by Winona Kent
“No,” Anthony replied, blinking.
Evan stood up. “I parked the ambulance downstairs,” he said. “I’ll see if there’s some sort of portable first-aid kit inside. I’m afraid I made rather a mess of the interior while I was administering just desserts to Berringer and Grosch.”
Just desserts. Robin couldn’t think of anything even approximating what they’d had the audacity to do to him. Primordial slime. They deserved more than dessert: they deserved an entire food fair.
“Where are they?” he demanded, scrambling to his feet.
“Up to their necks in acetone, if they’ve any aspirations toward mobility in the near future.”
Robin stopped. The glue. “You didn’t…”
“I did,” Evan replied. He unlocked the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Be careful,” Robin said, suddenly terribly afraid of losing him, all over again.
“Eh?” said his father, poking his hand behind his ear, squinting, so that the corners of his eyes were like cavernous fanned pouches, and his gray, ferocious eyebrows furrowed dangerously over his nose.
“Tell me,” Mara coaxed, resting her hand on Ian’s ankle. Her fingers were hot and wet. “Tell me.”
Ian struggled, forcing his mind past the pain. He was flat on his back, his arms and legs bound to the four corners of a table. She’d knotted the ropes tight around his wrists, and then looped them around and across the tips of his fingers, forcing them out straight, preventing him from closing his fists. She’d tied his ankles, exposing the soles of his feet, his toes…
His fingers were cut, swollen, purple. The skin on his palms was shredded.
“Fleming.”
“Yes?” She was interested. “And who is Fleming?”
“I don’t know. Just Fleming. A client. He heard where I was going and approached me—gave me money—”
“Why?”
Ian clamped his mouth shut. Swiftly, the whip smashed across his toes, cracking cartilage, driving the hurt deep into his bones.
“Why did Fleming send you?” she repeated. One hand was on his chest now, fingertips entwined in the curls of red-blond hair. Capriciously, she toyed with the tiny gold medallion he was wearing around his neck.
“He wanted you…out of business.”
Mara laughed. “You haven’t got enough plastique in that bag of yours to detonate a small campfire. Really, now.” She gave the gold chain a tug.
“Don’t…”
Mara smiled at him. “Why not, my love?”
“It might—explode.”
She laughed again, humoring him. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you? Very well.” Her hand crept down to his stomach. “What about your brother? And the girl? How do they fit into all of this?”
Ian swallowed. His mouth was dry: his head was pounding. “They don’t know anything…”
“Do they not?” She’d reached the drawstring that cinched the waistband of his rugby pants tight around his hips. Delicately, she slipped the knot.
Cold dread shot through Ian’s veins. He held his breath, eyes riveted to the ceiling, heart hammering.
“One hour.”
The guard’s voice leaped across the stage like the surprise interruption of a timekeeper at the end of a grueling exam.
“So soon?” Mara paused, disappointed.
“One hour,” the first guard repeated, while the second reappeared to sever the ropes around Ian’s wrists and ankles.
“What a shame.” Lightly, Mara ran her finger down the fine line of hair that began above Ian’s navel, to the drawstring, which she retied, loosely. “We’ll consider this conversation unfinished, shall we? To be continued at a more convenient time?”
“Oh, God,” Charlotte cried, pushing the hair out of her eyes with her wrist. “What has that woman done to you?”
The door had burst open, and the guards had thrown Ian into the room, pitching him onto the floor with only slightly more care than was taken with his clothes: shirt, sweater, shoes, and socks followed in a disarrayed bundle. The door slammed shut again, and Charlotte heard it being locked, then the sound of the guards’ footsteps in the hallway, growing fainter.
Ian hung his arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the glaring light in the middle of the ceiling. Storage room. Smelled like cardboard boxes, paper. Dusty.
“I’m OK,” he said, more to convince himself than Charlotte. It hurt, taking a breath to talk.
“You’re bleeding all over the place.”
“I know,” he said, trying to sit up. No good. Hands hurt. Stomach. Arms. He sagged to the floor again, mouth open, breathing, controlling the passage of air. Out…in…
He swallowed. “Help me up.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte answered, doubtfully.
“Uh-huh. I’m not doing anybody any good on the floor.”
He extended a shaky arm, and Charlotte grasped it with both hands. Ian maneuvered himself against the wall, sitting, shutting his eyes.
“What time is it?” Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his watch.
“A little after eleven.”
“Three hours. We’re still OK.”
“What are they going to do now? Hamelin and that woman? Are they going to do the same thing to me?”
Ian forced himself to think. From the stage in the auditorium and Mara and her whip and her eagerly probing fingers, to this.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t. But if they ask, if he asks—Hamelin—the important thing…is that our stories…be the same.”
“OK,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering.
“I told Mara I was sent here—by a guy called Fleming.”
“Fleming,” Charlotte repeated. Nothing wanted to sink in; her brain was like a lump of stale bread.
“Uh-huh.”
“Fleming,” she said again, making herself concentrate. “Who’s Fleming?”
“A client…of the ad agency…I work for. Fitch and Raymore.”
