The Second Saladin

Danzig wondered about his own motives. A curious question for him: why this thing for Chardy? Was it that he felt a kinship with Chardy, casting himself in the ex-champion’s role that so many seemed to reserve for Chardy? Or perhaps also it was that Chardy had a simplicity to him that Danzig had not encountered among the sophists of his many circles. And certainly another part of it was Chardy’s aloneness, which by itself recommended him to Danzig, who in an untoward moment of self-acuity admitted to a ferocious Italian interviewer that he enjoyed acting alone and knew that Americans were drawn to the spectacle of the lone fellow performing great deeds. Cowboys. So in this way, as a pure reflection of certain of his own aspects, was Danzig attracted to Chardy. There was also the fellow’s lip; he was a great and furious retorter, a man of fierce pride, a real fighter, which engaged Danzig.

Chardy also had no grief; he was a mighty represser, goal-oriented, who hammered his feelings deep inside himself and would admit no weakness. Danzig knew this to be dangerous — indeed, almost self-destructive — but also the only way really to accomplish things. Chardy had exiled his feelings from his body; his face was blank and a trifle dull, as usual. If the dead woman had been and still was, by some sadomasochistic twist in personality, dear to him, he would not show it. It was quickly and smoothly business as usual. The events, bloody and horrible, of the week past, seemed not to have happened at all for Chardy.

“You said he’d never get close, Mr. Chardy. He got to within fifteen feet while you yourself were off in pursuit of dubious pleasures.”

Chardy nodded.

“I was no good guessing the future. Poor Uckley had to pay for it.”

“Uckley was a professional. He knew the risks. A sizable sum was settled on his family. It is exceedingly dispiriting to be shot at. Tell me — you are said to have some expertise in this matter — does one ever adjust?”

“Never,” Chardy said.

“But we seem to have survived again, haven’t we?”

“Thanks to the vest.”

“Do you know, I’ve been wearing it so long I’d forgotten about it? Forgotten absolutely. I thought he had me. It must have been ten seconds — which can be an eternity — before it occurred to me I would not die.”

Chardy had no response.

“Is there news?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“I’m not leaving this house until they catch him.”

“That makes sense.”

“Will they catch him?”

“They say they will.”

“I know what they say. They say it loudly and often. Yet I sense a certain softness in their position. Their performance so seldom lives up to their promise. What do you say?”

Chardy thought for a second. Then he said, “No. Not for a time. What they keep forgetting is that I trained him.”

“An ego, Mr. Chardy? How pleasant. That makes two of us.”

37

Lanahan’s rise was sudden and wondrous: he reported directly to Melman. He called Melman “Sam.” There was no Yost between them; it was as if a generation had been sliced out of the hierarchy. That is, Yost, the bishop, was gone; Lanahan reported directly to Sam, the cardinal. He had responsibility, control, power. He had people. He had nice little perks — a driver, a girl, a coffee cup that miraculously never seemed to empty.

“And they seemed to be getting along?” Sam asked in his mildly interested way, referring to Chardy and Danzig.

“Yes, Sam.” Miles rubbed his chin, where a pimple had burst that morning. “For some reason Danzig likes Paul. My people can’t figure it out.”

Melman sat back. “There’s an attraction to Paul, without a doubt.”

“Yes.”

“He has a certain World War Two glamour. Some of the older men, the old OSS types, had it too. And a few of the Special Operations people too. But only Paul, these days. It can be very exciting stuff.”

“Well” — not that Lanahan would disagree with Sam on anything of consequence; still, he’d throw out an occasional inoffensive counterpunch so as not to be thought the total yesman — “to a certain juvenile turn of mind, yes. Poor Trewitt loved Chardy, and look what it got him. It surprises me,” he blasted ahead confidently, “that a realist like Danzig could fall for a bullshit artist, a cowboy, like Chardy.”

“He’s scared, Miles. That’s the psychology of it.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re monitoring them? I mean, without being overly obvious about it?”

“Yes, Sam. Of course.”

“Anything else?”

Ah. This looked to be a good moment to lay on Sam the story of Trewitt in Mexico and the secret link to Chardy via Resurrection, which Lanahan had been storing away for just the right moment. He took a quick look about Sam’s bright office, and leaned forward as if to begin to speak.

“Now there is one thing, Miles.” Sam cut him off. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this. I foresee one potential problem. I’ve already run into traces of it in Danzig.”

Was this a test?

Miles said nothing. He still felt as though he’d blundered into an audience with the cardinal.

“Miles, both these men — Danzig and Chardy — have tendencies toward paranoia. Well-documented, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“What bothers me is that if their bond becomes too close, there’s no guessing what they might concoct. And certain ideas can be very dangerous to our line of work. Remember the great double-agent scare of the mid- seventies? No, of course not, you were just starting. And you don’t remember the fifties either, when I was just starting. At any rate, this sort of thing can wreck a division, a whole directorate. The whole shop. Do you follow?”

Sam peered at Miles intensely. He had pale, shallow eyes. Sam was a handsome man. Smooth, brilliant Sam. Everybody wanted a little of Sam’s famous calm charm.

“Yes, sir,” said Miles.

“Let’s declare a first operating principle. A bedrock, a foundation. And that’s that this is first of all a security job. A matter of protection. Perhaps even protecting Danzig from himself. As long as you see it in those terms, and remember that the enemy is Ulu Beg and Danzig’s own paranoia, you’ll be able to keep your bearings.”

What was Sam warning him against?

“Miles, you’re doing well. You’ve managed, early on to get into a crucial position on an important operation. You realize there are men around here who’ve tried for years to get where you are, and have never made it?”

Melman smiled, showing white, even teeth. His charm, remote from public view, was well known in the Agency. It was not a pushy charm, or flamboyant; rather it was a warm thing, enveloping. He had a way of including you in a pact against the world: you, he, united, would stand in tight circumference against the outsiders.

While yielding fully to it, Lanahan at the same time acknowledged it for what it was: a treatment, a technique of manipulation. But he had an immense urge to give Melman something for the privilege of being included. He felt in the presence of a charismatic priest, a great priest, and wished he had a sin to offer up so this man could forgive him.

Trewitt in Mexico.