His smile phosphoresced. “Everything is easy,” he told me, “once the proper method has been found. These seven men have one thing in common: all, from time to time, are to be found at the UN. If the UN Building is demolished, killing several hundred, including men of much more global significance than any of my targets, the death of the particular seven will go almost unnoticed.”
It’s good the interior of the car was dark, because I’m sure my true feelings showed themselves at least briefly on my face. In order to kill seven men cleverly — for pay! — Tyrone Ten Eyck thought nothing of killing several hundred men and women who meant nothing to him for good or ill, for profit or loss, but who were merely extras on the set of his scheming.
He filled my silence, luckily, with more words of his own, saying, “If, besides that, the explosion is obviously the work of a coalition of American lunatic-fringe organizations, suspicion cannot possibly touch my employers.” He smiled in my direction, proud of himself, saying, “Do you like it?”
“It’s — imaginative.”
“Imagination is the key to everything,” he told me, and I could hear the tension buzzing in his voice.
I said, “But you told me you wanted the UN Building full, that’s why you were going to blow up the Senate, why we’re kidnaping your father.”
“Ah, well,” he said. “The problem is, three of my seven targets are not regularly to be found at the UN. Special circumstances are required to bring them there.” He nodded in satisfaction. “We’ll provide the special circumstances,” he said.
I began to chew my knuckles.
25
We went through Tarrytown without being stopped once; there was practically no traffic, and every light turned green in front of us as though a local ordinance had been passed in our favor. How often does something like that happen?
Outside town again, I sat moodily in my corner and chewed myself. If I couldn’t get out of the car — and at even thirty or forty miles an hour, I couldn’t — what was there to do? All I could think of was to hope that Angela wasn’t there any more. I knew how fluttery she was, and how little she got along with her father (not as little as Tyrone, of course), and it seemed to me at least possible that she might be hiding somewhere else by now.
Well, it was possible.
Suddenly we slowed, I had no idea why. We were on the hilly two-lane road north of Tarrytown which led to the Ten Eyck estate, but the turn-off was still a mile or so ahead of us. Yet Ten Eyck was slowing, he was steering off the road, he was stopping.
I had my hand on the door handle, and then I saw the truck, and the group of men standing beside it. We were making our rendezvous with the Eurasian Relief Corps.
As soon as we stopped, Ten Eyck switched off the lights. A few seconds later Sun was at my window, talking past me to Ten Eyck, saying, “Everything’s set.”
Ten Eyck said, “Good. Remember to cut the phone lines when you go in.”
“Right. Are you sure about those armed guards? There’s nobody at the gate.”
“He’s a paranoid,” Ten Eyck said. “He’ll have guards, he always does, but they’ll be in the house, close to him. Half a dozen, maybe more.”
“We’ll take them,” Sun said.
“Good. Flash me when it’s done.”
“Right. See you.”
We started away, lights still off, and I could just make out the Corps members climbing up into the back of the truck. It was a large closed tractor trailer. They could have anything in there, they could almost have a tank in there.
No. They wouldn’t need a tank.
Ten Eyck switched the headlights on as soon as we were on the road again. We drove on in silence — tension now emanated from him like radio signals — and after about half a mile we took a steep and slanting side road uphill to the left. We jounced upward for what seemed quite a while, finally emerging on a barren hilltop or ridge where the road deteriorated to a meandering dirt track. Ten Eyck stopped the car there, switched off the lights, and said, “Come take a look.” His voice was flat, mechanical.
Lobo, apparently, had no interest in what was about to happen. He stayed in the car (I’d practically forgotten him, hulking back there) as Ten Eyck and I walked over to the cliff edge (it wasn’t really a cliff, but a very sharp-angled downward slope, dotted here and there with precarious trees) and he pointed out to me the salient features below. “There’s the Hudson,” he said, in that odd new impersonal voice, “and there’s the house. See the lights?”
“Yes. I see them.”
Far down to our left the Ten Eyck estate was laid out for us like part of a model railroad display. The winding road in from the highway, the winding river on the far side, and the manor — lights in every window — waiting between the two. Along the road crept the headlights of the truck.
Beside me, Tyrone Ten Eyck stood unmoving, stone-still. His eyes glistened like black ice, and that electric tension still hummed within him, but he was like a dynamo on minimum power; he had shut down, closed in, narrowed his attention. Nothing existed for him but that tiny stage setting down there, the house and the truck.
The headlights came closer, close enough to blend with the light spilling from the house, and now I could make out the truck in its entirety, cab and trailer. Several men leaped from the rear of the trailer, were met by two tiny figures emerging from the front door of the house, and there was the faint sound of gunfire. The two tiny figures fell over.
Men swarmed from the truck, deployed left and right, surrounding the house. A few — that must have been Sun himself at their head — dashed in through the front door.
They would find Angela. They wouldn’t kill her, not here, no more than they would kill the old man here, but they would find her, and hold her, and show her to Ten Eyck. And Ten Eyck would cut me down like the sapling I was.
(How near the edge he stood! And his concentration was so complete that surely he had no idea where I stood or what I was doing. It would be so easy, so easy. For one of the few times in his life, Tyrone Ten Eyck was completely off-guard. To stand behind him, to give him a sudden push...)
More gunfire from down below. A shattering of glass; someone had leaped or been thrown from a second-story window, through the glass. He landed atop the trailer, rolled, came up on his feet on the trailer roof. From the flashes, he had a gun in his hand, was shooting toward the window he’d just left. There must have been answering gunfire; he abruptly flipped backward off the trailer top as though swept aside by an invisible hand.
(Not only easy, not merely easy, but also necessary. Destruction moved with Tyrone Ten Eyck, spread out from him in ever-widening circles. As there are people who are carriers of contagious disease, so Tyrone Ten Eyck was a carrier of destruction. He had to be stopped. [The flash of the Bodkin house blowing up suddenly appeared before my mind’s eye.] Now was the chance. Just a push, a small push, an infinitesimal push...)
The gunfire seemed to have ended. Two or three lights had gone out within the house, but otherwise it appeared unchanged. A kind of wounded silence had fallen on it now.
(After the push: I could evade Lobo in the dark, in the woods. He was big and strong, but he was also stupid. I merely had to start. I merely had to put my hands out, palms forward, and step behind him, and push...)
A figure came out the front door, lifted its arm, and light flashed in our direction. A flashlight; on off, on off, on off.
Ten Eyck, a small sheen of perspiration gleaming on his forehead, turned and said, “Now we go down.” His voice was husky, as though he’d run all the way uphill.
I stood there, blinking, suddenly back to reality, paralyzed by what I’d been thinking. Good God! Was it contagious, had I caught it from him? I was a pacifist, a pacifist, and I’d been standing here thinking of murder.
What other word is there for it? None. None.
Ten Eyck, having started toward the car, looked back at me and said, “Raxford? You coming?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”