Harry waited as Finway paused at the door and looked cautiously around the corner into the plane’s interior. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the lawyer moved quickly to one of the few remaining seats on the plane, just behind one of the faded purple curtains now drawn back and bunched, normally used to separate sections of the Boeing 727, Harry slipped into the seat beside him.
“We made it, John,” Harry said, flashing a broad, supercilious grin. He knew that he was going to have to modify the Giggler if he hoped to stay close to Finway, but it was difficult for him to keep shifting and remolding his characters in such short spurts of time.
The other man looked at Harry as though he were seeing him for the first time. As recognition came, so did displeasure. “Excuse me?”
Harry swallowed, took his voice down a tone. “Flying’s exciting, huh? I always say the flight’s half the fun of any trip.”
“Yeah.” Finway abruptly removed his sunglasses. He took a magazine from a cloth pouch beside his seat, opened it, and shifted his body so that the magazine was between himself and Harry.
Harry remained silent throughout taxi and lift-off. He waited fifteen minutes after the plane was airborne and cruising, then removed his seatbelt, rose, and walked toward the front of the plane.
He noted Peters’ and Alexandra Finway’s presence in seats near the front of the plane, just in front of the curtain used on regular flights to partition off the First Class section. At the moment the man and woman were both involved in an animated conversation with the passengers around them. Harry had a brief conversation with the Sierran representative on board, then returned to the rear section of the plane.
“Excuse me, John,” Harry said in a low, confidential tone as he settled back into his seat. “May I talk to you for a minute?”
For a few moments Harry was not sure Finway had heard him. Then the magazine came down. At first the other man’s eyes appeared glazed and unseeing; they took on a hostile glint as they came into focus on Harry’s face.
“Are you talking to me, Mr.—?”
Harry cleared his throat. “David, John; David Swarzwalder. Look, this is kind of embarrassing and I hope you won’t take offense. I noticed you’re traveling alone. I’m traveling alone myself, and I thought we might share a room. I checked, and the woman from Sierratour will make the arrangements if you say it’s okay.”
“No,” the lawyer said tersely, putting his sunglasses back on and raising the magazine. “Sorry. I prefer to be by myself.”
Harry waited fifteen seconds, then spoke again. “John,” he said, lowering his voice still further and keeping his tone just short of a plea. “I don’t mean to press you, but we could both save a nice piece of change if we shared a room. I was told they’d refund the premiums we’re paying for single rooms. To tell you the truth, I can really use the money. I don’t make a big salary to begin with, and I couldn’t get my usual agency discount for a trip to San Sierra.”
Finway’s reply was sharp and cold, muffled by the magazine he held in front of his face. “Why don’t you ask some other single?”
“I checked; you and I are the only people traveling alone. Please, John. I promise I won’t get in your way. I can really use the sixty-three bucks. I’d like to use some of it to buy presents for my sister’s kids.”
Harry waited tensely. Finally the lawyer sighed with exasperation and lowered his magazine. His mouth was set in a firm, tight line. “Look, Swarzwalder,” Finway said, his voice humming with annoyance, “I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got things on my mind and things I have to do. It’s nothing personal against you, but I do have to be alone. Sorry.”
“Okay, John,” Harry said, offering a hand which the other man reluctantly took. “I understand. I guess it was stupid of me to ask. No hard feelings.”
Finway’s response was to pull his hat brim back down low on his forehead, then turn away and lay his head on the headrest. In a few minutes he appeared to be asleep.
Harry took a deep breath, slowly exhaled it. He’d thrown the only ball in his bag, a floating fat one, and Finway had stuffed it down his throat. The lawyer was on his own. He put the seat back, lit a cigarette, and signaled the stewardess for a drink. It would be a double.
ANGELES BLANCA; AQUA AZUL AIRPORT
4:10 P.M.
Alexandra
“My God, it’s hot,” Alexandra said, removing her coat as a Sierratour guide ushered them across the macadam toward the first of three gleaming, Russian-built buses that had pulled up alongside the airplane.
Peters nodded. “Yeah, but it beats that deep freeze we left behind.”
“How do you read the people we talked to on the plane?”
Peters shrugged. “We’ve had verbal contact with eight people, visual contact with about twelve more. I read all the talkers as articulate, offbeat, liberal, intelligent.”
“Agreed,” Alexandra said. “Also, they all seemed pretty well traveled, if not well heeled. I suppose a trip to San Sierra isn’t going to attract your average run-of-the-mill tourist.”
“No. This could go right down to the wire on Friday night.”
“Let’s hope not. Look, maybe we should fall back and get on one of the other buses. We’ve already eyeballed the people heading for this one.”
“We can do that if you want, but I think it might look strange; too conspicuous a move for too little gain. Hell, we’re only going to the terminal.”
“You’re right.” Alexandra sighed and shook her head. “Fifty-eight people is a lot to check out.”
“Fifty-nine,” Peters replied matter-of-factly. “I overheard a couple of the flight attendants talking about a man being added to the flight list at the last minute.”
