Snark

by William L. DeAndrea

  Still, Lewis Alfot had never shirked his duty. His duty remained clear. The only things left unclear were just what he should do now, and how much time he would have in which to do it. He was a hunted man. It was only a matter of time before Robert would share his knowledge with the police. At least, that was what Sir Lewis would, do in his place. The act on Felicity made it mandatory—you must protect your people. That was the essence of leadership in this business, and he had trained

  Robert personally. He had confidence that Tipton wouldn’t let his standards down.

  Sir Lewis missed the Section, missed the activity. And until today, he hadn’t realized how much he missed London. Right now, the sound of the air hammer down below in the street was more welcome to him than any music might be. And earlier that afternoon, when the lunchtime crowds were thickest, and anonymity therefore greatest, he walked through Harrods; the Food Halls, the book department, furniture, clothing, everything. The clearing house of the world, it was, full of riches and unashamed of it. The symbol of the Britain that was, and had to be again. Owned now, in large part, by a bunch of bloody Arabs.

  Sir Lewis sighed. Well, at least the store was still there.

  What really galled him was the fact that he could take the lift to the lobby, go downstairs, walk half a block, turn a corner, pay 50p, and ride the Piccadilly Line nine stops to the Tournament Press. That was home as far as he was concerned, and come as close to it as he might, he could do nothing to change the fact that he was now a permanent exile from it.

  Because he killed a few people.

  No. It wasn’t that. He’d killed people in the wrong circumstances. People he had no—how did the Bond books put it—no license to kill. Random people off the street. A cross-section of Britain.

  Well, he had to be honest with himself. Not exactly a cross-section. The only respectable one he’d done was the postman, and the man wasn’t wearing his uniform when Sir Lewis caught up with him—he was beastly drunk, and he’d been trying to pick a fight with a couple of decent Pakistanis as soon as he left the pub. The nation could do quite well without that sort.

  For the rest—a whore; a dole-collecting, violent young yob; and a kidnapping terrorist. If it was the cross-section he’d had in mind when he wanted to dramatize the blind-eye problem, he had definitely begun cutting from the bottom.

  Except for Felicity, he told himself. But Felicity couldn’t be helped.

  Sir Lewis was who he was, had been able to help his country (and dammit, he had helped his country) as much as he had done, because he knew, because he had been forced to learn, that sometimes you had to be ready to kill without a license.

  For example, in the War. He killed a damned lot of Germans in the War, and a few French collaborators as well, but the most important man he’d killed was an Englishman. The bloody captain in 1940 France. The one who’d lost his nerve, and wanted the men to surrender to the next group of Germans they came across.

  He’d actually proposed that to Lieutenant Lewis Alfot. “We have to face the fact, Alfot,” the captain had said, “the war’s over in France, and the Jerries have won.”

  He gave orders for Lieutenant Alfot to pass along to the men. Orders Lewis Alfot would never let pass his lips. A captured Luger found its way into the lieutenant’s hand, a shot, and it was over. He told the men the captain had committed suicide, but for the sake of his family they would put it about that he’d been killed by the enemy. The men, happy enough to be rid of a coward as commander, had gone along willingly.

  And he’d led them to safety. And they loved him for it. He led the men through hell to make it to the beach, and they loved him for it. By God, if he could have one thing from his old life with him this second, it would be the loving cup the men had given him.

  Lewis Alfot had vowed he would never let the possible results stand in the way of what he felt was his duty.

  So. What, then, was his duty now?

  It was obvious that Project Blind Eye was over. In his current status as a hunted man, there was no way he could accumulate enough bodies for the British people to see the message and wake up. Furthermore, considering his stupidity over the matter of fingerprints, and his failure to dispatch Felicity Grace effectively, Sir Lewis was no longer fully confident of his ability to do it.

  It was manifest, then, that his duty was simply this: To salvage something of the mess his current plans were in.

