Havelock knew he had been spotted: a newspaper was abruptly lowered as he walked between the roped stanchions of Air France’s disembarkation lounge at Kennedy into the corridor that led to immigration. He had been pre-cleared on diplomatic status, the papers Broussac had provided guaranteeing a rapid exit through U.S. customs, and because of this accommodation he understood that he had to destroy those papers as quickly as possible. He carried his small suitcase—officially lock-taped and stamped Diplomatique in Paris—and once through the corridor he would be admitted through the heavy metal doors that led into the terminal by simply showing his United Nations credentials and declaring that he had no other luggage. A dead—file name would be checked against a dead-file name on the manifest, and he would be free to search or be killed in the United States of America. It was all so simple.
However, for Régine Broussac’s protection—and ultimately his own—he had to get rid of the false papers that made all this possible. Too, he had to find out who had lowered the newspaper. The gray-faced man had risen slowly from his seat, folding the newspaper under his arm, and started for the outer, crowded hallway that paralleled the inner corridor that led to questionable freedom. Who was that man?
If he could not find out, it was entirely possible that he would be killed before he could search, before he reached a halfway broker named Jacob Handelman. And that was not acceptable.
The uniformed immigration officer was astute, polite. He asked the proper questions while looking Havelock directly in the eyes.
“You have no luggage, sir?”
“Non, monsieur. Only the one piece here.”
“Then you don’t expect to be on First Avenue very long?”
“A day, forty-eight hours,” replied Michael with a Gallic shrug. “Une conférnnce.”
“I’m sure your government has made arrangements for transportation into the city. Wouldn’t you care to wait for the rest of your party?”
The official was very good, thought Havelock. “Forgive me, monsieur, you force me to be candid.” Michael smiled awkwardly, as though his dignity had been somewhat compromised. “There is a lady waiting for me; we see each other so seldom. Perhaps it is noted on your information, I was posted at—First Avenue for several months last year. Haste, mon ami, haste is on my mind.”
Slowly the official returned the smile as he checked off the name and reached for a button. “Have a good day, sir,” he said.
“Many thanks,” said Havelock, walking rapidly through the parting steel checkpoint Vivent les amours des gentil—hommes français, he thought.
The gray-faced man was standing by a short row of telephones, each occupied; he was second in line behind the third. The newspaper, which had been folded under the arm, was instantly removed and snapped open. He had not been able to make his call, and under the circumstances that was the best sight Michael could hope to see.
He started walking in the man’s direction, passing him quickly and looking straight ahead. He took his first left into an intersecting wide corridor crowded with streams of departing passengers heading for their gates. He swung right into a narrower hallway, this one with far fewer people and the majority of these in the uniforms of the various airlines.
Left again, the corridor longer, still narrow, even fewer people, mostly men in white overalls and in shirt sleeves; he had entered some kind of freight complex, the office section. There were no passengers, no business suits, no briefcases or carry—on bags.
There were no public telephones. The walls were stark, broken up by widely spaced glass doors. The nearest phones were far behind, around the corner in the first, main hallway. Out of sight.
He found the men’s room; it said, AIRPORT EMPLOYEES ONLY. Michael pushed the door open and walked inside. It was a large tiled room, two air vents whirring on the far wall, no windows. A row of toilet stalls was on the left, sinks and urinals on the right. A man in overalls with the words Excelsior Airline Caterers was positioned in front of the fourth urinal; a flush came from one of the stalls. Havelock went to a sink, placing his suitcase under it.
The man at the urinal stepped back and zipped up his overalls; he glanced at Michael, his eyes taking in an expensive dark suit purchased that morning in Paris. Then, as if to say, All right, Mr. Executive, I’ll wash my hands, he ambled to the nearest sink and turned on the water.
A second man emerged from a stall; he pulled his belt taut and started for the door, swearing under his breath, the plas—tic I.D. tag pinned to his shirt indicating he was a harried supervisor.
The man in overalls ripped a paper towel out of a stainless—steel machine, cursorily wiped his hands and threw the brown paper into a receptacle. He opened the door and stepped out. As the door swung back Havelock ran to catch it, holding it open no more than an inch, and peered outside.
The unknown surveillance was fifty—odd feet up the corridor, casually leaning against the wall next to an office door, reading the folded newspaper. He looked at his watch, then glanced at the frosted glass panel; he was the image of a visitor waiting for a friend to come out and Join him for a late lunch or drinks, or a drive to a motel near the airport There was nothing menacing about him, but in that control Michael knew there was menace, professionalism.
still, two could have control, two could wait, be professional The advantage belonged to the one behind a door; he knew what was inside. The one outside did not, and could not afford to move away—to a telephone, perhaps—because once he was out of sight the quarry could escape.
Wait Keep the control. And get rid of the false papers that could lead the pursuers to Régine Broussac and a halfway man named Jacob Handelman. A dead-file name on an aircraft’s manifest was meaningless, inserted by mindless computers that could not say who punched the keys, but the papers could be traced to their origin. Havelock tore the documents into shreds, which he flushed down a toilet With a penknife he sliced the ribbed Diplomatique tape, which guaranteed the absence of official inspection, and opened his suitcase in a stall at the end of the row. He removed the short-barreled Llama automatic from beneath his folded clothes, and a passport case containing his own very authentic papers. Presented properly, the papers were essentially harmless. The objective, however, was not to have to present them at all, and they were rarely required in the streets of his adopted country, one of the benefits for which he was profoundly thankful.
