A Perilous Eden (6 page)

“Tall order,” Tchartoff commented. He leaned forward and crushed out his cigarette. Then he leaned back again, his gaze uncompromising.

So suddenly that Tchartoff's muscles contracted, the president slammed a fist against the table. “I will not be terrorized by those bloody murdering bastards!”

Tchartoff raised one brow slightly but said nothing. He glanced over to Ted Larkspur, who seemed determined to keep silent.

“Mr. Tchartoff, we know where the men are being held—and by whom.”

“That's to your advantage,” Tchartoff said simply.

“They're on an island in the Caribbean,” the president continued. “The Death Squad has an entire complex of buildings and bunkers there.”

“I assume,” Tchartoff said, sipping his Scotch, “you're not intending to blow up the island.”

“We can't blow up the island—and you damn well know it. I'd kill my own people. And if this operation isn't carried off perfectly, it will be seen as more aggression on our part.”

“I see.” Tchartoff lit another cigarette. “You know who they are and where they are. What do you intend to do about it?”

“We don't have time to get a man on the inside. But you're already there—and we want your help.”

Tchartoff remained silent for a moment; then he laughed. “You want me to sacrifice the progress I have made to date and rescue your men? One man—against how many?”

“Twelve on this island, we're almost certain.”

“You have a lot of faith, sir.”

“Yes, I do. I've studied you.”

“Exactly what do you want?”

“Well, that's rather obvious, isn't it? I want you to release the American men—and then I want you to blow the compound sky-high.”

Tchartoff whistled softly, then laughed. “Why should I risk my life?” he asked. “Hell—it's almost certain suicide. I'm not an American—I'm an Israeli.”

“Yes, I know. And if you're caught and your real identity discovered, they, too, will know that you're an Israeli.”

Tchartoff slowly started to laugh again. “I see. If I bungle the whole thing, the United States will have had no involvement.”

“Yes, that's it”

“If I cause those poor patsies to get bullet holes through their heads, you'll be able to commiserate with the families.”

“That's right. But you'll have all the help the American military can provide at your disposal.”

Tchartoff shook his head. “This is crazy. You haven't answered me yet. Why should I become involved?”

“You were an American once. The United States gave you and your family a home when you had none elsewhere.”

“I settled that debt, sir. I paid it off with three years of tramping through godforsaken rice fields.”

“The United States taught you how to fight.”

“And how to kill. I grant you that. I even learned how not to be afraid for my own damn skin.”

“I don't think the United States did that, son.”

Larkspur watched the president, who was still holding his trump card. He had to play it carefully.

The president leaned toward Tchartoff. “The men holding them are your … allies, members of the Death Squad.”

“We've already established that.”

“They've not only blown up half of Israel, but your wife and child, as well.”

The pulse was beating in the hollow of Tchartoff's throat, and his face had taken on an ashen pallor.

The president leaned back. “Mr. Tchartoff, we have proof of that, and I'll gladly see that you're supplied with it. I grant you, I'm after revenge. I want it so badly it's like choking, night and day. I think you want it, too. And I think I'm supplying you with the one and only real chance you'll have.”

“You have proof?”

“I do.”

“I want to see what you've got.”

“Of course.”

Tchartoff rose casually, stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled toward the lawn. He turned to the president with a shrug. “Want to tell me what you've got in mind?”

3

New York

May 20, 11:30 p.m. EST

A
dam shoved his hands into his pockets as he moved along the street, smiling slightly at the garish beauty of the bright neon lights. It was late, but the usual hawkers were still out. Prostitutes were selling their wares not ten feet from the theatergoers, resplendent with their minks and sables and silver hair.

New York, New York. There was nothing like it.

Some said that a big city was a big city, but Adam didn't think so. Oh, they were alike in some ways. London, New York, Paris—even Tokyo. They all had their blend of humanity. A multitude of languages, a multitude of faces, blending together, scurrying around. But each had its own tone, its own throbbing pace that made it unique.

One of the prostitutes called out to him with a welcoming smile. He turned, and when she looked into his eyes, her smile slowly faded, and she hurried down the street.

He pulled up his collar. It was almost summer, but the nights still carried a chill. Breath mingled with exhaust fumes and the steam from the sewers to create a low-lying blanket of mist.

He passed a church, almost tripping over one of the bums who lay sprawled over the steps.

“Got a quarter?” the man whined.

Adam laughed dryly. “Whatever happened to a dime?”

“Inflation, man. Inflation.”

Adam dug in his pocket for a dollar. What the hell, he had a wide-open expense account for once in his life.

“Thanks!” the bum called out delightedly.

“My pleasure,” Adam said dryly.

He turned down the avenue. Things were quieter here; the streets more deserted—more respectable. Most of the store windows were covered with bars.

His footsteps slowed without conscious thought; he discovered that he was peering between steel bars to stare at a full-length mink in a gray so soft and radiant it was like spun silver.

Sonia would love such a coat, he thought, then gave himself an angry shake. Sonia would have loved such a coat. He had to stop thinking of her in the present tense.

Yet a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he stared at the coat. Perhaps it was not so bad. He could think of her and smile at the memories. Sonia, who could don khaki, bind up her hair and run blithely to the front of a battle line, could also gasp with delight over a fur, swirl like a princess in silk and purr like a kitten in bed.

Had. She
had
done all those things.

Funny how he couldn't get it right in his mind. Maybe because he'd never really seen her. He'd seen men die in almost every conceivable fashion: shot, knifed, burned, exploded. He'd killed men in almost every conceivable fashion himself—that happened when survival became the issue.

But when they'd brought him to see the charred bodies of his wife and child, he just hadn't been able to see
them
. His mind had just rebelled. It hadn't been Sonia, and it hadn't been Reba.

