"Very well. What's the range?"
"With a one-ounce dart, about thirty yards effective. After that she'll drift."
Vasily nodded his approval, then said, "Before we test the camera I think we should have a little chat, my friend."
"Sure, let's chat. I've got the list of supplies I need."
"Not about the supplies."
"Here's the List." He handed the Russian a sheet of paper. "You should be able to get most of the stuff in Mexico City, but I'm not sure about the Amanita phalloides. Can you get mushroom spoor in Mexico?"
"In Oaxaca, no problem." Vasily brushed the list aside, set it on the table. "I want to talk to you about . . . this situation."
"Listen, I've got a set of number-eleven tubes on the list. Try and get the disposable kind. I hate washing tubes."
"You're being very foolish."
"Vasily, I need a hand."
"Of course you do, dear fellow." Vasily was obviously gratified. "That's just what I've been trying to tell you. You're tense—ready to explode. You don't really understand this situation. I take full blame for expecting that you would. That was . . . indelicate of me. The facts are the same, but I ask your forgiveness for presenting them as baldly as I did. I want to help you, Eddie."
"You dumb bastard, I don't mean that kind of hand." He shook his head in disgust. "I need a prosthetic, an artificial hand. The kind an amputee wears."
"Sorry." At once, Vasily was all business. "Left or right, and how far up?"
"Left. Above the wrist, and with an adjustable forefinger. Can you get me one like that?"
"In Mexico City. Consider it done."
"You want to know what it's for?"
Vasily smiled. "Not really. The last time I heard of that device being used was ... let me see, yes, Warsaw, about three years ago." His voice shifted gears, and there was a cutting edge to it now. "Friend, maybe you don't want to talk, but you're damned well going to listen. If you keep this up you're going to get us killed. You know that, don't you?"
Eddie regarded him silently.
"Killed. Dead. Because in three weeks we go operational on this project and you're not ready for it."
Eddie still did not speak.
"Well, are you?" Vasily insisted. "Are you ready to get on that plane to Moscow? Are you ready to go up against men like Durin and Marchenko? These are professionals—the best. Are you?"
"I'm ready," he said finally.
"You're not. You're ready physically, and you're ready mentally—Lord knows you have all the skills—but you're not ready emotionally. And you won't be until you come out of this shell you're hiding in."
"We made a deal. I'll do what I have to do, and I'll do it right. I'll do my part and I don't need you to tell me if I'm ready or not." Eddie's voice was bladed now, too. "This business with Chalice is separate. To you I'm just square little Eddie, very uncool, and you're the man of the world, very sophisticated and civilized. Well, that's bullshit. It may be civilized to you and to Chalice, but it isn't to me. I'm just an old-fashioned ginzo from the Lower East Side. That's where I come from, and where I come from nobody fucks my lady except me."
"But that's just it, Eddie. She was never your girl. Not yours, and not mine. And she never will be. That's the way she is."
"In that case, what's she doing here? This town is full of ass, all high-grade females. What the hell do we need Chalice for?"
Vasily's eyes narrowed as he tried to judge the seriousness of the question. Eddie was relatively calm, but Vasily's defensive instincts, never at rest, warned him not to strike too close to what he believed was the truth. And yet a curious sense of obligation to the man on whom his life depended, and who in turn depended equally on him, laid a check on his deviousness.
"I need her," he said quietly, "because she pleases me, and there are very few women who do. She remains a challenge. You can't own her, and you can't easily manipulate her. That makes her special. I rather imagine she has the same effect on you. So, given the present circumstances, when life may be short, I choose to have my cake and eat it too—even though there are attendant risks."
"What risks?"
"Come, come. The lady may not be privy to all our plans, but she knows more than enough." He shook his head sadly, and repeated, "More than enough. There is, however, a cure for that. If you find her presence here intolerable, she can simply be eliminated from our plans."
"And you think she'd go, just like that?"
"Eddie, I said eliminate."
