Authors: M Ruth Myers
"Hey, we're getting pretty good," said
Serafin
as
they bowed their way off, and the next act was on.
"You're getting good with making that wand van
ish," she answered. She managed a smile for him.
"Look, I've got to check on something. Meet you
back in the dressing room."
She walked as quickly as she dared, her black
dress flapping against her ankles. At least it made
her harder to spot by night, she thought. Except the
damned sequins on it reflected any spark of light.
Her hand rested on the hilt of her
kunjar
as she
crossed the dining terrace and turned down the
path to the bungalows. There were still people ev
erywhere. But no
Ballieu
. No woman with long hair.
The sounds from the lodge faded as she neared the
bungalows. Alert for movement anywhere around
her, she turned up the footpath to Ellery's and a
moment later knocked on his door.
"Bill? Hey, Ellery, open up."
Efficient as he was, she was surprised he hadn't been watching for her. His porch light was on. She
stood nervously outside the golden pool. There was
no answer, no sound of movement inside.
It had seemed unthinkable to carry the .38 while she went on stage. Or maybe that had simply been
rationalization. Maybe she'd wanted to deny she
could bring herself to use it. Now she cursed si
lently.
The draperies at the windows of the bungalow
were closed. A gentle testing with her fingers
showed the door was locked. She wet her lips. More
coolly than she'd thought she could, she lifted the
kunjar
from its sheath. With her left hand she drew
a pin from her pompadour and picked the lock, then, with a burst of movement, kicked the door.
It crashed back, and there was no sound or move
ment from inside. The lights were on. The
attache
case with the receiver in it sat open. Surely Ellery
wouldn't have left it like that unless he'd had to
move out quickly.
Then her searching eyes saw the old gold pocket
watch. It lay between the bed and the nightstand,
almost hidden. Ellery's good-luck piece. The one he always carried.
She ran and knelt to retrieve it. The crystal was
shattered. A few feet away, on the carpet, she saw confirmation of what she was starting to fear.
It was a crumpled piece of cellophane. She
brought it to her nose. The scent that lingered in the candy wrapper was faint but unmistakable.
Peppermint.
Twenty-three
She knew -- more or less -- what she'd find in the
listening post. It was only a question of who. Her
mind had worked of its own accord, and she'd
snatched up keys in Ellery's room. She put the
proper one in the lock and turned.
Walker's sizable shape was sprawled within sight of the door. Channing stepped over it, checking the
bathroom, but he was alone. Kneeling, she felt for a
pulse in his neck. There was none. He was
face down, shot in the back of the head. He would
never see the grandchild he'd been so anxious
about.
"You son of a bitch!" she said aloud, her whole being hardening as Max's stylish image swam in her
memory.
Max, ever joking, ever trying to come on to her,
was their traitor. This afternoon he'd nearly won
her over with his moment of pensiveness -- and it
had been as calculating as the rest of him. Now he
and
Ballieu
had Ellery.
Or had dumped him somewhere.
Channing pulled back sharply from the thought.
Racing to the radio gear, she searched for a switch
marked "send" and threw it. That was how you
worked this type of equipment, wasn't it?
"Oliver? Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?
This is Channing. Walker's dead."
She pushed the switch back to the "receive" posi
tion. Nothing.
"Goddamn!" she said, her voice catching.
Twice more she tried, then gave it up. She ran the
two flights up to her own room, too desperate to
wait for an elevator. She'd left her key in the dress
ing room, but as that fact assaulted her, the door swung open.
"Channing!" said
Serafin
in surprise. He held up a
book in his hand. "Okay if I borrow this?"
She pushed past him, peeling out of her costume
and reaching for slacks as she spoke.
"Find
Rundell
. Stay with him. And tell someone I
can't do the second show. Tell them I'm sick."
She was stuffing her shirttail in.
Serafin's
eyes fol
lowed her as she strapped on her
kunjar
.
"Channing?"
His voice was a child's voice, filled with fear and
uncertainty. She swung from loading what she
needed into her jacket and saw his heart in his face.
"You
gotta
come back, Channing!"
He was moving to do as she'd ordered, but his
eyes clung to her.
"Promise," she said, and managed a smile.
As he left, Channing jerked a drawer open. Grim
resolve overcame her last bit of reluctance. Glad of
its cold impartiality, she took out the small .38.
*
*
*
"What the hell do you mean, my answer’s coming in from Interpol?" barked Oliver Lemming, looking up from the map over which he’d been pouring. "I haven’t talked to Interpol.
I never asked any questions."
