The Loves of Harry Dancer Page 16

  “Well…” he says. Finally. “I don’t think this is a matter for Cleveland. Yet. But I believe it should be treated seriously as a subject of utmost importance. Involving, as it does, a possible breach of security and potential treason. Norma, are you getting all this?”

  “Yes, Director. I’m caught up.”

  “Thank you, dear. If we go too fast for you, just tell us to slow down. Well, gentlemen, as I see it, our next step is to bring Shelby Yama in for questioning and ask him to state exactly what he’s been up to. It may be a tactical initiative on his part. In that case, his only error would be in not informing me prior to instigating the action. But it may be more serious than that. In which case, disciplinary action will be called for. Do you gentlemen concur?”

  “Before we bring him in, sir,” Ted Charon says, “could I have a few more days? A week at the most? What I’d like to do is keep Yama under very close surveillance. If my people can observe him passing documents, or anything at all to Willoughby, our case will be a lot stronger.”

  “A week?” the Director asks. “That seems reasonable. Briscoe, how do you feel about it?”

  “I agree. Give him a chance to hang himself.”

  “All right, Ted,” the Director says. “We’ll meet again in a week and decide on our next step. And while we’re discussing the Harry Dancer action, what do you hear from Angela Bliss?”

  “No new developments, sir. She says that so far Sally Abaddon has exhibited no deviations. Apparently she’s going by the book.”

  “Briscoe?”

  “I don’t believe it,” the dark man says. “Abaddon is turning. If not today, then tomorrow.”

  “Oh my,” the Director says. Shaking his leonine head. “You suspect everyone.”

  “That’s right,” Briscoe says. Looking at him.

  51

  Evelyn Heimdall knows the cliches describing her current mood. Off the deep end. Caution to the winds. Couldn’t care less. All denoting rashness. She is aware of her temerity and doesn’t care.

  Recklessness is a state of mind. Deliberate disregard of danger. But these days, Evelyn acknowledges, she is not governed by her mind. Her body possesses her and dictates.

  “My brain’s in my snatch,” she tells Martin Frey. And when he laughs, she wonders if she might repeat the comment to Harry Dancer. Decides not to.

  It is a fever. Being obsessed by the physical. Now she can understand why the Others remain faithful to their creed. If she were promised endless years of carnal joys, might she not renounce her vows and switch sides in this everlasting duel?

  Everything in the corporeal world is a new delight. Colors stronger. Scents fresher. Sounds more musical. She feels she has been in a lifetime coma. Suddenly awakened. Looks about and sees a shining globe. She is intoxicated with sensation.

  “More!” she cries to Martin Frey. That becomes her rebel yell: More!

  She tries to explain to Harry Dancer how she feels. He listens. Looks at her gravely. Nods.

  “I tried to tell you, Ev,” he says. “It’s the sun, the heat, the physicality of this place. It affects all of us, to one degree or another.”

  “Florida’s part of it,” she agrees. “Flowering. That’s just the way I feel. Bursting out all over. But part of it’s the way I lived before. Tight and disciplined.”

  “I was wondering…” he says. “What happened to those things you spoke to me about. The need for faith. Devotion. Spiritual foundation.”

  “I still believe in all that. There’s no contradiction between believing and what I feel now. Is there?”

  “Not if you don’t think so.”

  “Think? Oh Harry, I haven’t thought in weeks!”

  He is, she decides, a nice, sincere man. But lacking in wildness. He just will not let go. She wants him as free and passionately eager as she. Barbaric. But there is a reserve in him. Something held back and guarded. She cannot get through.

  They are in her apartment. Saturday morning before a tennis date.

  “We have time,” she says. Looking at him. “I could ball you until your teeth rattle.”

  “And have me collapse on the court?” he says. Smiling. “Let’s save it till tonight.”

  “I don’t want to save,” she says. “Spend, spend,spend!”

  “Tonight,” he promises.

  “Super,” she says.

  But the night is not super. Satisfying enough. Pleasurable. But she dreams of love as strong and strange as primitive art. Seeks the savage and finds the civilized. Fakes her response. Tells him how much she loves him.

