College? Me? I didn't know what to say. What good is college gonna do for a guy who figured out the Little Devil Blowback Silencer before he was nineteen? Genius, huh? Bullshit. It was just a kid's idea out of a fantasy world. All kids live in fantasy worlds, and I don't just mean jerking off three times a day. It's like you're sitting there watching a movie on TV or reading a comic book, and this guy has a pistol in his hand ready to shoot the hero. And you think, oh wow, what if the silencer on the piece is a fake and when he pulls the trigger he shoots himself instead? Every kid has fantasies like that. The only difference with me was that as soon as I got the idea, I went to work and made the gadget. It took me less than a week to figure out the theory and another week to turn it out on the lathe, and the next thing I know I'm doing business with AmerArmCo in Wilmington, and how the hell should I know that the Agency owned them lock, stock, and gunbarrel? A teenage kid and I'm doing business with the Agency, and Dick Wilenski tells me that I'm sui generis and asks me if I want to go to college.
College. I said, "Look, I already know enough to blow up half of Moscow. What happens if I go to college? Will I learn enough to blow up the other half?"
"You schmuck," Eddie muttered to himself now. "The dumbest move you ever made. All those years making gadgets, and now what can you do?"
He looked in disgust at the Roman candle in his hands, finished off the plug, and pushed it aside. The movement brought his head up, and through the window he saw Ginger coming across the lawn toward the camper. Quickly, he began closing up shop, sweeping the candles into the storage bin, stopping up bottles and putting them away in place. Closing up took less than a minute. He checked the door of the toy closet to make sure it was secure, and when
Ginger opened the camper door he was reading a copy of Field and Stream. He looked up when she came in, as if surprised, and she looked so lovely standing there in the doorway that he felt himself go soft inside at the thought that they would be sleeping apart in the night.
"You look terrific," he said, tossing the magazine aside.
"Thanks. Daddy says to come up for a drink and he'll put the steaks on the grill."
He stood and came close to her. "What's the chance for a little romance before dinner?"
She was frowning. "No chance at all."
"Something bothering you?"
"Plenty."
"Your folks?"
"Yes, but not what you think. There's something I have to tell you."
She told him in fifteen minutes what it had taken her father two hours to tell. At the end of five minutes, Eddie was bewildered. At the end of ten minutes, he was amused. By the time she was finished, he was terror-stricken.
The descending levels of the Emerson lawn, like tabletops of meadowland, formed a depression of terrain running northeast to southwest. As a result, Ginger's journey to the camper went unobserved by the two groups of men watching the house. Sasha sat with his head tilted back and resting against the front seat of the car, his eyes half-closed. The headache was worse. He had been popping aspirins like peanuts all day, but with no effective results. The booming of fireworks in the distance was no help, and he watched the house through a haze of pain. To distract himself, he reran in his mind the fantasy of the burning house and the daring rescue. He found both parts of the fantasy equally satisfying. The thought of Emerson trapped in the flames filled him with a profound pleasure, and the vision of himself as his father's rescuer was downright exhilarating. The fantasy and the satisfaction it provoked were no new things to him. He had been dreaming this dream in various forms, asleep and awake, for as long as he could remember, long before there had been a face to attach to the name of the man he was sure was his father. Along with the headache, the fantasy was an old friend.
"Sasha." Nikolai's voice came from the speaker below the dashboard. "They're out of the car and heading for the house."
"Can you see them?"
"Not clearly. No lights back here, and it's dark now."
"Hold your position. I'll handle it."
"Don't you want me to follow discreetly?"
"Negative. Stay where you are."
"Sasha, those people aren't just out for a walk. They're making an approach on the house, using cover."
"Bunch of boy scouts," Sasha muttered.
"You sure you don't want me up there?"
