The Loves of Harry Dancer (18 page)

“Hey,” Shelby Yama says, “you’re right. Another nail in Dancer’s coffin, you might say.”

“Correct. I’ll give you the guy’s address, and I’ll try to get a telephoto of him so you can identify him. Also, he goes to a church in Deerfield.

Maybe you can make contact there.”

“Good deal,” the case officer says. “This is exciting!”

Three days later:

“You were right about that Willoughby,” Yama tells Briscoe. “He’s definitely following Sally. Also, I’ve made contact!”

“No kidding? That’s great. You really know your way around.”

“Well, I was a successful field agent for many years. You never forget the old tricks.”

“And you’re buddy-buddy with him now?”

“Uhh…not exactly. But getting there. The guy goes to that church two or three times a week. Sunday service, Wednesday night prayer meeting, choir practice, and so forth. I’m getting close to him. Slowly.”

“You think he can be turned?”

“At this stage I just don’t know. He acts like a real believer. But yes, I think I can budge him.”

“Keep at it,” Briscoe advises. “What a coup it would be for you!”

The next day, Briscoe has a private meet with Ted Charon, Chief of Internal Security.

“Look,” he says, “I don’t want to condemn a man out of hand, so I’m dumping it in your lap. I don’t like the way Shelby Yama has been acting lately. He disappears on Sunday around noon, on Wednesday night, and a couple of other evenings. I ask him where he’s been, and he fobs me off.”

“You think I should put someone on him?” Charon asks.

“It wouldn’t do any harm,” Briscoe says.

47

A
ngela Bliss is not bedeviled by semantic subtleties, by the fine distinction between “testing” and “entrapment.” Her orders are quite clear: She is to run a sting operation on Sally Abaddon. Attempt to turn her. If Sally succumbs, she is doomed.

Angela has been following orders all her life. In her career as Internal Security agent, she has uncovered treachery in lowly file clerks and in members of the headquarters hierarchy. It is all the same to Angela. Treason is treason, wherever it lurks, and must be rooted out.

She is a solitary woman. No friends, and no enemies worthy of her. The Department is her life. It gives meaning to her often arduous and painful labors. She can endure the tragic fate of her victims only by loyalty to the higher good—the welfare of the Department.

But she has never before been assigned a target like Sally Abaddon. The field agent’s beauty overwhelms. She seems to radiate. About her is an aura of ripe sensuality. She is of another race entirely: larger, healthier, with higher color, unflagging vigor, and movements that create kinetic sculpture in space.

In addition, there is a soft vulnerability that Angela finds troubling. Sometimes Sally reminds her of a little girl dressed up like a woman: picture hat, smear of lipstick, oversized gown, dangling pearls. Teetering along on high heels. The image touches and saddens.

They come from poolside to cool off in Angela’s grungy motel room. To share a pitcher of iced tea. Angela slouches in a clumsy armchair.

Shoulder straps of her maillot flop loosely. Sally sprawls on the bed. Wearing a bikini cut high on the thighs. Hair bound up with a vermilion scarf.

Venetian blinds are closed. Room is dusky. Air conditioner whirs. Outside sounds muted. Faraway. Inside is chilled quiet. Thoughtful closeness.

“Date tonight?” Angela asks.

“Maybe. He has to work late. But if it’s not too late, he’ll call, and we’ll have dinner.”

“So you’ll want to wait for his call. I thought you might like to take in a movie, but we can make it another time.”

“Tomorrow night,” Sally says. “Okay? He’s going up to Orlando tomorrow to see some clients.”

Silence. Then…

“You love him, Sally?”

“He pays the bills.”

“But do you love him?”

The field agent turns her face to the wall. “Yes,” she says. So low Angela can hardly hear. “So much. But it’s not really him. It’s what he represents.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sally whirls onto her back. Clasps hands behind her head. Stares at the crazed ceiling. “I don’t either. I’m all fucked up. Excuse the language.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Angela says. Puts her iced tea aside. Comes over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Sally, what is it?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I just feel my life is coming apart. I don’t mean I’m cracking up or anything like that. But I’m changing. I feel it. I want something better. More satisfying. But I don’t know what it is.”

Angela puts a cool palm to the other woman’s hot forehead. Shocked by her own tenderness. “Don’t worry it. I hate to see you unhappy. You’re so beautiful. And you’re such a nice person. Oh, don’t cry, Sally. Please don’t.”

