The Loves of Harry Dancer (13 page)

“That would take a month of Sundays.”

“I want to know.”

They are driving up the coast to have dinner at Palm Beach. She is wearing her tailored suit of ashy linen, with a single strand of black pearls. Her hair is up, and she is not using the approved scent. She is turned sideways in the passenger seat so she can look at him as he speaks.

He tells her some things, trying to keep it light and amusing. But she is not appeased. Keeps asking questions about his parents, schools, church, girlfriends, loves, hobbies, habits. His marriage to Sylvia.

“It sounds like a wonderful life,” she says.

“Yes,” he says, surprised. “I guess it was. Maybe not wonderful, but a good life. Ordinary. Nothing very dramatic about it. But now that I look back, I realize how satisfying it was.”

“Was? It’s not over, Harry.”

“I know that, but since Sylvia’s death, things have changed. I can see how lucky I was. I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”

“You’ll still be lucky. We’ll be lucky.”

A moment later, they stop for a traffic light. Black Mercedes pulls up alongside. Sally glances, sees Briscoe and Shelby Yama staring at her. She looks away.

“What I’d like to do,” she tells Dancer, “is to forget about dinner and just keep driving and driving.”

“Whereto?”

“The ends of the earth,” she says.

He laughs. “Great idea. But I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Yes,” she is about to say, “so do I.” But she says nothing.

They have a leisurely dinner at the Breakers. Window-shop along the Via Mizner. Stop at a tiny outdoor cafe. Have a champagne kir.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Sal,” he says. Taking her hand.

“Bored?”

“Lord, no. I’m never bored when I’m with you. But it seems to me I’ve been doing all the talking. You’ve hardly said a word.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Deep, deep thoughts?” he asks.

“Very deep,” she says. Turning to him with a smile. “Can we go back to my place?”

“Sure, but I’ll have to leave early.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

“Am I?” he says. Looking at her strangely. “Sometimes I wonder.”

On the return trip, she turns briefly to glance out the rear window. Black Mercedes two cars back. She is suddenly fearful. Not of failing the Department so much as losing Dancer if she doesn’t continue to play her assigned role. But that would represent a personal betrayal.

In the parking lot, she puts a hand on his arm to stay him. “You know what I’d like to do tonight? Just for kicks? Keep all the lights off. Lower the Venetian blinds. We’ll make love in complete darkness. You’ll love it.”

“I said you were a wild one.”

“Trust me,” she says.

In the blacked-out motel suite they move cautiously. Trying not to stumble. Undress awkwardly. Find the bed. She gropes, finds him. Presses his shoulders. Makes him sit on the edge. Kneels in front of him.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Let me, Harry,” she says. “Please.”

He bends to peer. Touches. Discovers her hair is down. Feels her cool fingers on him. Both are silent in the darkness.

“Slowly,” she whispers.

“I wish I could see you, Sal.”

“Later. Just lie back.”

He does as she orders. Stares up into the black. Clenches his fists as she begins.

“Something new,” she says. “You like?”

“You are a witch,” he says. Gasping.

She falters. Then continues. Bringing him along.

“Lover,” she says, “am I good for you?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t answer.

“Just let me love you,” she murmurs. “My way. You promised.”

He reaches down. Entwines his fingers in her hair. Clutches tightly.

“Pull,” she says. “Hard.”

He cannot understand what she wants. Feels her sharp teeth and wonders if she means to devour him. Mouth. Lips. Tongue. And prying fingers. She turns him upside down and inside out.

He lurches. Sobs. Pumps. Releases her hair to hold her face. Wetness. But whether it is her tears or his juices, he does not know. And, at the moment, does not care.

They lie in the darkness. Holding each other.

“Call the paramedics,” he says. “Tell them to bring stimulants and oxygen. Oh, Sal…That was too much.”

“No,” she says. “Not enough. Let’s do it again.”

“In about five years. I should be recovered by then.”

“I told you that you’d like it in the darkness.”

“I did. You were disembodied. Weird sensation. Where did you learn these tricks?”

She doesn’t reply. But snuggles closer. Hugging him.

“I want to do everything for you,” she says. “Everything.”

“You just did.”

“No, not that. I mean I want to be the kind of woman you want me to be.”

“You are, darling.”

“And you love me? In your way?”

“I do.”

“Say it.”

“I love you, Sal. In my way.”