  “I’ve never felt like this before,” she says.

  The moment he is out the door, she is on the phone to Martin Frey. He doesn’t answer. She keeps calling. Gets that maddening “Buzz, buzz, buzz.” Defeated, she sits slumped on the edge of her bed. Too late to go out? Too late to drive to a bar, anywhere, and find a fierce stranger? A brute.

  Ringing of the phone saves her. She grabs it up.

  “Hi,” Martin Frey says. “How are you?”

  “Where were you?” she wails. “I’ve been calling and calling.”

  “Well, I knew you were busy tonight. I went to the dog track.”

  “Why are we talking on the phone?” she demands. “Why aren’t you here?”

  “Will be,” he says. “Five minutes.”

  She doesn’t shower. Doesn’t make the bed. This night she wants Dancer in her, Frey in her, the world in her. Surrender to the storm she feels. Capable of anything and everything.

  Suddenly, with no thought, flops to her bare knees at bedside. Clasps her hands. Closes her eyes. Prays for help and forgiveness. But in the middle of her supplication, the doorbell rings. She rushes to greet Frey. Naked and with wet eyes. Trembling with guilty delight.

  He is becoming as insensate as she. Their love-making is not courtship, but a violent struggle. They war and call it joy. Hurt is bliss. Teeth. Claws. Plunge into the jungle with roars, shrieks, caws. Both in unholy rut. Sobbing. Slavering. Faith vanquished, conviction lost.

  Then they lie battered and dulled. Slackened.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” Frey says. Voice without timbre. Droning. “A confession.”

  “Oh?” she says. “Serious?”

  “Yes. Very. I’m with the Corporation. Counterintelligence.”

  She jerks upright. Stares down at him. Eyes wide.

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they know about me,” she says. “I’m finished.”

  “They know nothing,” he says. “About you. About me. About us. I’ve been filing fake reports.”

  She flings herself down. Stares at the ceiling. Gnaws a knuckle. “Why were you assigned to me? Who tipped them off?”

  “I don’t know all the details. But I gather your case officer felt things weren’t right with you. That you were changing.”

  “Tony Glitner,” she says. “A sensitive man. I should have known I couldn’t con him. So you were sent down to test me?”

  “Something like that.”

  She is not bitter. Just resigned. “Well, you got what you came for.”

  “I told you, I haven’t reported anything. As far as Washington is concerned, you’re clean. Which makes me an accessory, doesn’t it?”

  She kisses him frantically. “Partners in crime,” she breathes. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

  “You know why. I’m as guilty as you.”

  “Not guilty, darling. Happy.”

  “Yes. Happy.”

  They lie quietly. Then clasp fingers.

  “What should we do?” she asks.

  “I don’t see why we have to do anything. You keep working on Harry Dancer. Tell your case officer it’s taking longer than you expected. I’ll keep filing affirmative loyalty reports.”

  She shakes her head. “It won’t work. Not for long. Headquarters wants results. And Glitner can’t be stalled forever. He already senses what’s going on.”

  “What’s the worst
that can happen? You’ll be pulled off the Dancer case and reassigned.”

  “And what will happen to you, Martin?”

  “Same thing. Reassignment.”

  “Then we’ll be apart. Maybe a world apart. Do you want that?”

  “No,” he says. “Do you?”

  “Never!” she cries.

  Fear of separation spurs them. They embrace tightly. Clinging.

  “Could we go away together?” she asks. “Just take off? The two of us?”

  “Are you wealthy?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not either. Maybe the two of us could manage a year. Then what?”

  “Get jobs. Both of us.”

  “Doing what? With our training, what else are we suited for? Besides, they’d find us. You know that. Then the pressures would begin. We’d end up in rehab centers.”

  “Oh God. What are we going to do?”

  He turns in bed. Begins to lave her with his febrile tongue. Then they are mindless again. Fears fled. Ignited by their sense of sin. Pleasure heightened by surrender to treasonous evil. They deny all and find a new heaven. A more rousing hell.

