The Eiger Sanction (13 page)

“Nothing really. I'm just feeling tough and full of sperm. She happens to be around and she looks capable.”

“Well, she's a grown-up girl. I guess she can go with whoever she wants.”

“That might present a difficulty. I can't say she's been pestering me with her attentions.”

“Oh, she likes you all right. I can tell from the way she talks about you.”

“Does she ever speak to anyone but you, Ben?”

“Not as I know of.” Ben finished his bottle at one long pull and opened another. “Kind of funny,” he commented.

“What is?”

“You wanting George. Considering the way she's been grinding you down, a body would think you'd have some kind of hate going for her.”

“Who knows the devious working of the id? In the back of my mind I may be carrying the image of impaling her—stabbing her to death, or something.” Ben glanced at Jonathan with a hint of a wince in his eyes. “You know what, ol' buddy. Way down deep you've got the makings of a real bad ass. I don't know that I'd like to be alone on a desert island with you if there was a limited food supply.”

“No worry. You're a friend.”

“Ever have any enemies?”

“A few.”

“Any of them still around and kicking?”

“One.” Jonathan considered for a moment. “No, two.”

There had been rather a lot of beer, and Jonathan was asleep quickly. The Jemima dream began, as it had each night, with deceptive gentleness—a rehearsal in sequence of their relations from the first meeting on the plane. The sudden images of Dragon's derisive face, like quick intercuts in a motion picture, never lasted long enough to force Jonathan awake. The flickering hurricane lamps dissolved into harlequin flecks. The arc of her cigarette glowed in the dark. He reached out for her, and she was so real he experienced a tactile tingle as he slid the flat of his hand over her hard-under-soft stomach. He felt it press up against his palm—and he was fully awake! Before he could sit up, George drew him tightly against her, gripping him with strong arms and wrapping supple legs around his. Her eyes too had a Mongol cast, and it was possible to make the substitution.

He did not wake until after five. Because of recent habit, the late hour seemed to accuse. But then he recalled that they would be working faces today, and you cannot work a face before light. George had gone. She had left as silently as she had come. A stiffness in his lower back, a feeling of tender emptiness in his groin, and a slightly alkaline smell from beneath the sheets reminded him of the night. He had been awake when she left, but he feigned sleep, fearful of being called on to perform again.

As he showered, he promised himself to use the girl sparingly. She would send a man to a sanatorium in a fortnight, if he let her. She climaxed quickly and often, but was never satisfied. Sex for her was not a gentle sequence of objectives and achievements; it was an unending chase from one exploding bubble of thrill to the next—a plateau of sensation to be maintained, not a series of crests to be climbed. And if the partner seemed to flag, she introduced a variation calculated to renew his interest and vigor.

Like those of swimming, the techniques of climbing are never forgotten, once properly learned. But Jonathan knew he would have to discover what new limitations the past few years of age and inactivity had placed on his skill and nerve.

The experienced climber can move up a face he cannot cling to. A regular, predicted set of moves from one point of imbalance to its counterpoise will keep him on the face, so long as he continues moving, rather in the way a bicycle rider has little trouble with balance, unless he goes too slowly. It is necessary to read the pitch accurately, to plot out and rehearse the moves kinesodically, then to make them with smooth conviction from hold to hold, ending in a predicted and reliable purchase. In the past, this constellation of abilities had been Jonathan's forte, but during his first day of free climbing he made several misjudgments that sent him slithering down ten or fifteen feet to the scree, banging a little skin off elbows and knees and doing greater damage to his self-esteem. It was some time before he diagnosed his problem. The intervening years since his last climb had had no effect on his analytical powers, but they had eroded the fine edge of his physical dexterity. This erosion was beyond repair, so it was necessary that he train himself to think within the limits of his new, inferior body.