Alexandra stopped walking and pulled Peters aside to allow others to board the bus. “Now, that’s unusual. Did you get a name?”
The man shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. But it shouldn’t be difficult to find out—unless it’s some DMI agent who had to come home in a hurry. We’ll see what we can find out at the reception tonight.”
“On the other hand, anybody who could manage to get on this flight at the last minute is probably our least likely suspect.”
“Still, it’s a place to start,” Peters said, shifting his radio to his left hand and using his right to help Alexandra up the steps into the bus.
There were seats near the front, a few rows behind the driver. Alexandra slid into a seat next to a window, leaned her head back, and stared absently at a large tackboard above the windshield festooned with hundreds of small pins emplazoned with Communist slogans. Manuel Salva gazed heroically toward the back of the bus from miniature, garishly colored posters that reminded Alexandra of the pressboard cards found in packs of bubble gum.
She was confident now that she would be all right. In fact, she was pleasantly surprised to find that she actually felt good—if not totally relaxed, at least confident. The tension of the past year had drained her more than she’d realized. It was unfortunate that she’d been forced to reject John at the last moment, but it had been unavoidable. The important thing was that John would be waiting for her at their home when she returned; everything was going to work out. She now realized that she was happy to be away, working at what she had always done best. She was certain there would be no repeat of her other problem; she would not be in the field long enough to arouse those demons.
Alexandra had not forgotten that the success of their task would almost certainly be capped by death. Their target was an assassin, a “hard player.” Fair game. His life would have to be taken if the lives of others were to be saved and the interests of the United States protected. Still, Alexandra thought, Rick Peters would have to be the one to take care of that detail. Regardless of the circumstances, she did not think that she could kill, not again. And certainly not in cold blood.
The thought of a kill suddenly cast a shadow on her peace, an ominous, dark bridge to the memories of her past that chilled her. The dragon she saw th
ere, what she had been, terrified her: the treachery and betrayal; the coldness; the lies. The terrible, enslaving bond of pain with Rick Peters.
Alexandra closed her eyes and shook her head slightly to chase the fear. This was different, she thought; the task was straightforward and of critical importance. There were no honest men to betray, only a professional killer. Reassured by that thought, she opened her eyes and felt the bulk of her misgivings leave her, melted away by the Sierran sun. She was glad she was needed, proud that she had been chosen.
A squat, broad-faced man with a ruddy complexion, dressed in an ill-fitting tan uniform, climbed up the bus stairwell, then stood in the aisle with his hands resting on the vinyl backs of the seats on either side of him. He was followed by two attractive women, a blonde and a brunette, dressed in the same type of uniform. The women stood just behind the man, smiling at the passengers over the man’s shoulders.
“Welcome to San Sierra,” the man said. “I am Raul.” His smile was tentative, his muddy-brown eyes clearly mirroring hostility and suspicion as he nodded in the direction of the blonde, then the brunette. “I would like to introduce Constantina and Maria. We will be your guides throughout your stay in our country.”
The women’s smiles grew brighter as they rapidly made eye contact with all the passengers on the bus. Their manner was warm and eager, in marked contrast to Raul’s.
“Why, it’s Mr. Sierran Sunshine,” Peters whispered.
Alexandra suppressed a smile. “DMI?”
“Who knows? Maybe he’s just constipated. If the Sierrans do seed agents into these groups, you’d think they’d choose people smooth as glass. Maybe one or both of the women.”
The man called Raul glanced quickly at Alexandra and Peters, obviously annoyed by their whispering. Alexandra flashed a broad, coquettish smile. Raul reddened slightly, then smiled back.
“We are very happy to have you here, and we think you will be very impressed with all that our small, poor country has accomplished since ninteen fifty-six.” Raul paused. His mouth was set in a grim, defiant line, as if he expected a challenge. When none came, he went on in a less combative tone.
“We have planned your trip so as to show you some of the many different faces of our beautiful country. After going through Immigration and Customs, we will board cruise buses and drive on to the Hotel Carazúl, which is about two hours away, near the town of Patanzas. Tonight we will have a lovely dinner, a tipico fish banquet, that we are sure you will enjoy.
“We will remain at the Carazúl until Tuesday morning, at which time we will go on to the Hotel Sierras Negras.” Raul paused and thrust his chest out proudly. “Sierras Negras is a mountain resort which was just completed a few years ago. It is near the mountain range where my father and uncle fought with Manuel in the glorious revolution.”
“Chickenshit,” Peters whispered without moving his lips.
“On Wednesday, those of you who are interested may take a side excursion to the very old city of Peleoro,” Raul continued. “We recommend that you all go; we think you will find it very fascinating.
“On Thursday morning we will board the buses for the last time and drive back here to Angeles Blanca, where you will stay until you leave us. Some of you may be interested in attending the boxing matches between our two countries on Friday evening. The bouts will take place on the grounds of Tamara Castle, which in itself is worth the trip even if you are not interested in boxing. If you wish to go, we will see that you receive free tickets. In San Sierra, we do not charge for admission to sporting events. We believe that sport belongs to the people, and tickets for events are given away to the workers.
