Touch of Magic (17 page)

"I've got everything set up for you, Channing.
I've rolled all your silks and have your glycerin out."
He noticed the watch she was starting to test with
her fingers. "What're you going to do?"

"Practice something new that I'm trying tonight.
Could you go to the coffee shop and get me a ginger
ale? I'm really thirsty."

It was crazy. She half feared if he watched her
practicing, he'd somehow guess what she was up to.
In any case, he couldn't be here when Bill Ellery
arrived with the bug.

  
As
Serafin
reached for the doorknob a swell of
caring rose in her throat that made speech difficult.
This wasn't how she'd meant things to be. He de
served better than what she was giving. She'd never
been much good at apologies, any more than she'd
been at flirting or cooking or a dozen other things
most women took for granted. Maybe she'd never
been very good at saying what she was feeling, either.

"
Serafin
." She hoped he'd be able to see through
the clumsiness of her words. "What kind of pet would you like to have when we get home?"

Eleven

Applause was sounding, and
Ballieu
joined in politely.
 
By his calculation the magic act would be next.

"They have such marvelous entertainment here,
don't you think?" asked Mildred Farrow with a timid uncertainty that grated on
Ballieu's
nerves.

Her hair was feathered back, and she wore a
white dress that looked rather nice on her.
Ballieu
smiled and let the back of his hand brush hers as he
reached for the snifter of brandy that sat between them.

Almost from the beginning his organization had
recognized the advantage he offered for blending into settings like this, where money and imperialist tastes went hand in hand. In the first place he was not afraid of being looked at, whereas others panicked. In the second he understood the wisdom of
making the little gestures, displaying the charm and
playing the games that kept those around him un
wary. Most important, of course, was his blondness,
and the ease with which he could wear expensive suits. The belligerent, the unkempt, the wild-eyed would be caught at this game.
Ballieu
had never
been caught.

  
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, an act whose
name says it all. She's -- the Magic Lady," the emcee
announced.

Ballieu
set his glass down abruptly and looked at
Mildred Farrow.

"Forgive me. I didn't know this would affect me.
My wife ... my wife was very fond of magic. I
think I'd like to see this alone."

He'd timed the move perfectly, and as he re
mained seated, Mildred Farrow got the message
that she was the one expected to leave.

"Oh... of course," she whispered.

Ballieu
sat back. Black velvet curtains were part
ing on stage. In front of them, at center, sat an
empty,
thronelike
chair. It was high-backed, with
plumes on the top and velvet upholstery. Suddenly
smoke puffed out and a woman sat in the midst of it
 
--
 
all in an instant.
Ballieu
found himself tensing.

The cleverness with which she'd materialized
was distracting. She held herself like a column of ebony in her long black gown. Her eyes seemed to
search him out and met his without flinching. Fire flashed from her fingertips. A wand appeared.

Anger rose like bile in
Ballieu's
throat. What did
she know about the deal that
Yussuf
had struck? Was
it really in jeopardy?

A boy in a cutaway coat stepped from the wings
to hand the Stuart woman a large square of red silk.
She performed in silence, accompanied by music.

  
Across the room,
Khadija
was also watching. Her hair was down. She looked like any other American
woman on the prowl.
Ballieu
hoped she did not
arouse too much interest. He might need her. More
than that, he hoped she was able to lay aside her zeal in favor of alertness.

Onstage, in her glittering black dress, the magi
cian had passed from tricks with scarves to filling a
bucket with coins that rained out of nowhere. Next she began to work with foot-wide silver rings that linked together. At last she tossed the rings to her assistant and came to the front of the stage where
she bowed to warm applause.

"And now I'll ask some of you in the audience to
assist me," she said, starting down.

Her eyes were on
Ballieu
again. He watched a
light flicker in them. They were hypnotic. Chal
lenging. Dark with a strange and unleashed boldness
Ballieu
thought could make her careless.

To his surprise she turned toward a woman in the
audience.

"Do you have a compact?" she asked.

She borrowed a fifty-dollar bill from a man at an
other table, made it vanish out of her hand, and reappear in the compact the woman was holding.

At last she began to make her way toward him.
Ballieu
could feel a magnetic thread connecting
them. Her hips were narrow. The sheath of her
short J-shaped knife swayed exotically. An absurd
affectation, making a trinket of a knife designed to kill and maim,
Ballieu
thought.

"Now if I could borrow a wristwatch," she said, stopping by his table. "You'll lend me one, won't you, sir? You look like a good sport."

   
Ballieu
had not anticipated she'd be fool enough
to focus every eye in the room on him. He didn't
like it. There was only one safe way to play the
situation.

