They had descended at last on Quebec at first light, like a plague ship, and Grofield had been mildly surprised when the airport officials had allowed them to debark. The stewardess at the exit had been glassy-eyed as she’d given each passenger the ritual, “Good to have you aboard,” and Grofield had decided not to respond.
The cab driver had been surly, though he hadn’t been on that plane. It was a twelve-mile trip from airport to hotel, all of it southeast, directly into the just-risen sun, and Grofield had spent most of it with his hands over his eyes. They’d come at the Chateau Frontenac from the west, the undramatic side, but drama would have been wasted on him this morning anyway. The process of transferring himself and suitcase from cab to hotel room was a complicated one, but ritualized, so it was possible to do it without thinking about it, and he did, and now at last he was here.
There were things to do, of course. He had to buy new clothing, without electronics. He had to reconnoiter the hotel, and then the city. He had to figure out the best way to get out of this part of the world without being intercepted. Lots of things to do, all important, all necessary, and he was going to definitely do them. Definitely. But not yet.
Sleep. First there had to be some sleep. In his present condition Grofield doubted he could successfully evade a paraplegic with a flat tire. Rest and recuperation were first on the agenda, and once he was reasonably alert once more he could get on with his escape plans. In the meantime, sleep.
And before sleep, a shower. The events of the last fifteen hours, the traveling and the running around New York City in a snowstorm and all, had left him not only exhausted but also very grimy and a nervous wreck. He was probably too tense to lose consciousness at the moment, no matter how badly he needed sleep, and a shower would do a lot to correct that, as well as making it possible for him to stand being around himself.
So he took a shower, leaving a trail of clothing from the middle of the bedroom into the bathroom, and standing in the hot spray with head and shoulders and jaw all drooping until he felt the tension draining away, felt his eyelids getting heavy instead of grainy, knew that now he could sleep. Oh, yeah, now he could sleep.
He got out of the shower, toweled himself dry, and walked nude into the room, stopping short in the doorway. Seated on the chair across the room was a coal black Negro girl in a green pants suit, looking like Robin Hood got up for a Commando raid. She looked Grofield up and down and said, as though to herself, “They are smaller.”
“I don’t believe it,” Grofield said.
“Take my word for it,” she said.
“I don’t believe God could be so cruel,” Grofield said. “All I want to do is sleep. I don’t want anything complicated now.”
“Nothing complicated,” the girl said briskly. Behind her camouflage she was a stunning girl, with large flashing eyes and close-cropped hair in the natural style, very wooly. She spoke with a vaguely British accent. She said, “All you have to do is tell me who sent you here and why. Then I’ll go away and you can sleep.”
“My doctor,” Grofield said. “For the waters.”
“What?”
“My doctor sent me here. For the waters.”
“What waters?” She sounded more annoyed than confused.
“I was misinformed,” Grofield said. “Humphrey Bogart and Claude Rains, Casablanca, 1942. I hope you have an exit line, because you’re exiting.” He walked toward the bed.
Now she was more confused than annoyed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“How do I know? I’m asleep.” He pulled the spread off the bed and dumped it on the floor.
“Look, you,” she said, and pointed a finger at him. “I’m asking nice. You don’t answer me, the next one who shows up won’t be so easy to get along with.”
Grofield slid between the delicious crisp sheets. “Be sure the door is locked when you go out,” he said, and collapsed backward onto the pillow.
“Hey,” she said. “Hey!”
Grofield’s eyes closed, and whatever else she might have said was drowned out by the whirring of the wings of Morpheus.
Seven
Somewhere a light was burning, making a dull red glow on Grofield’s eyelids. He came very slowly up toward consciousness, aware of the red glow for a long while before being aware that he was awake, and then continuing to lie there for another period of time after he was awake, thinking about who he was and where he was and all of the things that had happened in his recent history and what was he going to do about it all and also he was very very hungry.
He didn’t want to open his eyes, because the light would blind him, and it took him a long while to decide what to do instead. At last he rolled over onto his other side, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as he moved, and when the red glow cut off he opened his eyes, and found he was facing the window, which was heavily draped. The source of the light was somewhere in this room.
A page turned. A very distinctive sound, the sound of a page turning. Page of a book.
Was she still here, waiting for him to wake up? How long had she been sitting here, for God’s sake? What time was it? He struggled his left arm up from under the covers and the wrist was naked, of course, his watch being on the shelf over the sink in the bathroom.
He was very very hungry.
Another page turned.
He didn’t want another session with that girl now, he really didn’t. He was going to have to be firm, that’s all, get rid of her and no nonsense. Make an appointment with her for later on, if she insisted. During business hours.
He steeled himself for the effort, rolled over onto his back, sat up, and looked into the mild eyes of Henry Carlson, who said, “So you’re awake.”
“I know you,” Grofield said.
“Ken showed you my picture. And of course I’ve seen yours. Tell me, was it retouched?”
What hurt was that the question didn’t seem to be malicious. Henry Carlson looked honestly and innocently interested in the answer. Grumpily Grofield said, “Of course not.”
“Oh. No offense.”
“I’m just not at my best in the morning.”
“Hardly morning,” Carlson said, and looked at his watch. “Three twenty-five.” Disapprovingly he added, “In the afternoon.”
“Us counterspies work funny hours.”
Carlson got very prim. “That’s not a good sort of joke, you know.”
“It isn’t?”
Carlson could be seen making an effort to be friendly with the lower orders. “Before we go any farther, Alan — may I call you Alan?”
“No,” Grofield said, and got out of bed, and stomped away to the bathroom.
When he came out again ten minutes later, shaved and shiny and much more awake, he was still naked and Carlson was still sitting in the same chair under the same lit floor lamp with the same hardcover book open in his lap. Carlson looked at Grofield and got fidgety. “I suppose actors get used to ignoring usual conventions of modesty,” he said, and tried a friendly smile that didn’t entirely work.
Grofield, crossing to his suitcase, glanced at Carlson and said, “I suppose secret agents get used to ignoring the usual conventions of politeness. Like not coming into rooms uninvited.”