by John Altman
When Finney woke, it was still raining.
He had slept heavily. For five minutes he sat dead still on the side of the bed, listening to the rain. His nose tickled. The contents of his clogged sinuses had shaken loose. The cold was receding, he thought. Not gone yet—but going. There was a light at the end of the tunnel.
He showered, then dressed. As he added his old clothes to a drawer full of laundry, he wondered if he would be wearing them again at the safe house. The interrogation would continue; but he had done the heavy lifting. Whoever took over now would have plenty of ammunition at hand.
He went downstairs, feeling strangely boneless. The woman who handled cooking and housekeeping duties—Miriam Lane—served him soup and a sandwich. As he ate, she puttered about the kitchen, wiping counters and filling the dishwasher, chattering about the weather. Rain like this, she said, the road back to town would flood for sure; she’d be lucky to make it home tonight without floating clean away.
Finney listened, spooning chicken and noodles into his mouth. He had finished the soup and was halfway through the sandwich when James Hawthorne emerged from the pantry. The elderly housekeeper quickly removed herself.
Hawthorne looked weary. His glass eye drifted farther to the right than usual; a single sprig of hair stood on end. But there was relief in the way he sat, a looseness in the throw of his legs. “What do you suggest for the next few hours?” he asked.
Finney touched his mouth with a napkin. “Let him sleep. When he wakes up, let him eat.”
Hawthorne nodded.
“Then leave him alone—long enough to let what’s happened sink in. I’d say another night should do the trick. We’ll confront him in the morning.”
“He really believes someone’s coming for him,” Hawthorne said, wonderingly.
“Part of him believes it—the child part. It’s an illogical fear. An emotional one.”
“No basis in reality?”
Finney contained a smile. “If he hadn’t been locked in a cell for weeks … and that, on the heels of years in hiding, and on the run … not to mention the initial stages of depatterning … in other words, if his mental defenses had not been completely decimated—he never would have believed it.”
Hawthorne examined his cuticles. “Tom Warren called again,” he remarked. “While you were sleeping.”
Finney picked up the sandwich. From the living room, a vacuum switched on.
“Asking me to double the frequency of security patrols,” Hawthorne said.
Finney paused.
His internal clock struck twelve.
Twelve was a time of power. At this twelve—twelve noon—he would begin the transitory processes that would return him to the land of men. At the next—twelve midnight—he would undertake the final stages of his mission.
In his mind, his eye opened; but in reality, his eyes stayed shut.
He backed slowly out of the ice cave, planting his feet carefully. He navigated a long, dark tunnel. Energy was shuttled from meditation to awareness, one pulse at a time.
Penetration of the enemy camp was hindered by two factors, boundaries and sentries. Thanks to the woman’s trustfulness, he already had passed every boundary. Both walls, with their guard towers and searchlights, were behind his current position. Between him and them were trees and driving rain, providing cover.
But sentries remained—passing once every three hours, armed with modified Tec 9 machine guns set to full automatic, with thirty rounds in each clip.
The sentries led Dobermans on chain leashes: one dog for every two men.
And then there were the mechanical sentries—the cameras and sensors.
For now, he didn’t concern himself with these things.
He stimulated the proper mental channels, accelerating his blood and dispatching it to his extremities. Soon his entire body was tingling. He inhaled, and checked each organ in turn. He exhaled, and rested.
At last he had made the transition. He opened his eyes. He was folded double into the space beneath the backseat of the Honda; the gloom was close, the air still tinged with a medicinal smell. Rain undulated against the car, rhythmically.
His right hand was touching the panel. He pressed out. It fell from its grooves onto the floor mat with a soft thud. Gray light trickled in, making him blink.
He rotated his wrist, checking his watch. Forty minutes past one.
He began to worm his way from the compartment.
Remotely, he felt hunger. More immediately, thirst. He set them aside.
By ten minutes past two, he was out of the compartment.
Lying on the floor, he traveled up and then down his spine, seeking tension and banishing it. He stretched. He examined his blood and his breath, then returned to his center.
He drew the hood over his face, then inched up onto the backseat and achieved a position from which he could see over the windowsill. He oriented himself by finding landmarks: the scarecrow, the wide oak on the far side of the parking lot, the farmhouse itself.
The three-o’clock patrol was five minutes late. The guards had their heads bowed against the storm; they moved through the gray swirl without looking up. They were not alert, the assassin thought. Immediately he corrected himself. Underestimating the enemy was an amateur’s mistake.
He waited. Presently the patrol emerged again from the rain, the Doberman high-stepping primly through puddles.
When they had gone, he waited two minutes more. Then he drew a breath, and reached for the door.
Zattout was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed.
He appeared slightly recovered from his travails; his eyes were focused, if dazed. On his face Finney read a blend of confusion, relief, and fear. It was not the illogical child-fear Finney had seen before, but the near-rational fear of a man who knew he had been tricked—who was realizing that the game was up.
He watched for three minutes. Then he climbed two staircases, and found James Hawthorne in his bedroom. At Finney’s knock, Hawthorne glanced up from his SIG P226. He gestured for Finney to enter.
