9

WHENEVER ANYONE asked Hazard to recommend a hotel in London he always said Dukes.

He’d never stayed there, had only heard Dukes favorably mentioned by various amateur poker players—the bored wealthy kind whose known fortunes made them unbelievable when they tried to buy a pot.

That Hazard should be asked anything about London seemed plausible. He gave the impression that he’d been to and knew places, and though he didn’t go out of his way to promote the lie, he also didn’t deny it. The truth was he’d been to London only once and even that time didn’t really count. It was in 1968 when he’d hit a twelve-thousand-dollar superfecta at Roosevelt Raceway and taken a chartered gambling junket to London. All he’d seen of the city was on the ride from and to Heathrow Airport. The forty-eight hours in between he’d spent indoors, losing. Actually that was the first and last time he’d been out of the States, except for Canada and Mexico.

But now he was in London and staying at Dukes. He found that hotel to be everything he’d always heard and said it was. Situated in a quiet cul-de-sac with a grand iron gate and a cobblestone courtyard, it offered elegant comfort without being stiff about it. Hazard arrived without a reservation, dressed casually, and, as usual, tieless. He would surely have been turned away at Claridges or the Connaught. But at Dukes he was so amiably received he didn’t doubt when told the hotel’s only vacancy was an expensive top floor suite made available by a last-minute cancellation. He signed in, surrendered his passport to the desk, and went up, to be surprised when the floor waiter and chambermaid greeted him by name. They had future tips in their eyes but also promises of immediate good service. Inside the suite he was welcomed by fresh cut flowers, a salver of fruit and that day’s Times. It was altogether the way to go, Hazard thought. On expenses.

He settled right in, showered, and enjoyed one of the terrycloth robes provided by the house. Then he ordered a double scotch, specifying Dewars and smiling at the idea of pronouncing it correctly. It was quickly brought, along with his passport, returned to him from the desk. He sat in a soft chair near one of the windows and looked out over Green Park, which was really green. The weather was misting, just lightly, typically. He sipped the drink and reminded himself what he was there for. Not a holiday.

From his single piece of luggage, new, bought for the trip, he removed his Llama automatic, special knife, and two other passports. One of the passports was authentically his, another was his under the name George Beech, and the one he’d used to register identified him as Edmund Stevens. Obtaining the false passports had been routine for the DIA, though there’d been some resistance to his getting two.

The Llama. He slipped it from its holster, a lightweight shoulder holster that held the automatic inverted for an easier, faster draw. He checked out the Llama, reassured himself it contained a full clip of 32 soft noses, ready to go. Two spare clips were snapped onto the holster’s underarm strap. He took up the knife and pressed its release button to make the blade shoot out. He thumbed both edges of the blade, carefully, because they were honed so sharp. He didn’t like thinking he’d have to use the knife.

What time was it? The clock in his head didn’t agree with his watch, which showed quarter after two London time. Maybe he’d feel better if he took a nap. He lay on the bed and tried, but after a half hour he gave up, got up, and used the phone.

He had one lead. It had brought him to London. He’d gotten it from a cheap, frayed little address book he’d found in Saad’s wallet. The book had about twenty telephone numbers, New York numbers for first names such as Vicky, Shawn, Monika, Tammy. Working girls. Except for one name and number that stood out.

Badr Al Nabua, London, KNI–7894.

Hazard asked the Dukes’ operator to get that number for him. It rang a couple of times before a female voice answered with, “Knightsbridge seven eight nine four.”

Hazard was uncertain about whether he should ask for Al Nabua or omit the Al. “Mr. Nabua, please.”

“Who is calling?”

Good, thought Hazard; his man was probably there. “Mr. Howard,” he said.

“Your number, Mr. Howard?”

“I want to speak to Mr. Nabua.”

“Please give me your number and Mr. Nabua will call you.”

“I’ll call back. When do you expect him?”

“This is only a message service, sir. Now if you’ll kindly give me—”

“Where are you located?”

“That’s irrelevant, sir.”

“All right, what’s the name of your service?”

“Why?”

“I need someone to take messages for me.”

That prospect changed her. More amicably now, she told him, “We’re the Wickersham Exchange.”

Hazard thanked her and hung up. He consulted the telephone directory and found the address of the Wickersham Exchange. From the desk drawer he got a letter-sized envelope into which he put several sheets of blank paper to make it look fat and important. He sealed the envelope and printed Mr. Badr Al Nabua large on its face. Then he got dressed, harnessed on the Llama under his jacket, slipped the knife in his boot, and went out.

