by John Altman
The slug thudded an inch from his left foot, kicking up a plug of dust. He returned fire, squeezing the trigger three times, fanning the barrel from right to left.
A suspended, timeless instant. Then a slow tumble, as both figure and rifle plummeted end over end off the platform. Instinctively, Isherwood fell back against the wall of the silo, making himself small.
The girl and rifle landed atop him with a heavy, terrible thud.
She writhed with fury, trying to claw at his face. Her turquoise eyes, filled with hate, were just inches from his own. He fought back clumsily, batting her hands away while trying to bring the gun around.
In silence broken only by harsh breathing, they struggled. But she was strong – even wounded, as she must have been, she had incredible strength. And he was weak, more so every moment. The bottomless black pit still yawned open, and now he was slipping into it, powerless to stop his descent.
A fist pumped mercilessly into his side, into the already ruined lung. Air escaped with a weak tea-kettle hiss.
Shadows were folding in, closing around him. The black void just to one side yawned ever deeper, even blacker. He was sliding into it. He felt himself go limp. Finished. He could only hope that he had moved with speed enough to save Eisenhower – and that he would not find too many demons waiting in that darkness.
He found not demons but a pleasant vision of a fine young son, with Evy’s coloring and frank challenging gaze. The boy took Isherwood’s hand with small fingers. Francis Isherwood held the tiny hand with great pleasure, trying to keep up – the lad exhibited the boundless energy of the young – as the boy pulled, tugged, laughing musically, urging him forward, into the gentle dark.
The mission had failed; but she still lived.
Pushing away the agent sprawled atop her, she listened.
Voices spoke, but not from directly outside the silo. Through tiny cracks in the splintery wood, she managed to catch glimpses of the land immediately surrounding her. Agents moved in packs, like flocks of black birds – securing the front gate, searching the herdsman’s home, bolstering the perimeter between Farm Two and Farm One. But the path due east, toward the patch of woods she had scoped out long before, where she had hidden the disguise and the bicycle, was empty. The sentries there had been summoned to reinforce the President’s position, just as she had anticipated.
And so she recovered the pea coat, pried the Colt from the hand of the agent, and then slipped out into the sunshine, not running, which would attract attention, but certainly not dawdling either. All it would take to defeat her now was a man glancing over his shoulder at the wrong moment. Yet as the seconds passed, no calls rang out. JESUS LOVED HER, after all.
She stalked clumsily – more like her childhood self every moment – becoming aware as she moved of new wounds, fresh insults to her body. A gunshot in the shoulder – but the bullet had apparently passed through. Her leg, injured in the fall, had turned into a doll’s leg, stiff and unwieldy.
Awkwardly, she moved past the corn crib, past the bullpen. Atop the section of fence she’d chosen to cross, barbed wire coiled like a sleeping snake. The fence was too high to jump. But a horizontal cross-beam five feet up provided a potential footrest; the fence had been designed to keep intruders out, not in.
She flung the pea coat into the air, watched bloodstained fabric billow and then tangle against barbed wire. Bracing her right hand against a vertical post, she levered herself up onto the cross-beam. Her wounded right side proved unable to support her weight, and she nearly tumbled back to the ground. Instead, using her left hand and her momentum, she grabbed one dangling sleeve of the tangled coat and managed to drag herself up onto the fence top.
Never look back, she thought.
And yet, before dropping down onto the far side, she did.
Bedlam was already giving way to military order: perimeters established, search parties fanning out. The silo, which marked the scene of her final ignominy, stood awash in brilliant sunshine. The distant porch was empty, offering no sign of Eisenhower. Of course he would have been hustled inside by now, under cover, and surrounded by a ring of armed men. She would have no prayer of reaching him.
She released the coat. Falling to the hard ground outside the property, she found the blighted chestnut she’d chosen as a landmark. The disguise and Huffy were waiting behind it, and in town, the Oldsmobile. But what, she wondered as she maneuvered her dead leg over the bicycle’s saddle, came next? She had failed.
The important thing was to put some distance between herself and here. Find proper medical treatment. Change her identity, again and again.
