by Winona Kent
“I gather,” she said, in a cool voice, “that the microfilm and tape that woman provided you with are the genuine articles?”
Hamelin glanced up from his desk. He was smoking again: Mara wished he’d stop. “They are,” he said.
“How much was she asking?”
“Surprisingly little, considering their value. It was an affordable sum, I think.” He tapped his blotter with the eraser end of his pencil. “A pity you found it necessary to waste so much on those other two.”
Mara lowered her eyes. “At least they delivered the boy—without whom your newfound friend would never have been able to retrieve those articles in the first place.”
Hamelin tapped the blotter; the rubber eraser gave his pencil a little bounce. The woman’s nose was out of joint. Still, there were lessons to be learned. “I do believe we’ve been pursuing the wrong individual, Mara.”
Mara looked at him. “What do you mean?”
Hamelin shook his head. “With all of your experience—and your remarkable background—you haven’t been able to put one and one together in this matter, have you?” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Why were Berringer and Grosch bringing the boy’s father here? What was their logic?”
Mara shrugged. “They were together, at the radio station.”
Hamelin gazed at her, the pencil flicking up and down, stirring the air above his desk.
“Evan?”
He did not move. “In our effort to seek out the obscure, we seem to have overlooked the obvious. Why not Evan Harris? What was he doing at the radio station?”
“I…don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you: He was stealing that tape recording—the tape recording the Russians were going to use to activate this.” He held up the little strip of film. “He was the one who was sent, Mara.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously. “Who told you this? How do you know?”
“The woman,” he shrugged. “She’s your sworn enemy, my dear—KGB. She was, in fact, on her way down to the radio station to pick Harris up, but your two blunderers managed to get to him first. Luckily for us, she was able to overtake them on their way here—or we’d still be banging our heads against the proverbial brick wall.”
Mara stood up, wobbling a little on her narrow heels. “Then we must locate him,” she said. “Immediately.”
Hamelin tapped the desktop. “In time. What were you able to find out from Oran?”
“He told me,” she said, “that he had been hired by a gentleman called Fleming—a client of your precious ad agency—to put us out of business. He told me. And I believed him. I had no reason not to—he’d held out for nearly the full hour.”
Hamelin slid the eraser end of the pencil into his mouth. “Two well-trained agents?” he said, thinking. “His son?” He considered the woman standing nervously before him. “How many times did I use that in a script, Mara? How many times did you play it out? Enduring to the point where he makes you believe he can’t take any more—and then feeding you exactly what you want to hear?”
Mara stared at the floor, humiliated. It was difficult to believe—but there were the facts, presented in a very neat, tidy little package. And she had been so convinced—so absolutely and positively convinced.
“The explosives!” she gasped, jerking her head up.
“You haven’t located them?”
“I thought we’d caught him before he had the opportunity to do anything with them. My God, Larry—the two of them are in this together! Evan’s loose and Ian—” She paced up and down in front of Hamelin’s desk, agitated. “What a fool I am.”
Hamelin did not disagree with her.
“Our plans, my dear, must change. We have the access codes, and we have the tape recording. The technology is going up for sale tonight to the highest bidder.” He looked at the woman. “Go back to the auditorium and begin setting up the computer system—the way we had originally discussed. I’ll have some of the dishes brought out and arranged on the matrix.”
“Yes,” Mara said, thinking, digesting her new instructions. “Yes.”
“And I suggest you have a further word with Oran concerning what he has and has not done with his small bag of tricks.”
“Yes—immediately.”
“What do you think, Mara? Shall we pop up on HBO—or CNN?”
But Mara wasn’t listening.
Damn that man, she was thinking. Damn. He’d be sorry he’d misled her. She’d see to it that he regretted every word.
Ian put his shoulder to the wall and, slowly, using Charlotte for balance, made himself stand. The effort drained him. He shut his eyes, concentrating, breathing, as she held his arms.
She felt the strong muscles tense, felt him begin to shake. “OK?” she checked.
“OK.”
She waited. He was a mess: his feet were battered and bleeding. She’d tied his sweater around his shoulders, making him look like a pro down at the Jericho Tennis Club. But wet, red-brown gashes still stained the front of his shirt, and his hands…
She didn’t want to think about his hands.
“OK,” he said again, more confident this time, and Charlotte let go of his arms and fished the gold medallion out of the pocket of her jeans. She disconnected it from its chain and popped the center part away from its surrounding frame.
She’d rehearsed the sequence twice, but this act, this final act, was the one that made detonation imminent, and she wasn’t at all confident knowing that in thirty short seconds, her fingers, and indeed, most of her arm, might end up suddenly severed and in a zillion mushy pieces splattered onto the ceiling, floor, and walls. Nervously, she replaced the medal, flipping it over so that it went into its circular frame the other way round.
“Quickly,” Ian said, reminding her.
How could he keep his voice so calm, she wondered?
The medallion was magnetized; she stuck it to the part of the door just beneath the handle, where the lock was. Stared at it for a second—only one second—to make sure it wouldn’t fall, then ran around to the furthest corner of the room, where Ian was huddled, his back to the blast. He shielded her with his arm; they waited, heads close together, counting off the seconds.