Three ten Argyll Road was a private house converted to commerce. It was occupied by half a dozen small businesses. Wickersham Exchange was on the second floor. There was no name on the door, merely a business card thumbtacked to the door frame. No bell. Hazard went into a narrow anteroom, a short hallway, really, furnished with one abused folding chair. He heard telephone-answering voices coming from the next room and went further in to find two overweight women seated in front of an outdated switchboard. Their glances made Hazard feel intrusive. He asked to see the manager.

One of the women finished taking a message, took off her headset, got up, and tugged at her dress as she came to him. She had punished, mousy hair, an overpowdered face, and a large mouth. “I’m Mrs. Elliott,” she said as though that meant something.

Hazard retreated a few steps to the anteroom. Mrs. Elliott followed cautiously as far as the connecting doorway. Hazard took out the envelope from his jacket pocket. “I’m from the Chase Manhattan Bank,” he said, “London branch.”

“Oh?”

“It’s urgent that I locate a Mr.…” Hazard glanced at the envelope for effect, “… a Mr. Nabua.” He made sure Mrs. Elliott saw the face of the envelope but his fingers covered the embossed Dukes insignia in the upper left corner.

“You have something for Mr. Nabua?”

Hazard nodded.

She held out her hand. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

“My instructions are to deliver it personally to Mr. Nabua.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“It’s a money matter,” Hazard said, and slapped the envelope against the palm of his other hand to let her see how fat it was. “I’ll need Mr. Nabua’s signature on my receipt.”

“We’re not supposed to give out our clients’ addresses.”

“Mr. Nabua will be glad you did in this case.” The envelope again.

She told him, “Just a minute,” and disappeared into the switchboard room. Within a few moments she returned with a four-by-five index card. “I don’t seem to have an address for Mr. Nabua. He paid cash in advance January last for a year’s service. Never gave us an address. We prefer that our clients do so, but he did pay cash in advance.”

“Do you have any idea where I might find Mr. Nabua?”

“Not an inkling. As a matter of fact, we haven’t heard from him for several weeks now. He used to call in for his messages quite frequently. Perhaps he’s out of town. I’m very sorry.”

Hazard’s thoughts exactly. “Well, it’s his loss.”

He went back to his hotel suite, got undressed again, and ordered up two more double scotches. In the fading light he lay on the bed with a tumbler of whiskey resting on his abdomen. Thinking about what to do next. He’d counted on Badr’s phone number.

It had been the right track but it stopped short. End of the line.

On the positive side he at least knew Badr had been in London as recently as a few weeks back, had for some reason been there long enough to hire a telephone-message service, might still be around, might call in any time to get messages. Hazard thought maybe he could leave some irresistible message with Badr’s exchange and maybe Badr would call in and get it and might return the call and maybe on some pretext he might be able to talk Badr into meeting him.

Too many maybes and mights, Hazard decided, and got off that to wonder where the Arab community was in this city. He could find out. But even then it would be like looking for a particular German in New York’s Yorkville section of twenty-five square blocks around East 86th. Little chance.

Hazard felt suddenly drained, tired. It was either genuine tiredness or depression or both. His eyes wanted to close but he sat up on the edge of the bed and snapped on a light. He hadn’t eaten since the lousy food on the plane and figured that might account for his feeling so empty. Sure. He ordered some dinner.

Waiting for it he got his mind off Badr by reviewing the material he was expected to use for the long-distance exercises Kersh had set up. A small carton containing a hundred opaque, sealed envelopes. Inside each envelope was a printed image. He was to select at random and act as his own control, sending one image every other night at exactly midnight his time. After each transmission he was to record the date on the reverse side of the image, along with any other information he thought pertinent—comments, for example, on his attitude or influencing conditions at that particular time. After every third exercise he was to mail the images to Kersh for evaluation. The schedule called for him to start sending Saturday, May 15th, which was the next night.

Examining the exercise box and its contents Hazard thought about Keven. Where she might be and what she might be doing. He wished she were there with him. She was nearly always good for him when he was down.

Dinner arrived. He ate fast and afterward still felt empty. It was only eight o’clock. He clicked off the light and sat slouched in a chair with his eyes closed.

When he opened his eyes he didn’t immediately realize where he was. In London. Sprawled across the bed. He didn’t remember having moved from the chair. He must have dozed off for a moment. It wasn’t like him to do that. He got up for the bathroom and noticed his watch said four-thirty. Incredible. He’d slept eight hours straight. Not a trivial accomplishment for an insomniac. It made Hazard brighten, suddenly feel good, strong, replenished.

