“It’s in your file,” Bellman told the boy. There was more there than that. Hamilton’s father had run off (he was in Australia, but Dave and his mother didn’t know that) because he had brought Dave and his younger brother, Mike, to a football match (Chelsea vs. Liverpool) three years ago, and Chelsea had lost. In the ensuing violence, which probably would have ensued even if Chelsea had won, Mike Hamilton had been hit in the back with a piece of paving rock, which broke his spine and paralyzed him from the shoulders down.
The family undoubtedly would have taken out their anger and grief on the hoodlum who’d thrown the rock, but he was never found, so they took it out on Dad. They were led in this, so the file said, by Dad himself, who began to live down to his own self-image. He drank. He got tough with Dave and Dave’s mother. Finally, he disappeared. Dave had taken over. He’d decided the dole payments weren’t enough, and he’d gone to the Department of Health and Social Services to demand to know what an eighteen-year-old school-leaver could do to make money that wouldn’t put him in jail.
The answer had been computers. Chance had put him in Felicity Grace’s class. And here he was.
“I thought it might be in the file,” Dave said. “I fixed Miss Grace’s telly for her once—she lives right near the college, you know. She just needed a resistor changed. Shop would have charged her a bomb.”
Bellman smiled again. “Bad boys rape other young girls...”
Dave said, “Uh-oh, I think I’m going to be out of a job. You fix gadgets, too?”
“I don’t fix them, I just like to know how they go wrong. Sometimes, you have to break them.”
“I read a book about computers that said, ‘The first step of fixing something is getting it to break.’” Dave laughed. “I don’t know anything else like a machine. If you do it right, you get the right answer. You can put any kind of information into a simple code, and deal with it.” His voice held regret that life wasn’t like that.
Bellman parked outside a big warehouselike building about a block from the Camden Town tube stop. Crowds of punks and tourists and every flavor in between oozed in and out of it like water from a pump. Dave covered his bike with a blanket and headed for the building.
Bellman was just as glad to go inside. It was standard January London weather. The sky looked like the inside of a pewter bowl someone had upended over the city. It would probably start raining in the next half hour or so.
There was nothing Bellman wanted to buy inside, but it was interesting to look at. There were clothes and ornaments and lots of bootleg tapes. A bobby stood around conspicuously, but it was obvious he was there more to stop pickpockets and purse snatchers than to check into the authenticity of any merchandise for sale.
Bellman spent some time watching a fellow with a hairdo like a Day-glo stegosaurus who stood behind a folding card table in the middle of traffic selling stuff that would turn your hair orange or lime green or electric blue. For a few quid, he would punk you up for the day, guaranteed washable. Bellman skipped it.
Across from the hairdresser was a place that sold earrings. “That’s where I get mine,” Dave Hamilton told him. He ran a finger down the colored array in his right ear. “Got plenty now, though.”
After a stop at a food stand (Bellman got a pork pie—he’d once tasted what the British thought of as a hot dog, and once was enough), Dave announced there was nothing he wanted there today, and that they should walk down the road to the open-air market.
They stepped back outside to find the sky darkened from pewter to cast iron. “Won’t be a minute,” Dave promised. “Just some gear I want to check at the other place. We can leave if it rains.”
The other market had had a previous life as a parking lot—now, with tiny stalls cobbled together from planks, plywood, and corrugated metal, it reminded Bellman of a Brazilian favela, pre paint job. Not that bright scenes of city life would especially match the gray street or the gray sky.
The merchandise was much the same as at the indoor market, but even more eclectic. A lot of used things—books, clothes, records. Bellman was tempted by a copy of The Turtles’ Greatest Hits, in really great condition, but he didn’t want to have to lug it back to the States when this business was (finally) over. There was food in greater variety, and a decent-looking Middle Eastern restaurant across the street. Bellman started to regret the pork pie.
Dave was apparently absorbed in looking through a stall smaller than the shower in the company flat. They sold military uniforms, all kinds, all countries.
It started to rain. Bellman pulled his collar up, but cold rain made it onto his neck and formed a channel for itself down his spine. Dave was out of the rain, under a corrugated roof that made a noise like a snare drum solo. Bellman decided to give the kid a few more minutes, then suggest they get the hell out of there. In the meantime, he looked around.
After a while, he said, “Who the hell would want to buy a brown balloon?”
Dave jumped as if Bellman had dropped an ice cube in his pants. “What? Oh. Sorry, Mr. Bellman. Jeff. I was looking at this jacket. This is U.S. Marines, innit?”
“Right.”
“Too dear for me at present, though.” He put it back on the rack. “What were you saying?”
Bellman pointed toward the entrance to the lot on the far side of the one they’d come in to a miserable-looking black man selling balloons. He had a long folding table set up, with his helium tank beside it. Tied in bunches along the table were balloons, trying to float up into the rain.
“Look,” Bellman said. “People come here with their kids, so he can sell balloons. But look at the colors he’s got. Red, green, blue, sure. The purple is unusual. Nice too. But what kid is going to want a white balloon? Or a black one, or a brown one?”
