All right, he told himself. Relax. First things first. You were busted, but now you’re back in the game. You got hold of another ace. The same ace.
You’ve got Sir Lewis Alfot again.
The old man had been waiting for him when he’d come back from making his daily phone call to Stan Hope. Leo hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d been wearing tape-repaired spectacles, and hair on his face and head. And he was holding a Colt .38-caliber police special when Leo walked through the door.
“Mr. Calvin,” the old man said, and Leo knew who he was. The thought that ran through Leo’s head was “time to say your prayers,” which was ridiculous. Leo had said no prayers since before the last time he’d washed dishes.
But Alfot didn’t pull the trigger. Yet. He waved Leo away from the door with the gun, then got up off the thin bed and circled around the room toward the door as Leo went in the other direction. Still covering Leo, Sir Lewis closed and locked the door.
“That’s better,” he said.
Leo kept trying to figure the odds, but the machine always registered “no sale.”
There were too many factors, relative values unknown. This man was a brilliant agent; he was also a homicidal maniac. When Leo remembered Sir Lewis was sixty-nine years old, he wanted the old man to come for his eye, just get close enough for Leo to be able to do something. He wouldn’t be caught by surprise the way Margaret had been.
When he thought of poor, stupid Margaret tied in that chair with the hypodermic sticking out of her eye, Leo almost wished the old man would shoot.
“Sit down, Mr. Calvin,” the old man said. Leo followed the gun’s commands and perched in the dent on the blanket where Sir Lewis had been.
“I see you’ve changed your appearance,” the old man said.
“So have you,” Leo told him.
“Circumstances,” the old man said. “I want to kill you, Mr. Calvin. It has been forty-four years since I have wanted to kill a man so much.” The gun rose.
Here it comes, Leo thought. He was amazed to learn how afraid he was of dying. He’d always thought that killing and dying were much the same thing if you had a certain kind of mind—his kind, needless to say—and once that mind became inured to the one, it had no trouble dealing with the other.
Not true. Not true. Not yet. Don’t kill me, for God’s sake. They were in his brain, but they never made it to his mouth.
It wasn’t the blast of a revolver that cut him off—just the old man’s voice. “But I don’t dare. Kill you I mean.”
Leo worked hard at making his voice sound calm, and succeeded. “Why not?” he said.
“Because I need you.”
“Need me,” Leo said.
“Of course I need you, you fool. I’ve come to give myself up to you.”
He was insane. “You are insane,” Leo heard himself say.
The old man might not have heard him.
“I need you,” he said, “to turn me over to the Russians.”
It even made sense. In a way.
“They’re on to me,” the old man said. “That’s why they put me out to pasture in the first place.” He sounded hurt.
“And you doubt they’ll do that again.”
“I know fucking well they won’t do that again!” The anger on Alfot’s face could be read through any disguise. “I wouldn’t let them if they would.” The scowl smoothed. “There’s no fear of that, in any case. It would be an institution for me, after this. They wouldn’t even need to mention my project to put me away.”
“You mean the killings,” Leo said.
“You will not speak of them,” Sir Lewis said sternly. “You are a mercenary and a terrorist and God knows what else. You have no conception of duty or honor or the good of the Nation. You are not equipped to understand. You will be quiet.”
The old man still had the gun. Leo shut up.
“They would simply say,” Sir Lewis went on, “that I had turned senile and wandered off, and had to be under strict medical supervision, and could talk to no one.” He scratched under his beard. “Damned uncomfortable thing. I’ll be glad when I can get it off.”
He adjusted his spectacles, taking care to be sure the tape held the temple together. “They might,” he said, “even kill me. I wish they would, but I doubt it. Lord knows I’d rather be dead than in a strait jacket.” He gazed steadily at Leo. “You convinced me of that. You may be glad I can’t afford to repay you for those weeks of bondage.”
Leo asked him just what he wanted. Somewhat to Leo’s surprise, the old man had it all worked out.
