Bullock remained deep in thought until a voice at his elbow said, “Faith and begorra, me bucko.”
“Drop the Irish bit, Mr. Birch Bier of the C.I.A.,” said Bullock severely. “Just where were you at the time of the murder attempt?”
Bier was poking at an itch under his cast with a thin stick. He gave Bullock a wink and a nudge. “Kiss and Tell isn’t my style, but if it’s any of your business I was with Lotus Lane. Ask her if you don’t believe me. All right, so I’m here to kill Macpherson. But sneaky stuff like that hammock bit isn’t my way. In fact, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Maynard,” he said, offering his hand; “you keep out of my hair and I’ll make them think his death was an accident so you won’t look bad. But just remember the C.I.A. motto: ‘We always get our man.’ ”
Bullock turned purple. “Now you listen here,” he said through clenched teeth, “ ‘We always get our man’ is the Mountie motto. Good Godfrey, you people have” — he ticked the items off on his fingers — “expense accounts, fancy electronic gear, fat movie parts. At least let us have our—” Bullock stopped dead and looked skyward. “Listen to the birds,” he whispered.
Bier listened. “I don’t hear any birds,” he said.
“Precisely,” said Bullock triumphantly.
Up ahead, Macpherson was signaling them into the bushes. Bullock squatted down behind a particularly unCanadian-looking fern and hoped they hadn’t run into the Neutralists. Macpherson had filled him in on them. “The Neutralists are down on anything foreign,” he had said. “They rove the countryside smashing transistor radios, making Time-Life correspondents eat their ballpoint pens, and burning Marx and Engels in tandem effigy. They’ve sworn to kill me because I won’t make house calls.” For a humanitarian, Macpherson sure knew how to make enemies. If it was the Neutralists their goose was cooked.
There were voices and the sounds of leather and metal on the trail. Seeing Tang and Bier straining to identify the politics of the approaching column, it came to Bullock in a sudden desperate moment that he and Macpherson were just as dead if it was the government forces or the Communist rebels.
Just then from around the bend came heads wearing American-type helmets. Government troops. Bier started to spring but Tang’s looping right, cast and all, thudded squarely against his temple. Bier’s cry of joy died on his lips and he fell softly to the ground. The patrol reached them and a moment later passed by.
They rested. Bier sat up, holding his head in his hands. Tang was trying to scratch by rubbing his cast against a tree.
“Mr. Tang,” scolded Bullock, “in the West we don’t strike a man when he isn’t looking. We warn him. We say, ‘Put up your dukes.’ ”
“Shush!” hissed Macpherson. More voices on the trail. Everyone took cover again. This time the heads that came into sight wore conical wicker hats. The Communist rebels. Bier threw a blind roundhouse swing. The cast caught Tang behind the ear. The rebel column passed by.
“Mr. Bier,” said Bullock reproachfully, “doesn’t anyone say, ‘Put up your dukes’ any more?”
Their progress for the rest of the day was slow and bloody. Three more near-encounters with government patrols cost Bier a tooth, a split lip, and a lump on the back of the head. Rebel patrols left their mark on Tang: a puffy eye, a fat ear, and a nose that bled like a faucet. As dusk gathered between the trees they camped for the night at a small temple beside the trail.
Dinner was a hearty meal concocted by Lotus Lane from water and a can of dehydrated food. Only Bullock refused to partake. “Brought my own,” he said proudly, producing a gray-brown lump. “Pemmican,” he explained. “Equal parts of rendered fat and dried buffalo meat, plus certain herbs and spices I’m not at liberty to reveal, and a healthy handful of Saskatoon berries.” Bullock hacked off a leathery strip and chewed at it. But his enthusiasm was forced. It must have been a bad year for Saskatoon berries.
Tang and Bier cleaned their plates quickly and dragged themselves like birds with broken wings to opposite comers where they fell into the sleep of sheer exhaustion. “We should all get some rest,” said Macpherson. “Tomorrow we’ll reach the Kinkong River valley, a swampy disease-infested no-man’s-land that Mandalasia claims is Bengalia’s and Bengalia insists belongs to Mandalasia.”
Lotus Lane decided to get some fresh air before she turned in. Bullock hobbled out after her. He found her leaning against a tree, deep in thought, her face beautiful in the moonlight. At that moment, as if to add to the scene, from inside the temple Dr. Macpherson’s accordion struck up “Nola.”
Bullock knew he had a way with women. True, the uniform always worked its magic. But he could turn on the old charm, too, whenever he needed it. Bullock flashed a big smile and wagged his finger. “I should be very, very angry with you, Dr. Lane,” he said. “It wasn’t very nice not telling me that Tang was a Red Chinese agent and Bier was C.I.A. and that they’re both here to kill Dr. Macpherson.”
“Men tell beautiful women many things,” said Lotus Lane.
“Just the same,” said Bullock playfully, “you’d just better come clean and tell me where your own political loyalties lie.”
Her eyes flashed in the moonlight. “My father was an American sailor. He abandoned my Mandalasian mother six months before I was born. When her father, a local Communist leader, learned her lover’s nationality he drove us from the house at the height of the monsoon season. Dying of pneumonia, my mother left me on the doorstep of an orphanage run by the Neutralists where I was brought up to respect the Mandalasian life of yore when wives could be bought and sold for two goats and a chicken.
“For supper they fed us a thin rice gruel from a large copper kettle. One night I took my little bowl and walked right up and said, ‘Please, may I have more?’ Punished, I fled to the city where I fell in with a gang of Chinese thieves and pickpockets. I lived as one of them, sleeping with a loaded pistol under my pillow to protect my honor and my share of the booty until I had money enough to sail away to medical school in Switzerland. And here I am. As for my political loyalties, you tell me.”
Bullock was taken aback by her outburst. He cleared his throat. “Let’s just put you down as uncommitted. Next question: where were you at the time of the murder attempt?”
“I was alone in my room all afternoon,” she said.
Bullock scratched his jaw. “Sure you won’t like to reconsider that?” he asked. “You see, if you were with, say, Bier that afternoon, then Tang would be the suspect. And vice versa. On the other hand, if you were alone, then we’ve got three suspects: Tang, Bier, and you. Take it from me, these cases go a lot smoother if you only have one suspect.”
“Sorry,” said Lotus Lane. “Neither of those gentlemen has ever set foot in my room.”
Bullock chewed on his lip and watched her walk back toward the temple. Obviously Tang and Bier were trying to point the finger of guilt at each other. But what made them think Dr. Lane would go along with their stories? Macpherson struck up “Canadian Sunset.” Homesickness was a lump in Bullock’s throat and an ache in his stomach. He wished he was sitting at his own kitchen table across from good old Mavis, his wife. He’d fill up his big teacup and talk things out with her. Yes, a cup of tea and a sandwich or two would go down pretty good right now. Bullock hobbled back to the temple. Before turning in, he’d try the pemmican again.
The morning trail was damp and knee-deep in mist. A weary-eyed Macpherson led the way. “I get these nightmares, Bullock,” he admitted. “The population explosion. People cheek to jowl everywhere you turn.”
“This may sound strange coming from a Mountie,” said Bullock. “But I like people.”