He reached for her hand—blindly, timidly; he was looking the other way. “You’re right. I always do that, don’t I.” He wanted the buzzer in his pocket to summon him away because down below, working, he could fix his mind on practical technical things. But it remained still.
“We still have a little time.” He looked at his watch. “Thirty-seven hours and forty-five minutes, to be precise.” His mouth twisted.
“Refusing to make a decision—that can be a decision in itself, you know.”
He nodded. “The idea is we’re all supposed to leave together when it’s done.”
“I know. Nicole talked to me. I’m to be at the airport at five-thirty tomorrow evening. The side gate, where the old entrance used to be.”
“It’s an older runway they don’t use too much anymore. I had to get clearance for a so-called training flight to use it tomorrow evening. I gave them some official-sounding gibberish and they yawned their way through it and gave us permission because they don’t have much air traffic out there at that time of night anyway. They’re flying us to Cuba, you know.”
“Yes, she told me.”
“What’s the point of their keeping us alive after we’ve done the job here, Celia? That’s what keeps nudging me to decide to do it. The feeling that no matter what assurances Danger-field gives us it still makes sense for them to kill us all. He killed Bud Sims, you know. We’ll all be together in that airplane—it wouldn’t be any trouble at all for him.”
“He’d be killing himself too.”
“Maybe he’s willing to do that. Maybe he’s a good German—obeying all orders without question; maybe he’s prepared a parachute for himself. Or maybe at the last minute he’ll arrange to be left behind and the plane will blow up after takeoff. I keep thinking how easy it would be for him to do things like that—there are so many ways. As long as any of us remain alive, even in Russia, we’re a danger to them. We’re no danger dead.”
“I’ve thought of those things too,” she said, “but I can’t put those pictures out of my mind. The ones he showed us—that Mongolian, Manchurian, whatever he is, Tircar. The children tortured and murdered while the parents watched.”
He closed his eyes. That was all he had been able to think of—Alec and Barbara. “That’s what Dangerfield wants us to do. Remember those pictures and obey orders.”
“They’re offering a trade. They’ve made a bargain with us. As long as we put ourselves in their hands our children will be left alone.”
“I don’t know. I keep thinking there must be a way to do it without condemning Alec.”
“Perhaps there is. But I think we must be prepared to make the decision on the basis that we’d be sacrificing Alec’s life if we went against them.”
“I can’t do it now,” he said, and was ashamed when his voice broke. He reached for the door handle. “I’ve got to think it out more clearly. I’ll decide, but I just can’t do it now.”
“My poor darling,” she murmured, and he squeezed her hand tight as if to draw a current of strength from her. When he got out of the car she stared at him with eyes that looked like two holes burned in a blanket.
Chapter Eighteen
When Forrester pulled the door softly shut behind him it drew Top Spode’s glance; Spode had been sitting by the window staring out, eyes narrowed in a thoughtful squint. “Morning.”
“Haven’t you been to bed at all?”
“No. You don’t look like you slept much yourself.”
“Not much.” Forrester’s dreams had left an aftertaste of fear, though all memory of them had gone.
“She all right?”
“I don’t know.” Ronnie had taken it badly; she had been ill half the night. “She won’t see a doctor.”
“Asleep now?”
“Yes.”
“Then let her sleep,” Spode said.
Forrester was dressing while they talked. “Have you been on the phone?”
“All night. Nobody knows anything. Belsky hasn’t turned up. They found the car he rented on a parking lot. He’ll never come back for it. I don’t know if it fits into this but somebody hijacked a truckload of nerve gas from Fort Huachuca.”
“Nerve gas,” Forrester muttered, buttoning his cuffs. “God.”
“Yeah.” Spode picked up the phone and said, “Room service, please.… Hello, this is three twenty-seven, send up a pot of coffee and two cups and a plate of bacon and eggs, will you? Bacon fried crisp and two eggs over hard.… Yeah, thanks.”
“Don’t you want anything to eat?”
“I had a couple of doughnuts an hour ago where I made a few calls.” Spode got out of the chair and stretched; Forrester heard the ligaments crackle. “I’ve been letting myself be seen around town but nobody’s taken any potshots at me.”
“He may be long gone, Top.”
“Then why did he kill Art Miller? No, I can’t buy it.” Spode scowled outward—the sky was cloudy above the rooftops across the way. “My ex-boss and I kicked around a lot of things on the phone to see if anything rang any bells. The Agency’s been picking up signs of a big Chinese flap along the Russian border—bigger than anything they’ve ever seen. The President’s holding an emergency session of the National Security Council this morning. Since I’m not on the payroll there were certain things I couldn’t be told on the record, but reading between the lines I gathered that one or two friendly KGB types have made overtures to their opposite numbers in the Agency to feel us out about taking sides in the event of an eruption over there.”
“Between China and Russia?”
“Yes. Of course they’ve had these flaps before. Bluff and double-bluff—brinkmanship, Chinese style. They push until they meet too much resistance and then they squat down and wait for things to cool off before they start pushing again. Process of attrition—but the Russians have been getting fed up with it. You would too.”
“But what’s that got to do with Belsky?”
“God knows,” Spode muttered. Knuckles rapped at the door and Forrester grimaced and stepped into the alcove out of sight until he heard Spode tip the waiter and close the door. Spode set the tray on the coffee table.
Forrester took the dome off the plate and sat down to eat. “I’m sick of hide and seek, Top, it’s not my style.”
“I know. But I’d like to find out what’s really going on before we start taking any chances.”
“We’re not going to find out anything sitting here.”
“It’s not your job—you’ve got other fish to fry. Let the professionals handle Belsky.”
“They don’t seem to be getting anywhere, do they.”
“And just how far do you think you could get? What did you have in mind, strapping on a six-shooter and spreading the word around town you’ll be waiting for him on Stone Avenue at high noon?”
“Jaime’s right, you know.” Ronnie’s voice drew Forrester’s head around sharply. She stood in the bedroom doorway in last night’s skirt and blouse, slightly rumpled; she had washed the sleep off her face but she wore no makeup. She was stunning.
Forrester stood up with his napkin in his hand. “Feeling any better?”
“I’m fine—I don’t know why I went to pieces. I’m miserable because I kept you up with all that silliness. Forgive me?”
“As long as you’re sure you’re all right.”
“Well, tired and a little jittery—and very ashamed of myself.” Her smile was reticent.
He indicated the plate. “I’ve hardly started. Why don’t you eat this while it’s warm—I’ll have some more sent up.”
“I don’t think I’d better do that yet. Please go ahead and finish.” She waved him to his seat and went back into the bedroom. She left the door open and he saw her sit down at the dressing table to comb her hair. “Jaime, have you talked to Les Suffield?” There was something a bit taut behind the casual question and Forrester watched her with full attention.