“He’s even got gray ones, see?” Dave said. He seemed as puzzled as Bellman was. Then he shrugged. “We could ask him.”
Bellman shook his head and grinned. “I’ve got enough to worry about without making suggestions to a balloon man.”
“Takes all sorts,” Dave replied. “Anyway, he won’t be selling many in the rain.”
“That sounds like a hint,” Bellman said. “Sold. Let’s get back to the car.”
Bellman finally got around to what he had in mind on the drive home. It was simply that he wanted Dave to stand ready to do any processing he might need done in the days ahead.
Dave looked surprised.
“Check it out with Tipton if you want,” Bellman said.
“It’s not that,” Dave protested. “I’ll be glad to help you. If that’s what you want.”
“It might not come up,” Bellman said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Fine with me,” Dave said. He still looked surprised.
FIFTH
Each thought he was thinking of nothing but “Snark”
And the glorious work of the day;
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark
That the other was going that way.
But the valley grew narrow and narrower still,
And the evening got darker and colder,
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill)
They marched along shoulder to shoulder.
—The Hunting of the Snark
Fit the Fifth
1
THE CONGRESSMAN WAS JUST as glad to get out of Brussels. NATO fact-finding mission, so-called. He and his fellows from Capitol Hill were supposed to find out facts, which they did. Every time they went, they found out the same damn facts. They found out what our NATO allies wanted: Complete protection from the Russians; no nuclear missiles on European soil for their left-wing political parties to get upset over; big buildup of conventional forces without having to pay any money for it; and more say in the distribution of the forces America was paying for. Also, they wanted Cabbage Patch dolls for their kids.
So he was glad to be taking a break from all of it. He wasn’t so sure if he was too happy over what he was doing instead. Whe
n he met his agents, he liked to meet them in his office in Washington, the secret one in the basement of a predominantly black apartment building in a part of town where monuments are scarce. He didn’t mind entertaining them at his regular place in the New Congressional Office Building. He frequently went for walks with them along the river—in conference with a constituent, or a volunteer worker, or a graduate student or something. In Washington, almost any excuse would be easy to put across.
It was different in the field. You just didn’t want to be seen with the boys (or girls) in the field. It was dangerous to the operation; it was dangerous to the agent; and worst of all, it might blow the Congressman’s cover, and the effectiveness of the Agency, forever. So he and his son had arranged all this folderol over a scrambled London-to-Belgium phone (still being circumspect—the phones in Europe had a tendency to connect a caller with a favorite number of theirs, no matter what you dialed) just to have a chance to talk face-to-face.
Of course, the Congressman had agreed. If Jeffrey was willing to talk to his old man face-to-face, or if there was a course of action he felt he needed to run by him, he damned well better talk to him. Once his son was committed to an operation, he wasn’t the sort to come back for consultations. He demanded carte blanche and got it, and answered only for results.
Which was the way the Congressman wanted it. The way he had planned it since he’d conceived his son on the not unwilling (at first) body of a captured Russian spy going by the name of Rebecca Underwood. The boy (or girl) was to have the best genes available, the best training, and then would be sent into the world to do a job for his country no one else could.
The only thing the Congressman hadn’t foreseen was that his son wouldn’t like the work. Or rather, that he would convince himself that he shouldn’t like the work, and try to stay away from it. That he’d hate the part of himself that kept dragging him back to it. To the Agency. To the Congressman.
The boy blamed it all on his father, of course. The Congressman had learned to live without his son’s love. He had his respect, and he had his fear. The Congressman suspected that he was the only thing his son did fear, aside from his own nature, his own destiny.
So they’d meet, and the Congressman would find out what was going on. The Congressman had promoted a Belgian-built Chevy from the NATO motor pool, and, disdaining a chauffeur (raising eyebrows on a few of his more perquisite-mad colleagues) had driven himself up to Dunquerque, where he boarded the ferry for Dover.
The ferry was a confection of airplane-style windows, swept-back smokestacks, and white paint that gleamed in the lights of the harbor. It looked like something that had been sculpted out of a bar of Ivory soap, and it bobbed on the waves like one. A Frenchman on the dock assured him it rode flatter when it was under way.
The Congressman drove the car into the garage section of the ferry, directed by a disheveled docker with the shape of a bowling ball and the imperiousness of Charles de Gaulle. He parked, took the keys, and went looking for his son.
The Congressman had to admit that for a boat designed for nothing but endless two-hour trips, they had done it up. The seats (all facing forward, again like an airplane) were covered in some kind of imitation leather. There was a duty-free shop, a restaurant, a snack bar, and God help us, a disco. There was also, he saw in scoping out the bathroom, a convenient cubicle containing a low porcelain receptacle, something between a sink and toilet, in case the Channel trip cost you your lunch. The Congressman noted it for future reference, and hoped that the ship would get under way soon. He took a seat close to the bathroom, and decided that son or no son, if Jeffrey stood him up, he was a dead man.
A few moments later the throb of the engines turned into a low-frequency hum, and the boat began to slosh its way across the Channel. As the docker had promised, it was better. Slightly. The Congressman resolved that the next time he crossed the Channel he would go by helicopter.