The explosion, when it happened, was spectacularly loud, considering the size of the charge and the small space inside the storage room. It blew the door open, severing one hinge, bending another, blackening the frame, and leaving behind a fine, acrid-smelling haze and a noisy ringing in Charlotte’s ears.
“Come on, come on,” she said, breathlessly, pulling Ian out of the room. There was nobody in the hallway. Charlotte spied her knapsack and gun sitting on a table near the staircase, and scooped them up with her free hand as she helped Ian up the steps.
“Where’s mine?” he said, dismayed.
“You spy types have spares, don’t you?”
“Oh, sure,” Ian said. “You know how much those particular little items cost? And the paperwork they’ll make me do? We spy types have to account for everything.”
Halfway up. “Even that exploding dime?”
“Everything.” He stopped. “Where’s the chain?”
“In my pocket. Don’t worry. The auditors of espionage can sleep easy tonight.”
Ian laughed. “Oh,” he groaned. “Ow.” He pressed his free arm into his stomach. “It’s mine—the chain’s mine. Twenty-four karat. Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
The top, at last. Charlotte stopped to get her breath, then opened the door and stuck her nose out into the cool, musty air of the auditorium.
“See anybody?” Ian checked.
“Nope.” She glanced at him. “It’s a long walk down to the door.”
“I’ll be OK. Time?”
“Ten after one.”
Ian listened to the silence. “Curfew,” he said. “We’re going to be pretty obvious once we’re outside.” He closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. “Stick to the bushes.”
“What about you?” Charlott
e asked, misunderstanding.
“Right beside you,” he murmured, pushing the door open with his elbow.
“Any luck?” Evan asked.
Giselle shook her head. “No luck. I don’t know where he has gone. The auditorium door is locked.”
Robin looked at his father. Evan had put his boots back on and was readying Anthony for the journey back to Vancouver. Like a patient child, Robin’s middle brother perched on the end of the bed, knees together, hands clasped in his lap, while his father buttoned up his coat and knotted his scarf so its tasseled ends weren’t trailing on the floor.
“You’re going for a walk,” Evan said. He paused. “You can walk, can’t you, Anthony?”
“I can fly,” his son replied, with utmost seriousness.
Evan smiled, briefly, then turned to Giselle. “What time are your detonators set for?”
“Ian’s, eight minutes past two. Mine, three minutes later.”
“Fireworks,” Evan mused. “What did you use?”
“Sacks of flour.”
He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “That come out of the handbook, Giselle?”
“Ah,” she said, “non. But you have seen a grain-dust fire on the prairies?”
“No, I don’t believe I ever have, actually.”
“You would remember it. An entire elevator, poof, like this. It burns for hours. I have a cousin who lives on a farm in Manitoba. He told me. It’s useful to know, non?”
“Imaginative, anyway.” He gave his son’s scarf a tug. “Off we go, Anthony.”
Robin tucked the vial of pills into his brother’s coat pocket, and Giselle took him by the hand.
“I will wait in the helicopter for you as long as I can,” she said. “And Robin?”
“He’s coming with me.”
“Damn,” said Ian. “There’s Giselle.”
Charlotte poked her head around the corner of the evergreen rhododendron bush. Absently, she picked off two or three dead leaves. She saw a flash of white and two very dim figures in the darkness, disappearing. She shifted a little: she was kneeling in mud.
“Will they wait for us?”
“Hope so,” said Ian. “They’ll hear about it later if they don’t.”
“Where’s the helicopter?”
Ian gestured with his head. “Way over on the other side of the airstrip. Behind the trees. You go there if I don’t make it.”
“You have to make it.” He was cold—shivering—and Charlotte held him close, trying to keep him warm.
Ian closed his eyes. The ground was wet—squelching, freezing his toes. It was a blessing, really, that they were going numb. But a trade-off, too—the pain in his hands and feet had radiated up, shooting through his arms and legs and all of his joints, making them ache like the bones of an arthritic old man. He slumped wearily in Charlotte’s arms, glad she was there.
“Follow them,” he said. “All the way around the square, and into the bushes.”
Charlotte studied the open field of damp grass, with its one tree, lit by the yellow bug lamp, and its picnic table. “Want to risk going cross-country?”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t want to risk anything. Just take it slowly. A nice, safe”—he opened his eyes and looked woefully at his feet—“stagger.” He was beginning to shake again.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m just a little cold.”
Gently, Charlotte retied the sleeves of his sweater and did up the top button of his shirt. She waited until he was ready to go, and then they stumbled together through the grove of japonicas and rhododendrons, to the corner of the square that met up with the dormitory blocks. Ian collapsed against the brick wall. They weren’t very sheltered over here: The only thing going for them was the relative darkness and the distance from the administration building and auditorium.
Charlotte stared up at the overcast night sky. “To think I used to idolize that woman.”
“Hey, my dad used to costar with her. How do you think I feel?”
Charlotte wished she could give him something to make it hurt less. Would he want some Midol, she wondered? She slipped her knapsack off and pulled at the zipper.
