Fountain Society Part 5

"Then we catch a plane."

"Together?"

She was gazing at him hopefully, lips slightly parted. Suddenly, instead of answering, he was kissing her and she was straddling him, pulling her T-shirt over her head. He ran his fingertips gently over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the lightest possible touch, and she smiled and closed her eyes as if to say, you know me, you know me perfectly. Within seconds, they were moving together in a light of their own making. It pa.s.sed beyond understanding, his love and desire for this woman, be- yond cellular memory or anything his science could conceive, and it alarmed him deeply. The effortless way he picked up on her every mood shift, every subtle alteration in her need, their easy rapture and total unity, all this terrified and electrified him to the core. Midnight came. He waited while she dressed and dried his clothes in the hotel's laundry room, briefly waking the proprietor. Then she led him downstairs to her car. She woke the sleeping guard with the word, "To ro," and he jolted awake and opened the gate. Elizabeth drove them to within a mile of the base. For a quarter of an hour they sat in her rented car saying nothing, unable to part. At last he opened the door, got out, and at the instant he turned around she was climbing out from behind the wheel. They kissed again under the canopy of stars, this time for so long he lost all sense of danger. He watched her make a U-turn and drive back in the direction of the Casa del Frances. For the last two hours, neither one had spoken a word. I know her, he thought with a shudder. I know her so well. Everything but her name.

And Beatrice?

At the moment, he couldn't even picture his wife's face without seeing this woman's. It was as though they were the same face. That was the most terrifying thing of all.

Back in her room in the middle of packing, Elizabeth stopped and picked up the phone. If, as it seemed, she was going to vanish for a while, there were people she should call. Annie, of course, and maybe her landlord, and the people at Helvetica. And Rose-Anne, Hans's mother.

It was now one o'clock in the morning, and eight hours later in Zurich. She dialed Zurich information using her calling card and asked for Rose-Anne Brinkman. She was given two numbers, one for an R. Brinkman, one for a Rose-Anne Brinkman. At the first number, a young girl answered in German. When Elizabeth asked if Rose-Anne was there, the girl said she was RoseAnne. Elizabeth apologized, dialed the second number and waited through four rings. "Yes?"

"Rose-Anne? It's Elizabeth." Silence.

"Rose-Anne, h.e.l.lo?"

"Elizabeth, where are you, you sound so far away" Lizzy, she thought, don't say anything that isn't necessary. "Rose-Anne, I've got some shocking news. "Oh, Lord, should I be sitting down?"

"Yes." Elizabeth took a deep breath. "It's about Hans." "G.o.d, what now?"

"No, it's good news. Hans is alive." There was complete silence. "Rose-Anne, did you hear me? Are you okay?" There was a sharp crack on the line, then utter silence. "Rose-Anne?" She listened hard. "h.e.l.lo?" She looked at the phone as if the instrument itself held an explanation for its silence. She pressed the receiver b.u.t.ton, looked for the redial b.u.t.ton. There was none. And no dial tone.

It took her a long moment to realize that the line had gone dead. A serpent of fear coiled into the room. It wrapped around her and stifled her breathing until she became dizzy. She went to the window and looked out, and listened for any' sounds that shouldn't be there. Outside was a cl.u.s.ter of date palms, an oblong of asphalt, and a lead-blue sky with a few cirrus clouds. Somewhere, a twin-engine plane was circling. She rechecked the Street, then crossed the room and opened her closet. She was packed and closing her bag when she heard a tiny creak outside her door. Then a knock.

Then a long pause.

Someone was listening on the other side.

She put her ear to the door, then jumped back, scared silly by a second, sharper knock. She held her breath until her lungs ached. "Miss Parker? Are you in there? I can see your Iight's on." Ivor Greeley. She exhaled, tried to sound normal. "Yes, Ivor, what is it?" "We gotta talk."

"Why?"

"Can you open the door?"

She looked around for a heavy object. "Can't it wait fill morning?" "You have to leave in the morning. I just thought I should tell you that tonight, since you're up." She stared at the door, the hotel regulations, the exit diagram, as though they were instructions from G.o.d. Why was Ivor awake at this hour? "Leave? Why?"

"I think you know why.

"I'm sorry, but I don't."

"Because, Miss Parker, your credit card's no good." She regrouped. It was a simple misunderstanding of some kind and Greeley didn't sound threatening at all. A little put out, but entirely businesslike. She undid the chain and pulled open the door. He stood there sad-eyed, shrugging. "Sorry, I didn't mean to spook you. But you're gonna have to leave first thing tomorrow. You can spend the rest of tonight here, of course." "Listen, I've got another card, let me get it for you." "No, that won't do any good either."

She stopped halfway to her purse. "Why not?" "Because," he said sternly, "when I called Visa they said the card was stolen and that probably any other card you gave me would be, too. Really, I don't have time for these kinds of shenanigans in my hotel. That's why I got out of Boston in the first place." He turned on his heel and walked back down the hall. In the garden beyond, a parrot began to shriek. Elizabeth closed her door, then reopened it. "Ivor?" she called. His head reappeared, eyes narrowing. "Did you turn off my phone, too?" He looked bewildered. "No. Your phone? No, I wouldn't even know how to do that." He started off again.

"One other thing, if you wouldn't mind telling me?" He swung around with a look of impatience. "The person at Visa who told you that? Did you happen to get her name?" "Now why would I do that? Anyway, it was a man, very polite. Said maybe you were just a runaway wife and I shouldn't be too hard on you." He turned and disappeared for good. Elizabeth shut the door and relocked it. No way that had been Visa, she realized with a sinking feeling. She paid her bill in full every month. Hans had warned that they would trace her here, but now that they had, now what? Without a credit card she wouldn't have enough money to rent a kayak, let alone a boat that could make it to Puerto Rico. She sat down on the bed and thought hard. Call Annie, have her wire money. But could she get it here in time? Or would it get to her at all? She picked up the phone. Still dead.

Get out, she thought. Get off this G.o.dd.a.m.n Vieques as fast as you can.

No. Not without Hans.

