The Loves of Harry Dancer (26 page)

Eventually she yields. And so does he. Then they are raw pulses. There is nothing they will not do. He has never known such a madly passionate woman. Nor she such a determinedly striving man. Their furies fuse.

“Here.”

“Now.”

“This.”

“Oh!”

“Dome.”

“This?”

“God!”

“Don’t stop.”

“Ah.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Memorable lovemaking. An event. Shattering them. They hug tightly. Holding, hiding their secret. Knowing in that brief coupling their lives are changed. They have entered each other. Become one.

Still playing his part, Harry says, “When do you want to leave?”

“I don’t want to,” she says. “Ever.”

Now, Sylvia dead and gone, Harry Dancer is convinced that evening actually happened. In exactly the way he recalls. They played a trick on time. Doubled a moment, from past to present. And now it is past again.

He is vaguely aware of what he is doing: duplicating his dying wife’s nostalgia for a life lost. Now he is the one bridging past to present and ignoring the future. The golden glory was there; he calls it back to memory. No longer worrying if it is yesterday’s reality or today’s dream.

68

A
nthony Glitner sits hunched on the beach. Cowering from the midday sun. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low over dark sunglasses. Towel across his pale, freckled shoulders. Another towel protecting his drawn-up knees. Still he feels the sun’s sear. Draining his juices.

Beside him, Evelyn Heimdall lies prone on cotton blanket. Head nestled on forearm. Bra strap undone. Oiled back glistening. Oiled arms. Oiled legs. Golden girl toasting. She seems part of the sun, sand, sea. Glitner tries not to stare.

They have finished their picnic lunch. Hamper emptied of barbecued chicken, potato salad, tomatoes and cukes. What little wine left is too warm to swallow. They are incapable of moving. Replete and melted down.

“So nice,” Evelyn says drowsily. “Perfect day.”

“Hot,” Tony says. “You like the heat, Ev?”

“It thaws me. Gets rid of all my aches and pains. My miseries just ooze out.”

He looks seaward. Catamarans with gorgeous sails tack against the wind. Rubber floats bob about. Swimmers dash into waves, shrieking. And over all, the pitiless glare. Sky is open. No sky at all. Just blue emptiness and flaming sun.

“More oil,” Evelyn murmurs. “Please. On my back and shoulders. I don’t want to peel.”

Obediently he leans forward to smooth velvety skin. Feels the heat of her. Firm muscles. She is taut. Tight in her body’s envelope.

He begins his pitch.

“I’m getting all excited,” he says. Massaging that vibrant back.

“That’s nice,” she says. “So am I. You have good hands, Tony. A sweet touch.”

“Thank God we’re in public. If not—who knows? I might throw myself upon you with a hoarse cry.”

She laughs. “Be my guest. You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Poor Tony,” she says. “What a shame. Regulations got you down?”

“No,” he says. Hating what he’s doing. “Regulations got me up.”

When she giggles, her whole body moves in a sexy paroxysm. Flesh ripples. He spreads oil into the cunning hollow behind her knees. Looking at the way her thin bikini panties cleave to her buttocks. Deep crease.

“Relax, Tony,” she advises. “Rules are made to be broken; you know that.”

“I’ve got no one to break them with.”

She lifts her head to stare at him. “I’m here.”

He tries to smile. “It would be an act of Christian charity.”

She lowers her head. Closes her eyes. “I’m a charitable woman. My training…”

He is torn. What started out as a simple test had become more complex. He fights temptation. The physical scene melts his resolve. So easy to succumb.

“Could we?” he says. Voice choked. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry it so,” she says. “It’s not that important. Don’t even think about the Corporation.”

“I’ve got to. Heavy decision.”

“All right then, think about it. I’ll be around. Ready, willing and able.”

She shouldn’t have said that. Confirming his fears. His momentary lust dissolves. Now all that matters is how to deal with her hedonism. What would be best for the Corporation? For the Harry Dancer campaign?

“I’ll be good for you, Tony,” she says.

That night, in Martin Frey’s sweaty embrace, she tells him of the afternoon on the beach with Glitner.

“He came on to me,” she says. Laughing. “Can you imagine? And I always thought he was such a straight arrow.”

Frey moves away from her. Sits up. Stares at her. Shocked.

