Authors: M Ruth Myers
"You saw for yourself, she's good at sleight of
hand," said Oliver. "Fourth-generation magician,
or would have been if she'd turned professional, I
understand. She's traveled a lot...."
Ellery was deciphering scribbles on the yellow
legal pad in Oliver's hand. Notes on Channing Stu
art. U.N. clearance. Ph.D. in hydro-geology
--
why
the hell would a woman study something like that? It intrigued him. There was a list of countries she'd worked in
...
people who knew her. Oliver had
clearly put in a long night tracking this down. He
was speaking again.
"Bill. She could convince
Ballieu
she's taken over
Yussuf's
network. She could go to that meeting. She
could get close enough to do sleight of hand on that
film, substitute a piece that's imperceptibly flawed
for the real thing. We'd be able to spot anyone who
used one of their phony passports. Police in a dozen
countries could lock up would-be hijackers, poten
tial kidnappers -- "
"Holy Christ, Oliver! Have you been sniffing talc
or something?"
"I'm dead serious. We know when and where
Ballieu's
to pick up that film. We don't know who has it. Even if we find out, we'd only have two fish. This
way we could catch a whole freezer full."
Already Ellery was on his feet and pacing.
"Uh-uh." He saw where this was leading. "Clean
or not, the girl's an amateur, Oliver. I don't want her blood on my hands -- and the plan's crazy."
"You're the only one I'd trust. You're the best we have."
Ellery shook his head stubbornly. He wasn't falling for flattery. If Channing Stuart was honest, then she must also be naive. She might be smart, but she
wasn't a match for someone like
Ballieu
. He already
had Sam on his conscience. He could feel the man
who had been his mentor studying him.
"What happened to Sam wasn't your fault." The director's voice sharpened. He sucked irritably on a
pipe he'd produced from his pocket. "You don't have a choice. It's an order."
Ellery turned, mouth hardening. He wasn't used
to the pulling of rank.
"Get your jacket," his boss said, easing back. "We'll grab breakfast somewhere."
Ellery held his irritation for another moment,
then let it go.
"Great. Know a place that serves liver?"
Aware a truce had been offered, Oliver shook his
head in perplexity.
"You have the damnedest sense of humor. Come on. We'll eat, then touch base with the boys at FBI.
After that I want to head up to Altadena to visit the lady with the fancy fingers."
*
*
*
"You going to send me back to Mexico like they
did my folks?"
Channing, leaning against the mantelpiece in her breakfast room and watching the boy who had just
spoken shovel more eggs and bacon into his mouth,
fought an urge to laugh. Why spoil her perfect re
cord of irrational acts since
Yussu’s
death?
First she'd palmed the gun. Then she'd brought
Serafin
here. Now she discovered she was harboring
an illegal alien in her sunny breakfast room. His
parents had been caught and sent back twice. His
mother had been near death with cancer, anyway,
he'd told her this morning.
Serafin
had eluded the
authorities. He wanted to stay.
Rundell
, shoulders stooping, came in to slam a pot
of jam on the table.
"You'll get yourself in trouble," he hissed.
Channing hadn't requested jam. The irascible
houseman no doubt had kept his ear pressed against
the other side of the swinging door.
As
Rundell
stalked out again, Channing won
dered if she should blame her recent behavior on
premature senility. Or perhaps on the fact that
she'd lived too long away from civilization, drawing
guidance from her own judgment where laws were
few. There was, of course, the possibility of plain strong-headedness.
"Are you going to send me back?" demanded
Se
rafin
. His voice had a wobble that he tried to hide.
Channing checked the coffee cup sitting beside
her on the mantel. It was empty.
"I don't know ... no. Of course I'm not going to
send you back."
She had money, didn't she? She wasn't exactly the
mothering type, but they'd get along. How could
she turn her back on such a determined and obvi
ously self-possessed kid?
"Why'd you hide
Yussuf's
gun?"
Her fingers raked the hair at her temples as she
sought an answer.
"Impulse, I guess. Goodness knows what the
newspapers would have made of a gun
--
you know
how they are."
Serafin
was a darkly handsome boy, his eyes un-
nervingly
wise. They followed her gravely as she
came toward the table to refill her coffee cup.
"You don't know any trouble
Yussuf
was having?"
she said, prodding. "No arguments or anything?"
What weighed on her mind this morning was why
anyone would shoot her friend. When she'd asked the police the previous night, they'd shrugged it off
--
the city was full of nuts.
Serafin
shook his head.
"He said he was going to retire after his next
booking. He said he might take me with him."
The news saddened her.