But what if he's not coming? He had hinted as much and had lied to her so many times in the past." He had kept an entire ident.i.ty hidden, so how could she trust him now? The look in his eyes, when she had mentioned the photos of the body, So strange, almost startled." And why hadn't he asked more questions about his mother? And the way he had told her he was married, as though it would be news to her, as if they had never once talked about Yvette." Had the CIA messed with his head, selectively erasing his memories? And who was this person on the base to whom he was so loyal? Obviously, I don't want to know, she thought." Otherwise I would have asked." He loved her, that was all she cared about." Of that, crazily, she hadn't the slightest doubt." But the question was, did that make her an even bigger fool? His love had drawn her into danger, and now she Was even less certain about him." What she really knew was that she didn't want to spend another second in this hotel room. It was totally unprotected, accessible from the street by a st.u.r.dy trellis, She was being evicted, she couldn't talk to anyone, and her phone had probably been bugged. Go! She grabbed the car keys." Somewhere public, that's where she had to go." Maybe to an all-night bar or to any place where there were other people. She would have to hold on until morning and, one way or the other, get the boat Hans had asked her to rent and make their rendezvous. How? She didn't have a clue."

13.

Approaching the front gate of the base on foot, Peter was an immediate target of suspicion. The guard, a jug-eared kid with a Texas accent, unslung his M-16 and asked Peter to stop right where he was and present identification. Peter handed over his wallet, still waterlogged, which didn't help matters. The guard clicked his weapon off safety onto fire, then read the driver's license. "This yours?"

"Yes, I'm Peter Jance. I work on the base. Is there a problem?" "Yeah, there's a problem. You look pretty young for someone born in 1924, that's the problem." Jesus, Peter thought, they never even bothered to give me false identification papers. Where there's stupidity there's hope. "That's a misprint," he fumbled. "I was born in 1964. I've just never had the time to have it corrected." "And this photo is you?"

"Yes," said Peter, toughing it out.

"I heard of bad driver's license pictures, but not this bad." The guard handed it back. "Why don't you go back to town, dude? You ain't funny." "I'm Dr. Peter Jance. Check your personnel directory." The guard yanked on a large red earlobe and gave him a look of mounting impatience. "Stay there." He went to the guard shack, made a call, listened, and hung up, returning looking downright p.i.s.sed off. "No one by that name listed. You'd do well to get moving." He adjusted his weapon so that it pointed in the general direction of Peter and leaned against the doorway. "All right." said Peter. "It's a cla.s.sified project, so I'm probably not listed. Call Dr. Frederick Wolfe." "Yeah, right."

"Beatrice Jance. She's my wi...mother."

"I ain't calling n.o.body. And you need to get out of my face unless you want to be in a whole world of trouble. Sir." "Call Colonel Henderson, then. He'd be delighted to see me, I'm sure. At the mention of Henderson's name, the guard blinked for the first time. "Colonel Henderson knows me, Peter a.s.sured him. The kid picked up the phone again. He dialed someone-an aide, Peter prayed, not Henderson himself. After talking for a moment, and then listening intently for a few more, the guard slammed down the phone, turned and trained his weapon on Peter. "Get down on the ground spread-eagle, you sorry motherf.u.c.ker! Now!" The kid was jumping out of his skin and Peter did as he was told, lying abjectly on the asphalt while the guard fidgeted and made sounds with his weapon that Peter didn't want to think about. Finally a vehicle roared up and several men approached swiftly. He was just about to look up when two pairs of hands picked him up bodily-tonight's guard and the guard he had encountered the night before. They opened the door to the Humvee and shoved him inside. He hit the floor hard. Someone new jumped in beside him, holding a gun to his face and telling him to hold still if he f.u.c.king knew what was good for him. The vehicle fired up and hung a sharp U-turn, roaring back onto the base. At the entrance to the restricted wing, the driver stopped and the other guard threw open the door, instructing Peter to go wait in his room until further notice. Peter watched as the new guard-a small, quick Italian with a New York air-waved his 9-millimeter at Peters suite of rooms. Peter took out his keycard, tried not to shake as he swept the card through the magnetic slot, and entered through the side door. Walking down the hail, he felt like a bug under a poised heel. If ever there was a doubt that all his charisma and privilege could be taken away in an instant, it was gone now. There was everything in the way he had just been treated that spoke of his own physical disposability. He could almost hear the orders that must have been given, something to the effect that if Jance gives you any problems, waste the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. His suite was dark and deserted, with no sign of Beatrice or her belongings-just bare beige walls, two forlorn botanical prints in the bedroom and the well-worn Motel 6 furniture. Even the Erlenmeyer flask, Beatrice's one personal touch, was gone, its spray of dried chrysanthemums scattered on the floor like so much refuse. "Beatrice?" he called into the dark.

No answer. He was alone. Free and abandoned at the same time. With rising panic, he yanked open drawers, gathering loose cash, traveler's checks, his pa.s.sport and as much clothing as he could cram into an old duffel bag. Then he looked at the door. They had told him to go to his room and wait. They'd not said he couldn't go elsewhere, but they sure as h.e.l.l hadn't included that in his options. In fact, there were no options. Go to your room. Wait.

f.u.c.k them. He needed to get out of there. And before he did, he desperately needed to see Beatrice. To make amends, to say goodbye, to plead for her forgiveness. He thought that perhaps all he could do, really. was to say that he had become, or was becoming, someone or something other than what he had been. It was a possibility they all should have thought of, each of them. Only now there was no more time for thinking. Based on the sorry reality of what they had created, now there was time only for action. He had to be with this woman, this nameless magnet of life force and longing that was drawing him with an attraction he could never have resisted, even if he wanted to. And he didn't want to.

He went back to the corridor, closing the door quietly behind him. The hallway lights, tissue-sized moths banging soundlessly off their globes, shone yellow and dim all the way to where the breezeway branched off. Strange moth shadows chased over the asphalt-block walls. How was he going to find his wife? He had no way of knowing if Beatrice was in her lab, or in her new room, wherever that might be. Maybe she was in some dark cabal with Wolfe and Henderson. He would have to find somebody who knew where she was. Maybe Rosemarie Wiener or Cap Chu or Flannagan? One of them must know her whereabouts. Reaching the entrance door, he peered outside. Immediately he jerked back. Just outside, two guards had been positioned, armed and equipped with walkie-talkies. He was imprisoned, he realized, and his jailers were armed to the teeth and p.i.s.sed off at him. Had he been stupid to come back?