The room was even more spartan than Finney’s own. Personal effects were limited to a brown valise in one corner and a book turned facedown on the desk. From the window came the sound of water gurgling through a rooftop gutter. Finney took the desk chair, then indicated the components of the gun spread across the bed. “Expecting someone?”
“Routine maintenance,” Hawthorne answered—but Finney wondered.
Hawthorne raised the gun’s slide, looked down its length, and blew. Finney forced himself not to stare at the man’s glass eye. “I thought we might discuss my departure,” he said.
Hawthorne reached for a brass brush, coated it with solvent, and began to clean the gun’s bore without comment.
“I’ll stay for as long as you think necessary,” Finney went on. “But if I had some idea of—”
“You’ll have to talk with Warren. If you can wait a day or two, I’m sure he’ll find the time.”
“One day, or two?”
He had the sense that Hawthorne was on the verge of saying something blunt. But the agent kept his attention on the gun, and said mildly: “What’s the hurry?”
Finney shifted on the chair, and didn’t answer.
“There’s always a demand for talented watchmen,” Hawthorne continued. “You might want to take some time to—”
“I’d like to go home.”
“—consider what would be the best way to—”
“I’d like to go home.”
“—find some kind of balance, instead of—”
“I’m through,” Finney said. “I was through twenty years ago.”
“It’s a goddamned waste.”
Finney shrugged.
“It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.” Now a brisk edge in Hawthorne’s voice betrayed suppressed anger. “You’ve done well with Zattout. But it’s only a beginning. There’s always more to be done.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Finney
said, and left Hawthorne alone with his gun.
The left rear door of the Honda cracked open.
The movement was not registered by the passive infrared cameras; for the car door manifested no warmth. When a figure slipped stealthily from the car onto the wet gravel, over the next few moments, the cameras remained off. The dark tunic around the figure diminished its body heat from 11 microns to 8. The cold whipping rain did the rest. Thanks to the drop in temperature, even a camera located directly beside the figure would have measured only 7 microns of heat—below the threshold needed for activation.
Nor did the array of microwave sensors trained on the parking lot send a signal to the primary guardhouse. The sensors were tuned to the Doppler shift between 20 Hz and 120 Hz, the frequencies related to the movement of humans. A more sensitive tuning would have resulted in incessant nuisance alarms, triggered by falling rain or roving wildlife. Yet the current setting suffered an Achilles’ heel: With knowledge of the sensors’ placement, one could make maximum use of obscuring objects—cars and trees—to block or absorb the microwaves. If at the same time one moved at a rate slow and steady enough to avoid the alarm activation pattern, the sensors could be bypassed.
The figure that came from the Honda moved at a very slow and steady rate.
The hands remained palm down, the elbows close to the body, the legs spread. Only the black-cloaked head raised more than five inches off the gravel, as the man scanned the area before him.
The cant of his body resembled that of a stalking cat; and as he moved, he slinked with a similar supernatural grace. First came an extension of the arms. Then the left leg drew forward. The weight was borne on the forearms and the leg, from knee to ankle. After movement had been accomplished—a matter of centimeters—the body relaxed, and lowered. The movement was repeated with the right leg bearing the weight, giving the left a chance to recover. Yet it was a continuous process, a painstakingly smooth and fluid advance.
The rain fell in sheets, slapping against the house and the cars, drenching the man in black as he pulled himself meticulously across the gravel parking lot.
By 3:30 P.M., he had reached the lot’s far edge. Beyond it was a thick oak—his target for the time being. Once behind the oak, he would be concealed from both security sensors and human eyesight. The rain and the tunic guaranteed that his scent would not linger. He would be safe there until midnight. Then he would retrace the path he just had followed, and gain entrance to the house itself.
He moved behind the tree, muscles quivering. He sighed, but carefully—shallowly. He put himself into a cross-legged position, leaving the hood covering his head, keeping his eyes trained down so they would not flash. The oak provided some measure of shelter from the rain, but not enough. The black material of the tunic clung to him like a second skin; the bag also had become weighted with water.
Then he thought no more. He closed his eyes, retreating.
At 4:35, another guard patrol passed. From behind the tree, he noted this almost subconsciously. So the schedule had changed. Having noted it, he dismissed it without exploring the thought further. Exploring the thought might have caused fear; and if he surrendered to fear, the dog would smell it.
The Doberman was tired and wet; it wanted to go back to its kennel. The four-thirty patrol made its rounds without incident.
The assassin was aware of the six-o’clock patrol, as he had been aware of the previous ones. Shortly after it passed he was aware of the modified Honda rolling back down the gravel road, heading for the gates. Miriam Lane was on her way home.
The seven-thirty rounds were cursory. The men hurried through the lashing storm, flashlights penetrating less than three feet into the miasma surrounding them. The dog held its head higher than the marines, proudly. But all gained speed when the patrol was ending and they could head out of the rain.
He was aware of all of it.
He remained cross-legged under the tree, head bowed, waiting for midnight.
Thomas Warren II was on the highway.
