Fountain Society Part 9

"Is she having any second thoughts?"

"Plenty, I'm sure. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm feeling fairly addled. It occurs to me that I haven't slept in three days." He took a swallow of coffee and nudged the co-pilot with his foot. "Want some?" "Yes, please," said Anspaugh. It was the first time he had uttered a word since takeoff. "You wouldn't try to throw hot coffee at me, would you?" "No, sir."

Peter looked at Anspaugh for a moment, wondering what he was thinking. Whether he would, if he knew, have an opinion one way or the other about what his government was up to. "You know what they do to people down there on Vieques?" "No, sir, and I'm not sure I want to."

"Well, it isn't good, and I ought to know-I used to do it. G.o.d's work, I used to think it was. Once you tell yourself that, you can get away with anything. B., would you please get this gentleman some coffee?" "I will," said Beatrice, "if you'll stop annoying him." "Was I annoying you?" said Peter.

"No, sir."

"It's a dangerous world," said Peter.

"Yes, sir, it certainly is."

"The people who say that generally want to make it more dangerous. At least in my experience. The coffee," he said to Beatrice, who was beginning to trade looks with Elizabeth, still seated across from the unconscious Henderson, beyond the c.o.c.kpit door. As Beatrice went back into the cabin, Peter faced front again, feeling shadows move across his mind. Concentrate, he thought. Calculate. They weren't that far behind the C-20, so they had a decent chance of getting to Vieques before the operation robbed Kenner of his brain. He was determined not only to save Kenner, but deny Wolfe another fifty years. If he had that much time to continue his mischief, he might actually secure immortality for himself. But how to get from the Vieques airport and onto the base to do that? Wolfe would certainly have alerted the troops, especially once both Russell and Henderson turned up missing. That would put the entire installation on full alert. Even with an ally on the inside, it would be impossible to get past the gate. And his only ally, Alex Davies, was hiding out G.o.d knows where. "Anspaugh," he said, "you can get a radio transmission from this thing onto a telephone line, can't you?" "This aircraft has a telephone, yes, sir. "But that would be monitored, wouldn't it?" "No, sir. This is a secure telephone."

"Are you trying to trick me?"

"No, sir!"

Of course he was. Peter leaned wearily toward the co-pilot. "If you continue in this vein, I'll amputate your thumbs and big toes so that you'll reel through the rest of your life like a drunken orangutan." "I would never try to trick you, sir," said the co-pilot, meaning it. "But there's also a way through the aircraft's radio to make a phone call, isn't there?" "Yes, sir. I would just call UNICOM and ask for a land line. That's a civilian service. They do it all the time and they have no monitoring policy." "Good. Do that. Get on the telephone and get me the New York Times." "I'll call 411, sir," he said as he got on the radio. Within several minutes, Peter had called the New York Times, the Boston Globe, the Washington Post and the Wail Street Journal. Depending on the newspaper, he was either hung up on, met with scornful laughter or, at best, treated with polite curiosity. That is, until the Post pulled his name up on their computer and noted that he had been dead for two months. Then on the last call, there was a series of mysterious cracks and sizzles on the line and he hung up. "Somebody was just listening in. Did you tip them off?" "No, sir, I swear to G.o.d."

He waited for something to happen, some bolt from the sky or a voice to come over the radio, but nothing came. After a while he calmed down and let Beatrice bring the promised coffee. Jittery as he was, he took another one himself. Oddly enough, the second cup seemed to steady him, and he resumed gazing out the window, like a tourist on his first flight to the Caribbean. At Cape Hatteras the coast changed direction, receding southwest. The Learjet struck out over open water, flying a little lower than a commercial jet. The view was much more striking than anything he ever experienced before. Enjoy it while you can, he thought-you may soon be leaving this great blue planet. His scientist's eye noted the subtle differences in the ocean's surface as they pa.s.sed the edge of the Continental Shelf, saw the waters turn deeper blue and the bottom fall away to the abyss. They were pa.s.sing over the Blake and Bahama Ridges, great undersea mountain ranges he knew were as high as the Rockies. It was pleasant to know such things, he reflected. Not all his learning had been in the service of destruction. Now he could see all the way across Florida into the Gulf of Mexico and, ahead, the islands of the Bahamas stretching out like the first pearls of some great necklace extending all the way to the end of the Caribbean itself. They were almost home.

Then he looked out the side window and nearly jumped out of his seat. He was staring at another human being. It was a pilot, no doubt scrambled from Homestead Air Force Base outside Miami, in a heavily armed F-15C Eagle fighter. The airplane couldn't have been more than fifty feet away; Peter could see the pilot's helmet with a jagged streak of lightning across it. In fact, he could almost read the name on his G-suit. The fighter itself bristled with rockets and guns. A flat Midwestern voice boomed over the radio. "h.e.l.lo Learjet niner-four-eight-three-eight, do you read me?" Peter turned and put the knife to Anspaugh's ribs. "Don't make me do it."

"What should I do, sir?"

"Ignore him," said Peter.

