The Second Saladin

The doctor brought over the other hand with the pistol and was going to fire straight down into the throat, but as he brought the thing close, the Virgin, in Her kindness and great forgiving love of the sinning Reynoldo Ramirez, rewarded him with a great spurt of strength which he invested in a short, upward, pistonlike blow into the doctor’s looming chin, knocking the stunned man backward, and Reynoldo rolled to his right, out of bed, all his quickness and cunning restored as if by religious miracle, and as he dropped off the edge of the bed, out of the line of fire, the man sent a shot whistling past to shatter on the linoleum.

Reynoldo hit the floor and bounced off it to shove his shoulder into the bed in almost the same tenth of a second, moving it with growing acceleration until it slammed into the doctor furiously, knocking him against the wall with a yelp of outrage. Ramirez rocketed to his feet, lifting the heavy bedframe as he rose, and flipped it on the pinned man. He heard another of the strange shots. He turned to look for a weapon but could see only the television set with a cowboy firing a gun on its screen, and he plucked it with both hands off the shelf and heaved it across the room to where the doctor struggled to free himself from the mess of bedding. The set hit the wall above and fell to the doctor’s head and again he screamed in pain.

Ramirez did not pause to investigate, only turned and fled. He found himself in an empty green corridor, unlit, and saw the door at one end marked EXIT and ran for it, his gown flapping wildly, his ass and organs bounding in his sprint. He reached the door and found the whore snugly locked and lunged for the door across the hall. It opened, admitting him to a dark, quiet room.

Had the doctor seen him enter?

It didn’t matter. Ramirez looked about, desperately, for a weapon.

Speshnev could see the footprints — the mark of a sweaty foot — leading down the hallway. He followed. His head was bleeding from the blow struck him by the television.

Trust Chardy for the genius of improvisation: television as a weapon. How American.

The blood ran into his eyes. He halted to wipe it away. He’d have to stanch it, and throw this doctor’s coat away before he tried the lobby again. Damn Chardy. He’d grown fat in the years, but not stupid.

I should have fired instantly. Yet sometimes they screamed as the microtoxin froze up their respiratory system, so the precaution had been advised.

Speshnev put the air pistol away. He pulled out the Luger from under his other arm. He snapped the toggle, chambering a shell. The silencer made the pistol a bit front-heavy. He knew he had to hurry — surely sooner or later someone would arrive at this far wing. But to rush stupidly could also prove tragic.

The footprints led to the exit door and then away, to the door opposite.

Chardy had to be in that room. He touched the door, pushed it open. It showed a black crack. He knew where Chardy would be: just inside the doorjamb, left side, crouched low. Chardy would punch for throat or temple. Speshnev moved the Luger to his other hand. He poised — then drew back.

He did not have long to wait. Chardy, driven insane by the tension, was like all men of action without the gift of patience. Speshnev knew he’d come and he did.

The door burst open and savagely the man came at him, low and so fast.

Speshnev caught the plunging head with an upthrust of his stout knee and knew from the solidity of the impact that the blow was a rare masterpiece, perfectly timed, perfectly placed; he sidestepped adroitly — he was still fast himself — and clipped Chardy hard on the back of the skull with the pistol barrel, opening a terrible gash. Blood spurted everywhere. The man was driven to his knees, where for just an instant he fought the concussion until he yielded, collapsing forward with a smack, face down.

I have you at last.

Excitement raced through Speshnev’s widened veins. He leaned over and held the pistol six inches from the back of the head, and Chardy flopped about, twitching, then turned with great sluggishness half over and Speshnev could see for the first time that it was not Chardy at all, but some stranger.

Where was Chardy?

He stood. He felt violated by an immense betrayal.

Where was Chardy?

The answer to his question came as the door at the other end of the corridor opened in a burst and Chardy, among others, spilled into the green corridor, and if someone yelled stop neither he nor Chardy heard or cared to hear it. He raised his pistol, thinking that he still might have a chance, even at this late moment, but as he brought it up he knew he’d never make it, for he saw that Chardy had a machine pistol of some sort and the bullets arrived to cut through his chest and push him down.

57

In the wake of Sam Melman’s resignation and the subsequent Agency shakeup in the awareness of Yost Ver Steeg’s treachery, there was a considerable power vacuum in the Operations Directorate.

Danzig had no official influence, of course, but he still knew important people and he still had favors owed him in the intelligence community. He made some phone calls and drafted several memos and even lobbied one or two influential men personally — difficult, because the swelling had not gone down and his eye was gaudily discolored. His efforts were partially rewarded.

It was agreed to bring back one of the Old Boys, a retired officer of experience and judgment, to serve as interim Deputy Director of Operations until a suitable permanent tenant could be found for the job; but it was also agreed to appoint Miles Lanahan assistant Deputy Director in recognition of his brilliant service of late. Miles was twenty-nine; he was the youngest to reach that position by nine years.

In the aftermath, Danzig suggested that Miles join him for lunch at an excellent French restaurant in downtown Washington. Miles agreed quickly, and on the appointed day arrived in an Agency limousine, and walked in wearing a new gray chalk-stripe suit of conservative cut. His shoes glittered blackly; his hair was cut crisply. But he was still a little nervous; he’d never been to a French restaurant before and he wasn’t sure what to order.

He stared at the menu in the strange language.

“A young wine, a Bordeaux. How does that suit you, Miles?”

“Fine,” said Miles to the older man. “It suits me fine.”

“The Margaux, please,” said Danzig to the wine steward. “The boeuf bourguignon is very good here,” he said to Miles.

“That’s what I’ll have then,” said Miles.

“And the usual for me, Philip,” Danzig said to the waiter, who disappeared as quietly as he had arrived.

“Well, Miles, you’re looking prosperous.”

Miles blushed under his acne, then smiled modestly. His teeth gleamed; he had brushed them that morning.

“They’re treating you well at the Agency?”

“I’m a hero,” Miles said. It was true. He was. In corridors, in conferences, in a hundred small ways he could feel it: he was a man who counted. He was the man who nailed Yost Ver Steeg.

“You’re only getting what you deserve,” said Danzig pleasantly. He reached to adjust his dark glasses, which were not quite big enough to obscure the purple blotch that even yet surrounded his eye. Chardy must have really whacked him, Miles thought. Jesus, Chardy, you really are a piece of work. Hitting Joe Danzig. Jesus!

Danzig’s injury had quite naturally inspired a great volume of rumor, made worse by the fact that at an unguarded moment a free-lance photographer had gotten a good close-up of it, and subsequently sold the picture to Time, which printed it in their “People” section over the caption “Danzig and pet mouse.” Danzig had issued soon after a statement that referred to a minor automobile accident in which no serious damage had been sustained. Of course nobody believed it. Danzig’s reputation as a man of outsize ego and libido and taste for young married women was widely known and it did not take much imagination to concoct a scenario by which he could acquire such a wound.

“You’ll do well, Miles, I know you will,” Danzig said.

“Thank you. I’ll work hard, I know that.”

“I know you will.”

“I was very lucky I didn’t go down with Sam.”