And yet …
And yet something just wasn’t right.
John stopped walking and laughed out loud at his thoughts. Something wasn’t right? Nothing was right. And what else was new?
Then why the painful and persistent additional misgivings?
Alexandra and Peters had shown themselves to be complete professionals, he thought. He had witnessed a solid demonstration of their considerable skills, and it had been clearly shown that he was simply in their way, a very real danger to them. The dragons’ principal target was dead, and it was arguable whether there was a second assassin. If Sierran intelligence left them alone, the rest of the trip should be a milk run. It seemed to him that he should be worrying about rebuilding his marriage after the week was over, but he wasn’t even thinking about that. He could not shake the prickling, oppressive feeling that he was the key to Alexandra’s survival and that, by leaving San Sierra, he was sentencing the woman he loved to death.
John laughed again. He’d had that feeling before, he thought, and he’d been proven an idiot. Espionage and counterterrorism weren’t even remotely within his range of skills, and he normally didn’t need more than a light tap on the shoulder to absorb a lesson. This time he’d been poleaxed, yet, inexplicably, he was still tempted to loiter at the schoolhouse door.
“Mr. Finway! Mr. Finway!”
John turned in time to see Raul come running down the cement concourse that connected the beach to a small shopping arcade, parking lot, and highway beyond. Raul jumped off the end of the ramp onto the beach, then waded laboriously on his short, stubby legs through the deep, clinging sand toward John. By the time he had closed the distance his face was crimson and he was out of breath. He panted for almost a minute, then sat down hard on the sand.
“Well,” John said easily, trying not to smile. “Hello, Raul. You trying out for the Olympics?”
“You … you …” The words would not come yet. Raul panted a few more moments, wiped a glistening sheet of perspiration from his face, then finally caught his breath. “You should have stayed in the town.”
“You ran all the way from there?”
“You should not have left!”
John shrugged. “Why? Am I under arrest?”
Raul shook his head angrily at John’s extended hand, then struggled to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a few seconds, but managed to remain standing. “No,” he replied at last. “But I was concerned about you. Uh, have you talked to anyone?”
John narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘have I talked to anyone’?”
Raul glanced around nervously. “Have you talked to anybody?”
Puzzled, John also looked around. They were alone on the beach. “Just to the mechanic at the garage,” he said, turning his attention back to Raul. “He said it would be hours before the car was fixed, and he mentioned that the Beach of Fire was just a couple of kilometers down the road. I wanted to see it, so here I am. What’s the big deal, Raul?”
“No big deal,” the Sierran said quickly, shaking his head. “No big deal.”
John gestured at the beach around them. “There’s only one little sign up on the concourse identifying this as the Beach of Fire. If our situations were reversed and this were the United States, there’d be a twenty-foot granite monument every fifty yards. Granted it doesn’t look like much, but then neither do most historical sites.”
“We like to look to the future,” Raul mumbled, “not the past.”
John grunted. “You’re not very talkative this evening, Raul. I’d have thought you’d be dying to give me a historical lecture. This is the Beach of Fire, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is the Beach of Fire. But we have to go back now.”
“You think the car’s ready?”
“I don’t know,” Raul replied in a tone of voice that clearly indicated he didn’t believe it was. “But it is time for you to have dinner. I have made arrangements.” He tried to smile, but he only managed to crease the skin on his cheekbones. “I apologize for the delay.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I think it’s nothing short of miraculous that you can keep these nineteen fifties’ junkers moving at all; every village looks like it’s having an antique auto show.” He paused, studying the other man’s face. “You’re really anxious to get rid of me, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Finway,” Raul answered. But he would not look at John.
“You’re some piece of work,” John said wearily as he turned and started back up the beach. “Come on, amigo,” he called over his shoulder. “So much for the Beach of Fire. Let’s go eat.”
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA; CIA HEADQUARTERS
Thursday, January 24; 9:15 P.M.
Harley Shue
Harley Shue’s eyes burned with fatigue, and he had turned off all the lights in the office except for a small, recessed spotlight in the ceiling above his desk. Now he sat quietly, half in and half out of the night, staring into the darkness beyond the sharply circumscribed circle of light.
He had sat, virtually unmoving, in the same position for close to an hour and a half, but his mind had been far from idle. All of the physical preparations he would be responsible for in the event of an affirmative decision by the President had been completed. Now he was thinking about the things that would have to be done in the days, weeks, months, and years following an invasion of San Sierra.
If there was to be an invasion.
There was a soft knock at the door. Harley Shue pushed a button under his desk that activated the lighting in the rest of the room. “Come in, sir,” he said, getting to his feet.
The door opened and Geoffrey M. Whistle strode into the room. His normally handsome face was now gaunt with fatigue and tension, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. “It’s a go, Harley. We have a directive. If Salva’s assassinated, we move into San Sierra. State files on their talks with Salva are a foot thick. That’s our propaganda weapon. As you suggested, our rationale for world consumption will be that Salva was most certainly killed by a Russian agent as a prelude to a full-scale Soviet invasion: we’ll be forced to act. Goddamn.”