  He closed his eyes. He tuned out the air hammer, and the street noise, and the drivel of American voices from the telly. He thought hard about the problem, thought until his head grew so hot that bolt or no, he removed his wig.

  An hour’s hard concentration gave him the answer; he knew what he had to do. It would not be pleasant, but that was not a consideration.

  The first step was to get himself captured again.

  5

  THE SISTER ALWAYS SMILED at him. He’d come here twice a day for the last few days, and every time, the head nurse on the head-and-eye-injury ward of the hospital smiled and nodded at him.

  It had taken Bellman a little while to figure out what was going on. She couldn’t have been flirting with him. Sister Pauling (as her nametag had it—it was hard for Bellman to avoid thinking of her as a nun, but here a head nurse was a Sister, and that was that) was built like a brick shithouse—literally. Six feet tall, four feet across, rectangular.

  Then it occurred to him that she might just be smiling at anyone who was coming to visit a woman who could afford to eschew socialized medicine and pay for one of the hospital’s almost vestigial private rooms. He rejected that explanation because it surely had to be down on some form somewhere that Miss Grace’s bills were being paid by her employer, Tournament Press, and Sister Pauling didn’t strike him as the type who wouldn’t know everything on every form.

  On his first visit today, he’d figured it out. The formidable head nurse was a romantic, and she was approving of the way Bellman remained devoted to the victim of a cruel mutilation. Okay by him. It was as good a cover as any. This time he was playing along by bringing a huge bunch of roses with him. Sister Pauling practically beamed at him. He wondered how she’d act, if she knew the truth. That he and Miss Grace both came from a world where devotion was a liability. That the time might come when he might have to use Felicity as cruelly, if not as brutally, as the Sussex Cyclops had.

  For the first time, the nurse spoke to him. “There’s another young man in there with her,” she said. She had a surprisingly gentle voice and manner. “A boy, really. Said he was a fellow employee. He was polite, quite polite.”

  Bellman noted the surprise in her voice. Sister Pauling was determinedly Not Judging By Appearances.

  Bellman smiled. “About so tall? Two-tone hair, brown and yellow? Bovver boots? Ears like a package of M&Ms?”

  Sister Pauling tucked a wisp of iron-gray hair under a construction in starched white linen that resembled the Sydney Opera House. “M&Ms?”

  “Oops. American candy. Like a bag of Smarties.”

  She nodded, and the hair came loose again. “That sounds like the boy. I can tell him to leave. That is”—to Bellman’s delight, she blushed—“that is, if you want to be alone with Miss Grace.”

  “No thanks. I know him. I’d like to say hello to him myself.”

  “That’ll be fine, then. I’ll send someone around with a vase for the flowers.”

  Bellman thanked her and walked to the room. He knocked softly and went in. Dave Hamilton shot to his feet.

  “At ease, Dave,” Bellman told him. “How’s the patient?”

  “Why don’t you ask the patient?” Felicity asked. “Bloody awful. This damned bandage...it itches like hell: I must look like the bloody Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “The Bride of Frankenstein had black hair, actually,” Dave Hamilton offered. “With like a gray streak, you know, from the temple.”

  Felicity managed a smile. It was only half a smile, because the left side of her face was encumbered with a bandage. It w
as braced by being wrapped completely around her neck and forehead, and her bright red hair shot out from the top of it like flames from a volcano. It was half of a weary smile, at that, but it was the best he’d seen her do since she’d been in here.

  “I was telling Dave how sweet he was to have come,” Felicity said. “It was such a nice surprise.”

  “I was glad to do it, and all,” Dave said. “You seem miles better.”

  Felicity grunted.

  “Well,” Dave said. “I guess I’ll be running along home. Everton and Spurs on the telly today.”

  “Can you wait a few minutes for me, Dave?” Bellman said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Dave pursed his lips. “Something to do with work?”

  “Something to do with work.”

