Benson-Ardway blew his cool and tried to avoid the agents coming at him across the lobby of the second level. In so doing, he misjudged a few steps as he ran and wound up tumbling down the stone stairs leading to the main floor. When the agents reached him, for all of his money, importance, and expensive clothes, Ardway was dead of a broken neck. The small black attache bag he was carrying as personal luggage for the flight proved to contain $300,000 in large-denomination bills. That and letters of introduction and recommendation to some of his influential friends in Castro's Cuba. It now became clear that Ardway's lousy plans for the Presidency included some Castroite help. Which probably explained Manuel de Rojas and the two Latins found in his home. I wondered how Cuba would talk its way out of that. Ardway's looks and moustache tallied with Emil's description.
Sometime between eight and eleven, Ardway had learned the whole play had misfired and done the only thing he could think of. Run.
When the President had a closed session with Vice-President Raymond Oatley the next morning in the Situation Room at the White House, no one knew exactly what transpired behind the closed elevator door. But the Veep, though chastened and visibly affected by their unknown dialogue, returned unscathed to his position in the Government. Congressman Charles Cornell's dire prophecies and change-of-mind were vindicated. The Veep had had nothing to do with the Bagman scheme. Glaringly innocent, naively culpable, had he risen to the first seat in the land, he would have been nothing but a puppet once he got there. A tool, a figurehead. The plans of Walter Ardway might never be completely known, but as the President told me later, he would never be able to look around a Senate meeting again and be unable to wonder just which one of the smiling, applauding senators had had a hand in the plot. He trusted his Cabinet implicitly, to a man, despite the outstanding defalcation of Commander Abraham Markham.
The promise of his own Navy command had been the straw that had broken a faithful public servant's honor. And loyalty. The dream had been too big for Markham to handle. Unlike another Abe, a greater one, he wasn't honest enough.
Then there was Detwhiler, the Secret Service turncoat who had beguiled Leonard Kanin into doing his fool stunt and also blown up a big barn to cover the tracks of the conspiracy. The President never even interviewed him. He left him to the mercy of Rowles and Hoover and the FBI. I never did find out what happened to Detwhiler. They probably locked him up and threw the key away, even though they had every right to line up a firing squad for him. Detwhiler's barn it seemed had housed a buried cache of weapons, enough to arm an army troop. Under the barn floor.
The last time I saw Charles Cornell he was in close conclave with the Chief, in the number-one vehicle in Washington, cruising toward the green Potomac, heading out past the memorials, the shrines, and all the big beautiful white structures that signify a very free country. They were both knee-deep in Secret Service men and there was a new bagman in the follow-up Lincoln, but the President and the Congressman both waved at me warmly going by. I didn't need any farewells or thank-yous from them. It had been all there in the way we had shaken hands in farewell.
"Good-bye, Mr. Noon," the President had smiled before stepping into the Lincoln with the unforgettable license-plate number. "We'll see you again."
"Good-bye, Mr. President."
We had said it all upstairs in the big wide room that looked out at the Capitol dome. Down here there was nothing but strangers. And Secret Service men. And Washington observers. And spies.
Congressman Charles Cornell squeezed my hand before he climbed into the Lincoln. "Ed," he murmured, and I whispered back, "Charles," and he winked and that was that.
Behind me, on the stone parkway near the gate, Leonard Kanin stood, hands at his sides, staring with a funny expression on his healing face. The court plasters and the smears of purplish antiseptic made him look like a clown. But he looked happy, anyway.
"They'll reassign me, I hope," he sighed, waving an arm at the receding convoy of vehicles. "But first I have to face a Board of Inquiry. The works. Had it coming, I guess. Better than nothing, though."
"Anything," I said, "is better than nothing, Lennie."
I had one more thing to do before I got out of Washington. When I left the quondam Bagman, I walked out the main gate, swinging left on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a lovely spring day. Balmy, breezy, an unforgettable lovely now. There were no weights on my shoulders or on my brain. I was a free man again. Temporarily. I didn't feel too sorry for Leonard Kanin. The loner, the perennial bachelor, the heartache man would find his groove again and fit once more into the Washington picture. Anybody with his amount of guts, skills, and savvy couldn't be all bad.
I phoned Rowles at the Justice Building. He was one man who always seemed to be in when you needed him. That's no small potatoes, either.
"Hello, Citizen Hero," he said amiably. He was obviously feeling just fine. "Want me to scramble this call, too?"
"Not necessary. What did you find out about Thomas Miflow for me? You never did send me that Xerox file you promised." He stopped sounding bright and I heard him riffling some papers.
"Sorry. Had a lot on my mind. Here it is—he's a Catholic, had no family. No close friends. But the insurance policy he had covered accidents like that highway business. They buried him this morning. Gateway Cemetery above the Potomac. Know where that is?"
"I'll find it. Thanks, Rowles. See you around."
"See you, Noon."
