by Trevanian
"How long has it been?" Miles dropped his eyes and shook his head. "A long time. Come to think of it, the last time we met was in Arles. We had just finished that Spanish thing—you and I and Henri."
Jonathan's eyes flickered at the mention of Henri Baq.
"No, Jonathan." Miles laid his hand on Jonathan's sleeve. "Don't imagine I have made a verbal blunder. It's about Henri that I want to chat. Do you have a moment?" Feeling the forearm muscles tense, Miles patted Jonathan's arm and withdrew his hand.
"There's only one possibility, Miles. You have an incurable disease and lack the guts to kill yourself."
Miles smiled. "That's very good, Jonathan. But wrong. Shall we have a drink?"
"All right."
"Rather like old times."
"Not at all like old times."
The eyes of all the young ladies in the lounge followed Miles as he preceded Jonathan along the walkway and over an arched stone bridge to an isolated table. His uncommon good looks, the grace and strength of his dancer's walk, and the extreme styling of his clothes would have eclipsed a man of less panache, but Miles moved slowly among the girls, granting them the benediction of his easy smile, honestly pitying them because he was ultimately unavailable.
As soon as they were seated, Miles released the dog which vibrated with tense energy until its toenails clicked on the rock, scrambling in circles of frenzy, then scampered along to a nearby table where he was captured, whimpering, by three young ladies in bikinis who were clearly delighted to possess this entree to the handsomest man they had ever seen. One of them approached the table carrying the shivering, clawing animal in her arms.
Miles rested his eyes on her breast languidly, and she produced a nervous laugh. "What do you call him?" she asked.
"Faggot, my dear."
"Oh, that's cute! Why do you call him that?"
"Because he's a bundle of nerves."
She did not understand, so she said, "That's cute!"
Miles beckoned the girl to his side and placed his hand lightly on her buttock. "Would you do me a great favor, dear?"
She giggled at the unexpected contact, but did not withdraw. "Surely. Glad to."
"Take Faggot and go play with him for a while."
"All right," she said. Then, "Thank you."
"There's a good girl." He patted the buttock in dismissal and the girl left the lounge, followed by her companions who were just dying to know what had transpired.
"They're cute little tricks, aren't they, Jonathan. And not completely without their uses. Bees are attracted to the honey."
"And drones," Jonathan added.
A young Indian waiter stood by the table.
"A double Laphroaig for my friend, and a brandy Alexander for me," Miles ordered, looking deeply into the waiter's eyes.
Miles's gaze followed the waiter as he made his way along the walkway and over the artificial streams of bubbling water. "Good-looking boy, that." Then he turned his attention to Jonathan, touching his palms together and resting his forefingers against his lips, his thumbs under his chin. Over the tips of his fingers, his still eyes smiled with gentle frost, and Jonathan reminded himself how dangerous this ruthless man could be, despite appearances. For a minute neither of them spoke. Then Miles broke it with a rich laugh. "Oh, Jonathan. No one can best you at the game of cold silence. I should have known better than to try. Was my memory accurate about the Laphroaig?"
"Yes."
"A whole monosyllable! How gracious."
Jonathan supposed Miles would come to the subject in his own time, and he had no intention of helping him. Until the drinks came, Miles scanned the men and girls around the pool. He sat poised in his black velvet suit, high-rolled linen collar with a drooping velvet cravat, slim and expensive Italian boots. Obviously, he was doing well. It was rumored that, after leaving CII, Mellough had set himself up in San Francisco where he dealt in all kinds of merchandise, chiefly drugs.
In essential ways, Miles had not changed. Tall, brilliant in his physical trim, he pulled off his epic homosexuality with such style that plebeian men did not recognize it, and worldly men did not mind it. As always, girls were attracted to him in gaggles, and he treated them with amused condescension of a glamorous Parisian aunt visiting relatives in Nebraska. Jonathan had seen Miles in tight and dangerous spots during their time together in CII, but he had never seen a hair out of place or a rumpled cuff. Henri had frequently mentioned that he knew no equal to Miles for cold physical courage.
