John tried to resist as they dragged him to the entrance to the bus, but without air he was close to losing consciousness. Alexandra and Peters lifted him up the steps without apparent effort, dragged him down the aisle, and dumped him onto a seat in the middle section of the bus.
Peters knelt down in the narrow leg space beside the seat and began to rhythmically massage John’s chest with his right hand, helping him to breathe. When John looked down, he could see that the index and middle fingers of Peters’ left hand were poised, stiff as a knife blade, inches from his stomach. John closed his eyes and focused all his attention on the prodigious task of sucking air into his lungs.
“He’ll be all right,” John heard Alexandra, in the doorway, call in a slightly quavering voice to the other passengers. “Just give us a few more minutes alone with him.”
John heard the hinges of the doors squeak as Alexandra forced them shut manually. He opened his eyes, and a moment later Alexandra’s face, bone-white and almost unrecognizable to him, moved into his slightly blurred field of vision, just behind Peters. She learned over him to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt collar.
“You have to be absolutely still and listen, Finway,” Peters said. His voice was pitched very low, but the tone was hard and unmistakably commanding. “If I think you’re going to try and shout, I’m going to shove my fingers into your gut again. Can you breathe all right now?”
John nodded, and Peters stopped massaging his chest. John considered crying out, but when he glanced down again he could see that Peters’ fingers were still in position to strike him. He fixed his gaze on Alexandra and tried to work up hate in his eyes, but he couldn’t; he knew that his eyes reflected exactly what he felt: more pain than outrage, and a terrible confusion.
“This situation isn’t what you think it is, Finway,” Peters continued in the same controlled, hard voice. “It’s a hell of a lot worse than you think it is. Right now you’ve got your wife’s freedom—and mine—in your hands. If you say just one wrong word now or in the coming week—if you even act the wrong way—your wife and I are going to stay on this island for a very long time.” He inclined his head toward Alexandra, snapped, “Tell him! Make it quick!”
Alexandra started to speak, but gagged on the words. “I … I can’t, Rick,” she choked. “I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.”
“Then I’ll tell him,” Peters said in a clipped voice, staring hard at John. “But he gets the whole story if I tell him. Nothing left out. We haven’t got time to chickenshit around. Do you still want me to do the talking?”
“Yes,” Alexandra replied in a rasping whisper.
Harry
“Go get ’em, tiger,” Harry mumbled to himself as John Finway swept down the aisle past him. Harry stood to let the woman next to him out and watched with faint amusement as Finway waited impatiently at the door, then rushed out into the bright Sierran sunshine.
Harry was not concerned about Finway being killed out on the macadam; Peters had no escape route, and there was nothing in the blond assassin’s dossier to indicate that he was suicidal. Consequently, Harry was content to slide over on his seat and watch through the window. The proverbial shit, he thought, was about to hit Peters.
What he saw impressed him—or, rather, what he did not see. Finway had barely spoken a sentence to the man and woman before he was disabled with what Harry knew had to be a finger jab to the large nerve cluster of the solar plexus; however, Peters had executed the move with such blinding speed that Harry had not caught it.
Now Harry quickly got off the bus. He paused, narrowed his eyes, and nodded in professional appreciation as he watched the man and woman drag the hurt, semiconscious lawyer across the macadam and up into the temporary sanctuary of the lead bus. A few moments later Alexandra Finway spoke briefly to the people who had followed them, then pushed the doors shut.
“Is that poor bastard going to get an earful,” Harry murmured wryly as he walked toward the swelling throng that was gathering, chattering excitedly, around the door of the bus.
He took up a position at the edge of the crowd, a few feet away from the door, and waited. He could just see the top of Alexandra Finway’s head through the window, and he knew that Peters would have the woman’s husband down on a seat while he quickly told him the same story he had told the woman. Peters would have no choice, Harry thought; their freedom, conceivably even their lives, would be in John Finway’s hands for a week.
