a new necklace, whose centerpiece was
a blank plastic card. He handed it over. "It's coated with alloy. If you
wander into the wrong section, the sensors will pick you up and off go
the alarms."

The prospect of alarms did not fill Miles with joy. He smiled weakly as
he dipped to accept the new jewelry and turned to face a double set of
doors, which opened with a lazy pneumatic gush to reveal another long
corridor down which he now propelled himself. The walls were blank; he
knew he walked the tunnel adjacent to the pit. Then at last he came to
the entrance, which had not changed since his years there: desks at
which sat the Computer Control officer and his staff flanking the door
itself, a revolving affair, by which one was transported from this world
to that.

This late no supergrade would be around; indeed, the man calling the
shots was Miles's age, or younger, who'd drawn his turn at night duty.

He looked vaguely familiar and when he saw Miles approaching, he stood
with a smile.

"Mr. Lanahan!"

It occurred to Miles that he must be some kind of a hero to the people
in the pit; first, because he'd done so well down there, with his
Hun-like mind especially suited to working with green symbols in
electraglow, in a great cool space in which no wind would ever stir; and
secondly because he'd done the impossible: he'd got out, joined the
mainstream. He was already case officer on a big operation too!

"Hi," he said.

"Bluestein. Michael Bluestein. I was just breaking in your last couple
of months."

"Oh, yeah. Thought I recognized you."

Next to Miles, Bluestein was a giant, a blondish freckled giant. Miles
had never seen a Jew who looked so Protestant-to the blue eyes, in fact,
and the large bony hands and wrists. Bluestein grabbed Miles's hand,
pumping it, at the same time swallowing it.

"I was here the night you blew the whistle on that Israeli tunnel. Do
you remember?"

Lanahan remembered.

"You proved the Israelis had built a listening tunnel up close to the
Soviet cipher room in the Beme embassy. You tracked down the actual
building permits they'd used in their cover project, if I remember
correctly."

"I predicted, based on the data, where the permits could be found,"
Lanahan, stickler for accuracy, corrected. But Bluestein was right.

Because with Lanahan's break, American operatives in subsequent weeks
had been able to tap into the Israeli land lines, helping themselves to
anything the Israelis got. It was a great source for six months, free of
charge. And when the Israelis, said to be so good in the trade, tried to
sell them the same dope, they could never understand why the Americans
said no. And all because Lanahan, sitting at a terminal ten thousand
miles away, had happened to come across a low-graded report from an
English free-lancer claiming he'd observed in a Beme cafe an Israeli
national with whom he'd been at Oxford years ago when the chap had taken
a first in mine engineering.

Lanahan nodded, remembering the evening of glory two years ago. He
hadn't had much glory since.

"I was very lucky that night."

"I had a lucky night-a lucky Sunday actually-a few months back. I-"

"Of course you really make your own luck. The better you are, the
luckier you get. Right?"

Bluestein smiled.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it's really true."

This was going to be easy. Lanahan puffed with confidence.

"I'm on a funny one for some upstairs people. I wanted to run a
seventy-four disc, see what I can shake out of it."

"We're slow tonight. I can get somebody to do it for you.

"No, don't bother. It won't take long. And maybe I just miss the keys a
little too."

"No problem. I'll call the Disc Vault and set it up."

"Great," Miles said.

"Just let me see your Form Twelve," Bluestein said, smiling down at
Lanahan.

My what? thought Lanahan, and began to panic.

"How long now?" asked Chardy.

"Only about twenty minutes," said Leo Bennis.

"It feels like hours."

"You were supposed to be Mr. Cool."

"That was years ago. Even then I was never any good at waiting. I always
wanted to do something."

He put down the binoculars with which he had been studying the western
facade of the Langley complex. The buildings looked like computer cards,
six stories tall, the windows a latticework of irregularly lit slots. It
looked like the cover of a '50s sci-fi novel, some dream city, some
clean future glinting in the night. Government theater: floodlights
poured glare up across the skin of the place, hyping up the drama with
stark shadows. It was difficult to read the architecture from here, the
relationship of the buildings, even with all the lights, but he could
see all that he needed to see; for on the other side of the road from
the parking lot where he waited was a broad walk that led into the base
of the building, to two quite common-lookin glass doors and a lighted
corridor. It was the Computer Services entrance in the C Wing, and it
was through this entrance that Miles Lanahan had so recently
disappeared. All the rest-the hulking buildings, the elaborate
landscaping, the canopied public entrance on the south side, the central
courtyard-was pointless for now. Chardy stared at the glass doors
through the trees.

"Well, it's going to be a long one," said Bennis. "He's got to dig
through a lot of stuff."' "if he gets in."

"He'll get in. Miles will surprise you."

"This isn't the parish hall."

"He knows what it is, Paul."

They sat in the front seat of a van inside the Agency parking lot. It
was a warm summer night and rain had come, spatting against the
windshield.

"I wonder if it's raining in Baltimore," said Bennis. "I hope the Oriole
game isn't washed out."

"Twenty-five minutes now," Chardy said.

"Paul, if you see him now, he's screwed up. He's been kicked out and the
whole thing's messed up."

"Yeah, yeah," said Chardy. He did not like being here, so close, inside
the fence. He'd never been a headquarters man to begin with, and now
they were practically parked on the roof. Yet there had been no other
choice. They had brought Miles to the very door-they had him covered the
whole way, a team of three units, radio-linked to each other and the
hospital, each carrying the Bureau's favorite new toy, the .380 Ingram
MAC- II machine pistol, complete with silencer.

Now it was the altar boy's show; now all he had to do was get in there
and fish the name out. Then they'd bust the man, and roll it all up and
it would all be over.

Chardy looked at his watch again.

Thirty minutes.

Come on, Miles. Come on, priest's boy. You're on the bull's-eye now.

A buzz. Chardy jumped, disoriented. Bennis picked the radiophone off the
dashboard.

"Candelabra Control, this is Horsepipe One," he said.

He listened.

"Yes," he said, "all right, I understand. Can you get units onto the
street? And call metro. Sure, I agree."

"What's going on?" asked Chardy, hearing the urgency in Leo's voice.

"It's Danzig. They just intercepted an Emergency Code off Miles's
security channel. He's bolted. Danzig's taken off. He's out on his own."

"Form Twelve?" said Lanahan. "Aw, Christ." He tried to look hurt.

"Miles, it's the rule. They had a security shake-up recently. All kinds
of new games."

"You mean I have to go all the way back to Building A?"

How do I play this? he thought. What the hell is a Form 12? "I'm sorry,
Miles. I really am. It's the rule."

"Jesus, you got a Russian in here or something?"

Bluestein laughed. "You know how they like to brace us up every so
often."

"Sure. Three years ago they tried a fingerprint ID device. It kept
breaking down though. Okay, back to Building A."

"I'm really sorry. You can see my position?"

Is he giving? Miles wondered.

"It's not your fault," Miles said, not moving an inch. "I should have
checked on the new regs. No problem. The hike'll keep me humble."

"Christ," Bluestein said bitterly, "it's not as if they do anything with
the Twelves. They just sit in Dunne's office until he throws them out."

"It's okay, Bluestein. Really it is."

"It's such a stupid, stupid rule," Bluestein said. "They think them up,
up there, just to justify their supergrades."

"It's a good rule. You can't be too careful. Ninety percent of this
business is security."

"How long you figure you'd be on?"

"It depends. Real short---or maybe an hour. I don't know."

"Just hustle, okay? It'd be my ass if somebody makes a stink."

"Don't you worry about it," said Miles. "Nobody's going to make a
stink," and he leaned back, waiting for the man to punch the entrance
code.

"Miles. You're back."

"I am. Relax, Jerry-not for good."

"Ali." '

"No, I'll just be in your hair for a minute or so."

"What is it?"

Lanahan was in an office off the dark pit called the Disc Vault and the
man he addressed was the Disc Librarian. Over the shoulder of the DL he
could see the racks of discs, their plastic purity blinding in the
brightness of this clean and odorless room.

"I hear you're doing real well, Miles."

"Not so bad, Jerry."

"I never thought you'd do it. I still don't know how you did it. You
just kept pushing and pushing."

I-I'll teach you my secret some day. I'm looking for a seventy-four
disc."

"Fighting somebody's old war?"

"Something like that."

"That's when we were just gearing up on the system. I think it went
on-line in late 'seventy-three. That's so long ago I wasn't even here."

"Can you help me dig it out?"

Jerry was florid and bitter, a reddish man of fierce ambition who'd
never gotten anywhere. He stank of disappointment. He was plateaued out
down here, his career aground in Computer Services. He looked down on
Miles with something less than enthusiasm.

"The little priest. You really brought it off. You really got lucky."

"I never missed mass when I was a kid. That's why I'm smiled on. Come
on, Jer, help me, okay?"

"Christ, Miles." He fished through some bookshelves behind him and came
at last to a metal notebook, the disc index. He opened it, flipping
through the pages.

"There's a lot of stuff here."

Miles nodded.

"You'll have to be more specific. Miles, there's a hundred discs here
from 'seventy-four. From Operations-I think they called it Plans back
then-from Economic Research, from Cartography, from Satellites, from
Security. I assume you want the Operations stuff."

"What was the first disc archive set up? The very first?"

"Operations-Plans. That was the heart of it. Then later, other divisions
and directorates went on-line."

"Yes, Operations then."

"Ahhh-"

Goddamnit. He'd told them it would never work. A dozen discs-that's
still nearly the entire New York Library system.

"Well?"

"Am I breaking any laws if I ask you how it's indexed?"

Jerry looked at him.

"It sounds to me like you're just fishing, Miles."

"Come on, Jerry. Give me a break."

