by Trevanian
She had taken nothing but the money. He found the clothes he had bought neatly folded on the kitchen table. Even their dishes from last night's supper were washed and put away.
He sat. Hours passed. Above him, unseen in the empty nave, shafts of colored light and blocks of shadow swung imperceptibly on silent hinges, and evening came.
The bitterest part of his anger was turned inward.
He was ashamed at being so gullible. Her warmth and radiance had blinded him, a self-inflicted abacination.
In his mental list of those who had used friendship as a weapon against him, he inscribed Jemima's name under Miles Mellough's.
"The moving finger writes," he mused to himself, "and having writ, gestures."
He closed the door to the gallery and locked it—for the last time that summer.
NEW YORK: June 14
"...the burdens of the flesh, eh, Hemlock?" Dragon's voice quivered fragilely. His body was thin and weightless under the black silk sheets; his brittle-boned head scarcely dented the ebony pillow upon which his ovine hair crumpled damply. Jonathan watched the long albescent hands flutter weakly at the hems of the turned-back bedding. A certain dim light was necessary to those who attended to his medical needs, and against the pain of this light, his eyes were covered with a thick, padded black mask.
Mrs. Cerberus bent over him, her lepidote face creased with concern as she withdrew a large needle from his hip. Dragon winced, but quickly converted the expression into a thin smile.
It was the first time Jonathan had been in the bedroom behind Dragon's office. The chamber was small and draped entirely in black, and the hospital stench was overpowering. Jonathan sat unmoving on a wooden bedside chair.
"They feed me intravenously for a few days after each transfusion. Sugar and salt solution. Not a gourmet's menu, you will agree." Dragon turned his head on the pillow, directing the black eyepads toward Jonathan. "I take it by your arctic silence that you are not overwhelmed by my stoicism and brave good humor?"
Jonathan did not respond.
With a wave so feeble that gravity tugged the hand down, Dragon dismissed Mrs. Cerberus, who brushed past Jonathan with a swish of starched clothes.
"I normally enjoy our chats, Hemlock. They have an exhilarating spice of dislike about them." He spoke in aspirate breaths, stopping midphrase when necessary, allowing his labored exhalation to group the words arbitrarily. "But in this condition I am not an adequate intellectual rival. So forgive me for coming directly to the point. Where is Miss Brown?"
"Oh? Is that really her name?"
"As it happens, yes. Where is she?"
"You're telling me you don't know?"
"She turned the money over to Mr. Pope yesterday. After which she quite disappeared. You'll forgive me if I suspect you."
"I don't know where she is. But I'm interested. If you find out, please tell me."
"I see. Remember, Hemlock, she is one of ours. And you are in an ideal position to know what happens to those who harm our people."
"Let's talk about the assignment."
"Nothing must happen to Miss Brown, Hemlock."
"Let's talk about the assignment."
"Very well." Dragon sighed, shuddering with the effort. "But I regret your loss of sportsmanship. How does the Americanism go? Win a few...?"
"Did you used to pull the wings off flies when you were young, Dragon?"
"Certainly not! Not flies."
Jonathan chose not to pursue the subject. "I assume the sanction has to do with the second man in Montreal. The one who was wounded in the struggle with whoeveritwas?"
"Agent Wormwood. Yes. At the time we sent you to Montreal, Search knew almost nothing about this second man. Since that time, they have been piecing together fragments of information—rumors, second sheets from note pads, statements from informers, swatches of taped telephone conversations—all the usual bits from which guilt is constructed. To be truthful, we still have less information than we have ever worked with before. But it is absolutely vital that the man be sanctioned. And quickly."
"Why? It wouldn't be the first time your people pulled a blank. What's so important about this man?"
Dragon's phosphorescent brow wrinkled as he balanced a problem for a moment, then he said, "Very well, I'll tell you. Perhaps then you will understand why we have behaved so harshly with you. And perhaps you will share our anxiety over this man." He paused, seeking a place to begin. "Tell me, Hemlock. From your Army Intelligence experience, how would you describe the ideal biological weapon?"