No, he told himself, without his pa.s.sport there was no way to disappear. And to disappear was the only course open to him now. Even if he had never encountered the woman on the beach, he had by means of his protean work completed his weapons design without completing any escape plan, rendering himself superfluous. And by openly questioning what they were up to, he had actually pushed himself into the dangerous cla.s.sification of major irritant. His wife couldn't stand to be in the same apartment with him. His old friend and compet.i.tor, Frederick Wolfe, would now probably just as soon see him dead. Henderson would forget him in a day and be glad the bottom line was more secure. And beyond Wolfe and Henderson? Above them was just a dark presence, a Kafkaesque world of shadowy agencies and faceless powers to whom he was only a p.a.w.n. He had a glimpse, then, of the whole apparatus of power, vast and multidimensional, ranging from the violence of the quarkriddled atoms to the parry and thrust of nations, empires and DNA. In this maelstrom, he was nothing. And in this there was no way to escape oblivion if that's what they wanted. His entire chain of genetic material, fragile but vital and stretching back to the beginnings of the species, now hinged on the brink of utter and irrevocable extinction, and he was powerless to fight it. He stood in that cold wind for a long, dark moment. f.u.c.k it. Death was the ultimate emperor without clothes. If they blasted him to atoms today. his atoms would merge with those of other poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, roaches, lost species, burned rain forests and the endless compost heap of pa.s.sing humanity and rea.s.semble in a millennium or two into the stuff of stars and brave new worlds somewhere else. There was no death. f.u.c.k it all.

He had to find Beatrice now, but could he? He had no idea. Worse, he felt the notion rising that if he could not see her, he didn't want to leave. Should he just fling himself out the door and scream her name? He had a notion of Brando in Streetcar and realized how ridiculous that was. But then what? At that supreme moment of doubt and pain, two male voices rang out from the end of the hallway. A swath of light swept across the wall, and a lean, disheveled figure emerged from a door. Alex Davies. Hunched and cursing. Expecting Wolfe to come barging out after his grandson, Peter prudently backed toward his room, turning the k.n.o.b behind him and tossing in the old duffel bag. But the door at the end of the hall slammed shut and Wolfe didn't appear. There was only Alex, charging down the corridor in a blue rage. When he saw Peter, half in, half out of his room, Alex stopped dead, then approached at a slower pace. "Motherf.u.c.kers," he muttered, turning one way and then the other, as if some pointed rejoinder had just occurred to him, making him want to go back and restart the battle with his grandfather. But he didn't have the stomach for that. He sagged against the wall and ran his hands through his hair, looking near tears. "He's out of his f.u.c.king mind," he said to Peter, as though Peter had been privy to every word. "Alex, do you know where Beatrice is?"

The kid looked at him strangely, then laughed shakily and shook his head. "Man, I don't know. She's gottta be p.i.s.sed at you, though." "But you have no idea where she is?"

"Not a clue. Grandpa put her up someplace, I don't know where. You want me to give her a message if I see her?" "Yes. Tell her that I apologize, that I'm sorry for everything. Tell her I'll be in touch." "Why, where are you going? Peter?" Alex peeled himself off the wall and stepped closer. "Hey, don't be stupid, if you're thinking of being as stupid as I think you are. These guys aren't just playing with you, you understand that, don't you?" "Yes, I do understand."

Alex took that in, realizing from the look of devastation and surrender in Peter's face that he indeed did understand. "Wow. So what are you gonna do?" he asked. "Watch my a.s.s," said Peter, a phrase he had heard over and over on the base. He knew he had already said far too much. Inching back toward his door, he began to make goodbye gestures. Alex Davies glanced over his shoulder, then approached Peter and socked him lightly on the arm. "I'm with you, man," he said conspiratorially. Then, with a cautionary arch of his brows, he raced off down the corridor. The instant the kid was out of sight, Peter ducked back into his room, grabbed the duffel bag and went out onto the balcony, moving quietly as a cat. Looking down, he saw the sentry, still on guard, and on a cell phone talking to someone who sounded like a girlfriend. Luck, thought Peter. b.a.s.t.a.r.d's breaking regulations and giving me a break all at once. In one smooth move, he vaulted over the railing-feeling in that split second of falling utter release and commitment. And then he slammed into the kid and took him to the ground. The kid didn't have time to yell before Peter had him up against the wall, nailing him with a left hook and a right cross that drove his head back into the stucco, dropping him like a sack of lead shot. He looked at the guy's weapons. In his heart a blind fury was growing, fed by lack of information, a tsunami of guilt and the overwhelming sense that his life would never be peaceful again. This was beyond life or death. This all had to do, he realized with a blinding insight, with the survival of this woman who had loved him so completely that his entire being had been altered. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to protect and defend her and make a place for themselves outside the madness his life had become. So be it. Removing the guard's service pistol, he then unloaded the rifle and threw the clip of ammunition into the trees. Then he turned and ran. Beyond the breezeway he veered past the core labs through a field of waisthigh gra.s.s toward the motor pool. The Humvee that had brought him from the gate was in its berth; the keys were in it. It was the simplest of matters to slip inside. He did not have so much as a second thought, nor any thought at all when he came to the front gate doing nearly sixty and saw that the guard had already been alerted. The muzzle flashes registered no more than heat lightning on a distant horizon; he felt no fear whatsoever. He slammed the accelerator to the floorboard and crashed through the gate, sending the guard diving for his life. Peter was vaguely impressed by his driving skills. After the BMW episode he hadn't cared much for speed, but now his right foot had a mind of its own, and even his hands seemed to know what to do. Without a moment's hesitation he put the Humvee into an effortless J-turn that snapped it ninety degrees onto the two-lane blacktop and out of sight before another base vehicle could follow. He followed the road over the hill, then slowed and cut stealthily into the bush, taking care to leave no signs of egress. Then he struck off cross-country, sometimes on farm roads, sometimes on cattle lanes, once even following a stream, as he had seen Hopalong Ca.s.sidy do once in a film he had loved as a kid. He smiled grimly. This was fun, really it was. Perfect for the job, the Humvee flew over the varied terrain with all the competency its engineers had designed and the taxpayers had paid for. Something to be said for the military after all, thought Peter bitterly. Even better, this would save him from traveling on five miles of twisting highway and keep him away from roadblocks. The bay. All he could concentrate on was reaching the bay.