“Fitch and Raymore,” Charlotte said. “OK. And Fleming.” She swallowed. “What about me?”
“I told her…you don’t know anything. If she persists…tell her about Fleming. You’re a diversion.”
“What if she doesn’t believe me?”
“Make something up…anything.”
“I can’t. I can’t lie—I’m a terrible liar.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her, and her own eyes fled to the raw, red welts crisscrossing his chest and stomach and arms. She leaned her head back and stared at the point on the wall opposite where the storage shelves nearly met the ceiling. She listened to the rhythm of his breathing, hard and forced, then gradually growing easier, more relaxed. She glanced at his face again. He was frowning slightly, a thin line of perspiration glistening along his upper lip.
“You’re real name’s Ian, isn’t it?”
He didn’t say anything for a second or two. He hadn’t lied to her—he’d never quite told her it wasn’t Ian. Anyway, what was all the secrecy about? His lineage? His parental chromosomal pairs? “Uh-huh,” he said.
“You look like your father. From the side.”
How she could tell this, he didn’t know. Her eyes refused to meet his, and remained steadfastly fixed to the shelves in front of her.
“The left side,” he agreed. “Not the right.”
“I didn’t know Anthony was Anthony—until the Bagraj got his I. D. I thought he was somebody else. And I didn’t know you were you—I wasn’t sure—until we were in the auditorium, hiding behind the stage.”
Ian managed a smile. “I’m me, all right,” he said.
She lowered her eyes, so that she was staring at her knees. “I always thought,” she began, slowly. “I don’t know…I’ve been a Squaddie since I was ten…and for most of that time, I’ve been trying to dig up information on you guys. I write stories about you for the Spy Squad newsletter.”
“I know,” Ian said. “I’ve read them.”
“You have?” She was dismayed.
“I thought they were funny.”
“Great,” she said, turning away, her cheeks burning.
Ian studied the ceiling. What a profoundly weird situation in which to find himself. He really wasn’t handling it well at all. No matter what he said, she’d be embarrassed. He wondered what his father would do.
“Hey,” he said, not unkindly, nudging her with his elbow. “Want my autograph?”
She looked sadly at his mangled fingers. “You can’t even write.”
“Pawprint?” he tried.
She bit her lip; she’d almost smiled. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I always figured I’d freak right out if I ever met any one of you for real. I mean, I’ve never met anybody. I’m just ordinary. But when it happened, I wasn’t hysterical. You know? It was like…I don’t know…you were normal people.”
“I’m normal people,” Ian maintained. “We’re not quite sure about Anthony.”
She grinned, clasping her hands around her knees. “I like Anthony,” she said. “He’s an original.” She still refused to look at him. “How did you ever decide you were going to be a spy, anyway?”
Ian thought. The significant events from seven years earlier were somewhat hazy in his memory. “It wasn’t very dramatic, really. There I was, standing in Waterloo Station in London…” He glanced at her. “You know London?”
She shook her head. Her cheeks were blazing. Rather attractive, Ian thought; there was still some old-fashioned timidity left in an otherwise overly assertive world.
“Well, anyway, there I was, with my knapsack and Canadian flag—looking lost. And there she was—Mississauga Hari.”
“A spy?”
“A spy,” he answered, darkly. “We had coffee together in a Wimpy near Hungerford Bridge. Turned out she was a friend of my dad’s. He’d asked her to keep an eye on me while I was in London.”
Charlotte smiled. “How old were you?”
“Twenty-two. Can you believe it?”
“And she recruited you?”
“No. She hinted rather broadly at interesting career choices for young men of my caliber and background. I think my father must have been lurking under a table somewhere, passing her notes about my obvious lack of direction. I made some inquiries when I got back to Canada—that’s when I was recruited.” He nudged her again. “I could have been an inspector with the Department of Fisheries.”
“You?” Charlotte answered skeptically. “No way.”
“No,” he said, smiling.
There was another moment of silence. Then: “Ian?”
“Yes.”
“This is really dumb. I know that Robin’s first name is Christopher, and Anthony’s middle name is Quinn. But I’ve never been able to find out what your middle name is.”
“Fleming.”
“Fleming? As in Fitch and Raymore?”
“That’s the one.”
“Then…he doesn’t really exist,” she said, slowly. “As a client, I mean.”
“He doesn’t really exist,” Ian said.
She looked at him, hauling her confidence up from the floor, winching it, inch by inch, forcing herself. He really had the most incredibly green eyes.
“Ian Fleming Harris,” she said, announcing him, a tiny note of satisfaction in her voice. “Were you named after anybody in particular?”
“My dad’s favorite author the year I was born, of course. The perpetrator of Dr. No.”
“And Goldfinger,” she said. “Who else but Evan Harris would do something like that?”
More silence. “Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
“You can’t put any of this in the newsletter. You realize that, don’t you?”
“None of it?”
“None of it.” He reconsidered. “Well, except, maybe, my middle name. I can trust you, can’t I?”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
Inexplicably, Charlotte found herself crying. It wasn’t just the futility of being locked up again, and the fear of what was going to happen to her now that Mara had finished with Ian. It was a passing, of sorts. A crossing-over. It left her feeling desolate, empty, abandoned. Heroes were funny that way. Once you’d reached out and caught hold, and woven your fantasies and made them your own…it wasn’t easy, letting go.