Or it could be over much sooner than that, Harry thought as the dwarfish Raul brushed past him and, with quick, nervous shoves and shouts, began clearing his way through the crowd toward the closed door. A soldier carrying a Kalashnikov assault rifle was trotting across the macadam from the direction of the terminal building.
Harry knew he had to make a quick decision. He had no way of knowing what kind of progress Peters and Alexandra Finway were making with the woman’s husband; if Raul and the soldier burst in before Finway became sufficiently convinced of the need for him to remain silent, Peters and the woman could be out of commission, possibly for years, unless Salva bought their story that they’d been trying to prevent his assassination. Harry did not think Salva would be so obliging.
If Finway raised enough suspicions, Harry thought, Peters and his unwitting accomplice would be taken out by the Sierrans and would no longer be his concern. His job would be half done, and all he would have left to worry about was the possible existence of a second assassin who might be along to back up Peters. But that was going to be a difficult problem. Peters, at least, was a known quantity and an easy target for surveillance. Without Peters to track, Harry was keenly aware that he could spend the entire week looking for a person who might not exist, and then blow the assignment if the person was there and he missed him. Another consideration was the fact that Peters was the best, perhaps the only, source for finding out what organization had booked the assassination in the first place.
Finally, Harry thought, he had been tasked to protect Alexandra Finway, if possible. He decided it was possible.
Harry quickly pushed past the people in front of him and gripped the squat Sierran’s wrist just as the man was about to force open the door. “Excuse me, Raul. I think the man just had a little fainting spell. Maybe you should leave them alone. The blond guy and the woman act like they know what they’re doing.”
Raul looked down at his wrist as if it were the hand on it that had spoken. When Harry released his grip, the red-faced man looked up and blinked rapidly. “They can’t stay in there alone,” Raul said, his voice shrill with anxiety and annoyance.
Harry giggled. “Why not? You think they’re having an orgy?”
“It’s not regular! They must come out!”
Raul turned around to speak to the soldier, who had just come up. Harry moaned loudly, let his jaw fall slack, and rolled his eyes back up into his head. He gave Raul time to turn back, then went into a Saint Vitus dance of flapping, disjointed movements. Suddenly his right arm jerked up, the hard knuckles catching Raul under the chin. Raul grunted with pain and surprise and leaped backward, colliding with the soldier. Both men went sprawling on the ground. Harry stiffened and fell back, slamming against the door and slowly sliding down the metal surface to end in a slumped sitting position on the macadam. There was stunned silence.
If they weren’t finished inside, Harry thought, they had damn well better get finished. He twitched the muscles in his arms and legs, slowly counted to ten, then opened his eyes. “God,” he moaned, clutching his head. He slowly looked up at the staring faces surrounding him. “Oh … I’m sorry,” he said thickly. “Too much heat and excitement always gives me these spells. It’s the story of my life.”
The angry Raul and the soldier got to their feet. Raul stepped forward and glared balefully at the sheepish-looking Harry. “What’s the matter with you!?” Raul bellowed, his voice quivering with outrage.
“I … I’m afraid I fainted.”
“You had a fit! You hit me!”
Harry shook his head in confusion. “I … did?”
“Yes, you did!”
“Oh, Lord, I’m so ashamed,” Harry whined, lowering his gaze and shaking his head woefully. “I’m so sorry. Just give my head a couple of minutes to clear. I’ll be all right.”
Raul gestured in frustration, then lifted his eyes to the heavens as if, forgetting himself, he were seeking Divine guidance. “Why is everyone getting sick? We can’t even get out of the airport!”
Harry groaned, then slowly worked his way onto his hands and knees and made gagging sounds. There was the sound of feet hurriedly shuffling back.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Harry looked up to find the dark-haired Maria bending down over him. Her large, limpid eyes were filled with sympathy and concern. Constantina had arrived with a suitcasesize first aid kit and a thermos of water.