He took his time shaving and returned to the bedroom. He glanced out to see dawn just starting. It looked as though it were going to be a nice day. He decided he’d go out and meet it.

Within ten minutes he was headed down St. James. The street was deserted except for a solitary guard at the gate of St. James Palace. Bright red jacket and tall, ridiculous furry hat as advertised. Inhumanly motionless. Stupid, thought Hazard, and continued on to Stable Yard Road, which allowed him to cut through the palace area. Crossing the Mall he recognized Buckingham Palace off to the right, but he rejected it for the park directly ahead.

No one but himself there at this early hour. It was, he decided, a good chance to run. He took off his jacket, shirt, boots, and socks, left them concealed in a clump of shrubs. With his trousers rolled up to just below the knees, he alternated running and walking a hundred along a path that bordered a calm pond. He left the path for grass, softer and wet. All the way around the park was almost a mile and he did the last four hundred full out. He sat on a bench until his breathing was back to normal, then got dressed and wanted breakfast.

He finally found a restaurant open near Trafalgar Square—cheap, greasy, narrow place, but his appetite was worked up enough not to care. The sausage and three eggs and two coffees tasted really good. Just for the hell of it he asked the counterman if by chance he knew any Arabs. The counterman laughed it off and went about his work.

By then most of London was up and around. On the major streets was the hurry of people who had to work Saturdays or at least had somewhere to go. They brought on an outcast feeling in Hazard. He was going nowhere, had nothing to do, unless, of course, he somehow got a new line on Badr. At the moment that seemed unlikely. Badr probably wasn’t even in London, could be anywhere, and that went for the other two—Hatum and Mustafa—as well. There were millions of Arabs in the world—anywhere in the world. That was, he thought, a discouraging but realistic appraisal of the situation.

He wandered aimlessly around Piccadilly, window-shopping stores not yet open. After a while he found himself on Jermyn Street, where he came onto Asser and Turnbull and was that establishment’s first customer for the day. He bought four silk-jersey shirts.

(No, the gentleman would not be in London long enough to have some shirts made to measure.) He went back to his hotel.

What to do? There was gambling, of course, but he wished he knew someone in London. Not being alone might help. Then it occurred to him he did know someone. Catherine, Carl’s widow. He’d once had her telephone number, two numbers actually. He easily remembered them now, but he hesitated, had second thoughts about her, wasn’t really all that anxious to call. He almost decided against it but was glad he hadn’t when he heard how pleased she seemed to hear from him.

“Are you over on business?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Pleasure then.”

“Sort of.”

“I want to see you. Are you here with someone?”

“No. Alone.”

“What about today? What are you doing today?”

“I’m loose.”

“Marvelous. I planned a picnic. Does that appeal to you?”

A picnic didn’t seem her style, but maybe he was wrong. The idea of a spread of cloth, sandwiches, cold drinks, beer maybe, someplace quiet, just Catherine and himself, unpressured, trading talk about things for the first time, getting to know her and maybe not dislike her. It appealed to him. He told her it did.

She sounded pleased.

“Where shall we meet?”

“I’m in the country.”

“Okay, I’ll get a car and drive out. Just tell me where. I’ll find it.”

“No. I’ll send a boat in for you.”

“A boat?”

“Take a taxi to Lambeth Pier. Be there in an hour.” As an afterthought, just before she rang off, she told him, “Better bring whatever you need in case you decide to stay over.”

Hazard had no intention of staying over. Still, he didn’t think it prudent to leave his weapons in the room. To wear the Llama to a picnic didn’t seem right, either, so he shoved it into his bag and took everything along.

Lambeth Pier is on the river directly in front of Lambeth Palace, where the Archbishop of Canterbury resides. Hazard had no sooner arrived on the pier when a powerful Riva speedboat executed a swift, sharp circle, abruptly reversed its engines, and came alongside where he stood. The driver of the Riva shouted his name like a question. Hazard nodded and got aboard. At once the Riva was throttled; its bow bent up and it left the pier with an insolent roar.

The driver steered standing up. He had on a T-shirt, navy blue with white horizontal stripes, and a pair of white shorts. He was very tanned. Apparently speedboating was his profession, and anything less than full speed was a waste of time.