Jerry made another face. "Whenever an item is transmitted, it's
automatically recorded in a master directory by slug line. When the
master directory reaches a certain level, all the stuff is automatically
transferred to tape. But when that happens, at the same time the Extel
printer generates this"-the metal notebook-"printout. Then later we
index by months of the year."

"So it's chronological?"

"Yeah, but the machine gives you other breakdowns too. The idea is to be
able to get your hands on something fast. I I

Sure, I realize that."

"It's got a listing by target, by geographical zone, by-"

"What about alphabetically?"

"You mean by the code group?"

"That's right."

"Yeah, it does that. Let me-" He flipped through the thick notebook.

"Yeah, here it is. It's-"

"Jerry, look for shoe.

Jerry looked at him. "You've got something exceedingly strange going on,
Miles. I never heard of-"

"Jerry, when a Deputy Director tells you to check something out, you
don't exactly tell him he's full of shit."

"Well, I've been here a long-"

"It might not be shoe, S-H-O-E. It might be H-S-U, a Chinese word of the
same pronunciation. Or it could be, well, I suppose it-"

Jerry pushed through the printouts. He halted.

Miles bent forward, over the desk. He could smell Jerry's cheap cologne
and the plastic, oceans of plastic, in the calm air. Jerry's finger
pointed to the middle of the page and had come to rest at a designation
for the ninth disc. It said, CODE SERIES P-R-0 to H-S-U.

"I don't like it. No, I don't. I don't like it at all," said Leo Bennis,
driving tensely through the late night traffic as they turned off Key
Bridge onto M Street in Georgetown.

Chardy agreed by inserting the magazine into the grip housing of the
Ingram. He'd already checked that the bulky silencer was screwed on
tight. He unfolded the metal stock, then folded it again, purely to
familiarize himself. The entire weapon weighed less than six pounds, yet
it could spit its load of thirty-two .380s in four seconds in almost
absolute silence. The Bureau people loved it; Chardy hated it and would
have given anything for an AK-47 or an M- 1 6, a piece he could trust.

"There are really only two possibilities," Leo said tonelessly. "Either
Danzig just flipped out and bolted on his own, in which case he's
walking the streets like a madman and will be picked up by morning; or,
more likely, the man inside got to him somehow and has lured him out. In
which case we'll find out soon too-find the body."

"How does the safety work?"

"There's two. A lever in the trigger guard, just in front of the
trigger. And the bolt handle: by twisting it a quarter turn you put the
piece on safe."

Chardy cocked the weapon.

"Be careful with that thing," Leo said.

"They kick much on you?" he asked.

"Not hardly. There's not enough powder in that pistol slug. Paul, I
think you're going to have to re-join the operation. You tell 'em you're
out of the hospital, you're okay. You go back to Danzig's and see what
the hell is going on. You could put some questions to the Security
people. Sam'll probably be there too. Shit, it just occurs to me they're
going to raise hell looking for Lanahan. We can-"

"What's the trigger? About fifteen pounds?"

"No, it's much lighter. They vary: some of 'em go off if you look at
them. That's why I said to go easy with it. But it should be about ten
pounds unless some hotdog has messed with the spring. I wonder how long
he's been gone? He could have been gone hours and they only noticed
forty-five minutes ago. Paul, I'll head back-"

A Pontiac jumped into the lane ahead, then careened to a halt at the
light and Leo had to pump his own brake hard.

"Jerk. Goddamnit! Look at this terrible traffic. You can't drive in this
city anymore."

"It's okay, Leo," Chardy said. He opened the door.

Paul!

See you, Leo." He hung in the door as a car swooped by them.

"Paul, they need us back there, they-"

"They want you back, Leo," Chardy said. "You work for them. I don't." He
smiled, and stepped into the dark, the machine pistol and a radio unit
hidden in his gathered coat.

CHAPTER 54

After a long drive they dropped Ulu Beg at a Metro station in a suburb
of Washington. It had been a silent trip, through twilight across farm
fields, then over a great American engineering marvel, a huge bridge,
and then into the city, but now Speshnev turned to him from the front
seat.

"You remember it all?"

"I do." I

"It will be easy. The killing is the easiest of all. He'll be alone this
time. You'll shoot for the head?"

"The face. From very close. I will see brains."

"May I tell you a joke?"

The Russian and his jokes! A strange fellow, stranger than any of them.

Even the young man who'd done the driving turned to listen.

"The man he expects to meet," Speshnev said, "is Chardy. Delicious,
isn't it? This war criminal flees his own protection to meet the one man
in the world he trusts; instead he meets the one man in the world who
has willed his death."

These ironies held little interest to Ulu Beg; he nodded curtly.

The driver climbed out and walked around the car and opened Ulu Beg's
door.

"All right," said Speshnev.

Ulu Beg stepped into light rain. The street teemed with Americans.

Globular lamps stood about, radiating brown light to illuminate the
slant of the falling water. They were at a plaza, near a circle of
buses. People streamed toward the station; he could see the trains on a
bridge above the entrance. It was all very modern.

"You must not fail," said the colonel.

"As God wills it," said Ulu Beg.

The door closed and the car rushed off through the rain. He stood by the
curb for a second, watching it melt into the traffic, then pushed his
way through the crowd to the station. With the exact change he bought a
fare card from a machine and went through turnstiles to be admitted to
the trains. He carried his pack in his left hand; inside it was the
Skorpion.

Danzig left the theater at 11:30. His brain reeled from the imagined
organs, gigantic and absurd, abstract openings. He thought of wet
doorways, of plumbing, of open heart surgery. It had given him a
tremendous headache. He'd had to sit through the feature three times. As
a narrative the film had an inanity that was almost beyond description:
things just occurred in an offhand, casual way, contrived feebly so that
the actresses could drop to their knees and suck off the actors every
four or five minutes. The acting was amateurish--organ size was
evidently the only criterion for casting on this production-and film
technique nonexistent. The music was banal; only the photography had
been first-rate.

At last he breathed in the air, cool, made clean by the rain which had
now stopped. He cut quickly across m Street and headed down a street
that he knew would take him to the river's edge. Then, really, he had
but to walk a Mile along the river-away from the police, who surely
sought him now, away from prying eyes. It could be dangerous, the bleak
streets of the city down by the river. Still, what choice had he? He
loved the sense of danger in one respect: he approached it rather than
letting it approach him, like an animal in a slaughterhouse pen. He
walked on, a pudgy figure, pushing into the night.

At last Lanahan was alone with the machine. In its unlit screen he could
see the outline of his own figure, shadowy, imprecise, bent forward with
moilk's devotion. Around him he could hear the hum of the fans and the
strokes of the other operators.

The Model 1750 Harris Video Display Terminal was twice the size of the
earlier model he'd worked with in the pit. It looked to the uninformed
eye like a cross between a television set and an electric typewriter,
clunky and graceless. But it was his access to the brain, the memory, of
Langley.

If he had the codes.

He flicked the machine-curious, in the jargon they'd never become known
by their proper designation, VDT, or by anything reasonable. Rather, to
them all, atavistic ally, they were simply MacHines.

The machine warmed for twenty seconds; then a green Streak-the first
stirring of creation-flashed at lightspeed across the screen; then a
blip, a bright square called a cursor, arrived in the lower left corner:
it was the machine operator's hand, the expression of his will.

Miles stared at the rectangle of light gleaming at him in the half-dark.

His fingers fell to a familiar pose and he felt the keys beneath them.

He typed:

Fe Hsu, meaning, fetch the directory coded HSU.

Immediately the machine answered.

Directory Inactive All right then, you bastard.

He thought for a moment. He'd taken the easy shot, and lost. But let's
not panic. Let's dope this thing out. We are looking for something
hidden years ago. Hidden, but meant to be found if you knew you were
looking for it. And meant to be found if you were Paul Chardy. This guy
Frenchy Short was said to be smart. And he must have known the machines,
the system, if he'd been able to tuck something away.

A play on shoe. The shoe fits. Chinese spelling. He'd tried it, it
hadn't worked. But let's not forget shoes altogether; perhaps one still
fits.

Fe Shu, Miles tried.

The machine paused. No answer.

Christ, suppose it was a secret directory, and when tapped it signaled a
security monitor? Such directories were rumored to exist, yet no analyst
had ever found one.

The screen was blank.

Then:

Improper Code Prefix Damn, wrong number.

He had a headache now, and an eruption on his forehead throbbed. Miles
rubbed at it with a small finger. Already his back ached; it had been a
long time since he'd made his living in a machine cubicle. He'd been in
daylight too long, ruining his machine vision.

Think, damn you, think.

FE SHU, he tried again, making certain to leave only one space between
the command and the code, for in a moment of rush or confusion he
thought he might have left two-or none-the first time through, and the
machines-this is why he loved them so-were monstrously petty and literal
and absolutely unbending and would forgive no breach of etiquette.

The directory began to scroll up across the screen.

Danzig could see it now-ahead, along the water, beyond the neo-baroque
mass of the Watergate buildings. He was alone on an esplanade at the
riverbank. Across the flat calm water lay Theodore Roosevelt Island;
above its trees he could see Rosslyn skyscrapers. He looked ahead; could
he see a flicker on a hill that would be Kennedy's grave site, a memento
mori for the evening? Or was it his imagination? He hurried through the
night, on a walk by the water, among trees.