Suddenly Anspaugh lost all his previous shyness. "Ignore an F-15? Sir, that's the same as saying you're a marauding aircraft. You know what he's got on that thing? Twenty-millimeter Vulcan cannons, probably four AIM-7 Sparrows, four more Sidewinders. He can take us out in the blink of an eye." "Can you outrun him?" said Peter, hoping the women were missing what he was seeing and wondering if Henderson had regained consciousness. "Outrun him? We make 540 knots tops-he does Mach 2.5 plus! He could knock us down just with his sonic boom!" "Then tell him who you are," Peter ordered, "and say that every-thing's all right." Anspaugh gaped at him, convinced now that the man was insane. The radio voice crackled on again. "Lear niner-foureight-three-eight, please respond or be considered hostile." The fighter was drifting closer, the pilot literally peering in their window. Peter waved. "Say h.e.l.lo," he said through his teeth to Anspaugh. Anspaugh keyed the mike. "Learjet niner-four-eight-three-eight." "Niner-four-eight-three-eight, say your destination." "Destination Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Station, Vieques Island." "Do you have a Dr. Peter Jance aboard?"

Anspaugh looked at Peter for help. "No," Peter told him. "That is negative," said Anspaugh.

There was some static while the pilot gave them another once-over. "Who is the gentleman sitting to your right in the c.o.c.kpit?" Peter felt the sweat beading on his upper lip and hoped it didn't read across forty feet of troposphere. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beatrice moving up from the cabin, curious to see what was going on. He waved her back, keeping his hands low "Say I'm Colonel Oscar Henderson," Peter said. "That would be Colonel Oscar Anderson," said the terrified copilot. "Henderson," said Peter.

"Henderson," said Anspaugh.

More static. "I am being asked to speak directly to Colonel Henderson. Could you give him the mike, please?" The co-pilot looked at Peter, who breathed deeply and took the mike. "What the h.e.l.l's the meaning of this?" he demanded in the best Henderson growl he could summon. "You are dangerously close, cowboy! You want to cause a midair? Who's your commanding officer?" "I am Colonel Howard Price, United States Air Force, and the commanding officer of this wing," said the voice from the fighter. "These men are under my command." What men? Peter thought. He leaned closer to Anspaugh's window and looked up. His heart missed a beat. There were three more fighters flying in echelon above them. "Colonel Henderson, I have been instructed to request your mission code. Could you give that to me, please?" Mission code? Oh Jesus, thought Peter.

"We are Operation Fountain Society," he bluffed. Static. Then: "And your mission code?"

Now Peter's face was drenched with sweat. "It's in my briefcase. I don't have it with me here." "I formally request you retrieve that from your briefcase, sir. I need to confirm the code." His fear was so intense he could barely move without jerking like a marionette. He had once been invited to witness strafing practice on Vieques and he knew what these aircraft and their guns could do. Targets didn't just get shot full of holes, they flew apart into redhot shrapnel and were unrecognizable afterward. "Stand by," Peter said. He turned and looked helplessly at his wife. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"He doesn't know s.h.i.t what to do," an all-too-familiar voice boomed from the cabin. Christ, thought Peter.

It was Henderson, awake and laughing at them. Peter rose from his seat and started back. "It's basic fail-safe procedure," Henderson snarled. "You don't have the code, you're Swiss cheese." Peter grabbed him by the lapels. "Then you're going to give it to me." "No, I'm not, and you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you tie a lousy knot," said Henderson matter-of-factly, lunging up, wrists bleeding and chafed, hands free. He threw Peter against the bulkhead with such brute force he was knocked senseless. Behind him, Elizabeth fumbled for the Beretta. "Put that down before you hurt yourself," Henderson sneered, kicking backward without looking, catching Peter in the groin even as he tried to struggle up. Elizabeth fired.

She missed Henderson, but the window next to him cracked vertically and a jagged hole in its center emitted a horrendous screech of wind and decompression. Beatrice and Elizabeth clutched their ears as the atmospheric pressure plunged, shooting subzero air through the cabin at tremendous velocity Distracted by the agonizing sound, Elizabeth swung around, too late, as Henderson, bulling forward, twisted the pistol from her hand and knocked her sprawling. He wheeled, intending to level it at Peter, but the tilt of the plane, now climbing at a fearful angle, spilled Peter against the seats and sent Henderson reeling back against the shattered window. There he stuck, with a look of horror on his face. In the next instant his abdomen caved in, the window turned red and blew out altogether. Henderson's body was sucked into it with monstrous force. His spine snapped loudly, the body folded double, jamming into the aperture even as his viscera ballooned into his trousers outside the windows. His eyes glistened a moment, then eerily withdrew into his skull. He was slowly imploding, but his body, for the time being at least, had effectively sealed the gap. "Take us down or we'll blow!" screamed Peter at the co-pilot. He wheeled on Beatrice and Elizabeth. "Strap in!" The stall-warning horn blared as he clawed his way toward Anspaugh, who was struggling to level the plane while the radio crackled, the voice on the other end demanding to know what was going on. Peter flung himself back into his seat. A loud crunch echoed from the cabin. "He's not going to stay in that window much longer!" Elizabeth yelled. "Then hang on!" Peter shouted, as Anspaugh shoved the stick forward in a dive. "Niner-four-eight-three-eight, respond, respond!" Peter swore and grabbed the mike. "Mayday, Mayday!" he called. "We are experiencing explosive decompression and are diving to lower alt.i.tude. Please advise as to nearest base. This is not an evasive action-repeat-this is not an evasive action!" The wind howled past the canopy, screaming through the cabin as the altimeter spun down like a mad, backward clock. Peter could see the fighters diving with them, flaps down. They leveled off at three thousand feet. Moments later, the remains of what had once been Oscar Henderson shook loose from the Learjet's window and fell like a spinning husk toward the sea below. Then the radio crackled again. "Niner-four-eight-three-eight?" Peter's hands shook convulsively as he picked up the mike. "Ninerfour-eight-three-eight." "Confirm that was a fatality."

