He sent another burst through the curtain, screaming his rage at the assassin; then he sprinted for the wall, hit it running, hooking his fingers into the rotten stone, digging in with his toes. Less than twenty seconds, and he had reached the top. It was barely a foot wide and planed away to a sheer drop, to the roofs of Tasang-partsi several hundred feet below. The wind tugged at him, his guts seemed to squirm, his balls shriveled. He looked down at the body. Blood had pooled beneath the head, its scarlet startling against the bleached flagstones; strands of gray hair lifted in the breeze with the dreamlike irresolution of kelp. Clement’s eyes filled. They had been so close, so goddamn close. Everything would have been all right—he knew it. They would have come to an accord, they would have reminisced and made plans. His anger was consolidated by the sight of the blood. The bastards were going to pay. Not just the assassin, not just Rice. He knew it had to be Rice behind this particular move. But he wouldn’t stop with Rice. All the major assholes. They were going to rue the fucking day.
He gripped the wall with his knees, and pushing the Uzi ahead of him, he started inching his way along. By the time he reached the corner where the wall angled toward the gate, the wind had nearly dislodged him twice. His hands were scraped raw, his shoulders ached. But he felt very clear, very controlled. Absorbed in the play, at one with his character, artless in the single-mindedness of his intent. He lay flat atop the wall, scanning the pitch of boulders. About seventy-five feet downslope from the gate—a slice of bright blue. Seconds later, the slice expanded to include a speck of white. A wool hat, he thought. And the blue must be a down parka. He aimed, but the target disappeared. The assassin kept shifting, exposing different sections of his body, never remaining still long enough for Clement to be sure of a hit. He edged forward again, trying for a better angle and closer range. After about thirty feet he stopped and assumed his firing position, waiting for the right moment. He relaxed and regulated his breathing. He drew a breath and held it. Sliver of white. Too little exposure. Sliver of blue. No, no, not yet. He released his held breath, took in another. Finally there it was—a perfect blue ace centering a gray blur. He squeezed the trigger and heard a shrill cry above the popping of the Uzi. He saw an upflung arm and more blue exposed. Gleeful, he poured round after round into the target. Painting it with speckles of red. And then he listened. Only the humming vibration of the ruins and the ghosting of the wind.
He was pretty sure the assassin was dead, but as he clambered down the broken slanting planks of the gate, he maintained his readiness. He went in a crouch among the boulders until he came to the body. There was too much blood, too many holes in the parka, for any life to remain. He nudged the body onto its back with his toe. Long chestnut hair spilled out as the wool hat slipped off. Lily’s eyes stared at him jellied and unseeing above the wreckage of her jaw. Unable to move, to react, Clement stared back at her, revulsion growing in him, trying to probe with his mind inside the bullet holes and stroke something back to life. But the next moment, though he had begun to cry, he would have liked to smoke her again.
The goddamn Company!
Oh, man! What a great little actress, a fucking natural for the part!
You feel so good in me, you fit me so perfectly, I love your mouth on me.
Clement’s fury erupted in a scream. He fired into the sky, picturing black holes stitched in blue flesh. The clip emptied, and he flung the Uzi aside. He felt huge with grief, towering over the events of the morning…events that had been contrived especially for him. They had really gotten his ass, they had. He had never seen it coming.
“But you fucked up, guys,” he said. “You really should have left me something to care about…just in case.”
He went for a little stroll through the boulders. He would have to deal with the bodies, he knew that. He didn’t want anyone getting suspicious before he had his innings. But now…now he just wanted to pretend that he could walk away and feel nothing.
“Aw, Jesus,” he said, remembering Lily on their last morning together, stepping from the shower. Something wrapped long curving talons around his heart and squeezed.
Nothing to do except face the demons.
Things were stirring behind him, the corpse was getting to its feet, combing its beautiful chestnut hair, tossing it back, smoothing down its lace peignoir, preparing for bed.
Baby, it said, darling, just come inside me for a minute, that’ll be long enough for you to know all my moves, all my sweet tricks, all the honey in my groin, come on in, killer, we’ll do it slow and forever, glistening and slick, a new kind of sex, writhing and choking, tongues slippery with cyanide and kisses that sting.
“Shut the hell up!” Clement said. “I don’t care anymore.”
Lily, Lily…damn!
She must have loved me, she really must have, she had been too good an actress not to buy her act.
So, she loved you, so what’s that mean?
Nothing, I guess.
Right you are, chump. All that truefine feelgood, all that midnight clutch and tumble, it was just cheap sugar.
A tear trickled into the corner of his mouth. It had no taste.
He had an option, he realized. Tasang-partsi. Maybe something for him there, some new reason for caring.
Naw, un-uh, he didn’t understand what that had been about, Cheni, their desultory sex, and maybe it had not been worthy of understanding, just a little wasted treat, a kind of mystical sloppy seconds.
He stared out over the boulders, over the flats and the foothills toward the Himalayas, deriving strength from their distant grandeur. No answers there, however. No alternatives. The assholes had started something that he would have to finish.
“Stupid fuckers,” he said to the mountains. “You write yourself a great play, get yourself prime talent, then you blow the ending.”