I didn't think it proper to ask him about anyone else. After all, this top-secret mucky-muck existence they all lived was somehow on the ludicrous side. You never knew who you were getting in hot water by opening your big mouth, asking questions, or pushing inquiries. D.C. was a nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there.
If there was going to be a fabulous brunette in my life, she'd have to turn up voluntarily. I couldn't go around turning up official rocks looking for her. No one had mentioned her since the night Charles Cornell had turned the tide all around the other way with his startling disclosure about Markham.
Anyway, I owed Miflow, Thomas, something.
And I always pay my debts.
The next cab driver I met knew where the Gateway Cemetery was. It proved to be not too far out in the suburbs, a large mass of green lawn surrounded by a low stone wall. But you could see the crosses and headstones and crypts and mausoleums a long way out. It was non-denominational. There was a blue sky, lots of white clouds, an orange sun. It looked just fine. Nearly Arcadian. If he'd had any real choice I suppose it was the sort of day a man might pick to be buried on. But Thomas Miflow, like too many of my contemporaries, had been far too young to die. To me he seemed my own personal Vietnam casualty.
A pleasant-enough man in the registration office carefully looked up his name in a large thick ledger, ran down the pages with a manicured fingernail, and located the plot and section where the remains had been planted. I didn't ask him any questions about the funeral. It wasn't necessary. I was someone the pleasant-enough man would never remember.
Five minutes later, after a careful tour through row upon row of markers, I came to the newly filled grave. There hadn't been time for a headstone. No one had sent flowers. The still-fresh greensward bore the imprints of feet and a small peg in the earth with a brass plate affixed said MIFLOW. I guessed the essentials, like date of birth and death, and carved regrets would come later. They always do.
I took my hat off, clasped my hands in front of me and stared down at the mound of dirt. This wasn't Arlington or Flanders Field or even the Veteran's Cemetery in Normandy, but it would have to do. Rowles had called me Citizen Hero. But the honor was Miflow's all the way. I gave him a few minutes of my undivided gratitude.
A shadow fell across the earth. I felt rather than saw her before she moved closer to the pegged marker.
She didn't look any different. It isn't possible for the moon to be any more unusual than it is or the stars to shine any brighter. She was as unforgettably beautiful as ever. Just a tri
fle pale, that's all. And the midnight hair and so-white skin and blood-red lips were all of a piece.
Our eyes met. The vibrant breezes sweeping across the Gateway Cemetery fluttered the orange wisp of scarf around her throat. She was hatless, and a tightly belted military trench coat covered her tall figure.
"Hello, lady," I said.
"Rowles told me where to find you, Edward."
"Good old Rowles."
"Don't you want to know about me?"
"I'm afraid to ask, to tell you the truth. First, you're a spy, then you're not. First you love me, then maybe you don't." I felt a thickness in my throat. "Everybody in this town wears two faces. I can't get used to it. Where I come from, it's a little more black and white. Cops are cops and crooks are crooks."
She nodded, half to herself, but her eyes wouldn't leave my face. There was something about me that was making her wet her lower lip nervously. I could see a vein jumping on her smooth forehead.
"I'm with Naval Intelligence, Edward. Maybe I shouldn't tell you that but it doesn't matter anymore. Oh, I do write the paper, I am a columnist, but that's my cover. No one knows it, not even Charley Cornell. They assigned me to this Bagman thing because of Markham. Someone high up in my department, I can't tell you who, had reason to suspect him. So I was put on it. Cornell's an old friend. A dear. It was easy to latch on to his coattails to get to meet you. After that, things just happened—"
"Uh-huh," I agreed. "We had a little fun, you peeked and sneaked around my room, cleared me with your department, and then went on about your business." I shrugged. "I'm not blaming you. Hell, you saved my life. Giving Kanin the gum, leaving the keys in your Jag, alerting Cornell in time. You're really very good at your job, lady. Very good. How do you do it? And how did Cornell think you were one of them in the first place?"
"Dammit," she snapped, color flaming her cheeks. "Can't you forget your male ego for a second? I'm sorry—but my department wasn't sure about Cornell, either. They blew my cover to see what he'd do. It turned out fine. I was able to get in touch with Ardway who consented to have two of his goons pick you up at your hotel. Don't you see? Ardway was sure I was one of Markham's people. They played it like strangers, too. We've been keeping tabs on Ardway for weeks. When the Bagman thing came off, we were ready. Good thing, too. Those men led me right into the center of the plan. Ardway's house. And stop calling me lady!"
She was a wonder.
I couldn't help smiling at her anger.
"What was that stuff you squirted in my eyes?"
"Bodyguard #4. To be used on muggers, rapists, and thin-skinned private detectives. That answer all your questions?" She turned away now, justifiably peeved.
"Just one more and then I'll thank you properly. Where did everybody go when Kanin and I broke out?"
She shuddered. "That was the worst time of all. I had to go with them. I couldn't stay behind. They dropped me off at my place and Ardway went on to arrange some things with some of the others in the plot. All I could do was leave the keys to the Jag, park that gum on Kanin. Thank God it worked, and you're not as dumb as you try to be sometimes."
