Night Magic (27 page)

“I think I love you, Jack McClain.” The words came out of nowhere. Clara blinked at him, as taken by surprise as he.

There was a brief silence as his green eyes bored into hers. His hand came up to trace the outline of her lips. They quivered beneath that butterfly touch.

“Then marry me,” he said, Clara caught her breath, her eyes widening. Her crazy, sexy spy wanted to marry her.

“Oh, no!” she breathed in a panic, terrified at the sudden urge she had to throw her arms around his neck and laugh and cry and kiss him and promise him anything. “I can’t
marry
you!”

His face went as cold and hard as the rocks behind them. He sat up abruptly, then stood up as Clara gaped at him. She hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. What she’d meant to say was that she needed time to think. But he’d caught her by surprise. Never had she given serious thought to becoming his wife. James Bond didn’t have a wife.

“Jack, I didn’t mean it like it sounded,” she said, desperate at the look on his face as he pulled on his soaking shorts and sweatshirt.

“I don’t think there’s much room for misinterpretation,” he said savagely, glaring at her. Clara scrambled to her feet, pulling on the robe and securing it with nervous hands.

Jack was already stalking back in the direction of the villas. Clara ran to catch up with him, grabbing his arm. He shook her off furiously, continuing his angry march.

She caught up with him and grabbed his arm again.

“Jack, I really do love you,” she babbled, desperate to make him listen to the jumble of emotions rioting inside her.

“Yeah, you love me so much that the very idea of
marrying me sends you into a spasm,” he growled, shaking her off again.

“I
do
love you,” she insisted desperately. He whirled suddenly and caught her by her arms in a grip that hurt. Clara hung suspended from steely fingers, mesmerized by the savagery in those green eyes.

“Baby, what you feel for me isn’t called love. It’s called
lust.
You got an itch that you need me to scratch, and that’s the end of it,” he bit out. Then he let her go and stalked away.

Clara stood where she was, staring after him, angry, hurt tears slowly filling her eyes. Behind her, some distance away, the crumpled teddy lay forgotten in the sand.

XXX

Friday, October 16, 4:55
P.M.

The secretary of state’s limousine was due to arrive in five minutes. The Secret Service was already present in force, having gone over the villa on the golf course where he would be staying and the surrounding area with a fine-tooth comb, and secured it. The Chinese premier was due at approximately the same time, so that neither side would seem to be taking precedence over the other. Of course, the man who stepped out of the secretary of state’s car when it arrived would be a decoy, but only a select group knew that. The real secretary of state had arrived earlier, with the bare minimum of escort, in great secrecy.

Clara waited with Captain Spencer and Jack inside the glass-walled meeting room that overlooked the circular drive where the dignitaries would alight. General Ramsey and Admiral Segram were at present closeted with the secretary of state. Security was tightly in place, things were going just as they should, but Clara could not help but be nervous. Would the ruse work? Would an attempted assassination
really take place, or was the whole thing an elaborate nightmare? If shots were fired, would the decoy survive? Would the gunman be captured and, if so, could he lead them to Bigfoot?

Davey Spencer and Jack were as silent as she. All three of them stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the drive as they watched for the arrival of the cars. Clara had not seen Jack since he had stalked away from her on the beach that morning. Now, after a single wintry glance from his green eyes, he did not so much as look in her direction. Clara was quietly miserable. She had to talk to Jack in private. But now was not the time.

“Here they come.” Davey Spencer’s eyes were alight with excitement as he announced the appearance of a long black limousine around the curve in the driveway. Two white sedans followed the limousine. Clara pressed her nose to the window as she watched the procession of cars. They were pulling up to the curb where the secretary of state would step out.

The time was at hand. The limousine stopped. The two cars behind it stopped. A man in a uniform sprang from nowhere to open the rear door of the limousine. A double line of Secret Service agents formed from the limo door to the hotel door and looked warily about. A man in a trench coat with a hat pulled down well over his eyes stepped out, the supposed secretary of state. He paused for a moment, looked around, then was joined by another man who had ridden with him. The two of them walked slowly inside the building together, surrounded by the small army of agents.

“Nothing happened!” Clara turned to look at Jack. He was frowning, his eyebrows knit together in concentration.

Davey Spencer turned away from the window as well. He too looked perplexed.