Between the time he destroyed the mocked-up papers and inserted his passport case and weapon in their proper places, the employees’ men’s room had two more visitors. They came in together—an Air France pilot and his first officer, to judge from their conversation; Michael remained in the stall. They argued, urinated, swore at preflight red tape, and wondered how much their Havana Monte Cristos would bring at the bar of L’Auberge au Coin, a restaurant apparently in midtown Manhattan. They continued talking about their profits on the way out.
Havelock took off the Jacket of his suit, rolled it up, and waited in the stall. He held the door open no more than a quarter of an inch and looked at his watch. He had been inside the lavatory nearly fifteen minutes. It would happen soon, he thought.
It did. The white metal door swung slowly back and Havelock saw part of a shoulder first, then the edge of a folded newspaper. The unknown surveillance was professional: no folded Jacket or coat concealed a gun—no draped cloth that could be grabbed and twisted, to be used against the holder—Just a loose newspaper that could be easily discarded and the weapon fired cleanly.
The man whipped around the door, his back against the metal panel, his eyes scanning the walls, the vents, the row of stalls. Satisfied, he bent his knees, lowering himself, but apparently not for the purpose of checking the open spaces under the doors of the first several stalls. His eyes darted back and forth. His body was turned away from Michael. What was he doing?
And then he did it, and the image of another professional on the bridge at Col des Moulinets came to Michael, a blond professional in the uniform of an Italian guard. But the killer “Ricci” had come prepared, knowing what his landscape was, knowing there was a gatehouse door to be jammed. This gray—faced professional had improvised, the test of onsite ingenuity. He had broken off a piece of wood, a small strip of cheap industrial molding—found in a dozen places in any airport corridor—and was now wedging it under the door. He stood up, placed his foot against the strip, and pulled on the metal knob. The door was jammed; they were alone. The man turned.
Peering from inside the stall, Havelock studied him. The menace was not at first glance in the man’s physical equipment. He was perhaps in his mid—fifties, with thinning hair above a flat gray face with thick eyebrows and high cheekbones. He was no more than five feet, eight inches, and his shoulders were narrow, compact. But then, Michael saw the left hand—the right was concealed beneath the newspaper; it was huge, a peasant’s powerful hand, formed by years of working with heavy objects and equipment.
The man started down the row of stalls, the sides of each about two inches above the tiled floor, which made it necessary for him to be within three feet of a front panel to ascertain whether it was occupied. Wearing shoes with thick rubber soles, he moved in total silence. Suddenly he spun his right hand in a circle, flipping off the newspaper. Havelock stared at the gun as the intruder approached the final three stalls. He was angry but bewildered—the weapon was a Graz-Burya. The Russian bent over…
Now. Michael threw his rolled-up suit jacket over the side of the stall on his right. The sound made the Russian leap up, spinning to his left, his gun raised.
In simultaneous movements Havelock grabbed the handle of his suitcase and yanked the door open, then swung the heavy luggage in a lateral arc toward the gray-faced man. He reached for the Graz-Burya with his left hand and tore it out of the man’s hand. The Russian spun away, his powerful arms blocking Havelock; Michael used them—he locked the man’s left arm under his right, wrenched it forward until the Russian’s face was stretched in pain, then he pried the weapon loose and crashed the barrel into the man’s head. As the Russian started to fall, Havelock crouched and Jammed his shoulder into the man’s kidney, propelling him back into the row of urinals.
The gray-faced man fell to his knees, supporting himself on his right hand and holding his left arm across his chest in pain. He gasped for breath, shaking his head. “Nyet, nyet,” he choked. “Talk only! Only talk.”
“With the door as good as locked and a gun in your hand?”
“Would you have agreed to a conversation if I had come up and introduced myself? In Russian, perhaps?”
“You should have tried me.”
“You did not stay still long enough … May I?” The Russian leaned back on his knees, holding his arm and raising one leg as he requested permission to stand.
“Go ahead,” said Havelock, the Graz—Burya steady in his hand. “You were trying to make a phone call.”
“Certainly. To relay word that you had been found. What would you have done? Or I don’t know, perhaps I should not ask.”
“What do you know? How did you find me?” Michael raised the gun, aiming it at the man’s head. “I’d advise you to tell me the truth. I haven’t got a thing to lose with your corpse in here.”
The Russian stared at the barrel and then at Havelock’s eyes. “No, you have nothing to lose; you would not hesitate. A younger man should have been sent out here.”
“How did you know I’d be on that plane?”
“I didn’t No one knows anywhere.… A VKR officer was shot in Paris; he had nowhere to turn but to us.”
“An importing firm on the Beaumarchais?” interrupted Michael “KGB headquarters, Paris?”
The Russian overlooked the interruption. “We knew you had connections throughout the French government Military intelligence, the Quai d’Orsay, the Deputies. If it was your intention to leave France, there was only one way you could do it. Diplomatic cover. All Air France flights listing diplomatic personnel are being watched. Everywhere. London, Rome, Bonn, Athens, the Netherlands, all of South America—everywhere. It’s my misfortune that you chose to come back here; it was not expected. You are ‘beyond salvage.’ ”
“That seems to be a well—publicized piece of Information.”
“It has been circulated in certain quarters.”
“Is that what you wanted to talk about? Because if it is, Moscow’s wasting a lot of man—hours in all those airports.”