Hazard relaxed and observed London as they went up the Thames under the bridges, passing barges with a racy superiority. After a while they were skimming by Fulham, Putney, and Hammersmith. The outskirts of London, not so many large factories and warehouses. Past such places as Kew, Twickenham, Toddington, and then Hampton Court, where Henry the Eighth had cavorted in silk bloomers with his Anne and others. All the way to where the Thames wound more, and was less than a third of the river it had been at the start. It also smelled better. The banks on either side were growing green, reedy along the edges, and there were groves of trees, many of them forlorn but lovely willows. Every so often Hazard caught a glimpse of a large private house. The sky had a high haze now, the sunlight softened as though it were coming down through pale blue gauze. It was indeed a nice day, Hazard thought, especially for a nice little picnic. He wondered if there’d be hot dogs.

Just before Lower Holliford the Riva’s driver favored the west bank. He soon came even closer in and stopped alongside a high retaining wall of mortared granite inset with large iron rings for tying up. There were three other speedboats there. Several rope ladders hung down the wall and Hazard climbed the most accessible. The Riva’s approach and the height of the wall had blocked a view of what lay above, so when Hazard reached the top he wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

First, Catherine’s country house. It was at least forty rooms, Queen Anne style, with numerous room peaks and large chimneys. Between the house and the river was an expanse of grass, a gentle slope of green so impeccably kept that it gave the impression of a vast new carpet that had been rolled out for the occasion.

On the lawn were about fifty or sixty people. Not gathered but separated into groups of threes and fours, spotted here and there. Each group had its own spread picnic cloth of pale yellow linen.

As Hazard walked by and around and up to the house, he noticed cut-crystal goblets and fine silver. He felt a bit self-conscious but no one paid any attention to his arrival. They were all too preoccupied with themselves; were sprawled, kneeling, sitting in poses that were like pages of Harper’s and Queen nearly come to life, as though contrived to portray the perfect picnic. Conversation was subdued, punctuated by fragments of forced laughter. They were all young or at least gave that impression, and while each competed for attention there could be no winner, because, in their attempts for originalities, they resorted to merely mimicking one another. Each girl was evidently her own favorite person. They were dressed in long, loose organza or chiffon; floral patterns borrowed from earlier in the century but worn now with nothing underneath. Faces framed by wide-brimmed hats, straws with ribbons that streamed from oversize blossoms of pale silk. Pretty. The young men were hatless. Possibly that was the one sure way of distinguishing gender, because their hair was just as long and their bodies just as thin as the girls’, and their gestures not very definitive. They wore sheer shirts with billowing sleeves tight at the wrists, shirtfronts carefully unbuttoned all the way down, not as a matter of comfort. The beautiful androgynous people. They used that description themselves, believing it synonymous with personal liberation.

By the time Hazard got to the house he felt out of place. He found Catherine reclining beside her picnic spread just below the wide steps of the back terrace. It was a position that afforded her a view over all. Flanking her was Peter, the so-called personal secretary Hazard had met at the Pierre, and a young woman named Brett who preferred being boyishly handsome.

Catherine didn’t notice Hazard immediately, but when she did she jumped up to hug and give him welcoming cheek kisses. How happy she was to see him, she said, keeping hold of his arm. There was some small talk about the boat ride down and how long he planned to be in London, during which a servant came and took his piece of luggage. Hazard figured Catherine would have him sit there with her, but she glanced around and said, “Now, where shall I put you?”

She settled on two girls and a young man off to the extreme left beneath a large maple. She told Peter, “Fetch Benedict for me,” and then to Hazard, “You’ll take Benedict’s place.”

“Anywhere’s all right,” Hazard said, thinking he’d like to escape. “Don’t bother what’s his name.”

“No bother,” said Catherine. “It’s your good turn, actually. Benedict couldn’t possibly have been very content with those two.”

A servant brought a basket that Catherine passed to Hazard. A large, round wicker one with the necks of two wine bottles protruding from its yellow linen covering. Its handle was tied with a yellow bow, and in the folds of the bow was a white card with the name Terence crossed out and replaced by Haz.

Catherine sat down and resumed her conversation. Hazard went over to the two girls under the maple.

Their names were Lindy and Laura. They were both extremely pretty, with brown hair and matching wide-set nearly pea-green eyes. They looked and moved very much alike. Lindy was the one with some fresh buttercups twined in her hair. The first thing they wanted to know from Hazard was, “Do you fancy birds?”

Meaning girls, he assumed. He told them he did.

“Exclusively or also?” asked Laura.

“You guess.”

“Also,” said Lindy.

“Also,” was also Laura’s opinion.

“Wrong,” Hazard said, not entirely sure that would be considered a point in his favor.

