The Loves of Harry Dancer (19 page)

“Why not? There’s no one around.”

“I’m around. And God.”

“You both love me, I know.”

“Well, be careful getting out. Don’t tip us over.”

She slides over the gunwale. Hardly makes a splash. Swims a few yards away. Dog-paddles, turning to face him. He looks at her. Smiling. Seeing sleek white breasts. Brown legs kicking. Strong arms stroking.

“Harry,” she calls, “you’ve got to come in. It’s like warm milk.”

He rolls into the sea. Surface dives. Touches sandy bottom with fingertips. Kicks powerfully. Comes plunging up.

“Beautiful,” he says. Swimming to her side. “Very sexy.”

“What is?”

“The ocean.”

He comes close.

“I’m drowning,” she says, “and you must rescue me.”

“Nut!”

She floats on her back. He paddles alongside. Puts an arm across her chest. Grabs one of her slick breasts.

“Handy handle,” he says. “Now what do I do?”

“A little mouth-to-mouth would be nice.”

She rotates lazily in the sea. Comes into his arms. Cool, salty kiss. She looks around. No one near them. She pushes away from him. Begins swimming slowly back to their float.

“Now what?” he calls. Watching her.

She threshes in the water. Goes under a moment. When she pops up, she is holding the bottom part of her bikini. Waves it triumphantly. Then slings it into the float. Beckons to him.

“Madness!” he howls. But swims to her side. Skins off his trunks. Tosses them into the float. Naked, she comes between his legs.

“This is better,” she says. “Isn’t this better, Harry?”

“Not better,” he says. “Best.”

They need to rub wet skin. Grapple and hold. Dive together. Beneath pellucid water they touch, feel, grasp. Hair swirling. Explore. Come floating up. Gasping.

“Can we?” she asks.

“We can try,” he says.

Sitting alone in his darkened home, Harry Dancer remembers that day. It still has the power to bedazzle. Recalling, he is sick with longing. Could it have been that perfect? Or was memory playing its usual trick: good times endure; bad times fade.

He reaches for his gin martini. Ice melted, but drink still cold. Lifts the glass. Suddenly realizes he has an erection. My God, can memory do that? Oh yes. He had an erection in the sea.

“What I don’t need now,” he had said, “is a hungry barracuda.”

Or was it, he thinks, a fantasy. Did it really happen?

“Of course it happened,” he says aloud to the empty room.

Details are so distinct. Green of the water. Blue of the float. Sun burning. Sea calm. No one around. She did. He did. They did. Azure sky. Everything as he remembers.

Unless…Unless…He is imagining. Dreaming an idyllic life that never was. Creating joy out of sorrow.

He mocks himself. Playing the part of a toothless gaffer.

“Oh my yes,” he says. Aloud. In a cracked, trembling voice. “Those were the good old days. We screwed in the sea. Yes, we did. Bare-assed naked we was. Took off every stitch. No one around to see. I mean it! We had some high old times. I could tell you…”

Finds himself weeping softly. At this precognition of what his life to come may be. All remembrances of things past. Mixed with dreams and fancies. The whole of an old man’s wanderings. And nothing between real and chimera.

Rises. Switches on a table lamp. Calls Sally Abaddon. No answer. Calls Evelyn Heimdall. No answer. Ashamed of his weakness. Goes into the kitchen to mix another drink. Stops abruptly.

It did happen. Exactly as he recalled. Sylvia was wearing a tiny purple bikini. He goes charging up the stairs. Flicks on lights. Frantically paws through her bureau. Her clothing. Things he hasn’t had the courage to give away or throw away.

He finds a purple bikini. Stands, holding it. Stroking it. Sniffing it.

Tiny purple bikini…That proves it, doesn’t it? Or does it?

50

T
hey meet in the Director’s conference room. Sitting at one end of the enormous table.

“Here’s what we’ve got,” Ted Charon says. Looking down at a sheaf of notes. “It appears that—”

“Wait a minute,” the Director says. Hoisting a pink palm. “Does this involve possible disciplinary action, Ted?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“Then I think we better have a record of this meeting. In case questions are asked later. Would either of you gentlemen object if I ask Norma Gravesend to sit in and take shorthand notes of the proceedings?”

Ted Charon and Briscoe state they have no objections. Gravesend is brought in with her pad, instructed to take down everything that is said.

