Deceptions

by Michael Weaver

  Wayne had calmed himself enough to actually produce a wry smile.

  “Too bad the Soviets had to collapse,” he said. “Good old Commie conspiracies were such handy scapegoats for just about anything.”

  Durning nodded, wondering how Brian would react to knowing about Mary Yung’s two brief calls and her offer to deal. Probably with mild hysteria, he thought.

  But about to leave the office moments later, and almost as if following some delicately balanced form of psychic interplay, the FBI director took a sealed manila folder out of his attache case and dropped it on the attorney general’s desk.

  “This just came in from Background Checks and Research.”

  Durning picked up the folder. It was classified “Top Secret” and was otherwise unmarked.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wayne. “I haven’t opened it. But since you called and insisted on seeing as much as possible on the woman, I had a few people out digging for whatever they could find.”

  It took some effort, but Henry Durning had to restrain himself for almost seven hours before opening the folder.

  First there were the last two appointments of the day in his office, both landmark civil rights cases, to keep him from it. Then there was his address to the American Bar Association and the formal dinner that followed. And finally, he had to deal with the need to briefly show his face at the secretary of state’s reception for the Israeli prime minister.

  Still, there was almost an exquisite pleasure just knowing it would be there, waiting for him, at the end of the evening. At moments he felt like an impatient child, forcing himself through a dull, seemingly endless meal, by concentrating on the unbelievably delicious dessert that lay ahead.

  At just past midnight, freshly showered and in his study with a bottle of his favorite brandy, he ended his waiting and unsealed the folder.

  A covering letter from the researcher was taped to a second sealed manila envelope inside the first. It described the primary source of much of the enclosed material as the subject’s onetime manager and agent during her early years as a model and performer.

  The later material apparently came from a variety of sources and was, in most cases, self-explanatory. Wherever further clarification was needed, it was generally supplied by the researcher himself or one of his assistants.

  Durning opened the second envelope and took out a clutch of what appeared to be a haphazard mix of photographs and text, of pages torn from magazines, of home camera prints and glossy studio shots, some in color and some in black-and-white.

  A note from the researcher indicated that everything was arranged chronologically, with the earliest material representing the subject at the age of six, and the last when she was twenty-seven.

  Unaccountably, Durning felt his palms start to sweat and something in his chest catch fire.

  She’s coming to me now.

  And she did, arriving in a mystic bombardment of childish innocence and nubile perversion so subtle and delicate that at first it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

  Christ, they had started her early. With those two lovely eyes, black and shining as pitch, gazing so proudly into the camera while all sorts of unmentionable erotic things were being done to that perfect little six-year-old body below.

  Yet her eyes stayed the same as her body grew.

  Somehow, the pride was still there, and it wouldn’t have been for many. Not with what they had her doing in those gaming houses of lust, with all kinds of players swarming over her open heat like teams of hungry maggots.

  It was as though they had never even touched her.

  So that up through the years, she was the one who remained the true handmaiden of love. The others about her, whatever else they may have thought, were never really anything more than pretenders.

  Insanely, Henry Durning gazed at the filthiest of the nubile Mary Yung’s dirty pictures, and felt himself all but cleansed.

  As she grew older, he started seeing the hunger in her eyes and, later, the greed. Breathing deeply, he could almost smell it.

  And he was sure it had nothing to do with the million she was trying to squeeze from him. It was simply her nature. Which, in anyone else, might have taken the edge off his desire.

  With her, it just made him want her more.

  24

  GIANNI GARETSKY AND Mary Yung, about to leave New York for Rome, were careful to maintain their usual security.

  They had booked and picked up their Alitalia tickets separately and paid for them in cash. They took two cabs to JFK Airport. And at the airport itself they made sure they never came within fifty feet of one another.

  Gianni was working on the assumption that whatever watchers might be around would be concentrating their attention on couples made up of an Asian woman and a Caucasian man. Which didn’t mean they were anywhere near being out of danger as separate individuals. It just helped edge the odds a bit in their favor.

  Racial origin was the single ingredient their disguises couldn’t do a thing about.

  They were booked for one of the busiest and most popular departure times in Europe, and JFK’s International Terminal was swarming with passengers and those seeing them off. Which was why Gianni had chosen this flight time to begin with. The more crowd confusion, the better.

  Right now he was on a long check-in line, with Mary Yung about twenty passengers ahead of him. Thinking every second, she had attached herself to a small group of Taiwanese tourists, and the camouflage was perfect. Talking and laughing with them, she was all but invisible as just another member of the tour.

  Still, there was tension. The nature of what they were doing made it inescapable. From being hidden in a citywide base of nearly 8 million people, they were about to be fun-neled through a limited number of ticket agents… with one of whom, for a brief moment, they would have to abandon all anonymity, present their phony passports, and be subject to scrutiny and questioning.

  If anything could go wrong, this was the most likely place for it to happen. And after what they had seen on last night’s network news, and read in today’s papers, the pressure was that much greater.

