Snark

by William L. DeAndrea

  What he was worried about was his inability to stop thinking about Dave Hamilton. Maybe he should have...God, he was doing it again. Not only was it stupid, it was a waste of time.

  It was guilt that made him do it, the guilt of having jumped all over Tipton for having made the same mistake Bellman himself had made. Tipton had liked the Hamilton kid, that’s all. And had therefore trusted him, too much or too little, it didn’t make much difference. Now everybody paid the price.

  It occurred to Bellman that this post mortem was a stupid waste of time, too. He ought to be thinking about what he’d do when he caught up with Leo Calvin. Assuming, of course, that he survived the drive down there. He checked his directions, navigated into a tricky corner (no easy corners in London), fishtailed on the snow, gentled the car into line again, and went on.

  What he wanted to do (why did he ever waste time thinking about what he wanted?) was to kill the bastard. That was what he’d wanted from the beginning. How could he do it, though, without the tabloids getting hold of the Sordid Spy Cyclops Shock Horror story?

  The only way to do it, he decided, was to catch hold of Leo, take him to a soundproof room somewhere, and get him to tell who had the information, and how to stop that person from completing delivery.

  The question was, could he do it? Leo was no Dave Hamilton. Leo was a total professional, a dedicated terrorist. He had wrung more information out of people than even Bellman had. There would be somewhere between (Bellman estimated) twelve and twenty hours to make him talk. Did Bellman want to wager, God help him, the Future of the Alliance on the possibility that he knew enough drugs, tricks, and ways of causing pain to make a hardened assassin spill his guts inside twelve hours?

  Well, he decided, yes, he wanted to. But did he dare?

  He was still working on that one as he drove across the bridge, then counterclockwise around the block where the Tombs was located. He always tried to scout out scenes of possible trouble. It made him feel better. Sometimes it even paid off.

  As it did this time. On the second time around, Bellman saw two men walking through the snow toward a heavy oaken door set into the concrete of the bridge. A sign above the door bore a grinning skull and the words THE TOMBS. The taller of the two men raised the heavy metal door knocker and let it fall. It was supposed to be past the museum’s closing time, at least if you believed the sign on the door, but the door opened, and the two men went inside.

  Bellman stopped working on the question of whether he dared. It was no longer relevant. Bellman had poor eyesight, but good eyes, with the lenses. There had been some attempt at disguise, but the Congressman had begun training him to see through disguises when he was three.

  There was no doubt about it. The tall one was Leo Calvin. And unless all the pictures, films, and verbal descriptions were wrong, the stocky one with the beard and glasses was Sir Lewis Alfot.

  Bellman drove once more around the base of the bridge. Then he left the car up against a nascent snowbank, and circled the building on foot. He was looking for a way in. He’d find one if he had to claw through the concrete. Calvin and Alfot in one place was an occasion he refused to miss.

  2

  HIS CAPTOR TRIED TO pass the time before the Russian arrived by talking, but Sir Lewis wasn’t interested.

  “You’d better be more talkative in your new home, old man,” Calvin said.

  Sir Lewis still wasn’t interested. What he was interested in was the man who had opened the door, a lithe, muscular black man. Leo Calvin called him Benton. Benton was dressed, Sir Lewis couldn’t help noticing, in a striped pull-on shirt and three-quarter-length white pants. His feet were bare, and he had a gold circle in his right earlobe.

  “What is he doing here?” Sir Lewis demanded.

  “Earnin’ money,” Benton said with a smile. “Better money than they pay me here to scare the tourists. Today I was a pirate. Sometimes I wear a hood, and I swing an ax, and chop the heads off dummies. I always stay and close the place up. Except when Leo got business.”

  That settled that. Sir Lewis need have no qualms about the man’s presence. The more the merrier. Idly, Sir Lewis reached in his pocket and touched the Device. He touched it lightly, in case it was the tiny detonator that came to his fingers. The Device was not to go off until Bulanin arrived.