Neither Jonathan nor Henri had objected to their comrade's sexual preference; indeed, they had benefited upon occasion from the clusters of women he attracted but did not satisfy. Miles's divergence had been one of his most valuable assets to CII. It had put him in contact with people and sources not open to the straight, and had given him the power of blackmail over several highly placed American political figures.
As the waiter placed the drinks on the table, Miles spoke to him. "You're a very attractive young man. It's God's gift to you, and you should be grateful for it. I hope you are. Now run along and attend to your duties."
The waiter smiled and left. Once he was out of earshot, Miles sighed and said, "I would say he's made, wouldn't you?"
"If you have time."
Miles laughed and raised his glass. "Cheers." He sipped the frothy mixture thoughtfully. "You know, Jonathan, you and I have similar approaches to love, or to balling, if you prefer. Both of us have discovered that the confident cold turkey technique drops more of them than all the romantic mooning around our sexual inferiors bait their little traps with. After all, the targets want to be made. They simply ask to be protected from guilt by feeling they've been swept off their feet. And it is refreshing for them to have their paths to evil lubricated with urbanity. Don't you agree?"
"I assume you're covered?"
"Of course."
"Where is he?"
"Behind you. At the bar."
Jonathan turned and glanced along the bar until, at the end, he sighted a blond primate who must have weighed two hundred twenty pounds. Jonathan guessed him to be in his mid-forties, despite the heavy purplish sun lamp tan and the long bleached hair that fell over his collar. He was typical of the ex-wrestlers and beachboys Miles carried along, half as bodyguards, half as lovers, should nothing better turn up. "And that's all the cover you have?" Jonathan asked, returning to his drink.
"Dewayne is very strong, Jonathan. He used to be a world's champion."
"Didn't they all."
"I'll send Dewayne away, if he makes you nervous."
"He doesn't look like much of a threat."
"Don't depend on that. He's very well paid, and he's totally devoted to me." Miles's movie smile displayed his perfect teeth as he pushed the mash of ice around in his glass with a swizzle stick. Then he began rather tentatively, "It must seem odd to you that I have sought you out, instead of waiting for you to step up to me someday and relieve me of the burden of existence."
"Your phrasing answered any questions I might have had."
"Yes, I've grown weary of ice in my stomach every time I see a man who resembles you." He smiled. "You have no idea how damaging it's been to my cool."
"It will soon be over."
"One way or another. And I think I'm in a good bargaining position."
"Forget it."
"Not even curious?"
"About one thing. How did you know I was here?"
"Oh, you remember what we used to say: CII secrets and common knowledge differ only in that common knowledge..."
"...is harder to come by. Yes, I remember."
Miles rested his large, soft eyes on Jonathan. "I didn't actually kill Henri, you know."
"You set him up. You were his friend and you set him up."
"But I didn't actually kill him."
"I probably won't actually kill you."
"But I'd rather be dead than like the Greek you gave Datura to."
Jonathan smiled with the bland, gentle look he don
ned before combat. "I didn't actually prepare the Datura. I paid someone else to do it."
Miles sighed and looked down, his long lashes covering his eyes. "I see your point." Then he looked up and tried a new tact. "Did you know that Henri was a double agent?"
In fact, Jonathan had discovered this several months after Henri's death. But it did not matter. "He was your friend. And mine."
"It was only a matter of time, for God's sake, Jonathan! Both sides wanted him dead."
"You were his friend."
Miles's voice became crisp. "I hope you'll understand if I find this harping on ethics a little presumptuous in a killer!"
"I was holding him when he died."
Miles's tone softened instantly. "I know. And I'm truly sorry about that."
"You remember how he always joked about going out with a clever line? At the last minute he couldn't think of one, and he died feeling foolish." Jonathan's control was flaking off.
"I'm sorry, Jonathan."
"Oh, that's fine. You are really and truly sorry! That fixes everything!"