  Until anguished flesh can endure no more. Rubbed raw and aching, they pull apart to glare. Maddened by excess. Skin abraded with scrapes and bites. Punctures and scratches. Taste of blood. Smell of ash.

  She grips his face. Bends nose to nose. Stares into his widened eyes.

  “We could go over,” she says. Whispering.

  “To the Others?”

  “Yes.”

  52

  Norma Gravesend makes a transcription of shorthand notes taken during the conference on the activities and future of Shelby Yama. This report is given to the Director. That night, a photocopy is passed along to Norma’s contact, Leonard. He codes the report and radios it to Washington. A decoded version is brought to the Chief of Operations.

  He finds the contents disturbing. He immediately alerts case officer Anthony Glitner that agent Willoughby may be in peril. He suggests to Glitner, but does not order, that Willoughby break off all contacts with Shelby Yama.

  The case officer, studying this intelligence, feels the Chief is unduly alarmed. It appears to Glitner that if the Department is suspicious of Yama’s activities, not authorized by higher authority, then there is a very good chance that he, Glitner, made a correct guess that Shelby Yama is thinking of defecting and trying to establish a friendly contact.

  “Work on him,” he tells Willoughby. “If he hints that he wants to come over, let him know that he’ll need to establish his bona fides before we grant him sanctuary. Ask him to deliver a complete personnel roster of the Department’s Harry Dancer team.”

  At almost the same time, Shelby Yama is reporting enthusiastically to Briscoe that he is making progress in turning Willoughby.

  “He’s a farmerish guy,” Yama says. “Not too sophisticated. I’ve been telling him some wild stories about the way I live, and he’s swallowing them all. I can tell he’s excited. It’s Rain all over again. I’m playing Sadie Thompson to his Davidson.”

  Briscoe pretends to give the matter deep thought. “If you’ve got him hooked, why don’t you slip him some of our recruiting brochures. And maybe a copy of our employment contract.”

  Yama is doubtful. “I don’t think he’s ready to make the switch yet. And I don’t want to scare him off by going too far too fast.”

  “You’re probably right,” Briscoe says. “You’ve had a lot more experience than I have, and I trust your judgment. Forget about the contract. But it wouldn’t do any harm to pass him the recruiting booklet. The new four-color job on slick paper with the centerfold. That’ll open his eyes.”

  “And give him ideas,” the case officer says. Laughing. “Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Show him how the other half lives.”

  Two nights later, exiting from the Deerfield church, Shelby Yama hands Willoughby a manila envelope. This action is observed by Ted Charon’s Internal Security operative.

  53

  I’ve known so many men,” Sally Abaddon says. “All sizes, shapes, colors. I can’t even remember them all. I don’t even try.”

  “Recreational sex,” Angela Bliss says.

  “I guess. It didn’t mean so much to me. Like scratching an itch.”

  The two women are having lunch at an outdoor cafe on the Intracoastal Waterway. Sitting at an umbrella table. Picking at fruit salads. Sipping iced tea. Watching pleasure boats plow up and down.

  Overcast day. Hot and humid. Weak breeze from the south barely moves the umbrella fringe. At a nearby table, a fat woman wields a palmetto fan. But she looks ready to faint.

  “Then I met the man I’m going with now,” Sally continues. “His name’s Harry. I never told you that, did I? Being with him has been a revelation to me. What sex with love can be. It’s like an added ingredient. Salt in the stew. It’s made me realize how second-rate recreational sex really is. I mean it just doesn’t work.”

  “Does he love you, Sally?”

  “Not the way I love him. I know he feels an affection for me, but that’s about it. We had a long talk about all the different kinds of love there are. We agreed we’d each do our own thing. I settled for that. It’s a hundred times better than what I had.”

  “But not what you need?”

  “You’re very perceptive, Angela. No, it’s not totally what I need. Whatever that is. But it’s all I’m going to get from him. Do you want some ice cream?”

  “I don’t think so, but you go ahead.”