“What did you say?” he demands. “Your case officer made a pitch?”

“Did he ever. A real hard-on.”

“And how did you react?”

“Went along. Teasing. If he wants to, fine. If he doesn’t, fine. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

He groans. “Ev, it’s got everything to do with us. It was his suspicion of you that brought me down here in the first place. But my reports clearing you haven’t satisfied him. He still thinks you’re turning.”

She begins to bite a knuckle. “Martin, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. You told me yourself that he’s a perceptive man. Sensitive. Ev, he was testing you. Has he ever gone off the code before? To your knowledge?”

“No. Never.”

“Then he is a straight arrow. Just trying to find out how far you’ve strayed.”

“It might have been the sun, the beach. Maybe he’s thawed. The way I have.”

Frey shakes his head. “I was trained in counterintelligence. I know the techniques. Glitner was entrapping you. And you walked right into it.”

“I really thought he meant it.”

“You were wrong. He was putting on an act.”

She turns a dulled face to him. “Oh God, Martin, what do we do now?”

“Do we have a choice? What we talked about before—go over to the Others. Make the best deal we can.”

“Will we be together?”

“Absolutely. Or we don’t turn. Listen, there’s a lot of top secret stuff we can deliver. The Department would be crazy to turn us down. They may be evil, but they’re not crazy. And if they’re going to pump us dry, we want something in return. Being together is the first thing. It’ll work out, hon; you’ll see.”

“How do we do it? Who do we surrender to?”

“Let me handle it. In cases like this, it’s best to go to the top man. Someone who can cut a deal.”

Shivering with fear, she flings back into his arms. Now the enormity of their treachery inflames them. Denying all. They couple like the plague-stricken. With hysterical intensity. Into a flaming maelstrom. Awaiting a thunderbolt that might destroy them. Or worse, a judgment that might condemn them to an eternity of suffering.

69

T
he Chairman, seated on his War Room throne, scans the latest intelligence briefs from the Southeast Region. Groans with anger. That section is providing more aggravation than the nine other regions combined.

Treason of the Director’s private secretary is the last straw. Stupidity of the man! To harbor a Corporation mole in his own office. If the Chairman acted on impulse, he’d have the Director terminally demoted immediately.

But the Chairman rarely acts on impulse or whim. Too dangerous. To his own career. So he reviews carefully the actions that must be taken following the Norma Gravesend disaster.

Codes will have to be changed, of course. Key personnel switched. Informants protected. Communication techniques revised. All because a fathead Director employed a spy. The Chairman tries not to let his fury cloud his judgment.

Eliminating the Director is easy. But what is important is the outcome of the campaigns being supervised by that idiot. Like Harry Dancer. With Briscoe in as case officer, the Chairman hopes the Dancer thing may prove to be a solid win. But removing the Director abruptly could jeopardize the conquest of Dancer and a dozen other potential recruits.

So, sighing, the Chairman decides to temporize. The Director of the Southeast Region can be chopped at any time. The Department’s shoguns are not interested in individuals. Only numbers. A steadily increasing congregation.

He will let the Director stay on. For the present. With no reprimands, no communications whatsoever. Let the cretin sweat. Wondering when the blade will fall. Meanwhile, affrighted, he might put spurs to his case officers. Demanding converts.

Like Harry Dancer.

70

B
riscoe walks in on Sally Abaddon early in the morning. Without calling first. Knocks on the door, she answers, and there he is. Wearing polyester slacks in a hellish plaid. Knitted shirt with the Department logo over the heart. Short sleeves reveal hairy, muscled arms. Left forearm is badly scarred.

“Hi, babe,” he says. Steely grin. “Let’s you and me have a talk.”

She lets him in. He asks for a cup of coffee, orange juice, a beer—anything. She brings him coffee. Then he asks for a pastry, Danish, toast—anything. She brings him a powdered doughnut. Having established who’s boss, he sits negligently in a deep armchair. Slurping his breakfast. Watching her steadily as she moves about.

“This woman you’re spending all your time with,” he starts. “The one who lives next door—what’s her name?”

“Angela Bliss.”

“Yeah. You got a thing going with her?”

“We’re friends. I can’t spend twenty-four hours a day with Harry Dancer.”