"Who's dumb?" I glowered, spinning her around.
"You are," she suddenly sobbed, the tears poising on her eyelids again. "And if you don't kiss me right now and stop acting like a jerk, it's all over between us."
I stopped acting like a jerk, I kissed her. I held her in my arms, and for maybe sixty crazy seconds I could smell all the lilacs in Alexandria. She melded against me, tall, lithe, unbeatable. She was twice as smart as I would ever be and a helluva lot more gorgeous.
But it wasn't a happy ending.
There was one more laughable, incredible gyration of logic and common sense.
We stood there kissing over Thomas Miflow's grave and I felt sure he would have liked that. And yet the affair of the Bagman was as present business as ever.
Felicia Carr saw him first, then I did.
She pushed away from me and her lovely mouth formed the words of his name and I whirled in surprise. The stretch of cemetery we were in was just abandoned enough, just far enough way from the main gate, to be as remote as he wanted to have it, under the circumstances.
I was surprised to see him all right, but nothing ever again in this wide world will ever prepare me for a turnabout as mammothly stupendous as this one. I'd prepared for it a little by telling him where I would be because I had my doubts. But I had hoped against hope I was dead wrong. Felicia Carr I had wondered about, but now I didn't wonder anymore.
He was about ten feet away from us, standing on a little knot of green earth. A hillock from which he had a dead bead on us. A tall dogwood tree offered him ample concealment and protection from the main gate of the cemetery.
"Hello, Rowles," I said. "I hope you brought flowers."
He squinted down at us, saying nothing. But I could see what he had brought. His dark brown suit, gray tie, and nice borsalino hat didn't jibe with the fact that he was holding a hand grenade between both hands. He had his right forefinger looped on the pin, and the fastest shot in the west or the universe couldn't have stopped him from activating the thing. Grenade, M-l. A man-killer and a squad-killer in any war. Private or official.
We'd been had perfectly. Felicia Carr reeled away from me. Her cameo face was stupefied. Drained. She kept shaking her head as if she were seeing things.
Rowles continued to stare down at us, as if wondering how in the name of all that was secret and subversive he had come to this turn of the road.
In a twisted, drunken, crazy world like the one we live in, you'd better be always ready for the turn of the wheel, the spin of the card, the next bend in the highway. It should have been all over, all wrapped up. Finished, ended, done, kaput, fin, and 30, as they say in the printing trade. But it wasn't.
"Got to be this way, Noon," he said in a low voice of finality. "You think too long and too hard. Your memory is too good. Being so close to the Man, one day you'll remember something and I'll be sorry I let you get out of this town alive. I only saved you from Rojas because our plans changed. And I didn't know if Cornell had told you anything vital. So this is it."
I stared up at him. The Gateway Cemetery was a setting out of an artist's imagination. But it was the inside of Hell, all the same.
"You dirty bastard," I said. "Is anybody in this town sacred?"
"No," he said, his finger tightening on the pin. His eyes gleamed weirdly in his fun-in-the-sun face. Now, a gruesome travesty of truth. A blasphemy, almost.
"Markham lost. I won. That's all there is to it."
I couldn't take my eyes off him. Or the grenade.
"What about Markham, Rowles? And Detwhiler? You going to kill them, too? They're still alive—"
He laughed a brittle laugh. His eyes roved expertly, keeping me and Felicia covered. A lark somewhere trilled a shrill whistle.
"You don't understand the neatness of undercover work, Noon. Not even Markham or Detwhiler knew I was in on the scheme. Ardway did but he's dead. Nobody knew about anybody else. That's the beauty of the whole enterprise. But you"—he shook his head only slightly—"you're the type that remembers things, unfortunately. You'd remember one day how I walked into that barn and Rojas didn't bat an eye. You'd remember that it was me that sicked Cornell on to Miss Carr there. Not the Director. You'd remember a lot of things and I'm not going to be left holding the bag like Kanin. In disgrace and out to pasture. Out of the big picture. And someday there will be a new president and a new order, and things will be different. This way, you'll both be blasted in this cemetery and they'll just have to figure out how a pair of agents got themselves killed. It's your own fault, Noon. Like that damned remark you made about only agents and cops carrying pump guns. Calling me today to see about your damned cab driver. You're too persistent. A man who thinks and acts the way you do is too dangerous. I'm sorry but I have to do this. So long—"
He stepped back, finished talking. His finger tugged.
Felicia Carr
screamed. She couldn't help it.
The sky was still blue, the cemetery still a pastoral classic, and Thomas Miflow was still as dead as he would ever be. But for me the world had come full cycle. A nation of two-faced finks in high Government places betraying their trusts had ignited me as few things ever had. Yes, even treason must have an end.
I ran up the smooth slope, bridging the ten feet or more distance that separated me from the biggest fink of them all.
His eyes glittered and he almost laughed in my face.
I reached him just as he pulled the pin.
Whatever happened I was taking the sonofabitch with us.
The Doomsday Bag Page 16