“I bring you a message from Pyotr Rostov. He believes that after Rome, you might listen.”
“Rome? What about Rome?”
“The Palatine. It would seem it was conclusive for you. You were meant to the on the Palatine.”
“I was?” Havelock watched the man’s eyes, the set of his lips. So Rostov knew about the Palatine; it was to be expected. Bodies had been found there: the corpse of a former American agent known for Jugular operations and his two wounded Italian drones who had nothing to lose and something to bargain with by telling the truth. Certainly Moscow knew. But Rostov did not know about Jenna Karas or Col des Moulinets, or he would have included them in his opening lure. Under different circumstances it might have been necessary for the words to have been shouted quickly: Jenna Karas is alive! Col des Moulinets! Both were far more persuasive. “What’s the message?”
“He says to tell you the bait’s been reconsidered. He’ll take it now and thinks you should agree. He says he’s not your enemy any longer, but others are who may be his as well.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t answer you,” said the man, his thick eyebrows motionless above his deep—set peasant eyes. “I’m merely the messenger. The substance is for you to know, not me.”
“You knew about the Palatine.”
“The death of a maniac travels fast, especially if he’s your adversary—most especially if he’s killed a number of your friends.… What was the name his own people gave him? The Gunslinger, I believe. A romantic figure from your Western films, which, incidentally, I enjoy immensely. But in history such a fellow was invariably a filthy, unprincipled pig, devoid of morals or ideology, motivated solely by profit or pathological brutality. In these times he might be the president of an enormous corporation, no?”
“Spare me. Save it for the state schools.”
“Rostov would like a reply, but you don’t have to give it at once. I can reach you. A day, two days—a few hours from now. You may name the drop. We can get you out. To safety.”
Again Michael studied the Russian’s face. Like Rostov in Athens before him, the man was relaying the truth—as he knew the truth, and as he knew the word of his superior in Moscow. “What does Rostov offer?”
“I told you. Safety. You know what’s ahead of you here. The Palatine.”
“Safety in exchange for what?”
“That’s between you and Rostov. Why should I invent conditons? You would not believe them.”
“Tell Rostov he’s wrong.”
“About Rome? The Palatine?”
“The Palatine,” said Havelock, wondering briefly if a KGB director ten thousand miles away would perceive the essential truth within the larger lie. “I don’t need the safety of the Lubyanka.”
“You refuse his offer, then?”
“I refuse the bait.”
There was a sudden thud against the men’s—room door, followed by a muffled voice swearing, then repeated banging against the metal panel The strip of wood wedged under the door scraped the tile; it gave less than an inch, which was enough to make the intruder shout while continuing to pound, “Hey, what the hell is this! Open up!”
The Russian glanced at the door; Havelock did not The man spoke rapidly: “Should you change your mind, there is a row of trash cans in Bryant Park, behind your Public Library. Place a red mark on the front of one of them—I suggest a felt marker or, better yet, a spot of woman’s nail polish. Then, starting at ten o’clock that same night, walk north and south on Broadway, between Forty-second and Fifty-third streets, staying on the east-side pavement Someone will reach you, giving you the address of the contact It will be outside, naturally. No traps.”
“What’s going on in there? Fa’ Christ’s sake, open this goddamned door!”
“I thought you said I could pick the drop.”
“You may. Simply tell the man who reaches you where you want to meet. Just give us three hours.”
“To sweep it?”
“Son of a bitch! Open up!” The metal door was smashed back several inches, the strip of wood scratching against the tiles.
A second, authoritative voice joined that of the angry intruder. “All right, what’s this all about?”
“The door’s jammed! I can’t get in, but I hear ‘em talkin’! They jammed the fuckin’ door!” Another crash, another screech, another inch.
“We take precautions, just as you do,” said the Russian. “What’s between you and Rostov … is between you and Moscow. We are not in Moscow, I am not in Moscow. I do not call for the police when I’m in trouble in New York City.”
“All right in there!” shouted the second voice in lower-register offlciousness. “Fair warning, you punks! Obstruction of normal operating procedures at an international airport con-stitutes a felony, and that includes the toilets! I’m calling Airport Security!” The stern-toned one addressed the angry intruder. “If I were you, I’d find another men’s room. These kids use needles; they can get hopped up and pretty violent.”
“I’ve gotta take one pisser of a leak, man! And they don’t sound like no kids- There’s a cop! Hey, Fuzz!”
“He can’t hear you. He’s walking past I’ll get to a phone.”
“Shit!”
“Let’s go,” said Havelock, reaching down for his jacket and slipping it on.
“My life, then?” asked the Russian. “No corpse in a men’s room?”
“I want my reply delivered. Forget the nail polish on those trash cans.”
“Then, if I may, my weapon, please?”
“I’m not that charitable. You see, you are my enemy. You have been for a long time.”
“It’s difficult to explain a missing weapon. You understand.”
“Tell them you sold it on the open market; It’s the first step in capitalism. Buy cheap—or set it for nothing—and sell high. The Burya’s a good gun; it’d bring a large profit.”
“Please!”
“You don’t understand, comrade. You’d be surprised how many hustlers in Moscow would respect you. Come on!” Havelock grabbed the man by the shoulder, propelling him toward the door. “Kick out the wood,” he ordered, shoving the weapon into his belt and picking up his suitcase.