Irritated and increasingly tense that the evening
was this far advanced with no word on
Ballieu's
movement, he rose from in front of the radio tuned
to the units at Palacio Sol. He moved stiffly but swiftly into the adjoining room where a telex had been installed. Three men he'd hand-picked for this
assignment were waiting and smoking. The one
who'd summoned him, still in training, looked scared now. Everybody knew that when the old
man moved as if he had a poker up him, he could be
a bear.
It was hot in the room, and a little noisy from an
ineffectual air conditioner. The men had dark stains
under their armpits. One stepped aside, and Oliver
read the message coming over: "Photo of female identified as Annette Lewis matches telephoto of
Khadija
Mansur, suspect in embassy bombing."
"Holy hell!" swore Oliver Lemming. "Start the
chopper!"
The name had registered; he knew what this
meant. His own outfit had come up with zero on those photos Ellery took, only Ellery hadn't been
willing to settle for that. The boy was bright and had
played a hunch. He'd gone to another source.
The fact that he had, and that he hadn't gone
through Oliver, told Oliver plenty. It told him El
lery also believed what Oliver had begun to suspect:
Whoever had stolen that piece of film might work
for the State Department itself. It would explain
why
Ballieu
had always seemed to be one step
ahead of them. Ellery must have reached the same
conclusion. Thorough professional that he was, El
lery hadn't been willing to discount even Oliver,
himself, as the possible traitor.
Now Ellery could be in deep trouble, this crucial bit of information missing when he needed it.
Bal
lieu
must be moving tonight, but there'd been no
word. That could be because someone had blocked
the transmission. Or it could be because Ellery
didn't know whom to trust.
"Contact the tail team. Contact Ellery!" he
snapped, reaching for the holster he rarely wore
any more.
One of the men working under him leaned in from the other room.
"I just tried both, sir. Neither answers."
Oliver felt a wave of self-loathing hit him. He'd
given Ellery this job because Ellery was as good as
they came. Abraham packing Isaac off as a goddamn
sacrifice.
He'd chosen Max and Walker because they'd fol
lowed the surveillance of
Yussuf's
network closer
than most. And because they'd both been eager, he
thought bitterly. Walker because he was starting to
pine for promotion to a desk job, and Max to re
deem himself for that slight blunder in Atlanta -- or
so he'd reasoned. Now it looked as though he'd sent
Ellery right into a serpent's nest. Moreover, he'd
endangered an innocent woman who'd agreed to
be part of this because she possessed a basic sense of
justice and responsibility that was starting to be in short supply these days.
"Keep a good grip on those hounds!" he ordered
as rifles were snatched up and the four of them
sprinted out into the night accompanied by a pair of bomb-sniffing dogs.
Knowing
Ballieu
was waiting on some sort of in-
reverse time bomb, the dogs had seemed like a
good precaution for when they reached wherever
they were headed. Now, with no idea at all where
that might be, Oliver wondered whether he and
the three men with him had any chance in hell of helping William Ellery and Channing Stuart.
*
*
*
The moonlight jeered at her as Channing ripped
up the narrow road in Ellery's car. The terrain
looked unfamiliar coming at it in this direction in
stead of on horseback. From the moment she'd seen
that watch in Ellery's room, her mind had seemed
to be working on two levels. On one she'd forgotten
she didn't have her Jeep. On the other she'd
snatched up those keys from Ellery's room, and
she'd known where his car was parked, so she
hadn't lost time.
If she and Ellery had been wrong about where
the film was locked up, she had no chance at all. But
she would play the chance she had. She wasn't go
ing to let Ellery end up like Tony.
A tear slid down her face. For too long she'd pre
tended freedom from loneliness. She'd pretended
neither time nor desire for the primal bonding be
tween male and female. Now she knew she'd been deceiving herself as easily and completely as she
deceived an audience.
Quelling the tightness in her throat, she fought the fear inside her until it was transmuted into -
anger
. She was not going to lose someone she cared for
again!
Automatically she tested her right hand. It felt
normal. But then it had felt quite normal this morn
ing when she'd dropped the coffee.
There was no one but her to go against
Ballieu
and all he stood for, and against Max's deceit. She
was a Stuart, called to give a single performance
that would prove her worthy of her heritage.
Ahead of her lights she saw a steep drive angling
down. It would be the one to the clinic. She let her car glide past, let the engine die naturally, and got
out.
Thanks to her work in hydrology, she had passed
the night in desolate places more than once, and she
was generally unafraid. This time, however, she
knew the darkness was less than neutral. Either
Ballieu
or Max -- or both -- must have lookouts
posted somewhere out here. The act of swallowing
was hard, yet came involuntarily.
Up to this point sheer determination had blocked
out every thought that might have restrained her.
Now, analytically, she acknowledged she was into
something over her head. It seemed to her a poor
excuse for not moving forward. As cautiously as she
could, and avoiding the drive, she began to climb.