“Yes, sir,” Shue said mildly. “Goddamn.” He had purposely kept himself emotionally distanced during the long, draining hours of waiting and preparation. Now he realized that he had expected this decision all along; it was too right, too logical, too necessary to disregard. He did not resume his seat, nor did he suggest that his superior sit. He sensed that that CIA Director preferred to stand, as he did.
“Where are we, Harley?”
“We’re in place, Geoffrey. On your order, COMSAT will begin feeding a worldwide update on Russian troop positions and movements on the half hour to wherever the President wants it. Beginning at six-thirty tomorrow evening there’ll be a constant readout. As far as the assassination site is concerned, I consider it unsound to rely solely on ABC’s broadcast signal, so I’ve made arrangements for a specially outfitted U-2 to be in the air over San Sierra all during the boxing matches. The plane will be equipped with two high-resolution television cameras and other sensory equipment.”
“Very good, Harley. Is everything on the Orange list checked off?”
“Yes, sir. In addition to the U-2, I’ve added seventeen other items that I thought pertinent to this particular operation.”
“I’ll look at them later.”
Shue drew himself up. “The agency is ready to go, sir.”
“You have a gunner?”
“Yes. He’ll be threaded into San Sierra by way of the unions. He’ll be there as a gaffer with the standby electrical crew that leaves for Angeles Blanca tomorrow morning. He’ll be very close to the action.”
“Good man?”
“I can’t vouch for him personally, Geoffrey, but we’ve used gunners from this source before and they’ve always proved reliable. He has very specific instructions and, of course, he’s deep-insulated. He has a clear description of each of his targets, and he thinks he’s carrying ou
t a Mafia contract. Indeed, he is carrying out a Mafia contract.”
Whistle ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair. “It’s too bad Alexandra Finway has to be taken out with Peters. Christ, she’s a civilian who wouldn’t even be there if she didn’t think she’d been tasked by us. Harley, is there any way we can let her out of the net?”
“Yes. I can change the gunner’s orders any time right up until the moment he leaves in the morning; after that there would be considerable security risks in trying to contact him.”
“What do you think, Harley? Can we let her go?”
“The problem is that Alexandra Finway has information that could prove very damaging to our national security. She knows that the CIA was aware weeks ago of a plot to kill Salva. At the moment, there’s no reason to suspect that she will not remain reliable; she could carry what she knows with her to the grave. But there is no guarantee. As you know, I believe our action is crucial to the interests of the United States and our allies. We’re looking into the next century. As long as Alexandra Finway lives, she’ll possess information that could undo much of what we’re trying to accomplish. Our propaganda offensive and the deniability of certain facts will continue to be of critical importance for years. As much as I hate recommending this action, I simply do not believe that the nation can afford to be hostage to Alexandra Finway’s continuing mental stability or political reliability.”
Whistle grimaced as though he had been hit. “Well, Harley, we get paid for making decisions like this, don’t we?”
“I believe so, sir, for making sure that other people don’t have to make such decisions.”
“Shit! You’re right, Harley. Alexandra Finway’s a loose cannon we can’t afford to have rolling around. She has to go.”
“By the way, sir,” Harley Shue said evenly. “The gunner has instructions to take out one other civilian. John Finway. It’s been confirmed that he’s in San Sierra with his wife and Peters.”
Whistle blinked rapidly, frowned. “John Finway?! What the hell is he doing there?!”
“I have no idea, sir. In fact, by now he may be on his way back to New York. The same source who reported Agent Beeler’s death says that Finway is leaving the tour.”
“John Finway,” Whistle said absently as he began to pace. “Why? What the hell has been going on over there?!”
“We have no way of determining that, sir. Finway’s a wild card. For obvious reasons, he’s more dangerous to our mission than his wife. Perhaps infinitely so. He may know everything his wife knows—which could explain why he’s in such a hurry to come home. Given half a chance, Finway will try to destroy the agency.”
Whistle abruptly stopped pacing. “Why hasn’t he told the Sierrans?”
“I don’t know, sir. He may be trying to protect his wife, but that’s a guess.”
“He definitely has to be taken out.”
“If he remains in San Sierra, he’s on the gunner’s list. I have two men at Kennedy Airport in case he comes home.”
“Who’s at the airport? Gunners or our men?”
“Our men. I need you to give me some direction on that end.”
“Are they good?”
“The best, Geoffrey. Totally reliable.”
“Jesus,” Whistle said, angrily shaking his head. “We can’t have Finway walking around over here; he’s sure to go straight to the Washington Post or the New York Times. Tell your men to pack him safely away, with instructions to take him out only on your order.”
“Yes, sir. Those were the preliminary instructions I gave them, subject to your approval, of course.”
Whistle stared intently at the other man, respect and admiration clearly reflected in his eyes. “Thank God you’re on our side, Harley.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Geoffrey. The same could be said for you. But the fact of the matter is that the KGB also has excellent personnel. What happens tomorrow is only a beginning. We’re in for a very long struggle.”
“Yes,” Geoffrey Whistle said distantly.
