by Winona Kent
He was dimly aware of being relieved of the brown envelope, and came to the slow realization that he was inside the blue Buick, that the man with the aviator sunglasses and the Andy Warhol hair was at the wheel, and that the blond man with the moustache was the one who had attacked him.
He couldn’t remember later what happened next because he was hit over the head. He heard the crack a microsecond before he felt it, and his vision blurred. The backseat of the Buick was swimming; he was falling over sideways. A red wash swept over and under him, and he tumbled into a black void.
Chapter Five
Very Late Monday Night, And Very Early Tuesday Morning
Evan inserted his computer-card key into the lock, pushed the door all of the way open, and found the light switch. He looked up and down the corridor, then walked in, checking behind the door and under the bed, inside the closets and the bathroom. The balcony window was still firmly fastened from the inside. He closed the door to his suite, threw his duffel coat onto a chair, and kicked off his shoes.
The nice thing about comfortable, baggy old corduroys was the vast amount of storage space available in their front pockets. He reached in and pulled out the robot, one of its arms slightly askew from sitting through two meetings with the Blockbuster people and a test drive in an inconspicuous Chevette from a cut-rate rental outlet down the road from the hotel.
He tossed the toy onto the bed. Berringer and Grosch had found Robin’s car, all right, and had rifled through its interior, swiftly, expertly. But if his assumption was correct, they had nothing to go on but the supposition that his son had the robot, a blind lead. Evan was gambling they’d continue their surveillance for a few more days and then abandon it in favor of more tangible clues—clues he would make sure were presented in the most tantalizing way possible. It would get the heat off Robin, anyway—and that was his paramount concern. That, and retrieving the microfilm, which had been his assignment all along.
Dragging one of his cases onto the top of the dressing table, he dug through his shirts and socks for something that might approximate a screwdriver. All that gadgetry nonsense in Spy Squad had been wonderful fun, but getting any sort of equipment out of the intelligence arm of the Canadian government at this hour would involve more paperwork than he was prepared to submit to. He settled on the rounded end of his nail file and sat down in the chair to remove the screw in the top of the robot’s head.
Robin sat on the floor of the room, his back to the wall, his eyes on the door. They’d locked him in a room with no furniture, no carpet, no curtains, nothing on the walls but mildewed paper, and no light but a single bare forty-watt bulb in the ceiling. The window had been painted shut. They’d taken his jacket, shoes, and socks—a precaution against his trying to escape, he supposed. He wasn’t likely to get very far in bare feet in this weather, even if the window hadn’t been sealed up with six coats of white latex.
He leaned his head back. He could hear the rain pelting down and the distant sound of intermittent traffic. He had no idea where he was, although his wristwatch indicated he’d been unconscious for quite a long time. He raised his hand and gently fingered the lump just over his right ear. The dried blood felt like sand in his hair. Assholes.
He knew their names. He’d heard them talking on the other side of the door. Berringer and Grosch. Grosch had an accent—German, he guessed.
There was a noise—a key turning in the lock. Robin’s heart began to pound.
They came into the room together. One of them, the blond with the muscles and the moustache, seized a handful of Robin’s hair and dragged him to his feet. The other backed him into the corner.
“Where,” he said, “is the robot?”
No accent. Berringer. “What do you mean?” Robin asked, confused, forcing courage into his voice. “I thought you guys had it.”
Berringer glared at him. He was a nasty-looking individual, close up. He had bags under his eyes and bad skin. And terrible breath. “Isn’t that peculiar,” he replied, “because we were under the impression you had it.”
“I did,” Robin said. “For five days I did. And I left it in my car when I had lunch. Didn’t you take it?”
“No, we did not take it,” Berringer answered, mimicking his voice.
“But I saw you, driving past the Haverstock this afternoon. I saw you go around the corner where my car was parked.”
He glanced at Berringer, and then at Grosch. They didn’t seem to believe him.
“It’s the truth!” he said. “If you guys don’t have it, that means some jerk five-and-dime thief has helped himself to your pet toy. Great. Wonderful. I had nothing to do with it. I want you to know that. I never wanted anything to do with it. I got involved by accident.”
Grosch grabbed hold of his hair again, and Robin winced. “Come on,” he said, “I was on the verge of pitching the stupid thing at you when we were out at the airport—until that driver pulled up behind me and started leaning on his horn.”
Berringer didn’t say anything for a moment. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” he answered, finally. “But it doesn’t explain the pictures you were carrying when we picked you up at UBC.”
Robin’s heart sank. Why had he insisted on taking them right then? Why couldn’t he have waited?
“Where were you going with those documents, hmmm?”
He swallowed. “I—I wasn’t going anywhere. I just had them.”
Grosch let go of his hair, and he fell back against the wall.
“I’ll tell you what,” Berringer said, standing very close. “I’ll let you think about this for a little while. You can make the choice: If you tell us the truth, and we get our little toy robot back all in one piece, we’ll let you go.”
He fixed Robin with a cold, hard stare.
“And if you insist on being stubborn, I guarantee, it will be an extremely distressing—and painful—decision on your part. Now, how does that sound?”