Elizabeth had decided to drive into town and get lost among the tourists. But when she arrived at her Honda, she found it up on the hoist of an Island Towing truck. The driver, a native with long hair and lots of att.i.tude, looked up with a don't-f.u.c.k-up-my-day look. "What the h.e.l.l you doing?" she demanded. He didn't bother to take the cigarette out of his mouth, or to stop lifting the Honda. "Confiscating this car. "At three in the morning?"

"Best time to find it home."

"But that's my car.

"I think it's Hertz's car."

He locked off the hoist and walked back to his truck's cab, pursued by Elizabeth. "But they have my American Express imprint!" "Card's no good," the driver said. "No credit, no car." He slammed the truck's door and fired up the engine. Elizabeth raced back to her car and squinted through the windows to see if she had left anything inside. The tourist map and the rental agreement were jammed between the front seats, but before she could open the door the truck was gone, taking her Honda with it. "f.u.c.ker!" Her shout was lost in the night, and with the truck's unm.u.f.fled roar, she knew the driver hadn't even heard her. Not that he would give a rat's a.s.s, she thought. She stood for a moment, furious and wondering what the h.e.l.l to do next. Then another kind of thought came to her: the coquis were silent. Looking around her, she realized it was completely dark and utterly quiet. She was alone and so very small against the stars. She walked back through the gate. For some reason it was open. As usual, the ex-matador was tipped back in his folding chair, and the thought came foolishly to her that she ought to report him. Maybe that would put Greeley enough on the defensive that she could enlist his aid in renting another car. But she didn't have the heart. She called to the old man. "Toro! Toro!"

He didn't stir.

Then she noticed something under his chair, a glint of moonlight in a widening pool. Stepping closer, she saw that his pants were also dark with it. It was too thick, too red to be anything but blood. For some reason she couldn't scream, though terror shrieked in- side her head. She crept closer, hoping she could somehow help him, the hair on her arms rising like insects crawling on her skin. Despite the darkness, she now could see that his throat had been slashed from ear to ear. She was running before she knew it.

She tore across the parking lot and into the hotel, taking in with a desperate animal awareness just how open tropical places were: open verandas, open terraces, strips of thin bamboo where doors should be. In the darkened lobby, she stopped. She could hear music from the owner's apartment. "Ivor! Call the police!"

No answer.

She wondered if he had decided to have nothing more to do with her. "ivor?" His door was half-open.

She went to it and tried to ease it open a little further, but it wouldn't budge. Something was up against it on the other side. From the way the flimsy door gave at the top but not at the bottom, she knew that whatever it was, it was on the floor. Putting her shoulder to the door, she got it open far enough to poke her head through the opening. What she saw sickened and terrified her. There was Ivor, an ashen mask of horrified surprise on his face. Next she noticed the blood. A moment later she realized she was standing in it. Turning on her b.l.o.o.d.y heels she ran back to her room, slamming the door and bolting it. The lock was old and worn and the whole door so flimsy it could be penetrated with a fist. Grabbing a heavy wooden chair, she tried to wedge it under the doork.n.o.b, but it wouldn't hold. She looked around for something even heavier to drag in front of the door, but the largest thing in the room was the bed and it was so light she could move it with her knees. Quickly, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone. There was still no dial tone, but now there was some noise on the line and, after a pause, a man's whisper. "Russell? You get her?"

She dropped the phone before she realized it was slipping from her grasp. As it clattered to the desk, she knew that whoever was on the other end would be instantly alerted. The first wave of panic flooded through her body. She stumbled into the bathroom and pulled the bolt across. Two barriers now stood between her and whoever was out there. she told herself, which might give her enough time to escape through the window over the bathtub. Throwing open the shower curtain, she very nearly climbed into the arms of a bearish man wearing Bermuda shorts and a Budweiser T-shirt. "Hey," he said, lurching toward her.