But that was cool.
He had an idea for a terrific third act.
A week after Clement’s return from Tasang-partsi, a week during which fires bloomed in American embassies all over Asia, he broke into Rice’s home in Katmandu and prowled about the place, digging into drawers, discovering little of interest apart from several handguns and a variety of sexual aids. He unloaded all of the guns except for a .44 Magnum, which he fitted with a silencer. Then he sat down to wait for Rice in the den. Rice had fixed the room up with walnut paneling, a green shag carpet, bookshelves, a wet bar, leather chairs and sofa, and Clement liked the American ambience, although the lighting was a touch too yellow for his tastes. He laid the gun on the arm of a chair, leafed through some old Time magazines, and having exhausted these, opened the latest Robert Ludlum thriller. Shouts and laughter and music came from the street—it was a festival night, and the city was thronged with celebrants. Listening to them, Clement felt lighthearted and clear in his mind; but this was mostly because he knew he was cutting his final ties with a world in which he had lived his entire life, that once the night was done he would be irrevocably disconnected. The thought sobered him, yet was not in the least displeasing. He went to the bar, poured himself a bourbon on the rocks, and toasted his freedom. Then he sat down again and reopened the Ludlum. He was three murders into the book when he heard Rice’s car pulling up.
He killed the lights and went into the darkened living room; through the window he saw Rice and a heavyset balding man in a tweed overcoat, whom he recognized as Clark Settlemyre, an assistant to the Director. That Settlemyre was along both gladdened his heart and rekindled his anger. The more the fucking merrier, he thought. He went back into the den and stood behind the door, certain that they would be having a nightcap. A minute later the door opened, the lights were switched on, and the two men entered and walked over to the bar. Hidden by the door, watching through the crack below one hinge, Clement enjoyed the feeling of cold implacability that the sight of their backs gave him.
“Have a seat,” said Rice, shrugging out of his overcoat.
“I’ve been sitting all day,” said Settlemyre; he had a deep pre
sidential voice that matched the blunt strength of his features. He ran his eye along the bookshelves.
Rice mixed, poured. “I think you’re wrong about Clement.”
Settlemyre shrugged as if Rice’s opinion were unimportant.
“Clement’s a doer,” said Rice. “Not a schemer. I can see him gettin’ in a snit and blowin’ somebody’s brains out. But whoever’s been mailin’ these bombs has…”
“Whoever it is,” said Settlemyre, “knows security procedures like the back of his hand. It has to be someone with Clement’s level of clearance.”
“True,” said Rice. “But I’m gonna withhold judgment till I hear from Lily.”
“If we hear from her.”
“I think I can clear this up, fellas,” said Clement, stepping from behind the door. “It was me what did for all yer buddies.”
Rice’s hand darted toward the inside of his coat. Clement blew a wine decanter at his elbow into a shower of icy splinters, and Rice ducked, then froze.
“A wise choice, pal,” said Clement. “Because I’m crazy to kill. So why don’t you take the gun out with your left hand and toss it over here?”
“What is this shit, man?” said Rice.
Clement aimed the Magnum at Rice’s forehead, and Rice did as he’d been told.
“How ’bout you, Clark?” said Clement. “Are we packing tonight, or are we dressed for success?”
“I don’t have a weapon,” said Settlemyre.
“Let’s be certain, now,” said Clement brightly. “The punishment for wrong answers is lots and lots of pain.” He injected menace into his tone. “I mean it.”
“I have no weapon.”
“Know what, Clark? I believe you. I bet you’d rather die than fib. But why don’t we just open our coat…just to make me happy.”
Settlemyre complied; his face was unreadable, but Rice looked anxious.
“You gonna tell us what this is alla ’bout?” he asked.
Clement arched an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Golly, I would have bet you had to know.” He ordered his face into a solemn mask and affected a Southern accent. “Miz Lily has met with a tragic fate.” Saying that hurt him, and he covered his emotion with a laugh. “As has that dastard D’allessandro. In both instances, it was not a fate worse than death…get my meaning?”
Rice said, “Jesus,” and Settlemyre said, “D’allessandro is in Mustang?”
“Was,” said Clement, restraining his anger.
“I think…” Settlemyre began.
“You motherfucker,” said Clement. “I’m going to go easy on Rice. But you, I’m going to do you slow. Know why? Because you’re the one wanted D’allessandro. It was your pride on the line. You and all the major assholes in McLean. That’s all it was…goddamn pride.”
“You should take time to examine the situation, Clement,” Settlemyre said. “Things may not be quite so cut-and-dried as they seem.”
“Terrific idea! Clark, why don’t you sit down over there.” Clement gestured with the gun to one of the leather chairs. “And you”—he looked at Rice—“you come over here.”
“C’mon, man,” said Rice. “I…”
“Over here!” said Clement. “Now!”
He directed Rice to stand at the right of the leather chair opposite the one in which Settlemyre had taken a seat; then he sat down and jammed the silencer into Rice’s groin. He could feel Rice quivering.
“Please,” said Rice. “Please, don’t.”
“Everybody comfy?” asked Clement. “Good.” He smiled at Settlemyre. “Okay…talk.”
