The Loves of Harry Dancer (24 page)

He surrenders to her. As simple as that. Casting off all reason and restraint. Her power terrifies, but he cannot resist. Love so intense. He weeps with happiness and fear. It is no small thing to give yourself over to another. Death of will. Voluntarily.

Sees the world in her throat’s hollow. Glimpses eternity in swoop of back. Her body solves cosmic mysteries. Kissing a silken thigh becomes an affirmation of faith.

He is aware of all this. But is she? It doesn’t matter. It cannot be explained to her. To anyone. And a sneaking part of him holds back. Not wanting to try. To reveal his weakness. Dependence. On a shoulder’s sheen or ear’s velvet. On an elfin woman who spurs a flying lion.

Their coupling is a minuet. Eyes open in a lighted room. All the more zesty for its deliberateness. Time expands. Love can do that: magnify a minute to an hour. Live a lifetime in a single day.

“It’s possible,” he says. Aloud.

But she is beyond hearing. Eyes swollen with wonder. Clutching him. Mouth opened in a silent shout. They both grin ferociously. Sharing their triumph. Their pas de deux circles down. Nothing left but the music’s end. The bows.

Much later, she says, “Sweet dreams.”

62

T
he Director of the Southeast Region, a compleat bureaucrat, specializes in survival. Knows all the management tricks of claiming credit and shifting blame. Tempers boldness with caution. Smiles at superiors, frowns at inferiors. Never says Yes, never says No.

“Let me think about that,” he says. Thoughtfully.

Not so much intelligent as shrewd. Dresses like a bank president and thinks like a rug dealer. In another age he might have brewed potions for the Borgias.

Sits grandly at the polished desk in his private office. Scans the latest flimsies from Cleveland. Including an ill-tempered diatribe from the Chairman demanding to know when he can expect results on the Harry Dancer action. The Director puts it aside. Initials a few memos, signs a few letters. Thinks suddenly of a new computer operator on the floor below. She is young. Very young.

The Director is a womanizer. Hopelessly addicted. He believes he conceals it from his staff and the Department hierarchy. But beneath his bishop’s robes is a randy stud. The Department allows excess, of course. But not at the expense of efficiency. The Director thinks himself efficient. And discreet.

Norma Gravesend knocks, enters to gather up signed memos and letters. He looks upon her benignly. What a loyal employee! Eager to give her all. Which she does—when ordered. Strange woman. As unobtrusive as wallpaper. But not without a certain attraction. Different. Perverse.

“Is Shelby Yama still around, Director?” she says.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that I haven’t seen him lately. I wondered if he had been transferred. Would you like to do the budget estimates now?”

“Later,” he says. Watches her leave the office.

Her casual question about Yama disturbs him. Why did she ask? She has never before exhibited any special interest in the case officer. Yet now she inquires about him. Curious. The Director is an old hand at this business; he doesn’t believe in happenstance or coincidence.

Shelby Yama is slated for sanction. But how could Norma Gravesend possibly be aware of that? She was not shown the authorization from Cleveland. She was excluded from his meeting with Ted Charon and Briscoe during which Yama’s fate was discussed. So why should Norma suddenly be interested in the man?

The Director considers the possibilities. Believing, as he does, that everyone, including himself, is capable of treachery—if the price is right. He subscribes wholeheartedly to the Department’s creed. Which is simply to disevangelize the entire world. But that belief requires the total elimination of faith. Trust no one. Person or god.

Norma Gravesend could have obtained the Chairman’s sanction to cancel Shelby Yama if she wished. She knows the regional office. How records are shuffled. The route and storage of top secret documents. It would be easy for her to read and copy the decoded message from Cleveland.

The Director’s glance falls on his desk intercom. He runs his fingers lightly over the buttons. What if, during his locked-door conference with Charon and Briscoe, the switch connecting him to Nor-ma’s desk had been depressed? Could he swear it had not been? No. Was it possible she had heard what was said? Yes.

It is, he assures himself, very thin stuff. Paranoiac suspicions. But the bureaucrat’s instinct for survival cannot be denied. He saunters out of his office. Smiles at Norma.

“I’ll be downstairs, dear,” he says. “Watching the wheels go ‘round.”

She nods brightly. Turns back to her typewriter.

The Director goes immediately to the Internal Security Section. Enters Ted Charon’s office without knocking.