“That’s all right then,” she says. Contented. “Don’t ever stop.”

34

A
t the debriefing, Briscoe is furious. “Why didn’t you turn on the lights? The cameras got nothing.”

Sally Abaddon has prepared for this. “Look, this is a very conservative man. A real square. He wanted the lights off. What am I supposed to do—argue with him?”

“Well, what did you do?”

“We went to bed, he got his jollies, and left. You saw him go, didn’t you?”

“Did he ball you?” Shelby Yama asks. “Or did you ball him?”

“He made love to me. That’s the way he likes it.”

“Well, what did he say?” Briscoe demands.

“The two of you were whispering so much the mikes hardly picked up a word.”

“Mostly he kept saying, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’”

“That’s great,” Yama enthuses. “It’s going according to the script. We better start thinking about closing the deal and signing him on.”

“No,” Briscoe says, “not yet. I want this guy so befuddled he doesn’t know which way is up. Have you tried the drugs?”

“I tried,” Sally lies. “He’s not interested. I told you—a very conventional man. Especially sex-wise. Kinky stuff turns him off.”

“Your job is to turn him on,” Briscoe says. “This thing is taking too much time. He should be signed, sealed, and delivered by now.”

“I don’t want to spook him,” Sally says. “You’ll have to let me do it my way.”

Briscoe is not convinced. Abaddon continues to worry him. He senses weakness there. If she becomes unmoored, the Dancer case could be a debacle for the Department.

He meets with the Director and Ted Charon, head of Internal Security. At Briscoe’s request, case officer Shelby Yama is not asked to attend.

“I tell you Abaddon is becoming unglued,” Briscoe argues.

“You mentioned these suspicions before,” the Director says. “But you have no hard evidence?”

“No, sir. Just a lot of little things. Feelings. Impressions. I believe she’s thinking of going over.”

“That would be a disaster,” the Director says. “After all our work. The funds expended. Any ideas, Ted?”

“We could test her,” Charon says. “Bring in an agent provocateur. Briscoe, does Sally have any close women friends?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, I’ve got a woman in my section who specializes in assignments like this. Her name’s Angela Bliss. Isn’t that a great name for a Department operative? Anyway, she works out of Chicago. I don’t believe she’s ever served with Abaddon, but we can ask Cleveland to check the records and make sure.”

“You want to sic this Angela Bliss onto Sally?” the Director asks. “Get close to her and try to find out it she’s thinking of turning?”

“Not exactly, sir. Angela plays a more active role than that. She deliberately tries to switch the agent. A devil’s advocate, so to speak.”

“Briscoe,” the Director says, “what do you think?”

“Let’s do it. I haven’t been able to come up with anything better.”

“All right. But hold off, Ted, until I get a go-ahead from the Chairman. He has to approve all transfers of personnel from one region to another.”

“This Angela Bliss,” Briscoe says to Charon, “is she good at her job?”

“The best,” he says.

35

S
hoofly agents of the Corporation (Martin Frey) and the Department (Angela Bliss) arrive in Fort Lauderdale on the same day. Both are briefed, given their assignments. It is understood that Frey will report to Tommy Salvo, head of Counterintelligence in Washington. Bliss will report to Ted Charon in Southeast Region headquarters.

Frey rents a small apartment in the beachfront complex where Evelyn Heimdall lives. Tony Glitner drives him to the tennis club in Boca. Points out Evelyn, taking a lesson from the pro.

“There’s your target,” he tells Frey.

The agent stares. “All right, I’ve got her. Does she swim in the ocean or use that pool at the apartment house?”

“Usually the pool.”

“Fine! I’ll try to make contact there.”

Glitner starts to say something, then stops. He doesn’t like what they’re doing to Evelyn. But recognizes the need.

An hour later, Martin Frey is lying on a padded redwood lounge on the lawn surrounding the apartment house pool. He is wearing shiny black briefs. Body of a swimmer. Wide shoulders, long muscles. Olive-skinned. Jetty hair combed straight back from smooth brow. He could have Indian blood—or south Italian. Fierceness there.

He is in and out of the water several times. Easily doing fifty laps in the short pool. Pulls himself out with an effortless heave of arms and shoulders. Shakes his long black hair like a dog. Combs it back with his fingers.

There is one middle-aged couple. An older man by himself. Two nymphets come by for a quick dunk. Splashing and giggling. Then run down to the beach. Frey watches tanned legs flashing in the sunlight.