"Is this small talk?"
"Most pertinent."
Jonathan's voice took on the pendulum rhythm of recitation. "The disease should kill, but not quickly. The infected should require hospitalization and care, so that each case pulls one or two attendants out of action along with the victim. It should spread of itself by contact and contagion so that it will expand beyond the perimeters of the attack zone, carrying panic with it. And it must be something against which our own forces can be protected."
"Exactly. In short, Hemlock, certain virulent forms of bubonic would be ideal. Now, for years the other side has been working to develop a biological weapon based on bubonic. They have come a long way. They have perfected the delivery device; they have isolated a strain of virus with ideal characteristics; and they have injections that render their forces immune."
"I guess we'd better not piss them off."
Dragon winced with semantic pain. "Ah, the slums. Never far from the surface with you, are they? Fortunately, our own people have not been idle. We have made considerable strides in similar directions."
"Defensively, of course."
"A retaliatory weapon."
"Certainly. After all, we wear the white hats."
"I'm afraid I do not understand."
"An Americanism."
"I see. Now, both sides have reached impasses. Our people lack the ability to immunize against the virus. The other side lacks a satisfactory culture medium that will keep the virus alive through the extremes of temperature and shock involved in intercontinental missile delivery. We are working on discovering their process of immunization, and they would like very much to know the composition of our culture medium."
"Have you considered direct barter?"
"Please don't feel called upon to lighten my illness with little jokes, Hemlock."
"How does all this fascinating business affect me?"
"CII was given the assignment of delaying the other side's progress."
"The task was entrusted to CII? The CII of the Cuban Invasion? The CII of the Gaza incident? The CII of the Spy Ships? It would seem our government enjoys playing Russian roulette with an automatic."
Dragon's voice was crisp. "In point of fact, Dr. Hemlock, we have gone a long way toward effectively negating their entire biological warfare program."
"And how was this wonder accomplished?"
"By allowing them to intercept our formula for the culture medium." There was a certain pride in Dragon's tone.
"But not the real one," Jonathan assumed.
"But not the real one."
"And they are so stupid that they will not discover this."
"It is not a matter of stupidity. The medium passes every laboratory test. When our people stumbled upon it—"
"Sounds like our people."
"...when our people came upon the medium, they believed they had the answer to keeping the virus alive under ail conditions. We gave it exhaustive tests. If we had not chanced to test it under combat conditions, we would never have discovered its flaw."
"Under combat conditions?"
"This is none of your affair." Dragon was angry at himself for the slip.
"It's about those white hats."
Dragon seemed to slump with fatigue, although he made no movement. He appeared to collapse from within, to become smaller in the chest and thinner in the face. He drew several shallow breaths, blowing each out through slack lips and puffing cheeks.
"So then, Hemlock," he continued after recovery, "you can understand our urgency."
"Frankly, I don't. If we're so far out ahead in this criminal competition..." he shrugged.
"We recently suffered a great setback. Three of our most important scientists have died within the last month."
"Assassination?"
"No-o." Dragon was palpably uncomfortable. "I told you that we had not yet developed an effective immunization, and... This is not a laughing matter, Hemlock!"
"I'm sorry." Jonathan wiped the tears from his eyes and attempted to control himself. "But the poetic justice..." He laughed afresh.
"You are easily moved to risibility." Dragon's voice was icy. "May I go on?"
Jonathan waved a permissive hand and chuckled again to himself.
"The method we used to allow the medium to fall into enemy hands was not without brilliance. We had it transferred to one of our agents, this Wormwood, in Montreal."
"And you let the fact of the transfer leak to the other side."
"More subtle than that, Hemlock. We did everything in our power to prevent them from intercepting—with one exception. We used an incompetent agent for the job."
