So the woman who had told him she was taking over Yussuf's business was nothing more than a U.S. spy. Ballieu pulled open the draperies and examined his fingernails. A pity. There was something fascinating about her. Some element he had always found more prevalent in danger than in women.
Ballieu narrowed his eyes and found he could recall the exact shade of her hair and the look of challenge in her eye. He had always wanted to bed a U.S. agent. He wondered what sort of trick this was that she was playing on him. The seller would call at 10:21, and Ballieu would learn more then.
He looked at his watch with the treacherous implant that might have spoiled all his plans. Now that he knew of its presence, he would make good use of it, just as he might make good use of the woman, for his own amusement if not as a matter of safety. Ballieu placed the watch carefully on the sink and, with a smile gliding across his lips, stepped into the shower.
After his shower, naked, he examined his body before a mirror. The scars left by surgery three years ago were almost lost amid older ones—from a mortar attack, a comrade's treachery, and a bullet received when he was very young and less efficient than he was now. Those lines, and the firmness of his body itself, proved he was a soldier. The muscles across his torso and belly were taut and flat.
He turned and began the course of calisthenics he did almost daily. Punishing sit-ups; push-ups; the leaping, twisting, turning movements of attack and escape. Lastly he brought his locked fists crashing against the part of his body where it would be softest, the spot in his belly. Surviving the pain would make him stronger. He drew up, gasping.
Perhaps when he finished this mission, he would become a training officer. He would handpick a few likely candidates who already had proved themselves and teach them the tactics and discipline at which he excelled.
For now it was time to go downstairs for two phone calls. For the first, from the man who was selling the film, he would make sure his watch and its cargo were safely deaf inside the phone book.
The second call he intended to be overheard.
* * *
It was still too early for the large swimming pool to be crowded. From a distance Ellery could see Channing pulling herself through the water with strong, even strokes. He felt a momentary irritation. Getting no answer when he'd called her room had made him uneasy. The concern had increased when he didn't see her on his first pass through the lodge.
"Nice morning," he said as she hit the side and shook the water out of her eyes.
He'd forgotten the impact her body had in the splashes of orange that made up her swimwear. Droplets of water were sliding down the curve of her breasts. He bent and offered a hand to haul her out. She hesitated.
Vulnerable? Ellery wondered. Or did she just resent him? She put her hand in his and he noted the startling strength in her fingers. He pulled her out in silence. Behind her Serafin was splashing gracelessly but exuberantly down the length of the pool.
"Next time let me know where you'll be before you set out in the morning," said Ellery as mildly as he could. "I'm supposed to be watching your back, remember?"
She nodded, a little short-winded from the vigor of her workout, and picked up a towel she'd left on a nearby chair.
"You don't swim, Ellery? You have the build of a swimmer."
She was all briskness, toweling her hair.
Was it simply a question, or was she wondering if he was armed? Ellery nudged his open collar back just enough for her to see the bulky bandage it concealed.
"Souvenir of Ballieu," he said. "The night he killed Sam and Yussuf."
He'd hoped it would make her cautious. He wasn't prepared for the change that came over her face. He saw fear in it—not fear for herself but fear for him.
Ellery swore silently. Just her overdue confrontation with their shared mortality, he told himself. He looked away. Serafin had climbed out of the pool and was coming toward them.
"Think I'll go have some more pancakes," he announced to Channing. "Over there so you can see I'm not snatched, huh? Let you two talk. How you doin', Ellery?"
Channing gritted her teeth. She started to speak but spotted a waiter bearing a large salad and a pot of coffee.
"Is that the Caesar salad?" she called. "I'll have it over there."
"That's breakfast?" Ellery grimaced, shifting the foil-wrapped candy box and folded-up newspaper he held under one arm.
"Why not?"
She shrugged into an oversize shirt that hid most of her curves. Ellery wondered how she got freckles on her arms without having them anywhere else.
"There's an egg in it, and fresh greens, which I miss when I'm traveling," she said. "The garlic's hard on the breath, but I wasn't figuring on kissing you, Ellery."
She had a habit of talking while she moved. She was already halfway to the table where the salad had been delivered.
"Enough to curdle my stomach," muttered Ellery.
She eyed him as he followed her.
"Are we supposed to be seen together?"
"Can't be avoided completely. People get together at places like this. Ballieu can think I'm an admirer."
He sat down at right angles to her, the folded-up newspaper on the table in front of him and pointed carefully out. She had noticed the lavish candy box with its red satin bow. He started to hand it to her but was interrupted by a white-haired couple stopping beside them.
"You did the magic act, didn't you?" said the man. "You were wonderful!"
Ellery let himself fade out a little, taking another look at the surroundings, alert for anything amiss. When he tuned back in, the couple was departing. They looked comfortable together, as though they had been that way for a long time. Ellery had a brief sense of a gap in his life that he didn't want to identify.
Channing was looking slightly embarrassed, yet pleased, at the recognition.
"What's the attraction?" asked Ellery. He had poured himself a cup of coffee and held it between his palms.
