Authors: John R. Maxim
“
No, Henry
.”
Carleton the elder eased himself onto
the cot beside his son. He shifted the black revolver to his left hand. He placed his right hand on Henry's shoulder.
“
What I'd prefer
,”
he said,
“
is that none of this had
happened. You do realize, don't you, that you brought it on yourself
?”
“
What? This
?”
Henry touche
d
his bandaged eyes.
“
For fucking one girl, you say I deserve
thisT`
Ca
r
leton the elder sighed audibly. But there was no
use, he supposed, in further attempting to correct Henry's
language. Nor did it seem usefu
l
to make Henry realize that it was not
using
the girl that led to his present un
happy state. It was killing her. So uselessl
y
. Young Carle
ton was quite right. The girl had seen nothing that could
not have been explained or denied.
“
Henry
,”
he said, massaging the fleshy shoulder of the
younger man,
“
I'm afraid it's time to make a decision. I
came down here intending to make it for you but
.
.
.
perhaps a more honorable way
.
.
.
”
“
What abou
t
that woman? The one who did this to
me
?”
“
She
.
.
.
they
.
.
.
were not given the same choice,
Henry. They died badly. They were cowards in the end
.”
The head came up.
“
You killed them
?”
”I shot them, Henry. With the very pistol I'm holding
in my hand. It should give you comfort to know that
.”
Henry Dunville was silent for a long moment. Then he
nodded slowly.
“
Your brother would be here
...
he wanted to
come
.
.
.
but he could not bear to see you like this. He's
never been as strong as you are, Henry
.”
“
Father
.
.
.
” Henry Dunville held out his hand.
“
Leave the gun with me. Please
.”
Carleton the elder hesitated.
“
It's all right, Father. I'm ready now
.”
“
Would you
.
.
.
like me t
o
stay here with you
?”
“
Yes. Very much. I would
.”
The hand gave his shoulder a final squeeze. Then it
took his own hand. Henry felt the snub-nosed revolver
being fitted into his fingers. He could smell the gun oil. H
enry embraced it, bringing it slowly toward his mouth.
He parted his lips, tasting it. The cot creaked. He felt his
father leaning away from him to avoid soiling his suit. He
imagined the look on his father's face. There would be no respect there. No pity or regret
.
It would be the look he'd
have if he'd stepped in vomit.
The gun, as he'd suspected, did not smell of being
fired. His father, like his brother, knew nothing of guns.
Axel St
r
eicher would have taken it from him, rammed it
down his throat. The Streichers were not dead. Why would
they be? They were revenue. He was only Henry. Crop of
1955. Assigned to three different couples in ten years, each
time returned when he was no longer needed. Or wanted.
“
Be strong, Henry
.”
His father's voice. A hint of
impatience.
“
Father
?”
“
I'm here, Henry
.”
“
Fuck you, Father
.”
He jammed the black handgun
against the elder
Carleton's
chest and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
Henry roared, a
n
animal sound. He tried again. Again,
the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
His father stood, breaking Henry's grip of his sleeve.
Henry heard him sigh. Then he heard more sounds, a tug
ging against fabric and the double click of another hand
gun being cocked. Henry felt strangely calm.
“
I'll wait for you in hell, Father
,”
he said.
He heard an intake of breath as if his father was about
to say something. Like
.
.
.
Good-bye, Henry. You've
disappointed me again, Henry. More likely, he knew, it was simply a holding of breath. Like when something
smelled bad.
“
I
'
ll have eyes then, Father. I'll be there waiting and
I'll have two goo
d—”
He never finished.
Yuri Rykov lay raised on one elbow, a sheet up to his hips, facing Ca
rl
a. She was on her stomach. Her back, he
noted, was finely muscled. No fat on her. No stretch marks
or scars except for a thin line across her throat where
someone long ago, she said, had tried to strangle her
with wire.
”I want you to know
,”
Yuri said to her, dreamily,
“
how special this is to me. You do me a very great
honor
.”
She purred as his fingers traced lightly over her back
and buttocks.