Keep running.
TWENTY-THREE
FAYETTEVILLE: DECEMBER 1955
The entire table was laughing.
The man who had told the joke leaned forward, glowing with self-satisfaction and Cheval Blanc, and reached for the bottle. He refilled his wife’s glass, and then extended himself across the table to refill the glasses of Emmerich and Rudolf Wulff.
‘Believe it or not,’ he said, setting down the bottle as the laughter died away, ‘I heard that one from a professor at Harvard Law School, when we were working together in Shanghai.’
Emmerich gave a last chuckle. Plates were cleared; from the kitchen came the rich smell of brewing Arabica beans. ‘Coffee,’ a butler announced, ‘will be served in the parlor.’ Walking past the elder Wulff, then, he leaned down and added something in a whisper.
Emmerich and his brother made brief eye contact. As they left the dining room, Emmerich veered off toward the library. ‘Rudolf,’ he called, ‘might you entertain our guests for a few moments without my assistance?’
‘It would be my sincere pleasure,’ said Rudolf solemnly.
Inside the library, Emmerich Wulff failed at first to recognize his old friend; he thought the butler must have given him the wrong name. Then he realized that in fact he was indeed looking at Senator John Bolin. Although mere weeks had passed since their last encounter, the man was almost unrecognizable. He had lost weight. He needed a shave. His suit – a cheap linen ensemble, far less glamorous than his usual outfit of bone-colored silk – was grubby and frayed. His rimless spectacles were marred by a hairline crack. Even more profound was the change in his body language. He radiated pain and uncertainty. Even his cold blue eyes seemed different, two shades darker.
Closing the doors behind himself, Emmerich checked his own composure before speaking. ‘John,’ he said then, evenly. ‘What a surprise.’
Bolin shook his head, sighed, and covered his eyes with one hand.
‘Relax, my friend.’ Emmerich took Bolin’s elbow, leading him more fully into the room. ‘Cognac?’
Bolin managed a stiff nod. His hand lowered; his tongue came out, scraping across dry lips. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
Crossing beneath antique tapestries, ancient leather-bound tomes, and mounted heads of bucks and tigers, Emmerich reached for a sideboard by a humidor. Splashing brandy into two snifters he asked politely, ‘Cigar?’
‘Yes – yes.’
Equipped with brandy and cigars, they settled down on either side of a dark chessboard inlaid with pearl.
‘I know I’m not supposed to be here,’ started Bolin. ‘I can see from the cars parked in the drive that you’ve got guests …’
Emmerich waved carelessly.
‘… but our so-called friends in Buenos Aires double-crossed us, Emmerich. I had no other way of reaching you. They didn’t hold up their end of the deal; so plans must change.’
Sanguine, Emmerich lit both cigars from a vintage brass-capped lighter.
‘They put me in a hovel: a literal hovel. Cockroaches everywhere. Filth … insects … disease.’
Sympathetically, Emmerich nodded. But his eyes remained empty, dull.
‘The problem,’ continued Bolin, ‘is that we chose the wrong friends. This two-bit dictator Aramburu – he’s no good. He’s crooked. He bites the hand that feeds him. And McCarthy – a drunken fo
ol. His day is past. And that operative of yours … everyone said she could do no wrong. But when push came to shove, she fumbled the job.’
‘Unfortunately, I must agree.’
‘Even my faith in my most trusted associate, my lieutenant, proved misplaced.’ Bolin straightened, and for a moment a flash of the old hauteur was visible. ‘But with time and patience, Emmerich, another chance will present itself. And if this time we have the right men in our corner—’
‘Our dinner guest at this moment is a candidate for such an honor.’
The senator caught the hint of reprimand. ‘I’m sorry to arrive this way,’ he said after a moment; ‘without warning, putting you at risk. I have agreed to be, and I shall remain if necessary, persona non grata. But you don’t know what it’s been like.’
Another nod.