  “All right, then. Plenty of football left this season. Take your time. Ta, Miss Grace.”

  “Goodbye, Dave. Thank you again.”

  The door closed behind him, then opened again almost immediately as a nurse came in with a vase for the roses. She smiled on them, and left without a word.

  “What in hell was she smiling about?” Felicity demanded.

  “She caught it from the Sister.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Oh,” Felicity said.

  “Yes?”

  “It just sank in. The roses are for me. You have brought me flowers. Fancy that.”

  “It’s the traditional thing to do,” Bellman said. “I hope you like roses.”

  Love them,” she said. “It’s been a long time since anyone gave me roses.”

  “You deserve them,” Bellman said.

  “I deserve them for decoration on my grave. That’s what I deserve.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Bellman told her. “I’ve just come from Tipton. He’s got orders for you—stop blaming yourself.”

  “Easy to say.”

  “Just follow orders.”

  Felicity’s voice was bitter. She was tracing little impatient, meaningless hieroglyphics on the sheet with one finger. “Yes, sir. No more blaming myself, sir.”

  “I’ll tell Tipton.”

  “Do that.”

  “I’ve got an order for you, myself.”

  Her eye widened. “Oh? What’s that, Mr. Bellman?”

  “Stop being so fucking tough.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I mean let it out, Felicity. You’re going to kill yourself like this.”

  “What if I do?”

  “No ‘what if’ about it. You are not going to. This job isn’t over yet, lady.”

  “It is for me.”

  “The hell it is. When are they letting you out of here?”

  “End of the week. They want to do some plastic surgery first. You see, I tried to close my eye when the biro started coming, and my eyelid got torn. Then, too, the plastic pen barrel wasn’t as sharp or as sturdy as the other implements the Cyclops had used, and it broke off splinters, so they want to sew me up so that I can cover my false eye prettily. When I get it. Revolting, isn’t it?”

  “I can take more before I retch,” Bellman said. “I’m tough, too.”

  “Until then, they have cotton in there, soaked with antibiotics and God knows what all, to ward off infection while it heals.”

  “Okay. When they let you out of here, I want you to move in with me. Or I’ll come out to Putney and stay with you.”

  “Why?” Felicity demanded. “Have you developed a kink for women in eyepatches? Or does sympathy turn you on?”

  “I’m thinking about the job,” Bellman told her. “Things are going to start happening—I’ve spent too much time jerking off around here. I’m going to be running around like a man who’s mistaken the Ben-Gay for the hemorrhoid cream, and people are likely to be ringing at odd hours to tell me things. I need a trained professional to answer phones—”

  “A secretary.”

  “A professional. To discuss strategy with. To keep an eye on things when I’m not—” Bellman stopped, and listened to himself. “Oh, Jesus,” he breathed.

  Felicity started to laugh. Harsh, loud, unbridled laughter that had her bouncing off the bed. “To keep an eye on things!” she said, then laughed some more. Then she said, “Oh, God,” and started to sob. A tear rolled from her good eye.

  “Oh, Jeffrey,” she said.

  “I’m sorry...”

  “Jeffrey, hold me. Hold me tight.”

  6

  BY THE TIME BELLMAN walked past Sister Pauling’s farewell smile, he had everything he’d wanted to get from Felicity. He had the whole story of the night in Brighton. Not much use, perhaps, but at least it showed that the old man was still resourceful, and that he could put across an act. The way he’d lulled her into sympathy with his madman-falling-apart routine before he struck had been masterful. Felicity still had trouble believing how well he’d suckered her.

  Bellman also had Felicity’s promise that she’d work with him when she got out of the hospital. It had been decided that he’d come and stay with her on Putney Hill. She’d be a semi-invalid, after all, and in her place she knew where everything was, and knew what was there in the first place. That suited Bellman. He didn’t know exactly what he’d be doing, but he suspected it would be things he’d be just as glad not to have Tipton know about. The Bloomsbury apartment was altogether too easy to bug; he didn’t want Tipton to be tempted.

