Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  “Eh, fuck you, Andy. You never believe anyone. That’s your problem.” He sucked on the cigarette and said, “One thousand American, to be wired to a broker in London by ten tomorrow morning, New York time.”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Nine.”

  “That’s a lot of money, Nicky. What makes you think I would pay such money?”

  “It’s nothing, Andy! Your opposition will pay that price for a phone number. You had better decide.”

  “Four.”

  “Six.”

  “I’ll look into six if the information checks out. You know how it works.”

  “Agreed.” Testler stuck out his hand, and the two consummated the deal with a handshake, Testler more heartily than Andy. Testler then searched the pocket of his jacket, which hung on the back of his chair, and located his wallet. From this he withdrew the broker’s business card and handed it to Andy, who put it away.

  Arrangements thus complete, Testler said, “He’s been traveling with a woman.”

  “The woman, I know about. That’s not worth even a hundred, Nicky.”

  “The girl is reporting on him.”

  “To whom?”

  “A man named Tristovich,” he said. “He sits on your Dragonfly like an old maid. And that’s why I think something is wrong with the man.”

  “I don’t follow you. Do me a favor. Try and make sense.” Andy began to worry that someone else may have already paid Testler, and that for the second time in three days he had walked into a trap.

  “His assignment is taking him into the United States.”

  “Not Canada? You’re certain it is the United States?”

  “United States. Absolutely. That’s why they chose him. He’s Bulgarian, and he’s good. If he fucks up, it’s all blamed on the DS.”

  “What’s the assignment?”

  “No idea. None whatsoever.”

  “A lot of good you are.”

  “I do know that a Lieutenant Tristovich has taken over Rhinestone, and that he was also in Syria when the Beirut embassy was sabotaged.”

  “So what?”

  “He seems to follow Dragonfly around. The two are very close.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I know for a fact that they have both been seen entering the Neurosurgical Research Institute named by Polenov. It’s on Mayakovsky Street, in Leningrad, near Nevsky Avenue.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “You know the place.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know this is also where most defectors are debriefed.” Testler fished a piece of tobacco from his tongue; the spider web stuck to his lower lip and stayed there.

  Andy said nothing.

  Testler asked, “What if Borikowski’s a defector? What if he’s not Bulgarian after all? That would make some interesting situations, would it not?”

  “Not if I don’t know his assignment. Testler, this is trash!” But Andy had heard a rumor about Field Operative Major Percy Goldman, G-2. A diplomatic attaché had sworn in front of the Senate Subcommittee on Intelligence that he had seen Goldman in a swimming pool in a Moscow military club—ten weeks after his reported “assassination.” This incident had never been confirmed by another source. “Trash,” Andy repeated.

  “An interesting possibility.”

  “It’s idiotic. What good does it do me? I pass this along, Testler, and they’ll have me in a mental hospital. You understand? No thanks. I’ll pay two hundred for this. No more.”

  Somewhat desperately, Testler offered, “What if I told you that eighteen months ago there was an operation called Bookends that involved the abduction of Captain Andrew Clayton on the outskirts of Beirut?” Testler’s narrow and oily face peered through the curtain of thick smoke, expressionless. He finally noticed the web on his lip and removed it. “Captain Clayton was secretly helping the Lebanese Army establish an intelligence-gathering arm.”

  “Bookends?”

  “Clayton was lured out to a rendezvous, through misinformation, but the wrong Clayton showed up.”

  “You’re on thin ice, Nicky,” Andy said bitterly.

  “And that the Kolyma division of Spetsnaz is in Detroit right now, trying to abduct Andrew Clayton again.”

  A thought struck Andy like lightning: He had been careful not to be followed last night, but what if the Kolyma knew about his former relationship with Mari? It was unlikely, but what if?

  “What is it?”

  Andy stood abruptly.

  “Andy?” Testler hollered as Andy ran from the room.

  His footsteps banged against the old flooring. Two steps at a time; three steps; landing; turn; two steps at a time… he passed the broken window… landing; turn; three steps—jump; turn; two steps… He opened the door and hurried into the alley before he should have.

  The agents had followed him from Mari’s apartment. One of them, a big man with a narrow head and a wide mouth, was positioned behind a crate, beneath the fire escape, next to a brown dumpster.

  Andy didn’t see the man. He turned to adjust course and slipped on a frozen puddle, careening and tumbling to the far side of the alley, where he bounced against the wall. “Shit!” he shouted. He came to his knees slowly, inspecting his elbow.

  The man, hidden by the dumpster, stood and withdrew a bulky handgun that had an enormous barrel diameter: an air-compression dart pistol. He edged a few feet along the wall, eyes on Andy, but the burning trash barrel blocked his shot. He edged quickly past the doorway Andy had just come out of and continued up the alley until he was in front of the door to the Pit Stop.

  Andy stood up, visible through the dancing orange flames and resulting black smoke, rubbing his elbow.

  The man raised the large gun and took aim.