“They must have found out that we were on to them.”

“But how?” Clara chanced to look out the window again, “Look, the Chinese premier is arriving. Oh, well, at Least they can have the summit in peace.”

“Mmmm.” Jack, too, turned to look out the window. The second limousine pulled up in the same spot as the first Again a uniformed man opened the door. The double line of agents formed. A slight figure in a Western business suit stepped out. A heavyset man in traditional Maoist dress stepped out of the following car and walked toward the first man.

“Deng En-lai,” Jack identified the first man as the premier. Losing interest, Clara started to turn away from the window.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Gunfire! She would know that sound anywhere! She whirled back around to find pandemonium on the ground below. Deng En-lai was sprawled on the pavement, agents bent frantically over him. A few feet away, more agents overpowered one of their own, who still brandished a pistol.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

More gunshots. The knot of agents who had been wrestling with the gunman fell back. He fell to the pavement, his feet beating an involuntary tattoo on the concrete as he lay, apparently mortally wounded. The heavyset man in the Maoist suit was running from the site of the shooting, heading toward the trees at the side of the grounds.

“No! Don’t kill him!” Jack yelled through the glass, though it was doubtful if anyone outside the room heard
him. But the agents were chasing the man, dodging his fire, before one brave soul downed him with a football tackle.

There was a moment of appalled silence as the three of them stared at the bloodbath below.

“My God,” Davey said slowly. “They weren’t after the secretary of state at all. They meant to assassinate Deng En-lai all along. And they’ve done it!”

XXXI

Friday, October 16, 6:00
P.M.

“We now have an international crisis on our hands.” The speaker was the secretary of state, Franklin Conran. “When the word gets out about the assassination of Premier Deng—and the information must be released within twelve or so hours or we face a worse crisis—our relations with China will deteriorate to an alt-time low. Premier Deng was in this country secretly, on a highly sensitive peace mission. Most members of his own government were not aware of his intentions. Now he has been murdered on American soil, by an American Secret Service agent. The repercussions will be enormous.”

“Is the president aware of the situation?” Admiral Segram leaned forward in his chair, his fingers drumming on the polished wood top of the round table around which they all sat.

“I just finished speaking with him over the telephone.”

“And so Bigfoot wins.” Jack spoke under his breath.

They were in the newly dubbed “situation room” in the
basement of the golf villas’ main lodge. General Ramsey and Captain Spencer were also present. The secretary of state overheard Jack’s comment and nodded.

“Bigfoot wins. Unless we can identify him and expose the assassination to the world as a
KGB
plot. Is there any chance of that before the information is released?”

“The assassin was a sleeper activated by Bigfoot, a sleeper with such a good cover that he survived even the stringent background checks required by the Secret Service. The second gunman is one of Premier’s Deng’s aides. He is claiming that he shot the assassin in an excess of emotion upon witnessing the murder of the premier Of course he is a
KGB
asset too. His involvement indicates that Premier Deng was the target of the plot all along. However, both Rostov and Yuropov sincerely believed that you, Mr. Secretary, were the target of the plot. Whoever is masterminding this in the Kremlin obviously believes in playing his cards close to his chest. Bigfoot must have waited until the last possible minute to activate the sleeper, or word of the change of target would have trickled back to somebody. Sources have been keeping their ears open. The sleeper was probably not informed of his real target until shortly before the hit.” Jack summed up the situation in a thoughtful tone, thinking as he spoke. He threw a narrow-eyed look at Ramsey. “In other words, what we have here is an elaborate game of bluff and double-bluff.”

“Has Premier Deng’s aide said anything?”

Davey Spencer shook his head. “Not yet. He’s being interrogated now. We’ll get whatever he knows out of him, don’t worry.”

General Ramsey looked at Jack. “Any luck with the false information?”

Jack shook his head. “So far none of it has turned up. That could change at any time.”

A knock sounded at the door. Davey Spencer got up to answer it. When he came back, he whispered something to General Ramsey, who became visibly excited.

“Mr. Secretary, I’ve just been informed that the prisoner has broken: he has confessed his involvement with the
KGB
and states that he has been in contact with Bigfoot since arriving in this country with Premier Deng. His instructions were to call a certain number upon arrival in Charleston. A man answered who knew the code. This man was, we believe, Bigfoot. The prisoner feels he can identify the voice of the man he spoke to.”