But they seemed delighted, as though they’d come on something rare. They immediately changed toward him. For example, Lindy reached and intentionally allowed the loose armhole of her dress to fully expose her right breast. And Laura soon contributed a nearly identical maneuver to show she was by no means a slouch.

Trying not to be an obvious voyeur, Hazard paid some attention to his picnic basket. There was goose-liver paté, sections of cold roast pheasant, tiny cheddar-coated biscuits, a bunch of huge African grapes, a container of Beluga Colossal, some very thin chocolate-covered cream mints, and an individual round of well-aged Holland cheese. One of the wines was a vintage Burgundy 1966 Romanée-Conti premier cru. The other was a chilled champagne, Dom Perignon 1959. Crystal and silver were included, and, as an extra favor, a small vellum envelope contained three marijuana cigarettes bearing Catherine’s monogram.

Hazard took a taste of everything. More than a taste of the Burgundy. He commented that it was exceptional.

Laura didn’t agree. “I’d like some Campari. I love Campari.”

Lindy was sitting with one leg crossed under and the other arched. Her white chiffon dress was gathered up. She had on white silk, seamed stockings, and matching garter belt. To flash bare thigh accessorized by the fasteners and tendrils of a garter belt was apparently the newest old rage. “These grapes are orgasmic,” she said, biting one in half with her front teeth.

Laura flung the wine from her goblet, then took off her hat and sailed it away. Lifting her skirt she maneuvered around on her knees and then lay back, resting her head face up on Lindy’s lap. It was all performed with nonchalance, as though her only purpose was to make herself comfortable. However, now her body was extended offeringly toward Hazard and her legs were relaxed, slightly apart. She tucked her chiffon dress down between her legs, defining herself. Then she held up her hand with only her index finger extended. “Know what this is?” she asked Hazard.

“Same to you,” Hazard said.

“Not that. I mean, right here is where they can stick an acupuncture needle to tonify your sex life.” She indicated a specific place on the back of the finger between the nail and first joint. “It’s called point cx nine.”

“Tonify?”

“Stimulate,” explained Lindy. “Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that it should be that finger?”

“Same place both hands?” asked Hazard, going along with it.

“Only the right,” said Lindy.

“Then it’s not a coincidence for anyone left-handed,” said Hazard.

That amused Lindy. When she smiled, Hazard noticed one of her upper front teeth was slightly crooked. The imperfection was an asset, adding an incongruous provincial touch.

Hazard accepted their routine for what it was. Seductive choreography. He wondered if they practiced regularly. But he had to admit he was flattered. They were very pretty, doubly so together. Which thought brought Keven to mind; however, he also remembered Kersh had prescribed distraction. He looked over and saw Catherine had left her place and was down the slope, mingling.

“You going to drink that?” he asked Laura, indicating her bottle of Burgundy. He’d finished his. She handed her bottle over to him, and he got up and walked away.

He went around the side of the house and off into a grove of oaks, over a falling rock wall, and across a small swale of wild grass. Walking anywhere just for the walk, pausing frequently to swig from the bottle. The sun was on its way down, not yet setting but already its light was a weaker amber. It was the time of day he liked most, from then until dark. The wine was getting to him, not a lot but he felt it some in his legs and head. He knew he ought to be concentrating on the Badr problem, trying to figure out his next move. He also felt guilty that he was feeling so good.

His eyes caught on a structure on the opposite side of another rock wall. He went to it, climbed over, and found it was the remains of a small stone cottage, overgrown with ivy and creepers, roofless and with only three sides.

On the north side some moss had grown a bed.

On it were Laura and Lindy.

They provided a tableau. And for a man who fancied only birds, the rest seemed inevitable.

Hazard had no trouble finding his way in the dark back to Catherine’s house. He merely headed in the direction of loud, thumping music.

He was astonished at seeing the inside of the house for the first time. Its authentic Queen Anne exterior was only a façade. Inside every surface was linear, stark white contradicted by jolting splashes of primary color, accessorized by mirror and chrome and lucite. It was brightly, evenly lighted, shadowless, enhancing the clean, spatial effect. Neon geometrics, huge mazes of shining wires. Even incidental functional objects such as ash trays seemed cool and unfamiliar. It was like transcending the present, stepping from the past right into the future.

He felt a hand take his, fingers lacing. “I was wondering about you.” Catherine smiled.

“It’s a big place.”

“You’ve been exploring?”

“I need a ride back to London.”

“We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

He almost told her that wasn’t his fault.