  Leo kept talking, oblivious that Sir Lewis had lapsed back into silence. He was asking Benton about telephone calls, and looking at his watch. Benton reported that there had been no calls. Leo looked at his watch again and murmured that it was past seven o’clock. He seemed to be worried about two idiots who might have let him down.

  Leo had just about decided to make the phone call himself when the door knocker sounded, hard and hollow, like the gavel at the Last Judgment. The knocker fell five times—three then two. Leo waited until the last one, then nodded at Benton, who went to stand by the side of the door.

  When the Jamaican was in place, Leo opened the door. Bulanin stepped inside and shook snow from his hat. He didn’t offer to shake hands, just made a little bow. There was a large valise handcuffed to his wrist. He looked at Leo, then at Sir Lewis. Alfot could see a gleam of triumph-long-delayed in the Russian’s handsome face. Sir Lewis suppressed a smile.

  The Russian said, “Good evening. I see that you are ready to conclude the bargain at la—”

  The last word was swallowed in a noise like thunder as Benton slammed the door behind Bulanin. There were two more noises, loud clicks, as the black man shot home the metal bolts that would secure it.

  Sir Lewis had seen it coming, but he had still jumped when that noise exploded through the dimly lit interior of the Tombs. The Russian, unprepared, had almost buckled at the knees and collapsed. He recovered quickly, Sir Lewis had to give him that. Anger was already replacing fear as Bulanin turned to face the source of the sound. The exchange was completed when he saw Benton’s gun, and the grin of triumph that went with it.

  Bulanin turned to Calvin. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Leo told him to relax. “Just a little insurance, that’s all. He works for me, and he works here. Why do you think I always met you here? Benton is all that remains of the trumpery little organization I was able to put together here in England, and how many KGB people can you command? A hundred? Two hundred?”

  The last count Sir Lewis had heard had been a hundred sixty-seven, including Bulanin himself. He was tempted to tell the American so. Why not? He had the Device. He could take control at any second. Why not?

  No, he thought. Not yet. This was his last triumph, or setting off the Device would be. In one clean, purifying flash, he would destroy the terrorist scum who had kidnapped him and one of his country’s deadliest enemies. He would, as well, end his own life on a note that could (God willing) arouse some belief in the British mind that courage and dedication weren’t extinct in Britain. They had never understood what the Cyclops mission was trying to tell them; surely, they couldn’t fail to see the lesson in the way Sir Lewis Alfot had met his end.

  He would be redeemed. He would be a hero again. It felt good, and he wanted to hold the feeling just a little more.

  Bulanin was talking. “What has the number of men I can command to do with anything?”

  “It never does either of us any good to be coy, Grigori Illyich. I’m sure that a number of your people are nearby, taking up positions around the building and surrounding us. They wouldn’t have been there ahead of time, because I might have spotted them.” Leo smiled. “I or the legendary bald eagle of British Intelligence might have. He’s old, but he’s full of tricks.

  “But they’re there now, Grigori Illyich, I’m sure of that. We don’t want them butting in on our last meeting together. They don’t understand our agreement; they might try to take Sir Lewis away from me and prevent you from giving me the money. That wouldn’t do.”

  Bulanin’s lips were tight. He said nothing.

  “But there’s no problem, now,” Leo went on. “I trust you. I won’t even sea
rch you, provided you show me the money right away. I won’t even insist on sanctuary in Moscow, anymore. Somehow, I don’t think I’ll get as warm a welcome as I’d like.”

  Bulanin’s face said he’d been expecting something like this, and was willing to make the best of it. “That is very perceptive of you,” he said. “But what is my insurance you will not take the money and keep custody of our friend?”

  “I’ve got no more use for him,” Leo said. “He travels fastest who travels alone.”

  “Indeed. I cannot answer for Moscow, not anymore. But I will not pursue you.”

  Leo nodded. The amount of belief he put in Bulanin’s promise was not determinable.

  “I’m going to reach into my pocket now,” Bulanin said.

  “Slowly,” Benton said. Sir Lewis had nearly forgotten he was there.

  “Of course,” Bulanin replied. “I’m getting the keys to the valise. That is where the money is. Two million American dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills. You may count it if you wish.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Leo said. “I’ll just want to see it.”