"That magic has for people?" Her eyes were thoughtful as she looked out over the pool. "We need our illusions, I guess. Gramps said we all need to believe there are things we can't explain. It gives us hope. It makes us feel less hemmed in by our ideas of what's possible and what isn't."
For a moment Ellery felt himself drawn into what she was saying. He shook himself free.
"As long as the illusions stay onstage," he said.
It broke her mood and she looked at him in challenge.
"We all do sleight of hand, Ellery. Inside our heads. We hide things that matter to us from the people around us—even from ourselves sometimes. I do it. You do it. Maybe even Ballieu does it, God knows!"
He'd never thought about it that way, and he didn't want to. He slid the candy box toward her.
"Oliver wants you to have this. Careful opening it."
Her fingertips poised on the edges of it, as though they could see through. As though she suddenly recognized whatever was inside wouldn't match the pretty wrapping.
This time her face didn't betray her as she cracked the lid and saw the five-shot .38, somewhat smaller than his, that was wedged inside. She closed the box and shoved it back at him.
"I've got a knife."
"It's easier to pull a trigger. More removed."
Even though they were whispering, he made his voice harsh. He could feel the anger mounting inside her as they sat there in the warm morning sun amid innocent surroundings facing the very opposite of innocence that the gun represented. He'd had the same reaction sometimes.
Something else pushed out of him. A rage to get through to her. He leaned forward.
"It's a war," he said. "Don't you understand? Unless we want it to burn up the whole world someday, our only hope is to stop the generals."
Her mouth barely moved.
"I don't want to kill anybody!"
"You think I do? If I wanted to run around rubbing out people and setting up coups, I'd work for the CIA. I like what this department stands for -- sanity, reason, cooli
ng problems down instead of whipping them up -- but it doesn't work against people like Ballieu."
He pulled back, frustrated at how much he'd let spill out. His philosophy wasn't any of her damned business. She was supposed to follow orders. The silence between them crackled. She made no move to retrieve the box, and he knew he couldn't force her to take the gun. She wasn't a regular agent.
A part of him admired the force of her conviction even as it angered him. After a good sixty seconds or more, she dipped into one of her shirt pockets and produced the wristwatch she'd borrowed from him the previous night.
"Here. I forgot to return this."
He recognized it was a gesture of peace.
"No problem." His words sounded stiff. Reluctantly he reached into a pocket of his trousers and displayed an old gold railroad watch to prove it really was no problem.
Amusement started up around her mouth. She was as mercurial as hell. The last kind of personality that ought to be in work like this. And she didn't care what he thought of her.
"Compulsive, aren't you, Ellery?"
The words were gently teasing, and he found himself responding to them. He felt sheepish.
"Belonged to my grandfather."
He let the watch turn on its chain, watching it instead of the woman beside him.
"Great old guy. A bricklayer. Only one in the family who didn't think I was a total screwup."
He was sorry at once that he'd said it. Her tone was light.
"Is that why you never let down, Ellery? Are you still trying to prove yourself?"
But Ellery didn't answer. He'd gone alert. A girl with long black hair was arranging herself in a chair beside the pool. He didn't like the fierceness with which her eyes had fixed on Channing. It triggered something in his mind -- Max's comment about Ballieu flirting with women. This one looked familiar ... the dance floor last night during Channing's meeting with Ballieu. There was probably nothing to it, but neither was there any point in taking chances.
Removing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he positioned it carefully. The faint clicking of the camera inside was camouflaged by the snap of his lighter. When he brought his attention back to the table, Channing Stuart was watching him closely. He wondered what she'd seen -- or guessed.
She didn't ask anything, and he didn't answer. Walker had just come through the door to the main lodge and was scratching his head, a signal to come to the listening post.
* * *
Ellery hadn't wanted to include her in this meeting. Channing had sensed it when he'd first tensed at the table out there beside the pool. What had changed his mind? Concern for her safety? Fairness?
He'd told her to go ahead so they didn't look like Siamese twins -- and to take her salad. She'd dropped Serafin off in their room and come directly to the listening post. She set her empty bowl aside just as Ellery entered.
"What's up?" he asked.
Walker was at the equipment, a sodden cigar hanging from his mouth. He'd answered Channing's conversational overtures with grunts.
"We've hit pay dirt," he said. "Ballieu's back in his room, but he made two calls from a lobby phone right before I came hunting you."
"Smart," said Ellery, leaning a hand on the table that held the equipment.
"Uh-huh." Walker's sour expression took on tinges of satisfaction. "But wait'll you hear what we've got!"
He reached toward a tape recorder. Before he could flip it on, there was a flushing sound in the bathroom. Max came out. His response to Bill's questioning look was a wan but rakish grin.
"Montezuma sneaked over the border last night. It's keeping me close to the porcelain. I'm holding the fort up here, and Walker's doing the legwork."
Ellery looked more harried than amused.
"For chrissake. That happened to you in Rome."
"Happens to him anywhere," drawled Walker. "Didn't you know? Get Max six states away from where he was born and his plumbing goes out."
Channing decided there might be a likable side to Walker. Max looked a little rumpled and not quite his teasing self.
"Hey, I'll be all right. I've got some medicine for it."
