The Art of the Devil (32 page)

‘As you say: another chance will present itself.' Coolly, hoping his example would lower the room's emotional temperature, Emmerich sipped his own brandy. ‘Our operative came within a heartbeat of success. Consider this not a failure, my friend, but a lesson learned. We come out wiser than we started. Next time, we will have our day.'

Bolin regarded him through half-lidded eyes. ‘I want to believe it,' he said slowly. ‘I'm desperate to believe it. But …'

Emmerich waited.

‘They've been put on high alert. They've doubtless reinforced security, and then reinforced the reinforcements. We'll never get so close to Eisenhower again.'

‘So. Look at the long game, as they say. Time is on our side.'

A curl of the lip from Bolin. ‘How do you figure?'

‘Give the country four more years of Bolshevik policies – bleeding them dry with regulations and taxes, organized labor keeping them in a chokehold – and the American people themselves will succeed, where we have failed. They will correct their own course.'

‘And what happens, Emmerich, if after four more years the country
likes
the way Eisenhower leads? The weak like to be coddled. They shirk from battle. Hold their hands, pay their way, and they respond like dogs thrown bones.'

Emmerich shrugged. ‘As I said: we come out wiser than we started. We know now that this country can be helped, if necessary, despite itself.' He drank his cognac, puffed on his cigar. ‘This time, we missed by a hair. Next time, if a next time is required, we will not.'

Bolin removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes. ‘If the Russkies have anything to say about it, we won't be around long enough for there to be a next time.'

‘Say what you will about Eisenhower. He's a military man, and a fine bluffer. He'll keep the Soviets in check.'

‘With Wilson, that glorified accountant, as Secretary of Defense? They say “unify” – but they mean “conciliate”.'

‘One thing at a time. You've traveled long and hard …'

‘Good Lord, you don't know the half of it.'

‘But you've done the right thing in coming here. We'll take good care of you.' Emmerich made a show of pondering. ‘Why don't we tend to your needs – a decent meal, a decent bed – and take it up in the morning. In the meantime, I should return to my guests before they wonder what has drawn me away …'

‘Of course.' Bolin upended his glass, draining the very last drop of brandy. ‘You're the salt of the earth, Emmerich.'

‘Of course,' said the elder Wulff absently, ‘it is my humble pleasure.'

He left the man alone in the study and then paused, alone, in the corridor.

Bolin's sudden appearance presented problems. Emmerich could only hope nobody had recognized the former senator
en route
, or trouble might result down the road.

For now, he shelved the concern. The pressing issue was how to proceed tonight. Throughout everything, the Wulffs had managed to farm out the hiring to others – first and foremost, to Bolin himself – and thus avoid any chance of exposure. But as a result, they now lacked the necessary connections to make a man disappear. And it was hardly the kind of enterprise Emmerich Wulff felt comfortable taking on himself. Decades had passed since the last time …

But life sometimes took unexpected turns; and if not him, then who?

Stopping by the parlor, he offered his apologies, announcing that he would rejoin the party in a few minutes. He then visited the kitchen, ordering that a plate be prepared and a fresh bottle of wine opened. Then he climbed a spiral staircase and crossed through a bedroom to a spacious lavatory, handsomely appointed in marble and smelling faintly of lavender, which he shared with his younger brother. One advantage to reaching old age in modern times was the ready availability of a wide selection of nostrums … browsing labels on glass vials, he made his selection.

Back in the kitchen, he dismissed the help, found a mortar and pestle in a drawer among burr mills and herb grinders, and crunched up half a dozen pills. After pulping them to a fine powder, he sifted the results into an empty wine glass. A dash from a freshly-opened bottle of Cheval Blanc dissolved the precipitate. He stirred until all traces had vanished, filled the glass nearly to the rim, and then sniffed for odor. He risked a tiny, cautious sip for taste. Satisfied, he set glass, silverware, and prepared plate of food on a tray. Calling the butler, he ordered the tray delivered to the library. He would check on Bolin in an hour. If the man still lived he would doubtless be unconscious, and easily finished. An unfortunate turn of events … but not, now that Emmerich found himself in this position, actually so difficult to accomplish.