She led him away from the crowd, out of the room, and down a long, high passage only wide enough for two. It seemed to go nowhere but as they approached the end of the passage a partition automatically opened to reveal a small elevator. It was entirely mirrored inside, and going up in it Catherine waited for Hazard’s eyes to find the view reflected by the floor.

“That’s the one disadvantage,” she said.

“Depends on how you look at it.”

They stopped at an upper floor where there was the same sort of décor but in pastels, a softer effect.

“This is my part of the house,” she said. “There’s no way up except the elevator and no way for anyone to call it down. How’s that for guaranteed privacy? Here …” she went ahead “… is your room.”

“I can’t stay.”

“I’ll be hurt if you don’t.”

He glanced around the room but didn’t see his piece of luggage. Catherine slid a panel back with her finger, revealing a built-in wardrobe. His things had been unpacked, folded and put away. In the top drawer was his Llama in its holster, with the straps wound neatly around it. And his knife. On the wardrobe’s mirror-top surface were his three passports and the carton of images. Maybe it was English hospitality, but he resented it.

“See, you’re all moved in,” Catherine said. “All three of you.”

He didn’t have to explain, he told himself. Anyway, he didn’t have to tell her the truth. “I’m in a hassle with the government,” he said, the first thing that came to mind. “They don’t believe I reported all my income over the past ten years. And they’re right. So, before they could put me in I got out. Under an assumed name.”

“Stevens or Beech?”

“Stevens. The other’s a spare.”

She seemed to believe him. “Evidently you were prepared to shoot your way out.”

The gun. “No,” he told her, “just an old friend who never goes anywhere without me.” He realized how phony-tough that sounded.

She stepped back and looked him down and up. “You’re a wanted man.”

“In some parts,” he said, straining to keep it light.

“Edmund Stevens. Must I call you that?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I much prefer Haz.” She added pointedly, “I always did.”

He thought how right he’d been about her. He remembered telling Carl she needed a kick in the ass. She hadn’t cried a drop at the funeral. It was a wonder she’d even showed up. “Get me a ride back to London,” he told her.

She shrugged. “I’ll have my driver take you.”

He expected her to go to make that arrangement but she stayed there as though entertained by his angry movements as he packed.

Hazard didn’t really know her, had never wanted to, had seen her briefly only three or four times over the past five years. Probably he’d never see her again. She was truly nothing to him now that Carl was gone. He’d often wondered about her, though, especially why she’d married Carl. They were such an obvious mismatch. Carl had been way out of her freaky league and she must have realized that from the beginning. So why had she married him? Hazard decided to ask her now.

“Didn’t Carl ever tell you?”

“We never talked much about you.”

She thought back a moment, then said, “I owed it to him.” It sounded as though it had been a debt she’d grudgingly paid. “We first met in Cairo …”

That Hazard had known, but not the rest of it.

It had been June, 1967, the second day of the Six-Day War. Israeli planes were over the city and nearly everyone had taken shelter. Carl was at the U.S. embassy. Looking out the window during a raid, he saw a pretty girl just walking along the deserted street with incredible nonchalance, as though it were any pleasant, peaceful afternoon. Carl opened the window and shouted down, warning her, but she only looked up, smiled, and waved. Carl hurried down and out to her, urged her to come inside. She first ignored him and then resisted when he forcefully carried her in.

She was not grateful for the rescue, called Carl a meddler, and sat brooding by a window like a child prohibited from going out to play. She’d been well aware of the danger, had been inviting the sky to send down her death, hopefully a direct hit. To die that way was abstract, impersonal, not the same as suicide, which required too much of one’s self. It had been an opportunity and Carl had deprived her of it.

When Carl learned that these were her thoughts, he looked on her as a victim of another sort of war. She immediately became his private cause. Dedication made him almost immune to the abusive ingratitudes she put on him. He never wavered, kept her there, tried to reason with her, watched over her. She was literally a prisoner of his concern. Until, on the seventh day, the war was over. She was free to go.

She left on a final, thankless note. But two days later she was back. His optimism was contagious, and she’d caught some of it. He’d given that to her, and she wanted to repay him. No matter that he didn’t suit her customary tastes and values. That, at the time, only qualified him all the more. He was good to her, for her. Hadn’t she lately been laughing almost genuinely; wasn’t she almost content to be only with him; didn’t she nearly believe it herself when she said she loved him?

Within a month they were married.