The rain had stopped and back where the river was wider, near the arches
of the Key Bridge, the lights from a boat winked. Danzig could not but
wonder who was out there. He'd patrolled the Potomac occasionally with a
neurotic chief executive-much liquor and endless, aimless, righteous
monologues, lasting almost until dawn. But Danzig's thoughts turned
quickly from history to-for the first time in many weeks-sex. He had an
image of a beautiful blond woman, elegant, a Georgetowner of statuesque
proportions and great enthusiasms-just the two of them alone aboard a
mahogany yacht in the Potomac, setting the boat to rocking with their
exertions. He paused; from behind a shredding of the clouds came the
moon, its satiny light playing on the river. A scene of astonishing
allure for Danzig: black bank, black sky, silver moon on the water-a
Hollywood scene. He paused, then halted.

He had many years ago abandoned all belief in the unearthly. Man was too
venal, too evil. Reality demanded fealty only to the here and now. Yet
this sudden image of sheer, painful beauty, coming as it did immediately
after visions of the sexual and the historical, placed before him at the
ultimate moment of his life: surely now, this meant something.

But even as he paused to absorb it, it began to fall apart. The clouds
reclaimed the moon; the glinting sea returned to a more authentic
identity as a sluggish river; the yacht under the bridge resolved
itself, as he studied it, into a houseboat.

Danzig checked his watch. He had plenty of time. Chardy was probably
already there.

He rushed through the night. On the other side of Rock Creek Parkway he
could see the white edifice looming up, something on the Egyptian scale,
arc-lit for drama, like a monument. Its balcony hung almost to the
river, over the road. He hurried along, amazed at how dark and silent it
all was.

He passed under the balcony, and felt indoors. He continued to the
mid-point of the building where a door had been cut in the blank brick of
the foundation, recessed in a notch in the wall. Danzig crossed the
parkway and climbed three steps to the door. He paused.

Suppose it was locked?

No, Chardy said it was open.

Danzig's hand checked the handle.

He pulled it open and stepped inside.

Their efficiency never astonished Ulu Beg. They could do so much; they
knew so much. He took it by now as second nature, simply accepted it. It
was as if he were operating in their country, not in America.

He had gotten off at the Foggy Bottom stop. But he had not left the
platform, hurried up the steps to the way out with the other passengers.

He paused, on a stone bench. He was in a huge, honeycombed vault that
curved over his head. It blazed with the drama of lights and shadows.

Shortly, another train came along. A few people got out; a few got on.

That was the 11:45 from Rosslyn; it was the last train. Ulu Beg took a
quick look through the vaulted space. People paraded out. Nobody paid
him attention.

He walked quickly to the end of the chamber, to the sheer wall into
which the tunnels were cut. He looked back and saw nothing. A few people
lingered on the balcony above, but they were a hundred feet away and
moving out toward the door.

In the train tunnel there was a walkway, gated off from the platform
with a No TRESPASSING sign. Ulu Beg climbed quickly over it and began to
walk the catwalk along the tracks into the tunnel. The darkness
swallowed him. A few lights blinked ahead. He reached a metal door set
in the wall. It said, 102 ELEVATOR.

It was padlocked. He removed the key from his pocket and opened the
lock. He stepped into the corridor, found the ladder, and began to climb
down to the tunnel.

Keeping the Ingram securely wrapped in his jacket, Chardy walked for a
block or two until he was sure he had lost Leo Bennis. Then, certain, he
stepped again into the busy street to snag a cab. He stood in the brown
light until one at last halted for him.

He climbed in.

"Where to?"

Chardy had a great advantage over Leo Bennis and the others of the
Bureau in the matter of Danzig's destination.

He knew now the secret of it. Since the object of the Russian operation
was to protect the identity of a highly placed CIA officer working for
them, it followed that the Russians operating in Washington did so with
the special benefit of this man's knowledge. In short, they would be
aware of and could take advantage of CIA arrangements.

So Chardy did not have to penetrate the Russian mind, on which he was no
expert, but only to consult his own memory. He knew, for example, of
five crash safe-houses, in the jargon, where an agent in trouble might
head for safety if a D.C.-based operation went badly wrong. He reasoned
that if the Russians wanted to lure Danzig into circumstances where the
killing could be accomplished with a minimum of interference, a maximum
of control, then certainly they would select one of the five.

But which?

Two were houses--old estates out in NW, spots private enough, except
that both were heavily wired with recording devices so that nothing
could transpire without leaving its traces. Clearly no good here.

Of the remaining three sites, one again was a sure nogo: the basement of
a strip bar in the smutty Fourteenth Street area-its purpose was to
offer refuge to an agent should some sex-related bum blow up in his face
and necessitate a place to hide from the cops fast. But Fourteenth
Street would be jammed with johns and hustlers this time of night.

This left, really, only two choices.

The first was an apartment on Capitol Hill-but chancy, chancy: the Hill
always had lots of people roaring around, and this was a Saturday night
anyway, party night up there, with horny aides and pretty women and
drunken congressmen all over the place.

It was a possibility. The apartment was on an out-of the-way street and
had a separate entrance-but ... "Where to, mister?" the cabby said
again.

The last possibility was the fourth level, the lowest, of the parking
lot under Kennedy Center. It was a deserted arena, unwired, with three
or four no-visibility approaches, reserved for VIPS so they wouldn't
have to mingle with the common people. He knew that even six years ago
when they were building the Metro system there'd been a plan to run a
tunnel from the Foggy Bottom Station a half-mile down New Hampshire
Avenue through to the fourth level.

Chardy looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight.

"Kennedy Center," he said.

"You must be wrong, mister," said the cabby. "It's dark by now. The
shows are all over. It's all closed down."

"I think I'll go anyway, if you don't mind," said Chardy. He could feel
the cool grip of the machine pistol under the coat. His show was just
about to begin.

It was a short directory. The codes fled by Miles's eyes in a green
blur. Suddenly he hit an end.

No Mo, the machine said: no more.

He went uneasily UP through what he'd already slid down through. It was
all nonsense, random letter groupings.

ABR ... . 239587.?

TYW ... . 3478230

Codes, all codes, letters and numbers, in all maybe fifty of them. He
could call each one up and see what it said, but that would take hours.

One of them meant something.

Twice, security monitors had wandered by to peer at him.

Miles stared at the letters. It was gibberish. He was guessing.

He hunted for a shoe of some sort in the three letter groupings-a SHO or
a SHU or even another HSU.

Yet there wasn't any.

He stared blankly at the letters.

Come on, think, he told himself. Frenchy wants it found, wants Paul to
find it. He tried to guess how Frenchy might have gained it out. Frenchy
was off on a job that involved the betrayal of his oldest friend, his
brother of a hundred narrow scrapes. Frenchy for some reason felt he had
to do it; the offer was too good to say no to. Frenchy was getting old;
he was worried about losing his job, about ending up on the outside at
fifty with no marketable skills, no resume, no anything. So, yes, he'd
sell Chardy out. But the loathing, the guilt, must have chewed him up.

So he decides to hedge his bet. Chardy at least deserves that. He passes
to Chardy the clue that will bring him here, to this chair, to look at
this directory. It's a funny thing to do, isn't it? Or is it? Chardy had
said only, "It's a thing an old agent would do." What did he mean? Then
Lanahan knew what he meant: if Frenchy got fouled up on this job, if the
job came apart, and Frenchy with it, knowing that he'd left his message
back home for Paul would be helpful. To Paul? Not really. To Frenchy. It
would help him die.

Lanahan saw now how Frenchy had doped it out. It was a way to face the
chopper with some measure of peace. He wants you to find it! He wants
you to find it!

His eyes scanned the letters.

BDY ... . 578309

BBB ... . 580093 REQ ... . 230958

Come on, Miles thought, come on! He felt his limbs boil with a
tremendous restlessness. He wanted to walk, to run. If only he could get
a drink of water.

Shoe? Would Frenchy stick with the shoe gimmick? It had gotten him this
far, hadn't it? Or would Frenchy have switched to something else?

Think, think!

Frenchy wants it found. Frenchy Short, all those years ago, sick with
grief at what he's about to do, probably not understanding it all
himself, but imagining reaching out to Chardy with this last gift, this
expiation.

Was Frenchy Catholic? He certainly had the Catholic sense of guilt,
binding and cruel, and the huge need to confess, Lanahan was Frenchy's
confessor. He sat in a dark booth and listened to Frenchy through the
screen.

Forgive me, Miles, for I have sinned.

Make a contrition, son. Confess your sins.

Yes, Father, I will say a hundred Hail Marys.

No. Tell us your secrets. Your deepest, your darkest secrets.

But Lanahan drew back. He was no priest. He was an ex-computer analyst
who'd bluffed his way into the pit and was trying to dig out a traitor.

Maybe I ought to say a hundred Hail Marys, he thought, for he had no
other plan.

He looked at the codes.

Frenchy wants Paul to see something. Frenchy has planned it so that Paul
will look at this list of letters and see something. Yet what? There are
no words, for if there were words, anybody could see them and Frenchy's
worked it out so that only Paul can see them.

What is there about Paul that's unique? What would give Chardy an
advantage, looking through this list of codes? What would Chardy see
that no other man would?

He felt he was getting close. He sat back, tried to concentrate on
Chardy, call up and examine his components. Chardy, hero,
special-operations cowboy, toting guns and gear around the dusty comers
of the world. Chardy@ through jump shots and driving athlete, banging
d and used cruelly by a up's. Chardy, fool, cuckolde woman. Chardy,
suicide, tendencies toward self-destruction. Chardy, Chicago boy, coming
off the same streets Miles came off of, attending the same parochial
schools, going to the same churches. Chardy, Irishman, moody and sulky
and brutal. Chard Then Miles had it.