Swoops suddenly. Embraces. Holding that sun-surged body in her arms. Feeling powerful pulse. The life force of her! Sweet scents. Flesh blood-flushed. She holds Sally. Rocking her gently. Crooning softly. Job, career, loyalty, Department—all wither and grow dim. In the warmth and dearness of this woman.

What’s happening? she thinks dully. To me? Gray woman, cold woman, suddenly suffused and throbbing. Cataclysm.

Darling, she says. Trying it. But not aloud. To herself. Darling. Strange word. Has she ever uttered it? No.

“Sally,” she says aloud, “if your boyfriend is too late to have dinner with you, why don’t you stop by here? We can go out together.”

“All right.”

“Your skin feels so hot. I hope you’re not going to peel. Let me rub in some moisturizer.”

“All right.”

“Do you want me to shave your legs?”

“All right.”

Angela waits through that evening. Trembling. Peering from her window. Finally sees a silver BMW pull up. Sally runs out. Whisked away. Her golden girl. Gone.

She paces. Hugging her elbows. Trying to comprehend what’s happening. What she is feeling. Turmoil. Her life has been all logic. But if the thesis is faulty, everything that follows falls into disrepair. Independent thought comes hard. New language.

How could a lifetime of discipline melt so rapidly? In the hot Florida sun. She cannot imagine the consequences. Refuses to acknowledge them. All she feels is the onset of passion. Rising flood. Sweeping her away.

The phone rings.

“Hi. Ted Charon here. Any developments?”

“No,” Angela Bliss says. “Nothing new.”

48

P
roblems pile up for Anthony Glitner. The case officer senses that the Corporation’s campaign to win Harry Dancer is not going well. Yet he feels powerless to influence the course of events. Not events so much as people.

Coded messages from the Chief of Operations in Washington state that counterintelligence agent Martin Frey has, so far, given a clean bill of health to Evelyn Heimdall. Frey reports that the field agent is apparently operating in an active and effective manner. He can discern no hint of weakening resolve, no possibility of defection.

But Heimdall’s debriefings continue to baffle Glitner. There is something in her that did not exist before. A breeziness. Almost a high. If he didn’t know better, he would say she was on something. An intoxicant. Booze, speed, cocaine. Her eyes are too bright. Speech too rapid.

And she has become coquettish. Almost seductive.

Glitner cannot understand why Martin Frey has not observed and reported on these changes. The only way he can account for it is that Frey was not acquainted with Heimdall previous to his assignment. So, of course, he would not be aware of alterations in her personality.

But the case officer is conscious of the modifications. They worry him. The scenario calls for a steady, sober woman offering tenets of the Corporation as a way to redemption and life everlasting. But the new Evelyn Heimdall no longer seems to Glitner to be playing that role.

“Are you all right, Ev?” he asks her.

“I’m fine.”

“No problems? Nothing you want to discuss?”

“Can’t think of anything,” she says. Smiling brightly. “I’m seeing Harry a couple of times a week and speak to him on the phone almost every day. He’s coming around. Tony, you worry too much. We’ll take this one.”

But Tony is not convinced. A case officer running a field agent must not only dictate the agent’s tactics, as precisely as possible, but must be privy to the agent’s thoughts, fears, impressions. Glitner has the sense of being shut out. Heimdall is no longer open. She has closed up.

Another problem is intelligence supplied by Willoughby. He reports that on several occasions, at the Deerfield church he attends, he has been approached by a man giving his name as Shelby Yama who acts in a manner Willoughby describes as “suspiciously friendly.”

Glitner runs the name and physical description through the Washington computers. Learns that Yama is a Department employee. He then asks the Chief of Operations to query his mole at Southeast Region headquarters. He is subsequently informed that Shelby Yama is the Department’s case officer on the Harry Dancer action.

“What do you suppose he’s up to?” he asks Willoughby. “Trying to turn you?”

“That must be it, sir. I was probably spotted tailing Sally Abaddon, and they did some checking and ID’d me. How should I handle it? Cut him off?”

“No,” Glitner says, “don’t do that. There’s another possibility. He may be thinking of defecting, and is trying to set up a sympathetic contact. Play him along for a while. See if you can find out what’s on his mind. But be very, very careful. That odious Briscoe is on the scene, and it could get dicey.”