Within another two she was miserable, as miserable as ever. Her sanguine outlook was that quickly corroded by self-doubt, habitual fears, the same old hang-ups. They hadn’t really gone away for good, just for a holiday, and with their return came the need for the same old defenses. Such as ennui. Life with Carl now bored the hell out of her. His patience and devotedness irritated her. The whole new hope thing had been no more than an illusion. She’d been temporarily deceived into believing she had the ability to love and feel loved. She’d never be fooled again. She wanted out.

Now, with a resigned smile and her eyes set against showing regret, she told Hazard, “Except for the unsavory minor details, that’s how it went.”

Hazard hadn’t expected such openness from her. Maybe he hadn’t been fair, had based his opinion of her on superficial things. He remembered what she’d said that afternoon at the Pierre about being the one who wanted to die. Maybe underneath she was less a barracuda, more someone in deep water who had to tread like hell to keep from going under. “Why didn’t you divorce Carl?” he asked.

“He didn’t want a divorce.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Hazard was asking her to peel off another layer. Reluctantly she told him, “I suppose I always held a bit of hope for myself. It was something to go on, a sort of life line that might let me find my way back again to that first good feeling I had with him.”

An understanding nod from Hazard. He’d finished his packing. Now he unzipped his bag, flipped it open, and said, “I’d like a beer. Can you get me a beer?”

Catherine was very happy to oblige.

They sat side by side in another room, more neutral than a bedroom. She called it her gallery. A completely enclosed area where several paintings took the place of windows. One, a Nolde, gave a view of some dark, furious sea, the madness of the waves ridged with luminous gold beneath a vermilion sky. Another was a Leonor Fini, a nude young girl, pearl-skinned chimerical, her head laden with vague flowers, in her hands a large, platterlike leaf serving her breasts to the onlooker. The only lights in the room were those exactly illuminating the paintings, heightening the impressions that those creations existed in an outside world. There was also a portrait of Catherine.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs with your party?” Hazard asked.

“It won’t miss me.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be with your friends?”

“No.”

Even in that high sanctuary the music from below could be heard. Its pervasive thump was like a pulse throughout the house. It was so much a part of Catherine’s usual experience that she no longer really heard it. Conversely, Hazard’s hearing at that moment seemed hypersensitive, irritated by the thumps and twangs. “Don’t they ever take an intermission?”

Catherine used a nearby phone, and a few moments later the music cut off abruptly. “Silence,” she said, “is something a lot of people can’t tolerate.” She obviously included herself.

Hazard pulled his shoulders back to stretch the tension from them. His legs were straight out and crossed. He settled down and took a gulp of beer. Five more bottles were being kept cold in a silver bucket of shaved ice.

Catherine changed her position so she was lying on her side, giving him all her attention. He sensed she was studying his profile. “This tax trouble you’re in, is it just a matter of money?”

“Why?”

“I have much more of that than I need.”

“Money won’t settle it now. They want me to pay them some prison time. For evasion. Anyway, thanks.” He was sorry he had to lie to her.

“But now that you’re out of the States they can’t touch you.”

“I can be extradited.”

“Then we just won’t let them know you’re here.” She smiled, an accomplice.

A long silent moment, while she decided she was really very attracted to him. She wondered if his being Carl’s brother had anything to do with it. Possibly. But Haz was a lot different. Haz would know how to handle her. At least he seemed to promise that. She imagined herself with him and just picturing it aroused her. That wasn’t an extraordinary reaction for her and she had no reason to trust or depend on it. But usually much more was required to cause such a response in her. Perhaps, she hoped, as she’d hoped many times before, it was the stir of something substantial, something that wouldn’t be so easily discouraged. It might be, just might. She’d never know until she’d put it to the test, and that was impossible at the moment, with Carl and his death between them. She’d have to obscure that, gradually charm and diminish it. “Let’s hear more about you,” she said.

Hazard didn’t want to talk about himself, and after a while maneuvered their conversation back to her.

Her people, as she expressed it, came originally from Northumberland. Probably way back her ancestors had been Nordic but there was no way of tracing that. Sometimes, she told him, when she was feeling especially pagan, she believed it was that ancient bloodline at work.

Her industrious great grandfather had made the family fortune from woolen mills at a time before there was any such thing as an inheritance penalty. So his wealth was passed on intact to her grandfather, who succeeded in expanding the family holdings to such an extent and to organize them in such a clever way that even when he died the Government’s bite was a comparative nibble. Her grandfather lived to be eighty. She knew him only as the surly, grunting, patriarchal figure whom she saw and was prompted to curtsy to on special occasions. The entire family, and it was large, was unctuous and spittle-licking (she loved that description) around the old man. Her parents were no exception. She had been too young to care and once in protest at being forced to deliver a dutiful kiss to grandfather’s old, dry mouth she had stepped on his old, gouty foot. She claimed it was an accident, but always thought Grandfather knew better. Anyway, she’d never been close to him, not nearly as close as most of the others. That was why she often believed his leaving everything to her was only a matter of chance, as though he’d drawn her name from a hat or made a list and threw a pen like a dart at it.