"Confirmed."

"Identify?"

".... Dr. Peter Jance," Peter said.

"Roger that. Did you get that code?"

"Blew out the window with my briefcase," said Peter. There was a long string of static. "Advise turn west to two hundred sixty degrees, make landing Guantanamo. They are rolling emergency equipment." "Roger that," said Peter. He keyed the mike twice to say goodbye. As Anspaugh eased the plane into a twenty-degree bank, Peter watched the compa.s.s come around. "Where are we going?" Beatrice asked.

She was just behind him. Elizabeth was back in the cabin, hugging herself to stop the shaking. Anspaugh stared at him, white-faced, mute, waiting for instructions. "Guantanamo Marine Base, Cuba. Beatrice, you should strap in. Elizabeth, too." "Why Guantanamo? Isn't the Dominican closer?" "The Dominican would be civilian. I think they want us down on a military base." "Better emergency equipment?"

"1 hope that's it. Or else it's because there'll be no witnesses who aren't working for the government." He saw her tighten, then smile, pretending to look far less worried than she felt. "I think I'm over my fear of turbulence," she said. "Trauma therapy," said Peter, trying to remain calm by calming her. "So what are we going to do, I wonder?" he said, patting her hand. She looked at him a long moment. "Peter, I love you very much." "I love you, too. Always have and always will." "And Elizabeth?"

He looked out into the deep blue of the sky. "Yes. She's you and you are her, and I guess I love her a great deal. It's just that she and I haven't gone through what you and I have." Beatrice nodded. "I always did like your honesty," she said. "And you know what I've realized in talking with her?" No , what?''

"If our situations had been reversed? If I had been twenty-four and had met you as you are now? I'd have fallen in love with you, too." "I see," he said. Did that mean he was a better man today? He hoped so. "I've always liked your honesty, too."

Beatrice sighed. "I think you should talk to her." "Elizabeth? Why? Is she coming unglued?" Beatrice shrugged. "She's got more to lose, but she's not coming apart. In fact, our Elizabeth has an extremely interesting idea." 20 VIEQUES.

The C-20 returning from New York hearing Frederick Wolfe and the semi comatose Phillip C. Kenner was met by considerably more vehicles than had attended Hans Brinkman's arrival from Zurich. In addition to the usual Humvees, there were two APCs, light-armored troop vehicles mounted with 50-caliber machine guns, each carrying ten heavily armed young men a.s.signed to cover the perimeter of the base from both ends of the airstrip. The plane touched down in the glow of a setting sun, and Kenner was wheeled to the ambulance, Wolfe trotting behind like a mother hen. The medics, he realized, must have miscalculated the anesthesia dosage because Kenner was twisting against the restraints, evidently in the throes of some abduction nightmare. The soldiers watching from the APCs sat silently, some looking away. G.o.d only knew what the old man they called The Reaper was going to do to the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d on the stretcher. They had been ordered never to discuss anything they witnessed on these missions, but after seeing so many Arabs and, more recently, Caucasians arrive in this condition, they all had to wonder. The whole business had gotten so distasteful that the Special Forces troops had taken to drawing straws to determine who would pull the duty. "Go, go, go!" Wolfe was shouting now, hurriedly scanning the skies as he ran, as though some lightning bolt of judgment was about to strike from the deepening gloom. He had been informed by radio while still in the C-20 that Russell was dead in Kenner's Manhattan apartment, his brains blown out, apparently with his own pistol. He had also been told that their errant Learjet, which had earlier disgorged Henderson's evacuated body from one of its side windows, had-until fifteen minutes ago-been heading straight for Vieques. As the ambulance sped toward the Fountain Compound, a lieutenant colonel, whose name Wolfe had never bothered to learn, gave him a full briefing. "The pilot identified himself as Henderson but was unable to give his mission code. The speculation is it's Jance." "That's impossible," Wolfe a.s.serted.

"Apparently not, sir."

"Where's the Learjet now?"

"It was ordered to Guantanamo, but it deviated. It's over Cuban airs.p.a.ce. NASA monitored a telephone call between an unidentified woman and a General Jesus Pinar del Rio." "A Cuban? A Communist? What the h.e.l.l do they have to do with this? Who was this woman?" "As I say, we don't know. The Learjet now appears to be tailgating a Cuban airliner-Cubana de Aviacion Flight 1204." "Shoot them down!"

The lieutenant colonel shook his head.

"Not an option. They're flying too close to the airliner, apparently very skillfully; too. We can't risk an international incident." "Jesus Christ. It's not Jance, we can be certain of that. He might have managed to kill Russell, but Peter couldn't possibly fly a Learjet. I don't care how much cellular memory he has." "He's not flying the plane. There's a pilot on board." "Well, Jesuswhat's a few Cubans, for G.o.dsakes!" "Excuse me a second," said the lieutenant colonel, unsnapping his ringing cellular. Furious and shaken, Wolfe eyed Kenner on the gurney. Despite the efforts of the ambulance medics, he was quickly regaining consciousness, twitching and moaning. It put Wolfe in mind of a heart-lung lab in first-year physiology, the poor TAs running around with hypodermics like demented plates-and-sticks jugglers, trying to keep the d.a.m.n experimental dogs from whimpering. He heard Kenner breathe the word "Mafia," and then he heard the colonel curse. "What's up?" he demanded, sensing more bad news. "Now the Learjet's got an escort. Four MiG-23 MLDs, flogger cla.s.s, armed with Aphid air-to-air missiles." "Jesus Christ. It's not Jance, it's the b.l.o.o.d.y Red Cubans." "We can't be sure of that."

