She brushed flying strands of hair from her face and smiled at Anne, white teeth showing against her tan. "Hi! I caught the tail end of that scene, and I guess you're going through the same trip, huh? What sign are you-Libra?"
It made Anne blink, even though her first reaction to the woman's intrusion had been annoyance. How could she have guessed?
Jean Benedict's smile broadened into a grin. "I'm right? I usually am. I'm a Sagittarius. We should get along well together."
Sarah Vesper, who had been as motionless as an ivory statuette, suddenly seemed to blink herself back to awareness. She gave Jean Benedict one of her warm smiles.
"Hello! I'm one of your greatest admirers, you know. I've been looking forward to meeting you. Are you going to be joining our little sessions?"
Jean Benedict shrugged, her brown eyes turning from Anne to the other woman. "I don't know. Like I was just telling the doctor, I'm into yoga pretty heavy. But it takes time and privacy, and privacy is what I don't have a lot of the time! I'd like to know more about your thing."
She had given a jerk of her head toward Hal Brightman, but her eyes stayed fixed on Sarah.
Later, Anne couldn't remember too much about the discussion that followed, except that Dr. Brightman had controlled its direction without seeming to. She stayed silent for the most part, thinking about what he had started to explain to her earlier, before Jean had arrived. Going back-would it help?
The tide was coming in, and the rising roar of the breakers battering against the rocks below them became suddenly oppressive. Without turning her head to look, she could imagine them rushing avidly into the sea caves, licking down their length like forked, spittle-flecked dragons' tongues, only to draw back again with a sullen sigh of regret. Cheated, because there was no victim there ...
"I can't wait to go down to the beach," Jean Benedict said when they were all walking back to the house together. "What's the best way?"
Just in time Anne closed her lips against the words that had almost burst out. "Oh, but it's too dangerous!" she'd wanted to say. "If you try going down the cliff you could slip and break your ankle and lie there forever. And if you go through the caves, someone could be waiting for you out there." Why had she thought that? There was a sudden jagged tear in her memory. A long shadow-no, it was two shadows . . . she couldn't remember; it was all part of her Dream.
As they followed the narrow path, Sarah and Jean seemed to have got ahead, both talking animatedly. Or was it that Dr. Brightman had dropped back?
"You really are afraid of the ocean, aren't' you?" he said in a low voice at her side.
"Yes." She answered him baldly, turning her head to look at him, meeting his thoughtful blue eyes.
"There's a reason? I couldn't help noticing how tense you suddenly became when the tide started to come in. Is it because of your dream, or does the dream stem from your fear?" He was probing now, but very lightly. And her answer seemed to slip out quite naturally.
"I don't know-but it's always the same. I'm drowning, being sucked under, just like-"
"Just like your mother was?" In some strange manner, the calmly matter-of-fact way he made the statement counteracted part of her shocked reaction.
He squeezed her hand, his voice still low-pitched. "It would seem to be a very normal reaction to what must have been a terribly traumatic experience for the child you were at the time, Anne! But don't you see, if you know the reason for your dream, then .. ."
Anne found that she had stopped dead and was staring at him. "How ... ?"
He gave her a faint smile that was almost troubled as he studied her face. "I remember reading about it in the newspapers. The Mallory House Tragedy. Mallory House-Anne Mallory. You see, I, too, spent part of my boyhood here. In Monterey.
My father was a colonel in the army, stationed at Fort Ord. I graduated from Monterey High School, and spent a year in the junior college, as they used to call it then. Spent my summers burnming around the beaches-surfing, diving for abalone.
There's something about this part of the world that gets into the blood, isn't there?"
THE EMIR, Karim's uncle, walked slowly through the central courtyard, looking about him with interest. His bodyguards walked a few discreet paces behind him, and he was accompanied by Rufus Randall and the Greek, Petrakis.
"Most impressive," he said in his slightly accented English. "It already looks like a film set. It was clever of our friend Phelps to discover such an ideal place. I have enjoyed his hospitality. A pity I have to leave tomorrow, but I have already been away from my country for too long." He looked questioningly at Petrakis. "You will be visiting us soon?"
