“You’re an American.”
“Really? I thought I was doing a fair ’Stryne accent there.”
She managed a snort of contemptuous laughter. She wore a white jumpsuit with a yellow scarf at the neck — crisp, very smart. She had a tan complexion as soft and smooth as Japanese silk; she’d have inspired desire even in a jaded centerfold photographer. I had no trouble with the notion that she would be able to extract information from men.
“Come on,” she said impatiently, “what is this?”
“Sit down.” I wiggled the gun. “It’s only a .32 but they’re hollowpoint bullets — they make a terrible mess of flesh and bone.”
Making a face she took a seat on the divan and tucked her long legs under her. I crossed the room to close the drapes. It was a comfortable efficiency flat, not terribly big, the furniture a bit Bohemian: an old door on bricks served as a coffee talbe and the divan was one of those pull-out convertible beds. Apparently she spent most of her money on clothes.
“I suppose if I sit here long enough you’ll tell me what this is about?”
“Count on it, Myra.”
“You’re the CIA, aren’t you. Which one? Cole? Ludlow? Fortescue?”
“What’s in a name?” I sat down and rested the revolver on my knee. “Be patient, Myra.”
With enviable aplomb she rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes, feigning boredom. A very tough sullen young lady. I hoped we could crack her. It wouldn’t be easy.
* * *
ROSS BROUGHT Iwan Stenback into the flat at gunpoint. The Swede was a short man with a beard and long hair tied back with a rubber band. His pale eyes took in the scene quickly. “So. The CIA brings us together to murder us. I suppose you’ll give it the appearance of a lovers’ quarrel. Do you honestly think anyone will believe such a crude sham?”
“We like to think we’re a bit more sophisticated than that,” I said. “Sit down, Stenback.”
He moved to stand beside Myra Hilley. She touched his hand possessively and not without fear. I flicked the gun in his direction and he eased past the arm of the couch and sat down next to Myra Hilley. He wasn’t a bad looking man. There was a jaded professorial cynicism about him — the kind of weltschmertz that sometimes appeals to women: they see immediately through the bitter veneer and convince themselves that beneath it is a sensitive being who needs coddling and protecting.
I said, “We need to have a little talk.”
Ross snarled. “What do you want to talk for? Let’s get it over with.” He cocked his revolver. It made a nasty sound in the room.
“Patience,” I told him. To Stenback I said, “My associate favors brute force but I suspect we’d all prefer to avoid that.”
It was the old two-cop dodge: the good cop offers you a cigarette, the bad cop slaps it out of your mouth. After a while you begin to look upon the good cop not as your jailer but as your friend.
I sat down facing them and placed my revolver on the tabletop in front of me to free my hands so that I could take out my wallet and flash it at them. “My name is Charles Dark. I’m a security officer with the United States Government.”
I heard Ross’s melodramatic sigh of exasperation.
Stenback wasn’t falling for it. “You’ve got no jurisdiction here,” he said coolly.
Myra Hilley leaned forward to read my ID laminate. “Charles Dark. A new name for our list, Iwan.” She favored me with an icy smile.
I returned it in kind. “Now that you’ve demonstrated your fearlessness shall we get down to business?”
Stenback yawned. “What business?”
“You’re an entrepreneur,” I said. “You publish at a profit. Suppose we sweeten it?”
They looked at each other with cynical amusement. It was clear there was an attachment between them — a strong sexual bond. He was one of those flagellants who prefer shopworn goods.
I said, “For every week’s issue in which you refrain from publishing names of American agents, a payment of ten thousand dollars.”
“Australian dollars?”
“American if you prefer.”
The woman laughed. “They think they can buy anyone off. Isn’t it just like them?”
I said, “How about it, Stenback?”
“I’m glad to know how much Judas money you’re willing to offer me. Of course my answer is no. Did you think I’d be that easy to bribe? I can’t compromise the people’s right to know.”
“Good for you,” Ross said. “That’s all we wanted to know, ain’t it, Charlie. Let’s get it done.”
Myra Hilley reached for Stenback’s hand.
Ross spoke again, the petulant snarl increasing. “I told you it’d be a waste of time, Charlie.”
“In conscience,” I said wearily, “we had to offer them the option.” I stood up and went over to the side of the room to get out of the line of fire; I put my back to the wall and shoved my hands in my pockets. “You can change your minds, of course. My associate — well I’m afraid he enjoys rough-and-tumble. Regrettable but there you are. We’re forced by people like you to employ people like him. Actually I detest the young oaf. I’d hoped to one-up him by denying him his pleasure.”
Ross turned angrily toward me. His revolver rode around in my direction. “You fat old bastard. I’ve had all I can take of your sanctimonious —”
It was the distraction Stenback must have been praying for. He pounced on the .32 revolver that I had left lying on the table; in an instant it was in his fist and roaring.
In that confined space the blasts were earsplitting. My jaw went agape. Deafened, I saw Ross spin wildly around and slam against the wall. The gun dropped from his fingers. He clutched at the wall and slid down, leaving a wet red smear against the plaster. His shoes drummed the floor and reflex made him curl up, foetal; then he went still.
* * *
MY HAND belatedly whipped out of my pocket with the flat automatic pistol I’d concealed there. I leveled it at Stenback’s profile. “Drop it. Now!”
He hesitated. His revolver was still aimed at Ross, who lay in an untidy heap. The woman sat wide-eyed, motionless.
I spoke quickly. “I won’t kill you unless you force me to defend myself.”
It wasn’t so much that he believed me; it was that I had the drop on him. By the time he could turn his gun through the ninety-degree arc toward me I could put two or three into him. He’d been a soldier; he knew that.
Slowly he lowered his arm to his side and let the revolver drop to the carpet.
“Smart,” I observed. “Kick it to me.”
When he complied I got down on one knee and picked up the .32 carefully by inserting my ballpoint pen into its muzzle. When I stood up I flapped the automatic toward him. “Sit down, sit back, relax.”
He sank onto the divan and leaned back warily. I dropped the .32 into my jacket pocket and sidled around toward Ross, keeping my automatic trained on Stenback and Myra Hilley; knelt by Ross and laid my fingers along his throat to test for a pulse. There was a good deal of blood. I removed my hand and stood, grunting with the effort. “He’s dead.”
“Self-defense,” Stenback snapped.
“Sure.” I gave him a crooked smile. “Who’s going to believe that?”
I saw realization grenade into Myra Hilley. She clutched his arm in fear.
I looked down at Ross. “Everybody knows you two had it in for the CIA. Now you’ve murdered a CIA agent. Man, you’ll be a hundred and five before they let you out into the light of day again. Both of you,” I added, looking up sharply at the woman. “It’s felony murder — she’s as guilty as you are. And I’ll testify to that.” Then I gave it a slow chilly smile. “Come to think of it you’ve done me a couple of favors. I never could stand the punk. I’m glad you’ve taken him out — they’ll never stick me with him again. And you’ve done my job for me. The assignment was to stop you from publishing the rest of those names. You can’t publish in a prison cell.”