Now that it was time to go Chase found he wanted to say more, but it was too late. Joy and sorrow mingled inside him. He said his goodbyes and in the middle of them Cheryl said, 'Did he contact you, the guy from the American Press Association? I almost forgot.'
'No, who was it?'
'Pat Bryant of the APA.' Cheryl told him about the call and said, 'I think he was going to try to contact you there, at JFK. But he hasn't?'
'Not so far.' It didn't strike him as odd until he had hung up and emerged from the plastic bubble into the noisy throng once more. How did the APA know where to find him? No one knew of his movements from day to day, not even John Ware. He debated whether to call the APA to find out what was up and decided against it. Departure time was only an hour away. If the BBC wanted to talk to him they'd have to do it in London. He'd no intention of missing his flight, not for the director general himself.
The briefcase weighed heavily and after dodging and darting he just beat a man in a gray suit and Homburg to a vacant seat. He sank down with relief and five minutes later had drifted into a shallow, uneasy doze. It was like sleeping on the edge of a precipice, the constant threat of falling keeping mind and body in a state of tension. There was continual noise and movement all around, people getting up, sitting down, shuffling past. Dimly he was aware that the person on his left had departed, to be replaced almost in the same instant by someone whose shoulder was edging him nearer and nearer to the frightful drop. He resisted the pressure, knowing another six inches and he'd be gone. In his semidreaming state he was being pushed by a man with a shaven head wearing a Homburg hat and black robe. He was right on the edge now, on the very edge, about to fall over, and Christ, he was over, awful space and emptiness beneath him, falling, falling, falling . . .
Chase tightened and jerked upright, eyes blinking wide, finding himself next to a large, fat woman who overflowed her space and was encroaching on his.
'Trying to get forty winks, huh?' she nodded companionably, her mouth a red-lipped wound supported by several chins.
'Trying and failing.' Chase covered a yawn and arched back, hoping to ease the tension in his spine. Opposite him, six feet away, a man wearing a shiny black hat was hunched over, fiddling with a camera in his lap, or rather a camera case.
Chase watched because he had nothing better to do, noticing the heavy gold jewelry on the man's thick fingers and hairy wrists. Rings, watch, bracelet. His gaze drifted to the rolling tide of faces in the aisle and he sat up straight, not noticing the man opposite making a final adjustment to his camera.
'Good God, I don't believe it.'
'Beg pardon?' said the fat woman, craning her chins toward him.
Chase grabbed his briefcase and stepped over legs, eyes fixed on the unmistakable apparition of Boris Stanovnik.
His chosen method had been primed and fitted inside the black leather glove when he saw his man move to the newsstand. There Chase lingered, giving Sturges time to make his approach circuitously, unseen. No need to hurry. It was against his instinct anyway. Proceed slowly and calmly and methodically, working out each step in advance.
The black glove hung innocently at his side, the fingers pointing downward. Inside, his finger was curled around the semicircular metal ring, his thumb touching the plunger. The syringe contained systolic fluid. One swift jab and it would infiltrate the arterial system, speeding up the rhythm of the heart until it overloaded and the victim underwent cardiac arrest. The outward signs and the internal symptoms were consistent with a massive coronary.
He engineered his position while browsing through the magazines; slightly behind his man, out of his eyesight, feeling good, unemotional, breathing easy, doing his job.
Two paces away, his hand tensing on the syringe, thumb taut, and Chase turned and almost blundered into him. Taken by surprise, he didn't have time to react. Then Chase was gone, not even looking at him, muttering an apology.
There was nothing to do but wait. Chase talked on the phone, safe inside the plastic bubble, impossible to get near. So wait.
When Chase had finished on the phone Sturges was still at the newsstand, head bowed as though reading titles, eyes peering from under the brim of his soft black hat. The eyes followed Chase and saw him take a seat. It was the only one vacant; he was surrounded on all sides, so off came the glove and the hypodermic and into the pouch inside the attache case.
If not close, then at a distance. The camera.
More waiting and watching while Sturges readied himself to claim the first empty seat in a suitable position. When it came he strode across and boldly sat down, directly facing his man. Six, seven feet away. And Chase with his eyes closed, dozing. Perfect.
Sturges unfastened the strap and swung open the front section of the case to reveal a quite ordinary camera. The recessed hole where the lens should have been made a snug silo for the gas-powered dart 2.3 centimeters in length. Cradling the camera in his lap, Sturges bent over it and lined up the crosshairs through the vertical viewfinder, aiming for the dead center of the body area, above the stomach and below the ribcage. The tipped dart would penetrate shirt and skin leaving a minuscule bloodless puncture, the toxin spreading through the arterial network--in two minutes, death.
Holding the camera steady with both hands he sighted and pressed the release button with his thumb. There was a faint
'So you see, we had no choice. We had to leave.' Boris reached across the table for his wife's hand. 'It's, I am convinced, for the best.'
Nina smiled hesitantly at Chase. Her English was poor and she had understood little of the conversation. She was delighted that Boris had so quickly encountered a friendly face, almost at the moment of arrival in America. The last forty-eight hours had been bewildering.
'Have you a place to go to?' Chase asked.
'Yes, I have friends at the Scripps Institution--but of course you know one of them--Theo's daughter. I tried to tell her in a letter, but I had to be careful. Still the authorities were suspicious. If we hadn't left when we did I think something would have happened. I knew too much about Project Arrow.' Even though he spoke softly, his words lost in the buzz of voices in the bar, Boris couldn't help glancing nervously around. 'Someone must be informed and I hope Cheryl can advise me. They must be told now, before it's too late.'
'Is it going to happen soon?'
'A year, perhaps two. It cannot be far off.'
Chase felt a flutter of excitement. Was this the nugget he'd been seeking? But how would Boris feel about him publishing it? He said, 'I still don't see the logic in implementing the project before they have to. Isn't the point of it to have it there, ready, as a deterrent against the
United States? Surely if they go ahead it invalidates the reason for having it in the first place?'
'Who knows how they think?' Boris said gravely. 'Can you--can any sane person understand how such minds function? Risking a global calamity in order to keep the balance of power--it's futile to expect logic. At my age I thought I'd seen every kind of wickedness and stupidity, that nothing could shock me ever again, but this . . .' He shook his head wearily. 'It's beyond reason, beyond humanity, beyond anything.'
Chase sipped his beer and said with a wry smile, 'I wish you luck, Boris, but don't expect to be welcomed with open arms. Cheryl has been fighting the same battle ever since Theo died.'
'I know that his warning went unheeded,' Boris said. 'But they will have to listen to me. They
There was nothing to be lost and a great deal to be gained. As Chase told him about his assignment and how he would like to use the information about Project Arrow in his series of articles, the Russian's eyes took on a new light. But yes, yes, of course he was agreeable! For obvious reasons he had committed nothing to paper, but as soon as he was settled here he would set down everything he knew and send it to Chase in London. The more
