Devil's Eye (29 page)

She joined Caine on a chair next to him and swiveled so her knee gently touched his thigh. “Remind me about the steaks. I’ll get involved and burn them to a crisp.”

He poured them another measure of the amber drink. “Your uncle sure knows how to make this stuff.”

“
He’s a real dear. I first thought he was getting a little eccentric in his perennial conspiracy research. But now everything seems suddenly plausible, real.”

She eased herself off the chair and returned to the kitchen to finish preparations. “What’s your preference? We could eat at the counter or the dining room table.”

“
How about here? It seems like less trouble.”

“
Fine,” she replied. “Could you grab that bottle of wine on the bar? I think I have a Merlot there somewhere.”

Caine drifted to the bar area and found the bottle with several glasses hanging in a rack. He returned and uncorked the bottle at the counter, slowly pouring each of them half a glass.

“
Conspiracy is a pretty universal theme,” Caine ventured. “And a slippery subject. It’s tough to get your hands around it.”

“
I know.” She passed a serving to Caine and put her plate next to his. Then she returned to the chair beside him.

“
But this is deeper,” she said as she sampled the steak. “What I want to tell you fits into Uncle Jonas’ theories.”

She paused for the Colonel’s reaction, taking a slow sip of her wine.

He said nothing. He had just bit into a piece of steak.

“
How is it?”

“
It’s outstanding. Thank you,” he said between bites.

“
Actually, Uncle Jonas’ theories are not unheard of. Like I said, there’s similar talk in various circles—mainly countries of the former USSR.” She took another bite of her steak and then a sip of her wine. “But no one raises such questions here.”

“
Why would that be?” He cut another piece of his filet mignon.

“
It fits too nicely into the ‘babushka’ stereotypes. Romantic, unrealistic people steeped in mysticism and superstition. People longing for a strong leader. People who can’t rule themselves.”

Caine sensed the bitterness in her tone.

“
I don’t think the people are like that,” he declared. “I think the tyrants who ruled them fed that kind of stereotype to justify their oppression.”

“
In fact, my uncle did start looking into secret cabals after he spent time in Siberia with a secret police cellmate—a ‘Chekist’ who came under suspicion. He probably didn’t kiss Stalin’s ass enough.”

She looked at Caine probingly. “The former secret policeman eventually told him things, crazy things. He felt betrayed by his superiors. This was his revenge.”

“
What kind of things?”

“
Uncle Jonas can tell you himself. You have to meet him.”

“
I’m looking forward. He seems like a very interesting guy.”

“
I didn’t want to believe a lot of those theories. They were too much in the grand conspiracy category. Too far
‐
fetched. Then, when he drew that pentagram, I was jolted.” She finished her meal and drank the rest of her wine.

“
Don’t rush,” she said easing herself from the chair and taking her empty plate into the kitchen.

Caine noticed that he had been eating slowly, just then realizing that he was absorbed by Laura’s train of thought. He took a few more bites and was finished.

“
Thanks. It was delicious.”

“
I’m glad. I’ll bet you haven’t had a real meal in the last couple of days,” she ventured, recalling Al Carruther’s words about his frequent, unscheduled assignments.

He hesitated with an answer, since his whereabouts were top secret. “Well, I don’t always eat on a regular schedule, if that’s what you mean.” He did remember, however, the sumptuous meal with the Captain aboard the aircraft carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower enroute home from Beirut, envisioning himself then exactly as he was this night with Laura Mitchell.

“
You want to relax on the couch? It’s more comfortable.”

“
You sure, I can’t help with anything?” he answered as he started for the other room.

“
No, no. I’ll just put everything in the sink.”

“
There’s more to all this than meets the eye,” she said as she finished clearing the counter and preparing the dishes for washing.

“
What you say is very intriguing,” Caine said returning to the sofa. “But at this point, it’s conjecture. What can you do with that kind of information?”

“
There’s not much you
can
do, I guess,” she replied. Laura poured two more measures of the honey liqueur. “It happens to be what my uncle’s researching. If it fits into the real world—it fits. If it doesn’t—it doesn’t. That’s half the problem with this world. People ignore things they can’t understand. Or they’re afraid to believe the unconventional. They let things happen.“

She gave him a calculated look from behind the counter. “I have to find out what’s going on at that museum.”

He sensed she might try something that could prove dangerous.

“
I’d go in the daytime,” she continued, anticipating his reaction. “And, besides, our friend Al Carruthers is there.”

“
Just don’t go alone.”

“
Now you sound like my uncle.”

“
Tell me more about this pentagram business.”

Laura sauntered over to him with a drink in each hand. She hovered over him, kneeling with one bare foot on the sofa, and straddling him with the other. Handing him a glass of liqueur, she began to sip her own. He held his glass in one hand and wrapped the other around the back of her thigh, looking up at her with concerned desire.

“
I’ll show you in the morning.”