Franklin Conran’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. “Excellent Have you checked out the number?”

“A pay phone in Washington.”

“Of course the son of a bitch would be careful.” Conran sighed. “Well, all we can do is let Premier Deng’s aide listen to our suspects’ voices and hope he can make a positive
ID.
How many suspects do we have at this point?”

Jack answered. “Three, Mr. Secretary. The rest we were able to eliminate through various means.”

“Who are they?”

“Oliver Simonis, deputy director of the
CIA;
Michael Ball, retired director of the
CIA,
and Senator Adam Chandler, chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee.”

“Whewww!” Admiral Segram whistled through his teeth. “Those are some pretty big fish. Are you sure?”

“That one of them is Bigfoot? Reasonably. Which one? It could be any of the three.”

“We need to get those men down here. First so our pigeon can listen to their voices. If he can identify the man he spoke to, we’ll be halfway home. Bigfoot can be taken
into custody without the media getting hold of it until we’ve taken steps to minimize the damage. All hell is going to break lose when the public finds out that a Soviet spy has managed to worm his way into a position of such responsibility in our government. Won’t look good for the administration.” Admiral Segram was drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “We’ll have to find a solution. After we’ve caught Bigfoot, of course. But our first step is to contain the three of them until this thing can be sorted out. Thank God, with the help of Wild Bill and his boys we can do that here. If we can get them here.”

The secretary of state’s taut face relaxed into a grim smile. “I’ll ask the president to place a personal call to each of them telling them that we have an international crisis and they have been appointed to the Crisis Containment Committee. The emergency meeting will be held here within the next six hours.”

General Ramsey snorted. “Do you think Bigfoot will buy that?”

Franklin Conran shook his head. “He already knows we’re on his trail. If he runs, then he reveals himself to us. He can’t be sure that he is not being summoned for precisely the reason the president gives. Although there has been no announcement, and the other two members of the Crisis Containment Committee will not be aware of the assassination of Premier Deng, Bigfoot will. Therefore he knows the crisis is genuine. My bet is that he’ll come and try to bluff his way through. To have succeeded as well as he has already, he must be a master actor.” He looked around the table. “Is there any further discussion?”

The men shook their heads.

“Then let’s do it,” he said, and pushed back his chair.

XXXII

Saturday, October 17, 12:01
A.M.

The group in the situation room had reconvened. In addition to the original members, four new faces had been added: Oliver Simonis, deputy director of the
CIA;
Michael Ball, recently retired director of the
CIA;
Senator Adam Chandler, chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, and Clara, who had been drafted by General Ramsey to take notes. Her shorthand was not the best, but she used it sometimes in her work and it was serviceable. General Ramsey said that would be fine; they didn’t want to bring anyone else into this who was not already directly involved. The consequences of a leak would be severe.

“Gentlemen, please bear with me on this. Two of you are about to be gravely insulted. I apologize for that in advance. But the situation we face requires grave measures and quick action if we are to salvage anything from the debacle.” Franklin Conran quickly described the assassination of Premier Deng. Simonis, Ball, and Chandler all looked suitably horrified.

Conran continued. “But the reason that the president asked you to come here is this: we believe that the assassination was carried out with the aid of a high-level mole in the intelligence network. Our suspects have been narrowed down to three: Mr. Simonis, Mr. Ball, and Senator Chandler.”

“This has got to be some kind of a joke!” Oliver Simonis protested furiously, rising from his chair.

The other two remained seated, but looked like they agreed with Simonis. Clara looked first at Jack and General Ramsey and then at the flushed or set faces of the suspects in astonished disbelief. She had not realized that the purpose of the meeting was to identify Bigfoot. It was impossible to believe that one of these distinguished public servants had been betraying his country for years. Why, she even knew Senator Chandler! He had been a friend of her mother’s for years. When he had entered the small, brightly lit room and greeted her with the same surprise she had felt at seeing him, she had had no idea that
this
was the purpose for which he was present.

“Unfortunately, it is not, Mr. Simonis. Please sit down.”