The stocky, heavy-shouldered man grinned. "Soon after I have gone back home and made the arrangements. In the meantime, I'm sure that Rufus here and Harris between them will see to everything else."
Randall's inevitable cigar spilled ash over his jacket front, and he brushed it off impatiently. He was a man who didn't particularly care how he dressed, so long as his clothes were comfortable. "Everything's under control, so far. And I think we're well prepared for most eventualities. It's a pity Markham couldn't get down here as early as planned, but he's being kept busy. Says he ought to get a break during the next two weeks. To play golf at Cypress Point."
"With his bosom friend Parmenter-the CIA man?"
"Of course Parmenter will be with him. It wouldn't look genuine if he weren't. But Parmenter's no problem-he's looking to be appointed Agency chief, and as you know, there's no love lost between the CIA and-the Organization."
The emir said thoughtfully, "You do not, I hope, underestimate this man Reardon?
What about this actor, the one who is to play the lead in your picture, who used to work for Reardon? If they have got to him .. ."
Again, Randall answered. "It's not likely. From what I've heard, Webb Carnahan dropped out of the Organization a long time ago, with several good reasons for hating Reardon. In any case, we're checking on that."
"And what could he find out?" Petrakis added quickly. "Nothing. Only the few of us know. The rest of the people here are merely concerned with making a film. And I've no doubt our friend Phelps will have his movements carefully monitored." He gave a sudden burst of laughter. "That video monitor! It's quite an ingenious setup, eh? Trust a man like Danny Verrano to think of such a thing."
Randall laughed, and the emir permitted himself a dry smile. "I am glad to note that our friend had the tact to leave our rooms uncovered by hidden television cameras.
Naturally, I had my men check very carefully to make sure. But I must admit it might have been interesting to have a videotape of the performance that young Italian woman put on for my benefit last night. She was-quite exceptional, even for a man of my jaded appetites."
Petrakis, who was without inhibitions, grinned. "I was in Sarah's room last night. I must say that I am quite interested in watching a replay."
"I would like to see what the blonde model is like when she is really aroused. That is, if a man is capable of arousing her. She did not receive my nephew too well, although I must admit that Karim is inclined to be too impulsive." The emir looked meaningfully at Randall. "He will need to be watched -and checked, if necessary. My sister was a very flighty, silly woman. And her Egyptian husband was a wastrel.
Karim needs to learn self-discipline. Even the training camp of the PLO did not teach him that."
Randall gave a short, imperceptible nod of acknowledgment; and as the three men began to retrace their steps, the conversation turned to other topics.
The courtyard was deserted at this time-hot under the afternoon sun, protected from the cool breeze that had sprung up outside. Now that the crew had been banished from the main house and the others had sought the coolness and privacy of their rooms, it was again the private place that Anne remembered as she came outside, unzipping her long terry-cloth robe. She had watched impatiently from one of the galleries while the men were walking around, engaged in what was obviously a private conversation.
Now perhaps she'd be able to lie in the sun in peace for an hour or so, trying to collect her thoughts. It had been a shock to realize that Hal Brightman knew so much about her, and even remembered about her mother's death. But he had sounded kind, and understanding. Perhaps, after all, she should take his advice about going back in order to go forwards. Maybe that was what she needed to rid her of the Dream.
She laid the robe down by the fountain and settled herself on it facedown, unfastening the top of her bikini at the back. She missed the sunbathing she had been able to do in Malibu, and this might be her last chance for a while.
Taki Petrakis's room opened onto the gallery overlooking the courtyard. He kept the French windows half-closed as he watched her. So-she must have been waiting for her chance. He hoped their voices hadn't carried up to her, wherever she had been watching from, and then dismissed the thought with a shrug. They'd been talking softly. had deliberately chosen the courtyard for privacy, because it was one of the few places they could be sure hadn't been bugged. Business allies or not, it never paid to trust anyone else completely! For a few moments Petrakis toyed with the thought of going out there to join her. She really had a lo
vely body-slim. He liked his women slim, like Sarah, who was one of his favorite mistresses. The emir wasn't alone in being curious about this woman-Richard Reardon's daughter. Idly, he wondered what color her nipples would be. Rose-tinted-she looked like a natural blonde. Yes, he'd like to try her out, but perhaps it would be wiser not to, since Harris Phelps had apparently developed a soft spot for her-or had he? He didn't underestimate Phelps, who had got the girl here in the first place, and very smoothly, too. Time would tell. In the meanwhile, there were those very explicit scenes in the movie-especially those to be shot for the European version. He grinned to himself. She shouldn't bother with that ridiculous little bikini bottom. Within the next two weeks there would be opportunities for everyone to look their fill at Anne Mallory's unclothed body. What would Reardon think of that, if he could know?