What about her parents? Where were they?

Gone, in 1958, when she was twelve. Both drowned while sailing under the influence of too much wind and brandy—off Holyhead, of all places.

Grandfather outlived them by a year. At thirteen she inherited, along with his fortune, the family’s sycophantic attention. At first she rather enjoyed having aunts, uncles, cousins—even those twice and three times removed—fawn over and oblige her. She was never reprimanded. She always won at games and whatever she asked for would soon appear, sometimes in duplicate or triplicate, depending on the number of relatives present when she happened to speak her desire. Her eager benefactors never mentioned that they charged their gifts to her account at Harrod’s and elsewhere.

It wasn’t until she was sixteen that she fully realized what counterfeiters her relatives were. She began to devise little tests for them, and they all failed. And when they were all eliminated from her faith, she found an awful loneliness had set in.

Did she tell them off and send them packing?

No, not then, anyway. She didn’t even let them know she was on to them. That, in fact, was how she got back at them; by letting them continue their insipid pretense. She toyed with them, doled out encouragements and then enjoyed dashing their hopes. It was, she thought, a fitting, excruciating punishment. They nearly had a mass stroke when, at twenty-one, she married Carl.

After that she was more irritated by their hypocrisy. By then many of them had come to live here in this very house. It had been part of her grandfather’s estate and belonged to her. She paid for its upkeep but never liked the place and so had never made an issue of her relatives moving in to stay. The place was overrun with them. They were literally waiting in line for a vacancy. Then one day, apparently on a whim, she announced she intended to have the house redone. They’d all have to leave. They could, however, take with them whatever they wanted.

They correctly understood from her tone that it was the end of the free ride. They took everything, stripped the house bare of the many valuable pieces it contained, not overlooking the doors and boiserie. She didn’t care. In one fell swoop she’d gotten rid of her sponging relatives and saved herself the trouble of having to sell off the ugly, traditional junk. Shortly thereafter she had the house gutted and commissioned the best Italian interior designer a lot of money could buy to do it the way she wanted, as it was now. No memories.

Hazard was on his fourth beer. Normally he wasn’t a good listener, but he’d been interested in Catherine’s ironic account of her past. Now that he knew her better he felt differently about her. He even liked her for the first time.

“What are you going to do for money?”

Test question, thought Hazard, and told her, “I’ve got some.”

“I just don’t want you to go without. By the way, since this seems to be my night for confessions, I’ve got another to make.”

“What?”

“This afternoon I purposely put you with those boobsy twins.”

“Boobsy?”

“They’re notorious for pooling their assets and going to work on a single target. I wanted to see if you’d succumb or not. Did you?”

“No.”

“Actually, it wasn’t a fair test now that I think of it. Those two could probably defile the Pope if he granted them an audience.”

Hazard laughed but thought he’d have to keep on his toes with her. He used an honest excuse for cutting the evening short; he’d been up since 4:30 that morning.

At the door to his room Catherine said her good night with cheek kisses closer to his mouth than before and a bit more lingering. Also, when her lips passed from cheek to cheek they once ever so lightly brushed his lips.

When he got into bed it was ten minutes to twelve. The bed was not set against the wall, but cantilevered by a stubby chrome column, like a giant flat-topped mushroom. Not having a headboard made him feel vulnerable and he hoped it wouldn’t keep him from getting some sleep.

The carton of images was on the floor nearby. When his watch approached midnight he took out at random one of the small envelopes. He carefully opened it and slid out the image. He saw the one he’d chosen was unlike the drawn, outlined ones he’d worked with before. It was a color photograph and in that respect more realistic.

A white gull in flight against a blue sky.

Because it was more realistic it might be easier to send, Hazard hoped, and fixed his mind on it. He had trouble. His concentration was diverted by thoughts of Catherine, and also there was that question he’d been asked that afternoon: “Do you fancy birds?” He had to stop, refocus and remind his mind it was supposed to be communicating with Keven. She seemed so far away.

After several intense efforts he gave up. He was sure he hadn’t gotten through. He wrote the day and date on the reverse side of the image card, along with an understatement: present surroundings may be a distracting factor.

Kersh would understand. So would Keven …