“That’s right, you can’t. Well, this Angela Bliss belongs to the Department. Internal Security. Ted Charon brought her down here from Chicago to do a job on you. Did she tell you that?”

Abaddon turns away to find a cigarette and light it. She answers with her back to him.

“No, she didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, she’s a shoofly cop all right. I had nothing to do with it. Before he got snuffed, Shelby Yama had his suspicions about you. So he got Charon to sic her onto you to see if you’re behaving yourself.”

“And?” Sally asks. Voice tight.

“You’re clean. Bliss swears you’re true-blue. So she’s being pulled off the case. Sent back to Chicago for reassignment. She’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

Abaddon finally sits. Facing him. Crosses her legs. Robe falls open. He looks at her knee, smooth calf. Watches her bare foot jerk up and down.

“Nervous?” he says.

“Of course not. Why should I be nervous? She cleared me, didn’t she? I don’t know what Yama was suspicious about.”

“Maybe he got worried because you weren’t closing the Dancer deal. Maybe he thought you weren’t seeing enough of him.”

“I’m going to see him this afternoon. For lunch.”

“For lunch? And a matinee?”

“If he wants. Look, Briscoe, some guys you can push, and some guys you can’t. Dancer is the kind of man who sets his own pace. I’ve got to go along or risk losing him. I know my job.”

“Sure you do, babe. But Cleveland is only interested in results; you know that.”

“You’ll get results.”

“Yeah? When?”

She lights another cigarette. “I can’t say.”

“A week? A month? Make a guess.”

She snaps at him. “Get off my back, will you? This is a difficult case. The man is still dreaming about his dead wife. It’s going to take time.”

“Not good enough,” Briscoe says. Shaking his head. “Your annual Fitness Report is coming up. I’d like to say something nice about you. Catch my drift?”

“Oh, I catch it all right.”

“You’re still balling Dancer?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s your hook, isn’t it? Lean on him. Threaten to cut him off if he doesn’t come across.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work.”

“Then what in hell will work?” he yells. Stops. Tries to control his anger. “Want to play the recordings for him? Show him the tapes? He’s got a responsible position. People depend on him. Tell him if he doesn’t see things our way, he’s down the tube.”

She stares at him. Trying to keep her face expressionless. “Give me another week, Briscoe.”

“You’re stalling,” he accuses.

“No, no. Give me a week to bring him around. If I can’t do it, then we’ll try the recordings and tapes.”

“A week?” he says. “You’ve got it. See how easy I am to get along with? Just a pussycat—that’s me.”

“Oh sure,” she says.

She hopes that’s the end of it. He has finished his coffee and doughnut. She wants him to leave. But he sits there. Staring at her bared legs. She pulls the robe closed. His gaze slowly rises to her face. She never before noticed the color of his eyes. Muddy ice.

“You’re seeing Dancer this afternoon?” he asks. Voice suddenly flat. And tense. Flat and tense at once.

“That’s right.”

“So you’re not doing anything tonight,” he says. “All by your lonesome.”

“I have things to do.”

“With Angela Bliss? Forget it. She’s on her way out. There’s nothing there for you, babe.”

She doesn’t reply.

“I’ll come by around eight,” he says. Rising. “You and I should get to know each other better. Now that I’m your case officer.”

Still she is silent.

“Eight o’clock,” he repeats. “Okay? Remember the Fitness Report.”

“Sure,” she says.

She peeks through the Venetian blind until she sees him drive away in the black Mercedes. Then she starts weeping. It is five minutes before she can control herself enough to phone Angela Bliss.

“Can you come over?” she pleads. “Right away.”

“Darling, what is it?”

“Please…”

“I’ll be right there.”

They sit huddled. Holding hands. Sally relates what Briscoe said. What he implied. Nuances. And the way he looked at her.

“He knows,” she tells Angela. “About you and me. Everything. He’s coming by tonight. To test me. And he says you’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“He may belying.”

“Even if he is, it’s just a question of time, isn’t it? Before we’re separated. And he wants me to blackmail Harry with the recordings and TV tapes we’ve got. Angela, I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can’t. Sweetheart, we’ve been talking about it a long time, but now we’ve got to do it. Go over. To the Corporation. It’s our only hope.”

“But Briscoe is coming here tonight,” Sally wails. “We need more time to find out who we defect to. Figure out what we’re going to say.”