Authors: M Ruth Myers
The American agent, Ellery, was very good. He had gone belly-down in the ambush as well as
Ballieu could have himself.
What had gone wrong? Who had helped the American? It angered
Ballieu
that he had no an
swers. He had been promised that all the other
Americans would be occupied. He was starting to lose confidence in the seller. But these were challenges, and
Ballieu
liked a challenge.
He felt suddenly hungry. The dinner he had
eaten had come up hours ago out there in the rocks.
Bad meat. He ought to complain.
Now his tongue craved eggs on a bed of asparagus
with a rich sauce over it. Some freshly squeezed
juice. Thoughts of food and other physical comforts had begun to possess him of late. He was starting to
be tempted by mortal things. Why? What was mak
ing him greedy? There would be time enough to eat
or stare at a painting or feel the sun on his back next
week ... next year ...
Ballieu
felt a frantic, repetitive scratching at the
edge of his brain that had nothing to do with the
pain in his belly, nothing to do with the job ahead of
him. The fire inside him traveled its circuit again, and he touched fingers to the cold sweat standing
out on his upper lip.
He could take something for the pain -- he had a packet of potent tablets in his shaving kit. But they would dull his senses. He had to remain alert. He
had to keep a close watch on the female sent to help
him. She pretended meekness now, but he didn't trust her.
Pressing a hand to his side,
Ballieu
picked up the telephone and ordered food. He felt a passing sym
pathy for
Khadija
. So young and intense. He re
membered being like that, though he had disci
plined himself where she did not. He remembered,
too, the burden he'd borne as a child for being a
bastard. It engendered a brief guilt in his mind. But
then perhaps the situation was easier for a girl.
He thought of his pampered cousin,
Muhammed
.
What would have become of him by now?
He thought about knowing a woman.
He wondered why the past kept suddenly coming
back to him.
Ballieu
rose, cursing the thoughts that distracted
him. He stretched and squatted to loosen the
spreading tenderness along his side. Years from
now, students of revolution would study how Henri
Ballieu
had slipped through Americans' fingers in
their own territory. He had proved himself at six
teen. Now, when some thought him too old, when
his own body sought to betray him, he was going to
prove himself all over again.
Coolly
Ballieu
thought through, once more, every
move remaining for getting the film. Today.
*
*
*
Bill Ellery stood, as the minutes of early morning
ticked by, and looked at the woman asleep in his
chair. He'd never wanted to make love to a woman
so badly in his life. He wanted to hold her, to explore her with no barriers between them. The mys
teries she performed on stage were nothing compared to the mystery of the woman herself.
He thought of waking her, then knew it would
only make it harder to leave. It had been hard
enough saying no to her last night, worse still saying
no to himself. For he'd known if he held her, if he had her even for an hour, it would make up for all
the things he'd missed in his life.
She was warm. Unpredictable. A thousand things
he didn't understand. He brushed the hair back
from the scratch on her temple, let his fingers lin
ger, and debated moving her onto the bed.
If he left her where she was, she'd have one hell
of a crick in her neck when she woke up. If he lifted
her, he might wake her. She'd worked like a
trooper, cool and rational when he'd valued that
most. They'd narrowed his list down to a few leads he could follow up. He hadn't even realized she'd
fallen asleep till he'd asked a question and she
hadn't answered. Now he was due at the listening
post, and she deserved some decent rest.
He stooped and lifted her and found her lighter
than he'd expected. It must be the loose clothes she favored. Or the fact that she didn't make a point of being delicate, so the slightness, the slenderness, of
her form escaped notice. She moved with such com
petence and had so much pepper about her, the fact
that she was a desirable woman was easy to overlook sometimes. She probably planned it that way.
He grinned.
She stirred in his arms but didn't awaken. Ellery thought how he'd like to take care of her precisely because she didn't seem to need it; how loving her
would be an act between equals.
He thought how he'd like to see this day over,
even with
Ballieu
escaping. His mouth pulled down
at the traitorous thought. He'd keep reminding
himself of Sam's death -- even though Sammy, of all
people, would have understood this opposite tug he was feeling.
It was light outside.
Channing should be as safe in this room as she'd be anywhere else here, especially with him out and
visible. Just to be certain, he loaded her .38 and put it behind a rumpled-up fold of the bedspread. It was where she would see it immediately. And it pointed
toward the door.
Twenty
Channing had floated up several layers, away from the deepest part of sleep. Her brain, still in a
lazy state, nonetheless recorded sounds nearby. Her door was being opened carefully, almost
stealthily. She came alert, remembering where she
was, remembering danger. Her opening eyes saw
the gun. She reached for it.
"Channing?"
It was
Serafin
. Whispering.
"Brought you some coffee."