The Russian did as he was told. He pressed the side of his shoe on the protruding wedge, moving it back and forth, as he pushed the door shut The wedge came loose; he swept it away with his foot and pulled the door open.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed an obese man in sky-blue overalls. “A couple of fuckin’ fairies!”
“They’re coming!” yelled a shirt-sleeved man, running out of an office door across the corridor.
“I think you’re too late, Mr. Supervisor,” said the wide—eyed freight employee, staring at Havelock and the Russian. “Here’re your fackin’ punks. Two old queens who figured the parking lot was too cold.”
“Let’s go!” whispered Havelock, grabbing the Russian’s elbow.
“Disgusting! Revolting!” shouted the supervisor. “At your age! Have you no shame? Perverts everywhere!”
“You won’t change your mind about the weapon?” asked the Russian, walking breathlessly up the corridor, wincing as Michael gripped his damaged left arm. “I’ll be severely disciplined. I haven’t used it in years; It’s really a form of dress, you know.”
“Perverts! You should all be in jail, not in public toilets! You’re a menace!”
“I’m telling you, you’ll get a promotion if the right people think you made a bundle.”
“Faggots!”
“Let go of my arm. That idiot’s marking us.”
“Why? You’re adorable.”
They reached the second hallway, turning left toward the center of the terminal There were, as before, men in overalls and shirt sleeves milling about, watching an occasional secretary emerge from an office door. Up ahead was the Main corridor, crowds surging in both directions, toward departing gates and luggage areas.
In seconds they were swept into the flow of arrivals. Seconds later a trio of uniformed police could be seen breaking through the stream of departing passengers, pushing aside shoulders and small suitcases and plastic garment bags. Havelock switched sides with the Russian, yanking him to the left, and as the police came parallel in the opposite aisle Michael crashed his shoulder into his companion, pummeling him into a blue uniform.
“Nyet! Kishki!” yelled the Russian.
“Goddamn it!” shouted the police officer as he plunged off balance to his right, tripping one of his associates, who in turn fell on top of an elderly blue-haired woman, who screamed.
Havelock accelerated his pace, threading his way past startled passengers who were rushing toward an escalator on the right that led to the baggage area, where they could retrieve their belongings. On the left was someone’s idea of a celestial arch, which led into the central terminal; he headed toward it, walking faster still as the path became less congested. In the terminal the bright afternoon sunlight Streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked around as he went toward the exit door marked Taxis. There were rows of counters beneath panoplies of white-lettered schedules, isolated slots constantly in motion; circular booths selling knickknacks and gewgaws were dotted about in the middle of the domelike building. Along the walls were banks of telephones and indented racks of telephone books. He veered toward the nearest one.
Thirty seconds later he found it: Handelman, J. The address was in upper Manhattan, on 116th Street, Morningside Heights.
Jacob Handelman, halfway man, broker of sanctuary for the pursued and the dispossessed. The man who would conceal Jenna Karas.
“Stop over there,” said Havelock, leaning forward in the seat and pointing to a blue canopy emblazoned with a small gold crown and the name THE KING’S ARMS HOTEL across the scalloped valance. He hoped he would not have to spend the night—each hour put greater distance between Jenna and himself—but on the other hand, he could not walk around Columbia University, carrying even a small suitcase while tracking down Jacob Handelman. He had told the cab driver to take the Triborough Bridge, heading west toward the Hudson and south into Morningside Heights; he wanted to pass the address on 116th, then find a secure place to leave his luggage. It was midafternoon and the halfway man could be anywhere within the sprawling urban campus.
Michael had been to Columbia twice while a graduate student at Princeton, once for a lecture on Europe after Napoleon delivered by a visiting bore from Oxford, and the second time for an inter-graduate-school seminar on university placement for budding Carl Schorskes. Neither occasion was memorable, both were brief, and as a result he really knew nothing about the place. That was probably irrelevant, but the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about Jacob Handelman was not.
The King’s Arms was around the comer from Handelman’s apartment. It was one of those small hotels that somehow manage to survive tastefully within the environs of a city university, upper Manhattan’s answer to the old Taft in New Haven or, stretching a point, the Inn at Princeton—in essence, a campus fixture, temporary quarters for visiting lecturers rather than an undergraduate drinking spot. It had the appearance of dark-leather English comfort and the smell of Academe. It was only an outside possibility, but since the hotel was so close to Handelman’s residence, there was a chance someone might know him.
“Certainly, Mr. Hereford,” said the clerk, reading the registration card. “Dr. Handelman stops in now and then—a little wine or dinner with friends. A delightful gentleman, a most charming sense of humor. We here, like most everyone else, all call him the Rabbi.”
“I didn’t know that. His being a rabbi, I mean.”
“I’m not sure he is formally, although I doubt anyone would question his credentials. He’s Jarmaine Professor of Philosophy, and I understand he lectures frequently at the Jewish Theological Seminary. You’ll enjoy your interview.”
“I’m sure I will. Thank you.”
“Front,” said the clerk, tapping a bell.
Handelman’s apartment building was between Broadway and Riverside Drive, the street sloping toward Riverside Park and the Hudson. It was a solid structure of heavy white stone—once a monument to New York’s exploding upward mobility—which had been permitted to age gently, and to pass through periods of brief renaissance, only to recede into that graveyard of tall, awkwardly ornate edifices too cumbersome for efficient economics. Once there had been a doorman standing in front of the glass-and-ironwork façade; now there were double locks on the inner door and a functioning communications system between visitor and resident.