He fixed his cuffs, preparing to rejoin his brother and their guests in the parlor. The young man awaiting him there, one Everett Howard Hunt, had served at length with the OSS and the CIA. Hunt had personally engineered the overthrow of the president of Guatemala, and acted as agency station chief in Uruguay and Mexico City. He was a man of many capabilities, many connections, and realistic values … a valuable ally for the future.

A thin smile crossed Emmerich's face, and he went to rejoin the party.

DELPHOS, INDIANA

Ralph Jessup, MD, reached the front door just in time to see a slim figure limping away down his driveway.

He pulled the door open. ‘Hey,' he called. ‘You ringing my bell?'

For a moment, he thought his visitor – an attractive young lady who may have been representing 4-H or UNICEF or Grit, although an hour past sundown seemed an odd time for a visit – had moved out of earshot. Then she turned, just beyond the rim of light, so he could make out only general details: a lithe figure, with a shoulder-length bell of blonde hair, and a strange way of carrying herself that suggested stiffness, perhaps arthritis, although surely she was too young for that.

She came forward again, into range of the porch light. Older than he had first thought, she wore torn and stained second-hand clothing, no coat, and an expression of grim determination. ‘Doctor Jessup?' she said.

‘Yes'm, that's my name.'

‘I'm sorry to bother you, sir.' A trace of a southern accent; another hesitant step forward. ‘I saw your shingle out at the end of the driveway …'

‘You need a doctor?' he asked.

‘I'm not sure. But I got a bad pain.'

‘Well, come on in and let's have a look.' She didn't move. ‘Don't worry about some big old bill, now. When someone needs my help, I provide it. The Good Book says to do no less. Come on in.'

Still she dithered. Perhaps, he thought, her issue was less financial than ethical. During his years in Delphos, he had helped more than one young woman end an unwanted pregnancy. Word had gotten out, and now those in need of his services kept showing up.

‘Come on in,' he said again, more gently. ‘Whatever it is, ol' Ralph can set you right. And you don't need to tell me anything more than you want to. I promise.'

At last, as he held the front door, she came inside. She walked eccentrically, dragging one leg. ‘You live here alone?' she asked.

‘All by my lonesome, ever since my Lillian passed on. But don't you worry, darlin' – I'm one of the good guys.' He switched on a lamp and then faced her candidly. ‘What seems to be the trouble?'

Inside the parlor, beneath the lamplight, her uncertainty had vanished. She was prettier than he had realized, if too thin. And in her right hand …

… she held a gun.

One hour later, he straightened from the makeshift operating table.

He wiped a strand of sweaty gray hair from his eyes. ‘That's about all I can do for you,' he said groggily, ‘unless you'll let me take you the hospital.'

For a long minute, his patient didn't respond. Ralph Jessup felt a flicker of hope, although the desire violated every tenet of the Hippocratic Oath he had sworn, that the girl had passed during the procedure. Then her right hand, still holding the .32 pistol, stirred. ‘No hospitals,' she said thickly.

As she struggled to a sitting position, he backed away. Her resilience baffled and astounded him. She had categorically refused painkillers, turning away even a glass of Ripple; yet all during the operation she had stayed awake, watching him as he worked. He had patched a bullet wound, well on the way to infection despite a previous sloppy effort to repair it, and a broken leg, which evidently had been poorly set some days before, and had since started healing wrong.

Once she had drawn herself up, Jessup tried again. ‘Listen: that's a patch-up job I did. We bought you some time. But you need a hospital, missy. They've got to look inside you, see the extent of the damage. I just plain don't have the equipment here.'

Her striking turquoise eyes found his face.

‘Listen,' he said again. ‘I don't know any other ways to say it. If you don't get to a hospital, you're dancing with the devil. All we've got to do is pile into my truck and I can have you—'

The gun barked, silencing him.

She searched the house.

In a cigar box beneath an upstairs bed she found sixty-five dollars and fifty-three cents, which she pocketed. In an adjoining bathroom she found iodine, Goody's Headache Powder, Neo-Aqua-Drin lozenges, Alka-Seltzer, Pepto Bismol … except for the iodine, all worthless.