‘Just getting back into this country took everything I’ve got. They’re all crooked down there, the swine. They’ll cheat you as soon as look at you, and if they realize that you need them, then God help you. I’m penniless, Emmerich – absolutely without a penny. If not for some old friends who owed me favors, I never would have made it back over the border. They’re looking for me, you know. I’m told there’s a standing arrest order. One of my staff confessed that the girl never worked for me; the cover story is ruined. Now I’m an accomplice. A wanted man. My accounts frozen, my assets forfeited. Even John Hoover can’t help me now.’
Emmerich smoked. ‘Were you recognized, on your way here?’
‘No. Of course not. I took care.’ Bolin looked at the brandy in his hand, which he seemed to have forgotten. Raising the glass, he drained it in a draft.
‘Meinem Freunde: take a deep breath. You’re safe now.’
Bolin made a sound between a laugh and a scoff. ‘Easy for you to say. You’ve lost nothing. But I—’
‘As you say: another chance will present itself.’ Coolly, hoping his example would lower the room’s emotional temperature, Emmerich sipped his own brandy. ‘Our operative came within a heartbeat of success. Consider this not a failure, my friend, but a lesson learned. We come out wiser than we started. Next time, we will have our day.’
Bolin regarded him through half-lidded eyes. ‘I want to believe it,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m desperate to believe it. But …’
Emmerich waited.
‘They’ve been put on high alert. They’ve doubtless reinforced security, and then reinforced the reinforcements. We’ll never get so close to Eisenhower again.’
‘So. Look at the long game, as they say. Time is on our side.’
A curl of the lip from Bolin. ‘How do you figure?’
‘Give the country four more years of Bolshevik policies – bleeding them dry with regulations and taxes, organized labor keeping them in a chokehold – and the American people themselves will succeed, where we have failed. They will correct their own course.’
‘And what happens, Emmerich, if after four more years the country likes the way Eisenhower leads? The weak like to be coddled. They shirk from battle. Hold their hands, pay their way, and they respond like dogs thrown bones.’
Emmerich shrugged. ‘As I said: we come out wiser than we started. We know now that this country can be helped, if necessary, despite itself.’ He drank his cognac, puffed on his cigar. ‘This time, we missed by a hair. Next time, if a next time is required, we will not.’
Bolin removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes. ‘If the Russkies have anything to say about it, we won’t be around long enough for there to be a next time.’
‘Say what you will about Eisenhower. He’s a military man, and a fine bluffer. He’ll keep the Soviets in check.’
‘With Wilson, that glorified accountant, as Secretary of Defense? They say “unify” – but they mean “conciliate”.’
‘One thing at a time. You’ve traveled long and hard …’
‘Good Lord, you don’t know the half of it.’
‘But you’ve done the right thing in coming here. We’ll take good care of you.’ Emmerich made a show of pondering. ‘Why don’t we tend to your needs – a decent meal, a decent bed – and take it up in the morning. In the meantime, I should return to my guests before they wonder what has drawn me away …’
‘Of course.’ Bolin upended his glass, draining the very last drop of brandy. ‘You’re the salt of the earth, Emmerich.’
‘Of course,’ said the elder Wulff absently, ‘it is my humble pleasure.’
He left the man alone in the study and then paused, alone, in the corridor.
Bolin’s sudden appearance presented problems. Emmerich could only hope nobody had recognized the former senator en route, or trouble might result down the road.
For now, he shelved the concern. The pressing issue was how to proceed tonight. Throughout everything, the Wulffs had managed to farm out the hiring to others – first and foremost, to Bolin himself – and thus avoid any chance of exposure. But as a result, they now lacked the necessary connections to make a man disappear. And it was hardly the kind of enterprise Emmerich Wulff felt comfortable taking on himself. Decades had passed since the last time …
But life sometimes took unexpected turns; and if not him, then who?
Stopping by the parlor, he offered his apologies, announcing that he would rejoin the party in a few minutes. He then visited the kitchen, ordering that a plate be prepared and a fresh bottle of wine opened. Then he climbed a spiral staircase and crossed through a bedroom to a spacious lavatory, handsomely appointed in marble and smelling faintly of lavender, which he shared with his younger brother. One advantage to reaching old age in modern times was the ready availability of a wide selection of nostrums … browsing labels on glass vials, he made his selection.