“Charlotte.”
She shook her head, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.
She felt something brush against her cheek—a soft bristle, and that scent. Curious, she turned her head, and he kissed her again.
“Oh,” she said, when she could safely breathe.
“Oh, indeed,” Ian replied, with a smile.
Very slowly, he raised his arm and grasped something that was dangling around his neck. Charlotte peered at it—a slender gold chain with a gold medallion, about the size of a dime.
“What’s that?”
“Lesson one,” he said, “in the subtle art of getting out of locked rooms.”
Evan pulled his feet out of his laceless boots: They were too big for him, and he had blisters. He stripped the paper off a couple of Elastoplasts from the first-aid kit and applied them to the backs of his heels.
Robin poked a thermometer into Anthony’s mouth. “Don’t bite,” he warned, “or I’ll stick it somewhere else.”
Anthony narrowed his eyes at his brother. He didn’t like the white gauze bandages that Evan had wrapped around each of his arms. He wanted to admire the brands, to show them off. He had sunk into quite a poor mood.
“Do you know who took the microfilm and tape?” Robin asked his father.
“I have a good idea. That Russian woman—the one in the Jag.”
“Why do you think she brought them here? Wouldn’t it have made more sense if she took them back to Vancouver?”
“Would have,” Evan said, “but for one rather salient point: I heard her grilling Grosch and Berringer, wanting to know the name of their contact in Dehra Dun. Why would she have bothered to ask if she didn’t plan on bringing the items here, herself, and possibly trying to sell them?”
“You’re following a hunch,” Robin said.
“Yes. I’m following a hunch. The Russians don’t need that film—they have the original documents. And they can always make another tape. She’s off the hook as long as they never find out what she’s been up to.”
Robin leaned over and put his ear to Anthony’s chest. “You have no heartbeat,” he pronounced, judiciously.
“Eth I goo.”
“You don’t. Go to sleep.” He pulled the blanket over his brother’s face. “And no more singing.”
He got up and confronted his father. “Where are my clothes?” he demanded.
“Ah,” Evan answered, holding back a smile. “Help yourself.” He nudged the shopping bag with his foot. “There’s quite a collection in there.”
“I’m only interested in my own things, thank you,” Robin replied, rummaging through the various items of clothing. “I suppose you had a perfectly good reason for taking them in the first place?”
“I didn’t want you wandering off anywhere,” his father said. “And, short of tying you to the bed, that seemed to be the most creative alternative.” He eyed the yellow robe. “Although I see you made characteristic quick work of that particular problem.”
Robin didn’t say anything. He pulled on his trousers and zipped them up, then stripped off the robe and pitched it with moderate disgust at his father, who humorously diverted the yellow barrage to the floor with one hand.
“You didn’t tell me Ian was a spy.”
“Can’t give away all of the family secrets,” Evan replied, as Robin buttoned up his shirt and pulled his sweater over his head, creating a messy blond halo where his hair caught a charge of dry static. “Sorry. Anyway, I was totally in the dark about the Dehra Dun connection until I had a word with the Vancouver office—you’d think they’d at least tell me what my oldest son
was up to, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Robin answered carelessly. He hunted through the shopping bag for his shoes and socks. “Would you?”
“I yood,” came a voice from beneath the bedclothes.
“Yes,” Robin said, flipping the blanket down, extracting the thermometer from his brother’s mouth. “We know all about what you’d do.” He held the glass tube up to the light. “I can’t read this,” he said, bad-temperedly, to his father.
Evan squinted at the little column of silver, then touched the back of his hand to his middle son’s forehead.
“He’s a bit on the warm side, but I think that may have less to do with the pills you dispensed than with all those blankets you’ve got piled on top of him.”
“I’m rather hot,” Anthony said, on cue.
“Take your clothes off,” Robin muttered.
“No,” Evan said, catching his middle son’s hand as it went for his shirt buttons. “Don’t.” He gave Robin a hard look. “When Giselle comes back with your brother and that girl, I want you two to go with them, all right? They’ll give you a lift back to Vancouver.”
Robin sat down on the bed. “No,” he said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. I’m not going. I’m staying with you.”
“You’re not,” Evan replied. “I want you away from this place.”
Robin glared at his father. “Then why didn’t you turn around and drive back to Vancouver when you had the chance? Why did you stick me in that bed and go through this whole dumb masquerade, with your disguises and your makeup and that old man routine?” He sat on his hands. “I’ve been through absolute hell for you.”
“I appreciate that,” Evan said.
“And I’m staying,” Robin continued, angrily.
Evan considered his youngest son. His mouth was firmly set, his chin jutting forward. A Gwennie-ism. And just try and win an argument with her, he thought, scratching the place on his own chin where the spirit gum holding his beard hairs on had started to itch.
Chapter Sixteen
One A.M.
Mara dried her hands on a small yellow towel, then switched off the light and returned to Hamelin’s office through a connecting doorway. She sat down on the chesterfield, crossing her legs.