But she had already leaped back, screaming at last, until she slammed against the locked door that knocked her into a sudden state of hyperalertness. It was as if some primal self were saying-This is life or death! Fortunately the huge man with the beard had caught his foot on the edge of the tub as he made his move, falling flat on his face on the floor behind her. It gave her the instant she needed to fumble the lock open, but a split second later the man grabbed her ankle. Now thinking with absolute clarity, she brought her free foot backward as hard as she could and caught him flush in the face. She heard something crack and hoped she had broken his nose, her panic lessening with the realization that she could hurt him. As she spun in the open doorway she saw him rise up, clutching his face with both hands. Blood was pouring through his fingers and his eyes were blind with tears, but he was holding a fillet knife and stumbling toward her. Everything was coming at her with a kind of slow-motion intensity, like a series of slalom poles on a downhill run. Finally making it to the hall door, she flung it open and ran, only to collide immediately with someone standing in the outside hallway. This man was in his mid-thirties, with bone-white skin, clear blue eyes and closecropped hair. She caught a glimpse of his creased trousers and fitted shirt, realizing that he had to be military. She saw him bring a leg up, reach under the cuff and pull out a knife. He was a Seal, she knew, and the knife was standard-issue. How she knew this she had no idea, but she did and there it was. She staggered back into the room and the man with the b.l.o.o.d.y nose stood up behind her. "Jesus H. Christ," the Seal said, "why don't you just make a mess of it, pal?" "She's tough," the other man said, grabbing Elizabeth by the hair. He had his hand on her blouse and murder was in his eyes when the Seal spun him around and put the knife to his chin. "Right now your nose is b.l.o.o.d.y. You want to dispense with it altogether?" "Hey, f.u.c.k you, Russell," said the bearded man, his eyes twisted down toward the knife touching his left carotid artery'. He softened his voice a little. "You said this gig would be easy." "I also said," the Seal responded calmly, "that you were not personally authorized to harm her." The bearish man blinked slowly. as though trying to locate some plug that had just been pulled in his cortex. The effort at reconnection apparently failed: despite the Seal's warning he hauled Elizabeth against his crotch and tried to force his tongue into her mouth. The Seal reversed his knife and drove down with the pointed steel end of its handle, punching through the bearded man's skull and penetrating a full inch into his brain. Jerking upright with an incredulous look on his face, the man pitched backward over a coffee table and crashed to the floor. In seizure, he thrashed, his arms twitching while a thin thread of foam trailed from the coiner of his mouth. Then he was still. Elizabeth, suspended in that icy s.p.a.ce between terror and nausea, stared at a spot on the wall. "Amateur Night," said the man named Russell. He turned to Elizabeth. "Come here," he ordered, taking a length of rope from his back pocket. He's going to hang me, Elizabeth thought wildly. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted it behind her. He was incredibly strong, slamming her into a wall until she could not move. She felt her head pulled back by the hair, she saw the knife arc toward her throat, and then it stopped. "If I wanted to," he said very quietly, "I could have already killed you. But I follow orders." As he began to twist the rope around her wrists, someone crashed into him from behind. The attack was so sudden and fierce Elizabeth thought for an erratic moment that it might be some sort of wild animal. In horror, she watched as the Seal flew away from her, another man on his back as the two crashed over the couch and onto the floor. In the next second she saw that it was Peter, lurching up, seeing the Seal diving for the knife. Peter fell on him, grabbing his wrist the split second before Russell caught him with an elbow under the chin. Peter reeled back and Russell leapt on him, planting a knee on his chest and stabbing down. Peter jerked his head sideways as the blade sliced just past his ear, burying itself in the floor. Russell swore and struggled to pull the knife free. Before he could, Elizabeth grabbed the chair she had tried to wedge under the doork.n.o.b and smashed it down on the back of Russell's head. The Seal fell forward hard, the blade of his knife disappearing beneath his body. Whether it had entered him or not was impossible to tell, but one thing was clear: he wasn't moving. They ran for their lives.

They raced through the lobby and into the parking lot. There they braked hard as they found themselves in the gun sights of the Navy Seal's only remaining backup. It was the tow truck driver, still clearly civilian, but this time he was armed. "Where's Russell?" he asked. His voice was unsteady and he looked off-balance upon seeing another man with the girl. "Upstairs," said Peter, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Then, winging it, he said, "It's been called off. She's not the one." Putting a guiding hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, he walked her past the kid. He had seen enough of her to realize that her eyes looked remarkably calm now, although her ability to speak seemed to have deserted her for the moment. The tow truck driver followed at an uncertain distance. He was ten years younger than the guy upstairs, eighteen at most, and certainly no Seal. A bootleg operation, Peter thought. Henderson, clearly the mastermind of this mission, probably didn't want it on the books. What would his bosses say if they knew he had ordered the ending of a life they had paid so much to extend? "Hey!" the kid abruptly yelled. Peter and Elizabeth turned to find him pointing his pistol directly at their heads. "Let's go up and see if that's what that Army guy says," he stuttered. "He won't be especially happy about that," Peter said ominously. "He's taking a nap. Sueno. He's not at all pleased when someone wakes him while he's sleeping. He gets really very angry. The kid flicked a glance up at the windows and licked his lips. "No, you'd better come upstairs with me. Peter feigned an att.i.tude of disgust. Beside him, Elizabeth let out an exaggerated sigh. "Look," she said, "you want to keep your tow truck or not? If you don't get out of my way, I swear to G.o.d I'll have the police on you faster than a duck on a June bug." The guy looked at her, unsure of himself. Peter moved forward, putting the gun to his own forehead and making sure the driver could see how unafraid he was. "If you're going to do something, do it here. But first be aware that you'll be killing Dr. Peter Jance of the Advanced Weapons Testing Program, U.S Army, Department of Defense, and you will be hunted down and killed like a dog for doing that." The boy finally blinked.

Peter stole another look at Elizabeth, realizing what he had just said. Jesus. Maybe she'd a.s.sume it was a cover ident.i.ty. Maybe he'd never have to tell her because this kid will shoot them both. But the kid didn't. Lowering his gun, he cleared his throat. "You stay here. I'm gonna go talk to him." He turned and went into the hotel.

Peter gave a sign and he and Elizabeth tore off. "Down here!" he hissed, running toward the Humvee hidden behind a screen of sweet olive. "How did you know?" she asked as they ran. "When you didn't show up at the bay, I figured I'd better check up on you. "Thank G.o.d. You saved my life. You were wonderful." "I didn't really have time to think," he said truthfully then stopped, seeing the weird look on her face. And then he heard the safety clicking off. He turned to see the kid with the pistol: this time he was shaking and furious. "You're crazy, man, killing that guy. Now you're f.u.c.king dead cause you saw my face and I ain't gonna-" His voice was drowned out by a horn blaring in the road behind him. Swinging around, the kid dropped the gun in panic and dove out of the way as a Range Rover with government plates, lights flashing, bore down on him. It missed him by inches and jammed to a stop near Peter and Elizabeth. The back door swung open. Peter caught a glimpse of wild blond hair and knew it was Alex. He reached for the woman's hand but she was backing away. She had seen Alex, too, and all she knew was that he was the mysterious guy who had stalked her when she had first arrived on the island. "It's all right," Peter a.s.sured her. "Come on." Still she didn't move, which gave the kid with the gun time enough to retrieve his weapon and wheel on them. Peter and Elizabeth dove into the Range Rover as it lurched off down the road. Peter thought he heard the 9mm go off, but Alex had his foot to the floor and nothing much could be heard over the engine's roar and the wind whistling through the windows. "Welcome to. Vieques. Finally," Alex said to Elizabeth. Then he shot Peter a funny look in the rearview mirror. "You all right, Doc?" "I'm fine," said Peter. But as the adrenaline began to ebb, he felt a twinge of pain at the top of his ear and dabbed at it. There was a di-vision now in the top rim of his ear and it hurt like h.e.l.l. But the blood was already scabbing over and Peter counted himself lucky to be alive. Almost put an end to this wonderful body. he thought, and realized how proprietary he felt now toward it. "That guy in your room, did you get his name?" Alex asked. Peter was watching Elizabeth. She was looking out the back window. Turning, he saw a line of three vehicles speeding toward them, headlights blazing from around a curve. "Get down!" Alex yelled, and they hit the floor. As the government cars streaked past without slowing, the three in the Land Rover nearly stopped breathing. Alex gave a cheerful wave to their taillights, and then gave the all-clear signal. Peter and the woman sat back up. "Russell," she answered, shaking now. "Henderson's guy." Peter said in recognition. "Where are we headed?" "Airport," said Alex, swinging around to meet Elizabeth's gaze. He seemed about to say something, then Peter ordered him to watch the road and Alex changed his mind. Eyes now forward, he accelerated. Peter glanced at Alex, who gave him a weirdly humorous look, eyebrows raised and face twisted into an odd smile. "Something, huh?"