Danzig stood at the bottom of the stairwell. He opened the door and
looked into the parking garage and felt a sudden, suffocating loss of
confidence. Enormous weight seemed to crush down on him; he could not
breathe and just for a moment he thought he might be having a heart
attack. almost physically ill with yet it passed. Still, he felt a fear,
in a blasphemed place. He could not go back; he was terrified to go
forward. He could feel the sweat damp and heavy in his shirt and was
aware with what great difficulty the air came into his lungs. At last he
stepped through the final door.

It was so simple. Frenchy, you're smart. No matter what you did,
Frenchy, no matter what you became in your weakness, let no man ever say
you are not smart.

What would Chardy see that no other man would?

Chardy would see Hungarian. Chardy was half-Hunganan and had grown up
with a mad Hungarian doctor for a father, a raving anticommunist with a
failed practice and a one-bedroom apartment on the North Side of
Chicago.

Lanahan swiftly ended the directory. He looked behind him, down the rows
of cubicles in the dark space. At last he saw a free machine on a
different system. He rose, walked through the darkness to it. He could
hear the other operators clicking away, each sealed into his machine,
each fighting his private little war.

Miles sat at the empty machine, which was linked into a different
computer system, and quickly punched:

Fe Lan There rose before him a language directory. He filed down through
the listings until he reached HUNG.

Fe Hung, he ordered.

A concise word-list and phrase catalogue of flungafian placed in the
machine's memory in case an analyst who didn't speak the language came
across a word in it and needed translation fast-sailed up before
Lanahan. He looked at it quickly, then clicked the machine off.

He walked back to his own terminal. Why did he feel he was being
observed?

He was so close now; if he could just bluff it through another two or
three minutes.

He sat back at his own terminal, called up the SHU directory and looked
again at the code groupings.

Fe Egy, Miles ordered.

Egy: one.

Another directory rose.

Miles glanced through it until he found the proper code.

Fe Ketto, he ordered.

Fetch two.

Another directory.

Fe Harom Another.

Fe Negy Another.

FE OT

One, two, three, four, five. He was in the fifth directory now. Where
would it end? He was within a directory within a directory within a
directory within a directory within a directory. Was this a M6 bius strip
of a code, an Escber drawing of a code, that would go on forever, twisty
and clever?

The screen went blank.

The machine stared at him, mutely stupid.

Long moments lagged. Had the whole thing collapsed? He knew he'd have no
time to dig this deep into it again.

The screen's emptiness mocked him.

Then a message with a long tail dragged into view:

This material will appear only on your screen if searched for. It will
be stored with service level designators priority code a (advance)
category c (standing item). It cannot be destroyed or altered. We will
begin transmission upon receipt of six-letter security code.

Enter six-letter security code here In all his hours before the screen,
Miles had never seen a communication like this one. Service Level
Designator? Now what the hell did that mean? Priority Code, Category
Code?

But he knew he'd tapped the mother lode.

Enter six-letter security code here He stared at it. Another hurdle, a
last one. Oh, come on, Frenchy, Jesus, Frenchy, you hid it so good. God,
Frenchy, you must have been a clever bastard. Miles reached across the
years to love Frenchy Short, who was so smart. Burying it so deep, so
well; and now there was only this last obstacle.

Enter six-letter security code here Oh, Frenchy. Miles stared at it. Six
letters between himself and Frenchy.

He tried to concentrate.

Was it SHOES, or some variation on the HSU-SHU axis9 No, not enough
letters, unless you rolled them up into . one.

He instructed the machine:

Fe Shuhsu His fingers stroked the send command button, but he did not
depress it.

Do it, he told himself.

But he could not.

If he was wrong, he might lose the whole chain, he might be back up top,
back up at HSU again. He might be forced to dig through all the levels.

And also, suppose-it was a good supposition-suppose there was some sort
of alarm mechanism built into the system? That is, if you tried to
penetrate this final level and displayed a kind of tentativeness, an
awkwardness, a hesitancy, suppose the machine was programmed to
recognize these inadequacies for the profile of a thief, recognize your
guilt? The machine was notoriously literal-minded: it had no
imagination, no capacity for sympathy; its ethics were coldly binary. It
would blow the whistle on you.

Sitting there, Miles knew the machine would betray him if he
disappointed it.

This awareness almost paralyzed him. He suddenly hated the thing. He
stared at it and was afraid.

Enter six-letter security code here?

"Mr. Lanahan?"

He looked up, startled.

It was Bluestein.

"How are you coming?"

"Ah, oh, all right. Surprising how long it takes you to get it back,
though."

"I'm afraid we're going to pull that disc pretty soon. The other systems
are beginning to top up and the stuff from upstairs is really pouring
in. We need the system space. You know how it is."

"I see," said Miles.

"It's not that I want to play the hard guy; it's that-"

"Sure."

Miles thought: Come on, altar boy. Come on, little priest. Come on you
stinking pimply suck-ass: Do something! Say something!

"Just a minute more, okay, Mike? I just have to wrap this."

"Miles, people are waiting and-,,

"I'll owe you one. I always pay off. I can help you. A lot. YOU know
what I mean? I can help you upstairs. Cover for me." , "Miles, I just
can't. I gave you a big break and-"

"Mike, just let me say one thing. I appreciate what you did for me. I
really do. You're a decent guy. I won't give you any trouble."

"Thanks, Miles. I really appreciate your co-op-"

"And I'll 90 to Your supervisor first thing Monday morning to tell him
you violated security procedure, Mike."

Miles smiled at him evenly.

"Form Twelve, Mike. I'm in here without a Form Twelve, Mike. You could
be in big-"

"Goddamn you. You little-,,

"Just back off, Jewboy. Just back the fuck off, and you get your career
back. Otherwise, you're on your way to Siberia."

He glared at him in smug triumph. Miles could really be quite evil-he
had the capacity for it-and he watched the tall young man buckle under
the pressure.

"Five more minutes, Miles. Goddamn you, they said YOU were a prick!"

He rushed off into the dark.

Miles turned back to the screen. He could not escape it.

Enter six-letter security code here Frenchy, You son-of-a-bitch. You old
bastard.

Old Frenchy. Smart old Frenchy.

ry Then it arrived, from nowhere.

He commanded:

Fe Cowboi, He could see a labyrinth of pillars and acres and acres of
the rawest space under a low ceiling- It was an abstraction too, an
infinitely open-ended maze. Tunnels and chambers and warrens spilled
everywhere in gloomy subterranean abundance. Every fourth or fifth
pillar had its own lighted EXIT arrow, stenciled orange, three-quarters
of the way up. Did Borges invent this place? Did Kafka? Did Beckett? No,
of course not. it was any underground parking garage anyplace in America
any time in the '60s '70s or '80s. or No trace of human motion met his
eyes as they probed the aisles and ranks, though in any of a hundred or
a thousand dark places, in shadows, in vent openings, in ducts, in
stairwells-in any of them-a man could hide.

Danzig's fear blossomed anew, exotic, an ice-blue orchid inside his
chest. It seemed a phenomenon of his gastrointestinal system, crippling
and weakening his own interior ducts and vents. He wanted to be sick and
could feel bile in his throat. His heart was running hard. He fought for
air and found it foul with ancient auto exhaust. He steadied himself. He
wished he did not have to be so brave.

The first theory of modern statecraft-so basic, really, it never saw
print-was that you paid people to be brave for you. A class of man
existed for just such exigencies. Yet here was Danzig, no longer bold by
surrogate, required himself to step into the arena.

I am not brave; few enough are. Soldiers sense this intuitively, as if
they can sniff it. Civilian, they sneer in contempt, meaning: coward.

Meaning also, in his case:

Jew. Kike. They were the elect: courage was their election. They held
themselves apart, arrogant, hard. He'd seen the look in their eyes, in
Chardy's too- he'd been reading it in a certain Gentile set of eyes for
half a century now.

Danzig stepped out, hearing the door hush closed on its pneumatic pump
and click lock") behind him.

He stepped forward. His shoes echoed under the low ceiling.

"Chardy? I'm here, Mr. Chardy," he called.

Ulu Beg could see him. He had a shot of close to one hundred yards,
through a dozen sets of pillars, long for the pistol round that the
Skorpion threw.

"You must be close," they'd said.

He began to draw nearer. This was not difficult. The fat man was very
frightened and kept yelling for Chardy and it was easy to stay in the
shadows and yet feel the voice growing louder and louder. He began to
count. He would count to one hundred. CHAPTER 55

A screen of images rose to fill the screen. Numbers.

Service Level Directory 3839857495 ... 2094875903 2884110485 ...
0594847324

And on and on and on.

He hit the scroll button and the numbers rolled up, a rising tide of
integers that climbed to the top of the screen and then disappeared.

He kept the button down until the numbers didn't move.

MO, it said. More.

He commanded more:

Fe Mo Yes, more, more. I want MO. Give me MO.

He descended through a sea of green numbers.

He felt he had to hold his breath. He dreamed he was swimming in math.

Am I going insane?

The marine imagery continued to dominate his imagination as the numbers
gurgled past, and he had to FE MO into three more segments of the
Service Directory.

And then it began to slow on him.

The numbers rolled sluggishly. The system was going to crash on him. The
warning light would flash on, high on the wall: sorry, brain temporarily
out of order. And it would all be over for Lanahan; he'd never find his
way down here again.

Move, you bastards, move, come on, damn you. His finger on the scroll
button was white-knuckled and taut with pain as he pressed. The numbers
moved more slowly.

They moved so slow he thought he'd die. He'd never make it.

No Mo Touch down. Sea bottom. He was way, way down and he saw nothing.

Nothing, he'd gone too far. He'd missed a line, the last line from the
bottom.

784092731 ... Shm The shoe fits.

Miles stared emotionlessly at it. A tremor raced through him.

FE he instructed, and sent the line and the screen blanked out.

