The Eiger Sanction (9 page)

“But, Jonathan—”

“I'm not going to take the job, Gem. I never do sanctions when I have enough money to get along. And I don't want to talk about it anymore. All right?”

She was silent. Then she made her decision. “All right.”

Jonathan kissed her feet and stood up. “Now how about that champagne?”

Her voice arrested him at the top of the loft stairs. “Jonathan?”

“Madam?”

“Am I your first black?”

He turned back. “Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters. I know you're a collector of paintings, and I wondered...”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “I ought to smack your bottom.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You still want some champagne?”

She opened her arms and beckoned with her fingers. “Afterwards.”

Nude, he swung out of bed and leaned over the choir loft rail. The steep angle of the tinted shafts of sunlight across the nave indicated late morning. He called for Jemima, his voice booming back satisfactorily from the arches.

She appeared at the door to the vestry-kitchen. “You roared, sir?”

“Good morning!”

“Good morning.” She wore the trim linen suit she had arrived in, and she seemed to glow white in the shadow. “I'll have coffee ready by the time you've bathed.” And she disappeared through the vestry door.

He splashed about in the Roman bath and sang, loudly but not well. What would they do today? Go into the city? Or just loaf around? It did not matter.

He toweled himself down and put on a robe. It had been years since he had slept so late. It must be nearly—Jesus Christ! The Pissarro! He had promised the dealer he would pick it up by noon!

He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting impatiently for the phone on the other end of the line to be picked up.

“Hello? Yes?” The dealers' voice had the curving note of artificial interest.

“Jonathan Hemlock.”

“Oh, yes. Where are you? Why are you calling?”

“I'm at my home.”

“I don't understand, Jonathan. It is after eleven. How can you be here by noon?”

“I can't. Look, I want you to hold the painting for me a couple of hours. I'm on my way now.”

“There is no need to rush. I cannot hold the painting. I told you I had another buyer. He is with me at this moment. It is tragic, but I warned you to be here on time. A deal is a deal.”

“Give me one hour.”

“My hands are tied.”

“You said the other buyer had offered twelve thousand. I'll match it.”

“If only I could, my good friend. But a deal is—”

“Name a price.”

“I am sorry, Jonathan. The other buyer says he will top any price you make. But, since you have offered fifteen thousand, I will ask him.” There was a mumble off-phone. “He says sixteen, Jonathan. What can I do?”

“Who is the other bidder?”

“Jonathan!” The voice was filled with righteous shock.

“I'll pay an extra thousand just to know.”

“How can I tell you, Jonathan? I am bound by my ethics. And furthermore, he is right here in the same room with me.”

“I see. All right, I'll give you a description. Just say yes if it fits. That's a thousand dollars for one syllable.”

“At that rate, think what the Megilloth would bring.”

“He's blond, crew-cut, chunky, small eyes—close set, face heavy and flat, probably wearing a sport jacket, his tie and socks will be in bad taste, he is probably wearing his hat in your home—”

“To a T, Jonathan. T as in thousand.”

It was Clement Pope. “I know the man. He must have a top price. His employer would never trust him with unlimited funds. I offer eighteen thousand.”

The dealer's voice was filled with respect. “You have that much in cash, Jonathan?”

“I have.”

There was another prolonged and angry mumble off-phone. “Jonathan! I have wonderful news for you. He says he can top your offer, but he does not have the cash with him. It will be several hours before he can get it. Therefore, my good friend, if you are here by one o'clock with the nineteen thousand, the painting is yours along with my blessing.”

“Nineteen thousand?”

“You have forgotten the fee for information?”

The painting would cost almost everything Jonathan had, and he would have to find some way to face his debts and Mr. Monk's wages. But at least he would have the Pissarro. “All right. I'll be there by one.”

“Wonderful, Jonathan. My wife will have a glass of tea for you. So now tell me, how are you feeling? And how are the children?”

Jonathan repeated the terms of the arrangement so there would be no mistake, then he hung up.

For several minutes he sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed in space, his hatred for Dragon and Pope collecting into an adamantine lump. Then he caught the smell of coffee and remembered Jemima.

