7 Steps to Midnight (11 page)

Chris sighed and shook his head. Then he saw another package on the bottom of the bag and lifted it out, a plastic envelope. It was heavy and he almost dropped it. Snatching at it clumsily before it could fall, he put the overnight bag on the floor and put the plastic envelope on his lap to unzip it.

He stared blankly at what was in the envelope.

Now the picture seemed complete. His life a maddening enigma.
Men chasing him. Mysterious events. A flight to London. A change of clothes. A disguise kit.

A pistol.

He stared at it, an expression of distaste on his face. A clip of bullets was wrapped beside it. He had no idea what caliber it was except that it was smaller than a .45. Probably smaller than a .38 as well.

For what? he thought, unable to repress a shudder. What in God’s name was he up against? Did Gene actually think he might have to
shoot
someone?

He gasped and almost dropped the pistol as someone pounded on the door.

“Come on, there’s people waiting!” said an angry man.

Chris swallowed hard. Sweet Jesus, he thought. It’s heart-attack time.

Hastily, he put the pistol back into the plastic envelope, zipped it up and pushed it under the clothes inside the overnight bag. He’d dump the damn thing as soon as he could.

He wondered, for a few moments, how the bag had been brought up to the boarding area. How could it have passed the metal-detector? Another mystery. His brain was swollen with puzzles. He could sit in this booth for a year just analyzing all the questions raised since early this morning.

Forget it, he thought. Just… damn, forget it. He unlocked the door and left the booth; there
were
a lot of men waiting. A fat man wearing a red sport coat pushed by him and entered the booth, slamming the door. Sorry, pal, Chris thought. Have a primo b.m.

He made his way to the exit and left the men’s room. As he walked into the boarding area, he wondered if he should have stayed in the booth long enough to put on the mustache.

“Oh, that’s
ridiculous
,” he muttered. Forget about breakfast. He was going to down a couple of drinks so fast, they’d vaporize in his throat.

By the time he reached the bar, he’d changed his mind. His stomach was too empty. Except for a small bag of Fritos in Yuma, he’d had nothing since his mother’s house. Two drinks might
make him reel. He ordered an Irish coffee and sat at the counter; there were no tables open.

A
mustache
, he thought, making a scoffing noise. He’d look like a Spanish pimp. No, if they were going to pick him up, let it be as himself, and not some character from a spy movie.

Fifteen minutes later, he paid for the Irish coffee and left the bar. He walked over to the gift shop and bought a copy of the
Los Angeles Times
to read on the plane. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to read about Nelson or not—or about himself for that matter, if there was anything about his situation. But he had to know.

Is this what it feels like to be a fugitive from justice? he thought as he crossed the boarding area to his boarding gate.
Fugitive from the law, you mean
, he told himself. Justice had no part in this game. Thank God for Gene, he thought. He didn’t know why Gene was being so helpful but bless him for it.

He sat in a corner, waiting quietly until they announced the boarding for his flight, first-class passengers first. Drawing in a deep breath, he stood and moved toward the doorway.

As he drew nearer to it, his heartbeat quickened more and more until he could actually hear it thumping in his ears. Was he going to make it? Was someone on the lookout for him? Did he look completely guilty? It was like a bad dream in which no matter where one hid, one was found.

The woman at the doorway checked his boarding pass, tore the stub off his ticket, smiled and said, “Have a nice flight, Mr. Barton.”
God, don’t say my name!
he thought in panic.

Anticlimax, he thought next as he walked along the slanting tunnel toward the plane. Entering it, he showed the boarding pass to the stewardess waiting there and she gestured toward the first-class section. “Would you like me to store your bag?” she asked.

“No, thank you, I’ll put it under my seat,” he told her.

The stewardess in the first-class section showed him to his seat. It was by a window. He slumped down, feeling suddenly exhausted.

“Would you like some champagne?” the stewardess asked.

“Could I have a screwdriver?” he said.

“Of course.” She smiled and turned away.

He slid the bag under the seat in front of him, put the folded copy of the
Times
beside him on the seat, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Was it really over? he thought.