Oliver Simonis’ face purpled, but with a furious look at the serious faces around the table he sat down. Like the rest of them he could not fail to be aware of the contingent of marines standing guard outside in the hall. No one would leave the room without General Ramsey’s clearance.

“It’s a damned insult,” Simonis muttered. Clara watched him, wondering if he was protesting too much. Was that the sign of a guilty man? Oliver Simonis was a tall, thin man with a tanned, lined face, a hawklike nose and a slightly receding chin. He was in his mid-sixties, as were the other suspects. His once dark hair had turned iron gray. Clara stared at him, wondering if this was the man that Nikolai Bukovsky had matured into. He bore little resemblance to
the photo Clara had seen, but then of course he wouldn’t. Jack had mentioned plastic surgery. But surely there should be some resemblance to the man Bukovsky had been? Clara looked suddenly at Simonis’ eyes. They were hazel. Of course, it was hard to tell in a grainy, blurry Xerox of a black-and-white photo, but she had the impression that Bukovsky’s eyes had been lighter than that. If nothing else, surely the eyes would be the same.

“Secretary Conran already apologized for the insult, which I’m sure he recognizes is extreme,” Adam Chandler said to the fuming Simonis. Although Senator Chandler didn’t look any too pleased himself, he conducted himself with restraint. His drawling voice had only a slight edge to it. Like herself, Adam Chandler was from an old Virginia family. He looked every inch the aristocrat: not overly tall—Clara guessed he wasn’t much more than an inch or two above her own five-feet-five inches—but well-muscled and solid, his thinning gray hair impeccably groomed, his dark blue suit clearly from an expensive tailor.
He
could not be Bigfoot, she found herself thinking as she took in his highly polished cordovan wingtips. Why, her grandmother had been acquainted with his parents! All three were long dead, but her mother knew the genealogy of everyone who had ever been born into a prominent family. There was no way Nikolai Bukovsky had forged a background like that! But he must be under suspicion for some reason. Clara looked at his eyes. They were a deep, piercing blue. Like Simonis’, the eyes were not right.

“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” Admiral Segram was brusque. Franklin Conran nodded.

“What exactly is it that you want us to do, Frank?” Michael Ball, a round little man with a balding head fringed by graying black hair, clearly knew the secretary of state
well. If they were friends, or even longstanding associates, Franklin Conran was in an awkward position. But no hint of it showed on the secretary of state’s jowly face. Looking carefully, Clara decided that Michael Ball’s gray eyes weren’t the right color, either. Although they were closer than the other two.

“Probably take a lie detector test.” Simonis’ face was red with indignation.

“No,” Franklin Conran shook his head. “I want each of you to repeat this sentence, please: Comrade, the horsemen are mounted.”

“What kind of damned nonsense is that?” Simonis looked like he was on the verge of a stroke.

“It is the code which was used to activate the assassin’s murder. Do you refuse to say it?”

“Damn right I—” Simonis looked at the hardening of the faces around the table. “All right, I’ll say it. But you better be prepared to make a hell of an apology when this is over, Conran.”

“What about you, Mr. Ball?”

“I’ll say whatever it takes to get this settled.”

Franklin Conran looked at Adam Chandler, who nodded brusquely.

“Very well. Mr. Simonis, if you would go first, please.”

“I feel like a horse’s ass,” Simonis snorted, but he repeated the phrase.

“Mr. Ball.”

Michael Ball repeated the phrase.

“Senator Chandler.”

Adam Chandler repeated the phrase.

The telephone by Franklin Conran’s elbow rang. He picked it up, listened a moment, then nodded to General Ramsey. General Ramsey stood up at once, crossed to the
door, opened it and beckoned to the armed guard outside. Six uniformed marines entered and stood at attention in a line barring access to the hall.

“Our man has made a positive identification. Michael Ball, you are under arrest for treason.”

“The hell I am!” Michael Ball jumped to his feet, eyes wild, fists clenched. Adam Chandler, who was seated beside him, jumped up too and placed a restraining hand on his arm. The contingent of marines rushed forward. Everyone at the table leaped up as the marines surrounded the struggling, cursing suspect. Ball got off one roundhouse punch, which caught Senator Chandler on the temple. The senator staggered back, hand to his head. The marines forced Ball down on the floor, cuffed his hands behind his back, and it was over. Bigfoot was caught at last.