There was silence as Sasha fought the pounding in his head. He knew that Nikolai was right and that he was being foolhardy. On the other hand, the intentions of the intruders were still uncertain, and even if they presented a threat it was his father who was being threatened, not Nikolai's or anyone else's, and if there was a job to do it was his job to do. After a moment, he said, "Negative, Nikolai, hold on where you are. I'll take care of this myself."
He clicked off, gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, and then he was out of the car and through the hedge, running lightly down the road toward the house. The countryside was still, not a sound except the distant rumble of fireworks, but within his head he could see the whole of the house in flames and hear his father calling for help.
"I had to tell you," said Ginger. "They told me not to, but I had to."
"No, you didn't," Eddie said fervently. "And I wish to hell you hadn't. It's none of my business."
"It is now. I just made it yours."
"Yeah, I guess you did. I've got it whether I like it or not."
Ginger sat on the edge of the bench in the tiny dining area of the camper, leaning tensely across the drop-leaf table. Eddie sat opposite her, his face closed and guarded.
I've got to get out, he thought. I've got to move quick.
Christ on a crutch, what lousy luck. The old man, a Soviet sleeper. Who would ever figure that? I lay low for a year and keep my nose clean, and then I walk into a mess like this. Shit!
All right, keep it cool. . . figure it out. Without emotion, like a problem in chemistry. Forget that you like the guy; forget that he's Ginger's father; forget your own problems for a minute. Add it up and figure it out.
OK, what have we got? A longtime sleeper who doesn't want to play with his pals anymore. He wants to cross over, and who does he go to for help? His old buddy, the DD5, Swan, that sanctimonious, cold-blooded son of a bitch. OK, I said no emotion. So what kind of a deal does he make? Total immunity, a new identity, government protection, and a fresh start in a small town somewhere. A good deal? Sure, it's good, it's so good that it stinks. They just don't work that way, not if they're still the same cute and cuddly teddy bears I used to play with. They can't let him live, even under cover. He's a liability; he's a major embarrassment, a Red sleeper who made it right to the top. If that ever came out. . . Christ, the heads that would roll.
So they have to extract him. Guys like that don't get plastic surgery and a fresh start. They get accidentally dead. A little VX gas in the air-conditioning system, that's all it takes, or any one of a dozen other gadgets that I made for them over the years. So he's gone. And so is Rusty. And so is the kid, and so am I unless I move fast.
"Eddie, I'm worried. Is he doing the right thing?"
Ginger's question broke his reverie, and he started. The right thing? What difference does it make? Your father's a dead man. All he has to do is lie down, he's so dead.
"I suppose so," he said cautiously. "It doesn't sound as if he has much of a choice."
"No, he doesn't." She nodded sadly. "It seems such a shame to lose everything now. He never really did anything wrong. He's not a traitor. That's why he went to Swan."
"He's a victim," Eddie agreed, deciding to oversimplify. "Let's go get that drink."
He stood up and slipped on his jacket, smoothed the lapels and patted the pockets. Ginger, watching him, smiled faintly. "You don't have to wear a jacket in this heat," she said. "Daddy won't be wearing one."
"Your father is more socially secure than I am." He took a flashlight from a rack above the table.
"You don't need that, either," she pointed out. "I know every
inch of this ground in the dark."
"More social security." Once outside the camper, he locked the door carefully and took her hand. "Lead on."
She was right. She knew her way across the darkened lawn unerringly, leading him over the velvety grass, past shadows that were trees and ghostly fences, and up the invisible rises of the tabletops with only the light of the house to guide her and the flicker of fireworks exploding on the horizon. She walked quickly, picking her way, and Eddie followed a half-step behind her. His mind still moved at a gallop.
I've got to get out of here and I've got to take her with me, but how do I do it? The father and the mother are finished; there's nothing I can do for them, but I can still get the two of us out. I don't know when they'll hit, and I can't wait to find out ... I can't afford to be around when it happens. So she's got to take me on faith. I may lose her this way, but I've got to try it.
