Black Ghosts (14 page)

Later, after having salved his conscience with a sufficient amount of work, Donoven would spend some of the money he had received from Edward in New York. Donoven thought Edward to be an arrogant bastard. In fact, he decided that if Larry asked him to meet with Edward again, he would refuse.

From experience, Donoven knew that money was in most cases the downfall of otherwise very good agents. He was not going to let that happen to him. He kept Larry's money hidden in a stash in his flat, keeping it for a rainy day, using it only for the extras that didn't drag a paper trail behind them. Tonight he planned to spend some of it on a very beautiful, very expensive professional call girl. Thinking about this, he quickened his step again.

Passing the crowds of people that poured into the entrance of Holborn tube station, Donoven reached High Holborn and crossed on the red light, risking immolation by a taxi that appeared from nowhere. With no room to spare he dodged to one side, cursing the rain that had speckled his glasses, turning his field of vision into a web of dancing lights. The spray from the taxi's wheels had soaked his trousers through to the skin. The whole world was going down the drain, he thought. Reaching Southampton Row he cut through Sicilian Avenue, as he always did, heading toward Bloomsbury Square. At first he didn't notice the small man in a large, thick coat standing halfway up the street.

When the man blocked his way, Donoven moved to one side, trying to avoid the obstruction, which was as insignificant to him as the puddle he had just stepped in. The man moved, blocking Donoven's path again. Assuming it to be a coincidence, Donoven tilted to the other side to pass the man, who was becoming a nuisance.

“Mr. Donoven,” the man said finally as he moved to block Donoven, this time making eye contact. “How was New York?”

Donoven froze. Slowly, he took off his glasses and stared directly at the man. He saw a pale face with bushy eyebrows and cold, steady eyes.

“Who are you?” He tried unsuccessfully to sound stern. “What do you want?” Donoven was trying hard not to panic.

“Just a messenger. Why don't we find a pub and have a drink out of the rain?”

“I'm sorry, but I don't have time.” Donoven tried to move past the man, only to find his way blocked again. This time the man grabbed his arm. His grip was tight.

“I insist,” the man said in a heavy Eastern European accent, his tone unchanged.

Donoven tried in vain to pull his arm out of the grip.

“Mr. Donoven, why not just hear me out? Then you can be on your way.”

Donoven nodded dumbly. Lost time was no longer his concern. He let the man lead him to the Railway Tavern. Once inside, the man finally loosened his grip on Donoven's arm as they made for an opening at the bar.

“What do you drink?” the man asked, facing Donoven, one hand resting on the bar.

“Gin,” Donoven mumbled quickly. He cleared his throat. “Gin and tonic,” he said over the man's head to the barman, who was leaning in their direction, trying to hear the order over the loud chatter of the other patrons. Donoven looked nervously around the room, asking himself, why this place? Was the small man alone or were there others with him?

“Make that two,” Donoven's escort said.

Donoven was still wondering who this diminutive stranger could be. Then, in a shattering revelation, he suddenly knew who it was. How much does he know? Donoven thought frantically. What will they do with me? Where will they take me? Donoven could not come up with an answer that made him feel better.

“Come,” said Yazarinsky, picking up the two glasses. “Let us sit.”

Donoven could feel the weakness in his knees as they headed for the cubicles at the back of the room. Yazarinsky stopped and indicated one. Donoven slid in, facing the back wall and the passage that led to the cigarette machines and washrooms. Yazarinsky set the two glasses on the rough wooden table. Then, instead of sitting on the opposite bench as Donoven had expected, he squeezed in beside him.

“Now would you please tell me what it is you want?” Donoven's voice trembled.

“Did you talk to Larry in New York?” said Yazarinsky, coming straight to the point.

“Who's Larry?” Donoven made a feeble attempt to sound convincing. He looked at the drinks on the table and had a sudden urge to down them both as quickly as he could. Tiny beads of sweat were developing on his upper lip and his bald head. He reached for the glass, his hand shaking visibly, causing the ice to rattle against the glass. He licked his lips nervously.

“This is no time to play guessing games with me, Mr. Donoven.” The man's head seemed to be welded rigidly to his shoulders without the benefit of a neck. When he turned to look at Donoven, his whole upper torso moved with his head. “I ask the questions, you answer the questions. We keep it simple. Now one more time, did you meet Larry in New York?”

Donoven thought quickly, the wheels of his mind spinning, digging him deeper into the quicksand of fear. He considered jumping up and calling for help; he would have a lot to offer the police in exchange for his personal safety. But he was sure the place was full of Yazarinsky's people, and doing so would only prove to them that he was not going to be cooperative and should therefore be terminated. “Terminated”—now that it applied to him, he hated the word. He had written and said it so many times over the years, never realizing its gravity until this very moment.

“No,” said Donoven. He had decided there was no point in beating around the bush. “I spoke to him before I left for New York.” Should he tell the little man about Edward too? Perhaps not right now. It was unlikely they knew about Edward. Donoven would keep him for later. He had no doubt Yazarinsky was going to escort him to some safe house where the treatment wouldn't be so gentle. He wanted to have ammunition for then, something he could offer, bargain with. “I'm supposed to call him today,” he finally said.

“Do you have a number to call?”

Donoven nodded.

Yazarinsky drew a pen and a small notebook from his pocket, pushing them on the table toward Donoven. A cold smile appeared on his face. Donoven took that as a sign of hope. He wrote down the number.

“And where is this place?”

“I believe it's in Utah, a restaurant of some sort where he gets his messages.”

“Thank you, Mr. Donoven. You have been very cooperative.”

Donoven didn't dare look at the man's face again. “What now?” he whispered.