"I'm sure," said Wolfe. "I'm d.a.m.n sure." Yes, and he should have foreseen it. Black ops security was a famous sieve and Castro had enough dope money to buy any secret he wanted. Well, he thought wildly, this is why we started all this: to keep b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like him in their place. He knew if he were Castro and learned that the U.S. was about to keep its power elite alive for centuriesthe very leaders who had squeezed him all these years while he aged and went infirm-then he would sure as h.e.l.l try to sabotage the effort. It would const.i.tute a grand, heroic last gesture. Kenner mumbled again, something about hit men and mercy. Wolfe thought he might not want to involve the mob, but otherwise it all made perfect sense. He sighed heavily. The next possibility was far more troubling. "And what about Mrs. Jance?"

"Mrs. Jance?" said the lieutenant colonel. "Dr. Beatrice Jance, wife of the fugitive Dr. Peter Jance. Has she returned to the base?" "No, sir apparently not."

His heart fluttered darkly. "You're sure?" "We would know, sir."

"Her last known whereabouts?"

"Miami International."

"She was supposed to be helping us spot the Parker girl." "Yes, that's right, she was.

"Any idea where she is?"

"Elizabeth Parker? Also last seen at Miami International. We think they both might be tied in with Jance at this point." "In the plane?" he gasped.

"Quite possibly"

No, thought Wolfe, with a shudder. Not possible. The girl, maybe, but Beatrice couldn't be back with Peter. She despised him. And the tenderness she had shown him en route to Miami, that couldn't have been faked. Had she perhaps caught sight of her clone, and started to have second thoughts? No. Beatrice wasn't soft like Peter. Beatrice was steely, like him. Throw away a chance at eternal youth? Never. She would show up eventually, probably with the Parker girl in tow and in handcuffs. He and Beatrice were fated to spend the twentyfirst century together: he had all the faith in the world. Meanwhile, the Communists had to be dealt with. "I want every incoming flight confirmed by binoculars from the tower," he told the lieutenant colonel. "And all jets forbidden completely until further notice." "Yes, sir, if that's what you want, we can do that." "And I want a bulldozer parked at the side of the runway. If a jet ignores our ban, then the driver is to position the bulldozer smack in the middle of the runway, do you understand?" "We'll do what we can, Dr. Wolfe."

"What you must," said Wolfe.

"Yes, sir!"

The ambulance pulled into the compound and Wolfe leaped out. There was much to do. Beatrice or no Beatrice, if this whole dream was going to unravel during the next twenty-four hours, he sure as h.e.l.l intended to be in his new body by the time it happened.

LEARJET 94838.

Elizabeth was thanking G.o.d that they were alive and that she still had her wits about her. At first she was sure that the racket in the plane- the wind rattling through the cabin nonstop and the roar of the engines through the broken window-would deafen them all. To say nothing of the fighter out there threatening to shoot them down and then ordering them into Guantanamo Marine Base, where for all she knew they would be terminated by Langley operatives. And then she had remembered the cab driver in Miami, the little guy with the bubble-gum scar and the uncle who was a general in Castro's army She still had the business card he gave them. Using her flawless Spanish, Beatrice had called the number and, wonder of wonders, the general himself got on the phone. At least they were fairly sure it was Jesus Pinar del Rio-the noise in the cabin had made it nearly impossible to hear. Then, just as the F-15 had threatened countermeasures, the wide-bodied Cuban airliner had appeared behind them. Anspaugh, goaded on by Peter, executed the maneuver of his career. The Learjet lifted up and over the huge fourturbofan's wing vortexes and slipped into clear air just above and behind it, exactly as Peter told him they could. Now the Cuban MiG escort, dispatched by the general himself showed up in a roar and drove the F-15 away. Yes, she thought, if Peter and Beatrice have offended G.o.d, perhaps G.o.d has chosen to forgive them. At least so far.

But maybe not completely.

Even as Elizabeth and Beatrice were marveling at how Peter's body was holding up under the stress, he had begun to suffer double vision and partial paralysis. With Anspaugh staring silently out the windscreen as if no one else were in the c.o.c.kpit, Beatrice and Elizabeth crouched beside Peter, ministering to him. None of them wanted to be far from each other. On this Elizabeth was relying heavily. There were things she had wanted to request from the general, but not in front of Beatrice and Peter. She had plans for them both, but she didn't want to risk any premature resistance. Beatrice could be counted upon to be reasonable, but Peter was another story. She watched him, on guard for any sign of a mini-stroke, as he focused on the giant aircraft below them, peering through the windscreen. "Do they know we're here?" Elizabeth asked, raising her voice above the engine's whine. To their right, the sun was dropping into the sea. "Hard to say. Let's hope del Rio had someone alert them. Wouldn't want them climbing suddenly Swat us like a fly." "Does Cuba have an international airport?" Beatrice asked. "About nine," said Anspaugh, deciding if he couldn't beat them he might as well join them for the time being. "We're going to Havana," said Beatrice.