Still prone, she felt relief dampen her skin and
eased her finger away to safety. She buried the gun
in a fold of bedspread, out of
Serafin's
sight.
Nice work, Ellery, she thought wryly. Except you
gave me credit for better reflexes than I have.
Groggily she sat up, not much worried by the
thought of what might have happened if her re
flexes had been better. Nothing would have hap
pened. She couldn't use a gun unless she knew herself to be in mortal danger. It was a fact she simply
knew about herself.
"It's after eight," she said in disbelief. "How'd you
know where to find me? How'd you get in?"
Serafin
looked pleased with himself as he moved
toward the bed with a tray held before him.
"Just told the desk I needed the key for this bun
galow. The day clerk's not as swift as the night clerk.
Didn't even look suspicious. I'll have to mention it to Wilbur. Sloppy security."
"I see you're really soaking up the hotel management," she said, taking the tray with an enthusiasm
she didn't try to contain. She lifted a lid, and the
robust fragrance of coffee began to revive her. She
sighed.
Serafin
was eyeing her clothes.
"You and Ellery worked all night, huh? Too bad."
He sounded disappointed.
Channing gave him a narrow look over her coffee
cup. He perched on the foot of the bed and reached
for the second pot of coffee. She smacked his hand.
"Aw, Channing, don't give me that line about
coffee stunting my growth. Don't you know nothing
about Third World countries?"
"Anything. And yes, I'm aware you probably had
it in your baby bottle because it was cheaper than milk. But you don't need it at your age. And I do."
He shrugged and let the subject drop, which reas
sured Channing that he must have had breakfast
already. Most likely more than once, in view of the hour.
"So who's winning?" he asked, flopping back eas
ily. "Us or the bad guys?"
It disturbed her a little, the way he zeroed in
more than he should on what was happening. He
veered back and forth between precocious and typ
ical twelve-year-old. She decided not to discard the
reply that sprang to her lips.
"I think it's what's commonly known as a Mexican
standoff," she said, and hid behind her coffee cup
before her mouth twitched.
Serafin
looked at her with disdain.
"You're not
gonna
bug me with that. I'm as Yan
kee as they come now. Legal and everything."
"Where's
Rundell
?"
"Sunning himself. Boy, his toes are as crooked as
that beak of his. He thinks you shacked up with Ellery. Hasn't even called your room yet. He's be
ing discreet. Hey -- where are you going?"
He jackknifed up as she slid off the bed, stepped
into her shoes, and stuffed her gun and extra ammu
nition into a dry-cleaning bag. Channing picked up
the second pot of coffee and the key to her own
room.
"Up to shower and change. Then riding."
"Riding -- you mean horses?"
All evidence of Ellery's computer and the printouts they'd pored over last night had vanished, but
she had several nearby locations fixed in her mind.
"That's right."
"Can I come?" asked
Serafin
, trotting at her
heels. Any thoughts of danger had vanished for him
now, lost in the prospect of a good time.
Channing considered. It might be a good idea. It
would look more innocent than her going out alone.
If she found anyplace that looked promising, she
could send him on back.
"Yes," she said, "but first find
Rundell
. Tell him if
he sees Ellery to pass the word we'll be out to the north of here. And have
Rundell
rustle me up a
camera and a telephoto lens."
She started to heft the small coffeepot she'd set
down momentarily, but it crashed to the floor as her
right hand convulsed with a cramp.
"What's wrong?"
Serafin's
eyes were wide as he
followed it.
"Nothing." She ground the word out. "Just
clumsy."
Her tendons had jerked a second, a third, half a dozen times. She was suddenly clammy. Nothing
had ever afflicted her hands before. Had her prac
tice been too intense? Was something wrong? Could
it happen again?
"Do the bit with
Rundell
. Then bring me some
more coffee, will you? And toast and an egg."
The calm of her voice swirled in her ears.
As she turned away from
Serafin
she opened and
closed her hand. It caused a small ache.
It would pass. It had to pass, she told herself. Too
much depended on her. She had to help Ellery. She
had to perform the job she'd been sent to perform.
She had to prove to herself that she was a Stuart.
*
*
*
The foothills around the resort were bleak and
dry, hardly scenic by the stretch of anyone's imagi
nation. Half an hour's ride north of the resort, just
across a dusty asphalt road, the terrain grew rough. Harder to reach than some of the pieces of property
on Ellery's list that were on the highway to the nearest town, and more isolated. Channing couldn't think why anyone would erect a building
in such a locale unless they had terminal asthma or
were running drugs. Yet according to Ellery's infor
mation there must be a few plots of real estate hid
den away back here. Vacation homes. Year-round
homes, maybe, for those after lower taxes than they'd pay in a city.