The word had only one meaning in their profession, and the word, almost palpable, hung in the silence between them. Their eyes locked and held.
Eddie said softly, "Would you really do that?"
"If I had to. My life is at stake. So is yours. Wouldn't you?"
"No," Eddie breathed. "I couldn't. That's out."
"You could. And believe me, you would."
"No." The word came firmly.
"Forgive me, then. I had to show you the options." Vasily saluted him with a mocking forefinger. "And since you reject one option, I'm afraid that you're stuck with the other. You'll have to accept the situation as it stands. Accept it truly, without reservations. Can you do that?"
The question went unanswered. Eddie turned back to the table, took a slim flechette from the metal tray, and inserted it into the film compartment of the Polaroid. He examined the mounting, then closed the camera with a solid click. He took a greasy sarape from a hook on the wall and flung it over his shoulder.
"Let's go kill a sheep," he said. "I want to test this camera."
They went from the cool of the shed into the hot and silent morning, dodging cactus spines and thorny growths as they walked down the slope toward the herd of sheep. Eddie gave the sarape to Vasily.
"Roughly the weight of a KGB greatcoat," he explained. "Tie it around the biggest sheep you can find."
"A big one will be much too tough to eat," Vasily objected. "Kill a lamb, Eddie. That cute little one over there—what a tasty gigot that would make. Two of them, in fact, and two epaules."
"With our cook? I can taste it now, four chili peppers on the hoof."
"I'll cook it myself, I promise. I'll make a gigot a moutarde, perhaps with a farce aux herbes. How does that sound?"
"The peppers sound better. Listen, the idea is to test the dart for penetration. For that I need a full-grown sheep. I could knock over that lamb with a toothpick."
Vasily nodded, defeated, and advanced toward the flock trailing the sarape behind him like a bullfighter's cape. The mass of sheep stirred and bleated softly at his approach. He circled around them and they began to move through the dust, making for the wall. Vasily launched himself forward and landed on the largest of the sheep, his arm around its neck. The weight of his body dragged the animal to its knees, but no farther.
"Baaaaaaa ..."
"A little help here, comrade," Vasily called.
Grinning, Eddie laid the camera carefully on the ground and moved up to Vasily's side. Together they wrestled the animal to the dirt. Working rapidly, grunting, sweat popping from pores, they forced the sarape around the belly and neck, and tied it in place. The sheep resisted indignantly, delivering the ultimate protest with a jet of urine that splattered over Vasily's shoes. They straightened up, brushing greasy hands on their trousers, Vasily staring down at his ruined shoes.
"The next time, yow play the cowboy," he said ruefully.
"The next time, wear boots. When did you ever see a cowboy in suede loafers?"
The sheep rose slowly, burdened by the sarape. Its head was framed by the curve of the garment, and the long, bony face stared out at them reproachfully. It blatted once, then hobbled away to join the flock.
Eddie picked up the camera. "Just about thirty yards. Watch."
He raised the camera to his eye and found the sheep in the viewer, centering the cross hairs on the rolls of fat and fleece around the neck. He pressed the trigger. The sheep jerked up its head; then the front
legs collapsed and it fell to its knees. It stayed that way for a few seconds, then rolled over, stiff and still. The other sheep stared down incuriously.
"Marvelous," said Vasily.
"Wait. Watch."
Eddie reloaded the camera with another flechette, flicked a switch, turned, and pointed the lens at Vasily, who swallowed hard.
"Eddie, don't aim that thing—"
"Fuck around with my girl, will you?"
His smile hidden by the camera, Eddie quickly found the dead animal in the viewer and pressed the trigger. Although the lens was pointed at Vasily, the dart shot out from the side of the camera and thunked into the body of the sheep. Reloading again, he turned his back to Vasily, aimed, and fired. This time
the dart came out of the other side, hitting the sheep a third time.
"Three-way action," Eddie said proudly, turning around. "What do you think of that?"
"Marvelous," Vasily repeated, but this time his voice was a croak.