"I did what I could! I arranged a small income for Marie and the children. What did you do? You rammed your rod up her that very night!"
Jonathan's hand flashed over the table, and Miles was snapped sideways in his chair with a backhand across the face. Instantly, the blond wrestler left his barstool and started toward the table. Miles stared hate at Jonathan, tears smarting in his eyes, then, after a struggle with his self-control, he raised his hand, and the wrestler stopped where he was. Miles smiled sadly at Jonathan and gestured the bodyguard away with the backs of his fingers. Angry at being denied his prey, the wrestler glared for a moment before returning to the bar.
Jonathan realized at that moment the first thing he would have to do would be to discourage the blond bodyguard.
"My fault probably, Jonathan. Shouldn't have baited you. I imagine my cheek is red and unsightly?"
Jonathan was angry with himself for allowing Miles to taunt him into premature action. He finished his Laphroaig and gestured to the waiter.
Until the waiter left the table, neither Jonathan nor Miles spoke, nor did they look at each other until the cerebral toxic of adrenalin had drained off. Miles had turned away, not wanting the Indian waiter to see his glowing cheek.
Miles smiled forgiveness at Jonathan. He had not wiped the tears from his eyes, imagining they might help his case. "I tender you a bit of information as a propitiatory offering."
Jonathan did not respond.
"The man who made the fiscal arrangements with me for Henri's death was Clement Pope—Dragon's boy."
"That's good to know."
"Jonathan—tell me. What if Henri had set me up?"
"He would never have done that to a friend."
"But if he had. Would you have gone after him like you've come after me?"
"Yes."
Miles nodded. "I thought so." He smiled wanly "And that vitiates my case considerably. But I still don't intend to allow myself to die, a sacrifice to your peculiar reverence for the epic traditions of friendship. Neither heaven nor reincarnation attracts me. The one seems dull, the other undesirable. So I feel bound to protect this fleeting life of mine with all my energies. Even if it means killing you, dear Jonathan."
"What are your other choices?"
"I would hardly have come to the marketplace if I were not in a position to bargain."
Big Ben entered the lounge. With his habitual broad smile, he started to join Jonathan, then he saw Miles, and sat at the bar instead, eyeing the blond wrestler with flagrant disdain.
"You might at least give me your attention, Jonathan."
"A friend just walked in."
"Does he realize the possible cost of that privilege?"
"You're wasting my time, Miles."
"I may be saving your life."
Jonathan retreated into his gentle combat smile.
"When I left CII, Jonathan, I went into business in San Francisco. I'm in transportation. I move things from one point to another point and distribute them. All sorts of things. It's amazingly profitable. But life has not been comfortable for me, with the specter of you lurking in every shadow."
"Distressing."
"Then, early this month, I received an assignment to transport a bit of information from Montreal to... somewhere else. Gaining the information necessitated the killing of an agent. I didn't participate in the assassination because, unlike you, I am not a predator." He glanced to see the reaction. There was none. "But I know who did the killing. You got one of them shortly later. And now you're after the other. Dragon has told you that he will have the identity of this other person by the time of the sanction. Maybe. Maybe not. I know who it is, Jonathan. And until you have that information, you're in great danger."
"How so?"
"If I tell this person who and what you are, the hunted will become the hunter."
"But you're willing to sell this man out to me?"
"In return for your promise to stop stalking me. Don't let this bargain pass you by."
Jonathan looked out the window at a circle of girls near the pool laughing and screeching as they playfully teased the neurotic Pomeranian, which danced frantically in one spot, its claws clicking on the tile, urine dribbling from beneath it. Jonathan turned and looked at the wrestler still sitting at the bar, keeping him under observation. "I'll think about it, Miles."
Miles smiled with patient fatigue. "Please don't play me like an amateur. I can't remain inactive and unprotected while you 'think about it.' I believe it was you who first advised me never to con a con."
"You'll know my decision within five minutes. How's that?"