  Felicity’s emotional binge had helped her. She was calmer when he left her, and now that some of the tension of shock and horror had been burned off, she’d been ready to go to sleep. Bellman was glad of the slip of the tongue that had brought it about.

  He wished, though, that he could decide if it had really been a slip of the tongue. On the one hand, he was not aware of any intention to say anything so tasteless just to provoke a reaction. On the other hand, it had worked, and if he had thought of it before, he would have known it would work. Manipulation had been drilled into him all his life; he’d done it so continuously for so long, maybe the process had been taken over by his midbrain—a conditioned set of reflexes, like whistling, or riding a bicycle. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Someone should warn Felicity about him. He should do it himself. He knew, though, that he wouldn’t.

  Dave Hamilton was waiting for him just outside the hospital doors.

  “There you are,” Bellman said. “I thought you’d be in the lobby.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I wanted to keep an eye on my bike.” He pointed across the road to a small red Honda. “It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got, know what I mean? I mean, Tournament Press are a fine lot, but I’m not making enough that I can afford to have my bike nicked.”

  “Nobody pays that much money,” Bellman told him. “Look, I’ve got a car here, the company has fixed me up with a Mini wagon. It’ll be a tight fit, but I think we can fit your bike in the back; I’ll take you wherever it is you want to go, you save gas, and I get to talk to you.”

  Hamilton agreed; Bellman went around the corner for the car. In addition to the Mini, Tipton had fixed him up with a special driving license. That, Bellman thought, was an act that might cost more British lives than the Sussex Cyclops.

  He drove carefully, looking both ways before he did anything, and made it safely to where Dave Hamilton waited. They got the bike stowed away, and Bellman said, “Where to?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hamilton said. “Ever been to Camden Town?”

  “That’s up around the zoo, isn’t it?”

  “Not far. Lots of markets and things. I need some stuff. If you don’t mind.”

  “Not a bit. You’ll have to give me directions.” Bellman looked both ways, and pulled out into the lefthanded traffic.

  In between directions, Hamilton talked. At first, he was nervous. “I’m not in trouble or anything, am I? I mean, I know the boss sends geezers around checking up and all, but I haven’t been talking to anybody. I barel
y talk to my own family, anymore.”

  “No trouble, Dave, relax. I’ve read your file. I know you haven’t talked about your job to anybody, except to tell them you run a computer for a publishing company.”

  “Played hell with my life, too, if you want to know. I’ve drifted away from all my mates. Of course, they don’t have jobs. Now they can hardly think of anything to say to me bar, ‘Oy, Dave, lend us a fiver.’”

  “This whole business can be a drag.”

  “Well, I’m not complaining, mind.”

  Bellman smiled. “Nobody said you were. And who cares, anyway? Go ahead and complain if you want.”

  “No, sir, Mr. Bellman—”

  “Jeff,” Bellman said.

  “All right. Jeff. I’m not complaining. If you’ve read my file, you know how much I need this job. I’d give up five hundred layabouts for the look on my mum’s face when I told her I got a job. And good pay, too. I never did anything but take the course at the college because the geezer from DHSS suggested it.”

  “Miss Grace says you’re a natural at computers.”

  “I’ve always liked fooling around with gadgets. I don’t know if this was in my file, but I used to make spending money fixing tellys and radios and the like for people. Then after my brother got hurt, and my dad run off, I expanded it. Part of the—what d’ya call it—the Underground Economy.”

  It amused Bellman to notice that as Dave relaxed, his Cockney got thicker. G’s were dropped constantly now, and H’s were disappearing as well. TH’s, F’s, and V’s started blending together, so that “my brother” became “me bruvver.”

  Bellman’s original accent was American South-coastal, as spoken by his father, the Congressman. He never reverted to it, except on purpose. He supposed he just never relaxed enough.