“You will turn me over to the Russians as originally planned. I come to you instead of going to them on my own because I don’t know whom you’ve been dealing with, and I don’t want to go through a rigamarole about my bona fides.”
He went on to say that he was sure Leo was getting in hot water by now for not having made delivery, and that this was his chance to straighten matters out. Leo thought, old man, where were you a week ago?
Sir Lewis was willing to make concessions. “You undoubtedly think I’m mad,” he said, “but I am not unreasonable.” Leo would be permitted to tie the old man up when he left the flat, and when he slept. (“Satisfy yourself of your personal safety, by all means.”) Sir Lewis had funds, in case any were needed while Leo made the final arrangements with the Russians. (“Within reason, mind you. I want to be in Moscow as soon as possible. I can be of use to them, and the sooner I get cracking, the better I’ll like it. Philby is a KGB general, with a lovely flat and a big pension...) Sir Lewis also offered his word of honor not to try to escape, but he didn’t think that would mean much to a man like Leo.
But there were conditions.
“No drugs,” Sir Lewis said. “That is a damnable thing to do to a man, and I won’t have it again. No physical abuse. No outsiders until you actually turn me over to the Russians.”
Leo fought a smile as he let the old man rave. If he were going to allow Leo to tie him up, how was he going to enforce his conditions? Leo’s word of honor? Leo was planning ways to use the old man’s money to get a new supply of tranquilizer for his captive when the old man showed he might not be so crazy after all.
“—A hollow tooth, you see. Filled with cyanide. Been there for years,” the old man said. “One could almost forget it’s there. But not quite. Something we learned from the Russians in the old days. I volunteered to have it done to me first—can’t ask your people to do things you aren’t willing to do yourself, can you? It’s perfectly safe unless you bite down on it in a special way. Or try to remove it. You can also crush it against a gag designed to keep your mouth open. It’s my insurance, you might say.” The false beard parted in a smile. Leo looked at the teeth with new respect.
He didn’t doubt the old man for a second. As far as Leo could tell, he was insane enough to have all his teeth filled with cyanide.
“If I see a hypodermic,” the old man elaborated, “I will kill myself. If you manage to drug me anyway, I will kill myself at the earliest opportunity. If you try to remove the tooth, you will have done the job for me. Any questions?”
Leo had two. The first—how long does cyanide keep its effectiveness?—he thought it wiser to keep to himself. He asked the second, more because he thought Sir Lewis was expecting him to than for any rational reason.
“Why didn’t you use it before? When I had you down in Brighton.”
“Don’t be dimmer than you can help,” the old man said with contempt. “And don’t act as if you think I’m dim. I told you before—I may be mad. I am not stupid.”
Leo apologized. Sir Lewis sniffed. He seemed to have decided, on mature reflection, that Leo was dim. He answered the question.
“The reason I didn’t use it when I was your captive was that I was planning to escape. You couldn’t hold me indefinitely without my cooperation, and I knew it. I found my opportunity, and I took it.
“But it’s different now,” the old man said. “This is my escape. If I f
ail now, there is no other choice. This is my one and only opportunity, and I have reduced it to it’s simplest terms—succeed or die.”
With that, he’d handed the gun over to a still incredulous Leo, had Leo search him for other weapons or poison, and made himself at home. Leo had taken about twenty minutes to think things over while Sir Lewis made himself a pot of tea.
This, Leo realized, was his opportunity, too. Succeed or die, indeed. He’d tied an unprotesting Sir Lewis to a radiator, slipped outside, attended to the surveillance problem, and made his phone call. That done, he came back to the flat, released Sir Lewis, took custody of the money, and removed them from the premises before the dead agent’s colleagues could turn up.
He’d spent the hours in between looking at the old man sleeping peacefully on the hotel bed and counting the minutes until he could no longer resist calling Bulanin again to see if his message had been received.
SEVENTH
Down he sank in his chair—ran his hands through his hair—
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
“Leave him here to his fate—it is getting so late!”