“Again, we welcome you. We hope to get to know each one of you much better before the end of this journey of friendship. Are there any questions?”
There were none. There was scattered applause, and a woman in the rear of the bus shouted a revolutionary slogan. All three guides smiled appreciatively. Raul waved both hands in salute, then followed the two women off the bus.
There was a delay of a few minutes while the guides delivered the same message to the people on the other buses. Then the black-haired woman named Maria got back on the bus and they were driven slowly to the terminal building three hundred yards away.
“If we find the weapon, we find the assassin,” Alexandra said quietly as she and Peters climbed off the bus and moved out from the edge of the crowd gathering at the entrance to the terminal building. “We’ll recognize things a Customs agent wouldn’t—assuming Customs opens the right bag in the first place.”
Peters nodded. “Let’s concentrate on physical contact at Carazúl, then try to do a room search at Sierras Negras. There’ll probably be a lot of people going to Peleoro.”
“Well, at least we can be reasonably certain that our man didn’t bring a gun on board at JFK. The metal detectors would have got him.” Alexandra paused, then continued tightly, “Of course there are weapons, and then there are weapons.”
“I’ll say,” Peters said wryly, casting a quick glance at the barrette Alexandra wore in her hair. “He could have plastique, or even a disassembled one-use plastic gun. The state of the art has probably risen considerably since we worked, and the nice folks we hung around with were pretty crude to begin with.”
“I don’t think we should dismiss the possibility that he could be planning to pick up a conventional weapon here. We’ll just have to—”
Alexandra cut her words off in midsentence as she sensed that someone had come up behind her and was standing close by. She turned, and had to slap a hand across her mouth to stifle a scream.
John
He would wait no longer.
A sour emotional brew of tension, humiliation, and blind rage had exhausted him, leaving behind dregs of bitterness and a cooler, more sustained anger. He was even more determined to win back his wife, but first the boils of resentment resting in his heart and stomach had to be lanced. It was time, he thought, for the other side to experience a little consternation and shame. He was no longer interested in violent confrontation; it would be enough for Alexandra and Peters to discover that he was with them, to realize that he knew and that he would be watching them. He would let them react and make of it what they wished. He had a week to maneuver, to make his “case” with Alexandra, and his opening shot would be the shock testimony of his presence.
He bolted from his seat as the bus on which he was riding braked to a stop. However, he had been sitting near the rear and there was nothing he could do but wait and chafe with impatience as the passengers in front of him filed off slowly.
When he finally reached the macadam he removed his coat, walked away from his group, and surveyed the passengers who had exited from the other buses. He immediately spotted his wife and Peters; they were standing off by themselves, the lower halves of their bodies blurred by a shimmering heat wave radiating from the macadam, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes as they shared a whispered conversation.
As when he had first seen Alexandra with Rick Peters in the TWA terminal, John was almost overwhelmed with desire for his wife. Numbed by the beguiling familiarity of marriage, he had forgotten how much he loved her; but now the nerveless crust built up over years had been brutally ripped from his raw emotions, leaving him throbbing with a pain that would not cease.
He whipped off his hat and sunglasses and stalked forward, angling around to his right so that he would come up behind the man and woman. Alexandra and Peters were so absorbed in their conversation that John was able to approach and stop so close to Alexandra that he was almost touching her before she became aware of his presence. She wheeled, looked into his face, and her eyes went wide with shock. Her hand flew to her mouth and she made a small, strangled sound in her throat.
“It’s one beautiful day, isn’t it, folks?” John said with soft but stinging mockery. Now Peters also spun around, and John feigned surprise. “Why, if it isn’t good old Rick Peters! Rick, I haven’t seen you in God knows how
long. How the hell are—”
Then he could no longer speak. Something stiff and blunt had been rammed into his solar plexus, just below his sternum. The terrible pressure lasted only a fraction of a second before being released, but the effect was devastating; John felt literally paralyzed, unable to breathe, speak, or move. He opened his mouth in a futile attempt to suck air into his lungs, then jammed his hands into his stomach and began to topple forward.
He felt Peters grab him under the left arm and haul him to his feet. “Don’t panic,” he heard Peters whisper urgently to Alexandra. “Let’s get him on the bus.”
With Alexandra supporting him under the right arm, John felt himself being dragged over the hot macadam toward the open maw of one of the shining, empty buses parked a few yards away. He was gasping like a landed fish now, but was still unable to coax any air into his lungs. His chest and the veins in his temples felt ready to explode. Writhing in agony, he rolled his eyes toward Alexandra. But his wife would not look at him. Her face showed the strain from the effort of dragging him, and her eyes gleamed with the kind of fear and confusion John had once seen in the eyes of the first and last animal he had ever shot, almost thirty years before; it was a look of human anguish, but nonetheless was not really human.
It was absurd, John thought, but it occurred to him that his wife and Rick Peters were going to kill him.
“This man’s fainted,” Peters announced in a loud voice to the people around them. “He needs to lie down out of the sun. We have medical experience; we’ll take care of him. Please just give us some room and leave us alone.”
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