  “No, I better skip. I just feel so restless today. It’s probably the humidity. Very oppressive.”

  “Let’s finish up, and get back to air conditioning.”

  On the drive back to their motel, Sally says, “I have some little bottles of wine cooler in my fridge. It’s like a very mild sangria. Would you like to try it?”

  “Sure. Anything cold. Do you want me to come to your place?”

  “No,” Sally says. “I’ll bring it to yours.”

  She totes a four-pack of California Cooler into Angela’s room. They open two. Swig from the bottles.

  “This is better,” Angela says. “I don’t know why we went out in that heat. Are you calming down?”

  “I hate to dump my problems on you, honey,” Sally says. “I know you’ve got your own. But talking to you is a real help.”

  The other woman leans forward. “Don’t ever think you’re bothering me. You’re not. I only wish I could help you more.”

  “Just listening is the greatest thing you can do for me. I’ve never had a girlfriend I could talk to. Just men. They’re okay, sometimes, but it’s not the same.”

  They kick off their shoes. Stretch out. Sally unbuttons her shirt down to the waistband of her jeans.

  “You never wear a bra, do you?” Angela says.

  “Not if lean help it.”

  “I do. All the time. And I don’t know why. It’s like putting a saddle on a Pekinese.”

  They both laugh. Comfortable with their intimacy.

  “If I had your body,” Angela says, “I’d rule the world.”

  “I used to think that. But it doesn’t work out that way. It did for a while, but not anymore.

  Having a good body is just genes and luck. It’s not something I did. I try to keep the carcass in shape, but I didn’t create it; I just inherited it. Sometimes I think it’s a curse. Every man I meet wants to jump on my bones.”

  “Harry, too?”

  “No, he’s different. Maybe that’s why I love him. He never comes on. I notice I always have to make the first move. Then he’s willing enough. But he’s also willing to spend a quiet evening just talking or walking the beach. A strange man. Very intelligent and very deep. I still haven’t figured him out completely.”

  “Is he married, Sally?”

  “He was. But his wife passed away a few months ago, and I don’t think he’s gotten over it yet. Sometimes I believe that’s why he acts the way he does. He’s very moody.”
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  “Maybe he feels going to bed with you is cheating on his wife. His dead wife.”

  Sally looks at her. “That’s exactly what I think. I said you were perceptive. So my competition is his memory of a woman who’s six feet under. That’s probably why he can’t love me the way I’d like him to.”

  “You think he’ll ever ask you to marry him?”

  “Oh no,” Sally says. “Out of the question.”

  “Why is that?”

  Sally looks away. “Various reasons. It’s just not possible.”

  “Why don’t you leave him?” Angela asks. “If the relationship is making you miserable.”

  “Not miserable. Exactly. Just not what I’d like it to be.”

  “Maybe you could find another man who’d love you the way you need.”

  “I don’t want another man,” Sally says. “That’s not the answer.”

  Angela Bliss now has no doubts whatsoever that Sally Abaddon will never succeed in converting Harry Dancer. She is breaking the Department’s first rule for field agents: Never get personally involved. Every agent is to be a salesperson for the Department’s creed. There is no reason for personal relationships that exist for themselves and don’t yield results.

  If Angela is to be faithful to her vows, she must report Sally’s dereliction to Ted Charon, and let him take it from there. It is possible that Sally’s punishment will merely be removal from the Harry Dancer case and an official reprimand. Possible—but not likely. The Department has many degrees of retribution. Most of them severe.

  Angela Bliss looks at the creamy body of the other woman. She decides. But has enough wit left to reflect that if she is rejected, then Sally must surely suffer. It is bitter to realize how she is putting this beautiful woman at risk. But she cannot help herself.

  She pulls her armchair alongside Sally’s. Puts an arm across her shoulders.

  “It hurts me to see you unhappy, dear,” she says. Her own voice sounding strangled to her. “You deserve the love you want.”

  Sally tries to smile. “I’ll survive,” she says.

  Angela isn’t so sure of that. She brushes Sally’s hair aside. Moves her lips close to Sally’s ear.