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
“We have lost half the day. Any further delay,
And we shan’t catch a Snark before night!”
—The Hunting of the Snark
Fit the Seventh
1
LEO CALVIN HAD, OVER the years, abducted or kidnapped upwards of twenty people, but he’d never had a “victim” like Sir Lewis Alfot before. Either time. For you or against you, mad or sane, drugged or otherwise, this was one resourceful old man, and you could forget that only at your peril.
It was, Leo had to admit, much nicer once he was on your side, or at least working toward the same end—in this case, a smooth exchange with Bulanin and the Russians.
A few days ago, Leo had been low on money, ideas, and hope. The best he could think of to do was turn himself in to the U.S. Government—the government he’d been trying to destroy since back in the days he was a terrorist because he had ideals—and try to convince himself he was happy about it. Now, thanks to the old man, he had money, clothes, a warm place to sleep (as warm as anyplace in Britain was to sleep in, at least), weapons, devices, and a new deal with Bulanin. When Alfot promised to cooperate, he really delivered. He must have been squirreling stuff away for years, in anticipation of just such a situation. It was a pleasure to deal with a true professional. Before the old man had lost it, he must have been awesome.
It had not been easy, of course, to come to an accommodation with the Russian. Bulanin had been burned too many times since this business started to be ready to jump back in. He was good and mad, so much so that he forgot to hide it.
Leo was ready for him. “Yes,” he told Bulanin over the phone. “I met with the American. Whom were you tailing, him or me?”
“That is not relevant. What were you doing meeting him?”
“Buying time, my friend. He had a lead; he was getting close,
I offered to turn myself in, tell them all the secrets about you I had.”
“Why did he not shoot you? Arrest you?”
“I know some secrets about their side, too, my friend. Secrets they couldn’t stand to have revealed. As they would be if anything happened that I didn’t like.”
“I have lost good men in an effort to kill this man at your instigation...”
“And you want to know why I didn’t shoot him? He wasn’t alone—he had British agents all over him like stink on shit. Secrets or no secrets, I would have been dead in five seconds, and that wouldn’t do anybody any good.”
“That is a disgusting expression,” Bulanin said. His voice sounded as if it were coming through a wrinkled nose.
“I apologize,” Leo said. Bulanin grunted. Leo went on. “I made him an offer—it bought me a few days, but my time is running out. I have the goods and I’m ready to deliver. The rest is up to you.”
“And after all that has happened, I am to trust you.” The idea disgusted him more than the simile had.
“No,” Leo conceded sadly. “You are not expected to trust me. And, at the risk of offending you, I don’t trust you, my friend. I think there is an excellent possibility that when the time comes, you will relieve me of my prisoner and kill me.”
“Then we are at an impasse,” Bulanin said. His voice betrayed no eagerness to end it.
“We will think of a way to accomplish our business in mutual safety,” Leo said. Bulanin grunted again. Leo heard a match being struck, and the hiss of a flame.
“Very well,” the Russian said at last. “We will discuss it.”
Leo kept the smile out of his voice, and said he’d call back.
It took a little over ten hours; seventeen telephone calls, each from a phone box distant from the previous one. Between times he returned to the hotel, dreading each time that Sir Lewis had been left alone too long, and had bitten the poison out of spite, or boredom. Then Leo would listen to the old man complain about the amount of time it was taking to get this done, and almost wished he would bite the poison.
During the negotiations, Leo ate twice—some McDonald’s hamburgers with Sir Lewis in the hotel room, and a Cornish pasty from a fish and chips place near Piccadilly Circus. The pasty gave him heartburn, but the heartburn helped keep him awake.
It started to snow about the same time the Underground closed down for the night. He walked through the weather from booth to booth. He was cold, and his feet were wet, but he couldn’t afford to use the same phone twice (Bulanin might be able to trace it) and he didn’t want to be a memory in some cabbie’s head. So he walked.
