If she was connected with Ballieu, she should have sense enough to play along in hopes of throwing him off-guard. His eyes watched hers. They told him nothing.
"If you insist," she said with boredom. She lay back down.
Ellery stepped closer and squirted a line of lotion into his hand. He smoothed it along her spine. Her muscles were tensed for action and as hard as ropes. There was always a chance they were well developed because she was some sort of dancer or acrobat. But Ellery doubted it.
"I read somewhere that brunettes are more susceptible to sunburn than other women," he said. "Do you think that's true?"
Old Reid's best poolside routine. Used on a terrorist.
Because Ellery was sure now that was what she was. He wouldn't need to interview any more of Ballieu's female companions. He'd had a chance to look at this one's hands.
The nails were stylishly manicured. Her skin was soft with lotion, and a crash course of attention. Beneath the surface smoothness, though, on her palms and fingers, he could see calluses. She hadn't gotten them from ironing or doing charcoal sketches, either. They were in the exact location, the exact spots where they'd develop from rigorous training with an assault rifle.
Twenty-two
The child ran into him, her flying arms tangling around his leg.
"Oops. Careful, little one," Ballieu laughed, resting a hand on her head. It was damp, the curls still soft with a baby's silkiness. He liked the feel.
The little girl looked up at him with great dark eyes. She came just above his knee.
"I'm going to see my grandpa next week," she piped, tugging at the top strip of her two-piece bathing suit. "He lives in Rome."
Ballieu smiled. She was an engaging little girl, the sort who would be a delight to hold on your knee and entertain with stories. He hoped she wouldn't be blown up by one of the bombs Khadija's group planned to install in international airports using their forged passports -- but children had to die like everyone else.
"I'll bet your grandpa takes you to the park, eh? And buys you candies?" Reaching into his pocket, Ballieu handed her a peppermint. "Have this one today."
He watched her take off running again, then turned his attention back to the occupants of the pool and terrace. He was hunting for Mildred Farrow. Eight hours remained until he began to move. He wanted to make sure everything was ready. He found the woman he was looking for, plump and pampered, in one of the lodge boutiques. She was chatting vacantly with a salesclerk and fingering a long dress that was all tiers of white muslin trimmed in lace. With motionless eyes Ballieu watched her next try on a thin neck chain holding a nugget of gold. He studied her throat. Strangling her would mean fingers sinking, almost drowning, in perfumed flesh. A blow from the edge of the hand would dispatch her more tidily.
He moved forward. She pivoted on tiny, white-heeled sandals, flushing with delight as she caught sight of him.
"Oh, Harry! The flowers were lovely. You shouldn't have."
"But we won our bridge game yesterday," he said with the hint of a bow. "We deserved to celebrate."
He had ordered an arrangement sent up from the lobby florist. It had paved his way very well. Mildred Farrow, looking both flustered and pleased, unclasped the chain from around her neck.
"I was just being tempted by this. What do you think?"
"It becomes you," said Ballieu.
It was all the urging she needed. He waited while she paid.
"I've had an idea," he said as they strolled into the hall together. "Let's have dinner tonight. In my room. It would be so nice to get away from all these people for a while, don't you think? And their service is very good."
"Well, I -- I don't know -- "
He hadn't expected her to hesitate. He managed a smile.
"What kind of dinner would you prefer? French? We could still be downstairs in time for the dancing."
There. He had given her opportunity to believe the invitation was wicked or innocent, whichever she preferred. Or to pretend it was one while she hoped it would be the other.
"It would be nice to have a meal that was a little quieter," she said.
Ballieu had taken her hand very lightly. She didn't object. Now, very circumspectly, he gave her open palm the lightest brush with his lips.
* * *
"This is Oliver Lemming. I'm having my outfit transmit a photograph to you people. We need to know if the lady in it matches anyone in your files -- in the next couple hours if you can swing it. We're in a tight spot."
Ellery kept his eyes closed as he spoke into the telephone. Like a damned kid, he thought. As though, if he kept them shut tightly enough, this wouldn't be happening.
The magnitude of his actions was so great, it was starting to lose all reality. Five minutes ago he'd been on a line to State, pretending to be Oliver. Now, forearm thrown against the wall, head bent, he was doing the act all over again. With Interpol, for chrissake!
There was more than giving a name, and he'd known what to say -- known Oliver's identification. On the other end of the line he heard affirmation.
"If you find anything, I want you to contact Bill Ellery at the Palacio Sol resort." He gave the number. Where the side of his hand pressed into the wall, he could feel the rough, scratchy texture of wallpaper.
If he was wrong about what was pushing him to this impersonation, he'd lose his job. If he was right, he still might lose it. He was violating the chain of command. He was lying -- claiming access to authority he didn't have. It was the only hope he saw for an edge in the situation he and Channing were facing. It was the only way he saw to circumvent and nail a possible traitor.