“You have to be a realist about all this,” said Settlemyre. “I know you’re upset, and I realize you don’t particularly want to hear that. But you know that’s how you should deal with it.”
“Roy,” said Rice plaintively.
“Shut the fuck up!” Clement glanced up at him. “This could be an important lesson for you…that is, if you believe in reincarnation. You believe in reincarnation, man?”
“Don’t do this, Roy.”
“All you’re going to hear, pal, is a little whiff. Pffft! Then you’re going to blow backwards into the wall and slide down like a dead snake. I don’t know if you’ll feel any pain. Gunshot wounds were never my best subject. But I bet your balls will be dead before you are.”
Rice started to plead his case again, but Settlemyre told him to keep quiet.
“Do you want retribution?” he said to Clement. “Or would you prefer to live?”
“You mean I dare hope?”
“Your sarcasm is amusing,” said Settlemyre. “But this situation surely merits more than sarcasm.” He crossed his legs, pulling his features into a grave expression. “Now I realize, of course, that you can’t trust me. But you’re aware of my power, and you must know that with the use of a little acumen you can win guarantees from me that I won’t be able to rescind until you’ve reached safety. You can survive this if you decide to be a realist. If, however, you insist on playing the role of grief-stricken avenger, then there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Rice was easing back from the gun, and Clement prodded him hard to keep him still.
“I can understand how you’ve become such a mover and shaker, Clark,” said Clement. “That was nicely spoken, nicely done…the way you tried to turn the tables on me. Under any other circumstance, it would have been incredibly effective. Really, I mean it. But the problem is, I just don’t give a fuck about alternatives. I’m not playing anymore, and there’s not a thing you can do for me except die. Besides, I might have a few moves that would surprise you.”
“Oh?” said Settlemyre, maintaining his poise. “What might they be?”
“I could tell you, Clark. I know you’d keep it to yourself. But I don’t care that much about satisfying your curiosity. I hate your guts. You’re the kind of slug that makes nights like this an inevitability.” He looked up at Rice, who was staring ahead, his chin trembling. “So how you doing there, pal?”
Rice’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he let out a sobbing breath; his hands shook, his fingers curled.
“No shit…that bad, huh?”
With a marked effort, Rice steadied himself. “Lemme go, man. You know none of this was my decision.”
“Lily,” said Clement, his heart aching with hatred. “That one hurt.”
“I’m just a fuckin’ soldier, man…like you.”
“How long?” asked Clement. “How long was she working for you?”
When Rice seemed reluctant to answer, Clement jabbed with the gun, doubling him over, and repeated the question. Rice sucked in air, tears spilled from his eyes. “Was it from the beginning?” asked Clement. “Just nod.”
Rice nodded.
“From the beginning.” Clement was having a problem holding on to his train of thought. “This was all about D’allessandro? That’s all?”
Settlemyre said, “What would you expect?”
“I’ll be right with you, Clark,” said Clement; then, to Rice: “Remember what I said about learning a lesson?”
“What? No…yeah. I…”
“Don’t strain yourself, pal. The lesson is, free will can be fun.”
Rice blinked, swallowed. He kept his eyes on the wall, his mouth opening and closing.
“Remember that little sound I told you about? Pffft?”
“Roy…Christ!”
“Listen,” said Clement, and fired.
As Rice flew backward, Clement caught movement out of the corner of his eye and threw himself sideways in the chair. He felt a tremendous jolt high in his chest that added to his momentum, heard an explosive report, and he went over onto the floor, firing in the general direction of Settlemyre. After a bit he sat up, his back to the wall. He blinked, trying to focus; but though his vision cleared, nothing in the room seemed to fit together—it was as if true clarity were a product of some indefinable strata underlying the visual, one whose dissolution preceded that of the six accredited senses. He blinked again. Better. Sofas on rugs,
rugs on floors, walls containing light and bodies. The usual arrangement. One of the bodies, Settlemyre, was still sitting in his chair. The upper portion of his skull was missing…or not exactly missing. Most of it had gone to create a Jackson Pollock effect in reds and grays on the wall behind him. Despite this grotesque insult to his flesh, he had maintained something of his basic imperturbability; his mouth set in lines of stern disapproval, as if death had struck him as an example of unsatisfactory policy. Rice was curled beside the bookcase, his head wedged upright. He appeared to be gazing with intent interest at the lowest shelf, hunting for some pertinent reference work. Islands of his blood figured the tangles of a green shag sea. Clement closed his eyes. He probed his wound gingerly, feeling the ridged-up flesh of the bullet hole just under the collarbone.
You should have patted down the bastard, he told himself, you should have known he’d use Rice to make a move.
A fuckup to the last.
He probed his wound again.
Couldn’t have been much of a gun. Fucking sissy gun. The shithead had probably carried it tucked in his garter belt.
But ’tis enough, t’will serve.
He had another look at the room. Hell, he thought, would open like this. Under the sickly yellow lights, a flat of carnage and gore, dapplings of red and gray, a still life with corpses painted upon a curtain that, once lifted, would allow the everlasting blackness to flow out over the audience.
Goddamn! Fuck, that hurts!
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