If Sonia had died on the line, died fighting, he might have managed to handle it. Because still, after all these years, he had the sense that there was a right and a wrong. There were battlefields, and then there were places where people lived. Where they shopped, where they mailed their letters. Where they went for long walks and played in parks.

Children, babies, infants … just had no place in it.

A cold sweat coated his body, and he gave himself a little shake, then started down the street again, glancing at his wristwatch. He was late.

But the memories had come on strong. So strong that he paused before a model dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. The dummy was posed with hands on hips, body slightly tilted, a beautiful, mischievous smile in place.

So much like Sonia. Even the hair—dark, flyaway. She had been in jeans the day he'd met her. She'd been trying to change the tire on an old Volkswagen. He'd offered to help, but she'd refused him, cheerfully saying that she had things under control. Then the rim and the tire had flown off in her hands; she'd landed on her rear in the mud—and laughed at herself.

“Well, of course I can do it myself. But I suppose, if you're willing, I can also use some help!”

She'd never been in a man's bed before, but she was in his that night. For her, it had not been a question of morality; it had been a question of what she wanted. And she wanted him. He could remember the feel of her that night. Like satin. She'd been young and firm and incredibly beautiful, and touching the fullness of her breast had been intoxicating. He'd never known such an intense feeling of satisfaction as he had from her, yet it was the aftermath that stayed with him, that haunted him.

She'd asked him how he'd become an American when his mother was an Israeli. He'd explained that he should have been Russian, or Polish, and she'd thought he was kidding. He had laughed, too, then started whispering obscene things to her in Russian. In the end she had laughed some more, and they'd made love again. When they were done that time, she got him talking about the service, about the jungle, about the terror of being in a war. He'd learned then that she was still in the military; she'd talked about it easily.

“It's just something we do here, Adam. It wasn't so long after the war that I was born. We were raised knowing that we must always fight, that we must preserve our land to preserve our lives.”

She was fascinated by his command of languages.

“It's a gift,” she told him.

“You're a gift,” he'd responded. And she'd laughed and told him that she'd known his Russian had been dirty, but she wanted him to say beautiful things to her in Italian and French—weren't those the languages for lovers?

In the days that followed, he began to see Israel through her eyes. Her commander came to meet him one day, and he found himself engaged in a full-scale discussion of munitions and explosives. He'd seen Sonia and the man exchange glances, and that night, with her hair tangled across his bare chest, he'd asked her if she was seducing him for herself or for the Israeli military.

“Both,” she had admitted eagerly. “Adam, we need you. You're vibrant, you're a fighter! You're part of all this. It's in your blood, whether you wish to admit it or not. We need you.…”

“We?” he'd asked her, and despite her gentle touch, his body had stiffened.

“I need you.…”

And it was true. She needed him. Israel needed him. The United States was allegedly at peace.

He married Sonia; he became an Israeli. He took a special-assignments job with the government, and he kept fighting.

It had taken five years for Reba to come along. And Sonia, despite her desire to keep working, had never been so ecstatic over anything as she had been over motherhood. They'd lain one night with the baby between them, checking her fingers and toes and laughing over her fuzzy black hair. And Sonia had said, “Oh, Lord, Adam! That we have created her … I love her so much it terrifies me.” She'd shuddered then, almost as if she'd had a premonition. “Oh, Adam! We must promise ourselves—if something should happen to me, you must love her all your life. You must guard her all your life.…”

He'd laughed. Sonia's job was at a desk then. “Nothing is going to happen to you. We will grow old and fat together and make her insane because we won't let her date until she's thirty.”

Sonia hadn't laughed. “Promise me, Adam!” He had seen how serious she was, so he had kissed her tenderly and held her, and sworn that he would joyfully protect both of them with his life.…

But he'd never had a chance to exchange his life for theirs.

A passerby walked a wide berth around Adam, and he realized that he was staring at a dummy in a T-shirt, and that his hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides. He started walking again. Now he was really late for his appointment.

He quickened his pace, and moments later hurried down the steps to Astors. Toni was already there, alone as he had requested. He was supposed to be a tourist, and tourists always saw their relatives. They partied, they had a good time.

And in this case, Uncle Sam would pick up the check.

“Adam!”

His cousin, radiantly smiling, threw herself into his arms before he reached the table. He returned the embrace, then set her from him. She was too slim, he thought, but that was the way Toni liked to be. She was healthy, anyway. Her cheeks were nice and scrubbed pink, and her dark eyes were brilliant. Her hair was chopped short, blow-styled, chic. Very New York, Adam thought with a grin tugging at his lip.

She's already ordered his Scotch, neat. It was on the table.

“Adam!” she said again, sitting across from him. He knew that she was studying him. She didn't say that he looked good; she gave him the same curious gaze the prostitute on the street had given him. Except that her smile didn't fade.

“How are you?” she asked anxiously.

“Good,” he told her, taking a sip of his Scotch, then idly running a finger down the glass. He gave her a smile. “And you. I saw the play—you were great.”

“Oh, Adam! It was off-, off-, way off-Broadway. But you came, you really came? You saw it all?”

“Heard every word!”

“Thanks,” she said softly. Then, “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged and pulled out a cigarette and lit it slowly, casually. “Just visiting,” he said at last.

“You should have warned me! I would have planned more than a late-night drink. How long are you staying?”

“I leave tomorrow morning—caught one of those cheap charter rates to Paris. I thought I'd tour around a bit. Maybe catch a few of the Greek Islands.” He didn't want Toni to know that he might be back in the United States. Toni didn't know anything about Michael Adams. With any luck, she never would.

She breathed a little sigh as if she were relieved. “Oh, God, Adam, I'm so glad to see you doing things. That's what you need, you know. Are you really okay?”