At first, for safety, Ben insisted that they use many pitons, making the face look as though lady climbers or Germans had been there. But it was not long before they were making short grade five and six pitches with a more Anglo-Saxon economy of ironmongery. One problem, however, continued to plague Jonathan, making him furious with himself. In the midst of a skillful and businesslike series of moves, he would suddenly find himself fighting the rock, succumbing to the natural, but lethal, desire to press his body against it. This not only deprived him of leverage for tension footholds, but it made it difficult to scan the face above for cracks. Once a climber presses the face, a fearful cycle begins. It is an unnoticed welling up of animal fear that first makes him hug the rock; hugging weakens his footholds and blinds him to purchases that might be within grasp; and this, now real, danger feeds the original fear.

On one occasion, after Jonathan thought he had overcome this amateurish impulse, he suddenly found himself caught up in the cycle. His cleated boots could find no grab, and suddenly he was off.

He fell only three of the forty meters between him and the rock below before his line snapped up short and he was dangling and twisting from the rope. It was a sound piton.

“Hey!” Ben shouted from above. “What the fuck you doin'?”

“I'm just hanging from this piton, wise ass! What are you doing?”

“I'm just holding your weight in my powerful and experienced hands and watching you hang from that piton. You look real graceful. A little stupid, but real graceful.”

Jonathan kicked angrily off the rock and swung out and back, but he missed his grab.

“For Christ's sake, ol' buddy! Wait a minute! Now, don't do anything. Just rest there for a minute.”

Jonathan dangled from the line, feeling foolish.

“Now think about it.” Ben gave it a moment. “You know what's wrong?”

“Yes!” Jonathan was impatient, both with himself and with Ben's condescending treatment.

“Tell me.”

With the singsong of rote Jonathan said, “I'm crowding the rock.”

“Right. Now get back on the face and we'll go down.”

Jonathan took a mind-clearing breath, kicked out and swung back, and he was on the face. During the whole of the retreat he moved glibly and precisely, forgetting the vertical gravity of the valley and responding naturally to the diagonal gravity of weight-versus-rope that kept him leaning well away from the face.

On the valley floor they sat on a pile of scree, Jonathan coiling rope while Ben drank the bottle of beer he had stashed in the shade of a rock. They were dwarfed by the nine “needles” towering around them. It was on one of these that they had been working, a column of striated, reddish rock that rose from the earth like a decapitated trunk of a giant fossil tree.

“How would you like to climb Big Ben tomorrow?” Ben asked out of lengthy silence. He was referring to the tallest of the columns, a four-hundred-foot shaft that eons of wind had eroded until it was wider at the top than at the base. It was the proximity of these peculiar formations that had caused Ben to select this spot for his climbing school, and he had promptly named the grandest after himself.

Jonathan squinted at the needle, his eyes locating half a dozen dicey areas before it had swept halfway up. “You think I'm ready?”

“More than ready, ol' buddy. Matter of fact, I figure that's your problem. You're overtrained, or trained too fast. You're getting a little skitterish.” Ben went on to say that he had noticed Jonathan pushing off too hard when he was in a tension stance, taking little open moves without being sure of the terminal purchase, and letting his mind wander from the rock when it seemed too easy. It was during these moments of inattention that Jonathan suddenly found himself hugging the face. The best cure for all this might be an endurance run—something to break down the overcoiled legs and to humble the dangerously confident animal in Jonathan.

His eyes picking their way up from possible stance to stance, Jonathan played with the climb for twenty minutes before he accomplished the optical ascent. “Looks hard, Ben. Especially the top flange.”

“It ain't no bedpost.” Ben stood up. “Goddam my eyes if I don't think I'll come along with you!”

Jonathan glanced at Ben's foot before he could help it. “You really want to go?”

“No sweat. I've stumped up it once before. What do you say?”

“I say we walk up it tomorrow.”

“Great. Now why don't you take the rest of the day off, ol' buddy.”

As they walked back to the lodge, Jonathan experienced a lightness of spirit and eagerness for the morrow that had, in the old days, been the core of his love for climbing. His whole being was focused on matters of rock, strength, and tactic, and the outside world with its Dragons and Jemimas could not force its way into his consciousness.

He had been eating well, sleeping perfectly, training hard, drinking much beer, and using George with gingerly discretion. This kind of elemental life would bore him beyond standing in a couple of weeks, but just then it was grand.