He tugged at her hand and stopped. She turned to him in the darkness and asked, "What's wrong?"
"Plenty. Part of it you know about, and part of it you don't. Look, I'm going to ask you to do something now. No questions, no arguments. Just do it. Trust me on this, OK?"
She was silent for a long moment. "Eddie, I've been taking you on trust since the day I met you. I may have pushed you a little, but I've never asked questions."
"No, you haven't."
"Then why do you have to ask me now? What is it you want me to do?"
He took a deep breath. "We're going to go up to the house and wish your father a happy birthday. We're going to have one drink with your folks. Then we are very politely going to excuse ourselves and say that we're not staying for dinner and we're not staying overnight. Then we're going to leave."
"Leave?" Her voice went up a notch. "Just like that?"
"Just like that. Kiss them good-bye, walk out of the house, and get out of here."
"I can't do that," she protested. "Not on his birthday. No, the hell with his birthday, I just can't do it. Not after what he told me today."
"You've got it the wrong way around. Because of what he told you."
"But why?"
"That's the part that you take on trust."
"He's my father. I can't just walk away from him."
"Baby, you have to."
She pulled her hand away from his. "You're saying something, but I can't hear it. What is it? Is he in some kind of danger?"
"Jesus Christ — " He could swear he smelled it.
"But that's it, isn't it? Someone is trying to hurt him, and you want me to . . ."
The sound of a shot came clearly from the house. "Oh, my God," Ginger gasped. She broke away from him and ran.
He lunged, missed, stumbled, and took off after her. "Goddamn it! Wait a minute!"
She did not answer and she did not stop, running fleetly over familiar turf, heading for the house with Eddie behind her in frantic pursuit. Knowing the ground, she outdistanced him quickly, bounding up the last of the rises to the final level of the lawn while he scrambled awkwardly, the flashlight on now and helping him some, but not enough to overtake her. He was still far behind her when she reached the back door of the house, and he heard it slam, heard her footsteps inside; and then he was through the door himself and pounding across the veranda, through the darkened sitting room, and down the hall that led to Emerson's study. The door to the study was open, and the room was ablaze with light. Stumbling through the doorway, Eddie skidded to a stop.
Emerson and Rusty were tied to chairs against the book-lined wall, mouths gagged, faces contorted. Georgie Silk stood near them, pistol lowered. On the other side of the room, Pico was in the act of turning from the opened wall safe; a thin sliver of steel shone in his hand. Ginger stood frozen in motion, staring down at the slim
figure of a man on the floor, his forehead dripping blood.
Silk's eyes widened. "Jesus Christ, it's Eddie Mancuso," he muttered, and his pistol came up.
"Georgie-boy."
The two men stared at each other, wonderingly, and then Eddie said, "Is that a gun you have there, Georgie? Do they let you play with guns now?"
Silk grinned. "Where you been keeping yourself?"
"Here and there. Around and about."
"Same old Eddie. People been looking for you."
"Yeah, I figured they might be."
"This is my lucky day. I go out on a job and I make myself a bonus the easy way."
"An open warrant?"
"Sure, what did you expect?"
"Had to be," Eddie agreed. "How much they paying?"
"Fifty large."
"I'm flattered."
"You made them pretty sore. Over a year now, and they're still sore. They want your ass bad."
"You going to give it to them?"
"Fifty large." The pistol was steady in his hand. "That's a lot to pass up. You know what I mean?"
Eddie sighed, then nodded at the man on the floor. "Did you do that all by yourself with your little pistola?"
"Watch your mouth." Silk shrugged. "He came in waving a piece. I put him down."
"Ah," said Eddie, as if a great truth had been revealed. "Who's your friend?"
"Pico?" Silk did not move his head. "Pico's new, but he's learning."
"Knife man?"
"Like I said, he's learning. I'm teaching him everything I know. Right, Pico?"
Pico grinned. "That's right, Georgie."