“Don't worry, Englishman. I have something for you. It's a gift from the general, for your cooperation.” Yazarinsky placed his right hand inside the front of his greatcoat. The silencer barely coughed. The first bullet passed through the side of Yazarinsky's coat, through the thinner material of Donoven's jacket and shirt, and into the pink, hairless flesh. Traveling at an upward angle, it tore through Donoven's liver and entered his heart, rupturing the aorta. From there it passed out of his body near the left shoulder blade and, with a low thud, lodged in the wood of the cubicle.

Donoven blinked. The thought of finishing his gin and tonic was still in his mind, even as his life drained away. The silencer coughed again, and the second bullet sliced into Donoven's spinal chord, where it remained caught between two shattered vertebrae.

Donoven's eyes remained open, his hand holding on to the base of his glass, as his body slumped slightly downward.

“Cheers,” said Yazarinsky. He clinked his glass against Donoven's, downed the contents in a single draft, then got up and left the room, alone. It was not until seven minutes later that a librarian from the British Museum, returning from the men's room, saw the figure with the glazed look slumped in the cubicle and called for help. But help, at this point, was not something Donoven could use.

 

 

 

Bud Hays called his wife to say that, once again, he would be held up at the office. It was an emergency meeting, he explained. He would be home for supper about eight. She didn't complain; she liked being part of the Washington inner circle and knew there was a price to pay.

Bud already had on his jacket and overcoat as he hung up the phone. Fifteen minutes later he entered the underground parking garage of the Lexington apartment building on Q Street. Even though he had a key to Angela's apartment, he allowed his executive secretary the courtesy of opening the door for him. He rang the door and waited while the light in the spy hole was momentarily obscured. Then the deadbolt clicked open.

She opened the door wide, standing still for a few seconds. Bud caught his breath. The thin, semitransparent nightgown she was wearing accentuated everything that was beautiful in her full, voluptuous body. Her skin glowed milky white with a hint of rose. She knew unmistakably the full power of her sexuality.

Without a word, she linked her little finger into the front of his belt, turned, and led him through the apartment to the bedroom. He followed silently, knowing she was about to scorch into his gray brain tissue another memory that would cause him discomfort every time she passed by him in the office.

In the dim light she swayed to the sound of the soft big-band music coming from the stereo system in the next room. Like a cat, she was rubbing her smell on him, claiming him as her territory. She knew it would be all over as soon as he'd had his fun, but still her female instinct claimed its prey. His nostrils flared and his heart pumped ever more blood to his oxygen-starved muscles as she helped him undress.

At that moment it was worth more than anything: His career, his family, his position in life—he would risk all that and more if he had to for this glorious stolen moment. He felt alive, vibrant, as he came in a great shuddering gasp that was quickly followed by a wave of guilt. As they lay silently together, he wanted to escape.

The light was too dim. Her smell, which only moments before had intoxicated him, now seemed heavy, cloying, and cheap. He stared at the ceiling, knowing this strange feeling of revulsion would dissipate as soon as she aroused him again.

He told himself he deserved these secret meetings, that they were the reward for the extreme pressure he was under. They were good for his work, and Bud believed in his work. He enjoyed it and he put everything he had into it. But one aspect of his work was bothering him. It was not the daily pressure of decisions, deadlines, politics—that he could cope with, always had. It was that time was running out on him. There was a phone call he had to make. He'd been putting it off for some time now. He had planned to make the call from a pay phone, but then he thought Angela's phone would be as good as any. There was no reason for it to be monitored, and if it had been, he would be the first to know.

“I have to make a call,” he said.

“Now?” She sounded disappointed.

“Sorry, you know how it is.”

She got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “Okay, you can use the phone in the living room.” She stopped and turned to face him, stark naked. He could feel his heart start pounding again. “Don't be too long, okay?”

He put on his underwear and went into the living room. The phone was answered on the third ring. “The Singleton residence,” said a British-sounding voice. “How may I help you?”

“Mr. Singleton, please.”

“And whom may I say is calling?”

“Just tell him it's a friend.”

“Very well, sir. Please hold.”

He waited, feeling slightly cold in his underwear. There was no sound coming from the bedroom. He wanted to get back there as soon as he could. This call was not going to be pleasant. He knew Singleton well enough to know that he would not appreciate a blunder.

“Singleton here.” The man's voice was deep and full of authority. It seemed to suggest that everybody else belonged among the little people—and it did mean everybody.

“Hello, sir.” Bud was hoping Singleton would recognize his voice; he did not like saying his name on calls such as these.

“Hays, is that you?”

“Well, I'd prefer . . .”

“I don't care what you'd prefer. In a perfect world I wouldn't have my own people spying on me.”

“What! Who's spying on you?”

“You are, you little twit. Or are you so stupid that you didn't even know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your man Larry Williams had a mole in the Wish Foundation.”

“Are you sure? He never told me . . .”

“Where did you think he was getting his information?”

“He never told me. We were working on a need-to-know basis only,” Bud said stiffly. This conversation was not going the way he had planned.

“I see. Well, what you needed to know—but obviously didn't—was that he was getting very close to the communication array.”

“I did know that. He called me—he told me he'd found out about the array being stolen. He figured that if he could get his hands on the array's activation device, no one could use it. He was going into Hill to make a switch and he asked me to send in some backup. So I sent the backup over. He was supposed to hand over the component, which I was then going to pass on to you.”

“And? Can you get to the point? I have guests here.”

Bud found that his next words did not come easy. “Something went wrong. He killed two of my people and the third was wounded. I understand that Larry was hit, too, but he had a woman with him who got him out of there and they took the component with them.”

“I see,” Singleton said again. “Tell me, Hays, why did you get this guy to work for you in the first place? You were supposed to get some jerk who would stumble all over himself. From what I hear, this guy is good. He should be working for me.”