The Henderson Equation (18 page)

"And it's so good to come home and find my man
here." She put moist lips on his and kissed him deeply, her tongue
flickering aggressively against his.

He felt her hand reach down under the covers and caress his
testicles. She whispered into his ear. "I love my man," she said.
"I love his balls."

"That's all you're interested in, just one
thing." He smiled.

"You bet your sweet petunia."

He felt his tiredness again, becoming anxious when his
response seemed slow.

He unhooked her dress, an expected reflex, and unzipped the
top, feeling her small breasts fall free when he unhooked her brassiere strap.
Willing himself to respond only made matters worse. Feeling his penis shrivel,
he reached for her aggressively and pulled the dress over her head, watching
the uptilt of her barely developed chest, so different from Margaret's huge
breasts in which he could suckle and roam with tongue, hand, penis, an
exploration of infinite variety. He moved over her, downward with his head,
rolling down her panties, as his tongue sought her clitoris and she responded
by caressing his head and ears, signaling her enjoyment. Pursuing her pleasure,
he followed its rhythm with technical observation, hoping that he could induce
a climax, perhaps end the need for further activity on his part. He felt empty
and dead in his loins, ashamed of his tiredness, but still not daring to insult
his maturity by a fear of impotence. It was a lurking beast that up to now he
had kept at bay.

He worked his tongue around her organs, titillating,
teasing, imagining some special rhythm, feeling her respond to a nerve-rending
pleasure as his tongue, strained now and painful, played on this part of her
body. He could feel her reaching for his penis, the tip of her tongue caressing
its limpness as she sought the key to his own pleasure. He felt inadequate, his
ego suddenly harassed. But she would not give up, as if it were necessary for
her to validate his manhood, and soon she was concentrating the fury of her
energy on the single-minded task of drawing forth his response. When erection
finally came, she straddled him and inserted his tentatively erected organ,
which she seemed to milk now as her lithe form swiveled on his pelvis. Willing
himself to concentrate on the graphic stimulation of her swaying form, watching
her lightly haired opening move upward and downward over him, he managed to
spill his semen, a thankful release, giving him hardly more than a twinge of
pleasure. He wondered if he had fulfilled her expectation, angered by the
intimidation that the thought inspired.

"It was lovely," she said, snuggling against him.
He wondered if she were lying.

"I'll be the wreck of the Hesperus in the
morning."

"You'll be full of energy, alive. You'll see."

He lay with his eyes closed as she got up from the bed and
went into the bathroom, feeling drowsiness begin again. Before he could doze
off, she came back and began to move about the room.

"I spent a lot of time this evening with Burton
Henderson," she said. Henderson again. His eyes opened.

"He's a very interesting man."

"Was his wife with him?" Nick asked. It was too
impulsive a question, angering him.

"No. Apparently she's not much for parties, a home
body." She turned toward him, started to speak, then checked herself.

"He's ubiquitous," Nick said.

"He does apparently get around."

"How did he latch onto you?"

"He didn't latch on. You know how these parties go.
You sort of drift into things."

"And of course he was in the little egg-scrambling
soirée in the chancery."

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"And of course he was charming and attentive all
evening, kissing your ass."

She turned and looked at him, puzzled. "It was
innocent, Nick," she said.

"I'll bet he brought you home."

"Yes he did."

"You had him drop you off in front of your place, then
walked across, right?"

"Of course. Knowing about us was no business of
his."

"I'll bet he was what heated you up tonight."

"Christ, Nick," Jennie screeched, "cut it
out. You're way off base and you know it."

"Am I?" he said bitterly.

"You're acting like an adolescent."

"I know about Henderson. I know what he's up to."

"So does everybody. He's running for President of the
United States. He knows better than to go for my ass. Besides, he has them
standing in line."

"What did you talk about?"

"Small talk. Trivia."

"To you, yes. To him, no."

"You couldn't expect me to ignore him," she said.
"I am a reporter, you know."

"Allegedly."

"That's a crack."

He was too tired for combat. Besides, he was saturated with
Henderson. His day had been choked with him.

"Go to sleep," he said. They lay quietly for a
long time. He could feel her tossing restlessly.