  At that very moment, Andy looked over his shoulder and saw the man. He should have dropped and rolled, taken possession of his weapon, and fired. Instead, he hesitated—yes, he froze—just as he had told Mari he might.

  He knew who this man was, at least what he was. He also knew that for some reason he had acted too quickly, and that now it might cost him his life—and that the reason was Mari.

  In an instant of time, Andy identified his gross mistake of hurrying into the alley, and looked into the man’s eyes and awaited the shot. But the shot did not come. Instead, he heard a clicking of metal, and then the man’s eyes rolled into his head, he released the gun, which fell noisily to the ground, his eyelids closed, and his head slumped forward.

  He collapsed to the pavement.

  Dominique stepped out of the doorway, a switchblade in hand. He was grinning toothlessly.

  He lit a match in a practiced fashion—one could picture him standing before a mirror and doing this for hours—and touched the match to the end of the cigarette clutched in his teeth.

  Andy heard the stiletto close.

  Dominique said, “Guns make too much noise. This will cost you extra, m’sieu. Five hundred American…”

  But Andy was up and running again, his only thought Mari.

  “Heh!” Dominique protested softly, not wanting to draw attention to himself or the corpse. “Hey!”

  Andy did not hear the man. His attention, his entire being was with Mari. If anything had happened to her…

  He turned left at the end of the alley and saw into the front seat of a car where two more agents sat, looking right back at him. Andy sprinted down the nearly empty sidewalk.

  The resulting scene was like something from a Marx Brothers film. The waiting agents, caught off guard, obviously mixed signals. The passenger flung open his door and then couldn’t make the seat belt release. The driver, in too big a hurry, started the car, put it in reverse, and backed up. The passenger door then lodged against the sidewalk, opened too far and broke the hinge, causing a horrible scraping sound that continued until the driver stopped the car. By now his passenger had unfastened the seat belt, and attempted a daring leap from the car; but the driver changed gears and put his foot on the ac
celerator. The car lunged forward. The door slammed against the passenger, who screamed at the top of his lungs, ribs broken.

  Andy turned left and pushed hard, crossing the empty street and making a right down another alley that led to a one-way street. He ran against the sparse one-way traffic and took a right at every intersection for the next three. On this last corner was a grocery store. Tucked in behind two brick columns that seemed a part of a building planned but never built was a pay phone.

  She answered in a groggy voice.

  Andy mentioned no names. He asked, “Can you get to a pay phone?”

  “Yes, downstairs, but it’s awfully late—”

  “Pencil?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave her his phone number and waited only minutes before the pay phone rang. He said, “There’s reason for concern, and I’ve come up with a plan. I don’t want a discussion. Agreed?”

  “Don’t make me play spy games. I’ve got the bed warmed up and I’m waiting.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “But are you committed?” she teased.

  He ignored her. “You’ll need a disguise.”

  “What I need is an explanation.”

  He didn’t want to alarm her, but he had no time to battle her wit, so he told her, “Your place has been watched. I was followed and have upset someone’s plans. If they have any sense at all, that will bring them down on your place shortly. It has to be where they caught onto me. You can pull this off without a second thought….”

  “I’m a social worker, love. Don’t pull this… crap… on me.”

  “How about a cheap fur, short skirt…”

  “What?” she snapped incredulously.

  “…spike heels, black stockings…”

  “I don’t own a cheap fur.”

  “Listen to me!”

  “Easy! Just kidding…”

  “You’re making a trip, so take anything important—”

  She interrupted, “Now wait just a minute—”

  “But don’t take anything more than a purse. Dress as I just mentioned. And remember, you must do this quickly! Call an ambulance.”

  “B—” She tried to cut him off but he continued.

  “Tell them your husband has had a heart attack. Sound frantic. Give them your address, but with a room number a couple floors below you. Fifteen-thirty or something… doesn’t matter. Then call a cab, name a time, and have them pick you up outside of Charlie’s—”

  “But that’s three blocks—”

  “I know.” He paused, putting the puzzle back together in his head. “Okay… you wait for the ambulance to arrive. When it does, you run like hell down the stairs. Don’t use the elevators—”

  “In spike heels?”

  “Enough! You go out the back of the building, into the alley. You try and walk like a whore, you posture yourself like a whore, you are a whore.”

  “Watch your tongue.”

  “Stop clowning around. Repeat it.”

  “Okay, okay. Ambulance. Stairs. Walk like a whore. Charlie’s. Cab… and just where am I heading?”

  “The airport. We meet at the airport at eight-thirty.”

  “That’s six hours from now!”

  “So what?”

  “It’ll be mobbed!”

  “Exactly. We’ll meet at United. Out in the seats.”

  “United. How appropriate. I’ll be the whore with the big bosoms and not-so-cheap fur. And you’ll be the… Forget it! I’m not waking up some friend and killing six hours. This is unnecessary. I’ll be fine.”

  He had feared this reaction. “Make a deal?”

  “Try me,” she told him, smiling now into the phone.

  “We meet in one hour at the Airport Inn. We’ll kill the six hours together.” He wanted to believe that this switching of plans was not typical of him. He saw himself more as a man who stuck to a single plan and carried it out to the best of his abilities. He knew his first ideas always were his best ideas….