“I want you to put your people on Norma Gravesend,” he tells a startled Charon. “At once. Twenty-four hours a day.”

“If you say so, Director.”

“I do say so. When you have anything to report, call me, and I’ll come here. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Director then strolls down the staircase to the lower floor. Exchanges nods with supervisors and station chiefs. He looks about. Finally locates the new computer operator seated before her console.

Comes up behind her. Puts a stroking hand lightly on her warm shoulder.

“How are you getting along, my dear?” he says. In the kindliest way imaginable.

63

T
he easy way, Briscoe knows, is to use Special Powers. Zap both Shelby Yama and Willoughby. But that would be stupid. After the inexplicable deaths of Jeremy Blaine and Herman K. Tischman, the cops might start wondering. Asking questions. Investigating links between the victims.

Briscoe likes problems like this. Solved by action. He gives it a lot of heavy thought.

Southern Florida is a network of canals. Designed for flood control. Also useful for dumping bodies. Briscoe reads the local newspapers; he knows. Figures a canal would be an ideal place to get rid of Yama and Willoughby. They might never be found. And if they were—so what?

He checks local canals. Finds none that will suit his purpose. Too close to traveled roads. Or too shallow. Or too well illuminated. And there’s the problem of a car. If he’s to give the cops a plot they can live with, he has to leave a car at the scene. Also, death in a ditch lacks the high drama he enjoys.

He forgets about the canal scenario. Scouts the Deerfield church where the two men have been meeting. Sees the possibilities immediately. It has a bell tower six or seven stories high. With a railed observation deck on top. Interesting.

Checks it out carefully. Winding steel staircase goes up to the platform. Church isn’t locked until midnight. Briscoe spends several evenings wandering in and out. Exploring. No one stops him. No one questions. Services go on in the nave while he tramps up the stairway. Timing his climb.

It begins to come together. He likes it. Goes to Ted Charon’s equipment section. Signs for a “cold” handgun that can’t be traced. A .38 Colt Detective Special revolver. In prime condition. Loaded. Briscoe also requisitions a kilo of cocaine in a plastic bag.

Now he’s got the props. Goes back to the bell tower of the Deerfield church. Carrying a small wrench. He’s alone up there. On all his visits, he’s never met anyone admiring the view from that lofty perch.

Loosens the bolts holding a section of the railing to the concrete deck. He is so clever at this work that he pads the jaws of the wrench with a rag so no nicks will be left on the bolt heads. He tries the railing. It wobbles satisfactorily.

Shadows Yama’s meetings with Willoughby for a week. Decides Wednesday night will be best. A late prayer meeting sparsely attended. By ten o’clock the church has emptied out. Maybe one or two believers in the pews, heads bowed. Minister back in his rectory.

Briscoe goes over his plan again and again. Writing out the time sequence. Studying it, then destroying it. An outlandish scheme. Depending on boldness. That he has—and the victims don’t. He’s depending on their shock, inability to react swiftly. The two of them could take him. Easily. But they are not doers.

Parks two blocks away on Wednesday night. Walks back to the church. Waits patiently in the shadows of thick bottle palms. Eventually the church doors open. People stream out. Shelby Yama and Willoughby together. Talking and laughing. Tall Corporation agent stooping to listen to the case officer.

Briscoe comes up behind them in the parking lot. They hear his footfalls. Turn. Yama is startled.

“What are—” he begins. Then sees the revolver in Briscoe’s hand.

Willoughby sees it, too. He looks at the gun, at Briscoe’s face, at Shelby Yama. The agent’s lips begin to move. Silently. Praying?

“The two of you,” Briscoe orders. “Back into the church. Through the front door. Make a hard left. Up the staircase. Let’s go.”

“Hey,” Yama says, “what is this? What’s going on?”

“Move!” Briscoe says. Raising the revolver.

Marches them back to the church entrance. Gun in his jacket pocket now. But no one around to see. Up the stairs. Slow climb. No talking. They come out onto the deserted observation deck. Sweet night. Clear sky. Stars. Balmy breeze. Everything nice.

Briscoe glances over the railing at the parking lot below. Two cars out of the way. Turns back to his pigeons. Gun out now. Covering both of them.

Shelby Yama starts talking rapidly. What’s going on? He can’t understand this. It isn’t in the script. He told Briscoe he was turning the Corporation agent. Let him talk to the Director. He’ll explain everything. Somebody’s making a big mistake.