“I’m already telling you the truth. Why don’t you believe me?”
Berringer smiled. “You think about it. We’ll be back.”
Robin watched them leave and heard the key turn in the lock on the other side of the door. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. Some choice.
He stared at the single dim light bulb in the ceiling. Was he going to sit there and wait for them to come back and drag him away and do horrible things to God knew what parts of his body? Or was he going to do what all good secret agents did under similar circumstances, and try to escape?
He got to his feet and went over to the window. It was old, the glass distorted and brittle, the panes set in a two-part wooden frame. He placed his palms flat on the glass, pressing out, thinking. If he took off his shirt and wrapped it around his fist when he hit, he would have some protection, anyway.
He went to listen at the door. Nothing. Quickly, he peeled off his shirt and rolled it around his right hand, tucking the sleeves in at his wrist. This was going to have to be dead on the very first time, or it was game over.
Planting his feet firmly on the floor at an angle to the window, Robin raised his left arm to shield his face, took a deep breath, and punched hard. He felt his knuckles meet the glass through the shirt. The window cracked; a sharp pain shot through his fingers. He buried his hand between his thighs, heart pounding. Had they heard?
They hadn’t. All right. OK. It was all or nothing this time. He clenched his fist again, braced himself—and hammered his arm straight through the window.
The glass shattered, falling to the muddy ground outside in large jagged shards. They must have heard that. Frantically, he knocked the remaining pieces out of the wooden frame, tore the shirt off his hand, and clambered through the opening. There were noises in the front of the house—footsteps, angry voices…
A sharp icicle of glass sliced across the sole of his left foot as he landed upright in the long wet grass. The wound under the cut-open flap of skin stung with blood and mud. Which way? He couldn’t see th
e road—he couldn’t see anything but the blackness at the end of the yard—OK—OK—He only hoped there was a lane there, and not a ravine—and no surprise fences.
Wet branches whapped him in the face and chest. He scrambled through the undergrowth, his feet slipping on the dead leaves and rotting vegetation. He could make out the dark shape of some kind of shed, and, beyond that, houses. Just a little further—
Someone was catching up behind him; he could hear the movement in the grass, hear his breath, angry and forced. There was a clearing by the shed—almost there—
Two hands grasped his ankle. Robin fell, twisting over onto his back. He kicked out with his free foot, missing his captor’s forehead, catching him on the shoulder. He kicked again, with his heel, and struggled to roll over, to shake him loose. His knees sank into the mulch.
A hand reached up and grabbed the waistband of his jeans; another pushed his face into the muck, twisting a handful of his hair so hard he gasped.
“Next time,” Grosch said, crawling forward, planting his knee firmly in the small of Robin’s back, bending close to his ear, “perhaps you’ll think twice about being so adventurous.”
Evan’s telephone was ringing. It had an annoying sound, not at all like the one at home. A nasty red light flickered with each urgent tone. Evan threw his pillow across the room and yanked the phone off the bedside table. One A.M., Pacific time—and he had a wake-up call for five-thirty. This had better not be Susan.
“Hello.”
“Evan?”
He looked at the little flower of holes in the earpiece of the receiver. Couldn’t be.
“Gwennie?”
“Yes.”
He rolled over, onto one elbow. “Hello,” he said again, waking up. “How are you?”
“I’m very well, Evan. How are you?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes—it’s one o’clock. And I’m sorry for ringing so late—”
“I’m not sorry,” Evan cut in.
Gwennie deliberated at the other end.
“Robin hasn’t come in yet,” she said. “I thought he might be with you.”
“We had lunch, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“Oh.”
There was another moment of silence.
“Come on, Gwennie—shouldn’t you be an old hand at this by now? Isn’t he likely to be out with his friends? Or a girl?”
Gwennie didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t he desperately in love with anybody these days?”
“Robin’s very good about letting me know where he is, Evan. When they were growing up we had a rule—”
Evan laughed, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “You’ll give our sons complexes, Gwennie, demanding that they telephone you from wherever they happen to be. Think of all the disgruntled women lurking in the shadows.”
“I can’t help it, Evan. Old habits die hard. I mean, he could be anywhere, couldn’t he? Lying dead on the road…police cars…no identification…”
“We are being melodramatic, aren’t we?”
“Look—you didn’t raise them—I did.”
“All right, all right.” He lay back on the bed and stared at a painting of a vase of chrysanthemums on the wall opposite. “Perhaps he’s with Ian.”
“He isn’t. I checked. I know I’m being overly protective—”
“You are,” Evan agreed. “He’s eighteen years old.”
“Nineteen.”
Nineteen? Since when had Robin not been eighteen anymore? Had he missed a birthday somewhere? Hell.
“Gwennie.” He sighed. “I’m absolutely certain it’s nothing. He’s probably drunk too much wine and fallen asleep on somebody’s floor. I used to.”
“I know.”
“If he doesn’t stagger in safe and sound by tomorrow afternoon, leave a message for me at the hotel, OK? And then we’ll start to worry.”
Gwennie was silent.
“All right?”
“All right,” she said. She sounded tired.
