"And yet Falmouth gave me what I needed to get this Winter Man off your back," Howe said.
"He wants something."
"You think that's the only reason?"
"I know it. Look, Tony saved my ass once. No reason for it. Except he earned himself some Green Stamps."
"And now he's redeeming them, that it?"
"Well, it probably seemed like a good idea to him at the time. If it happened again—say, tomorrow—he might take a slow boat to Bombay and send me a goodbye telegram when he got there."
"Cynical, sir. Downright cynical."
"Absolutely," O'Hara said. "The Game is a world of its own, the dirtiest of all possible worlds. Everything is a lie. Your proficiency depends on how well you lie. They may call it misdirection or put some other bureaucratic handle on it, but lying is what it's all about. In the Game, an honest man is a dead man."
"And that's why you got out?"
"Let's just say my string was getting short. "Don't get me wrong, Mr. Howe, I've still got friends out there. They just aren't the kind of folks you'd want to, y'know, sit around the fire toasting marshmallows with."
"How so, sir?"
"Let's just say their values are different."
"I still don't understand."
"Well, I once asked Tony what he wanted out of life, and you know what he said? He looked at me and said, and he was dead serious, he said, 'Happiness is a confirmed kill.' A Rhodes scholar!"
"But doesn't somebody have to do it?"
"Why? After a while it becomes self-serving. If I had my way, they'd ban intelligence the way they want to ban the bomb."
Howe stared at the ceiling. "I suppose. But then we'd have all these spies running around with nothing to do."
"It's not my problem anymore."
"And yet you were in the Game, as you call it, for five, six years?"
"I was snookered. I wasn't a career man. Dobbs liked my style and arranged for me to get assigned to the Company. Then after I gave 'em four good years, the bastard tried to have me killed, which is something else we need to talk about, how you got the Winter Man off my ass."
"The letter, sir. Read the letter."
21 January
Dear Mr. Howe:
I take pen in hand knowing full well that in all probability this letter will be promptly disposed of as the ramblings of one who is either deranged or has spent too many nights alone with a bottle. I assure you, sir, I am in full command of all my facilities, and drink is not one of my vices.
My reasons for addressing this to you are quite simple. You are noted for your aggressive news policy; and you have a passion to be first.
First of all, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anthony Virgil Falmouth. I retired six months ago, with Queen's Honors, from Her Majesty's Secret Service, after twenty-one years' service. You may verify this by contacting Sir James Townsend, M.I.6, 6 Chancery Lane, London. Telephone: 962-0000, extension 12.
For obvious reasons, I shall ask that you not discuss the contents of this letter with Sir James.
Because of my position, I have become privy during the past few years, but most particularly in the last few months, to the details of a story that is monstrous in concept and terrifying in potential. Its implications reach into the highest political offices of the world. Properly documented, this information would make the Watergate conspiracy seem like mere schoolboy pranks and, in comparison, even the assassination of President Kennedy will pale.
Mere knowledge of this story has put my life in jeopardy. I am on the run, possibly for the rest of my life. Here are my terms:
First, my price for this information is $250,000, to be paid only after your agent is satisfied that the information is true and worth the price.
Second, there is only one person I feel qualified to represent both you and me in this matter. His name is Frank O'Hara. O'Hara is disarmingly honest, he is a former member of the intelligence community, he is a recognized and respected news reporter, and he has known me for more than five years. For these reasons, I feel he is uniquely qualified not only to judge my veracity but to properly appraise the information.
I have not seen, talked to, or communicated in any way with O'Hara for more than a year.
There is an additional problem with respect to O'Hara. I am sure you will recall his series of articles two years ago, exposing a network of illegal covert actions conducted by the CIA in Africa and the Middle East. The stories resulted in the embarrassment, humiliation and demotion of O'Hara's former CIA section chief, Ralph Dobbs, a.k.a. the Winter Man. As a result, Dobbs sanctioned the assassination of O'Hara and offered a fee to several professionals to carry out the job.
I know, I was one of them. I refused the sanction.
O'Hara has been on the dodge ever since. To my knowledge, nobody has turned him up yet.
You will find, attached hereto, a notarized statement concerning Dobbs's offer to me. Since this is a personal vendetta, and in no way officially concerns the CIA, you might threaten to publish the facts. This will neutralize Dobbs and force him to lift the sanction.
If you can find O'Hara and he is interested in the assignment, tell him to contact the Magician. If I have heard nothing by April 1, I will assume you are not interested.
Yours very truly,
Anthony V. Falmouth
The affidavit was attached by paper clip to the letter. O'Hara turned it over, checked out the envelope.
"How was it delivered? There's no stamp on it."
"One of my correspondents was in Jamaica. It was in his box when he came in from dinner one evening."
O'Hara reread the letter and the affidavit, then put them on the table in front of Howe. He finished his coffee.
"Well?" said Howe.
"Well what?"
"Well, what do you think?"
"I'll tell you what I don't think. I don't think I'm going to assume responsiblity for your two hundred and fifty thou, or anybody else's."
"We can get to that. What about the letter?"