"Havana? No," said Peter. "Havana's nine hundred kilometers away. I think this plane we're hitching a ride with is going to Santiago de Cuba. What do you think?" he asked Anspaugh. Anspaugh pointed below in confirmation. "Yes, sir. It's dropping flaps." Indeed the airliner was slowing, dropping lower and lower. Anspaugh was hanging back, keeping high, Peter surmised, to avoid the wing-tip turbulence. Then they could see the airport ahead. The MiGs roared overhead and spun off into the sky. Beatrice was fretful. "They're not going to land and arrest us?" Of the three of them, Elizabeth thought, Beatrice seemed the most worried. As if she knew something that Peter and I don't. But what else could have been left untold at this point? Elizabeth wrote it off to Beatrice's fear of flying. "If they're going to arrest us, troops will do it at the airport. But you spoke to del Rio himself, right? Not an aide, you're sure?" "I'm not absolutely sure of anything," said Beatrice, "except that I'm not an idiot. It was almost certainly him." She clenched her fist to keep her fingers from shaking. All they could see as they descended into the dwindling light was a high bluff and a bay pouching darkly below. The lights of the city and mountains lay beyond. In the next minute, the airport lights were streaking below them. Then there were the exhaust-spouting Russian jeeps racing to keep up with the Learjet, and beyond, silhouetted against the glare, enough soldiers, trucks and armored vehicles to start a small revolution. The Learjet touched down, braked and came to a noisy stop. They were all amazed by how loud a jet was if a window was missing. "Leave the engines running," Peter yelled at Anspaugh, who nodded, as if in this surreal environment he were ready to accept anything. "Let's expect the worst," Peter said to Beatrice and Elizabeth, "then we'll almost certainly be pleasantly surprised." He hobbled off toward the door, opened it and popped the stairs, then stepped down into the glare of countless lights. From the open doorway, Elizabeth could see soldiers running and vehicles shooting past. And then a white-haired, leonine man in fatigue uniform strode toward Peter, hand outstretched. "Welcome to Santiago de Cuba!" he shouted over the whine of jets. "I am General Jesus Pinar del Rio. I welcome you in the name of the three Fs-freedom, friendship-" he eyed Elizabeth, "-and felicity. Are you the woman I spoke to on the phone?" he asked Elizabeth. "That was me," said Beatrice, appearing in the doorway behind Elizabeth. "Beautiful Spanish, senora!"

"Gracias."

He grinned at them all. "I'm completely at your service. Whatever you require," he said, climbing the stairs to kiss the women's hands. He had large, animated eves and a wide mouth enclosed by two deep parentheses. "How's my nephew Ramon? Is he still driving a taxi?" "Yes," said Elizabeth. "And thank G.o.d for that." "My sister's boy. Has he grown any taller?" "Absolutely." said Beatrice. "He must be at least six feet tall now." The general threw back his head and laughed. "Poor nino-he was doing good growth until eleven, and then no taller." "He is an excellent driver nonetheless," said Peter, introducing himself not forgetting to include his doctor's t.i.tle. The general shook his hand solemnly. "He spoke so highly of you." The creases deepened around his mouth as the women approached. The plane was surrounded and wasn't going anywhere. "And these ladies?" Peter put his arm around Beatrice. "This is my wife, Dr. Beatrice Jance." The general shrugged happily, as if to say "Good for you both!" Then he looked at Elizabeth. Peter put his other arm around her. "And this is our very dear and loyal friend Elizabeth." "Yes? I would have guessed your daughter." "Many would," said Peter. He took a breath. "We are all three of us on the run from people who are enemies of freedom, friendship and felicity, and we need your help." "So I gathered," said the general with a sudden frown as the engines of the Learjet gave a cough. There was a long wind-down and then an ominous silence. One of the soldiers who had strolled to the other side of the plane called out something to the general, pointing. The general ducked under the plane, then let out a low whistle in the dark. "Looks like you landed just in time, my friends," he said, darting a look at Anspaugh, who was descending from the aircraft in a daze. "You have a hole in your gas tank." He ran his finger along the edge of a ragged tear where Elizabeth's wild shot had torn into the wing after penetrating the window Then he looked up at the blown-out window and at the long smear of red along the fuselage from window to tail. "You have had some trouble, yes?"

"Un pocito," said Beatrice quietly. She smiled demurely. "What exactly did your nephew tell you about us?" Peter asked. "He told me you were a good man," said the general. "Are you?" "I am now," said Peter, with a glance at Elizabeth. This is not exactly the time to split hairs, she thought, but she noticed that the general nodded sympathetically. "You were not always fighting for freedom?" "I thought I was."

"I completely understand," del Rio said openly. "I have traveled a similar road and I also wish freedom for my country. But at some point there will arrive tonight others who may have less understanding. What can I do to help you before that time comes, my friend?" Elizabeth watched as Peter drew the general aside. She chafed at being excluded, as did Beatrice. They were both about to go over and insist on being part of the discussion when the two men shook hands. Del Rio shouted orders and several soldiers ran into the airplane. "What was that all about?" said Beatrice. "Guy talk?" Peter gave her a look. "I asked if he could recommend a place where we could regroup. "And?"

"He's asked us to his house for dinner.

"And the pilot?"