He is about to give up for the day. But Evelyn Heimdall comes out of the back door. She is wearing a white lace coverup, gladiator sandals. Carrying a yellow beach bag. Frey lies back, clasps hands on his chest. Watches her through half-closed eyes.

She takes a lounge at the other end of the pool. Spreads a big towel on the pad. Takes off sandals, coverup. Wearing a yellow string bikini. She begins to oil herself. There is something about the way she does it. Caressing, Frey decides.

He stands, surface dives, begins to glide back and forth in an easy crawl. As he makes his turn at her end of the pool, he notes that she is watching him as she anoints her legs with oil.

He comes out of the water. Shakes himself. Dries off. He looks about uncertainly. Then he walks toward her, bouncing lightly. She is wearing sunglasses now, tinted lens turned to him.

“I beg your pardon,” he says. Dazzling smile. White teeth gleaming against dark skin. “I’m new here. Could you tell me if there’s anyplace I can get a cold drink?”

“I’m afraid not,” Evelyn Heimdall says. “You must bring your own. But no bottles or glasses allowed in the pool area. That means cans and plastic cups.”

“Oh,” he says, “next time I’ll know. Thank you.”

“You swim beautifully,” she says.

It’s that easy.

36

A
ngela Bliss has no greater trouble, in almost identical circumstances. Briscoe rents a room for her in Sally Abaddon’s motel. Helps her move in. Gives her the number of Sally’s suite.

“You can’t miss her,” he says. “Tall blonde. Big all over. Long hair. You’ve seen her ID photo?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll have no problem. She usually works on her tan every afternoon. You can watch the pool area from your bedroom window.”

“Good enough,” Bliss says. “I’ll take it from here.”

She bolts the door after he leaves. Undresses, dons a conservative white maillot. She puts on reading glasses, goes over Sally Abaddon’s dossier again. Woman sounds straight—but you never know.

Angela Bliss is thin, bony. A board, without discernible bosom or hips. Russet hair in a boy’s cut. Eyes a milky blue. Knife nose and hard lips. Everything about her is sharp, cleaving. Her only vanity is her hands: long, supple, beautifully shaped. Nails are painted bloodred.

She goes into the bedroom several times to peer out the window. Finally she sees Sally Abaddon spreading a towel on a plastic web chair. It is placed in the sun, near a metal table with a wide beach umbrella. Abaddon is wearing a flesh-colored diaper suit. Nothing between her legs but a narrow strip. She looks naked.

Bliss inspects the pool area. There are two other umbrella tables, both occupied. She puts on a voile coverup, sandals, wide-brimmed hat. Hangs a canvas beach bag from her shoulder.

Steps outside her living room door. Walks around to the pool. Abaddon is smoothing lotion onto her shoulders and arms. Bliss glances about, then walks hesitatingly up to the target.

“I beg your pardon,” she says. Timid smile. “I wonder if I might share your table.”

“Help yourself,” Sally says. Laughs. “I can only sit in one chair at a time.”

“Thank you.” Angela Bliss says. “What a beautiful, beautiful tan you have.”

“I spend a lot of time on it.”

“I’m so pale. But I’m determined to get some color. Just to prove to the folks back home that I’ve been in Florida. Will you tell me what suntan lotion to use?”

“Be glad to.”

“My name is Angela,” Bliss says. “What’s yours?”

37

T
he Chairman, seated in his thronelike chair in the Department’s Cleveland War Room, reads through the latest intelligence on current actions. It is the daily computer printout. A final summary gives the previous day’s score: fourteen successes, twelve failures. Too close for comfort, the Chairman decides.

He turns back to the Harry Dancer campaign. Its complexity fascinates him. He is happy to see the Internal Security agent has made contact with Sally Abaddon. That should effectively thwart the possibility of betrayal by that lady.

But he’s bemused by the report of the Department’s agent assigned to observe the activities of Evelyn Heimdall. Apparently she has made a new friend. Young man. Handsome. The agent has observed them together on several occasions. Talking. Laughing. Swimming. Walking the beach. The man’s name is Martin Frey.

In the Chairman’s world, things rarely happen by chance. He summons the floor supervisor, requests an Intelligence rummage on Martin Frey. He waits patiently. About twenty minutes later, a printout is brought. He scans it swiftly. Frey is a Corporation agent attached to Counterintelligence.