The Eiger Sanction

She smiled and shook her head as she returned with the drink. 'We have other things to do than make love, Hemlock.' But she sat on the divan as he directed her to with a wave of his hand.

He sipped. 'We have time for both. But of course it's up to you. Think about it for a while. And meanwhile, tell me what I have to know about this sanction.'

Miss Arce looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes for a second, collecting her thoughts. 'The man they killed was code call: Wormwood—not much of a record.'

'What was he doing in Canada?'

'I have no idea. Something for CII home base. It's really none of our business anyway.'

'No, I suppose not.' Jonathan held out his hand and she took it with a slight greeting pressure of the fingers. 'Go on.'

'Well, Wormwood was hit in a small hotel on Casgrain Avenue—hm-m-m, that's nice. Do you know that part of town?'

'No.' He continued stroking the inside of her wrist.

'Fortunately, CII home base was covering him with a backup man. He was in the next room, and he overheard the hit. As soon as the two assassins left, he went into Wormwood's room and made a standard strip of the body. Then he contacted Search and Sanction immediately. Mr. Dragon got me right on it.'

Jonathan kissed her gently. 'You're telling me that this backup man just sat next door and let this Wormwood get it?'

'Another whiskey?'

'No, thank you.' He stood up and drew her after him. 'Where is it? Through there?'

'The bedroom? Yes.' She followed. 'You must know how they work, Hemlock. The backup man's assignment is to observe and report, not to interfere. Anyway, it seems they were testing a new device.'

'Oh? What kind of device? I'm sorry, dear. These little hooks always confuse me.'

'Here, I'll do it. They've always had a problem covering the movements and sound of the backup man when they stake him out in the next room. Now they've hit on the idea of having him make noise, rather than trying to keep him quiet—'

'Good God! Do you keep these sheets in the refrigerator?'

'That's silk for you. What they're experimenting with is a tape recording of the sound of an old man's coughing—playing it day and night, advertising the presence of someone in the next room, but someone no one would imagine is an agent. Oh! I'm very sensitive there. It tickles now, but it won't later. Isn't that clever?'

'The coughing old man? Oh, yes, clever.'

'Well, as soon as Mr. Dragon sent me the B-3611 form I got to work. It was pretty easy. The outside is particularly good for me.'

'Yes, I sensed that.'

'It seems this Wormwood wasn't a total incompetent. He wounded one of the two men. The backup agent saw them leave the hotel, and even from the window he could tell that one of them was limping. The other one— the one who wasn't hurt—must have been panicked. He ran—Oh, that is beautiful!—He ran into a lamppost across from the hotel. When he stopped to recover, the backup man recognized him. The rest was—agh! Agha!—the rest was easy.'

'What's the mark's name?'

'Kruger. Garcia Kruger. A very bad type.'

'You're kidding about the name.'

'I never kid about names. Oh-a-ar! Graggah!'

'What do you mean, he's a bad type?'

'The way he got Wormwood. He—Oh, God! He... He...'

'Press down with the soles of your feet!'

'All right. Wormwood swallowed a pellet he was carrying. Kruger went after it with a knife. Throat and stomach. Oh! Adagrah! Oh, yes... yes...'

'Read much Joyce?'

She forced words out through a tight jaw, small squeaks of air escaping from her contracted throat 'No, Agh! Why do you ask?'

'Nothing important. What about the other man?'

'The one who limped? Don't know yet. Not a professional, we're sure of that.'

'How do you know he's not a professional?'

'He got sick while Kruger was working on Wormwood. Threw up on the floor. Ogha? Ogah? Arah-ah-agh-ga- gahg!' She arched her strong back and lifted him off the bed. He joined her in release.

For a time there were soft caresses and gentle pelvic adjustments.

'You know, Hemlock,' her voice was soft, relaxed, and a little graveled from effort. 'You really have magnificent eyes. They're rather tragicomic eyes.'

He expected this. They always talked about his eyes afterwards.

Some time later, he sat on the edge of the tub, holding up a rubber sac in an unsuccessful attempt to allow water to seek its own level. Part of his charm lay in these little attentions.

'I've been thinking about your gun, Hemlock.'

'What about it?'

'The information sent up by Mr. Dragon indicated you used a large caliber.'

'True. I have to. I'm not much of a shot. Finished?'

'Uh-huh.'

They dressed and had another whiskey in the sterile living room. In detail, Miss Arce went over the daily habits and routine of Garcia Kruger, answering questions raised by Jonathan. She ended with: 'It's all in the tout we amassed. You should study it then destroy it. And here's your gun.' She gave him a bulky brown package. 'Will I see you again?'

'Would that be wise?'

'I suppose not. May I tell you something? Just as I—well, at the top—can you imagine what ran through my mind?'

'No.'

'I remembered that you were a killer.'

'And that bothered you?'

'Oh, no! Quite the contrary. Isn't that odd?'

'It's rather common, actually.' He collected the tout and the gun and walked to the door. She followed him, anticipating a final kiss, insensitive to his postcoitus frost.

'Thank you,' she said softly, 'for the advice about pushing down with the feet. It certainly helps.'

'I like to leave people a little richer for having known me.'

She held out her hand and he took it. 'You really have magnificent eyes, Hemlock. I'm very glad you came.'

'Good of you to have me.'

In the hall, as he waited for the elevator, he felt pleased about the evening. It had been simple, uncomplicated, and temporarily satisfying: like urination. And that was the way he preferred his love-making to be.

In general, his sex life was no more heroic than, say, the daydreams of the average bachelor. But romantic activity tended to peak when he was on sanction assignments. For one thing, opportunities abounded at such times. For another, his sexual appetite was whetted by the danger he faced, perhaps a microcosmic instance of that perverse force of nature that inflates birthrates during wartime.

Once in bed, he was really very good. His mechanical competence was not a matter of plumbing, in which respect he differed little from the mass of men. Nor, as we have seen, was it a result of wooing and careful preparation. It was, instead, a function of his remarkable staying powers and his rich experience.

Of the experience, it suffices to say that his control was seldom betrayed by the tickle of curiosity. After Ankara, and Osaka, and Naples, there were no postures, no ballistic nuances foreign to him. And there were only two kinds of women with whom he had never had experience: Australian Abos and Eskimos. And neither of these ethnic gaps was he eager to fill, for reasons of olfactory sensitivity.