  Bulanin opened the valise and spread it open on the floor. Calvin knelt and selected a few bundles of money at random, checking it to see if it was genuine, insuring against consecutive serial numbers.

  He seemed to be satisfied. “It’s real, Benton,” he said. “And because you’ve done such a good job for me, you get an extra hundred grand. You’ll be living like a king for the rest of your life on three hundred grand.”

  “I won’t say no,” Benton told him. He took his money and stuffed it into a Sainsbury’s bag, which he placed in the control room. He never took his eye or his gun off the Russian.

  “You are a generous man,” Bulanin said.

  “It’s so rare that one can afford to be,” Leo told him. “With this kind of money, I can spare the hundred G’s, and Benton is a good man. I may need help again.”

  “You are not following Sir Lewis into retirement, then,”

  “Not me. Not now. I’m going back into business. If I was able to pull this exchange with you, I don’t honestly think there’s anything that can stop me. This is seed money. In a year, you’ll come looking for me to ask me favors, not kill me.”

  Now.

  “I don’t think so,” Sir Lewis said. He held the Device in his right hand with his hand on the detonator. With his left hand, he skinned off his disguise. The beard, the hat, the wig, got thrown to the floor. Only the mended old-fashioned spectacles stayed on his face. He still wanted to see, for these last few minutes.

  “You may shoot,” he said to Benton, “but when you do, the plastic explosive goes off. They call it,” he added, “a dead-man switch.”

  He looked from face to face. Leo was feigning calmness, Bulanin looking with impotent fury at the American. Inside, they had to be crawling, cursing themselves. It was a sweet moment, very sweet. Sir Lewis enjoyed it. It was perhaps the best moment of his life. Better than the moment in France, so many years ago, when he’d seen his duty, and taken a life to save the lives of his men. Better than all the triumphs as head of the Agency he’d created. Those triumphs had been secondhand and remote—this was immediate and personal. Better than the Cyclops mission. Much better. Whatever the elation of successfully providing a demonstration case, and there was much each time, it always was washed away in disappointment when he realized no one understood.

  No one had to understand this. The validity was in the act itself. All he had to do was let go the button on the bomb.

  And then Leo Calvin did a strange thing. He turned to Bulanin and said, “Did you bring the antidote?”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Bulanin said.

  “Did you bring it?” Leo might have been talking to a child.

  “Yes, I did, but what good will it do?”

  “There’s no antidote for a bomb,” Sir Lewis said. His thumb itched to let the switch go.

  “Yeah,” Leo said. “There’s also no bomb.” He turned to Bulanin. “You’d better debrief him quickly, he’s losing it. He actually thought I wouldn’t search his things while he slept. He had plastic explosive concealed in that ridiculous beard. I took it away one night and replaced it with modeling clay. They call it Plasticine here. I mixed some rubbing alcohol in it so it would smell right.”

  “Liar!” Sir Lewis shouted. He was pressing the switch and letting it go over and over. The Device was mashed into meaningless shapes from the force of his hands.

  He kept pressing the button until they took the Device away from him and handcuffed him behind his back. Bulanin poured some liquid into Sir Lewis’s mouth. It had no taste, or Sir Lewis failed to taste it. He stuck a needle in the old man’s arm.

  “That will take care of any cyanide tooth he might have. It is a good thing you told me about it.”

  “Sure,” Leo said.

  Sir Lewis might have heard, but the words would have meant nothing. He would not have thought to use a cyanide tooth even if he had one. Which he had not. That had been a bluff.

  Which had failed.

  As the Device had failed. As everything had failed.

  It was not to be borne. Failure. Failure. Failure.

  He had taken it upon himself to make the Nation remember how to be great. Instead, he had just shown them another way to failure.

  Sir Lewis heard bitter laughter. He looked at the American, the Russian, the Jamaican and saw it was coming from none of them. Strange. And the laughter didn’t stop. It grew louder, and more bitter.

  Sir Lewis’s thumb kept pressing against the air.

