She hesitated, then said, "Yes. He's an insurance man from Michigan. We've been seeing each other for about a year." She rose from the damp, rumpled sheets of the bed and pulled on her panties, struggling into her bra. "He loves me, wants to make an honest woman of me." She laughed, a .short bitter bark. "Isn't that a kick for you?"
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"Have you told this dude anything about who you work for or what we do?"
The slight pause on her part told Terry what he wanted to know, and it sickened him: She had blabbed.
"Of course not," she said, avoiding his eyes. "I know better than that." She slipped into her blouse and skirt, then slid bare feet into local sandals. "We'd better report to the AID office separately," she changed the subject. "At least a half hour apart. You know the rules." She moved toward the door. A graceful, pretty young woman. "Maybe 111 see you over there?"
"Yeah, maybe. I still don't know what my assignment is." But Terry had a hunch.
The hotel was Agency run, the phones clean as they could be in a foreign country. In five minutes, Terry had Colonel Ferret on the line.
"It's scrambled on both ends," Ferret said. "So we can talk. She's gone over to the other side, Terry. We've had that so-called 'insurance man* under surveillance for months. He's a peacenik, self-proclaimed, totally opposed to our involvement in Southeast Asia. He may be right about that, I suspect he is, considering the fact that Congress is going to run the war, when and if it happens, instead of allowing the military to handle it, but that's neither here nor there. This guy's political leanings place him hard left, and he's been seen many times with Red agents. Sally has been passing info to him for months. When we
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picked up on that, we only gave her info we wanted her to pass. There is not a doubt: she's a traitor. I gather by now you're beginning to realize your being in Saigon is no accident?"
"The thought occurred to me about twenty minutes ago," Terry's reply was terse.
"In a matter of hours," Ferret said, thousands of miles away in Fort Bragg, N.C., "her 'insurance man' will have met with a very unfortunate accident. I expect you to handle your end with equal expertise."
"I just made love to her, Colonel."
"I warned you about getting involved with agents, Terry. I warned you years ago. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that an agent turned traitor. We can't afford the luxury of a public trial—you know that. Post coital depression can lead to all sorts of things, Sergeant. Do I make myself clear?"
"Very clear, sir."
"Good. You have your orders. Carry them out." The line went dead and Terry was left with a buzzing receiver in his hands. There was a sick feeling in his guts.
"The countryside is so beautiful," Sally said. "It's hard to imagine a guerrilla war is all around us. Don't you feel that way, Terry?"
Early morning, and they were driving toward what Sally believed was a meet with a Special Forces detachment a hundred miles from Saigon.
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Terry knew perfectly well there was a war around them: a Thompson SMG lay on the back seat, a dozen full clips in a pouch beside the weapon. The top was down on the small rent car, cool air, scented from the fragrance of hundreds of flowers blew around the man and the woman.
While Sally had gone to the restroom of the small cafe at the hotel, Terry had prowled through her purse, unloading her pistol and removing her cyanide pill; standard issue for all of Ferret's people, to be used if capture was inevitable. Terry had long ago thrown his pill away. He was far too certain of himself for that.
He did not reply to her question and she looked at him, eyes large and wary in her face. "You said yesterday you didn't know why you were sent to Saigon. I guess you know now. Right?"
Terry did not look at her as he said, "Yeah. I talked with Ferret after you left."
She seemed resigned to her fate as several miles hummed by in silence. "I guess if it had to be anyone, I'm glad it's you, Terry. At least you won't make me suffer like some of the others would."
"Why did you do it, Sally?"
She looked at the passing landscape for a moment, knowing that unless a miracle came to pass, her time for viewing beauty on this earth was at a premium. "I'm sick of it all: the secrets, the killings, the living with fear of
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being caught. No government is worth what we do, Terry. It's all wrong—what we're doing, I mean."
"And Communism is right? Don't hand me that line of crap, Sally, you're far too intelligent to believe that."