He waited for what seemed the longest time. Had he lost it? Had he
fucked up, blown it? Had the Security people been alerted? Yet all was
silent. No, it wasn't. It seemed silent because he was breathing so
hard, was so exhausted. Yet now, concentrating, he heard the tapping of
other operators on their terminals, the whine of their fans. Nobody
stirred.

Words rose from the bottom of the screen, a slugline and then the
message.

PAUL YOU BASTARD, said Frenchy Short, horribly dead these seven years.

I'M GOING TO GIVE You To THE RUSSIANS.

BUT THEN YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT IF you're READING THIS BECAUSE ITLL MEAN

I'M DEAD AND YOU GOT BACK AND YOU'RE

TRYING To PUT THE PIECES TOGETHER

PAUL, Frenchy continued (and Miles could see him: hunched over a
terminal, typing quickly, typing desperately, watching his own words
traipse across the screen; he'd be terrified" he'd be almost shaking
with fear, the discovery could happen so easily, HE OFFERED ME A DEAL IT'S EVERYTHING. THE

UPPER FLOORS. SECURITY.

EASY STREET. PAUL IM So TIRED AND

THEY'RE GOING To GET RID OF ME- SO I'VE

GOT THIS JOB AND IM HOME FREE

PAUL HE EVEN SAYS IT'S FOR THE BEST

BEST FOR THE AGENCY BEST FOR HIM BEST

FOR ME. HE DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT

YOU. HE SAYS THE COWBOY DAYS ARE ALL

OVER.

Miles read on, to the punchline, and found out who ordered Frenchy Short
to blow Saladin II and why.

Miles stood, clearing the screen, sending Frenchy's message back to the
serene depths where it would be safe forever. He knew he had to reach
Chardy now-and fast.

Danzig thought he saw something move.

His heart jumped.

"Chardy! Chardy, I'm here!"

He ran through a set of pillars, through a shadow-to nothing.

"Chardy! Chardy! Where are you, Chardy?"

His echo boomed around the chamber and back at him. His breathing was
rushed and hard. The pillars offered a hundred crazy perspectives, each
yielding a wall, a far-off duct, a doorway, a ramp, a shadow. Yet no
human form stirred. The smell of combustion was rich and rancid and the
atmosphere seemed to burn his skin. He fought for more oxygen.

"Chardy! Chardy!"

Then Danzig saw a figure half-emerge-freeze-pull back into a shadow.

At that moment the scope of his betrayal became evident. A great hate
filled him-the urge to kill. Kill with his hands. But kill whom? He
didn't know. Then came the terror. It was total and almost annihilating.

And next: a suffocating self-pity. He had so much to do, to give, to
contribute. If only he could tell the man, make him see, reason with
him.

But Ulu Beg stepped fully out of the darkness. He wore jeans and was
fair and tall and seemed-strong. Danzig had no other word. The man
stared at him. He had his pistol.

Danzig began to run. He ran crazily from pillar to pillar, back into the
chamber, through terrific heat.

"Help me," he screamed.

He looked back once and could see no one, but he knew the man was there.

Ahead the world tipped precariously, spun out of clarity as tears or
sweat filled his eyes. He sobbed for breath and the air would not come.

He ran for the door and knew he'd never make it. But he did.

He was there. The door was locked. Danzig slid weeping to the floor,
clinging to the warm handle, pulling weakly, and the man came out of the
shadows and stood not far off. He stood straight and pulled the bolt of
his gun.

"No, please, no," Danzig cried.

Then the lights vanished. Danzig cowered in the darkness. A thousand red
EXITS glowed.

"Ulu Beg," cried Paul Chardy.

Ulu Beg answered with a burst of gunfire.

Bluestein looked at him sullenly.

"All right," he said. "Now get out of here."

Miles didn't even see him.

He rushed down the corridor, and turned in his necklace to the guards.

He had to wait a century for the elevator. Finally it arrived and he
stepped in. The trip up was swift and silent.

He headed down the last hall, moving swiftly, keeping his eyes down,
passing guards. But just before a turn, he heard footsteps. He recoiled
in panic, backing, testing knobs. One gave-there was always some
careless bastard, you could count on it-and Miles slid in. A dark room,
some kind of office anteroom encased him.

Outside, the steps grew to a clatter. He recognized the voices-men from
his own operation. Now what the hell were they doing here? What was
going on? He knew he could not face them, and let them pass, hearing
their excited jabber. When they'd gone he bolted, raced through Badge
Control, signed out, and bounded into the parking lot. The air was
cooler now. He shivered, looking for the van. It was supposed to be
right here. What the van was gone.

Oh, Christ, he thought.

But a car wheeled up to him and a door flew open and he recognized some
of the Bureau people.

"Where's Chardy?"

"Get in, for Christ's sake," somebody commanded.

"Where's Chardy?"

"Get in, goddammit. Danzig's flown. There's a flap."

The news staggered him. He could see Danzig having finally broken; he
knew he should be there. Danzig alone, confused, walking the streets.

There'd be a huge mess-up at Operations.

He jumped in.

"I've got to reach Chardy. Is he on a radio net or something?"

"Everybody's on the net tonight," somebody up front said, and reached
back to hand him a microphone. "You're Hosepipe Three. Chardy's Hosepipe
One. Our headquarters is Candelabra."

Miles snorted. The Bureau's idiotic games. He pressed the mike button
and, feeling silly, said, "Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Do you
read? Are you there? Paul, are you-"

The response was instantaneous and furious.

"Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra, get the hell off the air, we need
this channel!"

"Screw you, Candelabra. Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Chardy.

Chardy, it's Miles, goddammit!"

But there was no answer.

Ulu Beg waited for his eyes to adjust to a dark that was less than
total. Signs glowed on pillars; one far door was ajar, throwing a long
slash of light through the chamber. Shadows fell away from this streak
of light across the cement and he knew that to step into it would be to
die.

But he did not care. Only Danzig mattered.

7r777--l "Ulu Beg, listen to me." The voice rang through the low space.

But Ulu Beg did not listen. Instead, lying flat on his stomach, the
silenced Skorpion in the crook of his arm, he slithered ahead like a
lizard.

Had Danzig moved? Ulu Beg guessed not. He wasn't a man for much motion,
no matter what the circumstances. He looked for a sign of the man but
could pick nothing out in the dark.

"Ulu Beg," Chardy shouted, "it's a Russian game. This fat man means
nothing."

Ulu Beg slithered ahead.

"Ulu Beg. The Russian, Speshnev, killed your sons."

Ulu Beg crawled ahead. He would not listen. But a memory of his sons
came over him again, now at this ultimate instant. His sons: their
smell, which he had loved so, gone. Their delicate lashes, their perfect
fingers, their soft breathing, their quickness and boundless energy gone.

The memory convulsed him. He heard Speshnev instructing him in Libya:
"Danzig killed your sons, betrayed them, made them die." He'd had a
photograph of the bodies. "Look. From an office in America ten thousand
miles away he decreed death to the troublesome Kurds, death to your
boys."

Let me be strong just another minute, he thought. Then kill me, Chardy.

Kill me.

"Ulu Beg. Don't make me kill you," Chardy called.

"For God's sake"-Danzig, sobbing from nearby save me, Chardy, oh, God,
save me, please."

With a scream that was a sob, Ulu Beg rose and fired a clip at the
voice. The hot shells poured from the breech and the stench of powder
rose and he could see sparks where the bullets struck. Ricochets whined
about. Then the bolt locked back: he was out of ammunition.

He jammed in a new magazine.

He searched around in the darkness and could see nothing. He looked back
and heard sobbing ahead. He swung the metal stock over the piece,
locking it imnanplnaecxet. He rose and walked to Danzig. He found the
fat to the door, weeping softly.

I "Naman," he said. "Don't!"

It was Chardy, so close behind him he could almost feel the breath.

"Don't. Please don't."

The van pulled up.

"Colonel, are you sure?"

"Oh, yes," said Speshnev. "It's quite necessary."

"We have technicians," said the younger man. "Men Of great skill and
experience."

"Stepanovich, you always think of me, don't you? I'm touched. But I've
some experience myself And I've been looking forward for some time to
this."

"I wish you'd let me send some backup people along."

"Oh, no. Too cumbersome. Wouldn't think of it.,, "You're sure, Colonel?"

"No, I'm quite fine," Speshnev said. He smiled. The damp warm air had
somewhat disarranged his hair. He turned in the cab, opened the door,
and stepped out. :, You've got the device?"

"Of course," Speshnev said. "Right in here." He tapped himself just
under the arm, and the young man knew it to be a standard KGB silent
killing device, a tiny C02 Pistol that fired small pellets of a
traceless microtoxin.

"And just in case?"

"Of course, Stepanovich. The Luger."

He smiled, and the Younger man marveled at his calmness. His whole
operation hung in the balance and the old man himself was going to push
it the final step. The younger man, by temperament a sentimentalist,
wanted to weep in admiration. But he controlled himself as he watched
the colonel head for the building.

"Don't! Please don't," Chardy heard himself urge with insane civility.

He had the Ingram trained on the Kurd from a range of about fifteen
yards. It seemed, in the passion of the second, immensely heavy. It was
hot to his touch. He could feel his fingers on it, sense its weight, its
warmth, its cruel details.

"Don't," he cried again. He could feel his voice quaver, grow phlegmy.

It was so dark; the seconds seemed to be rushing past.

The Kurd was absolutely still, frozen against a pillar, his own weapon
before him.

"It's a trick," Chardy began to argue. If he could just explain it all.

"It's a Russian trick. It goes way back, it-, I

He wished he could breathe. He could feel the perspiration forming on
his body. It was so hot down here; it smelled of cars, of gas.