Harry drank a few sips of water, but shook his head when Constantina started to open the first aid kit. “All right,” he mumbled. “Just needed the water … some air.” He waited until Constantina rose to push the people back, then sank down on one elbow and twisted around so that he could see the bus behind him. Peters was standing in the stairwell behind the door, watching the proceedings with mild curiosity reflected in his almost colorless eyes.
“I feel much better now,” Harry said, allowing the pretty brunette to help him to his feet. “I’m really sorry, ma’am. You’re very kind.”
“It’s perfectly all right, sir,” Maria said soothingly. “The only important thing is that you’re all right. If you’ll permit it, I’ll help you through Immigration and Customs.”
Harry murmured his thanks. People began moving away, and Peters pushed the bus door open. His gaze flickered quickly, appraisingly, over Harry before he spoke to Raul and the two women guides.
“The guy inside the bus is all right now. He just had a fainting spell.”
“I’ll look at him,” Constantina said, hefting the first aid kit.
“I think he’d just as soon not attract any more attention, Constantina,” Peters said evenly. “He’s embarrassed, and he knows you all have a lot of other things to do. My friend’s had some nursing training. She’ll stay with him for a few minutes, and then they’ll be right along.”
Constantina nodded, then turned away. Peters once again looked at Harry. Harry smiled shyly, then bowed his head as though speechless with embarrassment. He glanced up in time to see Peters walking quickly through the crowd, heading for the terminal building.
“All right, everybody!” Constantina called in a voice that was authoritative yet at the same time bright and ingratiating. “Everyone’s all right now. Please! Let’s all go back to the Immigration officer. We’re running a bit behind schedule, and I imagine some of you would like to have a swim before dinner when we get to Carazúl.”
The crowd obediently turned and began shuffling toward the terminal building, with Raul and Constantina gently but firmly shepherding them along. Harry allowed himself to be guided by Maria’s hand on his elbow, leaving John and Alexandra Finway alone on the bus.
Alexandra
Alexandra swallowed repeatedly, but she could not work up any moisture in a mouth that was blistered and swollen from her gnawing at the soft tissue. John simply lay still, his left arm hanging limply over the edge of the seat, staring up at her. His gray eyes shone with a fever-glow of accusation and his mouth was frozen in a savage, sardonic smile. Those eyes were melting her insides, Alexandra thought. She felt small and getting smaller, as if the hard outer shell that remained were imploding; she was collapsing in on herself like a dark star, blinking out.
She had lost him, Alexandra thought, and she could not even afford to cry.
“Mrs. Alexandra Finway, Superspy,” John said at last. “I love it.”
Alexandra swallowed again. Her throat burned with thirst and the muscles at the back of her neck ached from tension, but she finally managed to speak. “Please, John,” she said softly. “We have to get off and go with the others.”
“Oh, hell, I’ll get off. But I fainted, remember? I need some time to get my poor befuddled wits together. Oh, and I almost forgot. I thought you might be interested in hearing about our children. Remember Kara, Kristen, and Michael, Mrs. Superspy?”
“Please don’t torture me, John,” Alexandra said in a hollow voice. She imagined she could actually feel John’s scorn pressing against her body like some fierce, invisible wind generated in his broken feelings and funneled through his piercing eyes; the scouring wind was threatening to blow her away. “Of course I want to know about them, but I assume you wouldn’t be here if they weren’t safe with someone.”
“Well, that just shows what a poor judge of character you really are. The fact of the matter is that I ate them. I felt like having a snack before leaving the house and there wasn’t a damn thing in the refrigerator.”
“John, please don’t act like this. We’re all in dan—”
“I’m going to rip that little bastard’s head off his shoulders when this fucking week is over,” John said through clenched teeth, hatred momentarily twisting his features. He slammed his fist into the back of the seat in front of him, then abruptly sat up.
Alexandra forced herself to wait until the initial surge of fury had passed and John’s gaze had come back to her face. “Please don’t even think about that, darling,” she said quietly, making no effort to hide her fear. “Stay away from Rick. Don’t even talk to him. Not now, and not when the week is over. If you push him, he’ll just kill you without giving it a second thought. He’s very dangerous. You don’t really know him at all.”
