people who knew about it, the better.
Chase tore a page from his notebook and wrote down his address.
'Send it to me here. Naturally I won't reveal the source, not even to my editor.'
'Thank you,' Boris said, pumping his hand warmly.
'It's me who should thank you, Boris. You're doing
Boris asked her a question to which she replied in a rushed, barely audible voice, making him spin around in his chair. He turned back and grasped her by the wrist, his tone urgent, almost harsh. Nina nodded without taking her eyes off the entrance.
'What is it?'
Boris was crouched forward, his forearms flat on the table as if trying to make himself invisible. 'We are being watched. A man has been observing us for the past few minutes. Nina is afraid he is KGB or someone from the Russian embassy.' 'Is she positive?'
'She thinks he has been taking pictures. He has a camera.'
When Chase looked toward the entrance he saw no one lurking there. He glanced quickly from husband to wife and back again. 'Could they have found out you're here? What about the people who helped you get away?'
'No, no,' Boris said. 'From Copenhagen we flew to London. We told no one we were coming to America. If someone talked the KGB would have been waiting in London.'
'Perhaps they were. They could have seen you take the flight to New York and alerted their people here.'
Boris reached for a red TWA shoulder bag. 'We're booked on a flight to Los Angeles, leaving in two hours. We must get on it without being observed.'
'They can easily check the passenger lists of all outgoing flights,' Chase said, playing devil's advocate.
'We have false papers.'
'If they traced you from London they'll already know the name you're traveling under.'
Boris slumped in his chair, clutching the red shoulder bag. He said something in Russian under his breath, which could have been an oath or an expression of defeat. On Nina's face, a haunted look of despair. She was beginning to believe they were safe, free at last from prying eyes, starting life anew. Yet here they were, still dodging shadows. Nothing had changed.
Was there really a man watching them, Chase wondered, or had Nina been mistaken? Understandably she was on edge. It was conceivable that her mind was playing tricks, though her fear was real enough. He tried desperately to think of something. His own flight left in fifteen minutes and he had yet to pass through Customs and Passport Control.
'Is your flight nonstop to Los Angeles?'
'Nonstop?' Boris frowned.
'Is it direct to Los Angeles or does it put down somewhere en route?'
Boris took the tickets from his wallet. 'We land at Chicago for thirty-five minutes,' he said, still mystified.
'All right. Now listen. Take the flight as if you didn't suspect anything and leave the aircraft in Chicago. From there you can hire a car or take the train to Los Angeles. You have some money?'
'Yes, enough. Gavin, I don't understand--what good will it do to leave the flight in Chicago?'
'There's a chance it'll throw them off your track.' A slender chance, Chase thought, but he couldn't think of anything else. 'When you don't get off the plane at Los Angeles they might be fooled into believing you were heading for Chicago all along, and that you booked tickets to Los Angeles in order to confuse them. It could work, Boris. In any case it's the only thing you
The Russian nodded slowly, considering. 'The only thing . . . yes, I think you are right.'
Chase stood up, briefcase in hand. More than anything he wanted to help, but what more could he do? Missing his own flight would accomplish nothing. He'd never known what it was to be harried and spied upon, to have somebody watching your every move. Thank God for that.
At the entrance to the bar he turned and gave a final wave. They looked utterly despondent. Boris was hugging the red shoulder bag as a frightened person holds on to a familiar object for comfort and protection. Beside him, Nina seemed small and sad and lost.
Chase hurried on, dodging through the idling crowd on his way to the escalator. From the illuminated display he saw that Flight D-049 was now boarding at gate 14. He had yet to pass through into the international departures lounge, though the formalities shouldn't take more than a few minutes.
On the upward escalator he was suddenly conscious of the people close to him. What would a KGB agent look like? Obviously not the popular conception, if he was any good. More like an ordinary businessman, perhaps, or a tourist. He also became aware of men with cameras slung around their neck, and there were quite a few. See how easy it was to become paranoid?
As the escalator carried him over the final curve and leveled out, there were two things preying on his mind. One was acute anxiety about the fate of Boris and Nina; the other was the excruciating realization that his bladder was bursting.
Ten yards behind and fifteen feet below, almost halfway up the escalator, Sturges kept his head lowered, just in case Chase should think of glancing back. He didn't, just stepped straight off.
Sturges tightened his mouth. He wasn't used to failure. It made him angry, which was bad. Loss of emotional detachment. He knew that the next time would also be the last time. There was no possibility of following Chase beyond the international departures barrier because a ticket, which he didn't have, would have to be shown. There was also the small matter of his box of tricks, which would upset the security officials.
So the next time
Keeping his place in line, Sturges waited with icy control for the escalator to take him over the last curve, giving him a view along the length of the terrazzo concourse to the large green lettering--international departures--sixty or so yards away. A line of people straggled between him and the barrier and Sturges had to stare hard to convince himself that Chase wasn't among them.
He stood to one side of the people spilling off the escalator, feet planted apart, eyes slitted under the soft black brim of his hat. His victim had vanished, which logic said was impossible. Chase couldn't have made it to the barrier in the few seconds he'd been out of sight, even at a sprint.
A moment later he had the answer as his restless gaze alighted on the nearby men's room. Swiftly he moved to a window ledge, laid the case flat, raised the hasps, and lifted the lid. From the pouch he took the left glove and slipped it on, then carefully fitted his hand into the right one, his fingers closing around the hypodermic. The camera he had already reloaded, which gave him a choice of two methods: hypo or dart, it was all the same to him.
The attache case in his left hand, his other hand splayed and stiff-fingered hanging free and ready by his side, Sturges crossed the terrazzo floor and pushed with his broad shoulder through the toilet door.
Chase washed his hands at the row of washbasins, shook the moisture off, and shuffled his briefcase to the hot-air dryer in the corner. He hardly felt at ease with it out of his grasp, never mind his sight. None of the other four or five men looked like a criminal, but you could never be sure. Airports bred distrust as moldy cheese did maggots.
As he held his hands beneath the jfets of air and dried them, he looked absently into the mirror in front of him, which in this room of mirrors gave him a kaleidoscope of assorted views from different angles. In one of them a young man with lank black hair to his shoulders and an Asiatic cast to his features, wearing a creased and wrinkled leather jacket, was sidling up, hand outstretched, behind somebody drying his hands at one of the machines. Fascinated, Chase watched this performance. It was only when the young man straightened up, hefting a briefcase that was the spitting image of his own, that the light clicked on in his brain. Stupidly he looked down between his feet to confirm the fact that he'd been robbed.
Chase spun around. 'Stop him, he's got my briefcase!'
Heads turned, eyes glazed with surprise and alarm. But nobody moved.
By then the young Asian had reached the door, his hand clawing for the handle when the door was