“I’ll watch my back,” Willoughby promises.

Tony Glitner’s third problem concerns his relations with headquarters. Apparently the conversion rate for the past month was down almost five percent from the corresponding month of the previous year. As a result, the Chief of Operations is under heavy pressure from his superiors to boost Corporation conquests.

The only way the Chief can do that is to lean on his case officers in the field. Glitner gets a constant stream of complaints, exhortations, completely impractical suggestions. Each of these messages ends, “Reply soonest.” As a result, the case officer is engulfed in a swamp of paperwork. All of which means extra labor that does nothing to further the winning of Harry Dancer.

Finally, Glitner flies to Washington and has a tense confrontation with the Chief. Anthony says, in effect, “Get off my case.” He demands the right of independent initiative, without second-guessing.

“If you don’t like the way I’m running things, sir,” he says, “then take me off. But I can’t operate with you looking over my shoulder and breathing down my neck. I recognize that you have problems, but I have them, too. You’ve got to let me decide tactics. I’m on the scene and, with all due respect, I think I know more of what’s going on than you do.”

The Chief swigs Maalox from the bottle. “All right, Tony, you do it your way. I’ll cut out the memos. In return, I expect to be informed immediately of any significant developments.”

“I promise you that, sir.”

“Incidentally,” the Chief says, “Counterintelligence informs me that the most recent message from Martin Frey repeats that Heimdall is clean. So apparently your suspicions were unjustified.”

Glitner doesn’t reply. But he is not persuaded, despite Frey’s reports. On the flight back to Fort Lauderdale he reflects on the fragility of trust. Ponders how he might personally prove or disprove his doubts of Evelyn Heimdall’s loyalty.

There is one way. But he isn’t certain he has the moral courage to try it.

49

F
or a period after his wife’s death, Harry Dancer finds his memories of their life together blocked. He envisions the thick wall of a great dam. Holding back a flood. Recollections, big and small, of events, scenes, shared habits and secret smiles—all contained.

Intimacies with Sally Abaddon and Evelyn Heimdall breach the wall. First a tiny crack; a rivulet. Widening. Then a fissure; a stream. Growing. He cannot understand how loving Sally and Ev has broken the barrier. Is it true that if you love one woman, you love all women?

Memories grow stronger. Details become vivid. Colors. Seems. Tunes and talk. Sylvia begins to live again. He can see her. Feel the texture of her skin. He recites their duologues. Almost word for word. A film, in color, he can play over and over. Never tiring. Laughing at the jokes. Weeping at the sad parts.

Sits alone in his darkened home. Untouched gin martini on the table beside him. Ice melting. Laces his fingers across his chest. Closes his eyes. Starts the projector. A Harry Dancer Production…

Hot August afternoon. Searing sun. Pearly sky with a few stretched clouds like chalk marks. Sea is calm. Ripples splashing onto the sand.

They bob a hundred yards offshore in an inflatable plastic float. Not as large is a rubber dinghy, but big enough to accommodate both of them. With two ridiculously short aluminum oars. Swimmers are closer to the beach. Boats farther out. The ocean is theirs. Alone.

They lie Faring each other. Legs entwined Sylvia takes off the top of her bikini. Spreads arms wide. Reclines with a contented groan.

“If there’s anything I hate.” Harry says, “it’s peeling boobs. And that’s what you’re going to get if you’re not careful.”

“Just for a little while,” she says. “Fifteen minutes, no more. Just to get a little color. Who wants white tits?”

“I do,” he says. “Yours.”

Little craft nods gently. Seemingly anchored in one spot. They close their eyes against the glare. Feel oven heat melting their bones.

“What more can life hold?” she asks.

“A cold drink,” he answers. “We must hire a swimming butler. By the way, I was at the library yesterday, looking for a legal dictionary, and I came across a book that gives the meaning of names. You know what ‘Sylvia’ means?”

“‘Forest maiden.’”

“You knew all along and never told me? All right, my smart-ass forest maiden, what about ‘Harry’?”

“That I don’t know.”

“It means ‘grumpy professor.’”

She opens her eyes. Laughs. Lifts a knee, prods his ribs with her toes. “Silly. I’m going into the water.”

“Topless?”