"Thank you for this," Peter said.

"Don't mention it," said Alex. "And hey, don't worry, there's a chance they won't connect us. To Peter this sounded like something to worry about. "Did you cut the cord with Freddy?" "One way of putting it, yeah," said Alex, studying the road streaking out before them. Elizabeth leaned forward and looked at Alex. "Why did you send me that e-mail?"

"I tried to lure you here so I could warn you," said Alex, without hesitation. "Warn me about what?"

"You don't want to know," he said. "She doesn't want to know, right Hans?" He d.a.m.n near winked when he used the name. "Right," said Peter, with a look at Elizabeth that was meant to convey that he had no idea what the guy was talking about. "Just putting a stick in their spokes," said Alex. "Guess we both saw the light about the same time, huh Doc?" "Right," said Peter "I mean, the Cold War ends and we keep going. Should've figured it out back then." "Figured what out?" Elizabeth asked, looking back and forth between the two. "What do you want to warn me about?" she asked again, exasperated. Alex rolled his eyes and said nothing. She looked at Peter. "And if I'm such an apparent threat, why didn't that man just kill me back there? He as much as told me he wasn't allowed to. It looked like he was going to tie me up or something." "I'm as puzzled as you are," Peter said, and he meant it. He looked at Alex. "That thing I asked you to do? Did you do it?" Alex frowned, as though unable to remember for a moment, then brightened. "Yeah. Oh yeah. The party in question . . . understands. Knows you had to get out. Is sorry they didn't recognize the danger. Wishes you well." "Up to a point," offered Peter.

"Yeah, up to a point, that's right," said Alex, with a quick glance at Elizabeth. "Also said to tell you, don't come back." Peter looked away. Outside the sky was starting to lighten. He thought he smelled jasmine. "The party in question-is that person still with the program?" he asked, lower. "Hard to tell, dude. On the fence, I would say. "G.o.ddammit," Elizabeth swore and lunged over the back of the seat, grabbing the ignition keys and switching off the engine before Alex even knew what she was doing. "Whoa," said Alex in alarm, as the Range Rover rolled to a dead stop. We seem to have a situation here . . ." Outside, the coquis sang. There were no cars coming in either direction but none of them knew how long that would last. Peter looked at Elizabeth pleadingly: she was holding the keys tightly in her fist. "Listen, we can't just sit out here, we're sitting ducks." "We'll sit here until I get an explanation," she said. "So, explain, Hans," said Alex, with careful p.r.o.nunciation of the name. "Please, we don't have time for this," Peter begged. "Before I get on any plane, I want to know what's going on. I thought I was getting to know you," she said to Peter, "but now I don't know if I do at all." Peter hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, Helen," she spat out.

"I'm sorry, Helen," he repeated, thanking Cod she had finally given him her name. Then he caught sight of Alex's face. "Uh-oh . . ." Alex said.

Peter looked back at the woman. "The name's Elizabeth," she said. "I knew that," he said hopelessly.

"What's my last name?"

He stared at her, then looked away.

"Oh my G.o.d in heaven," she said quietly. She looked utterly shattered. "What happened to you?" "We should get gooo-innnggg," Alex said tightly. "I'm not Hans," Peter said.

"What?"

"I used to be Hans," he said feebly.

"Folks? Can we settle this on the plane, maybe?" "Used to be?" she said in a rage. "What the h.e.l.l does that mean? You are him." She gestured vaguely toward his knee. "The scars on your knee-I know them as well as the back of my hand. What did they do to you, for G.o.d's sake? Fry your brain, or what?" "No," he said helplessly. "They saved that." He wasn't able to say another thing as a car blasted out of the darkness behind them. It was heading straight for them. "Keys, Elizabeth!" said Alex. Suddenly more frightened than ever, she thrust the keys at him and Alex fumbled them back into the ignition. The engine sprang to life and the Range Rover took off, with a Humvee dangerously close behind. They raced now without heed for anything approaching safety. Ahead, Peter could make out the lights of the Vieques airport, but when he glanced back again, the Humvee was no more than twenty yards behind them. A series of flashes erupted from its frame. "Don't worry," said Alex. "Just scare tactics. So long as you're with us,' he glanced toward Elizabeth, "they won't shoot to kill. Do me a favor, show your face." "What?" said Elizabeth.

"Look out the back window. Wave."

"Are you crazy? Jesus!" she suddenly said, as the windshield exploded and the Range Rover skidded sideways, flames boiling up from the rear wheel housing. Alex had pitched forward; the vehicle was out of control. Peter dove for the wheel but it was too late. The car was leaving the road airborne, arcing out and down into a stand of mangrove trees. It hit with a huge concussion of water and mud, and then there was darkness. Adrenaline thundered through Peter as he wrenched a door open, allowing Elizabeth to squeeze through. Then he reached for Alex, but the kid had vanished and the driver's door hung open. Peter thought he heard him cry out behind them, urging them to run faster. Then there were other shouts, further off, and the smell of gasoline in the water. In a blind rush, Peter threw himself out of the car and pulled Elizabeth away into the darkness. An instant later the swamp was bright with the white-hot explosion of the Range Rover. "Holy Mother of G.o.d," said Peter, shoving Elizabeth ahead of him. The fireball's gruesome light threw the rest of the swamp into deep and violently dancing shadows. "Alex!" Peter called.