She was gone. And the blue envelope, chubby with its hundred-dollar bills, was gone with her.

In a brace of rapid telephone calls designed to salvage at least the painting, Jonathan discovered that Dragon, weak after his semiannual transfusion, would not speak to him, and that the art dealer, although sympathetic to his problem and solicitous of his family's health, was firm in his intent to sell the Pissarro to Pope as soon as the money was produced.

Jonathan sat alone down in the gallery, his gaze fixed on the space he had reserved for the Pissarro. Beside him on the desk was an untouchedcafe au lait cup. And next to the cup was a note from Jemima:

Jonathan:

I tried to make you understand last night how important this assignment

Darling, I would give anything if

Yesterday and last night meant more to me than I can ever tell you, but there are things that

I had to guess. I hope you take sugar in your coffee.

Love (really) Jemima

She had taken nothing but the money. He found the clothes he had bought neatly folded on the kitchen table. Even their dishes from last night's supper were washed and put away.

He sat. Hours passed. Above him, unseen in the empty nave, shafts of colored light and blocks of shadow swung imperceptibly on silent hinges, and evening came.

The bitterest part of his anger was turned inward.

He was ashamed at being so gullible. Her warmth and radiance had blinded him, a self-inflicted abacination.

In his mental list of those who had used friendship as a weapon against him, he inscribed Jemima's name under Miles Mellough's.

“The moving finger writes,” he mused to himself, “and having writ, gestures.”

He closed the door to the gallery and locked it—for the last time that summer.

Mrs. Cerberus bent over him, her lepidote face creased with concern as she withdrew a large needle from his hip. Dragon winced, but quickly converted the expression into a thin smile.

It was the first time Jonathan had been in the bedroom behind Dragon's office. The chamber was small and draped entirely in black, and the hospital stench was overpowering. Jonathan sat unmoving on a wooden bedside chair.

“They feed me intravenously for a few days after each transfusion. Sugar and salt solution. Not a gourmet's menu, you will agree.” Dragon turned his head on the pillow, directing the black eyepads toward Jonathan. “I take it by your arctic silence that you are not overwhelmed by my stoicism and brave good humor?”

Jonathan did not respond.

With a wave so feeble that gravity tugged the hand down, Dragon dismissed Mrs. Cerberus, who brushed past Jonathan with a swish of starched clothes.

“I normally enjoy our chats, Hemlock. They have an exhilarating spice of dislike about them.” He spoke in aspirate breaths, stopping midphrase when necessary, allowing his labored exhalation to group the words arbitrarily. “But in this condition I am not an adequate intellectual rival. So forgive me for coming directly to the point. Where is Miss Brown?”

“Oh? Is that really her name?”

“As it happens, yes. Where is she?”

“You're telling me you don't know?”

“She turned the money over to Mr. Pope yesterday. After which she quite disappeared. You'll forgive me if I suspect you.”

“I don't know where she is. But I'm interested. If you find out, please tell me.”

“I see. Remember, Hemlock, she is one of ours. And you are in an ideal position to know what happens to those who harm our people.”

“Let's talk about the assignment.”

“Nothing must happen to Miss Brown, Hemlock.”

“Let's talk about the assignment.”

“Very well.” Dragon sighed, shuddering with the effort. “But I regret your loss of sportsmanship. How does the Americanism go? Win a few...?”

“Did you used to pull the wings off flies when you were young, Dragon?”

“Certainly not! Not flies.”

Jonathan chose not to pursue the subject. “I assume the sanction has to do with the second man in Montreal. The one who was wounded in the struggle with whoeveritwas?”

“Agent Wormwood. Yes. At the time we sent you to Montreal, Search knew almost nothing about this second man. Since that time, they have been piecing together fragments of information—rumors, second sheets from note pads, statements from informers, swatches of taped telephone conversations—all the usual bits from which guilt is constructed. To be truthful, we still have less information than we have ever worked with before. But it is absolutely vital that the man be sanctioned. And quickly.”

“Why? It wouldn't be the first time your people pulled a blank. What's so important about this man?”