  The worst of it was in finally knowing, with all remaining doubt removed, that the five men he and Mary Yung had shot and buried were really bona fide government agents. Until now he had known, yet he hadn’t known. There had still been that tiny stubborn voice somewhere inside him that refused to be quieted, that kept insisting that such things couldn’t happen to people here.

  Now the voice was quieted.

  Curious as to what sort of story would be offered to explain the deaths of the three agents, Gianni had read, watched, and listened to every related piece of news he could find. So far, from the local police who had uncovered and green-bagged the bodies, all the way up to the FBI director himself, there had been nothing but lies and hedging.

  The director, a tall, physically imposing man with steely eyes and a square jaw straight out of a Hollywood casting office, had mourned his bureau’s dead with quiet dignity and promised their killers would be brought to justice.

  Up yours, Gianni had thought.

  But then he had to wonder how much of the truth even this man knew.

  The line of passengers slowly moved forward.

  Bag in hand, Gianni edged along with it.

  He watched Mary Yung… watched the row of Alitalia clerks checking passports, tickets, and baggage… watched everyone in sight who might be a possible threat.

  Gianni particularly watched for blank-faced solitary men in business suits who looked as though they themselves might be watchers. There happened to be a fair number of such types about. In fact, two of them were stationed directly behind the long ticket counter.

  And what if I see one coming for us?

  Unfortunately, the possible responses were limited. Because of airport security, Gianni and Mary were unarmed. Earlier, they had dropped their guns into a convenient sewer. So all they could do, at best,
was to duck away, run, and try to lose themselves among the crowds. If only one of them was spotted, the other had to forget any thought of foolish heroics and just quietly leave the terminal.

  If they were separated and both of them somehow got away, they would try to meet at noon the following day in front of the Fifth Avenue entrance to the Forty-second Street public library. If that failed to work out, they would try again for the next three days. After that, they would cut loose and be on their own.

  But of course these were their worst-case scenarios.

  They were simple, of last resort, and neither Mary nor Gianni ever really expected them to be activated.

  It was Mary Yung’s turn.

  Garetsky saw her carry her bag to the check-in counter and hand her ticket and brand-new counterfeit passport to the Alitalia agent.

  She was out of there and on her way to the boarding gate in just under five minutes.

  Eighteen minutes later, so was Gianni Garetsky.

  About half an hour after that, the big 747 was airborne and on the way to Rome.

  Parts of him took his wife along for the ride. Leaving America, he felt himself abandoning Teresa as well. He had talked for years of their taking a trip to Italy, to the “old country,” but something always seemed to come up with his work. Then she was gone and it was too late.

  I waited too long. I should have taken her sooner.

  Stop whining, he told himself. You did what you did, what you didn’t do, you didn’t do, and beating your breast changes nothing. Besides, did she ever complain?

  No.

  And wasn’t it always you who talked about Italy, not Teresa ?

  Yes.

  And what did she always say?

  That if Italy was so wonderful, how come so many Italians were always leaving it for America.

  And what else did she say?

  That she didn’t really care where we were, as long as we were there together.

  And did you believe her?

  Yes.

  All right. Then for God’s sake, leave it alone and go to sleep.

  25

  PETER WALTERS TOOK a swallow of water from the bottle beside him and felt it cool and pleasant going down. It was just past noon, with the sun directly overhead and the Barcelona street out front barren of shade.

  He sat behind the curtained window of a room he had rented almost directly opposite Abu Homaidi’s house. His rifle with the high-powered scope lay across the sill, and he touched it from time to time for reassurance.

  Come on, Abu. Enough’s enough.

  By now he felt less anger than impatience. His anger had simply run out of adrenaline. It had just left him tired and depressed.

  More than two-and-a-half days had passed since he’d had to shoot the Palestinian girl, and her death had affected everything. Homaidi’s people rarely left the house anymore, and as far as Peter could tell, Homaidi himself hadn’t appeared at all.

  You made your move a little too fast, the girl had told him.

  Now she was needlessly dead, Homaidi was warned and trying to wait him out, and he himself had lost the advantage of surprise.

  So when had he started screwing up?

  Certainly in his last hit, when he’d forgotten to check for sirens. And what others before?

  Or was he just psyching himself out? It could happen that way. You start questioning and second-guessing yourself. You worry enough about something, build doubts, and before you know it, you’re making sure the very worst happens.

  Psycho-bullshit.

  Yet it wasn’t anywhere near that easy to dismiss. He was having lapses he hadn’t had before. So far, he’d been lucky, but how long could he go on depending on luck? He was close to forty. Maybe too old, when lives depended on reflexes and concentration.

  At best, he was in a lonely landscape. And there was no one who could make it less lonely for him.

  There had once been Gianni, of course. They’d run as close, as much in the same blood, as brothers. But that was more than twenty years ago. Now they weren’t even in the same world.

  Just thinking of Gianni Garetsky brought him joy. The guy had really made it. Nice that one of them had. And on his own terms. No sucking up or selling out. Bravo, Gianni.

  The thought made Peter grin through the curtain at the street below.