Bellman joined him just after the Congressman decided it was wiser not to look out the windows. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.
His son smiled at his discomfort. He held up a canvas shopping bag from Harrods. “I’ve been doing some marketing for an invalid. Lots of English people do it. Prices are a lot cheaper in France, especially for cheese and poultry and things like that. French butter.”
The Congressman knew what the little bastard was doing, but he wouldn’t give his son the satisfaction of letting him know how the thought of food was affecting him. “What did you want to talk about?”
Bellman sat down next to him. “The first thing I want to do is bring you up to date.” The Congressman listened as his son recited the whole dismal story. If the Congressman didn’t feel so sick, he would be shouting, swearing mad. He could get away with it, too—there was no one else in the compartment with them. Probably, he thought with an inward groan, they were all at the disco.
The Congressman knew that the state-of-British-Intelligence report by Sir Lewis had two remaining chances of doing anybody any good—slim and none. And slim was looking mighty poorly. There was just too much going on. With the Congressman’s old friend gone crazy, there were too many things that could go wrong, publicity bombs that could go off with a loud noise when touched by the wrong fingers.
No, they were going to have to solve that particular little problem some other way. Or leave the British to clean their own house, and face up to what might happen if they didn’t. Which, he knew, he couldn’t afford to do either. America had few enough friends. Sir Lewis had been one of the ones the Congressman had the most confidence in.
The Congressman shook his head. He didn’t like to make mistakes. He didn’t like to feel fallible.
“Are you listening to me?” Bellman demanded.
“I’m listening,” his father said. “The girl was sent home from the hospital yesterday, and you’re movin’ in with her. Gettin’ domestic.”
“It’s the best way to work toward the objective,” his son told him coldly. He always reacted coldly when the Congressman accused him of ulterior motives.
“I’d like to know what the hell the objective is just now, son.”
Bellman opened his mouth to tell him, but the old man said, “Wait a minute. Can we get up on a deck somewhere? I never was much of a sailor; I need some air.”
“It’ll be cold as hell,” his son warned. “Also wet, with the spray and the drizzle.”
“I don’t care. Let’s go. Leave your bag. Ain’t nobody going to steal it. Anybody who can think about eatin’ on a trip like this deserves it.”
Bellman took him up two flights of sandy-surfaced metal steps to the top deck of the ship, a crowded place of tubes and fittings, life boats and air intakes. The air was cold, and seemed to reach places in his lungs the queasiness had sealed off. The spray in his face was refreshing.
“The objective now,” Bellman told his father, “is to get Sir Lewis out of circulation without this whole mess blowing up all over the front page.”
The Congressman looked at the wake alongside the ship, then up into the distance. There was nothing to see but blackness. He looked back at the wake. “That strikes me as an excellent assessment of the situation, boy. Any amount of publicity that gets out over this is going to be a mess. That Sir Lewis is the killer is bad enough. Once that bunch starts sniffin’ around, who knows what they’ll turn up? If they get hold of the espionage connection around that old man, it will take years to fix up the damage. If it can ever be done. Is that England already?”
His son’s eyes followed his father’s pointing finger to a hazy group of lights off in the distance. “No,” he said. “That’s another ferry heading to France.”
“Wishful thinking,” the old man murmured. He spit over the rail. “Anyway, son, what are you going to do about it? As far as I can tell, this sack of shit can break open any day now.”
“Any minute.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I heard from Leo Calvin.”
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The old man looked at his son. Jeffrey had never been one to go in for leg pulls, and there was no indication in his face that he’d changed his mind. Besides, the boy wouldn’t joke about Leo Calvin. The only thing that had gotten him back on the job was the chance to neutralize Calvin before Calvin could get around to neutralizing him.
“What do you mean you heard from him?” the old man demanded.
“He left me a tape, care of the American Embassy.”
“Just like last time.”
“Just like last time,” Bellman agreed. “Only this time it’s in his own cultured voice.”
“How do you know? You never spoke to him.”
“You’re right. Put it this way: if it’s not Calvin, it’s somebody he coached. He mentioned things about the Cronus business—for instance, the wording of the note he left me on Miles’s body—that no one in the world but the two of us would know.”
“All right, let’s say it’s him. What did he want?”
“His life.”
The Congressman snorted. “Is that all?”
“No. He wanted money and a new identity.”
“And he asked you for it? He must be cracking up. He must know you wouldn’t give him the time of day if you ran the Naval Observatory. What did he offer you in exchange?”
“A threat. He’s put it together about our friend the Cyclops. He’ll go to the papers with it if we don’t play along with him.”
“Sweet Christ,” the Congressman said reverently. “What do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t know yet. He offered a promise, too—he’d tell us everything he knew about Russian and Cuban operations. Which must be quite a bit. He wants to meet. He left me a code to use—I’m supposed to place a personal in The Times two days from now to tell him where and when. If I don’t show up, or if anything happens to him, the information goes to the tabloids.”
The Congressman looked off into the blackness again and rubbed his chin. “Goddam,” he said, “this is what comes from meddlin’ in someone else’s business. It’s bad enough to step in your own messes—listen, son, do you think Calvin has any proof?”
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