She vomited into the sink. Her belly churned; the bandage around her shoulder dotted red even through the gauze. Leaning against the edge of the porcelain, she fought to remain conscious. The old sawbones had spoken the truth: sooner or later, she would need a hospital.

But not yet. Not until she had made more distance.

She spent a few queasy seconds studying her reflection in the cabinet's mirror. At the moment, she was no longer Elisabeth Grant. But she not yet become someone else. She was between identities. Perhaps she had reverted to Elisabeth Hübener, of Wittlich, in the Rhineland – not the cool exquisite beauty molded to perfection by Karl Schnibbe, but the pale, sickly original model, fussed over
ad nauseum
by her mother, shunned and despised by everybody else.

After a few seconds more, she moved on.

She kept searching, looking now less for things of value than for a comfortable place to spend the remainder of the night – traveling again without resting was out of the question. The back porch, with its cold fresh air and clear lines of sight, was tempting. But she would risk frostbite out here. Still: she could allow herself a moment.

Settling down onto an old-fashioned porch swing, she looked out across a pond scrummed with ice. Another mirror, she realized suddenly: this one reflecting a line of silhouetted black pines on the far bank. A distant loon called with enviable aplomb. The crisp smell of resin filled the night, summoning bitter-sweet memories of a long-ago Christmas.

After a few minutes a blustery wind picked up, creaking the hinges of the swing, coaxing a watery tear from one eye. She went back inside. Forsaking beds and couches, she chose a creaky old rocker from which she could easily slip out the back door if necessary. Pulling a hand-woven quilt across her lap, holding the gun with its two remaining bullets loosely in one hand, she closed her eyes.

The Blood Banner flapping, Karl Schnibbe uncompromising and uncompromised, ranks of soldiers goose-stepping in perfect unison down the Unter den Linden … she could hear the rap-rap of their boots now. She smiled faintly. It was a sound filled with promise.

Libby
, Josette had said,
sometimes I wonder about you.

She rubbed a hand over her face, pulling the features into a tragic mask. Then she forced her mind ahead. In the morning, she would keep moving. She would know her destination only when she reached it.

All paths, she thought, led somewhere.

She sat very still, wondering if that was really true, for a very long time.

ANACOSTIA

T
rudy Zane wept.

Her father comforted her, patting her back as if burping a baby. The minister delivered a brief eulogy. Beneath a cold wind, Isherwood tried to balance on his cane while keeping hands jammed in coat pockets. A registrar and two gravediggers milled nearby, looking disinterested.

After the service, people lined up to toss dirt on the coffin. Philip Zane's infant son, passed back and forth between relatives, squalled and fretted. The turnout had been respectable but not tremendous. Isherwood could not help thinking that Zane deserved better.

Shortly thereafter, he found himself inside the nearest dark bar, telling himself he had come only to fill his growling belly. Funerals, his father had used to say, made a man want to eat and fuck. Neon signs blinked and buzzed in frosted windows. When the barkeep approached, Isherwood ordered a burger and a Moxie. Working down the soft drink in a few gulps, he ordered another and then staked out his territory: Zippo, crumpled prayer leaflet, cane, cigarettes, and baleful glare.

When his hamburger arrived, Isherwood pushed away the plate without touching it. Downing his second Moxie, he lit a cigarette instead. He looked at bottles lined behind the bar. They reminded him of glittering soldiers, preparing to mount an offensive. They would come in force, and his defenders, bristling in square, would successfully repel the first wave, and then the second … but the enemy would keep coming. Without eternal vigilance, he risked being overrun.

Halfway through his next sickly-sweet pop, someone settled onto the bar stool beside him. Through a series of tacit clues, Isherwood endeavored to let the stranger know that he wasn't interested in conversation. But the man wouldn't take the hint. When the intruder ordered a vodka, Isherwood recognized the voice. Turning his head, he grunted acknowledgement.

The Chief took one of Isherwood's cigarettes. The travails of the previous weeks had left new grooves on the man's face … but, of course, none of them had come through unscathed. ‘Been trying to get in touch,' he said. ‘You can be a hard man to track down.'