Over?
his mind retorted.
It’s barely begun, you idiot. You’re on your way to London. Didn’t you notice that the ticket was only one way?

He blew out a long, slow stream of breath. Would he make it to London? Or would the plane explode halfway across the Atlantic? Was that the kind of film this was? Maybe he wasn’t the hero at all but some subsidiary character, the poor sap who got it in the first reel.

“Here you are, Mr. Barton,” the stewardess said.

Oh, Christ, am I going to be called by my name all the way to England?
he thought, opening his eyes. He forced a smile and a “Thank you” as he took the drink.

He took a deep swallow of the screwdriver. He could afford to get a little alcohol inside himself now. He felt at his neck.
As usual, stiff as ye boarde
, he thought.

Groaning softly, he put down the drink and picked up the newspaper.

Nothing different, conflicts and corruptions as always. Disinterested, Chris ran his gaze across the stories.

Until page five. Then, suddenly, he was having trouble with his breath again, the corners of his eyes were tearing.
Oh, my God, my good God
, he thought.

R
EPORTER
S
HOT
Gene Wyskart, a reporter
on the
Tucson Herald
, was
killed last night by an
unidentified gunman.

Chris put aside the paper and closed his eyes.
I can’t go on with this
, he thought.
It’s too damn much.
It had been bad enough with Nelson and he hadn’t even known the man. Gene had been a friend.

“God,” he whispered. “Jesus.
God.
”

“May I move this?” said a man’s voice.

Chris opened his eyes and looked to his right. The man in the aisle was smiling cordially. Chris didn’t understand what he’d meant, then, abruptly, he saw the newspaper lying on the seat beside his and picked it up. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” the man replied. He sat down and extended his hand. “Jim Basy.”

Chris almost knocked over his drink, then raised his hand above it. Basy smiled and shook it briefly. Chris wondered if the man was wondering why he hadn’t given his name in return.

Jim Basy was in his forties, wearing gray trousers and gray tweed jacket, a white shirt with a black knit tie. He looked like a successful executive, dark hair neatly trimmed, face cleanly shaven, black shoes polished to a gloss.

Chris winced and reached involuntarily to massage the back of his neck. It was really hurting now.

“Stiff neck?” the man asked.

Chris nodded. “Yeah.”

“I have problems with my neck too, sometimes,” Basy told him. “I hang upside down for it.”

Chris looked at him blankly.

“It’s like a trapeze,” the man explained. “Gravity helps to separate the neck vertebrae.”

“Oh.” Chris nodded. The part of him responding to the man was minor. Most of him was sick inside, getting ready to stand and leave the plane, surrender himself.

Putting the newspaper beside him, he reached beneath the seat in front of him and slid out the overnight bag. Picking it up, he began to stand. “You
leaving
?” Basy asked. Chris didn’t like his tone and started to edge past him to the aisle, muttering, “Excuse me.”

The man’s grip on his wrist was like steel.

“I wouldn’t do that, Barton,” he said.

Chris stared down dumbly at the man. Basy wasn’t smiling now. “Sit down,” he said.

Chris couldn’t move. All he could do was look at the man.

Basy smiled now, a sympathetic smile. “You have to leave the country, Chris,” he said.

Chris’s legs began to give and Basy braced him up, then helped him back down onto the seat. He took the overnight bag out of Chris’s hand and slid it under the seat in front of Chris.

“Now,” Basy said. He looked at Chris, his expression one of slight exasperation. “I wasn’t supposed to let you know,” he said, “but I couldn’t let you leave either. Why were you leaving?”

Chris didn’t know what to say. After a few moments, he reached to his left and tugged on the folded newspaper. He laid it on Basy’s lap, pointing at the article.

Basy winced. “Oh, jeez,” he said, “I didn’t know that. Poor guy.”

“You
know
about him?” Chris demanded, unable to keep the sound of anger from his voice.

“I know you spoke to him and he said he’d help you.”

“He
did
help me,” Chris said tightly. “He got me the ticket for this flight and that bag there.”