The worst that could happen was that he'd be out of a job, he thought grimly. He wouldn't let the possibility shove to the front of his mind where it wanted to be. He wouldn't let himself think about what he'd do with the rest of his life if he got tossed out by State. As he shoved away from the wall he also shoved away old doubts from the past.
The phone began to ring before he'd gone three steps. He snatched it up.
"You been on the phone?" asked Oliver, an edge on his voice.
Ellery braced. Oliver was on to him. Maybe Interpol had checked.
"Yeah, to room service," he shot back. He'd make Oliver confront him with it. If Oliver blew up, maybe there'd be something in it to dispel his doubts.
"Anything happening?" asked the man who had hired and trained him.
Ellery felt his nerve endings straining and stretching, trying to catch any signal that he should trust Oliver or not trust Oliver. He wondered, briefly and heavily, if each of them was screening the other's voice for a clue or a tip-off.
"Nothing happening and no contact," Ellery lied.
* * *
"Channing!"
Max waved with a wry, self-mocking hopefulness as he came toward her. He'd realized she didn't like him.
"It's okay," he said, lowering his voice as they met along one side of the vast pool and patio area. "Our man's in his room, and Walker will beep me if he moves." He touched his pocket. "I was going to have a limeade for the old digestion. Want to join me? Looks like we're in the homestretch."
They were standing in front of a long, brick planter. Channing debated. If Max was in league with Ballieu, should she start to play coy, underscore the impression she really had worked for Yussuf, in case he was analyzing? She wasn't quite sure. It was late afternoon. Her hair, piled under a sun hat, felt hot and heavy. She could feel small rivulets of perspiration at her temples.
"Thanks, anyway, but I've got to shower and set up for tonight," she said.
It was too risky trying to second- and third-guess people. She'd better act as she'd always acted with him.
Max hoisted himself up onto the planter. It gave a wonderful view of the pool.
"I don't like the feel of this setup. It's too quiet."
He lifted his face to the sun and pushed at his collar.
His words sounded heavy -- as Ellery's had at times. There was a weari
ness about his movements. It kept Channing from walking on as she might have. Max was easier to take without his ego in full flower.
"I don't see Ellery," he said.
"Neither do I. I guess he's decided I'm a big enough girl to be on my own."
Max gave a single sound of tense amusement. Channing took a step backward, leaning against the planter. She knew Ellery was keeping an eye on her from somewhere -- would be till she went inside. One of her fingers traced the bricks behind her. A line of mortar was cracked.
"Things have got to break tonight," Max said, still keeping his voice down. "My guess is they're going to break like hell. Goddamn, but I hate waiting! What's wrong with your hand?"
"Just a little stiffness. The tape's a precaution -- to make sure it's in shape for the show." She lifted her arm in a half arc.
The air between them fell silent, an empty gully around which shouts and laughter from the pool washed.
"Channing..."
Max sounded strangely hesitant, a quality she hadn't realized he possessed. His eyes, as she looked up, were exposed, stripped of their lazy charm and superficiality. He glanced quickly away. For the first time since she'd known him he seemed natural -- likable -- and a little bit frightened, as she was herself, and trying to hide it.
He shifted. The crack in the planter widened a fraction.
"Look, I didn't get off to a very good start when I met you," he said, the words strained. "Would you promise me one thing?"
"What's that?"
His smile seemed a little crooked. Something in it touched her.
"If we both get through tonight in one piece, will you at least have a drink with me?"
* * *
"Will I be more useful in the wings or the audience, madam?" Rundell leaned forward, shielding his next words from Serafin's ears. "I brought my Mace."
Channing wasn't sure if he meant an aerosol can or a medieval club.
"For God's sake, leave it in here. Do you want to get us all arrested?"
They were in her dressing room. She flexed her hand, just released from the tape, and swabbed with alcohol to remove any traces of adhesive. It felt stiff.
"Just sit in the audience, Rundell. Enjoy yourself." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Serafin and I have to get backstage."
Serafin seemed to feel her tension. He didn't chatter as usual as they walked down the hall together. She tested her hand again, then tried the film switch.
When they reached the wings, Serafin marched importantly and earnestly over to check the props on the side table she'd put in his care. If only they were granted the time together, he'd make a magician, she thought with a lump in her throat. Through a crack in the curtains she checked the house. Ballieu wasn't in the audience. Neither was the girl with long black hair who Ellery said looked to be Ballieu's helper.
It had been early afternoon when Ellery told her that, and they hadn't spoken since. She wondered how long it would take her after this show to get to Ellery's bungalow and be rigged with the wire. She went through her act automatically. Her mouth felt dry. What if Ballieu had made his move already? What if his promise to meet her had been a ruse?
"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 vanish," 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 everywhere. 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 silently.
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 movement 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" position. 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 dressing 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 followed 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 ta
lked 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 Ellery 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, Ellery 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. Ballieu 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.
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