Briscoe doesn’t listen. Doesn’t reply. His original plot calls for him to shoot Yama dead. Leave his body on the platform. Push Willoughby through the loosened railing. With one bullet in him. Leave the sack of cocaine near Yama’s body. Wipe off the revolver and drop it down onto Willoughby’s corpse.

Drug deal turned sour. That’s what the police will figure. Two pushers fighting for the dust and the gun. Both shot. One dies on the platform. One goes over and dies in the parking lot. No fingerprints found on the gun. That’ll puzzle the cops, but they won’t have the time or manpower to dig deeper. Just another dope killing. Good riddance.

But now, high in the sky, Briscoe finds that plan flat and unfulfilling. It is a lordly scene. Black vault of heaven above. Pricked with glittering stars. And below, sparkling lights of earth. He feels the power of the night. Is filled with its majesty.

King of it all. He wants to throw down those who oppose his will. His faith. They cannot inhabit high places, but must be tumbled to destruction. Cast out and cast down. Removed from the kingdom of darkness.

“Listen,” Yama says, “can’t we—”

Briscoe leaps suddenly at Willoughby. Puts a hard shoulder into the man. Railing gives way with a screech. The Corporation agent offers no resistance. Topples backwards. Arms and legs outstretched. Flying.

Unexpectedly, the Department’s case officer tries to fight back. Struggling. Clawing. Biting. No match. Briscoe wrestles Yama to the edge. Tosses him over. Leans to watch the dark form float and hit. Atop Willoughby. Dead embrace.

Briscoe drops the bag of cocaine. Sees it split open in a white cloud. Forces himself to turn away and start down the stairs. Walking slowly, calmly. Gun back in his pocket. If his life ended at that instant, he would be happy. Fulfilled.

Strolls back to his car. Drives home. Remembering, savoring the moment. Casting out. Descent from heaven. In the finest traditions of the Department. There is poetry there. Something moving. Exciting. Religious experience.

For the Others are religious, too. In their way.

64

T
he Chief of Operations kneels at his prie-dieu. Too distraught to think clearly. And so turns to prayer. For poor Willoughby. Other agents have died in the line of duty. But the pain never lessens. The Chief wishes he had a power akin to canonization. He does not. There is a bronze Honor Roll to which Willoughby’s name will be added. His only reward. On earth.

The Chief drags himself back to his office. Forces himself to make a list of victims in the Harry Dancer affair. Jeremy Blaine. Herman K. Tischman. Shelby Yama. Willoughby. All lost in the struggle for one man. Is it worth it? Four lives for one? The arithmetic baffles him. He cannot define the moral choice.

Depression corrodes his will. How can he possibly justify such sacrifice? Four for one? A blasphemy. Unless…Unless the one is gold, and the four are dross. But that presupposes quality. Anti-dogma. Are we not all equal in God’s eyes? Perhaps. But not in the Chief’s eyes.

He calls Anthony Glitner in Florida. Speaking over an unscrambled line.

“Tony,” he says, “I wish to express my condolences on the passing of our dear friend.”

“Yes,” Glitner says. “Thank you, sir.”

“I know how you must feel. Believe me, I do. But we cannot let this unfortunate accident keep us from our duty. If anything, it should strengthen our resolve.”

Silence.

“Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Chief doesn’t like Glitner’s tone.

“Tony, do you want to be replaced? It won’t count against you.”

“No, Chief. I’ll see it through.”

“You feel up to it?”

“Yes. I’m a little numb at the moment. I’ll come out of it.”

The Chief tries to be hearty. “Of course you will! Temporary setback. You’ll recover. We’ll all recover. Is there anything you need? Personnel? Equipment?”

“Not at the moment, no, sir.”

“How is the field agent taking it?”

“No problems.”

“None? That’s odd.”

“Yes,” the case officer says, “isn’t it?”

When he hangs up, Glitner reflects that it is odd. News of Willoughby’s murder has little effect on Evelyn Heimdall. She murmurs conventional expressions of sorrow. Then regains her bubbly manner. Spinning a breezy tale of her growing intimacy with Harry Dancer. How the man is responding to evangelizing.

The case officer, a diffident, self-effacing man, conceded he may not be tempermentally suited to honcho the Dancer operation. He cannot compete with Briscoe’s brutality. Glitner is cerebral; physical violence is foreign to him. As it was to Willoughby. Dead Willoughby.