7 Steps to Midnight (19 page)

“Are you—?” She glanced at the bottle.

“Showing off,” he finished. “I read it on the label as I poured.”

They exchanged a smile, then she gestured at the plates. “Eat,” she said.

He nodded and spread some caviar and chopped eggs and onions on a biscuit.
Caviar and wine in London with a goddess
, he thought. It really was difficult to comprehend.

He took a bite of the biscuit and spread. “Mmm,” he said. “Delicious.” He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “Tell me something,” he said.

“Surely.”

“Why the blue cassette box?
The Carnival of the Animals
?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t know about it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not.” She looked perplexed.

He told her about waking up to find the cassette player and the blue cassette box. How he finally came to realize that he was supposed to go to The Blue Swan.

“Then that man in the pub—” he continued.

“Williams,” she told him.

“Uh-huh. He told me
Crown over H
and I had to figure that out, too. Wouldn’t it have been a lot simpler to just put a note under the door of my hotel room telling me there was a ticket waiting for me at the Theatre Royal Haymarket?”

“Undoubtedly,” she said, laughing. “My supervisor
does
move in mysterious ways now and then.”

“Williams said that ‘Number One’ relishes these little mysteries.”

“He does.” She shook her head with a smile. “I imagine he gets fed up with the stupefying boredom of what we typically do. So, when he gets a chance to have a little fun…”

“Fun?” He wasn’t sure of that.

“For
him
,” she said. “Especially with a Yank.”

Chris grunted.
Must be a weird guy
, he thought. He finished the biscuit and took a sip of wine, then spread caviar on another biscuit.

“What’s his name?” he asked.

“My supervisor? Mr. Raymond. That’s what we call him anyway. It might not be his real name.”

“You live with enigmas, too,” he said, taking a bite of the second biscuit.

“Indeed.” She looked a bit discomfited. “Such as what I’m going to do with you tomorrow.”

He felt a tremor of uneasiness at that. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, obviously, you can’t go back to your hotel. I don’t think Mr. Raymond will want you to stay here. We’ll have to find a place.”

“Uh…” He didn’t know how to put it. “Is there a… plan? I mean—why am I in England? Am I staying here?”

“That remains to be seen,” she answered. “As to why you’re here—for protection, of course. Until this conspiracy or whatever it is is sorted out.” She clucked. “Whatever you do, it must be bloody important.”

He sighed. “I never thought it was.” He gestured vaguely. “Well, that’s not exactly true. I guess space defense is important.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she cautioned. “It’s none of my business.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not about to give you formulas.”

“No, don’t,” she said. “The less I know, the less anyone can find out from me.”

That sounded ominous, he thought. He looked at her gravely. “I wouldn’t want to put you in any danger,” he said.

“You won’t,” she assured him.

He decided that he’d better tell her nothing. It probably wouldn’t make sense to her anyway.

“Does it bother you to work in a field where—people get killed?” he asked uneasily.

“Well, of course it bothers me,” she replied. “It really doesn’t happen all that often though. What’s going on with you is rather more advanced, as these things go.”

He nodded. That didn’t make him feel particularly good. He ate a third biscuit spread with caviar, chopped egg and onion, and washed it down with the chilled white wine. As he did, he looked across the table at Alexsandra. What was going to happen now? he wondered. In James Bond novels, bed always followed peril.
Didn’t
it?

Somehow, he didn’t think it would tonight.

He was unable to repress a sudden yawn. “Oh, dear,” he said.

“Tired?”

“I shouldn’t be,” he said. “I took a nap earlier today and I’m not used to getting that much sleep.”

“Don’t forget jet lag,” she told him.

“Oh, that’s right.” He yawned again. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why don’t you lie down on the sofa for a while,” she suggested.

He thought about it momentarily. “Good idea,” he said then.

“Had enough to eat?” she asked.

He nodded. “I think so. Thank you.”

They got up and walked into the living room and Chris sat down on the sofa. “Lie down,” she said.