O'Hara shrugged. "A toss-up. Falmouth's either on to something or he's trying a fast sting and he figures he can suck me into it with him or floss me. Either way, I don't like it."
Having finished his breakfast, Howe carefully put down his knife and fork and pushed his plate a few inches away with a finger. He leaned toward O'Hara and said, almost in a whisper, "What do you think it could be?"
"Hooked ya, hunh?"
"Enough to bring you in."
"And you put it to Dobbs, eh?"
"Just as Falmouth suggested. We had lunch in my jet, flyin' around over Washington. Dobbs fell apart very quickly. About the time the salad was served."
"Well, I owe one to Tony for that. And to you."
"I wouldn't forget the young lady."
"Gunn? Yeah, she looked pretty good in there."
"I have a feeling about this, Lieutenant. My instincts're buzzing. Have been ever since I got the damn letter."
"You must be on every mail-order list in the world."
"Really, sir. You do me an injustice. Give me credit for something. I've been in the news business since I was twelve, setting type for my grandfather's weekly up in Maine."
"I didn't mean to insult you. It's just that I know the territory."
"It's an adventure, by God. If I were twenty years younger and had two good legs under me, I'd be off with you."
"I told you, I won't be responsible for your money, or anybody else's, for that matter. Besides, it's not an adventure, it's madness. The whole damn Game is mad and the Players are all a bunch of fucking lunatics."
"Makes for a great story," Howe cried exuberantly.
"You may be as nutty as they are," O'Hara said.
"It's my money, Lieutenant. So it's my problem, right? Thus far, Falmouth has been on target. You said so yourself—if you could trust anyone, it would be him."
"One helluva big 'if.' "
"What the hell, it's a write-off, anyway. And I'll meet your price. Name it."
br /> "I told you I don't want in."
"A thousand a week, with a guarantee of one year."
"I said no."
O'Hara got up and walked to one of the portholes and stared out at the ocean. The sky was darkening and thunderheads were rumbling down from Provincetown. He felt thunderheads roiling inside him, too.
They're gonna get me into this, he thought, and the very idea made him angry and it was difficult to explain his feeling to Howe, this overwhelming sense of anger that was growing inside him. He knew the scenario before it was recited, knew the characters, the locations, could even recite a lot of the dialogue. It was not just the pervading sense of dishonor; not the excesses of a Game in which people kill, maim and steal with impunity, a blood sport in which the score was kept in head counts, not numbers. No, O'Hara's anger sprang from acceptance. He was angry because he was accepted by the Players in this community of hyenas. He was part of it, like it or not. His escape had failed and subconsciously he was angry at Howe for reminding him of the fact. So when he blew up, it came so suddenly and without warning that Howe was stunned by the outburst.
"I said no, goddammit. NO!" O'Hara slammed his fist on the solid oak table with such fury that the ice in the glasses rattled.
"Lieutenant, you're a journalist. Whatever you fear ain't gonna be solved by raising dogs in Japan. Or, for that matter, by turning down a chance any self-respecting reporter would commit murder to get." Howe took a sip of his vodka-laced tea and said, grinning, "Fifteen hundred. Plus expenses. That's seventy-eight thousand for the year. And a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus when you turn in the story."
"You sure make fast judgments there, Mr. Howe. And here we just met."
Howe picked up the letter and looked it over again. "I was sure about you before I sent Gunn after you. This isn't the Game, Lieutenant. I trust you."
"I'm not even sure I have the news judgment. What the hell story is worth a quarter of a million dollars?"
"Well, if Deep Throat had come to me with Watergate and offered me the story for half a million dollars, I would have taken it like that." He snapped his fingers. "That give you an idea?"
O'Hara turned and leaned against the bulkhead. Outside, the first drops of rain began to pelt the deck.
"Well, shit," O'Hara said.
"Howe's eyebrows arched. "Uh ... does that mean you're interested?"
"I owe you one, for getting me off the hook with Dobbs."
"Not on your life. I did that on my own, no obligation."
But not Tony. He knew Falmouth. He had neutralized the Winter Man, and for that, O'Hara owed him. And even though Howe denied it, he felt an obligation there, too. "Shikata ga nai," he said.
"Pardon?"
"An old Japanese expression," O'Hara said.
"And what does it mean?"
"Freely translated, 'fucked if you do, fucked if you don't.' "
"Well, now, sir, I don't mean to ..."
But O'Hara wasn't listening. He had made the decision. "Six days," he said half aloud. "The first of April is six days away."
"You can get anywhere in the world in six days," Howe said quietly.
O'Hara paused for a few more moments.
"Okay, Mr. Howe. I'll make a deal with you. I'll go find Falmouth and see what he's got. But even if his info is worth the two hundred and fifty grand, I still want the option to walk away from it, let somebody else do the dirty work."
Howe's black eyes twinkled again. He held out the vise. "Done. Here's my hand." And they shook. Then he said, "Son, you're too good a reporter to walk away from any yarn worth a quarter of a million dollars."
"Not if it's gonna put me back in the middle of Shit City again."
"You're a reporter, lad, not a goddamn spy."