"You just pushed this ass out in the traffic and let them run over him?"
"Wormwood was a man of dangerously limited abilities. Sooner or later..." He made a gesture of inevitability. "At this point, you enter the picture. For our little ploy to be successful, the assassination of Wormwood had to be avenged just as though we were seriously chagrined at his loss. Indeed, considering the importance of the information, the other side would expect us to sanction with more than usual vigor. And we must not disappoint them. CII considers it vital to the national defense that we pursue and liquidate both of the men involved in the assassination. And—for certain reasons—you are the only man who can accomplish the second sanction." Dragon paused, his mathematical mind scanning over the conversation to judge if he had left any vital matter out. He decided he had not. "Do you understand now why we brought such uncommon pressure to bear on you?"
"Why am I the only man who can accomplish the sanction?"
"First. Do you accept this assignment?"
"I accept."
The cotton tuft eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. "Just like that? No further aggression?"
"You'll pay for it."
"I expect to. But not too much, of course."
"We'll see. Tell me about the target."
Dragon paused to collect his strength. "Allow me to begin with the details of Wormwood's murder. There were two men involved. The active role was played by Garcia Kruger, now no longer with us. It was probably he who delivered the first blow; it was almost certainly he who cut open Wormwood's throat and stomach with a pocket knife to retrieve the pellet he had swallowed. The second man was evidently not prepared for violence on this level. He was sickened by the operation; he vomited on the floor. I tell you this to acquaint you with the kind of man you will be dealing with. From his actions in the room and after, Search estimates that he is not a professional from the other side. The chances are that he was involved in the business for the money—a motive you must be sympathetic with."
"What's my target's name?"
"We don't know."
"Where is he now?"
"We don't know."
With growing doubt, Jonathan asked, "You have a description, haven't you?"
"Only the vaguest, I'm afraid. The target is male, not a Canadian citizen, and he is evidently an accomplished mountain climber. We were able to put that much together from one letter delivered to his hotel several days after his departure."
"That's lovely. You want me to kill every climber who hasn't the good fortune to be Canadian."
"Not quite. Our man will be involved in a climb in the Alps this summer."
"That narrows it to maybe three or four thousand men."
"Fewer than that, Hemlock. We know which mountain he will attempt."
"Well?"
"The Eiger." Dragon waited for the effect.
After a pause filled with images of the most terrifying moments in his climbing career, Jonathan asked with fatalistic assurance, "North Face, of course."
"That is correct." Dragon enjoyed the concern evident in Jonathan's voice. He knew of the two disastrous attempts Jonathan had made on that treacherous face, each of which had failed to claim his life by only the narrowest margin.
"If this man is taking a shot at the Eigerwand, the chances are good that my work will be done for me." Jonathan admired the target, whoever he was.
"I am not a pantheist, Hemlock. God is acknowledgedly on our side, but we are less sure of Nature. After all, you twice attempted the face, and yet you are alive." Dragon took pleasure in reminding him that: "Of course, both of your attempts were unsuccessful."
"I got back off the face alive both times. For Eigerwand, that's a kind of success." Jonathan turned back to business. "Tell me, how many teams are now training for a go at the North Face?"
"Two. One is an Italian team—"
"Forget that one. After the '57 affair, no sane man would go on the hill with an Italian team."
"So my researchers have informed me. The other attempt is scheduled for six weeks from now. The International Alpine Association is sponsoring a goodwill climb to be made by representative climbers from Germany, Austria, France, and the United States."
"I've read about it."
"The American representative was to have been a Mr. Lawrence Scott."
Jonathan laughed. "I know Scotty well; we've climbed together. You're insane if you imagine he had anything to do with the Montreal business."
"I am not insane. My disability is acroma, not acromania. We share your belief in Mr. Scott's innocence. Recall that I said he was to have been the American representative. Unfortunately, he had an automotive accident yesterday, and he will not climb for many years, if ever."