"Thank you for the compliment. But it isn't all a belief in Communism, although that form of government makes as much sense as Democracy, at least to me, at this point in my life. I just want out, Terry! You don't understand, do you?"
"Hell, no!" Terry suppressed a strong sense of rage building in him. "I have to ask, Sally; have to confirm what Colonel Ferret said: have you been passing secrets?"
"Trying to make your shitty job a little easier?" she spat the question at him.
"Maybe."
Her words were barely audible over the rush of wind in the open car. "Yes, I have."
And that was to be the beginning of the end of Ferret's Dog Teams.
His anger boiled, spilling over. "GodT damnit, Sally! Why did you do it?"
"I was a scared kid, Terry— a long time ago. I'd done something wrong, got in a little trouble with the law. I told you all this. Then Ferret stepped in, all smiles and cordiality, telling me everything was going to be all right. His words sounded good to me then—now they stink. He's done the same to you. Blackmailed you."
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"No," Terry shook his head, "that's not true. I got out for a time. He didn't try to stop me. You could have done the same thing," he cut his eyes to her, "before you turned traitor, that is."
She grabbed at her purse on the seat and jerked out her pistol, pointing it at Terry. She could not understand his slight smile. "I'll kill you, Terry. I don't want to, but I will. Please don't make me do that. What I'm doing is right—working for peace. What you're doing is wrong. I'm telling it all, Terry. Now, stop the car."
Whatever feelings he had for her vanished. He felt no pity, not one second of sorrow for what he had to do. Terry could not tolerate disloyalty. His dossier read he was an arch-patriot. His dossier was correct.
At her instructions, Terry turned off the highway and down a rutted, bumpy dirt road. A mile further he pulled over, cut the engine, and pocketed the keys. He got out to stand by the side of the car.
"Now what, Sally?"
"Give me the keys, Terry. Give me the keys and some time. Ill let you live. I promise."
"Sure you will, Sally," he said dryly. "And the moon is made of green cheese."
She pulled the trigger, the hammer falling on a empty chamber. Again and again she pulled the trigger to the sound of clicks. She cursed Terry. "Son-of-a-bitch!" She threw the pistol at him. Terry caught the .38 in his left
hand and shoved it in his belt.
He reached into his pocket and held out the cyanide pill. "You want it this way?"
The thought of physically taking Terry only briefly entered her mind. She knew no one had ever taken Terry Kovak. Not even Ferret could do that, not anymore. With tears running down her face, she begged, "Give me a break,. Terry. Please!?"
His silence wrote the final chapter on Sally Malone, girl who had it all from Binghamton, NY. Her shoulders slumped in surrender.
"There's still the man in Michigan," she tried one more ploy. "He'll tell it all."
•"He's dead," Terry informed her.
"Yes, I suspected as much. But part of what the Dog Teams have done is carefully detailed and tucked away. Ferret will be able to squash most of it, but a little will leak out."
"It's happened before, Sally. You know that. Ferret will just change the names and keep going. He might be forced into retirement, but someone else will take over. We'll always be around."
She took the pill from his
outstretched hand and looked at it. "Kiss me goodbye, Terry?"
"No! I have no sympathy for traitors."
She slipped out of her blouse and skirt, standing before him in bra and panties. "One more time for good luck, Terry?"
His eyes held only disgust.
Sally shrugged, popped the pill in her mouth, and swallowed it. She sat down on the
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marshy ground. A few moments later she was dead, her face contorted in agony as the cyanide stopped all vital functions.
Terry picked her up, while a water buffalo watched through mean eyes, and carried her to the car, dumping her in the trunk. He drove back to Saigon, parked the car behind the hotel, where other agents would dispose of the body. Five hours later he was on a MATS plane, heading back to the United States. Back to Colonel Ferret. To another assignment.
JILL
An invisible force moved between them as their eyes met, shifted away, returned, and locked. The force whizzed between them, back and forth, attempting to stir one or the other to action.