“It doesn’t have to be word for word, dear,” the Director says kindly. “If you just get the gist of it, that will be sufficient.”

“I could bring in a tape recorder, Director,” she offers.

He considers that. Comparing the difficulty of editing an audio tape versus the ease of censoring his secretary’s shorthand account.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he says. “This is really a preliminary, informal meeting. Ted, will you start again, please.”

“It appears,” Charon begins, “that case officer Shelby Yama has engaged in and is engaging in a continuing series of meetings with an individual who has been identified as a Corporation employee. Code name: Willoughby. He is in our files as a communications man, but apparently has become an active agent in the Harry Dancer campaign.”

“He’s tailing Sally Abaddon,” Briscoe says. “I know it for a fact.”

Ted Charon consults his notes. “Yama has been making contact several times a week at a Deerfield church that Willoughby attends. My operative hasn’t been able to get close enough to overhear any of their conversations. But he reports that in the past week, Yama and Willoughby have apparently become closer. They have been observed on two occasions eating together at a fast-food joint near the church. The first thing that must be established is this: Is Shelby Yama authorized to make such contacts with a Corporation agent?”

“Not by me,” the Director says immediately. “Briscoe, were you aware of this?”

“No, sir. I got suspicious of Yama’s unexplained absences, but I had no idea what he was doing. I asked him but never got a direct answer. It worried me. So I turned it over to Charon, figuring it was a matter for Internal Security.”

“You did exactly right,” the Director says. “Eternal vigilance. We must have it.”

He sits erect in his armchair. Fingers making a steeple under his heavy chin. As usual, he is impeccably clad. High white collar starched and creaseless. He sits in silence. Staring off into the middle distance.

“Well…” he says. Finally. “I don’t think this is a matter for Cleveland. Yet. But I believe it should be treated seriously as a subject of utmost importance. Involving, as it does, a possible breach of security and potential treason. Norma, are you getting all this?”

“Yes, Director. I’m caught up.”

“Thank you, dear. If we go too fast for you, just tell us to slow down. Well, gentlemen, as I see it, our next step is to bring Shelby Yama in for questioning and ask him to state exactly what he’s been up to. It may be a tactical initiative on his part. In that case, his only error would be in not informing me prior to instigating the action. But it may be more serious than that. In which case, disciplinary action will be called for. Do you gentlemen concur?”

“Before we bring him in, sir,” Ted Charon says, “could I have a few more days? A week at the most? What I’d like to do is keep Yama under very close surveillance. If my people can observe him passing documents, or anything at all to Willoughby, our case will be a lot stronger.”

“A week?” the Director asks. “That seems reasonable. Briscoe, how do you feel about it?”

“I agree. Give him a chance to hang himself.”

“All right, Ted,” the Director says. “We’ll meet again in a week and decide on our next step. And while we’re discussing the Harry Dancer action, what do you hear from Angela Bliss?”

“No new developments, sir. She says that so far Sally Abaddon has exhibited no deviations. Apparently she’s going by the book.”

“Briscoe?”

“I don’t believe it,” the dark man says. “Abaddon is turning. If not today, then tomorrow.”

“Oh my,” the Director says. Shaking his leonine head. “You suspect everyone.”

“That’s right,” Briscoe says. Looking at him.

51

E
velyn Heimdall knows the cliches describing her current mood. Off the deep end. Caution to the winds. Couldn’t care less. All denoting rashness. She is aware of her temerity and doesn’t care.

Recklessness is a state of mind. Deliberate disregard of danger. But these days, Evelyn acknowledges, she is not governed by her mind. Her body possesses her and dictates.

“My brain’s in my snatch,” she tells Martin Frey. And when he laughs, she wonders if she might repeat the comment to Harry Dancer. Decides not to.

It is a fever. Being obsessed by the physical. Now she can understand why the Others remain faithful to their creed. If she were promised endless years of carnal joys, might she not renounce her vows and switch sides in this everlasting duel?

Everything in the corporeal world is a new delight. Colors stronger. Scents fresher. Sounds more musical. She feels she has been in a lifetime coma. Suddenly awakened. Looks about and sees a shining globe. She is intoxicated with sensation.

“More!” she cries to Martin Frey. That becomes her rebel yell: More!