He motioned irritably to the tape recorder. Walker started it, and the voice of Henri Ballieu filled the room.
"What you need will be in my room tonight. Pick it up while I'm away -- "
There was a clicking sound, a receiver being put down. Max was holding up a hand for silence. The next sounds, distorted eerily by their passage through the bug in his watch, were those of coins dropping into a slot and the musical notes of telephone buttons.
"We have to talk," said Ballieu.
The voice on the other end was indistinguishable. Ballieu spoke again.
"In the canyon. Eleven-forty tonight. There's a rock shaped like a cat about three hundred meters off the road."
Walker turned off the tape. The four who had been listening were plummeted into silence. Channing felt a pleased quickening of her blood. She had planted the bug. She had gotten them this information.
"Looks like he bought Channing's story," said Walker.
To Channing's surprise he even gave her a wink.
Ellery was nodding.
"We're going to need more people."
"Can't get 'em, Billy." Max aimed a breezy pat at Ellery's shoulder in passing. "All the spares are tied up on something in Florida."
Walker rewound the tape.
"Also under budget items, the patch to Oliver keeps fading in and out."
"Goddamn," said Ellery, swerving to look in the back of a receiver-transmitter. "Got a match?"
While Ellery tinkered with the radio Max ducked in front of a mirror and combed his hair.
"Here's how we'll have to do it, Billy. I'll follow Ballieu. Walker can search his room and keep an eye out for whoever shows up there. You man things in here."
A dial at the front of the radio sprang to life again under Ellery's prodding.
"I'll follow Ballieu," said Ellery.
Max's comb stopped. The humor slipped from his face.
"Wait just a damned minute. Just because you think you walk on water -- " He broke off, seized by a pained expression, and hastened back to the bathroom.
"Goddamn," said Ellery again.
Channing could see the concern etched into his face. The reservations Yussuf had made ran through tomorrow night. And Ballieu hadn't contacted her.
"Couldn't I help out tonight?" she offered. "Shouldn't whoever follows Ballieu out to that rock have some kind of backup?"
"Too risky," said Ellery. "And you have to be onstage. We need everything to look normal."
Walker favored her with a baleful glare, all cordiality forgotten. "We're used to playing short-handed. Won't be anything different."
She was still window dressing, relegated to the fringes with nothing to do but wait for the card shaver to arrive. And practice.
Ellery went to lean against the bathroom door.
"Hey, Max. I'm leaving my camera on your desk. Shore yourself up and get shots of the women you've seen with Ballieu. It may be a long shot, but let's get some film out to Oliver for a background check."
* * *
"All first-rate, Mama. You want to try?" The man with the van tossed a Uzi Model B toward Khadija, who caught the automatic assault weapon by its grip and checked the mechanism. They were on a remote stretch of highway, parked well off the shoulder. The hood to Khadija's rented car was up, as well as the trunk lid. It looked as though the van had stopped to help. In the space of three minutes they had loaded eight weapons and several cases of ammunition clips into her trunk.
Besides the Uzis there were two AR-15s equipped with night scopes. Enough to deal with any problems that might arise when they picked up the film. Enough selection for any contingency, all arranged in advance. She had to acknowledge Ballieu had planned well on this part.
The weapons dealer, sent to the rendezvous by one of the cells that was helping them, shoved a false floor into the trunk to cove
r the merchandise. It was very innocent-looking -- carpeted, even. Khadija had had her orders of the color and model of car she was to rent. The man she was dealing with and the people who had sent him had no idea how her purchase was to be used. That was the only safe way. Deal only with your own kind. No questions, no chance of betrayal -- even under torture.
Her trunk slammed closed. The entire transaction had taken less than six minutes. Khadija walked quickly around her car and lowered the hood. Inside the car she rocked her foot, in its high-heeled sandal, down on the gas.
She had been right about the Stuart woman. An American spy. Yet still Ballieu was doing nothing. He made excuses ... insisted the woman might be useful. He could not know what he was doing. She was very glad she had met him ... glad she had destroyed all the myths.
Khadija pressed harder on the gas, keeping the car just under the legal limit as she drove through the shimmering heat of midday. By the time she got back to the resort, it would be time for lunch. It would be time for the Zionist teenagers to gather round their trough.
It would be time for the Stuart woman to eat.
And drink.
Thirteen
"Perhaps you would care to lunch with me?"
Ballieu had appeared behind her so utterly without noise or warning that Channing jumped. She was in the lobby, on her way to change and meet Serafin, who had scampered ahead. There were people all around. Yet she had to fight a chill. It angered her.
She could see Ballieu's satisfaction at startling her. Yet relief shot through her.
"So, you've decided to talk," she said quietly.
He had taken the bait. She tried to will her blood back to normal speed. It ran with bitter elation.
"Why not?" said Ballieu. "What you said last night had a certain interest. Unfortunately ..."
Hooking a strand of her hair around his finger, he exerted just the slightest pressure. He smiled, and to Channing's sudden shock there was, underneath his subtle move to intimidate, underneath the cold calculation, something that seemed to glitter on the edge of carnal flirtation.
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