"Why all the fuss about Henderson?" she
whispered.

"He's Myra's boy."

"How do you mean that?"

"How do you think?"

Her hesitation seemed awkward, as if she had checked her
reaction.

"From what I've observed," she said slowly, an
edge of defensiveness in her tone, "I'd say the issue was sans
flesh."

"Is that supposed to be intuitive?"

"Well, somebody has got to stick up for the sex. You
guys look at all women from the eye of your cocks."

"I never even implied her interest was even remotely
romantic." He paused. "Or sexual." Somehow Jennie's response
seemed uncharacteristic. He let it pass.

"She wants me to kill the Gunderstein
investigation," he said. "So far she's been subtle, but I can feel
the pressure." He told her of his meeting with Allison in Gunderstein's
apartment.

"So you're not sure about the story," she said
when he had finished.

"That's what I told Gunderstein."

She remained silent for a time but he could feel her
alertness. "But you'd really like to run it?" she prodded.

"Yes."

He was surprised at the swiftness of his response. Did he
believe in the story or the use of it as a weapon against Myra? It annoyed him
to know that he was afraid. "I'm afraid..." he began, then checked
himself.

"Of what?"

"I'm afraid I'm just too tired," he said, hoping
that it had masked his sudden outburst. How could he tell her he was afraid of
his age, afraid of Myra's authority, afraid of his own pride? Closing his eyes,
he could feel himself slipping into sleep.

He was having a carefully detailed dream, one he knew he
would remember later. The setting was the old library in Warren, the
high-ceilinged reading room with the globes of light that hung downward from
heavy chains, throwing reflections on shiny wooden tables on which he could see
carved initials. He could smell the musty odor of books and beneath it the
sweetish scent of some half-eaten apple that someone must have tossed into a
wastebin. The old clear-faced clock ticked in its case showing 4:30, and as if
confirming its accuracy, a glow from the setting sun threw reddish spears of
light across the room. He was sitting at the table, turning the pages of a
newspaper, listening and watching for some special aberration that would
validate this imagery as a dream. It did not occur to him at first, then he saw
it: the paper was the
Chronicle
and the stories that flashed across its
pages were contemporary events. Bonville's editorial, uncut, the blue-penciled
words glaring up at him on the inked pages, filled him with rage. "How
dare they," he cried out, breaking the silence of the room, tearing at the
paper, throwing it in bits and pieces to the floor, screaming with uncontrolled
anger, a tantrum that had never occurred in his waking life. He heard
footsteps, the sound of leather heels on wooden floors, coming at him at full
speed, from behind him, then converging on him from all sides, terrifying as
they grew louder and louder. Then he saw that it was Henderson running, his
blue eyes piercing, moving toward him in the reddish haze. It was only a dream,
he knew, but the fact of no escape from the endless impending onslaught of
Henderson from all directions was a terrifying reality. The sound of the telephone
brought back his sense of time and he awoke, confused at first, then thankful
for being saved. He grasped at the phone, then uncradling it, let it fall
against his ear. "Hello" rattled in his throat, rasping and hoarse.

"Nick." It was Myra's voice, smooth and calm.
"Did I wake you?"

"It's okay." He looked at the face of his clock.
It was six A.M.

"Stop over at the house for breakfast," she said.
He was suddenly alert, detecting a brief urgency quickly masked. "Could
you make it by seven?"

He nodded into the phone, the fears of last night
returning.

"Nick."

"Sure, Myra. Seven." She hung up.

He lay there for a while looking up at the white ceiling,
his mind turning over possibilities, until the odd beeping sound of the
telephone, lingering near his ear, recalled time. Jumping out of bed, he felt
dizzy from the sudden movement. He waited for the feeling to pass, then padded
into the bathroom. He felt tired, his energy drained.

But when he had showered and shaved he felt better,
although his hand shook as he moved the razor on his foamed cheeks. He was at
an age when things like that bothered him, a slight tremor in his hand, a brief
passing pain in his chest, the intrusive stab of a headache pain, signals of
the flesh's vulnerability. Hadn't he watched Charlie disintegrate and explode
under the pressure? Dressing, he occasionally looked over to where Jennie's
naked body snuggled in the warmth of the blanket. Before he left, he bent over
her and kissed her forehead, breathing the scent of her young skin.