Havelock pressed the bell, intending merely to make sure Handelman was home; there was no reply from the speaker. He rang again. Nothing.
He went back outside, crossing the street to a doorway, and considered his options. He had telephoned the university’s information center and was given the location and number of Handelman’s office. A second call—placed anonymously as an administration clerk requesting a Thursday stat sheet—revealed the fact that Handelman had doctoral appointments scheduled through 4:00 P.M. It was now nearly five o’clock, and Michael’s frustration was growing. Where was Handelman? There was, of course, no guarantee that he would come directly home from his office, but a broker of sanctuary who had just placed— or was placing—a woman fugitive from Paris had certain obligations. Havelock had considered going to Handelman’s office or intercepting him on the street; he considered both options again. Perhaps an appointment had run late, or he had accepted an invitation for dinner; someone could still be there who might know, who might help him.
Coping with the tension of waiting—a practice he was normally superb at—was causing him pain, actual physical pain in his stomach. He breathed deeply; he could not confront the halfway man in an office or on the street or in any public place and he knew it. The meeting had to take place where there were names and numbers, maps and codes; these were the tools of a halfway man. They would only be kept where he could store them safely, reach them quickly. Under a floorboard, or deep in a wall, or microscopically reduced and In the toe of a shoe or implanted in shirt buttons.
He had not seen a photograph of Handelman, but he knew what he looked like. The florid-faced bartender at the King’s Arms Hotel—himself apparently a fixture, with the flair and verbosity of a fifth-rate poet from Dublin—had described “the Rabbi.” Jacob Handelman was a medium-tall man with long white hair and a short gray beard, given slightly to overweight and more than slightly to a paunch. His walk was “slow and stately,” the bartender said, “as if he was the Judaic blood-royal, sir, forever partin’ the waters, or mountin’ the ark to discourse with the animals. Ah, but he has a gleam in his eye and a lovely heart, sir.”
Havelock had listened to the man and ordered a double Scotch.
Three minutes past five. Breathe deep. Really breathe and think of Jenna, think what you’re going to say to her. It could be an hour or two, or longer, perhaps half the night. Half the night for the halfway man. Don’t dwell on it.
Dusk lingered, the orange sun inflaming the New Jersey skyline beyond the Hudson River. The West Side Highway was jammed, and Riverside Drive, parallel to it, was barely less so. The temperature was dropping and gray clouds Joined the darkening sky; snow was in the air.
And across the street a medium-tall man, wide at the girth, in a full black overcoat, walked slowly down the pavement His bearing was indeed stately, matching the distinguished image created by his pure-white hair, which fell several inches below the brim of his black hat In the light of a streetlamp, Michael could see the gray beard; it was the halfway man.
Jacob Handelman approached the outer glass doors of his apartment building and was now in the stronger light of the large entrance lamps. Havelock stared, at once mesmerized and disturbed; did he know the halfway man? Had “the Rabbi” been part of an operation eight … ten years ago? Perhaps in the Middle East, Tel Aviv, Lebanon? Michael had the distinct feeling that he did know him. Was it the walk? The deliberate pace that seemed almost anachronistic as if the figure should be strolling in medieval robes? Or was it the thin steel-rimmed glasses, set so firmly in the center of the large face?
The moment passed; it was, of course, possible that a halfway man might have crossed his path in any number of situations. They could have been in the same sector at one time or another, a respected professor supposedly on holiday but, in reality, meeting with someone like Régine Broussac. Entirely possible.
Handelman went inside the enclosed entranceway, climbed the inner steps and stopped at the row of mailboxes. It was all Michael could do to restrain himself; the desire to race across the street and confront the halfway man was nearly overpowering.
Ha may choose to tell you nothing. Broussac.
An old man who did not care to negotiate could scream on a staircase and yell for help. And the one who needed help did not know what was behind a door across the street, what devices a group of intelligent city dwellers had mounted to defend themselves from hallway thugs. Security alarms had flooded the market; he had to wait until Jacob Handelman was safely in his flat. And then a knock on the door and the words “Qual d’Orsay” would be enough; there was respect for a man who could dude alarms, an inherent threat in someone outside a door who knew that the one inside was a halfway man. Handelman would see him; he could not afford to refuse.
The old man disappeared through the inner door, the heavy panel of ironwork and glass swinging slowly shut behind him. Havelock waited three minutes; the light went on in several front windows on the fourth floor. It was logical that Handelman’s apartment number was 4A. A halfway man had certain things in common with deep-cover field personnel and the Soviet VKR; he had to be able to watch the streets.
He was not watching now; there was no figure behind the window shades. Michael stepped out of the doorway and crossed the street. Inside the ornate entranceway he struck a match and held it waist-high as he looked down the row of names above the buttons.
R. Charles, Superintendent ID.
He pressed the button and put his lips close to the webbed speaker.
“Yes, what is it?” asked the male voice in clear, well-spoken English.
“Mr. Charles?” said Havelock, not knowing why the man’s voice struck him as odd.
“Yes, it’s Charles. Who’s this?”
“United States government, Department of State—”
“What?”
“Nothing to be alarmed about, Mr. Charles. If you’ll come to the door, you can check my identification through the glass, and either admit me or I can give you a number to call.”