  But then he included into the second equation his chance to be with her again and reminded himself that his chief priority had been to get her out of the apartment building in a hurry.

  “A delightful compromise,” she agreed.

  “You’ll do the whole bit?”

  “For you dear”—again teasing—“anything.”

  “Anything?” he retorted. “You may wish you hadn’t said that.”

  “I doubt it. Listen. What about your suitcase?”

  “Oh shit! Leave it with Billy. If you can be quick, pack a small one for yourself too. I’ll arrange for them to be picked up later tonight, but that will take me some time. You’ll probably beat me there.”

  “Good. That’ll give me a minute. So I’ll register. For two.” She seemed girlish. “This is exciting! I’ll be Mrs. French. Mrs. T. French… the somewhat whorish lady with the nice walk.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked, hearing that other Mari.

  “Scared to death.”

  “You sound it.”

  “I am. Guilty. I hate the idea of people watching me!”

  “Maybe they’re not.”

  “No. They are. I can feel them.”

  “This is easy.”

  “I know. Just a typical evening. Busy, busy, busy…”

  And he smiled. “Did you switch on your light?”

  “I was nude. Did you expect me to go to the pay phone nude? I switched on the lights. I put on a robe.”

  “When you get back, turn them off. Work in the dark. It’s important you get the jump on them.”

  “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “This is the last time you come to my place unannounced. You bring me nothing but trouble.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Airport Inn. Mrs. T. French.”

  “You’re a prize.”

  She hung up.

  Sunday, November 23

  1:27 A.M.

  Detroit, Michigan

  She was sitting uncomfortably in a chair when he knocked. She bent to examine herself in the mirror one last time, pulled on a strand of hair, and let him in.

  He inspected the motel room, noting that it seemed somehow more a glorified hospital room than the place for a guest. Everything was new and color-coordinated, and though certain expenditures had been made to “liven up” the surroundings, these were mostly in the form of illuminated light switches and remote control consoles and a clock, which if allowed, would talk to you.

  These did not interest him.

  Feeling awkward, Andy finally turned to greet Mari, but she was pressed up against the wall, her hands knotting themselves hopelessly.

  “I’m not so sure this was such a good idea,” she admitted, and he could tell that she was holding back tears.

  “You didn’t disguise yourself!” he stated, outraged.

  “Easy, Fred! I changed clothes after I got here. Jeeez, you’re jumpy.”

  “Cautious. I’m cautious, that’s all. What are you doing holding up the wall over there?”

  “What are you standing there with your coat on for?”

  He took the coat off and slung it over the desk chair he stood by.

  She walked over, passing him, took the coat, and hung it up.

  He admired her, and hoped she might sit down on the bed, but at the closet she turned and said, “So.”

  “So,” he replied.

  “Here we are….”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s late.” She glanced briefly at the bed and then to the floor.

  “Yes.”

  “You know, Drew. I still don’t know whether you hate me, or whether I’m forgiven.”

  “Either do I.”

  “That’s a hell of an answer.”

  “That’s the truth. Would you prefer I lie?”

  “You’re angry. You’re still angry. What the hell are we doing here?” She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders with her hands.

  “How am I supposed to feel? How are you su
pposed to feel? Is there a ‘supposed to’ that I don’t know about?”

  “I thought…”

  “What? What did you think we’d do? I know what I thought we’d do.”

  “What?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I asked you.”

  “Jesus Christ!” he said, and started to walk about aimlessly. “I’m having trouble with everything we hid from each other. It’s not healthy.”

  “But it’s normal.”

  “Doesn’t make it right, or easy to deal with, at least not for me.” He noticed her clothes now, having paid no attention at first. She wore a plain white shirt of a flimsy fabric, which stretched tightly around her bust, giving her more there than she had. Her skirt was some kind of gray wool, hanging just below her knees. Her hair was brushed and full and her teeth shone.

  “You said maybe we could continue.”

  “Yes I did.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “Where would you like to start?”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning. My legs are tired. I’d vote for either starting in the morning, over breakfast, or forgetting all the rules and kind of jumping into the middle somewhere.”

  “Meaning?”

  She lowered her head and her hair fell forward and hung like a curtain behind which she could hide. She snapped her head backwards, and the hair followed, falling back into place fluffed and wild. “Meaning I’d like you to touch me. I want to touch you.” She edged toward him tentatively, yet confident that this was something she had to do. It was her turn to instigate, not his, she realized, and so she boldly stepped up to him and stood inches away. She reached out and ran a finger along his jaw and traced the edges of his lips. Her hands slid down his chest, and he took her by the hips. She looked up at him and he bent and kissed her.

  His fingers found her hair and pulled it from her face. They touched lips softly a number of times and then their kiss held. He hugged her tightly and looked over her shoulder, and there in the mirror, Andy Clayton looked back. And instead of disgust or contempt, the face in the mirror agreed with this, granting an approval he feared he might not receive.