He waited in the chilled morning for a cab. Ordinarily he
might have walked the half mile to Myra's house in the Kalorama area. It was
just a stone's throw from her father's original mansion, which had been torn
down years ago to make way for the Embassy of Venezuela. As he stepped into the
cab, he felt his heart beat heavily, his anxiety uncontrolled. When he arrived
at Myra's front door and pressed the buzzer, he was annoyed that his hands were
sweating. He rubbed them against his coat, hoping to dry them before he had to
submit to the ritual of touched flesh. He detested sweaty hands in others.

Myra's maid ushered him into the sun-drenched breakfast
room, overlooking the neatly manicured lawn and the massive pre-Columbian
sculptures that glistened in the chill morning. Myra was sitting at the table,
on which stood a silver chafing dish that threw off the herbal scent of
flavored eggs. Bowls of sectioned grapefruit gleamed in silvered settings. The
man she was sitting with turned to greet him. The face was that of Scott
Ambruster, director of the CIA.

"Well, Nick," he said, smiling, holding out his
hand. "You've got the head spook for breakfast." Nick gave his hand
reluctantly, knowing that the clammy feel of it put him at a disadvantage.
Details like that were not lost on a man like Ambruster.

"I should have guessed," Nick said, joining them.
He looked over the grapefruit to Ambruster's large brown eyes, set in a heavy
face. He had the look of a kindly uncle, hardly the image one might have
imagined, considering his job.

"It was Scottie's idea," Myra said, absolving
herself. She was dressed in a bright green dressing gown with a trim of white
fur. Could it be ermine? Her grey hair sparkled in the light. It was neatly
combed and flipped jauntily on one side. The green gown brought out the green
in her hazel eyes and fresh makeup masked the lines in her tight skin.

"The way we've been roasting the agency lately,"
Nick said, "you must feel a little like Daniel."

"Apt," Ambruster said, smiling at the reference.
Nick had known him for years, meeting him first when he was Secretary of the
Air Force. "That would make you the lions."

"Daniel survived," Myra said sweetly.

"I wonder if I will," Ambruster said, still
smiling, charm exuding. They are good at that, Nick thought.

"We spooks are having a tough time of it these
days," Ambruster said, as if soliciting their pity.

"More eggs, Scottie?" Myra asked, uncovering the
silver dish.

"You're deliberately trying to ruin my image,"
Ambruster said, patting his large middle, ladling the eggs onto his plate.

"We're fattening you for the kill," Nick said.
Myra laughed girlishly.

"They're marvelous," Ambruster said, a bit of
yellow dripping on his lip. "And if I'm going to be the national
heavyweight I might as well look the part."

Having been through these confrontations before, Nick
waited for the moment for the trivia to be bridged. But Ambruster was not to be
hurried. A man in his profession knew the value of patience. He looked about
him.

"My, what a lovely room." It was as if they were
all good friends. Being in an adversary relationship increased the bond which
Ambruster himself surely felt. Nick knew Ambruster would also feel at home with
the head of the KGB.

"You're a brave man, Scottie," Myra said, showing
even teeth. "The way the
Chronicle
's been beating on you, I'd think
you'd be entitled to be suspicious about the eggs."

"He watched you eat them first," Nick said.

"Actually, I didn't," Ambruster said, smiling
quietly and turning his head toward Nick. "Your observations are not
infallible, my friend." There was a barely perceptible flicker of anger.

"As for the subject of fallibility..." Nick
retorted, impatient with this fencing, his nerves frayed too thin for subtle
thrusts and parries. Ambruster held up his hand.

"No need to go over that ground again," Ambruster
said. "I've read it all in the
Chronicle
's editorials. You can make
a good case for the carelessness ... no, pig-headedness, of my predecessors.
Mistakes were made. Perhaps they were too overzealous. But then, it could
happen to anyone without accountability." Nick looked at Myra. The
reference was a well-aimed dart. "But at some point you've got to believe
in change. After all, the premise of the CIA is still valid. We do still have
enemies, you know. Or would you prefer that we stand naked?" Ambruster
paused, buttering a biscuit.