He had reached a stage of exhaustion in which it was impossible to keep his mind focused on a single idea. The windshield wipers were squeaking in a steady, merciless way that made his nerves sing; the cup holder near his right hand was empty, and he was considering pulling over soon to get a refill. He was on his way to the safe house in a rented Toyota Corolla, the only car he’d been able to get on such short notice. He wished that McDonald’s had real milk for their coffee, instead of those little plastic containers of fake cream, and he wished he’d been able to find a car besides the clunky old Toyota. Lately it seemed you couldn’t even find unflavored little plastic containers of fake cream at McDonald’s—they all had hoity-toity additives, like hazelnut or mocha blend, and they all tasted sour and artificial and chemical.
Part of his mind was thinking about McDonald’s coffee; part was falling asleep, and part was doing math. He had been on the road for nearly three hours, which meant he had about two hours left. His current ETA was around 12:30 A.M. He had come 143 miles, which meant he had about 112 to go. Every few minutes he went through the routine again, shaving the figures, shaping them. As he calculated, he smoked, puffing Camel Lights down to the filters, grinding them out in the ashtray, and lighting fresh cigarettes five minutes later.
Despite the rain, he had the air-conditioning turned up high, hoping the cold blast would keep him awake. The radio was tuned to WXRK, a rock station out of Manhattan, but he was losing the signal as he drove farther north. He left the radio on anyway, even as it dissolved to static. The sky was umber mixed with silver, sheets of rain illuminated by reflecting headlights.
A sign came up on his right: REST AREA 2 MILES, NEXT REST AREA 73 MILES. The exit loomed in his headlights; he turned the wheel, touching the brake. The rest area was a big one, laid out in a sprawling circle. A pavilion featuring restrooms and vending machines sat in the center, with concrete paths leading to parking spaces.
He ran to the bathroom through pounding rain. When he came back into the night, the downpour had slackened a bit.
Mentally he rejigged his ETA. Part of him was worried that the road to the safe house might wash out if the rain picked up again. Another part insisted that when he did reach the house, he would find the dark magician there, increased security or no …
… but he would get there; he would see what there was to see. And that, for now, was that.
He got back on the highway, pushing the speedometer up to seventy on the slick roads.
Finney had just set the kettle on the burner when he heard a sound from outside.
He pulled the curtain from the kitchen window, peering into the night. After half a minute, a flash of lightning illuminated the parking lot, the stand of trees, the guardhouse, the rain. But nothing else.
He let the curtain fall closed. He looked at the doorway, where faint light spilled in from the living room. James Hawthorne had retired to sit before the limestone fireplace, bringing a book—and, Finney had noticed, his gun in its waist holster.
He looked back at the kettle.
The kitchen smelled of timber. The rain seemed to have brought out the nature in the house: the walls and floor aspirating their wood scent, a spider scuttling in one corner. He found the phenomenon strangely comforting. It reminded him of home.
Tomorrow, or the next day, he would speak to Thomas Warren. Zattout had given them more in four hours than during the four weeks preceding—enough to keep Warren and his analysts busy for months. Finney’s presence no longer was required. His duties had been discharged.
The wind rose to a dark howl. Rain crossed the roof in tiny battalions. The kettle whistled. He prepared a cup of tea, and carried it to his bedroom.
The cold had fooled him—journeying from his head to his chest. He climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He balanced the cup of tea and stared at its placid surface. His exhaustion was luxurious, voluptuous. The congestion in his chest felt almost gratifying—a valid reason to stay
in bed, as the wind played outside and Hawthorne stood guard downstairs.
For five minutes he stared at the tea. Then he set it on the night table without tasting it. He picked up the paperback, and set it down again. All he wanted was sleep. Escape. Oblivion.
He snapped off the light, and stared at the darkness.
The storm danced with the forest, bowing and dipping the trees, lashing the grass into trembling acquiescence.
As he took the exit, Thomas Warren experienced a vivid premonition: The road would have washed out. He would not reach the safe house tonight.
At the bottom of the ramp he paused, wiping a hand across his mouth and listening to the squeaky pound of the windshield wipers. The wipers no longer accomplished anything except the pretense of clearing away the glass. So of course the road would have washed out.
Indeed, it was closed off; a police barricade had been dragged across the mouth. He pulled the Toyota to the side of the road, cracked open the window, lit another cigarette, and looked dourly at this latest obstacle.
Beyond it, the road was a rushing brook. But this was the bottom of the hill—the runoff. If he could get through the first puddle without the Toyota’s engine flooding, he would have a chance.
After a few puffs, the mist coming through the cracked-open window turned the cigarette limp. He pitched the butt, threw open his door, and crossed muddy ground that tried to suck off his shoes. He took hold of the barricade and dragged it a few feet to one side. Then back behind the wheel.
He put the car in gear, and hesitated for a last moment.
It was all too easy to picture the Toyota achieving a few feet, then flooding. The engine would die; and here he would remain until morning, bobbing up and down like a cork. Unless, of course, he wanted to walk the rest of the way. In which case he would have a fever by the time he reached the house, if he even could find it without headlights.
But as his father would have said: nothing ventured, nothing gained.