“Nice speaking with you again.”
“Yes.”
Evan consulted the chrysanthemums. Why not? “Gwennie?”
“Yes, Evan.”
“I’m here for six weeks doing this film. Do you think you might consider having dinner with me at one point along the way?”
He heard a small giggle at the other end. “You mean, without Rolfie?”
“Yes, without ‘Rolfie.’ You know I can’t stand the man.”
“Are your intentions honorable?”
“Gwennie.”
She paused. “I suppose I might be able to manage it…”
“Yes, well, after you’ve had the opportunity to consult your extremely hectic social calendar, would you let me know?”
“I will,” she promised.
“And keep me informed about Robin.”
“That too.”
“Bye-bye, then,” he said.
“Good night, Evan. Thank you.”
He replaced the receiver and rolled over onto his side, one hand still resting on the telephone. What did his son’s disappearance mean? That Berringer had more than a vague suspicion about the robot—that he had concrete information? Or that Robin had simply found a more attractive place to spend the night than at home?
What to do, what to do.
He sat up, pulled the phone onto his lap, and began dialing. The possibility that his line was being monitored was there, but he’d risk it. He wasn’t going to spill any national secrets with this one.
“Hot Shot Videos—we’re open twenty-four hours.”
Sounded friendly enough. Some of the women they had answering the phones could be downright miserable, especially when they were temporary replacements hauled out of some other department. “Hi. I’m in the mood for something gory. Lots of blood and excessive violence, strong language, nudity—you know. One of those pictures where everybody gets blasted in the forehead except the vigilante with the Uzi.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Pleasant, but no sense of humor. “Have you got The Railway Children in Beta?” he sighed, reverting back to one of the approved codes.
There was a slight pause. Then: “I’m sorry, only in VHS. Would you like to rent a machine?”
Evan yawned. What brain-dead civil servant in Ottawa had dreamed this one up?
“No thanks, I have six and none of them work. Mind if I come down and have a look at your Beta selection?”
“No problem,” the friendly female voice replied. “When can we expect you?”
Evan checked the time. “Half an hour?”
“Fine. And your name?”
He gave her his code name.
“OK.” There was a distinct smile in her voice. “We’ll see you in thirty minutes.”
He hung up and glanced again at the digital face of the clock radio on the bedside table. So much for sleep.
The shed at the end of the backyard was a garage, although it didn’t have a car in it. It didn’t have anything in it, really, except Robin and the man called Grosch, and the overpowering, slightly nauseating smell of oil and gasoline. Robin sat in the corner, holding his foot. His hands had been bound together with a length of yellow nylon cord—the sort used to fasten tarpaulins to roof racks. The rope was biting into his wrists, cutting off the circulation. Grosch was watching the door. And Berringer was on his way out from the house.
Robin supposed this was the part in the spy story where the true mettle of the hero was put to the test. He certainly wasn’t feeling very valiant. He leaned his cheek against the rough wooden boards, keeping a wary eye on Grosch. He wished he’d never met the woman with the Halloween hair.
The door to the garage creaked open, and Berringer stepped inside, carrying another coiled-up length of nylon rope and a leather belt. Robin closed his eyes. Oh God.
Be brave, he told himself, as Berringer took hold of his wrists, knotting the longer cord through the space between his hands. Be brave. If onl
y it were that easy. No matter what he said, they weren’t going to believe him. The robot was stolen—the robot was stolen—
“Up,” said Berringer, jerking the rope.
Robin got slowly to his feet, and Grosch slid in behind him, clamping cold steel fingers around each of his arms, holding him still.
“This,” Berringer said, “is for breaking my window.”
He slapped Robin across the side of the face, hard, hitting tooth and bone. Robin held his breath, tasting blood, while Grosch seized him by the hair, dragging his head back.
“Pay attention,” Berringer warned. “Understand?”
Robin winced.
“Understand?” he said again, as Grosch pulled harder.
“Yes—yes.”
“Good. This is educational.” He looped the belt around Robin’s neck, pulling it tight. “Have you given any further thought to what you’d like to tell me?”
Robin swallowed and tried to keep his voice steady. “I left the robot in the car. It was stolen.”
The corners of Berringer’s lips twitched into a smile. He slid the strap off Robin’s neck and passed it over to Grosch.
“Turn around.”
Robin’s legs wouldn’t move. His toes dug into the dirt and grime on the concrete slab floor.
“Turn around.”
Berringer grasped him by the shoulders and spun him into the wall. He hurled the long end of the rope around one of the rafters in the roof, yanking on it until Robin’s hands were over his head. He fastened the cord to a hook underneath the window.
“Now,” he said, leaning against the boards, facing Robin, “I believe in moderation. My friend behind you far prefers excess, but he’s a German. So we’ll compromise. How does that sound? Ten of your worst, Mr. Grosch.”
Robin gritted his teeth as the strap whipped through the air and hit his back, cutting a swath of fire from his right shoulder blade across to the left side of his ribs.
It made tears come. It forced the breath out of his body in a tight, frightened sob. He shut his eyes, took another breath, and held it. Nine more—nine more—eight—