There was no answer. A silhouette was shaking through the man-groves, but whether it was Alex or one of their pursuers he couldn't tell. To double back would be hopeless. They forged off through the ankle-deep water, the roar of the conflagration veiling their movements. Within minutes they could glimpse the airport through the twisted trees. A light twin-engine turboprop was doing its engine runup and several people were paused at its boarding stairs, staring back toward the burning swamp. Suddenly Elizabeth was sprinting ahead of Peter, waving frantically-at whom he couldn't see. But as they both broke through the trees into the marsh just below the tarmac, somebody-a flight attendant, it looked like-was running toward them. No, three flight attendants in fact. "Mary?" Elizabeth shouted in amazement as they struggled up the levee elevating the runway from the mangrove swamp. Mary Blanchard?" "Lizzer?" the shout came back. Elizabeth was running so fast now that Peter had a sudden terror he was about to lose her forever. She clawed her way to the runway and grabbed the flight attendant, obviously somebody she knew. "Mary, I need to get out of here now- Peter's heart contracted, then he heard her correct herself and he thanked G.o.d again: "XVe do, I mean," she said. Mary stared at them. They were both bleeding, wet and mudsmeared. "Uh, you guys got tickets?" "No," said Peter, looking over his shoulder at the three vehicles storming along the airport approach road, "but we need to get on board with you." He started to push Elizabeth toward the ramp of the plane, an American Airlines flight, seriously behind schedule due to equipment trouble. But now the pilot, having heard the fuss and in no mood for more delays, stepped in their way. "Can I help you people?" His tone was flat and without sympathy. "We want to buy a ticket on your flight," Peter said. "We're fully booked," the pilot said, looking at their clothes with disdain. "There's a flight tomorrow. Maybe by then you can clean yourselves up a little and-" Peter swiveled back toward the approach road. The government cars had slowed and fanned out, searching among the planes. But one Humvee seemed to be moving more or less directly toward them. "I'll pay you a thousand dollars."

"I'll call airport security, how's that sound?" the captain said, stalking to his c.o.c.kpit and picking up the microphone. Mary Blanchard was taking Elizabeth aside. "Listen," Peter heard her say, "I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but we've got to get to Puerto Rico to hook up with the flight we're working, okay? If you can make it there, I'll somehow get you on it. That's a promise. American Flight 99, 6:00 A.M." She c.o.c.ked her head toward Peter. "I guess he finally showed up, huh?" Without waiting for confirmation, Mary hurried aboard. Beyond, the Humvee had veered and was now heading straight for them. Elizabeth grabbed Peter's hand and pulled him to her. He followed blindly until he saw where she was running-toward a single-engine Cessna warming up nearby. "Get the pilot out of there!" she screamed at him. He looked at her. "You know how to fly?" "No, you idiot, you do!"

s.h.i.t, he thought, this Hans is a tough act to follow. Flinging open the door, he pulled out the pilot, a chubby American with a baseball cap that said "I'd Rather Be Flying!" He staggered back in shock as the two mud-encrusted pirates piled into his plane. "Hey," the man called, but he made no effort to stop them. The look in Peter's eves was too wild, and besides the d.a.m.n plane was a rental. In the c.o.c.kpit, Peter stared dumbfounded at the bewildering array of instruments and levers. "Let's go!" Elizabeth screamed. Now two Humvees were bearing down on them at full speed. "What do I do?"

"Pull that!" she yelled, pointing at the throttle. Peter pulled it: with an unG.o.dly roar, the aircraft lurched forward, rapidly gaining velocity. Peter tried to steer the control yoke as if he were driving a car-which had absolutely no effect. He had a blind-ing glimpse of the obvious, realizing airplanes must not steer like that, but he was d.a.m.ned if he knew how they did. In fact, the plane began to veer off the runway. But even as panic raced through his veins, his feet found the rudder pedals and skillfully tapped their individual brakes so that the plane pivoted smartly back onto the runway and was able to speed forward faster and faster, engine whining. "Are you sure I, um, know how to fly?" he yelled back at her. "Don't kid around, Hans, or whoever the h.e.l.l you are. I don't know what's happened to your head, but Hans could fly a plane like this with his eyes closed, so stop thinking and just do it!" He obeyed. Switching off his thoughts, his left hand pulled back gently on the control column and the airplane lifted into the air. He looked down and back in amazement. The runway was already a distant ribbon, the vehicles of their pursuers toy cars. "Job well done," said Elizabeth.

The blood surged in his skull. Floral patterns swam behind his eyes. He yielded to the madness. "Good job, Peter," he said to himself.

And thanked G.o.d for Hans.

14.

Puerto Rico was less than ten miles from Vieques, that much Peter knew. What he didn't know was what it looked like from the air, at night, among the countless pinp.r.i.c.ks of light emanating from boats, stars, houses and businesses on the hundreds of islands and cays dotting the region. "My understanding of aerodynamics is limited to theory," he said, with an air of lunatic calm, "but I'd say we're gaining alt.i.tude." "We're diving! Pull up!"

He was shocked at her lack of restraint in criticism. Beatrice could be opinionated, but she showed it in more subtle ways. This Elizabeth just said what she thought. "I'm sure that would be a mistake," he said, trying to calm her. "You see, we're over warm waters so we're almost certainly climbing in thermal updrafts." "Then why can I see waves!" she shouted. He looked closer and then he could see them, too, coming up fast. "d.a.m.n," he said, wondering how you made an aircraft ascend. "Pull up!"

As combing waves loomed in their windscreen, his mind went blank and his hands immediately hauled back on the steering column. The plane clipped the top of a breaker with its wheels, then sucked itself up into a steep climb. A loud horn sounded in the cabin. What's that?" he asked.