Dragon's phosphorescent brow wrinkled as he balanced a problem for a moment, then he said, “Very well, I'll tell you. Perhaps then you will understand why we have behaved so harshly with you. And perhaps you will share our anxiety over this man.” He paused, seeking a place to begin. “Tell me, Hemlock. From your Army Intelligence experience, how would you describe the ideal biological weapon?”

“Is this small talk?”

“Most pertinent.”

Jonathan's voice took on the pendulum rhythm of recitation. “The disease should kill, but not quickly. The infected should require hospitalization and care, so that each case pulls one or two attendants out of action along with the victim. It should spread of itself by contact and contagion so that it will expand beyond the perimeters of the attack zone, carrying panic with it. And it must be something against which our own forces can be protected.”

“Exactly. In short, Hemlock, certain virulent forms of bubonic would be ideal. Now, for years the other side has been working to develop a biological weapon based on bubonic. They have come a long way. They have perfected the delivery device; they have isolated a strain of virus with ideal characteristics; and they have injections that render their forces immune.”

“I guess we'd better not piss them off.”

Dragon winced with semantic pain. “Ah, the slums. Never far from the surface with you, are they? Fortunately, our own people have not been idle. We have made considerable strides in similar directions.”

“Defensively, of course.”

“A retaliatory weapon.”

“Certainly. After all, we wear the white hats.”

“I'm afraid I do not understand.”

“An Americanism.”

“I see. Now, both sides have reached impasses. Our people lack the ability to immunize against the virus. The other side lacks a satisfactory culture medium that will keep the virus alive through the extremes of temperature and shock involved in intercontinental missile delivery. We are working on discovering their process of immunization, and they would like very much to know the composition of our culture medium.”

“Have you considered direct barter?”

“Please don't feel called upon to lighten my illness with little jokes, Hemlock.”

“How does all this fascinating business affect me?”

“CII was given the assignment of delaying the other side's progress.”

“The task was entrusted to CII? The CII of the Cuban Invasion? The CII of the Gaza incident? The CII of the Spy Ships? It would seem our government enjoys playing Russian roulette with an automatic.”

Dragon's voice was crisp. “In point of fact, Dr. Hemlock, we have gone a long way toward effectively negating their entire biological warfare program.”

“And how was this wonder accomplished?”

“By allowing them to intercept our formula for the culture medium.” There was a certain pride in Dragon's tone.

“But not the real one,” Jonathan assumed.

“But not the real one.”

“And they are so stupid that they will not discover this.”

“It is not a matter of stupidity. The medium passes every laboratory test. When our people stumbled upon it—”

“Sounds like our people.”

“...when our people came upon the medium, they believed they had the answer to keeping the virus alive under ail conditions. We gave it exhaustive tests. If we had not chanced to test it under combat conditions, we would never have discovered its flaw.”

“Under combat conditions?”

“This is none of your affair.” Dragon was angry at himself for the slip.

“It's about those white hats.”

Dragon seemed to slump with fatigue, although he made no movement. He appeared to collapse from within, to become smaller in the chest and thinner in the face. He drew several shallow breaths, blowing each out through slack lips and puffing cheeks.

“So then, Hemlock,” he continued after recovery, “you can understand our urgency.”

“Frankly, I don't. If we're so far out ahead in this criminal competition...” he shrugged.

“We recently suffered a great setback. Three of our most important scientists have died within the last month.”

“Assassination?”

“No-o.” Dragon was palpably uncomfortable. “I told you that we had not yet developed an effective immunization, and... This is not a laughing matter, Hemlock!”

“I'm sorry.” Jonathan wiped the tears from his eyes and attempted to control himself. “But the poetic justice...” He laughed afresh.

“You are easily moved to risibility.” Dragon's voice was icy. “May I go on?”

Jonathan waved a permissive hand and chuckled again to himself.

“The method we used to allow the medium to fall into enemy hands was not without brilliance. We had it transferred to one of our agents, this Wormwood, in Montreal.”

“And you let the fact of the transfer leak to the other side.”