It was not the extent of Richard Reardon's knowledge, but what he intended to do with it, that occupied the two men who sat in a small cluttered office located on the fifth floor of a nondescript building in Washington, D.C. The discreet sign on the outer door read: FINANCIAL PLANNING. Few of the people who passed down the long, shabby hallway noticed the sign or paid it any attention. Only a select few entered that door. General Tarrant was one of them. He and Ted Barstow, the man who occupied this particular office, were old acquaintances, talking comparatively freely.
"Markham's been coming out with some pretty heady speeches recently, hasn't he?"
the general said. "All that on-the-line stuff, and the lines are being more clearly drawn. You read the copy of the last one?"
"Who hasn't? It's in all the newspapers. Detente is old stuff, and as for armed neutrality-where have we heard that before? So the latest line is 'Keep the people informed, let them take a share.' And they're eating it up, of course. Look at the coverage he's been getting! The new Golden Boy. Young and idealistic. 'Clean-cut and clear-cut in his views.' Isn't that how that bastard Rufe Randall put it in his last special editorial? And it isn't like him to give a plug to any politician ... which makes me wonder what's up."
"It was that bit about his having the perfect wife and the perfect family that really made me want to throw up. The Jack-and-Jackie buildup without the backstairs rumors . . . and how come? Normally, the press would be right on to the rumors, and they'd be printing them. Jimmy boy and Carol Cochran ... we know and they know, but no one's using it. And we all know that if Markham gets in come election time, its farewell for us. Christ, don't we all know his much publicized feelings about 'secret organizations which are answerable to no one'? And we even let him get away with that quotel" The general was thinking aloud, and he knew it. Reardon was playing this one close to his chest. So close it was getting to be marginal.
"You know damn well why we did!" Ted Barstow was usually a graven image of pipe-smoking stolidity; now he sounded acerbic as he knocked the bowl of his pipe against the glass ashtray with unnecessary force. "Here it is-something big-and we have to play hands-off for the time being because a dumb, spoiled kid got in with the wrong crowd and decided to play the rebel. They all do it, don't they? They kick out at what they call our brand of propaganda and fall for another. And considering who's involved and what we think is involved, the only way we can play it is cool. We don't have any official reason to go in there, you know. And with the people involved ...
goddammit, we'd be playing into their handsl Besides, at this stage there's nothing we can pinpoint-"
"And for that we're depending on an ex-operative of doubtful loyalties? A goddamned actor? Surely ..." Barstow's face seemed to close for a moment; he had refilled his pipe and now he puffed at it furiously before he answered. "I think he'll come across.
If there's anything, he can find out."
The buzzer on Barstow's desk sounded and he pushed a button. A bright feminine voice broke the sudden silence. "Those portfolios are ready for the general now, sir.
And Mr. Reardon's in, if he has any questions."
As General Tarrant eased himself to his feet, his square, heavy-browed face still grim, Barstow permitted himself a rare flash of humor. "At least, General, you must admit you've been getting some darned good financial advice for the past few years!"
Tarrant lifted an eyebrow in acknowledgment but continued to look sour as he went through the door.
Barstow put his pipe down carefully and went back to his methodical study of the files-about four of them-that were stacked neatly on his desk. Innocuous-looking manila folders that purported to contain detailed reports on certain investments. Only he and a very few other persons knew that the tiny star on the colored identification tabs meant that these were ultraconfidential documents. Top secret. Not even the CIA or the FBI had access to these files, although they incorporated data supplied by those two agencies. Everything that filtered up to the National Security Council found its way here-plus some information that did not get that far, because it was suppressed (there was still a certain amount of jealousy among the various intelligence organizations) or discarded as not being important enough.