Back in the kitchen, he dismissed the help, found a mortar and pestle in a drawer among burr mills and herb grinders, and crunched up half a dozen pills. After pulping them to a fine powder, he sifted the results into an empty wine glass. A dash from a freshly-opened bottle of Cheval Blanc dissolved the precipitate. He stirred until all traces had vanished, filled the glass nearly to the rim, and then sniffed for odor. He risked a tiny, cautious sip for taste. Satisfied, he set glass, silverware, and prepared plate of food on a tray. Calling the butler, he ordered the tray delivered to the library. He would check on Bolin in an hour. If the man still lived he would doubtless be unconscious, and easily finished. An unfortunate turn of events … but not, now that Emmerich found himself in this position, actually so difficult to accomplish.
He fixed his cuffs, preparing to rejoin his brother and their guests in the parlor. The young man awaiting him there, one Everett Howard Hunt, had served at length with the OSS and the CIA. Hunt had personally engineered the overthrow of the president of Guatemala, and acted as agency station chief in Uruguay and Mexico City. He was a man of many capabilities, many connections, and realistic values … a valuable ally for the future.
A thin smile crossed Emmerich’s face, and he went to rejoin the party.
DELPHOS, INDIANA
Ralph Jessup, MD, reached the front door just in time to see a slim figure limping away down his driveway.
He pulled the door open. ‘Hey,’ he called. ‘You ringing my bell?’
For a moment, he thought his visitor – an attractive young lady who may have been representing 4-H or UNICEF or Grit, although an hour past sundown seemed an odd time for a visit – had moved out of earshot. Then she turned, just beyond the rim of light, so he could make out only general details: a lithe figure, with a shoulder-length bell of blonde hair, and a strange way of carrying herself that suggested stiffness, perhaps arthritis, although surely she was too young for that.
She came forward again, into range of the porch light. Older than he had first thought, she wore torn and stained second-hand clothing, no coat, and an expression of grim determination. ‘Doctor Jessup?’ she said.
‘Yes’m, that’s my name.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir.’ A trace of a southern accent; anothe
r hesitant step forward. ‘I saw your shingle out at the end of the driveway …’
‘You need a doctor?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. But I got a bad pain.’
‘Well, come on in and let’s have a look.’ She didn’t move. ‘Don’t worry about some big old bill, now. When someone needs my help, I provide it. The Good Book says to do no less. Come on in.’
Still she dithered. Perhaps, he thought, her issue was less financial than ethical. During his years in Delphos, he had helped more than one young woman end an unwanted pregnancy. Word had gotten out, and now those in need of his services kept showing up.
‘Come on in,’ he said again, more gently. ‘Whatever it is, ol’ Ralph can set you right. And you don’t need to tell me anything more than you want to. I promise.’
At last, as he held the front door, she came inside. She walked eccentrically, dragging one leg. ‘You live here alone?’ she asked.
‘All by my lonesome, ever since my Lillian passed on. But don’t you worry, darlin’ – I’m one of the good guys.’ He switched on a lamp and then faced her candidly. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
Inside the parlor, beneath the lamplight, her uncertainty had vanished. She was prettier than he had realized, if too thin. And in her right hand …
… she held a gun.
One hour later, he straightened from the makeshift operating table.
He wiped a strand of sweaty gray hair from his eyes. ‘That’s about all I can do for you,’ he said groggily, ‘unless you’ll let me take you the hospital.’
For a long minute, his patient didn’t respond. Ralph Jessup felt a flicker of hope, although the desire violated every tenet of the Hippocratic Oath he had sworn, that the girl had passed during the procedure. Then her right hand, still holding the .32 pistol, stirred. ‘No hospitals,’ she said thickly.
As she struggled to a sitting position, he backed away. Her resilience baffled and astounded him. She had categorically refused painkillers, turning away even a glass of Ripple; yet all during the operation she had stayed awake, watching him as he worked. He had patched a bullet wound, well on the way to infection despite a previous sloppy effort to repair it, and a broken leg, which evidently had been poorly set some days before, and had since started healing wrong.