"They'll find a room for him near the airport. Come morning, there's a flight off the island." As she watched the general's men lead Anspaugh toward the terminal, Elizabeth began to breathe more easily. The three travelers bundled into the general's vintage Bonneville, del Rio waving off his aide and declaring that he would drive himself. On the way into the dark green hills, he kept up a stream of chatter, pointing out the textile mill, the oil refinery and the road to Sierra Maestra, where Castro had holed up with his followers. As he spoke of the man he had once loved and had subsequently turned against, his deep baritone voice thickened with sadness. The general's hacienda was at the end of a dusty moonlit road that from time to time was crossed by the blur of feline forms. He was a breeder of cats, he explained, a hobby that supplied his animal-Loving wife with house pets and his troops with adequate protein during hard winters. The house had an American feel to it, turning out to be a rough copy of a Palm Springs mansion its former owner, an American professional gambler, had built for his Cuban mistress. It was nestled in the middle of a fifty-hectare coffee plantation. As she took her place at the dinner table, next to del Rio's delighted wife, Elizabeth felt herself relax for the first time in days. The woman wanted to know everything there was to know about fashion, makeup and Tom Cruise. Elizabeth was delighted to turn her attention to such trivia for a change. The worry left Beatrice's face as well, and Peter was positively lighthearted, engaging the general in spirited argument over the relative merits of Hayden's string quartets and Mozart's. Then the talk turned to Castro again, and both men sobered. Cigars came out and the room was soon wreathed in wonderfully fragrant smoke. "Reforms have a way of becoming problems," the general observed. "And despotism is despotism. In America, you have always freedom of choice." Peter said nothing. He didn't have the heart and, besides, he didn't want to spoil the euphoria of at last being safe and sheltered on solid ground. It seemed for the moment as if the worst was behind them. The general made it clear they were to spend the night, and left to make arrangements with the help. Beatrice was about to say how safe she felt, when she caught Peter looking at his watch, his expression suddenly grave. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking."

"You weren't just thinking. Tell me, Peter, and don't lie to me." He looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. "They probably won't be staffing the transplant operation for several hours," he mused. "Barrola's on his own this time, and Wolfe will want to go over everything with him before he goes under the knife." She looked at him, her face tightening. "Peter, you need to put this out of your mind," she said. He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. "You're right. There's nothing to be done about it now. By the time we chartered a boat and covered the six hundred miles to Vieques, Wolfe would be out of recovery- "Peter," said Beatrice. "-and who knows if Hans ever handled a boat? I know I never have-" "He didn't," said Elizabeth. They turned. She was just ten feet away and had obviously been listening. "That's why you wanted me to hire a boat, remember?" Peter nodded, contrite. "I'm not much of a swimmer now, I noticed that. And besides, what would I do once I got there?" Beatrice was eyeing him like a hawk now, not liking this a.s.s-backward way of suggesting some hare-brained scheme. "The base is armed to the teeth," she said. "I hope you're not feeling heroic at this point. We're all lucky to be alive." "I could chain myself to the gate," he said a little dreamily. "Right. And Elizabeth and I could bring you food." "A cheeseburger, please. Everything on it." "You'd be cheeseburger. National security hash-and it wouldn't save Kenner-so just forget whatever nonsense you're thinking, Peter. You've done all you can. You didn't even know Kenner." "That makes it all right?"

She stood glaring at him, and he at her, until Beatrice broke eye contact. "I'll ask the general which room he wants us in," said Beatrice. "I see a nice big hammock out back. Lucky to fall asleep under the stars. Remember, B., that first summer in Bar Harbor? That wonderful double hammock?" "Yes, I do. You go if you want to. My old bones could use a bed, and the softer the better." He kissed her and walked off onto the terrace. Beatrice and Elizabeth kept an eye on him as they spoke. "I don't want to sound like an alarmist," Beatrice remarked, "but we do have to think about what's next. We can't stay here. The general made it pretty clear that he is an exception. We don't want to end up in a Havana jail or at the center of a big trial." "Del Rio said he'll help us," Elizabeth said. "Yes? How?"

"He says he knows of a place in the Caymans. A tiny island and a cabin invisible from the air, with all the amenities. You could hide out there for a while until things blow over. "It's a lovely thought."

"It's not just a thought," Elizabeth insisted. "It's doable." Beatrice squeezed her arm. You're very sweet. But this isn't going to blow over for Peter and me, Elizabeth. We're in too deep and too much is at stake for very powerful people." She kissed her, and then the two embraced. There were tears in Elizabeth's eyes, as there were in Beatrice's. "I couldn't have asked for a better gift than you," Beatrice said. "Now go say good night to Peter. I know he would want you to." She gave Elizabeth another hug, then went off to find her bedroom. Elizabeth looked to the terrace.

Peter was still swinging in the hammock, rapt as a child beneath the stars. She walked out to him and stood by the hammock. The gra.s.s was white with moonlight. "Those huge stars, remember? Above the bay?" he asked. "Of course I remember," she said.

She sat beside him and they readjusted their weight until they were balanced. "Are those coquis?" she asked, listening to the trees. "You tell me. You're a child of the Caribbean." She winced. "Don't remind me."

He put out his hand, grazing her cheek with his knuckle. "I'm sorry," he said. "About what?"

"Things. Everything."

"Don't be. I made a whole bunch of choices, in case you've forgotten." "You're a danger junkie, I forgot."

"Only up to a point. But actually," she said gently, "I wouldn't have missed it for the world." "I feel better then. Not that I believe you. "But you should," she said.