Yussuf's
arthritis, she
guessed. What was a magician without his hands? If they'd had time to talk, if she and
Yussuf
had gone to
dinner as they usually did, she supposed he'd have
told her his plans.
Her thoughts were stopped by the whoosh of the
swinging door.
Rundell
reappeared, in his official
mode now.
"Two gentlemen to see you, madam. They say
they're from the State Department."
The announcement derailed Channing com
pletely. The police she could understand, but the
State Department? It couldn't be about
Serafln
. Too
fast. And they wouldn't know he was here. What else could it be?
The way she'd dealt with that fat
shaykh
who'd
tried to force himself on her last night in the UAE?
If complaints were lodged against her, there was
always the chance she'd lose her clearance for
working in countries where diplomacy was needed.
What else could go wrong?
"I'll see them in the study," she said, and began to
move briskly. Nine times out of ten you could cir
cumvent trouble with a good offense.
The study that had been her grandfather's was on
the second floor and was the room in the house
where Channing, away for such blocks of time now,
felt most at home. As a child she'd spent countless
hours here, sitting on the massive desk or on her grandfather's lap, watching, learning, practicing.
She slipped behind the desk and waited, standing,
as
Rundell
showed the two men in. The one with silver hair held out his hand.
"Dr. Stuart? I'm Oliver Lemming. This is my associate, William Ellery."
The second man was in his late thirties. His
mouth was hard, with a hint of underlying humor
that might be too biting for some people, Channing
suspected. But that was irrelevant.
"I suppose you're here because of the swing I
took at that lecherous old
Shaykh
Omar," she be
gan. “Well let me tell you, I had every right! I had
witnesses, and it's well known he's harassed other foreign women -- "
"Dr. Stuart." Lemming's voice showed signs of
weariness as he cut in. "We're not here to make
trouble. We don't know a thing about
Shaykh
Omar.
We're here to ask your help. May we sit down?"
Puzzled now but still wary, she gestured toward
chairs. Lemming sank into one in front of her desk,
but Bill Ellery strolled toward the window. He eyed
the life-size portrait of her grandfather on one wall; her grandfather's folded cape, his wand, and top hat
on a chest that was really a sword cabinet. Slouching
slightly against the window, he turned to eye her
carefully too. Daylight through the glass behind
him highlighted glints of black and red in his brown
hair. He didn't like her.
That was all right with Channing. Men, particu
larly those quite sure of themselves, often didn't
like her on first meeting. Bringing them around was
fun. If she chose to do it.
Oliver Lemming was speaking.
"Dr. Stuart, Bill here says
Yussuf
Bashim
had a
gun last night and that you made it disappear."
Damn. Now she recognized him. The man on the stage.
Bill Ellery watched her weigh and decide her
answer, all in a split second. She had freckles up to
the rolled sleeves of her white shirt and across the
bridge of her nose. An assertive chin. Quarrelsome.
"All right," she said. "I did it. I know it was dumb. But I'd known
Yussuf
all my life. I couldn't stand the
thought of seeing his name dragged -- "
"How
much did you know about his business?"
Ellery cut in abruptly.
He could see her brain turning, trying to figure this out. He hadn't made much time in his life for women -- relax too much and he might not be as good at the job as he ought to be. Still, this one struck him as different.
"What he earned? Who handled his bookings, you
mean?" she asked. "Not much."
If she was clean -- and he was starting to think Oliver was right on that point -- she'd never stand a chance in the role carved out for her. She was fast,
he'd give her that. But too much of her thought
process showed; it would be a giveaway.
"What about contacts in other countries?" he
said, pressing on.
She shook her head. "What does the State De
partment -- "
Channing was starting to feel uneasy, but before
she could finish her question, the man in front of her
desk spoke again.
"Ms. Stuart, we don't have time to be nice about
this. Your friend
Yussuf
was as crooked as they come.
In the past five years he'd set himself up quite a
network, supplying things to various terrorist
groups around the world -- weapons, explosives,
counterfeit currency, you name it."
The arms of her chair felt cold and unfamiliar as
Channing groped for them.
"You can't be right! He was -- "
"We have photographs of him with people, Ms.
Stuart. We have other proof. We'd been letting him
run loose because he could lead us to bigger fish.
He had quite a game going, but he was still just the go-between.
Last night he was killed by one his
customers. We're not sure why."
Numbly she let his words flow over her.
Yussuf's
killer was a terrorist named
Ballieu
. He was after
some film. The deal had been scheduled to take
place at
Yussuf's
next booking.
Serafin
had told her
Yussuf
planned to retire after
his next booking. What she was hearing must be
true. She sat erect to keep her head from sliding into her hands in grief.