"Speshnev," he thought to say. If he could get that part out, make him
see that part of it. "It's Speshnev-"

"CHAP DY KILL HIM!" Danzig screamed. "CHARDY STOP

HIM!" The voice echoed in the chamber. Ulu Beg's head moved just an inch
in the darkness.

"CHARDY! OH CHARDY SAVE ME JESUS!"

"Speshnev killed-"

"CHARDY KILL HIM KILL HIM JESUS!"

"It's the Russian, it's Speshnev, it's-"

"CHARDY GODDAM-" Ulu Beg brought the Skorpion to his shoulder and Chardy
heard a weapon fire a long burst. The Kurd fell to the pavement, the
machine pistol clattering away. Blood ran from his mouth and out his
nose and his eyes were open.

Chardy looked down at the Ingram and pretended to be amazed that he'd
fired. It had just happened, almost accidentally: a twitch, the
slightest, faintest tremor of nerve running from a secret part of his
brain down his spine and arm to the finger, and the weapon, its
orchestration of springs and latches and chambers and pins set in
motion, had fired eleven times in less than two seconds.

No.

You did it, Chardy thought.

You did it.

Chardy walked to the man. He searched for a pulse, found none. He
reached and closed the two eyes and the mouth. He set the Ingram down
and tried to roll the Kurd to his right side. But it would not work; the
man kept slipping forward sloppily. Chardy was trying to get it right.

"MY God," said Danzig, suddenly just behind him. "He could have killed
me. You stood there for an hour. Chardy, you bastard. DO You think this
is some kind of a game? My God, Chardy, you bastard.,, Chardy at last
stood, gripping the Ingram. He put it on safety. A terrible grief and
rage filled his head. He swung and hit Danzig across the face, under the
eye, with the heavy silencer, driving him down. The man lay on the floor
among spent shells. It occurred to Chardy that he might have killed him
and it occurred to him he didn't care.

He looked back at the Kurd, who lay untidify, half on his side, half
flat, legs twisted, face blank.

He explained to the corpse:

See, they have this way of putting you in a jam where you have to do the
only thing in the world you don't want to, but you have to. It always
works out that way. That's how it worked with Frenchy and Johanna and
with ... At last he backed away. He could smell the burnt powder from
his last burst. It clung in his nose and seemed to work through his
capillaries as it climbed into his head.

He tried to figure out what to do next and after some effort remembered
he'd taken a radio unit. He fished into his jacket, pulled it out and
snapped it on.

"Candelabra," he said without emotion, "this is Hosepipe One."

The unit crackled. It wasn't receiving down here. He looked at it with
disgust and almost threw it against the wall.

Do your fucking job. I did mine.

But then it spoke in a burst of grating energy. "--dy! Chardy! Chardy!"

Another voice cut in.

"Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra. I said get the hell off the air."

Chardy spoke quickly.

"Hosepipe Three, this is One. It's Chardy. Do you read?"

"Paul? It's Miles."

"Hosepipe One, this is Candelabra. Request position. Can you give your
position. Chardy, where the fuck are you?"

"Paul, listen. Listen, Jesus-"

"Is he there?" the man in it-ont said.

Miles tried again. "Hosepipe One? Hosepipe One?

Goddamnit, Paul?" He turned to them. "I can't raise him. He's off the
net."

"Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra. Did you get a fix on Chardy?"

Somebody grabbed the mike from Lanahan. "Candelabra, we've lost him."

"Did you get an acknowledgment?"

"He was there," Miles said. "He heard me."

"Candelabra, this is Three," said the man up front next to the driver.

"We didn't get a fix either. We were barely receiving him. He must have
been under something."

They drove on in silence.

"What's he up to?" Miles asked nobody in particular as the car raced
down the parkway toward Key Bridge and Washington.

Nobody answered him.

Yost Ver Steeg was the first to arrive. He walked from the elevator
across the cement, coming out of the light, his feet snapping on the
pavement.

Chardy, leaning wearily against the pillar with his headache and his
grief, watched him come.

"Hello, Paul. My people are on their way."

"Hello, Yost. I expected Sam."

"Sam can't make it, Paul. Well, you tried. But you couldn't quite bring
it off.,,

"No. No, goddammit."

"It's a pity too. Because the Soviet operation had already come apart."

"I know it had."

"I figured you did, Paul. I thought something was going on in that head
of yours. I wish you'd come to me, Paul. I wish you'd trusted me. It
would have saved a lot of trouble."

"It's Sam, isn't it?"

"Yes, Paul. Sam has been working for the Russians since nineteen
seventy-four. One of the consequences of the Kurdistan thing. Sam is an
insanely ambitious man, wig Paul. He was terrified that Saladin Two
would be a big success and Bill Speight would become the next Deputy
Director for Operations. So he sent old Frenchy to Vienna to blow the
op. But Speshnev was too smart, too fast. Speshnev is very good, you
know, Paul. He's just about their best.

He nailed Frenchy and he broke him, broke him wide open fast. And then
he owned Sam. He just had Sam so tight there was no getting out of it. I
guess it wasn't long before they saw how their interests coincided.

They've been helping each other along all these years."

"Jesus," said Chardy.

"I guess there's some good news here for you, Paul. You didn't betray
the Kurds. You really didn't."

"That's just a technicality, Yost," Chardy said. "A minor trick of
timing. If I'm off the hook, it's not because they knew one day before I
told them or one week or one year. It's because there was no hook. I
tried; I failed. I did my best. I can't ask much more from myself and
nobody else has the right to, either."

"Now that's a healthy attitude, Paul. That's very healthy. I'm glad you
see it that way We knew all this some time ago, and believe me, the
temptation was enormous to let you in on it. But I'm glad you worked it
out on your own, Paul. We were just getting closer and closer and we
couldn't risk anything. And when it turned out Danzig had duplicates on
the Saladin Two files, we knew Sam and Speshnev would have to cook
something up. We used it: we thought we could get Speshnev as well as
Sam. Now that would be a catch, wouldn't it? A Soviet double and his
Russian case officer? Damn, that would have been something!

Chardy lay back against the pillar. This headache would not go away.

"The poor Kurd," said Yost. "He's the tragic figure in all this. He's
the most innocent of all. He was used and used and used.

The poor bastard."

Chardy shook his head in pain.

"And Danzig. Oh, I wish we'd been a little smarter, a little sooner,
It's such a dirty business, Paul. People just keep getting in the way.

Sometimes you have to wonder about it all."

"Did you get them? Did you at least get Sam and the Russian?"

"We arrested Sam an hour ago. When Danzig escaped. It was finally time.

I wish you could have been there. He had no idea we were onto him. But
there's no evidence Speshnev ever came into this country. Sam will tell
us, though. Eventually."

m quitting, Yost. I'm getting out of it. Everything I tried to do I
fucked up."

Joseph Danzig moaned. He rolled over and put his hand to his face.

"My God," said Yost. "He's still alive. We better get some medical
people here, Paul-,,

"Oh, he's fine. He's not shot. I hit him. I have a terrible, terrible
temper. Did I ever tell you about the time I punched Cy Brasher? It was
like that: I just let go. Oh, Christ, I'm in trouble. Jesus, he could
have me sent to jail. It was so stupid of me. Why do I do these stupid
things?"

Chardy looked over.

Yost had picked up the Skorpion.

"Be careful, yost. It's loaded; it's cocked. Those things are very
dangerous."

"I know about guns, Paul. I was in the Delta during Tet." He pulled the
bolt back a hair and looked into the breech. "I can see the gleam of the
brass cartridge in there."

"Put it down. You could hurt somebody. Jesus, I hope Danzig doesn't
press charges. Do you think you could put in a good word for me when he
comes to? I'd really appreciate it."

Yost had the Skorpion pointed toward Chardy.

"Sorry, Paul," he said.

"Hosepipe Three, this is Hosepipe Nine-Ao You read?"

The man in front picked up the mike.

"I'm reading, [iosepipe Nine."

"Who the hell is Hosepipe Nine?" Lanahan asked.

"One of our other cars, out looking for Danzig," somebody said.

"Three, I'm on Rock Creek Parkway by the Roosevelt Bridge, and I
received that transmission loud and clear. From Hosepipe One, I mean."

"Thank you, Hosepipe Nine. We copy."

"What's that near?" Lanahan asked.

"State Department. Lincoln Memorial. Watergate. Kennedy Center. It's
right in the middle of-"

"Kennedy Center!" shrieked Miles. "It's an Agency safe-house-the lower
floor of the parking garage. You got a siren on this thing? Come on, hit
it."

The siren began to wail and a portable flasher was clamped atop the
sedan as it began to accelerate down M Street.

"Come on, hurry," Lanahan urged them again, and licked his lips out of
fear. For now he knew what Chardy was up to.

"He's playing cowboy again," he told them.

Chardy looked at Yost. Yost wore his pinstripe suit and glasses. He was
about fifty. He had sandy thin hair. As always he was controlled, quiet,
calm. He betrayed no unsteadiness.

It was just like you said, Yost, Chardy said. Sam's ambition, Frencliy's
betrayal, Speshnev's fast footwork. Except all the way there was one
other character. It was You. You were Sam's brains."

"He's not very bright, Paul. He doesn't have a firstclass mind. He's
very smooth and charming, but he's just not very bright."

"You sold him on blowing Saladin Two. And you went to Frenchy. And you
sold Frenchy, offered him the big upstairs job. And when Speshnev
cracked Frenchy, it was your name he coughed up. And it was lioit
Speshnev nailed."

"What could I do, Paul? He had me."