R. Charles paused, then answered slowly, “Fair enough.”
Thirty seconds later a huge, muscular young man appeared In the hallway beyond the door. He was wearing track shorts and a sweatshirt marked with a large number 20. It was either a proclamation of age or the gridiron identity of one of Columbia’s larger linebackers. This, then, was the protection the apartment dwellers on Morningside Heights had chosen. Again, logical: take care of your own to take care of you. Free lodgings for an imposing presence. Michael held up his old ID card in its black plastic case; the dates, of course, were blurred.
R. Charles squinted through the glass, shrugged, and opened the door. “What the hell is this?” he asked, more curiosity than hostility in his voice. A man his size did not have to be aggressive; his thick legs and neck and muscular arms were sufficiently intimidating. Also his youth.
“There’s a man here I’d like to see on official State Department business, but he’s not in. I rang, of course; he’s a friend.”
“Who is it?”
“Dr. Jacob Handelman. He’s a consultant for us but he doesn’t advertise it.”
“Nice old guy, Handelman.”
“The best, Mr. Charles. However, I think he’d be alarmed if he thought I might be recognized.” Havelock grinned. “Also, it’s damned cold out there.”
“I can’t let you in his apartment. I won’t let you in.”
“And I wouldn’t allow you to. I’ll Just wait here, if it’s all right.”
R. Charles hesitated, his eyes dropping to the open ID case still in Michael’s hand. “Yeah, well, okay. I’d ask you into my place but my roommate and I are busting our humps for a midterm tomorrow.”
“Please, I wouldn’t think of it …”
Havelock was interrupted by the appearance of an even larger young man in a doorway at the end of the hall. He was in a full sweatsuit, a book gripped in one hand, a pair of glasses in the other. “Hey, man, what is it?”
“Nothing. Someone looking for the Rabbi.”
“Another one? Come on, we’re wasting time. You’re the brain, I just want to get through tomorrow.”
“Your roommate on the team?” asked Michael, trying to appear contemporary.
“No. He wrestles. That is, he does when they don’t throw him out for dirty holds. Okay, Mastiff, coming.” The roommate went inside.
“Thanks again.”
“Sure. You even sound official. The Rabbi ought to show up any minute.”
“Pretty punctual huh?”
“Like a Swiss clock.” Number 20 turned, then looked back at Havelock. “You know, I figured something like this. Like you, I mean.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know … the people who come to see him, I guess. Late at night sometimes; not exactly campus types.”
There was nothing to lose in asking, thought Michael The young man himself had provided the opening. “We’re most concerned about the woman, I don’t mind telling you that For the Rabbi’s sake we hope she got here. Did you by any chance see her? A blond woman, about five feet five, probably in a raincoat, maybe a hat Yesterday? Today?”
“Last night,” said the young man. “I didn’t, but Mastiff did. Foxy lady, he told me. But nervous; she rang the wrong bell and got old Weinberg—he’s in Four-B and even more nervous.”
“We’re relieved she’s here. What time last night?”
“About now, I guess. I was on the phone when Weinberg buzzed us on the intercom.”
“Thank you.” Twenty-four hours. A halfway man upstairs. She was within reach—he could feel it, sense it! “Incidentally, by sheer coincidence, you’ve been given privileged information. Please respect it.”
“Man, you are official I never saw you, Mr. Havalatch. But if they institute that draft, I may look you up.”
“Do that Thanks again.”
“Take care.” The huge student walked down the hallway to the open door.
The instant it was closed, Havelock moved quickly to the wide stone staircase in the center of the foyer, the steps worn smooth, indented from decades of use. He could not use the elevator beyond; its sound might well alarm a trusting muscular student who could suddenly refect the concept of privileged information in favor of less esoteric responsibilities.
In Paris when Michael had purchased the expensive black shoes to match his suit, he had had the presence of mind to have them resoled with hard rubber. They served him well on the staircase; he went up swiftly, silently, taking the steps two and three at a time, rounding the landings without a sound. In less than half a minute he readied the fourth floor; apartment 4A was at the end of the tiled, dimly lit hallway. He stood for several moments catching his breath, then approached the door and pressed the small button embedded in the molding. From beyond he beard the bell chime softly and seconds later the sound of footsteps.
“Yes?” said the curiously high-pitched voice, in a guttural European accent.
“Dr. Jacob Handelman?”
“Who is this, please?” The speech was Jewish-rooted German.
“I have news from the Quai d’Orsay. May we talk?”
“Vos?” The silence was brief, the words that followed rushed. “You are mistaken. I have no idea what you are talking about I know no one in … what you say, the Quai d’Orsay?”
“In that case, I’ll have to get in touch with Paris, and tell my contact she’s made a dreadful error. Naturally, Jacob Handelman will be removed from the catacomb’s computer terminal.”
“Just one minute, please. I must jog this old man’s memory.”
Havelock could hear the moving footsteps again, faster now, receding, then returning long before the stated minute was up. The metallic sounds of several locks were heard behind the thick wood; the door opened and the halfway man stared at him, then gestured with his head for Michael to come inside.
What was it? Why was he so certain he knew this man, this old man with the gray beard and the long white hair? The large face was soft, but the eyes, in the creased flesh behind the heavy—lensed glasses with the thin steel rims, were—He was not sure, he could not tell.
“You are in my house, sir,” said Handelman, dosing the door and manipulating the locks. “I’ve traveled widely, of course, not always by my own wishes, like so many thousands in my situation. Perhaps we have a mutual friend I cannot at the moment recall. At the Quai d’Orsay. Naturally, I know a number of professors at the Sorbonne.”