"Would you do it all over again?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Ah, see, you've failed Nietzsche's test. If you wouldn't live your life over, why bother to live at all?" "Because once is funny," said Elizabeth. "Twice isn't." He laughed, and when she bent to kiss his cheek he turned his head and their lips met softly for a long moment. Then she walked back into the house. She found her bedroom and lay facedown on the bed, exhausted. Peter had abandoned the hammock, and she could hear him talking with Beatrice on the other side of the wall. She fell asleep, dreaming of Switzerland and woke to the sound of ravens in the cedar grove. Breakfast was on the veranda, set for three. She came out and the servant girl nodded shyly. "Where's General del Rio?"

The girl only spoke a little English, but she managed to tell Elizabeth that the general was away for a while, but that he had left her something in the library. She went in and found a nautical atlas, one of its pages held down by a magnifying gla.s.s. In the center of the magnification was a beautiful little circle of emerald: Isla Traquillo. Carrying the atlas to Peter and Beatrice's room, she found the door open and the room empty'. The bed had been slept in on both sides. On one of the pillows was a bloodstain the size of a thumbnail. She ran frantically through the house, calling Peter and Beatrice's names. n.o.body responded. On the veranda, the housekeeper was removing two of the three breakfast settings. "Where is the young man who was staying here?" Elizabeth demanded. "He take breakfast. He go.

"Where?"

"Con el general."

Her heart sank. "What about his wife? The lady with the gray hair?" "She go later. Take taxi to the airport." Elizabeth's whole body began to tremble. It took forever for the housekeeper to find her another taxi service willing to go that far. By the time she reached the airport in Santiago, Peter was already airborne.

SANTIAGO DE CUBA AIRPORT.

The ancient DC-3 was General del Rio's half of the bargain Peter had struck immediately upon landing. The airplane was new when it had been flown in the Berlin Airlift, still st.u.r.dy when it had dropped paratroopers in Korea, and fairly reliable when it had transported parcel post for the U.S. Post Office. Bought at auction by counterculture entrepreneurs, it continued to hold up during marijuana runs from Cartagena until it suffered engine problems and was forced to land in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. There it was confiscated by the Tonton Macoutes. For a cache of Russian arms and Cuban cigars, Papa Doc traded the plane to Fidel Castro, who flew it another five thousand hours and then gave it outright to General Jesus Pinar del Rio. To the general, this trade made eminent sense: one old DC-3 in return for one slightly damaged but brand-new Learjet 60 with marble in the bathroom and seats made of leather. The general gave Peter the gasoline for nothing. Ten minutes after arriving at the airport, Peter was taxiing the tail dragger down the runway. The controls were in many ways easier than those of the single-engine Cessna he had flown-or rather Hans had flown-because they' were simpler. This was, after all, a plane built more than half a century ago; it actually had caned c.o.c.kpit seats. But taxiing with the tail dragging on a six-inch wheel was something else. The plane veered and slewed badly until he let his mind go slack and just gunned it. Once it gained sufficient speed, the old plane straightened out. But would it lift off? Peter kept the throttle full out and his own thoughts out of his head. At the very end of the runway the plane rose gently and cleared the palm trees by six feet. I'm getting pretty good at this, Peter thought. One of these days, I might even take flying lessons. He sank back and let his hands trim flaps and ailerons, clearing up the drag coefficient until the plane was flying smoothly and lifting well. Then he banked and headed east parallel to the runway, looked down in time to see a dozen cars and armored vehicles moving rapidly into the airport area from the approach road, On the way to the airport, the general had been obliged several times to duck down side roads in order to allow suspicious military traffic to pa.s.s. He explained it was altogether possible that Peter had been spotted last evening in the Bonneville and had aroused suspicions. So even though he had done his best to keep outside authority away, they had apparently arrived at the house to ask questions. Peter prayed that they had been decent to Beatrice and Elizabeth, although he suspected one of the house workers had blurted out that the general and the gringo had gone to the airport. Then he saw the fighters-tiny dots moving swiftly toward him from above. They disappeared as quickly as they came, but moments later there was a surging roar and they reemerged on both sides of him, flaps fully deployed, air brakes vertical in order to fly slowly enough to stay with him. They were Cuban, but if they were under the command of the newcomers below at the airport, it would be all over for him. He prepared himself to be blown to smithereens, but when he looked across to the lead plane, its pilot waved and gave him a thumbs-up. "I'll be d.a.m.ned," he said aloud. "Del Rio's really a man of power." "Good thing, or we would be fish food," said a voice coming directly from behind him. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating. His ear had leaked blood all night. "Beatrice?" he whispered, not daring to look around, for fear he would see nothing. Then he jumped involuntarily as she twisted into the co-pilot's seat beside him. He couldn't believe his eyes. "Beatrice, what are you doing here?" "Please don't ask me that," she said. She gave him a cool glance and then patted his arm. "Standing by my man, I suppose." "How did you get in here?"

"My taxi beat you. The general must have been delayed. Apparently your trade was the talk of the airport." "You knew all along I was up to something?" "Peter, do you have any idea how transparent you are?" "If I'd simply agreed to lay low, you wouldn't have believed me." "I didn't believe you anyway.

He sank back in his seat and shook his head. Women were indeed a superior species, he decided. "Don't feel too badly, darling," Beatrice said. "Elizabeth bought it." "She hasn't known me as long as you have." He looked at her. "You left without telling her?" "Yup," said Beatrice.

"Good. We've put her through enough. I do have to finish this, you know." "I know," she said with a sigh.

"After all, I started it."

