“Maybe.”
“Or maybe we're megalomaniacs.”
“I don't know about you,” he said. “But I don't always think I'm right. In fact, I usually think I'm wrong.”
“Scratch megalomania.”
“I think so.”
“I guess we're just realists in a world of dreamers. But even if that's what we are, even if we are right, that doesn't make us very nice people, does it?”
“There are no heroes. But, Miss Tanaka, you're plenty nice enough for me.”
“I want you again.”
“Likewise.”
They made love. As before, he found in her a knowledge and enthusiasm that he had never known in a woman, a fierce desire that was beyond any lust that Irene had ever shown. None of the very civilized, very gentle lovers he had had were like this. And he wondered, as he swelled and moved within her, if it was necessary to see and accept the animal in yourself before you could really enjoy life. Lee Ann rocked and bucked upon him, gibbered against his neck, clutched and clawed at him, and worked away the minutes toward a new day.
At twelve-thirty he put through a call to the desk and asked for a wake-up message at six the next morning. Then he set his travel clock for six-ten.
Lee Ann said, “I gather you don't trust Japanese hotel operators.”
“It's not that. I'm just compulsive about a lot of things. Didn't McAlister warn you?”
“No.”
“I have a well-known neatness fetish which drives some people crazy. I'm always picking up lint and straightening pictures on the walls…”
“I haven't noticed.”
Suddenly he saw the room-service cart, covered with haphazardly stacked, dirty dishes. “My God!”
“What's the matter?”
He pointed to the cart. “It's been there all night, and I haven't had the slightest urge to clean it up. I don't have the urge now, either.”
“Maybe I'm the medicine you need.”
That could be true, he thought. But he worried that if he lost his neuroses, he might also lose that orderliness of thought that had always put him one up on the other side. And tomorrow when they got into Peking, he would need to be sharper than he had ever been before.
Steam blossomed around the wheels of the locomotive and flowered into the chilly night air. It smelled vaguely of sulphur.
Chai Po-han walked through the swirling steam and along the side of the train. The Hsian station, only dimly lighted at this hour, lay on his right; aureoles of wan light shimmered through a blanket of thin, phosphorescent fog. The first dozen cars of the train were full of cargo, but the thirteenth was a passenger cab.
“Boarding?” asked the conductor, who stood at the base of the collapsible metal steps that led up into the car. He was a round-faced, bald, and toothless man whose smile was quite warm but nonetheless unnerving.
“I'm transferring from the Chungking line,” Chai said. He showed the conductor his papers.
“All the way into Peking?”
“Yes.”
“And you've come from Chungking today?”
“Yes.”
“That's quite a trip without rest.”
“I'm very weary.”
“Come aboard, then. I'll find you a sleeping berth.”
The train was dark inside. The only light was the moonlike glow which came through the windows from the station's platform lamps. Chai could not really see where he was going, but the conductor moved down the aisle with the night sureness of a cat.
“You're going the right direction to get a sleeping berth,” the toothless man said. “These days the trains are full on their way out from the cities, on their way to the communes. Coming in, there are only vacationers and soldiers.”
In the sleeping cars, where there were no windows, the conductor switched on his flashlight. In the second car he located a cramped berth that was unoccupied. “This will be yours,” he said in a whisper.
All around them, three-deep on both sides, men and women snored and murmured and tossed in their sleep.
Chai threw his single sack of belongings onto the bunk and said, “When will we reach Peking?”
“Nine o'clock tomorrow evening,” the conductor said. “Sleep well, Comrade.”
Lying on his back in the berth, the bottom of the next-highest mattress only inches from his face, Chai thought of his home, thought of his family, and hoped that he would have good dreams. But his very last thought, just as he drifted off, was of Ssunan Commune, and instead of pleasant dreams, he endured the same nightmare that had plagued him since the end of winter: a white room, the gods in green, and the scalpel poised to dissect his soul…
THREE
Andrew Rice ate a macaroon in one bite while he waited for McAlister's secretary to put the director on the line. He finished swallowing just as McAlister said hello. “Bob, I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all,” McAlister said guardedly.
“I called to apologize.”
“Oh?”
“I understand that you had to sweet-talk those federal marshals because I called them so late Wednesday evening.”
“It's nothing,” McAlister said. “I soothed everyone in a few minutes. It didn't even come close to a fist-fight.”
“Yes, but with everything you've got on your shoulders right now, you don't need labor problems too.”
“Really, I was being petty. I should never have mentioned it to the President.”
“No, no. He asked me to call and give you an explanation. And you deserve one. Besides, the truth of it will let me off the hook, at least somewhat.” He took another macaroon from the bag in his desk drawer and turned it over and over in his fingers as he spoke. “Fredericks at Justice was supposed to send me a list of marshals in the D.C. area, and he took his time about it. His messenger didn't get to my office until nearly six o'clock.”
“I see.”
“Then, of course, I wanted to get some background material on each of the marshals so we could be damned sure that none of them had past connections with the CIA. By the time I had twelve men I was sure I could trust, most of the evening had disappeared. If Fredericks had gotten that list to me earlier… Well, I should have been on the phone to him every fifteen minutes, pushing and prodding. I wasn't, so part of the blame is mine.”
McAlister said, “Now I'm doubly sorry that I mentioned this to the chief.”
“As I said, you deserved an explanation.” He waved the macaroon under his nose. “Any new developments?”
“Unfortunately, no,” McAlister said.
“Your man should reach Peking shortly.”
“Then the fireworks start.”
“Let's hope not,” Rice said, meaning something much different than McAlister would think he meant. “Sorry again about any problems I may have caused you.”
“Sure. Be seeing you.”
“Goodbye, Bob.”
The moment he hung up he popped the macaroon into his mouth and instantly ground it to a sweet paste.
He felt pretty good today. For one thing he had worked off most of his nervous tension with that whore last night. She was his first woman in four months and the first he had ever picked up in Washington. He had always felt that he would be risking too much by taking his satisfaction here in the capital. In Washington D.C., where the juiciest gossip and the main topic of conversation was nearly always about politicians, even a prostitute was likely to be somewhat politically aware; there was always the chance that even a seldom-photographed Presidential aide would be recognized on the street. But his need had been too great to delay, and he'd had no time or excuse for a trip to New York, Philadelphia, or Baltimore. And after all, the affair had gone welclass="underline" she had been attractive; she hadn't recognized him; and she'd helped him to get rid of the awful pressure that had been building within him. Now, this morning, the news about Dragonfly had suddenly taken a turn for the better, and Rice felt as well as a five-foot-ten, two-hundred-eighty-pound man could ever feel.