Jonathan recalled Scotty's free-swinging, ballet-cum-mathematics style. "You really are a shit, you know."
"Be that as it may, the American Alpine Association will contact you soon to replace Mr. Scott. There will be no objection from the international association. Your fame as a climber precedes you."
"The AAA wouldn't contact me. I haven't climbed for years. They know that. They know I'm not up to a go at the Eiger."
"Nevertheless, they will contact you. The State Department has brought certain pressure to bear on them. So, Hemlock," Dragon said with a tone of wrapping the business up, "your target is either the Frenchman, the German, or the Austrian. We have worked out a way to discover which one before the climb starts. But, to lend verisimilitude to your cover, you will train as though you were actually going to make the climb. And there is always the possibility that the sanction will be made on the face itself. By the way, an old friend of yours will be in Switzerland with you: Mr. Benjamin Bowman."
"Big Ben?" Despite the circumstances, the thought of drinking beer and joking with Big Ben again pleased Jonathan. "But Ben can't make that climb. He's too old for Eiger. So, for that matter, am I."
"The Alpine Association did not select him as a climber. He will be arranging equipment and transportation for the team and managing things. There's a term for it."
"Ground man."
"Ground man, then. We were rather hoping that Mr. Bowman knew about your work with us. Does he?"
"Certainly not."
"Pity. It might be useful to have a devoted associate with you, should it turn out that we cannot nominate the target for you before the climb begins. It might be wise for you to take him into your confidence."
Jonathan rejected the idea out of hand. With his simple and robust sense of ethics, Big Ben would never understand killing for profit. Risking one's life for sport was a different matter. That made excellent sense to Ben.
Dragon's mention that Jonathan would meet a former acquaintance flashed the image of Miles Mellough through his mind. He recalled Dragon's allusion to him during t
heir last conversation. "What part does Mellough play in all this?"
"I assumed you would ask. Frankly, we are not sure. He arrived in Montreal two days before Wormwood's assassination, and he departed the day after. We both know Mr. Mellough too well to imagine a coincidence. It is my assumption that he acted as courier for the culture formula. Naturally, we did not interfere with him until he had passed on the information. Now that that's done, I have no objection to his falling victim to your epic sense of loyalty and honor—like that Greek fellow did. Indeed, we offer you Mr. Mellough as a kind of fringe benefit."
"Six weeks," Jonathan mused. "I'll have to work very hard at conditioning."
"That is your affair."
"Big Ben runs a training school in Arizona. I want to go there for a month."
"If you wish."
"At your expense."
Dragon's voice was heavy with the sarcasm he reserved for the mercenary instincts of his agents. "Naturally, Hemlock." He groped above him for a buzzer to summon Mrs. Cerberus. For his part, the conversation was ended. Jonathan observed his fumbling efforts without offering assistance. "Now that you know the background, Hemlock, you can appreciate why we need you—and only you—to undertake this sanction. You used to climb mountains, and there seem to be so many people of your acquaintance somehow involved in this matter. You appear to be tangled in the skein of fate."
Mrs. Cerberus entered with an officious rustle of crisp clothing. She brushed past Jonathan, knocking against his chair with her formidable hip. He wondered if this ghastly pair copulated. Who else would be available for Dragon? He looked at them and decided that, if they had offspring, they would produce something that could model for Hieronymus Bosch.
In dismissal Dragon said, "I will keep you informed to whatever extent I consider necessary."
"Doesn't it strike you that we have passed over the matter of payment?"
"Oh, of course. We intend to be particularly generous, considering the rigors of the assignment and the emotional difficulties concomitant to our little combat of wills. You will receive thirty thousand dollars upon completion of the sanction. Of course, the stolen twenty thousand dollars is on its way back to you. And as for the Pissarro, Miss Brown made it clear on the telephone the other day that she would not perform her task unless we promised to present it to you as a gift. And that we do. I am sure that is more than you expected."