He thought part of it was the fact that there was no human antagonist. There was no “other side” with which to compete. He had a quarter century of playing the running-dog game and it had educated his palate to its own flavor; his appetite had been trained to crave human conflict: the chess game of reality with stakes that weren’t tokens, rules that weren’t artificial.
At one time he had tried to get reinstated.
They’d sent him into the Balkans on a very chancy mission but the objective had some meaning so he’d volunteered for it. He’d accomplished the job but he’d been injured badly-it had been critical for a while-and his cover had been blown. After he’d convalesced he’d done some office work and then they’d put him out to pasture on early retirement. Eighteen months later he’d asked for reactivation but he was too old, they told him, too old and too hot. And in any case Cutter had taken his place and wasn’t about to relinquish it. They didn’t want any part of him. They’d offered him a sop-a time-filler desk over at NSA with a fair GS rank and salary, punching decodes through computers. A bloody file clerk’s job.
When the sun tipped over it got chilly and he left the islet. Snatches of things ran through his mind in a jumbled sort of order and he made a desultory game of tracing the pattern they made. They came without chronology from the retentive cells. The suicide note left by the screen actor George Sanders: “I am leaving because I am bored.” Fragmentarily a poem by Stephen Crane which he hadn’t read since he was a sophomore; he was sure he didn’t have it right: “A man said to the Universe, ‘Sir, I exist!’ ‘Yes,’ replied the Universe, ‘but that fact does not create in me a sense of obligation.’” At any rate something like that… I wish to bring you back to life… The resurrection of Miles Kendig… My dear Miles, I’m offering to put you back in the game. Back into action. Isn’t it what you want? The hunting way of life is the only one natural to man. I offer to return it to you.
Well it was something Yaskov didn’t have it in his power to restore.
But it was the first time in months he’d felt things churning and he kept toying with them while he slouched up the rue Lecourbe toward Montparnasse. It was the first time his dialogue with himself hadn’t taken the flavor of a talk with a stranger in the adjacent seat of an airliner: an exchange of meaningless monologues, half of them self-serving lies, the other half mechanical responses and none of it designed to be remembered beyond the debarkation ramp.
He ate something in a cafe and had two Remy Martins and walked all the way back to the hotel. There were no personal things in sight although he had resided in the suite for nearly two months; its occupant had kept himself hidden from it.
The telephone.
“M’sieur-a gentleman wishes to see you.”
“Who is he?”
“I do not know, M’sieur.”
“I’ll be down. Ask him to wait.” He wasn’t about to invite to his room any man who wouldn’t give his name.
The rickety cage discharged him into the dusky lobby and he saw Glenn Follett in the reading chair in the alcove. Follett charged beaming to his feet, hearty ebullience filling his dewlapped Basset face. “Hey old buddy-long time no see, hey? How they hanging?”
It made Kendig wince. Follett pumped his hand enthusiastically and reared back: tipped his head to one side and tucked his jowly chin in, contriving to look affectionate and conspiratorial at once. “My goodness you do look well.” He said it in the voice of a man telling a polite lie. “Life of luxury in retirement, hey?”
“What do you want, Glenn?” It was a question to which he already knew the answer because he didn’t believe in the sort of coincidence that would drop Follett on his doorstep within hours of his meeting with Mikhail Yaskov. But he asked it anyway because it was the best way to shut off Follett’s backslapping spout of painful old-buddy pleasantries.
Follett waved his arms around. He was utterly incapable of talking without the accompaniment of vast gestures. “What do you say we have a drink or two?”
“I’ve already had a drink. We can talk here.”
Follett shot a glance toward the concierge behind the desk. That was twenty feet across the lobby. Kendig said, “He’s a little deaf and he’s only got about forty words, of English. Stop looking around-the lamps aren’t bugged.”
“Well if you say so, sure. Hell. Well then let’s have a seat, hey?” Follett led the way back into the alcove and Kendig trailed along reluctantly. Follett sat down with his elbows on his knees so he could flap his hands when he talked. “Damn good to see you again. I mean that.”
“Come off it.”
“Well Christ Kendig, it has been a long time, and here we are both living in the same town. I mean it’s good for old friends to get together-we ought to do it more often, you know?”
Kendig said, “You had a tail on Yaskov today, didn’t you.”
Follett grinned unabashedly. “Sure. Why else would I be here?”
“All right. Get it off your chest. I haven’t got all night.”
“The hell you haven’t. What have you got, Kendig-a vital business meeting? A hard-breathing tryst? Don’t give me no bullfeathers. You haven’t got a Goddamned thing to do except go upstairs to your little ten-by-twelve room and stare at the walls. I’d think you’d welcome some company from an old officemate.”
Kendig just watched him. Follett made a face and dropped his voice several decibels. “All right. What was it about?”
“What was what about?” He didn’t want to give Follett the satisfaction.
An exasperated jerk of head, pinch of lips. “The meet with Yaskov, old buddy.”
“Ships and shoes and sealing wax.”
“Why are you making it so hard for me?”
“Maybe it amuses me.”
“Then why aren’t you smiling?” Follett flapped his palms. “Come on now. What did he want?”
“The same as you. He thought it would be pleasant if a couple of old friends got together and reminisced about the good old days.”
“I see.” Follett wasn’t buying it; he was just inviting added comment but Kendig didn’t make any and finally Follett said, “You’ll have to do a little better than that.”
“Why?”
“Because it won’t wash.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then say what you mean, all right?”
“What I mean,” Kendig said, “why will I have to do better than that? Why do I have to tell you anything at all? I don’t work for you people any more.”
“Come on, Kendig, don’t force me to make threats.”
“This conversation’s getting tedious, wouldn’t you say?”
“We can make holy hell for you. Is that what you want?”
“I can’t see you bothering to do that. Not with me.”
“You’re not enjoying this. Just tell me what I want to know and I’ll go away.”
“You’ll go away anyway. Sooner or later.”
“You’re an exasperating son of a bitch.”
“I know.”
“Should I offer to buy it then?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Then tell me this. What is it you want?”
“To be left alone.”
“Is that what you told Yaskov?”
“Maybe.”
“Everybody wants something. What do you want, Kendig?”
“I just told you.”
“Nuts.” Follett became still; he examined his hands. “You’re just about the most expendable human being on earth right now, I suppose you realize that. You’re no good to anybody, not even yourself; I don’t think there’s anybody in the whole world who’d ever miss you. Except maybe Mikhail Yaskov. What kind of deal did you make with him?”