"Of course," he said smoothly, stripping it from
his wrist.

His eyes never broke their connection, and hers
never wavered. She held out her hand. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"
Yussuf
set a trap. I can get you out. Terrace bar --
 
after the second show."

She turned toward a nearby table, her wrist flick
ing smartly over as she placed his watch in front of a
gray-haired woman.

"Now, will you just cover this with your hand?
You're sure it's a watch you're covering?"

When the woman in the audience removed her
hand,
Ballieu
saw his watch had been exchanged for
a book of matches. The watch appeared in another
man's pocket. The Stuart woman made jokes about
timing three-minute eggs with a pack of matches
and lighting a pipe with a watch, and everyone
laughed.

Ballieu
waited, wondering what she'd meant
about a trap. He'd expected blackmail, not this hint
of complicity.

She returned his watch.
Ballieu
felt a pain stab his
belly and reached into his pocket to unwrap an
other peppermint.

What was her game that she approached him so
boldly?

He crumpled the candy wrapper and rolled it
between his palms, thinking.

*
  
*
  
*

"Nothing," said Ellery bitterly, standing at the center of
Ballieu's
closet and surveying again the
items of clothing they'd searched seam by seam and
thread by thread. Using one side of the door as an anvil, he pounded the heel back onto one of
Bal
lieu's
shoes, which he'd been inspecting.

"That's every inch," said Walker, replacing the
air-conditioning grid he'd just removed.

They'd been in the room for almost an hour and
found no trace of money, no clue who might be
selling the film to
Ballieu
.

"Maybe he's paying in something he can carry on
him," said Walker. "A draft on a Swiss bank. Dia
monds. Even shoved up his ass, maybe."

"Yeah, maybe," echoed Ellery.

His shoulder itched from not being able to wash
it. Or maybe from healing. He was tired and
thought fleetingly how good it would feel to stretch
out with a drink and let down a little. But already
his mind was moving on downstairs to where
Channing
would be finishing her act about now. There'd
been no message from Max, who was watching her,
so she must be okay.

"Let's clear in case he comes up between shows,"
he said, looking at the clock built into the room's TV
cabinet.

They returned to the listening post. Walker slid in
under the headphones, twisted dials, and gave a sudden thumbs-up sign.

  
"Listen," he said, indicating a second pair of ear
phones. "I think she got it on him -- I can hear
voices. But either the damn thing's got static or he's
crinkling paper."

"Candy," said Ellery, listening a minute. "When I
spilled that drink to get a look at his watch, he was unwrapping candy."

Strange anomaly in a man who made war on inno
cent people.

Channing was to have scheduled her meeting
with
Ballieu
for after the second show. Ellery knew
she'd hold up her end, but he wasn't sure about
Ballieu
. He decided to go down early and get in position, just to be safe.

*
  
*
  
*

The terrace bar was the noisiest of Palacio Sol's late-night action spots. It was open-air, with a tile
floor and a mariachi band.

Under lantern light a few couples bumped along
on a postage-stamp-size dance floor: a trim older
duo who executed their intricate steps flawlessly
and without expression. A pair of lovers. A fat retiree hanging on to a girl with long black hair and a
sulky mouth. Channing stood for a minute, watching, screened by a piece of grillwork that held pots
of geraniums. Her heart beat so deep in her chest
and so coldly, it was hard for her to get her breath.

She tried to pick out details that would reassure
her. Ellery sat hunched above a glass, appearing
indifferent to the scene around him. Walker was at a
table laughing with two young women. Henri
Bal
lieu
sat a little apart, in the shadow of a low wall.
Alone. She felt strangled by sudden hate of what he
stood for, but along with the feeling came an unex
pected and numbing fear.

What if she couldn't do it?

What if she couldn't look in his eyes and hide
what she felt and make him believe her story?

But she was a Stuart. It was time for her to per
form.

Squaring her shoulders, she began to walk toward
Ballieu's
table. His head raised almost at once, as
though he could smell her.

He looked at her as she sat down. He didn't speak.
Neither did Channing. Around them the sights and
sounds blurred together, fireworks exploding in
bursts of noise and color. She could feel the air be
tween them throb as they challenged each other.
The hate she felt for him flowed into her, molding her and giving her the ruthlessness of the role she
played.

"I worked for
Yussuf
," she said boldly. "I know
about
Marinka
, Colón -- everything."

She waited to let the names sink in. His only response was the faint shrinking of his pupils.

"I've taken over his network," she said. "I want to
be on good terms with your organization.
Yussuf
was setting a trap for you, but there's a way
around--"