She was rummaging through the contents of her cosmetics bag and, consequently, did not notice the hand, clad in fingerless gloves, that appeared around the corner of Dormitory One. With some hesitation, it hovered over Ian’s shoulder, as though plotting its next course of action, then descended, landing on the knotted sleeve of his sweater with a cautious poke-poke-poke.
Ian whirled around, arms up, ready. “Oh,” he groaned, falling back against the wall, relieved. “Shit. It’s you.”
Charlotte crawled around the corner, the packet of painkillers grasped in her fist. “What do you want?” she whispered, with ferocity, to the old man. “Go away!”
“No, no, it’s all right. It’s my dad, Charlotte. It’s Evan.”
She peered at the old man. Couldn’t be. No—couldn’t be. “Him?” she said, getting up.
“How do you do?” Evan replied, extending his hand.
Thoroughly confused, Charlotte shook it.
“And this is Robin.”
“Hi,” Robin said, waving.
Charlotte slid down the wall and sat on the damp carpet of grass, staring up at the ancient fellow with the white hair and the scraggy eyebrows. They’d run into him earlier, and hadn’t known…or had they? She looked at Ian, trying to recall their brief exchange of conversation on the sidewalk outside the auditorium. “Harmless,” he’d said. “He’s harmless.”
Evan knelt down beside his son. “You seem a bit worse for wear,” he said, gently inspecting one of his hands. “Been off to the wars, have you?”
Ian closed his eyes. “Had a small run-in with your old partner,” he answered. He was losing consciousness; his voice was fading.
Evan glanced at Charlotte.
“Lesley Towne,” she said. “Mandy.”
Evan refrained from comment. He checked behind him. “I think we’d better get this one into that ambulance,” he decided. “Why don’t you two see what you can do? Once you’ve got him settled, lock the doors and wait for me.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Robin asked.
“On an errand. I’ll be back.”
His son glared at him.
“I’ll be back,” he promised, getting to his feet.
The front door of the administration building flew open, and Lesley Towne stormed down the steps. She looked angry, Evan thought. She had the same expression of fury on her face that had once driven directors, producers, and fellow actors alike to distraction. Temperamental old cow, he thought, unkindly.
He let her get as far as the door of the auditorium, the heels of her sandals clicking on the wet sidewalk. Silently, he stepped out of the bushes.
“Lady.”
She ignored him, intent on fitting her key into the lock.
“Lesley.”
This time, she turned. And was confronted by a derelict. A filthy old tramp—an inhabitant of the streets.
“Don’t you recognize me?” he said. “Either I’m getting better—or you’re slipping.”
“Evan?” She peered at him. “My God, it is. Evan bloody Harris.”
He reached out, grasping her by the arm, removing the nickel-plated gun from the pocket of her robe.
“What’s all this about, Evan? Surely you wouldn’t—”
“Would I not?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve certainly had enough provocation, don’t you think? Robin, Anthony, Ian. What would you have planned for me, I wonder? Boiling in oil?”
She laughed. “Don’t be so silly, Evan. I’ve nothing against you—or your sons. I’ve never even met the youngest one. What’s his name?”
Evan smiled. “Christopher Robin,” he said. “I’d introduce you, but”—he checked swiftly over his shoulder—“he doesn’t seem to be here at the moment. I imagine he’s somewhat weary of having to fend off your incapable cohorts, anyway.
Best leave him to himself for now. He’s a bit of a misery when he’s annoyed.”
Mara let her breath out. “You do know this complex has been sabotaged, don’t you? You do know someone’s planted explosive charges all over the place, and if I don’t do something about it, we’ll all be blasted from the face of the earth together?”
“I know,” Evan answered easily, nodding.
“Then for God’s sake, let me go about my business, Evan.”
“There’s time yet.” He gestured with the gun. “Let’s go into the auditorium, shall we? It’s quieter in there. More private.”
Chapter Seventeen
One-Thirty
“OK,” said Giselle. “My turn now. SMERSH.”
“Smyert Spionam,” Anthony replied. “That was too easy. What was Dr. No’s first name?”
Giselle looked at him. “He had no first name.”
“Yes, he did.” He smiled, smugly, chewing on the tassels of his scarf while he waited for her answer. “Give up?”
“I’m thinking.”
“You don’t know. It was Julius. My turn again. What kind of car did Simon Templar drive?”
Giselle checked the field and the trees beyond the helicopter with her binoculars. No sign of anybody yet. It was one o’clock. “A Volvo. 1800S.” She yawned. “Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott.”
“Robert Culp and Bill Cosby,” Anthony said. “I Spy.” He thought, the multicolored tassels stuck meditatively between his teeth. “THRUSH.”
“I hate you. I don’t know it. I never knew it. Nobody knows it.”
“I do,” Anthony said, taunting her.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me. You make me crazy!”
Anthony told her. “So there,” he said. “Where did Doctor Who come from?”
Giselle was scanning the trees. “That isn’t spy trivia,” she answered, distracted.
“It’s my trivia.”
“Wait—I think I see something.”
“Gallifrey,” Anthony replied, getting up on his knees on the seat. “Can I look?”