“Okay.” He took off his shoes and stretched out. “Here,” she said, putting a pillow under his head.

“Thank you,” he said. He took her hand impulsively. “Thank you for saving my life, too,” he told her.

She smiled. “It may not have been all that dramatic,” she said, “but you’re welcome.”

Again on impulse, he kissed the back of her hand. “Could you sit beside me for a while?” he asked, amazed at his own temerity. He’d never have been able to do such a thing at home. Maybe it was the unreality of it all.

“All right,” she said. “Ease over a little.”

He moved in against the sofa back, then turned half onto his left side and pressed against the back to give her room. Alexsandra sat beside him, smiling down at him. He groaned as he yawned again. “It’s not the company, I promise you,” he said.

He studied her face for a few moments, then said, “You
are
exquisite, you know.”

She smiled, not replying. Then she leaned over and kissed him lightly. The soft warmth of her lips made him draw in a sudden breath.

She sat up again, looking at him with a faint smile.

“Alexsandra,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Would you do it again?”

She made a soft sound of amusement, then leaned over again and kissed him a little more firmly. He felt the yielding pressure of her left breast against his side as she did. He put his arms around her and she pressed her cheek next to his. “Oh, God,” he said.

“You sound so unhappy,” she said.

“I am,” he responded. “To be with you like this and be as sleepy as I am is pure hell.”

Alexsandra drew away from him and he released her. She smiled down at him. His eyelids were getting heavier now.

“I want to know about you,” he murmured, “where you were born, what schools you went to, how you got into government work, if you feel toward me one one-hundredth of the way I feel toward you.”

She stroked his cheek gently and he felt her ring on his skin. Just before he slipped away, it came to him.

The woman in the painting was wearing the same ring.

So many times, in dreams, he had been conscious of the fact that he was dreaming. The more bizarre the dreams, the more his mind had thought, in essence,
Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, I know this is a dream
.

This dream was different.

He was in Rome; not today’s Rome, but Rome of the Caesars. He felt as though he had literally time-traveled there; he kept thinking to himself
I’m actually here
.

How long it went on, he wasn’t sure. He wished that he could film it or, at the very least, take notes.

He tried to tell some people he met how remarkable this was for him but they replied in Latin.
Did they really speak it conversationally?
he thought in amazement.

He saw men in chariots riding by. Women in robes. Children playing. Soldiers.

And the buildings! They were marvelous, white marble with graceful columns. He saw Roman numerals on them; construction dates he supposed, or dedication dates.

Then he was in a less populated street. It was lined with pine trees;
The Pines of Rome
, he thought. He was moving toward a house. Opening a gate and entering a courtyard.

The woman was on the other side of it, standing by a sparkling fountain.

It’s her
, he thought.

He moved across the courtyard. Except for the splashing of water in the fountain, there was no sound.
It
is
her
, he told
himself. He recognized the robe, the hair arrangement. And there was a ring on her finger he felt sure was the ring he’d seen.

But how can she be here?
he thought.
Unless
, his mind explained,
this is another Alexsandra
. An ancient relative. A former life.
No, that’s ridiculous
, he thought.
I don’t believe in that.

He reached her and put his hand on her shoulder. She turned.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said.

“It
is
you.” He gazed at her beautiful face. “Alexsandra.”

He put his arms around her and felt her arms embrace him. Her body was warm against his; he could feel the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest.

“I love you,” he said.

“And I love you,” she whispered. “You are mine at last.”

He began to wonder what she meant by that but then they were kissing and he couldn’t think. He felt her warm lips moving under his, the tightness of her embrace.

Then her cheek was pressed to his. “I mustn’t lose you again,” she whispered breathlessly. “Say that you—”

She stopped and, suddenly, she was cold and lifeless in his arms.

He drew back to look at her.

And cried out, horrified.

He was holding a corpse in his arms. Her face was white, her eyes staring sightlessly. Her body weighed down his arms.

“No,” he muttered.