Chapter 28

Caine woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen. He forgot the last time he had felt such comforting domesticity. Meals were usually perfunctory, seldom finished, and often overlain with danger.

He arose slowly, put on his trousers and looked around curiously. He glanced into the kitchen and saw Laura busying herself making breakfast wearing nothing but his blue shirt.

He smiled. “Do you always get up this early?”

“
Usually much earlier. It’s already nine o’clock.”

Caine nodded sheepishly.

He joined her in the kitchen and embraced her from behind, kissing the side of her neck.

She flexed her shoulders in response.

“
We’ll have breakfast, then we can walk the star.”

“
Walk the star?” he asked still embracing her.

“
Yes. I told you I’d show you the pentagram today. You have time?”

“
I’ll make time.”

He began to unbutton his shirt, as if he was wearing it. “You know, ” Caine murmured, “your body is a roadmap of beauty.”

“
And yours is a roadmap of violence.” She quickly turned in his embrace, as if trying to catch her words, then wrapping her arms around his bare torso she gave him a lingering kiss.

“
I mean…” she muttered with her lips still on his.

“
I know.” He pressed his lips more fully on hers, stifling unnecessary explanations.

“
Do you want breakfast to burn?” she murmured between passionate kisses in a roaming, blissful embrace.

“
I won’t blame you,” he muttered stroking her body beneath his shirt.

***

An hour later they were strolling along Wisconsin Avenue several streets from Laura’s townhouse. Gray pinstriped slacks snugly contouring her hips, a tan leather suit jacket and a dark blouse elicited a commanding, confident air. She looked up and down the busy street. Laura thought she saw a figure in a suit jacket lingering about a block away.

“
Did you ever think you were being followed?”

“
All the time,” he replied lightly.

“
No, I mean, really,” she persisted.

“
Really.”

“
You see that man down the block? I think he’s following us.”

“
Possibly. But is he following you or me?”

“
You’re making fun of me.”

“
No, Laura, I’m not,” he replied seriously. “Why do you think I drive a race car?”

He smiled at her reassuringly. “We’re just out for a stroll. He’ll probably be confused by what we’re doing.”

“
Maybe you’re right,” she said and turned theatrically to the southeast. She stretched out her hand.

“
Okay, as you know,” she said pointing her finger, as a tourist might. “Wisconsin Avenue ends at M Street, then jogs to Pennsylvania Avenue and on to the White House and beyond. Farther down is the Mall with the various monuments and the Smithsonian Institution— particularly the Natural History Museum.”

“
Okay,” he answered expectantly.

“
That’s one leg of a pentagram, if you center it on the Museum of Natural History.”

Laura turned, pointing animatedly in a southwesterly direction. “Okay. The George Washington Parkway –down that way—is within the pentagram’s axis going southwest, past the Tidal Basin, the Jefferson Memorial and beyond. That’s where General Starr’s accident happened. And then, going northeast”— she turned again as she pointed—”with the museum as the center—Secretary Stack’s car was crushed by that falling construction beam. That was somewhere in a line towards Union Station.”

Caine listened with focused curiosity.

“
Then, we turn northwest up along Wisconsin and we have Cathedral Heights.”

“
And?”

“
And that’s where Secretary Stack’s funeral is going to be.”

His eyes narrowed, an eyebrow raised quizzically.

“
Half of Washington will be there,” she declared. “If my uncle is right…”

“
You don’t have to say it,” he interjected. “Nothing should happen. What about this ‘walking the star’?”

“
Practitioners nurturing the purpose of the pentagram. They keep its energy active.”

“
Can you find me one?”

“
I hope so.”

They walked along Wisconsin Avenue heading towards Cathedral Heights. Pedestrian traffic seemed routine, but vehicular traffic was growing perceptibly in the direction they walked with noticeable numbers of limousines.

At an intersection not far from the Naval Observatory they came upon a street vendor who had two card tables lined up along the curb. Arrayed on a black velvet tablecloth were various trinkets and favors. Standing next to the tables along the curb were gaudily painted plaster cobras poised to strike and several snarling plaster tigers. They were meant to be ashtrays. A dark skinned man in a flowing white robe and fez stood sullen watch over the tables. He ignored Laura when she glanced at the wares and fingered several metal pendants with various symbols.

“
Look at these. How intricate they are,” she exclaimed to Caine.

“
Interesting,” he replied, not wanting to offend the eccentric vendor, who he concluded had absolutely no sense of artistic taste.

“
How much are these?”

“
They are not for sale,” the man said coldly.

“
What do you mean they’re not for sale?” Laura challenged. “Isn’t everything here for sale?”

“
Take this,” the vendor replied impatiently as he pointed to a tinny set of earrings.

Laura gave Colonel Caine an emphatic stare, then addressed the vendor again.

“
But I wanted that pendant with the interesting design.”

“
Someone has bought it,” the vendor snapped.