“More subtle than that, Hemlock. We did everything in our power to prevent them from intercepting—with one exception. We used an incompetent agent for the job.”

“You just pushed this ass out in the traffic and let them run over him?”

“Wormwood was a man of dangerously limited abilities. Sooner or later...” He made a gesture of inevitability. “At this point, you enter the picture. For our little ploy to be successful, the assassination of Wormwood had to be avenged just as though we were seriously chagrined at his loss. Indeed, considering the importance of the information, the other side would expect us to sanction with more than usual vigor. And we must not disappoint them. CII considers it vital to the national defense that we pursue and liquidateboth of the men involved in the assassination. And—for certain reasons—you are the only man who can accomplish the second sanction.” Dragon paused, his mathematical mind scanning over the conversation to judge if he had left any vital matter out. He decided he had not. “Do you understand now why we brought such uncommon pressure to bear on you?”

“Why am I the only man who can accomplish the sanction?”

“First. Do you accept this assignment?”

“I accept.”

The cotton tuft eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. “Just like that? No further aggression?”

“You'll pay for it.”

“I expect to. But not too much, of course.”

“We'll see. Tell me about the target.”

Dragon paused to collect his strength. “Allow me to begin with the details of Wormwood's murder. There were two men involved. The active role was played by Garcia Kruger, now no longer with us. It was probably he who delivered the first blow; it was almost certainly he who cut open Wormwood's throat and stomach with a pocket knife to retrieve the pellet he had swallowed. The second man was evidently not prepared for violence on this level. He was sickened by the operation; he vomited on the floor. I tell you this to acquaint you with the kind of man you will be dealing with. From his actions in the room and after, Search estimates that he is not a professional from the other side. The chances are that he was involved in the business for the money—a motive you must be sympathetic with.”

“What's my target's name?”

“We don't know.”

“Where is he now?”

“We don't know.”

With growing doubt, Jonathan asked, “You have a description, haven't you?”

“Only the vaguest, I'm afraid. The target is male, not a Canadian citizen, and he is evidently an accomplished mountain climber. We were able to put that much together from one letter delivered to his hotel several days after his departure.”

“That's lovely. You want me to kill every climber who hasn't the good fortune to be Canadian.”

“Not quite. Our man will be involved in a climb in the Alps this summer.”

“That narrows it to maybe three or four thousand men.”

“Fewer than that, Hemlock. We know which mountain he will attempt.”

“Well?”

“The Eiger.” Dragon waited for the effect.

After a pause filled with images of the most terrifying moments in his climbing career, Jonathan asked with fatalistic assurance, “North Face, of course.”

“That is correct.” Dragon enjoyed the concern evident in Jonathan's voice. He knew of the two disastrous attempts Jonathan had made on that treacherous face, each of which had failed to claim his life by only the narrowest margin.

“If this man is taking a shot at the Eigerwand, the chances are good that my work will be done for me.” Jonathan admired the target, whoever he was.

“I am not a pantheist, Hemlock. God is acknowledgedly on our side, but we are less sure of Nature. After all, you twice attempted the face, and yet you are alive.” Dragon took pleasure in reminding him that: “Of course, both of your attempts were unsuccessful.”

“I got back off the face alive both times. For Eigerwand, that's a kind of success.” Jonathan turned back to business. “Tell me, how many teams are now training for a go at the North Face?”

“Two. One is an Italian team—”

“Forget that one. After the '57 affair, no sane man would go on the hill with an Italian team.”

“So my researchers have informed me. The other attempt is scheduled for six weeks from now. The International Alpine Association is sponsoring a goodwill climb to be made by representative climbers from Germany, Austria, France, and the United States.”

“I've read about it.”

“The American representative was to have been a Mr. Lawrence Scott.”

Jonathan laughed. “I know Scotty well; we've climbed together. You're insane if you imagine he had anything to do with the Montreal business.”

“I am not insane. My disability is acroma, not acromania. We share your belief in Mr. Scott's innocence. Recall that I said hewas to have been the American representative. Unfortunately, he had an automotive accident yesterday, and he will not climb for many years, if ever.”