“Ha! I don’t know him?”
“Darling, all that we have to do is get through this week.”
John punched the seat again and glared at her. “Is that all we have to do, darling? My God, you talk about lies! You’ve been living a lie since the very goddam day we met!”
“Not so loud, John. Please. You know there’s much more at stake here than just our three lives.”
“The hell there is,” John shot back. But he lowered his voice. “Not as far as I’m concerned. Frankly, I don’t give a small shit about Salva, Russia, or the State Department, and I especially don’t give a shit about the fucking CIA. I mean, what are they thinking of, putting a forty-two-year-old mother of three children into a situation like this? This is the biggest bullshit operation I’ve ever heard of. They should’ve just picked up the telephone and called the son-of-a-bitch. Let Salva protect his own ass.”
“It was considered, John. Rick told you that. He also explained why the decision was made not to do that.”
“You spied on me.” Now John’s anger had grown cold and distant. “And you spied on my friends. That’s precisely the kind of arrogant government horseshit a few good people were struggling against in the Sixties, and it turns out my goddam bride-to-be was doing a snoop number on me!”
Alexandra realized that she was almost panting. It was hard to breathe, as though John’s anger were burning up all the oxygen in the bus. “I was doing my job. Not everyone in the counterculture acted as responsibly as you. There were outlaws. You know that.”
“You mean outlaws like Karen?”
Alexandra dropped her eyes and put a trembling hand to her forehead. “Yes,” she managed to say. “Like your sister. I’m sorry, but it has to be said. She was a bomber, and you know damn well her people weren’t planning on blowing up the Pentagon. They didn’t care who they hurt. Also, that handsome mad bomber she was sleeping with just happened to be a KGB agent.”
John stared at her, his lids narrowed and his breathing shallow. “Bullshit,” he said at last. “How the hell do you know that?”
“John, I was a good agent,” Alexandra said quietly, struggling to regain her composure. “It was my job to find out things like that. I killed him. I had to; he was going to kill me.” She paused as a new emotion that Alexandra could not immediately identify swept across her husband’s f
ace. She was sorry she had mentioned the killing, but it was too late to take the words back. “I’m sorry if what I said about Karen hurts you, but it’s the truth.”
“A lot of things I’m learning hurt me, Alexandra. But what hurts most is to find out that you informed on me.”
“I stopped when I realized I was in love with you, and I quit the dragons when we were married.”
“But you never told me, Alexandra!” John cried out, his voice suddenly distorted with anguish.
Alexandra felt tears welling in her eyes and she struggled to hold them back. “Oh, John, can’t you understand that I was afraid of losing you?”
John heaved a great, shuddering sigh. He sucked in a deep breath, put a hand on his stomach, and slowly exhaled. His anger seemed spent. He slowly rose to his feet, squeezed past her in the aisle, then paused in the stairwell and looked back. “If you want my opinion,” he said in a low, hard voice, “this is the typical sort of quarter-assed operation our glorious CIA is justly famous for. Ever hear of Chile? Iran? The Bay of Pigs? How about San Sierra’s Beach of Fire? Well, those fiascoes all seem like master-schemes compared to this baby; it had to be thought up by the same people who brought you Watergate. This operation isn’t even quarter-assed, it’s patently insane. Your three children are the only people you owe spit to, and they’re not going to be too happy if their mother gets her ass shot off or ends up growing old in a Sierran prison. You might want to give that some thought.”
“John—”
“You don’t have to worry about me bothering the two of you, sweetheart. I won’t talk to you; I don’t even know your names. And I won’t blow the whistle on your screwball plan, if you’re still crazy enough to want to go through with it. All I want right now is to get through this week and go back … someplace.”
“I love you, John,” Alexandra said in a choked voice. “You still don’t know everything. I need you. Please help me get through this week. I have to know that you love and trust me, and that our family will be together and whole when this is over.”
Turn Loose the Dragons Page 11