He leaned against the lodge's main desk, reading an effervescent postcard from Cherry sprinkled withunderlinings , and ————, and !!!!, and ......, and (parenthesis), and ha! ha! ha! No one, evidently, had burned down his home. Mr. Monk was as angry and scatological as ever. And Cherry wanted to know if he could suggest some reading on the preparation of aphrodisiacs for a friend of hers (someone he had never met) for use on a man (whom he had also never met) and whom he would probably not like, inasmuch as this nameless party was such a heartlessturd!!! as to allow lusty girls to go untapped.

Jonathan felt something touch his foot and looked down to see a nervous little Pomeranian with a rhinestone collar sniffing around. He ignored it and returned to his postcard, but the next moment the dog was mounting an amorous attack on his leg. He kicked it aside, but the dog interpreted this rejection as maidenly coyness and returned to the attack.

“Leave Dr. Hemlock alone, Faggot. I am sorry, Jonathan, but Faggot has not learned to recognize the straight, and he hasn't the patience to wait for an invitation.”

Without looking up, Jonathan recognized the chocolate baritone of Miles Mellough.

“How have you been, Jonathan?” There was a gentle mocking smile in his eyes, but their movements were quick, ready to read and avoid a thrust.

“Miles.” The word was not a greeting, it was a nomination. Jonathan put his postcard into his pocket and waited for Miles to get on with it.

“How long has it been?” Miles dropped his eyes and shook his head. “A long time. Come to think of it, the last time we met was in Arles. We had just finished that Spanish thing—you and I and Henri.”

Jonathan's eyes flickered at the mention of Henri Baq.

“No, Jonathan.” Miles laid his hand on Jonathan's sleeve. “Don't imagine I have made a verbal blunder. It's about Henri that I want to chat. Do you have a moment?” Feeling the forearm muscles tense, Miles patted Jonathan's arm and withdrew his hand.

“There's only one possibility, Miles. You have an incurable disease and lack the guts to kill yourself.”

Miles smiled. “That's very good, Jonathan. But wrong. Shall we have a drink?”

“All right.”

“Rather like old times.”

“Not at all like old times.”

The eyes of all the young ladies in the lounge followed Miles as he preceded Jonathan along the walkway and over an arched stone bridge to an isolated table. His uncommon good looks, the grace and strength of his dancer's walk, and the extreme styling of his clothes would have eclipsed a man of less panache, but Miles moved slowly among the girls, granting them the benediction of his easy smile, honestly pitying them because he was ultimately unavailable.

As soon as they were seated, Miles released the dog which vibrated with tense energy until its toenails clicked on the rock, scrambling in circles of frenzy, then scampered along to a nearby table where he was captured, whimpering, by three young ladies in bikinis who were clearly delighted to possess this entree to the handsomest man they had ever seen. One of them approached the table carrying the shivering, clawing animal in her arms.

Miles rested his eyes on her breast languidly, and she produced a nervous laugh. “What do you call him?” she asked.

“Faggot, my dear.”

“Oh, that's cute! Why do you call him that?”

“Because he's a bundle of nerves.”

She did not understand, so she said, “That's cute!”

Miles beckoned the girl to his side and placed his hand lightly on her buttock. “Would you do me a great favor, dear?”

She giggled at the unexpected contact, but did not withdraw. “Surely. Glad to.”

“Take Faggot and go play with him for a while.”

“All right,” she said. Then, “Thank you.”

“There's a good girl.” He patted the buttock in dismissal and the girl left the lounge, followed by her companions who were just dying to know what had transpired.

“They're cute little tricks, aren't they, Jonathan. And not completely without their uses. Bees are attracted to the honey.”

“And drones,” Jonathan added.

A young Indian waiter stood by the table.

“A double Laphroaig for my friend, and a brandy Alexander for me,” Miles ordered, looking deeply into the waiter's eyes.