"You should have seen your face."
"Bad, eh?"
"Well, some guys freeze up when you point a camera at them."
"You must admit that you caught me unaware."
"Want to try it again?" Eddie raised the camera. "Go ahead, smile."
Vasily forced a grin onto his face. From between tight lips he grunted, "How do I look now?"
"Sheepish."
Vasily's artificial smile turned to a real one of delight. "Mancuso, there's a side to you I never even suspected," he said, and the tension between them vanished.
They went to kneel beside the dead animal. Eddie removed the sarape and parted the wool at the neck. The ends of the three flechettes were grouped closely, dull metal on the greasy fleece.
"I congratulate you. It's a first-class device," said Vasily, his voice sincere. "I assume you'll be taking it on your little trip?"
"Of course. Who ever heard of an American tourist without a camera?"
8
The next morning, after an early breakfast, Vasily left for Mexico City. Eddie and Chalice watched as he backed the Chevy pickup out of the garage and onto the cobbled street. Then he came back to the doorway to kiss Chalice's cheek and grip Eddie's shoulder in farewell.
"Remember, if anything goes wrong here, bail out," he said. "Then call me. You have the numbers where I'll be."
"Nothing's going to go wrong," Eddie assured him. "We've got good, deep cover. You just watch your own ass."
"I appreciate your concern." He stepped back to look at them both. He seemed about to say something more, then shook his head silently. He climbed into the truck, and from the driver's seat looked down at them.
"Back in a week," was all he said, and was gone. They stood and watched until the truck was out of sight, reluctant to leave the spot even when all they could see was a plume of dust on the road.
"It's a funny feeling," Chalice said. "Having him go like that."
Eddie nodded. "Yeah, you get used to having him around."
"You like him, don't you?"
Slowly, uncertain of what was proper to say, he answered, "I guess you could say that. I never had a chance to . . . well, I never had many friends. I had three sisters, but they all got married and left New York. You know how it is. And my mom and pop died five years ago." Then, to break away from the mood, "I could use another cup of coffee."
They went back into the house and sat in the sala drinking coffee, talking of the bullfights of the day before, a local gringo in trouble with the law, a fiesta soon to come—staying away from the deeper thoughts that troubled them. They both felt so easy and the time went so quickly that they were surprised when they saw it was noon. Making a pitcher of margaritas seemed the natural thing to do, and they each had two, sitting out now in the ground-level garden under the jacaranda. They debated having a third margarita, decided against it, and then, suddenly, neither wanted to stay in the house. They grabbed swimsuits, called for a taxi, and took the bumpy road out to the mineral springs at Taboada. They spent the rest of the afternoon lying in the warm- water pools, then on the cool grass, listening to the mariachis, eating grilled shrimp, and drinking chilled white wine.
Late in the afternoon Eddie fell asleep on the grass, and when he woke the tightness he had carried for so long in his gut was gone. He felt the absence of it, knew it at once, and smiled up at Chalice bending over him. The two strips of her bikini did nothing to impede his memory of her body.
"Time to go home," she said. She was smiling, too.
Back at the house they separated to shower and change, and when they met again in the sala Chalice was dressed for the evening in white chiffon. Eddie wore jeans and a T-shirt. Chalice hid a disappointed look.
"Something wrong?" Eddie asked.
"I thought we might go out," she said. "Sort of round out the day. One drink at La Fragua and then a plate of spaghetti at Mama Mia's."
"No. No, I don't think so."
"It doesn't make any difference how you're dressed—not in this town."
"Still no."
"All right, then we'll stay home," she said gaily, and whirled in a pirouette, hands in the air. "Same menu. One drink, and then pasta. You haven't lived until you've tasted my fettuccine car- bonara."
"I'll manage," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "Look, I understand what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it. It's been a good day, a damn good day, up until now, and now is as far as it goes."
She dropped her arms, her face stricken. "Why does it have to stop now?"
"You know damn well why."
"You mean you still feel that way about Vasily and me?"