  An instant later, he stopped grinning.

  He reached for his rifle and got down on his knees, in firing position. Carefully, he kept the muzzle back out of sight on the windowsill.

  Two of Homaidi’s men had come out of the door. They stood there for a moment, casually looking around. One of them lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the gutter. Then they separated and walked in opposite directions. They checked people, parked cars, the houses on both sides of the street until Peter lost sight of them.

  But they soon returned to the door.

  A moment later, two more men came out.

  They were immediately followed by Abu Homaidi and another three men.

  Peter sighted through the scope, enlarging and drawing the group closer. But Homaidi was blocked from view by the bigger men circling him. Then they began walking up the street to Peter’s left, mingling with other pedestrians, making it impossible to draw a clear bead on the terrorist.

  They stopped at a gray sedan parked on the curb, and Homaidi and three of the group got in. The others stood talking to them through the car’s windows.

  Peter Walters swore softly. Damned if they weren’t trying to sucker him, bait him out of hiding. He could read the whole thing as easily as that.

  He spent a total of five seconds thinking about it, estimating the odds.

  Then he flicked the rifle on safety, wrapped it in a light raincoat and went for broke.

  He dashed down two flights of stairs, out the back door, and into the narrow serviceway that ran behind the house. He wasn’t afraid of getting there too late and losing the car. They’d make sure he had enough time to catch sight of them before they drove off.

  Peter moved quickly but calmly. He felt no panic. It was almost as though he had already died and accepted it.

  By the time he circled around to the street, got into his car, and drove to where he had last seen Homaidi, the gray sedan was gone. But he just continued in that direction and saw it moments later about two hundred yards ahead. There were four cars between them.

  Peter settled into his slot and kept it that way.

  The traffic was heavy in this part of the city, so it took a while for him to pick out Homaidi’s backup squad in a dun colored Jeep with six cars in between. The Jeep held four men, and probably enough weaponry to mangle a full platoon.

  You can still break out of this, Peter told himself. But it was only a token thought. This contract remained his. He could feel Abu Homaidi reaching in to a forest of nerves in his gut. It carried an old excitement.

  By the time they reached the coast road, only three cars separated Walters from the gray sedan up front, and two cars, a pickup and a stationwagon separated him from the Jeep in back. Having a good idea now of how it was going to be, he settled in for a long stretch.

  The final bit of game playing ended about half an hour later as they hit the start of the Costa Brava, Spain’s fabled Wild Coast, where the road twisted as it climbed, the sea and mountains locking it in, one on each side. The last of the intervening vehicles had turned off and disappeared. Peter saw no more than the gray sedan in front and the Jeep at his back.

  Did he have Homaidi, or did the sonofabitch have him?

  Two cars and eight of them. All men, thank God.

  One car and one of him.

  Even money.

  Peter Walters smiled at the road ahead.

  He waited for Homaidi to make the first move. Behind him, the Jeep was still holding at two hundred yards. There was no other traffic moving in their direction. A n occasional car passed going the opposite way.

  What were they waiting for?

  Peter was sure Homaidi
was in touch with the Jeep by radiophone. It was the only reasonable way to keep control of an operation like this.

  If I were doing it, I’d be getting off the main coast road very soon now.

  I’d be sure to have a good spot picked out in advance. The important thing is isolation. No interruptions.

  Moments later the gray car turned off on a road rising to the left. When Walters reached the place, he turned also.

  It was a two-lane, rutted blacktop with weeds growing out of endless cracks and potholes. If three cars a day used it, that would be a lot.

  Perfect.

  Peter felt energy pumping through him like a crowd in riot.

  Clouds had suddenly come in off the sea, and it had started to rain… no more than a heavy drizzle, really, but enough to cut visibility and get the wipers going. The road twisted and climbed through the beginnings of a pine forest, and Peter heard its whisperings.

  Now, it told him.

  He began slowing with the thought, not hitting the brakes and setting off their warning lights, but just easing up on the gas and letting the steepness of the grade do the rest.

  He watched the rearview mirror.

  The driver of the Jeep, maintaining his climbing speed and unprepared for the abrupt slowing, was quickly narrowing the gap between the two cars.

  When the Jeep was no more than about a hundred feet back and still closing, Walters took his foot off the gas pedal entirely, pulled the pin on one of the fragmentation grenades beside him, and counted to five. Then he leaned from his window, lobbed the grenade in a high arc back toward the oncoming vehicle, and slammed down hard on the gas pedal.

  The car leaped forward and quickly out of range. With frags, you don’t hang around waiting.

  Watching the road ahead, Peter never did see exactly where the grenade landed. But when the explosion came, he saw the fireball in the rearview mirror, saw it rise as the gas tank went, and felt the rush of superheated air catch up with him at a good hundred yards.

  Whatever had to be done now was all in front of him.

  The road was narrow and sharply winding here, with the undergrowth and trees pressing close from both sides. Speeding around a bend, Peter suddenly had to jam on the brakes to keep from crashing into the gray sedan, where it had been left parked across the road.