“I’ve had rooms prepared for all key agency personnel, sir. The coded list is in your safe. I’m going to my room to rest now. May I suggest that you do the same? You look very tired.”
Whistle nodded absently. He seemed to stagger slightly as he turned and walked to the door. He paused, said, “Harley, do you think there’s any way the President, the Joint Chiefs, or the NSC could know about the dragons?”
“I’d say it’s impossible, sir.”
“Strange,” Whistle said, his voice muffled by his close proximity to the door. “The Joint Chiefs have code-named the invasion of San Sierra ‘Operation Saint George.’”
ANGELES BLANCA; AQUA AZUL AIRPORT
Thursday, January 24; 10:42 P.M.
John
“Things here aren’t what some people say they are.”
“There’s no need for you to wait around, Raul,” John said, frowning slightly as the memory of Swarzwalder’s words continued to distract him. “My bags are checked and I’m perfectly capable of getting on an airplane all by myself. Why don’t you go to the hotel and get some sleep?”
Raul, his body sacked by fatigue and tension, was leaning forward in one of the airport lounge’s hard, molded-plastic chairs, resting his forearms on his knees. When Raul glanced sideways, John could see that the Sierran’s eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion and the strain of driving for many hours; as night had fallen, they’d discovered that their car had only one dim headlight. On at least a half dozen occasions John had been certain they would have an accident. However, Raul had gotten them safely to the airport. The Sierratour guide had booked him on a delayed flight rescheduled to leave at one in the morning for Toronto, where he would connect with a Pan Am flight to New York. He would be home by midmorning.
“I will wait with you,” Raul said thickly. “You do not speak Spanish. You may need help if there is a further delay.”
“All the airline personnel speak some English. I won’t need any help.”
“Still, I will wait.”
“Suit yourself. I’m going to get some coffee. What about you?”
Raul shook his head sullenly. John rose, purchased a cup of weak, tepid coffee from a gurgling vending machine, then walked across the deserted lounge to a high, wide bank of windows that looked out over a line of buses and food-vendors’ trucks parked on the macadam one story below. Their images reflected in the polished glass, three soldiers leaned against the walls of the lounge, dozing, their spectral shapes floating somewhere out in the night.
“Things here aren’t …”
John had lost track of the number of times he’d relived the confrontation in the Sierras Negras Hotel, but his memory seemed to be clearing with the passage of time, and he now began to review it all once again.
David Swarzwalder certainly hadn’t been what he’d claimed to be, John thought. However, John was no longer convinced that the big man had been what Alexandra and Peters thought him to be, either.
Raul had told him that there were three other singles on the tour besides himself and Swarzwalder, and John continued to ponder the question of why Swarzwalder had lied to him on the plane and told him they were the only two. What had he wanted? Had Swarzwalder already approached the others and been turned down? Not enough time; they’d just boarded the plane. Swarzwalder seemed to have specifically wanted to room with him.
In order to be close to him? Why?
Could Swarzwalder have known about the dragons? Even if he had, John thought, that would not explain Swarzwalder’s apparent desire to share a room with the husband of one of them. Quite the contrary; logic would seem to dictate that an assassin keep as low a profile as possible throughout the week, and he would certainly go out of his way not to attract the attention of the two people who were hunting him.
Could it have merely been a coincidence that Swarzwalder had asked to share a room? Again, Swarzwalder had lied to him about the other singles.
Why had Swarzwalder s
aved his life?
John finished his coffee, returned to the machine, and bought another.
He made an effort to recall the exact sequence of events that had occurred after he had burst into the dragons’ room. Before, everything had seemed to race through his consciousness in milky fast-motion. Now he concentrated on slowing things down, separating the entire sequence into its separate components, clearing away the haze and putting the events into sharp focus.
Swarzwalder had been standing over Peters’ suitcase, holding one of Alexandra’s barrettes in his left hand. Swarzwalder had spun around, hesitated, then dropped the barrette on the bed and attacked him.
The man had been incredibly quick and powerful, John thought. Before he’d had time to think or react, Swarzwalder had knocked him down with a hammer blow to his heart. Then Swarzwalder had leaped on top of him and pressed a knee into his chest; the man’s hand had been raised, the knuckle of his middle finger extended in preparation for a killing blow to his throat …
But the blow had not come. Remembering back, the image etched clearly in his mind, it seemed to John that Swarzwalder’s fist had remained cocked, quivering with pent-up force over his throat, for a very long time. Then the other man’s eyes had changed, softened, as death had left them.
For some reason, Swarzwalder had decided not to kill him. Why? What possible alternative had been left to Swarzwalder, the assassin?
“Let them send you home.”
An earlier warning after the accident with the shaver—if it had really been an accident.
“You have any enemies, John?”
The wires in the electric razor had not looked frayed when he’d packed it, John thought. Had someone tried to kill him? Certainly not Swarzwalder, for it had been the big man who’d brought him back to life. Had Swarzwalder’s words been a warning? Of what? About whom? Had Swarzwalder been sending a warning about himself? Why would he do that?
Turn Loose the Dragons Page 23