"Why should I change?"
"I was hoping you would. Especially after today."
"Like I said, it was a nice day," he said patiently. "But that's all it was."
Angry, she shouted, "Mancuso, you are one tough, stubborn guinea! "
"That's me." He nodded, as if complimented.
"And don't expect me to keep running after you, either. I'm finished."
"Thank God. I thought you'd never get the message." The words were hard to say. Angry and flushed, she looked as lovely as he had ever seen her. He cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me now. I've got some work to do in the lab."
He brushed past her, ignoring the sudden, involuntary movement toward him and the equally sudden withdrawal. He was almost to the sala door when he heard her at the telephone, calling for a taxi.
"You going out?" he asked without turning.
"I certainly am. And don't wait up for me, you son of a bitch," she flung after him.
"I won't," he muttered. But he did.
He didn't know at first that he was waiting. He spent the next two hours in the laboratory refining a solution of boomslang venom and testing the results by injection into rabbits. Shortly after eight, he buried the rabbits in the yard, washed his hands, and went to the kitchen for something to eat. He ignored the two maids chatting there and built himself a massive ham sandwich which he ate standing up, washing down the meat and bread with Double-X beer. Then he went back to the laboratory and worked on the spring attachments for a pair of hollowed-out heels. The springs were difficult to align properly, and the job took longer than he had thought it would. It was close to midnight before he was finished, and as he packed his tools away he was aware that for the past hour he had been listening for specific sounds: the grinding of a taxi engine coming up the hill, the slam of a door.
The hell with it. She's a big girl.
He went back to the kitchen for a beer to take upstairs. He drank the beer in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed, still waiting. Finally, he took off his shoes and lay on the bed with his clothes on and his eyes open. He lay that way until he heard the single tones of church bells striking one in the village. He forced himself to lie there for fifteen minutes more, then sighed at his own weakness and sat up. He changed into slacks and a tweed jacket, loaded his pockets, and minutes later was out the door and heading down the cobblestone
d street toward the center of town.
La Fragua was the bar just off the main square where most of the gringos in town gathered to drink Oso Negro gin and congratulate each other on having discovered paradise. In the main room a four-piece band played listlessly for half a dozen students from the Instituto drinking cans of beer Mexican style, with salted rims and wedges of lime. In one of the smaller rooms an Irishman sang "Danny Boy" with drunken intensity to three dowagers from Duluth wearing hand-embroidered Mexican blouses and rebozos. In the smallest of the rooms two girls, one American and one Mexican, made frantic love to each other on a banquette, incorrectly confident that they were concealed by the tablecloth.
Eddie found Chalice in the room with the great stone fireplace, its grate empty now that the winter was past. She sat at a table with three Mexicans, two men and a woman. Chalice saw him as he crossed the room, and she waved.
"Hey, sweetie, over here," she called, and her voice contained none of her earlier anger. She announced to the table, "This here is my little sweetie. Usually we're just mad about each other, but right now we're just mad."
Eddie slipped into the seat next to her and muttered his prepared excuse. "Couldn't sleep, so I came down for a nightcap."
"Want you to meet my new friends," said Chalice, brushing aside his explanation. "This absolutely gorgeous young hunk is the well-known torero Sehor Jose Cuervos, bull-killer extraordinary. Say hello, Joe. Sitting opposite him—now, hang on to this one—is a real live general in the Mexican Army, even if he is wearing mufti, which is civvies to all you ignorant civilians. General Herrera, say hello to my little sweetie. If you stick around long enough, I'll introduce you to my big sweetie. And last but not least—oops, bad manners, should have introduced her first— anyway, introducing the lady with the handsome boobs, weighing in at about one thirty-five, and wearing a minimal amount of underwear, if any, Seriorita . . . uh . . . Frarcisca, or something like that."
"Holy Mother and the Marx Brothers, how pissed are you?" Eddie breathed as he nodded to the others.
"Not nearly enough."
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 8