She tries to explain to Harry Dancer how she feels. He listens. Looks at her gravely. Nods.

“I tried to tell you, Ev,” he says. “It’s the sun, the heat, the physicality of this place. It affects all of us, to one degree or another.”

“Florida’s part of it,” she agrees. “Flowering. That’s just the way I feel. Bursting out all over. But part of it’s the way I lived before. Tight and disciplined.”

“I was wondering…” he says. “What happened to those things you spoke to me about. The need for faith. Devotion. Spiritual foundation.”

“I still believe in all that. There’s no contradiction between believing and what I feel now. Is there?”

“Not if you don’t think so.”

“Think? Oh Harry, I haven’t thought in weeks!”

He is, she decides, a nice, sincere man. But lacking in wildness. He just will not let go. She wants him as free and passionately eager as she. Barbaric. But there is a reserve in him. Something held back and guarded. She cannot get through.

They are in her apartment. Saturday morning before a tennis date.

“We have time,” she says. Looking at him. “I could ball you until your teeth rattle.”

“And have me collapse on the court?” he says. Smiling. “Let’s save it till tonight.”

“I don’t want to save,” she says. “Spend, spend,spend!”

“Tonight,” he promises.

“Super,” she says.

But the night is not super. Satisfying enough. Pleasurable. But she dreams of love as strong and strange as primitive art. Seeks the savage and finds the civilized. Fakes her response. Tells him how much she loves him.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” she says.

The moment he is out the door, she is on the phone to Martin Frey. He doesn’t answer. She keeps calling. Gets that maddening “
Buzz, buzz, buzz
.” Defeated, she sits slumped on the edge of her bed. Too late to go out? Too late to drive to a bar, anywhere, and find a fierce stranger? A brute.

Ringing of the phone saves her. She grabs it up.

“Hi,” Martin Frey says. “How are you?”

“Where were you?” she wails. “I’ve been calling and calling.”

“Well, I knew you were busy tonight. I went to the dog track.”

“Why are we talking on the phone?” she demands. “Why aren’t you here?”

“Will be,” he says. “Five minutes.”

She doesn’t shower. Doesn’t make the bed. This night she wants Dancer in her, Frey in her, the world in her. Surrender to the storm she feels. Capable of anything and everything.

Suddenly, with no thought, flops to her bare knees at bedside. Clasps her hands. Closes her eyes. Prays for help and forgiveness. But in the middle of her supplication, the doorbell rings. She rushes to greet Frey. Naked and with wet eyes. Trembling with guilty delight.

He is becoming as insensate as she. Their love-making is not courtship, but a violent struggle. They war and call it joy. Hurt is bliss. Teeth. Claws. Plunge into the jungle with roars, shrieks, caws. Both in unholy rut. Sobbing. Slavering. Faith vanquished, conviction lost.

Then they lie battered and dulled. Slackened.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Frey says. Voice without timbre. Droning. “A confession.”

“Oh?” she says. “Serious?”

“Yes. Very. I’m with the Corporation. Counterintelligence.”

She jerks upright. Stares down at him. Eyes wide.

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Then they know about me,” she says. “I’m finished.”

“They know nothing,” he says. “About you. About me. About us. I’ve been filing fake reports.”

She flings herself down. Stares at the ceiling. Gnaws a knuckle. “Why were you assigned to me? Who tipped them off?”

“I don’t know all the details. But I gather your case officer felt things weren’t right with you. That you were changing.”

“Tony Glitner,” she says. “A sensitive man. I should have known I couldn’t con him. So you were sent down to test me?”

“Something like that.”

She is not bitter. Just resigned. “Well, you got what you came for.”

“I told you, I haven’t reported anything. As far as Washington is concerned, you’re clean. Which makes me an accessory, doesn’t it?”

She kisses him frantically. “Partners in crime,” she breathes. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

“You know why. I’m as guilty as you.”

“Not guilty, darling. Happy.”

“Yes. Happy.”

They lie quietly. Then clasp fingers.

“What should we do?” she asks.

“I don’t see why we have to do anything. You keep working on Harry Dancer. Tell your case officer it’s taking longer than you expected. I’ll keep filing affirmative loyalty reports.”

She shakes her head. “It won’t work. Not for long. Headquarters wants results. And Glitner can’t be stalled forever. He already senses what’s going on.”