By six A.M., it was finished, a complicated system of live and dead drops, observation opportunities, private and public transport, checks and double checks, all designed to get all concerned feeling safe enough to agree to a rendezvous to be announced by Leo at the last minute.
And it was all, of course, a farce. A necessary farce, though, because each had to make the other believe he could now justify this meeting. And if there were no meeting, Bulanin would not be able to double-cross Leo, as he undoubtedly intended to do. And Leo would have no opportunity to double-cross Bulanin, which he would do if it seemed desirable or feasible.
It was all supposed to happen tonight. Leo had some time to weigh the possibilities. He was exhausted, but he wouldn’t sleep. He’d use a drug, even if the old man wouldn’t. Sir Lewis, Leo had discovered, slept soundly without drugs.
Besides, Leo had to be awake to make his call to Stan and Grunter. He had another job for them.
2
THE STUFF LEO HAD got for them was a bloody miracle. A bit of gray paste smeared in the keyhole, stick in the fuse, stand back.
The lock melted out with no more noise than a hiss like bacon in a pan.
But Leo forget to tell them about the glare, a white streak of eye pain like a carbon arc. Stan and Grunter managed to look away in time, but a few seconds went by before Grunter’s vision cleared enough to enable him to find the door again. It made a difference. Two thumps of his shoulder did for the chain bolt, but through the field of dazzle, all he could see was the redhead with the bandage over her eye scrabbling under the sofa cushions. Leo had warned them she might have a gun.
Grunter didn’t wait. He dove across the room, grabbed her by the waist, and threw her across the room into a bunch of expensive electronic equipment. The telly, a big one, was knocked off its stand onto the floor with a crash like a brick through a jeweler’s window.
That was bad. The idea was for no one to know they were there. Fortunately, most of the people in the building were at work, this being a weekday. Stan had pushed the door to by now (it would no longer latch, of course), and Grunter could see the smile on his face as he walked over to where the woman lay sprawled on the floor.
“Stand up,” he said. He gestured wit
h the gun Leo had given him.
She obliged him. She got unsteadily to her feet and walked carefully away from the broken glass, lest she cut herself. Her face was grim, what Grunter could see of it. She had her head down, her face tilted like a chicken looking for corn, so that her good eye had a better view of the floor.
She bunched the floor-length blue velvet house robe in her hands, too, to get that out of the way. She was a tall bird, taller than either Grunter or Stan, and she showed a lot of leg, all of it quite admirable. Grunter was beginning to be glad the American wasn’t here yet. If he had been, the orders were to kill him and the woman and bugger off. As it was, they had a little leeway. Some discretion.
“Come out of it, then, love,” Stan said.
She looked hatred at him, but said nothing. She tilted her head at the floor again and walked carefully away from the shards of glass.
Then she took a sharp breath, and with no more warning than that launched a wide, swift, sweeping kick at Stan’s head. The bare foot caught Stan across the chin and sent him sprawling. Stan’s gun went off (more bloody noise) and the bullet knocked plaster loose from the ceiling.
The woman turned on Grunter. “Now, you bastard,” she said.
Grunter wished Leo had had a gun for him as well.
Mrs. Pettison heard the noise from the flat upstairs, the thump of something heavy hitting the floor, the crash of broken glass, and wondered if she should go see if everything was all right.
Mrs. Pettison hadn’t much experience of being a neighbor. For thirty-two years, since the first days of her widowhood, Frances Pettison had been the clerk for Selwick Brothers—Fine Boots for Gentlemen. She had made appointments for measurements and fittings. Kept the payment records and sent the bills. Ordered fine leather and silk for uppers and soles and linings. Maintained the file of plaster casts of customers’ feet, so that they might order a new pair of custom boots sent wherever in the world they happened to be. She reminded old Mr. Selwick of birthdays and bank holidays and the like. She had been too busy and too important to the business to know much about her neighbors, or how to behave toward them in unusual situations.
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