He felt a wave of horror rushing over him as she began to moult before his eyes, her features turning gray, skin crumpling, cheekbones showing through as flesh decayed and slipped from them.

With a scream, he flung her away and, turning, ran toward what appeared to be a tunnel.
I won’t look back
, he told himself. Terror-stricken, he hurled himself into the tunnel and ran along it. It smelled damp and fetid.
Get me out of here!
he thought.

He turned a corner, staggering to a halt.

There were four slabs lying just in front of him.

On each was a body.

He wanted to turn and retreat. But he knew that Alexsandra’s
corpse was that way and he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing it again.

If he could edge past the slabs, not look at the bodies.

He pressed his back against the cold, wet wall and began to shift along it, trying to keep his eyes from the bodies. He couldn’t though. He felt compelled to look.

The first body, naked, was Gene’s. His flesh was bluish purple, his eyes staring. “Oh, God,” Chris murmured.

The next body was Nelson’s; he was naked too. There was a jagged, blood-rimmed hole in his stomach. Chris clenched his teeth, shuddering.
This has to be a dream
, his mind insisted. But he couldn’t make himself believe it this time.

The next body was that of Basy. He was naked, his eyes closed, his face white.
This is where you went
, Chris thought. He looked at the last body.

And froze in place.

It was Veering.

He wasn’t naked but was wearing the outfit he’d had on when Chris picked him up on the highway—even the baseball cap on his head.

Is it really him?
the question came. Look. Make certain.

He edged closer to the slab and leaned over. The light here wasn’t clear. He had to make sure—

He gasped, choking, as Veering’s right hand shot up, grabbing at his jacket. Veering’s eyes popped open, and the old man leered at him, a toothy grin drawing back his lips. “We meet again,” he said.

Chris couldn’t speak. He could scarcely breathe. He tried to pull away from Veering but didn’t have the strength. He stared down at the grinning old man.

“
Are you enjoying the wager?
” Veering asked.

Chris could only utter sounds of dread as he tried to pull free.

Veering’s face grew hard. “You aren’t going to get away,” he snarled. “Face it, Barton. That’s the way things are. You may as well accept it.”

He jerked Chris down until their faces were no more than several inches apart.

“Now listen to me,” Veering said. “Time is running out. You hear? Reality is dissipating for you. You have one chance to survive and one chance only.
Use your mind.
You hear?!” he shouted in Chris’s face. “
Think or die!
”

Darkness seemed to rush up at Chris like an ocean wave. It broke across him, swallowing him, pulling him down and down. He thought he heard himself screaming as he tumbled head over heels in blackness, unable to breathe.

***

He jolted awake.
I’m screaming!
he thought.

He looked around in panic. He was still in Alexsandra’s living room. And he wasn’t screaming. The shrill sound had focused itself into the ringing of a telephone.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to alert his mind.
Jesus, what a dream
, he thought.

The phone kept ringing. He looked around groggily.
Why doesn’t she answer it?
he wondered.

“Alexsandra?!” He tried to call out but his throat was dry. The crusty sound that emerged was more like a wheezing gargle.

Maybe she’s gone out
, his brain provided.

Thanks for waking up
, he thought. He sat up and looked at the telephone on the table next to the sofa.
Well, for Christ’s sake, why don’t you give up?
he sent a mental message to the caller.

Not received
, he finally realized. And obviously Alexsandra was out. What should he do? Answer it? It might get him into even more trouble.

He stared at the ringing telephone. Was it possible that she would be calling him?

He grimaced at the continued ringing.
Stop. Enough!
he thought and, reaching out, snatched up the handset. He didn’t speak but held it to his ear.

A man’s voice, pleasantly polite, said, “Your limousine is here, Mr. Barton.”

He stared at the receiver as though it were an artifact from Mars.

Then he spoke into the mouthpiece. “What?”

“Your limousine is here.”

My limousine.
Chris felt half-uneasy, half-amused. More insanity.