“No, we got you the bag,” Basy said. “We would have gotten you the ticket, too, if he hadn’t done it first.”

The vise on his head again.
I’m losing touch
, he thought;
I really am.

“I was sent to go with you to London,” Basy told him. “Help you after you got there.”

Chris drew in a long, wavering breath.

“
What’s going on?
” he asked.

Basy hesitated, then shrugged. “I can’t tell you much,” he said. He held up his hand to stop Chris from breaking in. “For the simple reason,” he continued, “that I haven’t been told that much myself.”

“Is it the project?” Chris asked quickly.

“Bottom line? Of course,” Basy said. “You’re a very important part of it.”

“
Me?
” Chris made a scoffing noise. “I’m just a cog.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Basy said grimly. “You know what your contribution means.”

Chris shrugged. “Well,” he said. “You—” He broke off, looking at Basy with suspicion.

“What?” Basy asked.

“How do I know who you are?” Chris said.

Basy took a billfold from his inside coat pocket and opened it. He pulled out a plastic-covered card and showed it to Chris.

James R. Basy, it read. An operative number. Central Intelligence Agency.

“You know Nelson?” Chris asked uneasily.

“Who?”

Chris told Basy about Meehan and Nelson.

“Well, I never heard of them,” Basy said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. There are a lot of agents in the CIA.”

“All working on my case?” Chris asked edgily.

“No.” Basy smiled faintly.

“You don’t know then whether—” Chris broke off.

“Whether what?”

“Whether they’re really CIA,” Chris lied. He’d been about to ask whether Basy knew if Nelson had survived or not. He’d decided, mid-sentence, not to pursue it. If Basy didn’t know about Nelson, let it stay that way.

“What about Veering then?” he asked, handing back the card.

“Who?”

Chris couldn’t control the groan.

“What’s wrong?” Basy asked.

Chris hesitated, then told him about his conversation with Veering. “And Nelson
mentioned
him,” he added.

“Well, since I don’t know who Nelson is, that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot to me,” Basy said. He grunted with amusement. “This Veering sounds like quite a nut case though.”

“What about the couple in my house?”

“That I know about,” Basy replied. “That’s how I got involved.” He looked around. “Oh, we’re leaving,” he said.

They didn’t speak as the plane backed away from the terminal, then began to taxi along the airfield. Chris tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing but was unable to do so. Everything seemed wrong to him; distorted, unreal.

After the plane was in the air, Basy spoke to him again. “Okay, we’re on our way,” he said. “I’ve been thinking. Those two men you mentioned; I doubt if they really were CIA. Our orders were to keep an eye on what was going on, not move in and get involved.”

Chris felt a kind of relief at that. Meehan had been so vicious. Nelson had intended to kill him. He would much prefer to believe that they weren’t CIA, that they were—

Were
who
? Foreign agents? They were obviously American. His brain was starting to reel again.

He started to ask Basy a question when the agent said, “I have to use the rest room, I’ll be right back.” Standing, he moved away.

Chris sank back against the chair. Noticing the drink, he picked it up and took a long swallow. The stewardess came by and asked him if he wanted another and some hors d’oeuvres. He said he would and she moved away.

Chris closed his eyes and tried to form a brief summation in his mind.

It was the project. That was definite. Some kind of cabal taking place against people working on secret military projects. Meehan and Nelson were probably not CIA. Had
they
killed Gene? And why did he have to leave the country?

He eliminated the questions from his summation. He didn’t
want to confuse things. The situation seemed to be falling into some kind of order.

Except for Veering.
Would Veering ever fit into what was happening?

The stewardess brought him another screwdriver and a small china plate with some crackers and wedges of cheese on it, a tiny knife. “We’ll be starting lunch service in a little while,” she told him, setting down a pair of menus on Basy’s seat.

Chris finished up the first drink and set it aside. He took a sip of the second screwdriver, then made himself a cracker sandwich with Brie cheese. He felt considerably better now. Some kind of pattern was emerging. He always felt better when patterns emerged. Which was why he’d been so unhappy with, and frustrated by, the project for so many months now.

***