The St. Louis bar was crowded with people: laughing, talking, ordering more booze, singing and shouting in and out of time with the over-worked and most of the time too-loud band. But for the soldier with the hard pale eyes, and the young woman with the dark hair and sexy mouth, seated several stools apart around the curving bar, they were the only two people left in the world as they looked at each other, oblivious to the happy chaos roaring about them.
Terry smiled, the smile momentarily warming his pale eyes, and raised his glass to her. She returned the smile and raised her own glass in a taunting mock salute.
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Terry had been in the States less than twenty-four hours, having flown in from Germany. He had thirty days leave time coming, and took it all, deciding to wander around the country, with no desire to all to return to Bishop, Georgia.
He left his bar stool and walked to the woman's side. She laughed, raised her hands, and said, "I surrender, sir. But I remind you, under the rules of the Geneva Convention, I am required only to give you my name, rank, and serial number—nothing more."
His eyes inspected her more closely. "I'm a Sergeant, not a Sir, and I'll settle for your name."
"Very well, Sergeant," she patted the empty stool beside her. Terry sat. "Jill Slane. Schoolteacher extraordinaire, attempting to enjoy her Christmas vacation away from what, during the final week, appeared to be millions of screaming little monsters and the rather drab Illinois countryside. I'm also a little bit drunk. Now that you know my entire boring life history, tell me, what is your name?"
"Kovak. Terry Kovak."
"And your home, Terry Kovak?"
He waved his hand. "Where the Army sends me. St. Louis for the moment."
"And tomorrow, the world," she breathed the words with a mischievous smile. She looked him up and down, put a small hand on his shoulder, and said, "You look as though
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you can be trusted, Sergeant, so how would you like to buy a lady a steak dinner?"
"My pleasure, ma'am."
"Good Lord! Do I detect the subtle phras-ings of a Southern Gentleman?"
He grinned. "That depends upon your interpretation of the word, Gentleman, ma'am."
She winked at him, leaned forward, and almost fell off the stool. Terry caught her, strong hands on slender shoulders. "That's an old joke; Sergeant," she straightened up, composing herself, slightly embarrassed by her clumsiness, "and a crude one, at that. However, I shall not take offense. Let's get out of here."
She ate like a starving cannibal, through huge salad, baked potato with butter and sour cream, and a twenty ounce steak, rare and bloody. She occasionally brushed back a strand of black hair; a worrisome lock that kept falling over one eye.
After coffee was served, she asked, "What are those little silver things on your chest?" she pointed.
"Wings. Paratrooper wings. Jump out of airplanes. Geronimo, and all that." ' "Aren't you afraid the thing won't open?"
"That thought has occurred to me from time to time, but we wear a belly pack, too."
"A spare parachute?"
"Right."
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"And if that doesn't open?"
"Then the medics will have something to do."
She grimaced, rolling her eyes in dismay. "Fatalistic sort, aren't you?" She cocked her head to look at the patches on his shoulders. "I thought Rangers took care of trees in National Parks?"
Terry put his head in his hands and feigned great pain. "Oh, my Godl" he moaned, then laughed at her.
"Really, I did!" she said.
Terry asked if she'd like to take a walk and let dinner settle?
"In St. Louis at midnight? You've got to be kidding! Or making bad jokes. You want to get rolled, or something?"
Terry smiled at her last question, wanting to say he'd very much like to see the punk who could roll him, but instead he said, "Got any suggestions of your own?"
She looked at him, her gray eyes startlingly vivid in their frame of smooth face and black hair. She placed both hands on the table and felt a delicious shivering in her loins as she gazed at the man sitting across the cleared table. She was aware of a quickening of her heartbeat. "What are you trying to say, Sergeant?"
He looked down at his coffee cup, then brought his eyes up to meet hers, conscious of the fact he felt a strong . . . something for this almost stranger. "Maybe I don't want ,the
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evening to end?"
