standing straddle-legged at the top of the steps, Police Special aimed unwaveringly at the center of his chest.
Chase stopped halfway up and immediately threw up his hands. His breathing ragged, hair plastered damply to his forehead, he really thought he was about to be shot and killed because he couldn't get the words out.
'That kid--black robes--you must have seen him! Skinny kid ran down the tunnel--'
'Hold it! Don't move!' Hard eyes under the shiny white brim of his helmet. Eyes and gun didn't waver an inch.
'You stupid bastard, he's getting away!' Chase lowered his hands in a forlorn gesture of despair. Already it was too late.
'I said don't move!' The transceiver clipped to the guard's white belt beeped, but he ignored it, watching Chase like a hawk.
'Answer it,' Chase implored. When the guard made no move he snarled, 'Answer the fucking thing!'
'Shut up and don't move.' The guard unhooked the transceiver, thumbed a button, and held it to his ear. He listened hard-eyed to the rapid squawking babble. The gabble ceased, and the guard rapped, 'Name?'
Wearily, Chase told him. The guard lowered his gun. He still didn't seem convinced. He straightened up and said, 'We have instructions to give you every assistance. Which way did he go?'
Chase gestured toward the tunnel. Perhaps it didn't matter all that much. The assassination attempt had failed and there was no way the kid could get out of the building without being spotted. Let the security people deal with it--they were armed and trained for this kind of situation.
Breathing easier, yet feeling his age, Chase went down the tunnel, even more in need of the drink he'd been about to pour himself twenty minutes earlier.
On the large screen an announcer was making bland apologies and filling in time. Chase added soda to his whiskey and leaned back against the bar. In the whirlwind of events he'd almost forgotten why he'd come to the UN in the first place--there were still arrangements to be finalized with Prothero and Ingrid Van Dorn. But that could wait. First things first.
He raised the glass to his lips, noticing a shadow obscuring the announcer's right shoulder, and as the shadow vanished Mara came out from behind the screen.
The glass slipped from Chase's hand, spilling its contents down his shirt and trousers and bouncing with a dull hollow thud on the carpet.
Crouching, the black hump weighing down the frail body, Mara extended his right arm to reveal a metal nozzle in the palm of his hand, connected to a plastic tube that was taped to the inside of his forearm, disappearing into his robes underneath his armpit.
Chase stood as if paralyzed, incapable of movement or sound. His one conscious physical sensation was that of whiskey and soda soaking into his shirt and trickling down warmly into his groin. With his back pressed against the hard rounded edge of the bar he watched Mara take a lighter from the small leather pouch and raise the metal cap with his thumb.
Meaningless noises floated in the air.
. . not possible at the moment . . . security clampdown . . . UN completely sealed off . . . soon as we have further . . . will of course ... in the meantime . . .'
A small blue flame sprang up, like a pilot light.
Mara's hand closed around the brass nozzle, thumb and forefinger turning the valve tap. There was a soft hissing sound, like that of a reptile preparing to strike. With a mechanical action, as if preprogrammed, the hand holding the lighter jerked forward and applied the tiny blue flame to the end of the nozzle.
Chase slid along the edge of the bar as the propylene ignited and spewed a molten sword of flame that bathed the room's tasteful furnishings and silken drapes in a fierce bright sulfurous yellow light. The heat was tremendous. Chase turned his face away, feeling his skin scorch. There was no escape. He was trapped. The door was on the other side of the swathe of fire.
Mara's eyes were hidden behind two brilliant circles of light. Impossible to know what he was feeling or even where he was looking. Pressed into the corner between the bar and the wall, arms raised and crossed to shield his head, the bitter injustice of his predicament shrilled like pain inside Chase's brain. To have saved Ingrid Van Dorn from pyro-assassination only to become the victim himself! What a monstrous black joke!
Mara was on his knees. He seemed to be praying, his lips miming soundlessly. Then his lips peeled back and dropped off to reveal his gums and teeth, the flesh of his skull bubbling and shriveling like melting cheese as he directed the nozzle into his face. His robes caught fire and flared up. In seconds the flames had consumed his scarecrow body and he continued to burn long after the nozzle had fallen from his charred black fingers. The fire spewed out across the carpet, setting alight a gilt chair, which as the horsehair stuffing caught fire poured out thick ringlets of smoke.
The luminous dial of his watch read 4:17. Chase squinted at it and lay back on the pillow. He touched his hair, feeling the crisped and blunted ends where he'd leaned too close in turning off the gas nozzle. Bloody stupid thing to have done: He could have been fried alive, like that other poor devil.
He stared up at the shadowed ceiling, knowing that sleep would never come. There was too much on his mind. Cheryl knew he was holding something back--her silence told him that. He had expected the worst but the worst hadn't come, not yet, though the silence was forestalling the inevitable.
Slipping out of bed, taking care not to disturb her, he put on his dressing gown and went into the living room. He didn't switch on the light. The bottles on the cabinet gleamed temptingly, but instead he fumbled his way to an armchair and sat down.
Sooner or later he would have to tell her. The inevitable was near; in fact it was here and now, he realized, when he saw her pale form in the bedroom doorway.
'I couldn't sleep,' Chase said unnecessarily. 'Sorry if I woke you.'
'You didn't.' Cheryl came into the room. 'Do you want some coffee?'
Chase shook his head before it occurred to him that she wasn't able to see him properly. 'No thanks.'
He heard a rustle as she settled herself on the arm of the couch and arranged her robe to cover her legs. Neither of them spoke for a minute.
'Why didn't you tell me, Gavin?'
'Tell you?' he said obtusely.
'Yes,' Cheryl said deliberately. 'Tell me. You. Instead of Nick.'
'You asked him?'
'Yes, I asked him. I knew there was something wrong. But I was hoping you'd tell me yourself. You didn't.'
'I had to think about it, get it straight in my own mind first.'
'Get it straight?' Cheryl said with mock astonishment. 'Get
'It isn't that simple.'
'It's very simple,' Cheryl contradicted him, folding her arms. It was a sign of battle. 'Do I really have to remind you? A man who made a fortune supplying toxic chemicals to the army, who for years was in collusion with the Pentagon hatching a cozy little plan called DEPARTMENT STORE to kill every living thing on this planet, and who now--sweet Jesus, this is poetic justice in spades--who now because he's been stricken with the disease he wanted to inflict on everyone else suddenly has a change of heart, and--surprise, surprise--wants to switch sides, to become the savior of mankind instead of its executioner. Have you got it? Is that straight enough for you?'
'Gelstrom is dying,' Chase said quietly. 'Nothing can save him and he knows it. He's not doing this for himself.'
'Oh, I see!' Cheryl exclaimed with ponderous sarcasm. 'This is a-- what do you call it?--a grand final gesture. Oh, well, sure, that changes everything. By all means welcome him back into the fold. Forget the past and let's all be buddy-buddy. Sure, why not? I expect he's really a great guy at heart, fond of his gray-haired old mother, had a difficult upbringing, and so on--'
'Cheryl, will you listen to me? Please? Will you try to understand?'
'In a word, no.'