Was it the high-pitched, singsong voice? Or the questioning tilt of the head? Or the way the old man stood, feet planted firmly, the posture soft, yet somehow rigid? No, it was not any single thing; it was all of them … somehow.
“ ‘A mutual friend’ isn’t quite accurate. You know a name. Broussac. Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Section Four. She was to have reached you today; she’s a person of her word. I think she did.”
“Ah, but my office is filled with scores of messages only my secretary is aware of, Mr.… Mr.…?”
“Havelock.”
“Yes, Mr. Havellacht Come in, come in. I knew a Habernicht in Berlin in the old days. Friedrich Habernicht Quite similar, no?”
“Close, I guess.” Was it the walk? The same deliberate stride that he had seen outside. The stately … arrogant steps that should be cloaked in medieval robes, or. a high priest’s cassock. He had to ask. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“We?” The halfway man’s eyebrows arched; he adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and peered at Michael. “I cannot imagine where. Unless you were a student in a large class of mine, but that would have to be a number of years ago, I would think. In such a case, you would remember me, but I would not necessarily remember you. Age and the sheer mass of numbers, you understand.”
“Never mind.” A number of years ago. How many years? “Are you telling me you haven’t heard from Broussac?”
“I’m telling you nothing.…. Sit down, do sit down.… I am merely saying that I do not know. You say this person Broussac sent me a message today, and I am saying I receive dozens of messages every day that I frequently do not get to for many days. Again, age and the sheer mass of numbers.”
“I heard you before,” interrupted Havelock; he remained standing, his eyes scanning the room. There were bookshelves everywhere, old furniture—overstuffed chairs, fringed lamps, hassocks—nothing Spartan. Once more the smell of Academe. “Jenna Karas!” said Michael suddenly, rapidly, raising his voice.
“Another message?” asked Handelman ingenuously, an old man bemused by a younger antagonist “So many messages—I must have a talk with my secretary. She overprotects me.”
“Jenna Karas came to see you last night, I know that!”
“Three … no, four people came to see me last night, each a student of mine. I even have their names over here, and the outlines of two graduate papers.” Handelman walked to a cluttered desk against the wall.
“Cut it out!” shouted Havelock. “You packaged her and I’ve got to find her! That was Broussac’s message.”
“So many messages,” intoned the halfway man, as if chanting a Talmudic passage. “Ahh, here are the names, the graduate outlines,” continued Handelman, bending over the disorganized pile of papers. “So many visitors … so many messages. Who can keep track?”
“Listen to met Broussac wouldn’t have given me your name or told me where to find you if I weren’t telling you the truth. I have to reach her! A terrible thing was done to her—to us—and she doesn’t understand!”
“ ‘The Filioque Denials in the Councils of Arius,’ ” chanted Handelman, standing erect and holding a sheaf of papers under the light of a floor lamp. “Those would be the Nicene rejections of the Eastern Church around the fifth century. Very little understood—speaking of understanding.”
He may choose to tell you nothing. “Goddamn you, where did you send her? Stop playing with me! Because—if I have to—I’ll—”
“Yes?” Jacob Handelman turned his head in the spill of the floor lamp and peered once again through the steel-rimmed glasses. He took several steps to his left and replaced the papers on the desk.
It was there, at that moment. It was all there. The eyes behind the thin rims of steel, the rigid posture of the soft body … the walk. Not the measured gait of a high prelate of the church or of a medieval baron entering a great hall … but the strutting of a man in uniform. A black uniform!
Sheets of lightning filled Havelock’s eyes. His mind exploded … then and now, now and then! Not eight or ten years ago but the early years, the terrible years! He was one of them! The images of his memory confirmed it; he saw the man in front of him now as he was then. The large face—without a beard, the hair straight and long, not white but Aryan yellow. Walking … strutting … down to rows of ditches. Machine-gun fire. Screams.
Lidice!
As if in a trance, Michael started toward the halfway man, his hands taut and hard, his fingers curving into claws, tensed for combat with another animal—a lower form of animal.
“Vos?” Handelman drew out the sibilant s in his high-pitched whine. “What is the matter with you? Are you crazy, perhaps? Look at you … are you sick? Stay away from me!”
“The Rabbi …? Oh, Christ, you son of a bitch! You incredible son of a bitch! What were you—Standartenführer? Sturmbannführer?… No, it was Obergruppenführer! It was you! Lidice!”
The old man’s eyes widened; magnified by the thick lenses, they looked monstrous. “You are mad, completely, utterly mad! Leave my house! You are not welcome here. With the pain I’ve suffered, I will not listen to the ravings of a madman!”
The intense singsong chant of the words covered the halfway man’s movement. His right hand slipped down to the desk, to the clutter of papers. Havelock lunged as a gun emerged in Handelman’s hand, placed there minutes ago by an Obergruppenführer who could never afford to forget his origins. The halfway man was a killer of Czechs and Poles and Jews, a man who had taken the identity of a ragged inmate he had sent into a shower of gas or a cave of fire.
Havelock grabbed the hand with the gun, jamming his third finger behind the trigger, slamming it repeatedly against the edge of the desk. It would not come loose! The halfway man was arched beneath him, pinning his right arm, the face grotesque, the mouth stretched like a rabid dog’s, the soft body suddenly hard, writhing in spasms. Handelman’s left hand surged up and clapped Michael’s face, the fingers digging into his eyes.