Then Jonathan's voice mellowed. "Whichever way it goes, Miles. We were once friends... so..." He held out his hand. Miles was surprised, but pleased. They shook hands firmly before Jonathan left for the bar where only Ben and the blond bodyguard sat. The latter leaned back on two legs of his stool, his back to the bar and his elbows hooked over it, eyeing Jonathan with a snide superior expression. Jonathan approached him, his whole bearing diffident and apologetic. "Well, as you saw, Miles and I have made up," Jonathan said with a weak, uncertain smile. "May I buy you a drink?"
The wrestler scratched his ear in disdainful silence and leaned further back on his stool to create more distance between himself and this fawning nobody who had dared to slap Mr. Mellough.
Jonathan ignored this rejection. "Boy, I'm glad it worked out all right. No man of my size looks forward to tangling with a guy built like you."
The wrestler nodded understandingly and pressed his shoulders down to set the pectorals.
"Well, just so you know," Jonathan said. He converted his motion of departure into a skimming kick that swept the tilted barstool from beneath the wrestler. First the edge of the bar, then the brass rail cracked the blond head as it thudded down. Dazed and hurt, his long hair tumbled into his face, the wrestler had no time to move before Jonathan had stepped on his face with his heel and pivoted. The nose crunched and flattened underfoot. The sound brought gall to the back of Jonathan's throat, and his cheeks drew back with nausea. But he knew what was necessary in situations like these: they must remember the hurt.
Jonathan knelt over the wrestler and snatched the face up by the hair until it was only inches from his own.
"Hear me. I don't want you out on my flank like that. It scares me. I don't like being scared. So hear this. Come near me ever, and you're dead. Hey! Listen to me! Don't pass out while I'm talking to you!"
The wrestler's eyes were dulled by pain and confusion, and he did not respond.
Jonathan shook him by the hair until several strands came out between his fingers. "Did you understand what I said?"
"Yes." The reply was faint.
"Good boy." Jonathan set the head back gently on the floor. He stood up and faced Ben, who had watched the whole thing without moving. "Will you take care of him, Ben?"
"All right, ol' buddy. But goddam my
ass if I understand what's going on."
"Talk about it later."
Two Indian busboys grunted under the task of conducting the toppling giant to his room, as Jonathan walked back to the entrance of the lounge. He stood there, looking across at Miles who, alone of the patrons, had been aware that a conflict had occurred. Their eyes, so similar in color and frost, intersected for a moment. Then Miles nodded slowly and turned his attention away, gracefully flicking a particle of dust from the sleeve of his velvet jacket. He had his answer.
ARIZONA: That Evening
His back against a vertical pillow, his feet straight out before him, Jonathan sat up in his bed. He rolled and licked his second smoke, then forgot to light it as he stared, eyes defocused, into the deepening gloom.
He was working out, in rough, how he would put Miles away. There was no chance of getting to him before he could alert the sanction target to his identity. Everything in Switzerland would hinge on Search identifying the man early.
Jonathan's attention suddenly narrowed to the present as he heard a faint metallic click outside his door. He slowly rose from bed, keeping a rolling downward pressure with his hands to reduce the sound of the springs. There was a soft knock, one calculated not to awaken him if he were sleeping. He had not expected Miles to make his move this quickly. He regretted the absence of a gun. The tapping was repeated, and again he heard the click of metal. He crept to the wall on the hinge side of the door. A key turned in the lock, and the door opened a crack, a shaft of light bisecting the room. He tensed and waited. The door swung open deliberately, and someone without whispered. Two shadows spilled across the rug, one of a man, the other a monstrous figure with a huge disk poised over its head. As the shadows advanced, Jonathan kicked the door shut and threw his weight against it. There was a crash and clatter of metal and shattering glass, and he realized instantly what it must have been.
Sheepishly he opened the door and looked out. Big Ben was leaning against the wall across the corridor, and an Indian waiter sat stunned on the floor in the midst of a wreckage of dishes and silver, his white uniform jacket a visual menu.
"Now you wouldn't believe this, ol' buddy, but there are folks who just say so when they ain't hungry."