  3

  ROBERT TIPTON SPOKE BY car radio to a computer operator back at the Tournament Press. Not Dave Hamilton.

  Felicity was sick over Dave Hamilton. She’d brought him to Tipton’s attention, she’d sponsored him, rooted for him. She knew she’d let someone down—Dave, the Section, maybe both.

  Just another, she thought, in a long series of balls-ups on this operation. The last straw. The news about Dave had led her into open rebellion with the Acting Head of the Section.

  Felicity had marched in, demanding clothes. Stingley had waited outside, bewildered, but determined not to be shunted away from the action. Tipton had looked at her, heard a brief report of what had happened at her flat, including the likelihood that she now knew the current whereabouts of Sir Lewis, and began to shout orders into phone.

  “I want a team assembled immediately, to be ready at a moment’s notice. Surveillance. Possibly assault. I’ll decide that on the scene. Yes, I’m going. I said on the scene. I want a phone number traced. Felicity, what’s that bloody phone number?”

  She told him.

  Tipton looked at her. “What was that?”

  Felicity repeated the number.

  Tipton told the phone never mind about the number. “And I want an ambulance called round—Miss Grace is going back in hospital.” He hung up.

  “No,” Felicity said.

  Tipton didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s the same bloody number. Our American friend beat a phone number out of Dave Hamilton early tonight, and it’s the same bloody one.”

  Felicity’s head hurt. “He did what to Dave Hamilton?”

  “It must be important, with Calvin’s risking leaks from two sources.”

  “What happened to Dave Hamilton?” Felicity fairly screamed it. She had to get a grip on herself. She had to get some clothes. Her feet were freezing, and the bottom of her robe was soaking from the walk from Stingley’s car.

  Tipton told her about Dave Hamilton, and that settled it. Her no when the subject of going back to hospital had come up had been reflex—now she was adamant. She was not getting in the ambulance; she was coming with him. It was her fault, and she was determined to fix it. She had too much invested in this case, she said. An eye, for instance.

  Tipton never actually acquiesced. Felicity simply announced her intentions, ran down to Disguises and Wardrobes, and dressed herself. Thick socks, lace-up boots. A workman�
��s jumpsuit over her nakedness. A scarf, and an anorak like the one Bellman had been wearing. She felt like a bloody paratrooper.

  A glance at Natalie’s makeup mirror showed her that her bandage had come loose, dangling from a bit of adhesive stuck to her eyebrow. She pulled it the rest of the way off and had a look in the mirror. The socket of her left eye looked like a recent wound, but it wasn’t bleeding. Grunter hadn’t damaged her as much as she feared.

  Felicity couldn’t help noticing what it did to her face, that red mess collapsing in on itself in the middle of it. Her other eye burned with held-back tears until Felicity told herself there was work to do and put it from her mind. She found the first aid kit, and taped a gauze pad in place over the hole, doing, she told herself, fully as good a job of it as any doctor could.

  She returned to Tipton to find him trying to get into his greatcoat while speaking on the phone. Stingley was in the room now, with the air of a man who has won a point. He gave Felicity a thumbs-up sign as she entered the office.

  “Bugger the Special Branch,” Tipton said. “We are not telling the Special Branch. They have the power to make arrests, fine. We’ll call them to make their precious arrests as soon as we get this sorted out. Now, get moving. We’ll be in the lobby.”

  Tipton hung up the phone. “If we can get this mess sorted out,” he mumbled. He looked up at Stingley and Felicity. “Do either of you know what the hell’s become of Bellman?”

  Silence.

  “I didn’t think so. We have him to thank for this. Him and the rest of the bloody Americans.”

  The bloody Americans had occupied conversation in the command car until they started spotting the Russians. The Section people were in four cars—two people in each, except for the command car, which carried a driver, Tipton, and the two interlopers. Three of the cars reported over the radio that they had seen men in parked cars in the immediate neighborhood of the Tombs, a neighborhood not likely to have much traffic at that time of night. (Stingley had been the one in Tipton’s car to spot them, a fact that irritated the Acting Section Chief no end.)