The man behind the gun was a sandy-haired fellow who looked like his well-tailored English tweeds might conceal an athlete's muscles. I took a step toward him and the hammer of the gun clicked. I stopped. "I'm allergic to bullets," I told him candidly. “What can I do for you besides eat lead?"
“Just sit down, Mr. Victor," he answered, a trace of a grin flickering over his boyish features. His voice was a give-away. He was as American as apple pie, and as Boston as baked beans. "My name's Foster," he told me. Alan Foster. Here are my credentials."
He handed them to me. C.I.A. I looked at him questioningly.
“You are an American, Mr. Victor?"
“Sure.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to tell me what you're doing consorting with one of the most notorious Russian agents in the Middle East."
“You mean Potemchenko? I'm not consorting with him. He Just gave me a lift back to my hotel from - from a party I was at."
“Some, party!" Foster said sarcastically. It came out pah-ty, like “pahk the cah." “Five dead and a missing cab driver."
“It did get a little rough," I admitted.
Lets stop playing games, Mr. Victor. You were seen contacting Potemchenko in Damascus. Now you turn up with him in Baghdad. We have a name for people who play footsie with the Russians. Defector. That's the polite name. I prefer the old-fashioned label myself. Traitor. In my opinion, Mr. Victor, you are an A-number-one traitor to your country."
“What could I say? If I told him the truth, he wouldn't believe me. Charles Putnam had warned me that something like this might happen. “I refuse to say anything on the grounds that I might incriminate myself," I wisecracked. I sat back to consider the irony of Potemchenko trying to bump me off because he thought I was an American agent and now an American agent accusing me of working for the Russians. The really funny thing was that they were both right. Not so funny was the fact that I'd be just as dead if an American shot me as I would have been if Potemchenko had. The thought made me nervous enough to put it into words. "If you're not going to use that thing right away," said, indicating the gun Foster was still pointing at me, "would you mind putting the safety back on?"
“You're a nervous type to be playing the kind of game you're playing, Victor," he told me. He put the safety back on, but I noticed that his thumb stayed very close to the release.
"You're right," I told him. “I'm a nervous type."
“Must be all that sex you fool around with,” he told me conversationally.
“Aw, you're just jealous."
“Could be," he admitted. “I can't see why you'd want to bother with espionage when you've got that kind of deal going for you."
“Neither can I," I said. “So the answer must be that you're mistaken."
“If I am, we'll find it out soon enough."
“How soon?"
"By the day after tomorrow. We'll be in Washington by then. You can tell your story-—-whatever it is—to the big boys."
"But I don't want to go to Washington. I can't spare the time."
“You don't have much choice." Foster waved the gun in my face. “We’ll be roommates for tonight. In the morning when my partner gets here, we'll arrange for a plane to the States."
“Your partner?"
“Sure. He's tailing Potemchenko.”
“But Potemchenko's catching a plane himself tonight."
“Where to?" Foster's eyes narrowed.
“Kabul.” I had no reason not to tell him.
“Afghanistan? What’s there?"
“I don't know," I lied.
“If you're telling the truth," he mused, “Bob may not be back at all. He'll stick with the trail."
“You mean he'll try to stow away aboard Potemchenko's plane?"
“Sure. That's his job."
“If Potemchenko discovers him, he'll kill him."
"That's the chance. It's what we're paid for."
“I guess so." I yawned. "Look," I said, “I’ve had a busy day. Do you mind if I go to sleep?"
"Go ahead. Just remember that I won't go to sleep. Don't try anything funny."
“Later maybe," I told him truthfully. “But not now. I'm just too damn tired right now."
I conked out as soon as my head hit the pillow. It was maybe an hour later that the jangling of the telephone yanked me out of dreamland.
"Answer it." Foster was sitting in the chair across from me, wide awake.
I picked up the phone. "Hello."
“Is this Mr. Victor's room?"
"Yes."
"Is Mr. Foster there?"
"Yes." I handed the phone to Foster. “It's for you.”
He listened for a long moment and his face filled with genuine grief. “Thank you," he said mechanically and hung up.
"Your partner?" I guessed.
He nodded.
"Dead?"
"Yes. He was still alive when they found him. His body was all broken up, though. Potemchenko must have found him and dumped him out just after the takeoff. Bob lasted just long enough to ask the people who found him to get a message to me that Potemchenko was on his way to Kabul. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital."
“I’m sorry," I said, meaning it.
“I'll bet you are!" The grief on his face was replaced by the look of sheer hatred he shot me. "Bob was a decent guy, dedicated, patriotic. And now he's dead because scum like you turn traitor." His hand tightened on the gun he held and I stepped back from him. “Oh, don't worry," he said contemptuously. “I'm not going to kill you unless I have to, You see, we're not like your friends the Russians. Still, I admit I just wish you'd give me an excuse."
“I’m going back to sleep," I said. There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Not only didn't he want my sympathy, but it was an insult under the circumstances.
“But first-—” I added, starting for the bathroom.
"Leave the door open," he instructed me.
"I’m the shy type. I'd rather not."
"Leave it open. You'll just have to be inhibited.”
“Constipated, more likely." I left it open.
“Would you toss me that roll of paper?" I asked after a while.
He tossed it to me underhanded. I purposely missed it so that it rolled behind the curtain where the tin bathtub was. I started to reach for it, and as I expected, he ordered me to stop. “I'll get it," he said. He reached around for it from the other end of the curtain with one arm. His other hand held the gun still pointed steadily at me. He couldn’t reach it and was forced to bend as I'd counted on his doing. For a brief second he took his eyes off me to glance behind the curtain for the roll of paper. That was all I'd been waiting for; that was all it took.
I yanked hard on the end of the curtain near my perch. The whole rickety frame came down around Foster’s head as I threw myself to the side so that it would miss me. His gun arm tore loose first and fast. Bullets began spraying around the bathroom, but I knew he couldn’t see what he was aiming at. Before he could, I'd grabbed up the metal wash basin and bounced it off where I judged his head to be under the curtain. My judgment was good and he crumpled to the floor, the curtain covering him like a shroud.
By the time he came to, I'd trussed him up like a Christmas package. I was just putting on my jacket when his eyes fluttered open. I loosened the gag for a moment so that he might talk.
“Why didn't you kill me?" he asked, puzzled. “You could have."
“Like you insinuated," I told him, “I don't have the guts for this business."
"Then turn yourself in, Victor. If you do, I promise you I'll do everything I can to get leniency for you."
“No thanks.” I grinned at him. I was really beginning to like Alan Foster. “I've got business to attend to."