Miles's gaze followed the waiter as he made his way along the walkway and over the artificial streams of bubbling water. “Good-looking boy, that.” Then he turned his attention to Jonathan, touching his palms together and resting his forefingers against his lips, his thumbs under his chin. Over the tips of his fingers, his still eyes smiled with gentle frost, and Jonathan reminded himself how dangerous this ruthless man could be, despite appearances. For a minute neither of them spoke. Then Miles broke it with a rich laugh. “Oh, Jonathan. No one can best you at the game of cold silence. I should have known better than to try. Was my memory accurate about the Laphroaig?”

“Yes.”

“A whole monosyllable! How gracious.”

Jonathan supposed Miles would come to the subject in his own time, and he had no intention of helping him. Until the drinks came, Miles scanned the men and girls around the pool. He sat poised in his black velvet suit, high-rolled linen collar with a drooping velvet cravat, slim and expensive Italian boots. Obviously, he was doing well. It was rumored that, after leaving CII, Mellough had set himself up in San Francisco where he dealt in all kinds of merchandise, chiefly drugs.

In essential ways, Miles had not changed. Tall, brilliant in his physical trim, he pulled off his epic homosexuality with such style that plebeian men did not recognize it, and worldly men did not mind it. As always, girls were attracted to him in gaggles, and he treated them with amused condescension of a glamorous Parisian aunt visiting relatives in Nebraska. Jonathan had seen Miles in tight and dangerous spots during their time together in CII, but he had never seen a hair out of place or a rumpled cuff. Henri had frequently mentioned that he knew no equal to Miles for cold physical courage.

Neither Jonathan nor Henri had objected to their comrade's sexual preference; indeed, they had benefited upon occasion from the clusters of women he attracted but did not satisfy. Miles's divergence had been one of his most valuable assets to CII. It had put him in contact with people and sources not open to the straight, and had given him the power of blackmail over several highly placed American political figures.

As the waiter placed the drinks on the table, Miles spoke to him. “You're a very attractive young man. It's God's gift to you, and you should be grateful for it. I hope you are. Now run along and attend to your duties.”

The waiter smiled and left. Once he was out of earshot, Miles sighed and said, “I would say he's made, wouldn't you?”

“If you have time.”

Miles laughed and raised his glass. “Cheers.” He sipped the frothy mixture thoughtfully. “You know, Jonathan, you and I have similar approaches to love, or to balling, if you prefer. Both of us have discovered that the confident cold turkey technique drops more of them than all the romantic mooning around our sexual inferiors bait their little traps with. After all, the targetswant to be made. They simply ask to be protected from guilt by feeling they've been swept off their feet. And it is refreshing for them to have their paths to evil lubricated with urbanity. Don't you agree?”

“I assume you're covered?”

“Of course.”

“Where is he?”

“Behind you. At the bar.”

Jonathan turned and glanced along the bar until, at the end, he sighted a blond primate who must have weighed two hundred twenty pounds. Jonathan guessed him to be in his mid-forties, despite the heavy purplish sun lamp tan and the long bleached hair that fell over his collar. He was typical of the ex-wrestlers and beachboys Miles carried along, half as bodyguards, half as lovers, should nothing better turn up. “And that's all the cover you have?” Jonathan asked, returning to his drink.

“Dewayne is very strong, Jonathan. He used to be a world's champion.”

“Didn't they all.”

“I'll send Dewayne away, if he makes you nervous.”

“He doesn't look like much of a threat.”

“Don't depend on that. He's very well paid, and he's totally devoted to me.” Miles's movie smile displayed his perfect teeth as he pushed the mash of ice around in his glass with a swizzle stick. Then he began rather tentatively, “It must seem odd to you that I have sought you out, instead of waiting for you to step up to me someday and relieve me of the burden of existence.”

“Your phrasing answered any questions I might have had.”

“Yes,I've grown weary of ice in my stomach every time I see a man who resembles you.” He smiled. “You have no idea how damaging it's been to my cool.”

“It will soon be over.”

“One way or another. And I think I'm in a good bargaining position.”

“Forget it.”

“Not even curious?”

“About one thing. How did you know I was here?”

“Oh, you remember what we used to say: CII secrets and common knowledge differ only in that common knowledge...”