Havelock twisted violently back and forth, and the halfway man slipped out from under him. They were at the edge of the desk, immobilized by each other’s arms bent to the breaking point. Suddenly Michael freed his right hand; he clenched it into a fist and brought it crashing down like a hammer into where he could see the blur of Handelman’s face.
The steel-rimmed glasses shattered. The German screamed, and the gun clattered to the floor as he brought both his hands to his face.
Havelock leaped backward, yanking the German to his feet, and clamped his hand across the ugly mouth. Havelock’s eyes burned, and tears and specks of blood clouded his vision. But he could see; the Nazi could not.
“You raise your voice, old man, I’ll kill you the instant you do. Now, sit down!”
He pulled the German away from the desk and pushed him into the nearest chair with such force that the halfway man’s neck snapped back. The shattered glasses, however, remained secure on Handelman’s face; they were a part of that face, part of the ugliness.
“You have blinded me!” whined the soldier from Lidice. “A madman comes into my house—”
“Forget it!” said Michael. “I was there!”
“Madness!” Gasping, Handelman raised his hands to remove his glasses.
“Leave them alone!” ordered Havelock. “Let them stay right where they are.”
“Young man, you are—”
“Don’t talk! Listen. I can put out a trace on a man named Jacob Handelman, going back fifty years. Everything about him—old pictures, Germans still alive who knew him, if he ever existed. Then circulate a photograph of you, minus the beard, of course, in certain sections of Prague. You were there; I saw you later and wanted to kill you. A boy of nine or ten wanted to put a knife in your back in the street. And someone still living in Prague or Rudna or Kladno would want to do the same even now. That’s the bottom line, you bastard! So don’t talk to me about people who weren’t here last night, tell me about the one who was. Where is she?”
“I am a very valuable man—”
“I’ll bet you are. Who’d know more about finding safe territories than someone who did it so well And who could protect himself better than someone who could expose the whereabouts of so many. You’ve covered yourself, Mörder. But not with me, do you understand that? Because I don’t care. Now, where is Jenna Katas?”
“While not addressing myself to the preposterous accusations you make,” whined the German, “there are considerations of exchange.”
“You have your life,” said Havelock. “I’m not interested in it It’s enough that you know I’m out there and can end it anytime I like. That’s your exchange. Where is she?”
“The top drawer of the desk.” The halfway man gestured with his trembling hand, his eyes unseeing behind the shattered glasses. “Lift up the pencil rack. There’s a folded green paper.”
Michael went to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out the concave receptacle for pens and pencils. There was the light green paper; he picked it up and unfolded it. It was a page of memorandum stationery from the Columbia University Graduate Faculty of Philosophy. In precise, handwritten block letters was the information Havelock would have killed for; it was everything.
BROUSSAC. APPLICANT FOR DOCTORAL CANDIDATE
NAME: ARVIDAS CORESCU. C/O KOHOUTEK
RFD 3, MASON FALLS, PENNA.
“Is Corescu the name she’s using?” asked Havelock sharply.
“Temporarily. The papers are only temporary; they had to be manufactured in a few hours. Others will follow … if they are to follow.”
“Which means?”
“They must be paid for. Nothing is for nothing.”
“Naturally; the hook’s sunk in and the line keeps reeling out. You must have some very impressive fish out there.”
“You could say I have powerful—friends. In many places.”
“Who’s this Kohoutek?”
“A Slav,” said the halfway man, shrugging derisively. “He has farm land.”
“When did she leave?”
“She was picked up this morning.”
“Another destitute refugee a niece, perhaps—gotten out of the Balkans, or wherever. Away from the Bear, as they say. Kohoutek will get her work; he has friends in the textile unions.”
“From which she pays him and you, or the papers don’t follow.”
“One needs papers,” whined Handelman, “to drive a car, or use a bank—”
“Or to be left alone by immigration,” interrupted Michael “That threat’s always there, isn’t it?”
“We are a nation of laws, sir.”
“You make me sick,” said Havelock approaching the chair, looking down at the animal from Lidice. “I could kill you now, feeling nothing but joy,” he added quietly. “Can you understand that, philosopher? But I won’t, because I want you to know what it’s like to realize it can happen any moment, any day, any night With a knock on your door. You live with that, du altes Luder. Hail Hitler.”
He turned and started for the door.
There was a sharp sound, as of something cracking, behind him. He spun around to see the long blade of a knife streaking toward him directly at his chest. The halfway man had torn the shattered glasses off his face and seized the weapon concealed in the overstuffed chair; the musty smell of Academe was suddenly the putrid odor of a no-man’s-land in a faraway battlefield. Havelock Jumped back, but not before the blade had ripped through the jacket of the suit, the razor-sharp edge sitting his flesh and marking his white shirt with a line of blood.
His right hand whipped under his coat for the Llama automatic. He kicked wildly in front of him, hoping to make contact with any part of the German’s body. As the blade came arcing back he spun away from its trajectory and raised his gun, aiming at the face.
He fibred twice; the halfway man fell to the floor, his head soaked in blood, one eye blown away.
A gun had stilled another gun from Lidice. But there was no joy; it had ceased to matter.
There was only Jenna. He had found her! She could not stop him from reaching her now. She might kill him, but first she would have to look into his eyes. That did matter.
He shoved the Llama into his belt, the page of green paper into his pocket, and raced out of the apartment.