"Everything you know." Eddie laughed shortly. "That shouldn't take long. That should take about twenty minutes."
"I told you to watch your mouth."
"Georgie'sOK," Pico said mildly. "He teaches me plenty."
"What did he teach you tonight? How to kill two helpless people?"
Pico shrugged. "All in the game."
"Well, I hope you've been taking notes. Did he ever teach you this one?"
Moving only one finger, Eddie pressed the button on the flashlight. A spring-loaded dart shot silently through the rim of the head. The dart hit Silk in the right shoulder, the venom-tipped point working at once to put the muscle into spasm. The pistol dropped from his fingers suddenly gone numb, and Silk fell, curled into a ball and moaning.
Across the room, Pico moved his right hand and the sliver of steel flashed in the light. He could see that Silk was down, but he could not see why. He could not see Georgie's face, the neck cords straining, the blood vessels engorged, and the features grotesquely twisted. The name Eddie Mancuso meant nothing to him. All he could see was a short, slight, unarmed man. He took three quick steps across the room and dropped into the practiced crouch of the veteran knife fighter. His lips peeled back, and with his left hand he made an inviting motion.
"Come on," he said. "Come on, cono."
Eddie shook his head, almost reluctantly. Pico feinted once and lunged. Eddie stamped the heel of his right shoe sharply on the floor. The explosive cap in the toe of the shoe flew up and forward, hitting Pico in the chest at a distance of six feet. The effect was the same as that of a double load of buckshot. Pico's chest disappeared, the muscles and bones hanging loose, the thorax shredded, the blood leaping in gouts. The body pitched forward through a fine, pink haze.
Without moving, Eddie looked down at the wreckage of Pico, then over to where Silk lay moaning helplessly. He nodded abstractedly, the way a master carpenter might in acknowledging the fine finish on a piece of furniture, expecting neither more nor less. He turned to Ginger, who still stood motionless in an attitude of frozen flight, her eyes shadowed in shock, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
With a forced lightness, he said, "Well, sweetheart, you now know what I used to do for a living."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sadness stormed up in him. In the past there had always been a moment so painful that at times he had been physically ill. It had made no difference to know, in those days, that he was fighting for his life and that the people whom he killed were after his blood. He killed, and then he sorrowed, and after a while his sorrow extended itself to encompas
s all of the suddenly dead, those few who had died by his hand and all of the untold others. Sometimes it seemed as if a pact of sadness bound together the killed and their killers. But he set aside the sadness now with an effort of will and strode across the room, brushing by Ginger to get to her parents. A blade dropped into his hand from the jacket scabbard, and he quickly cut them loose and whipped away the gags.
"They were going to kill us," said Rusty as soon as she could speak. There were grim lines in her face. "The bastards were actually joking about it. . ."
Facing Eddie, Emerson ran his tongue over his lips. "What did you do to them?" he asked hoarsely. "Who are you?"
Eddie ignored them both and knelt beside Silk, who lay on his side curled up into a ball. Eddie tugged at a shoulder and rolled him onto his back. His face was purple, his fingers the size of sausages. His eyes looked up pleadingly.
"Eddie," he managed to croak, "for God's sake ..."
Over his shoulder, Eddie said, "Come here, I want you to hear this."
Emerson knelt beside him. "My God, what's happening to him?"
"A highly concentrated dose of hornet venom, very deadly." Eddie's voice was light and conversational. "I used to use real hornets, but they were too damn expensive.
Used to cost me a buck and a half apiece, shipped up from Brazil. That was in the old days, of course. Now you can synthesize it using acetylcholine and serotonin. The combination hits the old myoneural junction just like a jolt of the real stuff. He'll be dead in twenty minutes." He raised his voice. "Did you hear that, Georgie? Twenty minutes. Then it's bye-bye, baby."
Emerson looked at him as if he were insane. "Will you please tell me what's going on here? Who are these people?"
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