"Stall warning, I think. Level off a little!" "I don't think I-"

"Don't think, just do it!"

He forced his mind blank, and his arms pushed forward, leveling the plane off smoothly. The horn went silent. His right hand found the throttle and added fuel, then, eerily on its own, trimmed flaps. "Well, look at that," he marveled. Elizabeth's eves were wide with terror. He watched his hand reach for the instrument panel, then hesitate. "1 wanted to use the radio," he said, as though observing a bird dog go through field trials. "Habit," Elizabeth said, through her teeth. "You always set the radios after takeoff. Doesn't your memory tell you any of that?" "I... I'm afraid not."

Without looking at him, she asked, "Why did you say your name was Peter?" "Because it is," he said.

"That's the name they gave you? Your new ident.i.ty?" "Right," he said, hoping that would suffice. Elizabeth looked out the side window, trying to sort it out. She wondered why she didn't simply hate him. But she didn't. Not yet, anyway. "I'll tell you what 1 think," she said. "I think you've had some kind of stroke." "Yes, that's more than possible," he said, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. "Last night, when you came to see me, you had just been through one. "From swimming?" In a strange way it made sense. The vessels in his head were throbbing. Maybe... "You were numb, you couldn't speak," she said, trying to convince him of an easier reality. "And I bet that wasn't the first time. You don't remember who you are, who I am, and you've lost part of your higher cognitive skills, too, at least when it comes to flying." "It's coming back to me, Elizabeth," he said. "Maybe I have suffered a few minor strokes." It was true that he felt perilously close to one now. Maybe he did have a stroke. But he knew that the fear he was feeling was not because of a stroke. He reminded himself that he d.a.m.n well never knew how to fly in the first place. "I remember most of it," he lied, trying to bring some sense of cairn and safety into this madness, "Flying, I mean. See how well I'm doing?" She looked at him. trying to believe he was right. He did fly well when he needed to, it seemed. But the more complex procedures clearly left him baffled. "What are the coordinates of Puerto Rico?" Elizabeth challenged. He had no idea whatsoever. "It's right over there," he bluffed. "Experienced pilots don't use coordinates." He straightened up and tried to look like such a pilot. "Bulls.h.i.t. Of course they do. You do-I've flown with you!" He felt himself tighten, jealous of his own body. Now his mind was veering in three directions and a fourth was no doubt in the offing. "I'm more of an instinctive pilot now," he said, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her throw up her hands in exasperation. "What I could use at the moment, Elizabeth, is less criticism and more help. Are those lights down there islands or boats?" She peered down in frustration. "How should I know? They all look the same to me. The more important question is, which of those lights ahead are oncoming airplanes and not stars?" "Those are all stars. Let's not get paranoid here," he said. "We're going to get through this, and then we're-" His voice was drowned out by a Piper Seneca howling past so close that from the glow of its instrument panel they could see the startled pilot's face, bathed in horror. Peter's mind froze, but Hans's body executed a superb evasive maneuver. The plane yowled into a steep diving turn and rolled out smooth as silk, wings level, trimmed perfectly As soon as Peter thought about what had nearly happened, he was piloting the plane terribly again. "Listen," said Elizabeth, when her voice had returned, "we've got to at least stay in the air lanes." "Right, okay." He surmised an air lane must be some sort of avian highway. Except how do you see it? This was, he realized, like playing Russian roulette with three or four bullets in the cylinder. He took a deep breath. Better to get some of this out in the open. "Look," he said. "I'm not a pilot."

She looked at him. Obviously she believed that part rather easily, he thought. "I'm Peter and I'm not a pilot. I'm a physicist, and no, I'm not Hans's evil twin. Well, maybe I am," he allowed. Now she was staring at him like she thought he had simply gone mad. "You haven't been involved with physics in twenty years. "Nothing I'm proud of, that's for sure.

"You were an investment banker, yes or no?" Something tearful was coming into her voice. "I've never even balanced a checkbook," he confessed. "Hans-"

"Peter. Doctor Peter Jance," he added, sickening at the sound of his own name. And then, much lower, "Hans who, incidentally?" "Brinkman," she said in shaken voice.

He wished he hadn't asked. "I'm Peter Jance and I'm Hans Brinkman." "Are you telling me you're a multiple personality?" "It's worse than that. The fact is," he said gravely, relieved to be speaking the truth, "you're considerably safer not knowing." "Am I? You think I'm safe now, in a plane being flown by a nonpilot schizophrenic?" "You said they were trying to tie you up. That's not field-manual procedure for a.s.sa.s.sination. The manual says stick and run. I think they were trying to kidnap you. She swallowed. She knew this part, at least, made sense. The guy could have killed her and hadn't. "Why? Why would they want to kidnap me?" "I don't know. Maybe to get me to come back." "Back where?"

"That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn't it?" She looked at him oddly, and he realized the phrase was alien to her. He also realized that for the last five minutes his mind had been off the controls and his body had been flying the plane flawlessly. Keep talking, he thought. And don't stop to think about flying. "Hans-Peter-I don't believe you're CIA, if that's what you're still claiming." "I never claimed to be CIA. That was your a.s.sumption. I let you believe it because the alternative, telling you the truth, was too d.a.m.n risky!" Why was he shouting at her as though she were to blame? "Risky for whom?" she shouted back. "Really!" "For you," he said, desperately trying to convince himself that this was the truth. "I thought they'd kill you if they knew you knew, not just tie you up and throw you in a cell." It wasn't the whole truth, he thought in disgust. And so he added: "And for me, because I thought you would just walk out the door without even stopping to slap my face." In shock, she turned and looked at him. There was a terrible vulnerability in his voice and it stopped her anger cold. "I can't bear to lie to you anymore," he said. "Which puts me in something of a bind, doesn't it? The kind they used to think caused schizophrenia," he went on, aware she might think he was babbling. "I'm hopelessly in love with you, it's beyond insanity and I don't want to die again." She blinked, thought, softened. "Again?" He closed his eyes against tears. "And the worst of it is, you remind me so much of my wife." "Oh, G.o.d," she groaned.