"We started it. And if you had known I had stowed away, you would have never taken off." "Of course I would have," he lied. She was asking him to tell her what they were doing was rational. "I love you, B." "I love you, too, you old coot." She nodded out the window at the Cuban fighters. "I a.s.sume those planes are all friendly or we would be a hole in the ground?" "Seems so.

"Will they escort us all the way to Vieques?" "That's a little too much to hope for. Maybe to the edge of their air-s.p.a.ce. After that, we're on our own. Anyway, what's that line from d.i.c.kens?" "It is a far, far better thing that I do-"' she said, and smiled. "-than I have ever done-before'? Or just done.'?" "Just done,' I think."

"You were always better at Bartlett's."

"My favorite right now is that one from Voltaire. G.o.d is a comedian playing to an audience who's afraid to laugh."' Peter laughed, realizing he was unafraid at last. "My favorite is A man's trouble stems from his inability to sit quietly in his room,"' he said. "Pascal, right?"

"Very good." He looked at her tenderly. "But we've spent most of our lives in quiet rooms, haven't we? Maybe I should switch to Live by the sword, die by the sword,' or something like that." "The New Testament is always good," she said. "Or maybe Woe unto you when all men speak well of you.' Do you suppose they'll speak well of us, Beatrice?" "I wouldn't count on it, at this point." "Then we must be doing the right thing," he said. They smiled and fell silent. For more than a hundred miles the Cuban jets stayed with them, then peeled off over Haiti, shooting off like rockets into the cloud formations above. "Must be interesting to fly like that," Beatrice remarked. "They say it smells of kerosene in the c.o.c.kpits," Peter said thoughtfully. "Can't spit out the windows the way you can in these babies." "True," she said, reaching out and touching his hand. "And you can't take the wife along with you." He squeezed her hand as hard as she was squeezing his. Their thoughts flowed together. She knew what he had to do. His heart soared with love for her and for the whole G.o.dforsaken world. "That's exactly right," he said.

VIEQUES.

In Wolfe's operating theater, things had moved rapidly that morning, far too rapidly for Dr. Emilio Barrola's taste. He was under the strictest orders from Wolfe to make the transfer no matter what happened. Wolfe had sweetened the deal by promising Barrola to clone him again as soon as he was back on his feet in his new body. But no one had bothered to tell Barrola what the d.a.m.n rush was all about, and the rumors about Cuban terrorists or some such nonsense flying around the OR simply made his head hurt. Politics had always bored him silly, and that was not the state of mind he wished to be in. I should have learned to meditate, he reflected, watching his a.s.sistants transfer the subject, a man apparently named Phillip C. Kenner, from the gurney to the operating table. The name meant nothing to Barrola. As far as he was concerned, and certainly to all appearances, it was simply Wolfe's body set back in time forty years or so. The young man's eyes opened. He looked around groggily, scanning the lights, the gleaming equipment, the figures surrounding him in surgical gowns and masks. "Oh, s.h.i.t," said Kenner in a slurred voice. "This isn't a Mafia thing at all, is it?" "Just relax, now," said Barrola. "This will be over in a minute." He gave a nod and a male nurse plunged a hypodermic needle into Kenner's upper arm. Kenner felt himself go numb. He twisted around, and in one horrific moment thought he saw himself as an old man on a parallel gurney, staring back at himself with the most terrifying look of hunger imaginable. Then everything went black. Wolfe, who had insisted not only on being briefed about the situation outside the OR but on observing the procedure until the last possible moment, now began to mumble unwanted instructions, even as the Valium dripped into his veins. Barrola was reminded of his father, who had stood over his shoulder every time the family car had a flat, telling him to look out or the jack would crush his hand. It's a wonder I'm able to dress myself, Barrola thought. In a matter of a few hours he had opened Kenner's cranium and cut the nerve bundles behind the man's throat. And with those moves- brilliantly done, in Barrola's estimation, despite Wolfe's constant carping-Phillip C. Kenner, thirty-three years from his birth and with a once promising career as a physics professor or professional gambler, ceased to exist. Shortly thereafter, to Barrola's further annoyance, a uniformed aide of the lieutenant colonel now in charge of the project's security entered the OR and relayed a message to Wolfe on the table. Barrola stood biting his tongue, eavesdropping. Apparently an unmarked DC-3 was being tracked moving toward them from Cuba. It had been escorted out of Cuban airs.p.a.ce by communist fighters and was thought to be piloted by Jance. The situation was politically tricky. If they knew for sure that Jance and only Jance was on board, they could simply shoot the plane down with impunity. But if he was with Cubans, who had every right to fly around the Caribbean legally. such action would be sticky indeed. And if Jance wasn't on board at all, for all they knew they would be shooting a planeload of schoolchildren out of the sky, earning the wrath of the world and gaining nothing in the pursuit of Dr. Peter Jance. Wolfe muttered something fearful about Dr. Beatrice Jance when he heard orders had been given to hara.s.s and challenge the plane. He further mumbled that there was a good chance that if it failed to respond to radio transmissions, the U.S. would shoot it down. How I'm expected to work under these conditions is anybody's guess, thought Barrola. He discreetly signaled for Wolfe's anesthetic to be increased: soon the old man's eyelids fluttered shut. Thank G.o.d. But then, to Barrola's audible frustration, Wolfe's eyes reopened one last time. They shone darkly, revealing what could be construed as wisdom. "It's not the Communists," he said, in a thick voice, whatever that meant. Then his eyes closed once again as Barrola bent to his task, and Frederick Wolfe dropped into a dreamless sleep.