Jill was almost flip with her reply, then realized she was very much drawn to -this young soldier, and sauciness might be the wrong way to further their relationship, and she knew she wanted their relationship to go much further. She studied him. He was young in years, surely no more than twenty-five, but his eyes—when she could read them—were very old, wise; as ancient as time. Strong hands, with tiny scars on the knuckles. Very blonde hair, cut short. His face tanned a deep bronze. She knew this soldier spent very little time in an office.
She blurted, "Do you want to sleep with me, Terry?" then railed silently at herself for saying it.
She had known sex with two men in her twenty-two years, and was famous as a notorious flirt and a lot of fun. But during her college years it was said of Jill Slane: 'Lots of fun, but no screwing.'
Terry did not reply, maintaining his steady gaze with pale eyes that gave away nothing.
Jill realized, with her question, she had lost ground, and she wanted—for some reason as yet unknown to her—to regain it. "I'm not a tart," she said. "I'm not the land of woman to deep around with strangers."
"Then why did you say it?" Terry was suddenly irritated with her and didn't know why he should be. Hell, he'd just met her. There was nothing between them. But he wanted
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something to be between them, and that thought confused him. Everything was happening too quickly.
She touched the back of his hand with cool fingertips. "Forgive me, Terry. I sometimes say things I instantly regret. It's a defense mechanism with me. Protective coloration, that's all."
His anger cooled, to be replaced with calmness and a question. "I don't have a room as yet—all my gear is still in my car. I have thirty days to kill." He wondered why he used the word: kill? "Jill, you want to spend some time with me?"
"Yes, I would," she quickly replied. "But, where?"
He shrugged. "How about Canada?"
She didn't believe she heard him right. She blinked twice, then asked, "Canada?! Like the country? Mounties and Lake Louise and all that land of stuff. Canada?" This is insane! I just met the man.
"Yeah. Right. Why not? Do you have enough time to make the trip?"
"I ... have seventeen days."
"Well?" He didn't know why he picked Canada, or why he asked a woman he didn't know to travel with him. Was she one of Ferret's plants. He did that from time to time, testing his people, to see if they would open their mouths and talk about the Te
ams. No, she wasn't a plant, Terry concluded.
My God! Jill thought: this man might be a
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murderer on the loose. A rapist, or worse. Canada? "Let's go," she heard herself say.
They drove as far as Chicago. There, they checked into—with unspoken, silent agreement—a motel, and spent the next ten days together in the Windy City, falling more in love with each other as the hours passed in a dizzying blur. Jill told him her life's story, hoking it up, making her life seem more mundane than it really was. Terry told her about himself, lying a great deal to fill in the many gaps of secrecy. They walked a lot, holding hands. They spoke of their hopes, plans, dreams, as they strolled along the cold shoreline of Lake Michigan. They laughed at things that would not have amused either of them singly. And they made the sweetest of love at odd hours of the night and day; for them, the clock had stopped. She touched and kissed each scar on his body, questioning their presence, usually receiving an answer that did not satisfy her, but spoken in such a manner as to suggest any further discussion would be pointless, and to leave the unknown where it belonged, in limbo.
She was everything he ever envisioned in a woman. Beautiful and perfect in every way—in his eyes. Intelligent, possessing a dry, cutting wit. Jill spoke almost perfect, grammatically correct German, speaking it with such a flat, mid-western twang, Terry could
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not understand a word of it.
He was everything she had looked for in a man. An incredibly powerful man, but one who did not strut about, flexing his muscles, boasting of his power. He had the grace and quickness of an athlete, but sports held zero interest for him. She had asked him, once, about that.
'I don't see the point/ he had replied, and she dropped the subject.
He had never told her, but she sensed he could very probably loll with his hands; hands that were so wonderfully gentle as they stroked her skin. He was very intelligent, but usually kept his mental alertness hidden except, she suspected, to those he trusted. Which, she felt, numbered very few.
Several young thugs followed them one night, as they strolled back to their motel. The punks made several suggestions as to what they would like to do to Jill, and what they would do to Terry if he didn't give him his money and if he tried to interfere in their taking of the woman.
The Last of the Dogteam Page 16