“
Could I ask your permission
...
”
He stopped him
self.
“
No
,”
he said.
“
Never mind
.”
“
What
?”
she asked, stretching languidly.
“
Tell me
.”
His fingers wandered down her side, brushing her flat
tened breast. They continued down to her slender waist.
“
You have an expression
,”
he said.
“
Kiss and tell.
There is one like it in Russian. It is a bad thing to do
but
.
..
”
She chuckled.
”
I think you know what I am asking. Is it so bad
?”
Ca
rl
a shivered as the fingers found a nerve. He with
drew them.
“
Don't stop
,”
she said.
“
And yes, you have
my permission
.”
She didn't mind. She thought it was rather sweet. This
huge man, KGB, highly trained, certainly deadly when he
had to be, but still, in many ways, a boy with a good
heart. And like a boy, he wants to tell his friends that in
Beverly Hills, California, he not only met Jane Fonda but
bof
f
ed, twice so far, the famous Carla Benedict.
“
They will not believe me
,”
he said, wistfully,
“
but
at least they will wonder. They did not even believe that
Billy Mc
H
ugh made a cheeseburger for me. He did, you
know. With his own hands
.”
”I know. I was there
.”
”I had photographs. They took my picture with Billy
on one side and Molly Fa
rr
ell on the other. They had their arms around me. And another with Mr. Bannerman and Miss
Lesko. But Colonel Belk
i
n said I must show them
to no
one when we got back to Bern. Not everyone, he said,
would understand
.”
“
Good guess
,”
she said.
“
Don't stop
.”
“
He said also that it would be an insult to your hospitality to bring back recent photographs of such people.
However I would not have let them be used in this way.
It would be a point of honor
.”
She believed him.
Belkin's
influence. But she wondered
how he'd feel if he knew that Billy, his idol, had twice
gone into Russia, once alone, once with John Waldo, and
had silenced two defectors. Not to mention several KGB
border guards who tried to slam the barn door. On the
other hand, she assumed that Belk
i
n was not in California
to see Disneyland. She wasn't about to pry. Belkin was
doing Paul a favor, sending Yuri to watch out for her.
Wait
’II
he hears,
she thought, smiling, how big a favor.
She wondered if she should ask Yuri's permission.
“
Why did you cry
?”
he asked.
“
When you saw me,
I mean
.”
”I had a bad day. Yesterday wasn't so hot either
.”
He nodded. He understood that much. Her sister's
death, so terrible, and then the FBI, knowing who she is
now, and even now going through all her sister's belong
ings, putting things in bags. He was glad that he could
help her forget, if only for these past two hours.
He had read the message slips when she used the bath
room. Force of habit. One was from Bannerman telling
her to stay, not to go out. The other was from her father. It gave the date and place of the church service for her sister. This seemed odd to Yuri. It was not a thing to be left written on a piece of paper in the hand of a stranger.
It was a thing that a father ought to say to a daughter
directly. And with kindness. Perhaps that, as much as any
thing, is what finally brought the tears.
“
Yuri
?”
“
Yes
?”
“
What did you think of Susan
?”
“
Miss Lesko
?”
“
Yes
.”
“
Colonel Belkin says she is very strong. Not strong like you are. But also soft
.”
“
I'm not
?”
“
Your
.
.
.
skin is soft. Your touch is soft. At this
moment, even your eyes. But you? No, you are not soft
.”
Ca
rl
a said nothing. She waited, hoping that he would
say more about her, what he liked about her. But Yuri did
not realize that. He thought that the subject at hand was
still Susan.
“
In the beginning
,”
he said,
“
Colonel Belk
i
n thought
that she would weaken Paul Banne
rm
a
n
, make him vulner
able. But now he says that she has made him more com
plete. I think this must be true. Last month, in Z
u
rich, I
met a young woman, a girl who
.
.
.
” Yuri realized his
mistake. His hand stopped moving.
“
It's okay
.”
Carla poked him. ”I won't be jealous
.”
“
We are not
...
I mean, it's not that we have
.
.
.
”