“...is harder to come by. Yes, I remember.”

Miles rested his large, soft eyes on Jonathan. “I didn't actually kill Henri, you know.”

“You set him up. You were his friend and you set him up.”

“But I didn't actually kill him.”

“I probably won't actually kill you.”

“But I'd rather be dead than like the Greek you gave Datura to.”

Jonathan smiled with the bland, gentle look he donned before combat. “I didn't actually prepare the Datura. I paid someone else to do it.”

Miles sighed and looked down, his long lashes covering his eyes. “I see your point.” Then he looked up and tried a new tact. “Did you know that Henri was a double agent?”

In fact, Jonathan had discovered this several months after Henri's death. But it did not matter. “He was your friend. And mine.”

“It was only a matter of time, for God's sake, Jonathan! Both sides wanted him dead.”

“You were his friend.”

Miles's voice became crisp. “I hope you'll understand if I find this harping on ethics a little presumptuous in a killer!”

“I was holding him when he died.”

Miles's tone softened instantly. “I know. And I'm truly sorry about that.”

“You remember how he always joked about going out with a clever line? At the last minute he couldn't think of one, and he died feeling foolish.” Jonathan's control was flaking off.

“I'm sorry, Jonathan.”

“Oh, that's fine. You are really and truly sorry! That fixes everything!”

“I did what I could! I arranged a small income for Marie and the children. What did you do? You rammed your rod up her that very night!”

Jonathan's hand flashed over the table, and Miles was snapped sideways in his chair with a backhand across the face. Instantly, the blond wrestler left his barstool and started toward the table. Miles stared hate at Jonathan, tears smarting in his eyes, then, after a struggle with his self-control, he raised his hand, and the wrestler stopped where he was. Miles smiled sadly at Jonathan and gestured the bodyguard away with the backs of his fingers. Angry at being denied his prey, the wrestler glared for a moment before returning to the bar.

Jonathan realized at that moment the first thing he would have to do would be to discourage the blond bodyguard.

“My fault probably, Jonathan. Shouldn't have baited you. I imagine my cheek is red and unsightly?”

Jonathan was angry with himself for allowing Miles to taunt him into premature action. He finished his Laphroaig and gestured to the waiter.

Until the waiter left the table, neither Jonathan nor Miles spoke, nor did they look at each other until the cerebral toxic of adrenalin had drained off. Miles had turned away, not wanting the Indian waiter to see his glowing cheek.

Miles smiled forgiveness at Jonathan. He had not wiped the tears from his eyes, imagining they might help his case. “I tender you a bit of information as a propitiatory offering.”

Jonathan did not respond.

“The man who made the fiscal arrangements with me for Henri's death was Clement Pope—Dragon's boy.”

“That's good to know.”

“Jonathan—tell me. What if Henri had setme up?”

“He would never have done that to a friend.”

“But if he had. Would you have gone after him like you've come after me?”

“Yes.”

Miles nodded. “I thought so.” He smiled wanly “And that vitiates my case considerably. But I still don't intend to allow myself to die, a sacrifice to your peculiar reverence for the epic traditions of friendship. Neither heaven nor reincarnation attracts me. The one seems dull, the other undesirable. So I feel bound to protect this fleeting life of mine with all my energies. Even if it means killing you, dear Jonathan.”

“What are your other choices?”

“I would hardly have come to the marketplace if I were not in a position to bargain.”

Big Ben entered the lounge. With his habitual broad smile, he started to join Jonathan, then he saw Miles, and sat at the bar instead, eyeing the blond wrestler with flagrant disdain.

“You might at least give me your attention, Jonathan.”

“A friend just walked in.”

“Does he realize the possible cost of that privilege?”

“You're wasting my time, Miles.”

“I may be saving your life.”

Jonathan retreated into his gentle combat smile.

“When I left CII, Jonathan, I went into business in San Francisco. I'm in transportation. I move things from one point to another point and distribute them. All sorts of things. It's amazingly profitable. But life has not been comfortable for me, with the specter of you lurking in every shadow.”