"And when I'm in the cell and Speshnev can't break me and he's getting
desperate until he tells me he knows about Johanna and he'll lay her
head on the table, it's voti he learned it from. And when Sam crucifies
Bill Speight and me at the hearing, it's because you've done his
staff work for him. And up he goes, and up you go. And all those years
you've been working for him and everything he knew you knew and it went
straight to Speshnev. And when you set Danzig up in Boston and everybody
thinks you've fucked up, he finds you a new job in Satellites. But
Satellites are ten times more important than anything in Operations.

You're right in the center. And if Sam should make DC], he'll take you
along. And if something goes wrong, if somebody thinks there's a double,
and they begin to backtrack, the trail leads straight-to Sam. Sam takes
the heat. Everybody watches Sam, not you. And during all this, it's Sam
I hate, Sam I'm trying to screw, Sam who drives me crazy. Not you. I
don't even know you. I never even heard of you. II

"Paul, it's time. Speshnev had planned to do this himself. It's time to
end it. Sorry."

He held the machine pistol in both hands and fired.

The bolt jammed halfway forward.

"I turned the first shell around in the clip," Chardy said. "You should
have looked more carefully."

Chardy took the Ingram out from under his coat.

"This is how you fucked up. Because you underestimated everybody. Each
step of the way, and by only a little bit, you underestimated everybody.

You thought we were such losers. Old Speight did pretty good down in
Mexico. That dreamy kid Trewitt did even better. And Miles, even little
Miles came through when we needed him. Everybody was there when we
needed them, Yost. And Frenchy: Frenchy was there too. You
underestimated Frenchy the most. Frenchy left me a message, buried in an
old computer disc, because he didn't trust you. Miles bluffed his way
into the pit this evening and dug it out. A minute before you arrived he
reached me on this"-he pulled out the radio unit-"with your name."

He paused.

"Yost, I ought to blow you the fuck in half for all you've cost me."

At the far end of the garage, a vehicle careened down the ramp and sped
to them. Before it had even halted, tiny Miles was out.

"Good work, Paul," he called. "We'll take him now."

Another car arrived in the next second, and then several others.

A team of medics had taken Danzig off, bleeding, his face swollen. He
had not looked at Chardy. The body of Ulu Beg, too, had been removed,
after a ritual of crimesite photography that Chardy could not watch.

Miles meanwhile moved among the various groups of officials who'd
arrived at the scene and took it upon himself to represent the Agency's
interests until a higher ranking officer was located. A Deputy Director
was due shortly-Chardy guessed it would not be Sam Melrnan and the DCI
himself had been awakened and briefed and was now on his way to Langley
for an emergency session. It was also said that the President had been
awakened, as had members of the National Security Council and the Senate
and House Intelligence Oversight committees, each of which had
dispatched a man or men to the fourth level.

Chardy stood apart from all this. He drew on a cigrette deeply-he had
not smoked for years and at first he coughed. But now he had it down
again. He finished the cigarette, tossed it away.

"Got another, Leo?"

Leo Bennis handed him another.

Miles was suddenly there, and as Chardy lit up, Miles whispered to him,

"Paul, we can really run with this. You and 1, if we play it right. All
right?"

"Sure, Miles. We'll be big heroes. I'll tell em you were in on it from
the beginning; you were calling the shots.

I'll tell 'em you were the guy who caught the double."

"Paul, I'd really appreciate-"

"Forget it."

"Right."

Miles bobbed away, disappearing among a group of men in suits who were
asking questions.

They were about to lead Yost off. He had been weeping. His face was
ruined, his hair messy, his eyes swollen. He could not control himself
and nobody had thought to give him a handkerchief. Yet now, sensing
Chardy's gaze on him, he looked over.

It was hard for Chardy to feel anything. He thought he'd see Sam being
led off, he'd hated Sam all those years. Yost. Who was Yost? He felt
he'd been denied something he'd earned. Ulu Beg was dead. Johanna was
dead. And somebody he'd never heard of, or really even known, was behind
it all.

They took Yost to a van, surrounded by FBI personnel. Miles had tried to
get him released to the Agency for debriefing, but the FBI pulled rank.

Still Miles insisted on knowing exactly where they were taking him, who
was in charge, and began to establish groundwork for the future.

"Maybe you'll be big in the Agency now," said Leo.

"No," Chardy replied. "I never wanted that sort of thing. I just
wanted-"

He stopped suddenly.

"I know where Speshnev is," he said.

"What?"

"Yost said, "Speshnev had planned to kill you himself." He did. Leo, get
a car, get it fast. Clear these people out of here. Where's that Ingram?

Come on, Leo."

"Paul!"

Chardy found his weapon-it had been impounded by the FBI and Chardy
unimpounded it with a quick threat of violence-and ran for the car,
inserting a new magazine as he ran.

He leaped in and turned to Leo as the car peeled out of the garage.

There's a last wrinkle. There has to be. To bury Saladin Two forever, to
sea] it off from living memory." I"Paul-"

"At the hospital. Speshnev.

He has to go for me."

The car squealed as it accelerated up the ramp, up four levels, and
turned onto the parkway, siren waiting.

"He'll get in too. He'll find the wing, the room."

"All our people are gone now," said Leo. "They all hit the street after
Danzig."

"God help him," said Chardy, for now he saw what must happen. "God help
Ramirez."

mu CHAPTER 56 it was a strangely quiet night, the strangest, the
quietest since he had come north. It was a night for escape, but Ramirez
felt so tired.

They were putting something in the juice, he figured. His limbs weighed
a ton; his vision was blurred, his mind working slowly.

Or maybe Reynoldo Ramirez is slowing down with age. All men must. Why
would the dark angel spare you, Reynoldo? You do not even pray except
when somebody is shooting bullets at you and in this hospital in the far
north among pale, bloodless, calm norteamericanos, nobody would fire
bullets at you.

He lay in the shadows, watching and not watching the television through
his swollen eyes. The bulky bandage on his nose somewhat obscured his
view, but it didn't matter. He felt almost asleep, but not quite.

Certainly there was a drug in his bloodstream. The whores! But he had no
energy left to hate them.

He was dreaming of escape and food and women. Mostly women: young women,
Indian women, virgins to be exact. He had not done anything with his
organ in months. It was worse than prison, where for a price a whore
would accommodate you. Then a blond doctor came in.

Eh? A new one.

He stood silhouetted in the doorway. Ramirez waited. So they had not
forgotten him, then. A new doctor even. Should he say something to the
man, who just stood there? It was clear the man was not sure whether
Ramirez was awake or not, for the Mexican's bandaged face was hidden in
the shadow. Ramirez puzzled over this irregularity of etiquette. Should
I say something or not?

But they checked in on him often like this, he knew; he'd caught them at
it before: peeking in at strange hours to see how their "guest" was
doing. So Ramirez was not surprised and not alarmed and decided to lie
quietly until the doctor went away.

Yet the doctor did not go away. He looked quickly up and down the quiet
hall, then stepped in, pulling the door softly closed behind him.

Most curious.

Ramirez, lying still, watched the doctor slide along the wall. He came
to the television, which was mounted on the wall, and reached up for the
knob.

Did he want a different show?

But the doctor did not want a different show at all. He turned up the
volume a bit, then a bit more.

Ramirez didn't like this at all. No doctor had ever done this before.

Were they going to get rid of him? He was an embarrassment, after all,
was he not? Had he not also been responsible for the death of that
stupid young boy on the mountain?

Mother of Jesus, help me.

Holy Virgin, give me strength.

I pray, Holy Catholic Mother, for your forgiveness. I have sinned and am
a bad man, many times bad, many times, I've killed and whored. Forgive
me, oh, Holy Mother. He wished he had some strength. He wished he could
move; he wished he didn't feel so doped, so logy.

The doctor came over to the bed, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out
a small pistol.

He came closer, as though he could not see, and reached with one hand as
though to find the soft throat that must have been in the shadow.

Ramirez felt the man's fingers at his skin.

Mother of God, help your sinning son Reynoldo.

The doctor brought over the other hand with the pistol and was going to
fire straight down into the throat, but as he brought the thing close,
the Virgin, in Her kindness and great forgiving love of the sinning
Reynoldo Ramirez, rewarded him with a great spurt of strength which he
invested in a short, upward, pistonlike blow into the doctor's looming
chin, knocking the stunned man backward. and Reynoldo rolled to his
right, out of bed, all his quickness and cunning restored as if by
religious miracle, and as he dropped off the edge of the bed, out of the
line of fire, the man sent a shot whistling past to shatter on the
linoleum.

Reynoldo hit the floor and bounced off it to shove his shoulder into the
bed in almost the same tenth of a second, moving it with growing
acceleration until it slammed into the doctor furiously, knocking him
against the wall with a yelp of outrage. Ramirez rocketed to his feet,
lifting the heavy bedframe as he rose, and flipped it on the pinned man.

He heard another of the strange shots. He turned to look for a weapon
but could see only the television set with a cowboy firing a gun on its
screen, and he plucked it with both hands off the shelf and heaved it
across the room to where the doctor struggled to free himself from the
mess of bedding. The set hit the wall above and fell to the doctor's
head and again he screamed in pain.

Ramirez did not pause to investigate, only turned and fled. He found
himself in an empty green corridor, unlit, and saw the door at one end
marked EXIT and ran for it, his gown flapping wildly, his ass and organs
bounding in his sprint. He reached the door and found the whore snugly
locked and lunged for the door across the hall. It opened, admitting him
to a dark, quiet room.

Had the doctor seen him enter? it didn't matter. Ramirez looked about,
desperately, for a weapon.

Speshnev could see the footprints-the mark of a sweaty foot-leading down
the hallway. He followed. His head was bleeding from the blow struck him
by the television.

