"I don't think so. The doctors say the bandages will come off in a few days."
Remo slept. It was dark when he awoke again. "Are you working?" he asked when he came to.
"I have a temporary secretary come in twice a day," Smith said.
"What'd you do about Peruvina?"
"Coded message to the CIA. The poppies have been burned to the ground, and Arnold's laboratory has been destroyed."
"Is the girl from Hassam's dead?"
"The dancer? No, she's recovering, surprisingly."
"Send her some flowers for me, okay?"
"She's a witness," Smith said.
"Wasn't it you who said you can't kill off everybody who knows anything?"
"That was different."
"Hey—"
"All right," Smith grumbled. "Just get some rest. And let me."
"You've got to do something else," Remo whispered before he slipped out of consciousness.
It was light again when he awoke.
"What do you want?" Smith asked.
"A pilot named Thompson," Remo said. "He was arrested in a military hospital on Malagua Island."
"Enlisted?"
"Civilian. Get him out of jail."
There was a long pause. It may have been days. "Why?" Smith asked.
"He's innocent. Sort of."
"Sort of? I can't—"
"Get him out of the slammer and send him to the Caribbean."
"What?"
"And give him a plane. A DC-3."
"You're delirious."
"Smitty. Do it for me. Because you're a friend."
"Don't be absurd."
"Then do it for me because I'll break your face when I get out of here if you don't," Remo said sleepily.
Smith grunted.
"She wasn't right, was she?"
"Who?"
"Darcy Devoe. She said you were two of a kind. Are you?"
Remo slept.
"Are you?" he asked the following evening.
"Yes, I suppose I am."
"Did you love her?"
"I'm a married man," Smith said.
"Oh, come on."
Smith sat up. The tube was out of his arm. "No. No, I didn't."
"But you could have."
"We could all do a lot of things. We don't," Smith said tersely. "She's dead, you know."
"Yeah, I figured. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"I wanted to stop killing once. It can't be done."
"I understand," Smith said.
"No, you don't. I don't. But that's just the way it is. Some people have to die."
"I suppose so," Smith said. He cleared his throat.
It was light. Remo opened his eyes. The bandages had been removed. Smith sat in bed, a breakfast tray covered with papers on his lap.
"Hey, I can see."
Smith looked over, annoyed at being interrupted. "Er... That's fine."
"Did you do it? Get Thompson out?"
"I'm trying to work." Smith turned back to his papers.
"Well?"
"Yes, I did," Smith said irritably. "Although I'll never understand why. I must not have been myself."
Remo smiled. "Thanks," he said.
Smith rustled his papers and pretended to read.
the end