Tomorrow, noon tomorrow. She would pick up Ulu Beg. Here, in Boston, ten thousand miles from the mountains. And Joseph Danzig would be that same night only five blocks away, unguarded.
She’d gotten Chardy out of there now. She’d done half the incredible. If she could get Ulu Beg in, she’d have done the other half.
She was not as he remembered; she’d been a hard, youthful figure then, boyish and strong and active; a part of Jardi and very much not a part.
Now, in the automobile, she was nervous and plump and dry-lipped and pale.
“Your trip. Hazardous?” she asked.
“Somebody stole my money.”
“Yet you got here so much faster.”
“A fine lady drove me. A fine black woman.”
“There was trouble at the border.”
“What? Oh, yes.”
“They know you’re here. They’ve guessed what you’re here for.”
They drove in bright sunlight through sparkly Boston streets. Everything here was made of wood. There was so much wood, wood in abundance. Wood and automobiles: America.
“How?” he said finally.
“The bullets from your gun. They traced them to nineteen seventy-five.”
He nodded. Of course.
“You should have brought a different gun.”
Yes, he should have. But they had insisted, hadn’t they? It had to be this gun. They had given him this gun. This would be his gun.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “They’re convinced you’re in Ohio still. That’s where they’re looking for you. We have an incredible chance. The best chance we’ll ever have. You would say it’s all written above.”
She told him about Danzig and the party that night, that very night. She told him how relaxed they’d be, since the party was a private thing, among old friends. She told him she had gotten the university faculty guide and found the address of the one member of Danzig’s old department that lived on Hawthorne. She could take him there late tonight and point him. She told him that the only man who could recognize him would not be there.
“Who?”
“Chardy.”
His face did not change. In many ways it was a remarkable face; the nose was oversize, like a prow, and the cheekbones high and sharp. The eyes were gaudy blue, small and intense. In the mountains he’d worn a moustache, huge and droopy, but now he was clean-shaven. He looked almost American. He did look American. She was astonished at how
“You are his woman again?”
“It seems so.”
“He is with us, then?”
“No. He doesn’t know. He came back into my life because of all this. I realized at once that I had to become close to him again. I could learn things from him, and through him I could convince important people that I was harmless.”
“But you are his?”
“It’s not important.”
“But you are?”
“Yes. He’s a different man too. They were very hard on him. His own people. And the Russians tortured him horribly. They burned his back with a torch. He’s a very bitter man, a hurt man. He’s not the same Chardy at all.”
“He works for them again?”
“He does.”
“I will never understand Americans.”
“Neither will I.”
“You will betray him?”
“Yes. I have thought about it. I will betray him. The political is more important than the personal. But I ask a condition. It’s very important to me.”
“Say it.”
“There will be other people there. People from the university. They are innocent. You must swear not to hurt them. To kill Danzig is justice. To kill these others would be murder. I can’t commit murder. I saw too much of it committed myself.”
“You Americans,” Ulu Beg said. “You make war, but you don’t want there to be any bodies. Or if there are bodies, you don’t want to see them or know about them.”
“Please. Swear it. Swear it as a great Kurdish fighter would swear it.”
“I can only swear what I can. But what is written, is written.”
“Still. Swear it. Or I can’t help. You’ll be on your own. And we’ve both figured out long ago that on your own you have almost no chance.”
He looked at her. Was she insane? He saw it now: she was crazy; she had terrible things in her head. Who could keep promises with bullets flying?
“Swear it. Please.”
“On my eyes,” he said.
“All right.”
They pulled into a parking lot a few minutes later.
“Here.” She handed him a key. “It’s a motel. I’ve rented you a room at the far end. Go there; stay inside. Clean up. There’re some clothes in the room, American clothes. I hope they fit. I’ll pick you up at ten. He said he’d come to my place at eleven. We’ll wait outside until we see him leave. Then I’ll help. I’ll help you get inside. I’ll help with the other business too.”
She fumbled with her purse.
It was a small, cheap revolver.
“I bought it in the city.”
“I have a weapon. I don’t want you there with a gun.”
He turned to leave, but she reached for his arm.
“I’m glad you came. I’m glad it’s nearly finished.”
“
31
Only Chardy and Uckley, the security man, remained. They stood discreetly in one corner of the living room in their lumpy suits. Lanahan was off somewhere playing Napoleon, and the private detectives engaged by the Agency had not accompanied Danzig from the television studio.
Dramatic people swirled about, bright and glittery, and in the center of it all sat Joe Danzig. In point of fact, at no time in their brief association had Chardy seen him quite like this: a sheen of perspiration stood out on his forehead and upper lip and he held a half-empty scotch glass almost like a scepter. He knew everybody here — or most of them — and he had taken his coat off and loosened his tie and collar, an absurd costume, since he still wore his vest. They came to him, the younger ones with some respect, the older ones out of camaraderie. Chardy was surprised to see so many kids. He thought kids hated Danzig, architect of bombing in Vietnam; but no, they did not, or