Trust Chardy for the genius of improvisation: television as a weapon.

How American.

The blood ran into his eyes. He halted to wipe it away. He'd have to
stanch it, and throw this doctor's coat away before he tried the lobby
again. Damn Chardy. He'd grown fat in the years, but not stupid.

I should have fired instantly. Yet sometimes they screamed as the
microtoxin froze up their respiratory system, so the precaution had been
advised.

Speshnev put the air pistol away. He pulled out the Luger from under his
other arm. He snapped the toggle, chambering a shell. The silencer made
the pistol a bit front-heavy. He knew he had to hurry-surely sooner or
later someone would arrive at this far wing. But to rush stupidly could
also prove tragic.

The footprints led to the exit door and then away, to the door opposite.

Chardy had to be in that room. He touched the door, pushed it open. It
showed a black crack. He knew where Chardy would be: just inside the
doodamb, left side, crouched low. Chardy would punch for throat or
temple.

Speshnev moved the Luger to his other hand. He poised then drew back.

He did not have long to wait. Chardy, driven insane by the tension, was
like all men of action without the gift of patience. Speshnev knew he'd
come and he did.

The door burst open and savagely the man came at him, low and so fast.

Speshnev caught the plunging head with an up-thrust of his stout knee
and knew from the solidity of the impact that the blow was a rare
masterpiece, perfectly timed, perfectly placed; he sidestepped
adroitly-he was still fast himself-and clipped Chardy hard on the back
of the skull with the pistol barrel, opening a terrible gash. Blood
spurted everywhere. The man was driven to his knees, where for just an
instant he fought the concussion until he yielded, collapsing forward
with a smack, face down.

I have you at last.

Excitement raced through Speshnev's widened veins. He leaned over and
held the pistol six inches from the back of the head, and Chardy flopped
about, twitching, then turned with great sluggishness half over and
Speshnev could see for the first time that it was not Chardy at all, but
some stranger.

Where was Chardy?

He stood. He felt violated by an immense betrayal.

Where was Chardy?

The answer to his question came as the door at the other end of the
corridor opened in a burst and Chardy, among others, spilled into the
green corridor, and if someone yelled stop neither he nor Chardy heard
or cared to hear it. He raised his pistol, thinking that he still might
have a chance, even at this late moment, but as he brought it up he knew
he'd never make it, for he saw that Chardy had a machine pistol of some
sort and the bullets arrived to cut through his chest and push him down.

CHAPTER 57 in the wake of Sam Melman's resignation and the subsequent
Agency shakeup in the awareness of Yost Ver Steeg's treachery, there was
a considerable power vacuum in the Operations Directorate.

Danzig had no official influence, of course, but he still knew important
people and he still had favors owed him in the intelligence community.

He made some phone calls and drafted several memos and even lobbied one
or two influential men personally--difficult, because the swelling had
not gone down and his eye was gaudily discolored. His efforts were
partially rewarded.

It was agreed to brin- back one of the Old Boys, a retired officer of
experience and judgment, to serve as interim Deputy Director of
Operations until a suitable permanent tenant could be found for the job;
but it was also agreed to appoint Miles Lanahan assistant Deputy
Director in recognition of his brilliant service of late. Miles was
twenty-nine; he was the youngest to reach that position by nine years.

In the aftermath, Danzig suggested that Miles join him for lunch at an
excellent French restaurant in downtown Washington. Miles agreed
quickly, and on the appointed day arrived in an Agency limousine, and
walked in wear IF in a new gray chalk-stripe suit of conservative cut.

His shoes glittered blackly; his hair was cut crisply. But he was still
a little nervous; he'd never been to a French restaurant before and he
wasn't sure what to order.

He stared at the menu in the strange language.

"A young wine, a Bordeaux. How does that suit you, Miles?"

"Fine," said Miles to the older man. "It suits me fine."

"The Margaux, please," said Danzig to the wine steward. "The boeuf
bourguignon is very good here," he said to Miles.

"That's what I'll have then," said Miles.

"And the usual for me, Philip," Danzig said to the waiter, who
disappeared as quietly as he had arrived.

"Well, Miles, you're looking prosperous."

Miles blushed under his acne, then smiled modestly. His teeth gleamed;
he had brushed them that morning.

"They're treating you well at the Agency?"

"I'm a hero," Miles said. It was true. He was. In corridors, in
conferences, in a hundred small ways he could feel it: he was a man who
counted. He was the man who nailed Yost Ver Steeg.

"You're only getting what you deserve," said Danzig pleasantly. He
reached to adjust his dark glasses, which were not quite big enough to
obscure the purple blotch that even yet surrounded his eye. Chardy must
have really whacked him, Miles thought. Jesus, Chardy, you really are a
piece of work. Hitting Joe Danzig. Jesus!

Danzig's injury had quite naturally inspired a great volume of rumor,
made worse by the fact that at an unguarded moment a free-lance
photographer had gotten a good close-up of it, and subsequently sold the
picture to Time, which printed it in their "People" section over the
caption "Danzig and pet mouse." Danzig had issued soon after a statement
that referred to a minor automobile accident in which no serious damage
had been sustained. Of course nobody believed it. Danzig's reputation as
a man of outsize ego and libido and taste for young married women was
widely known and it did not take much imagination to concoct a scenario
by which he could acquire such a wound.

"You'll do well, Miles, I know you will," Danzig said.

"Thank you. I'll work hard, I know that."

"I know you will."

"I was very lucky I didn't go down with Sam."

"You are a survivor, Miles. I could see it from the start." @

Miles nodded. He was. It was true. Miles's true gift: landing on his
feet.

"Look, I wanted to thank you for the help you gave me," Miles said.

"It's nothing. Please. You embarrass me. Ah, the wine."

It was served. Miles watched as Danzig was offered a sip, took it, and
approved. "Very nice," he said, without looking at the steward.

Miles's glass was filled; he took a sip. It was good. His delight must
have showed on his face.

"It's a Chateau Margaux, a 'seventy-seven. A very good one."

"Boy, it's terrific," said Miles.

"Miles, I have been thinking. These last several weeks have been a real
test for me. They've made me confront a lot of important issues. Namely,
do I want to spend the rest of my life doing nothing except living
comfortably but pointlessly?"

"I'm sure you don't," said Miles, wondering where this was going.

"I'm a relatively young man, after all. I feel I've got a lot to
contribute."

"Yes, sir," said Miles, taking a little sip of the wine.

"I might want to be actively involved at some level either officially or
unofficially. Do you see?"

Miles did not. But then he did. Yes, of course he did. Miles suddenly
realized an alliance was being offered. So that was how these things
worked: you help me, I'll help you. But what could he-?

He could do a lot. He saw it now: a lot.

"Yes," he said. "I agree, Dr. Danzig. I just want you to know you can
count on me."

Danzig raised his glass, and paused for just a second. He seemed to
consider the meal that lay before him, and perhaps the afternoon as
well, or perhaps even beyond.

"Miles," he said, "to the future. It's really ours, you know."

There was a counterpoint to this t&te-A-t@te, a somewhat less swanky
one, which took place on the same day nearly two thousand miles away and
involved two other participants in the affair of the Kurd.

One of these, Reynoldo Ramirez, much recovered in health and glossily
attired in a shiny new polyester suit, leaned forward and peered
squint-eyed through a filthy windshield aglare with heavy sunlight and
declared, "There! There it is!"

His companion, Paul Chardy, merely nodded.

The drive through the desert, down from Tucson, had passed swiftly and
the town was upon them with a suddenness that almost drove the pain from
Chardy's head. He could see it: the hills beyond the wire fence littered
with the shacks of the poor, in blue and pink and other hopeful colors.

Over the automobile-inspection booths and the pedestrian turnstile hung
a bulky green bridge of offices. Cars were jammed up in both directions
and a hundred people loafed on either side of the wire.

Chardy gazed on the scene without interest. It had all begun here months
ago: so what? The sense of circle, of completion, of ending, held no
magic for him. Yet, still, he'd wanted this job: to take the Mexican
back and set him free, another survivor.

Chardy pulled the car over to the curb eighty yards up the slope of the
avenue from the border.

"Okay, chum. It's all yours. Go on."

Ramirez lurched from the car. He must have had a thousand stitches in
him. He was like some old, dented Mexican '52 Desoto, rusty and scabby,
beaten to hell, with a gray fender and a blue door and a bumper wired
on, but running smoothly after 300,000 miles. He moved ahead toward the
gate and seemed to slow, as if he felt dizzy or nauseous. He stopped to
gather himself.

Chardy got out.

"You okav?" he called, reaching for the trembling arm.

"Sure, si. Reynoldo's fine."

"You've got your money?"

"You bet." in his pocket Ramirez had a nice stake for the future,
courtesv of the American government.

"Go on. What are you waiting for?" Chardy asked.

"Nada," said Ramirez, straightening. He must have been fifty; he looked
a hundred. He walked ahead swiftly and reached the gate. He halted, his
fingers touching the cold metal of the turnstile, then plunged through.

Chardy sat on the fender and watched him go until he lost him among the
crowds of pimps and Indians and souvenir sellers and Exclusivo
cabdrivers and young girls.

Chardy tried not to think of another man he'd hoped to take to a border
and tell, Go on. You're free. Get out of here. He also remembered a
woman-and a dreamy young man. They'd all gotten fucked trying to get
across borders.

The sun was bright and the wind blew loose sheets of newspaper through
the air, whipped up eddies of dust, swirled girls' dresses up to show
their white thighs, but Chardy could not see the Mexican at all. He was
gone. He was definitely gone.

Chardy turned back and climbed into the car. He thought he might find a
bar and kill a few beers, a few hours. There was no hurry.