"Call it what you will, I'll be dealing with Tony and the Magician and that puts me back in the Game, like it or not."
"You know how to find this Magician?"
O'Hara smiled. "I can find the Magician."
"And is he also an agent?"
"The Magician?" O'Hara laughed. "Oh yeah. He's the last of the red hot spies."
7
THE GREEN-BLUE CARIBBEAN gleamed below him like a jewel nestled in the hand of God. The Lear jet banked gracefully in the cloudless sky and soared down toward the island of St. Lucifer. Coral reefs swept beneath the plane, shimmering deep in the clear sea, like bunches of tiny boutonnieres. Ahead of them, St. Lucifer squatted in the blazing sun, a tiny island dominated by a single mountain peak cloaked in bright-green foliage. The main town, Bonne Terre, lay before them, its five-thousand-foot runway beckoning from the edge of town, like a long, bony finger.
From ten thousand feet it had still looked like the paradise he remembered, a fertile and unspoiled refuge hidden away between Guadeloupe and Martinique. Although still a French dependency, the island had its own governor and a police force of six. But as the plane whistled down to its landing, O'Hara saw the grim signs of encroaching civilization.
Two years before, when O'Hara had last been to St. Lucifer, there was one hotel, which attracted erstwhile journalists, fishermen, expatriates, drunks and mercenaries, who preferred to call themselves soldiers of fortune. Even travel agents had ignored the island, finding it much too dull to recommend to anyone. So it had also become the perfect crossroads for peripatetic intelligence agents assigned to the Caribbean sector, most of them culled from the dregs of their respective agencies: alcoholics, misfits, over-the-hill operatives and men on the verge of mental breakdown, sent to this sunny Siberia, where they spent most of their time spying on one another. When something big came up, the first team was usually sent in. But routine intelligence business was left to the misfits.
Two years had changed St. Lucifer. The commercial lepers had finally discovered it, and the blight was evident from the air as they swept onto the runway. Hilton and Sheraton had invaded its lazy beaches, and condominiums had begun to spring up along the jungled coast, a harbinger of the Styrofoam and Naugahyde invasion that was imminent. O'Hara could see a golf course stretching out beside the once virgin west beach, and swimming pools glittered like vinyl puddles among the fancy homes on the outskirts of town. Even the main road, which twisted, like an eel, the hundred or so miles around the perimeter of the island, had been paved.
O'Hara could guess the rest: the gaming tables, with their semiliterate mobster overlords accompanied by sleek, overdressed, overjeweled, classless broads. St. Lucifer had become just another tacky, tasteless colony for the fat and ugly nouveaux riches and the ephemeral jetsetters. So much for paradise lost.
O'Hara was thinking about the Magician as the plane was taxiing on the runway. What was it Howe had asked—did he know the Magician?
O'Hara smiled to himself. Oh yes, he knew the Magician, all right, the one the French called le Sorcier. And oh, what a yarn he could write about him. But the Magician's unique success lay in the fact that nobody ever talked or wrote about him.
Nobody.
The has-been spy community protected his integrity because they needed him. The Magician was their encyclopedia, a listening post for all.
Fate had chosen to throw the Magician, the Game and the Caribbean into the same pot, and in so doing, had created a marvelously catastrophic brew; a concoction of sheer madness. The Magician's macabre sense of humor manifested that madness, while the Caribbean became a bizarre capsule of the insanity of the entire intelligence community. The Magician, a man with no training, no background in the Game, and no particular interest in it, was to become the master Monopolist of Caribbean intelligence; the owner of Boardwalk and Park Place with hotels; King Shit of the territory.
What were his objectives?
None. He had achieved this unique position for the sheer hell of it. It was his hobby. Michael Rothschild, alias Six Fingers, alias the Magician, alias le Sorcier, was wonderfully eccentric.
The Magician had been delighted to hear from O'Hara, delighted his old pal was still alive.
"Sailor! So you
fucked the goddamn Winter Man, after all," the Magician had cried out when O'Hara finally reached him via one of the most archaic and unreliable telephone systems in the world. As they spoke, static crackled along the line, like popcorn popping.
"Poor help," O'Hara said.
"Come on down!" the Magician cried enthusiastically.
"I'm looking for Falmouth."
"I got all the details."
"I'm running out of time."
"Don't worry. It's cool. I'll put you with Tony."
"Can't we talk on the phone?"
"Yeah. But you're gonna end up here, anyway. So ... come on down. It's right on the way."
"Okay, pal, warm up the ice cubes."
Howe had supplied the Lear. And now, as it taxied toward the shack they called a depot, O'Hara's adrenaline was pumping furiously. Falmouth was somewhere nearby, and for the first time since he had accepted the assignment, he was eager to find out what was up his sleeve.
II
The man was absolutely unmemorable. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, handsome nor ugly. He had no scars or noticeable defects. His accent was basically bland, he could have been from Portland, Oregon, or Dallas, Texas, there was no way of telling. He wore gray: a gray suit, a gray-and-wine tie, a gray-striped shirt. In short, there was nothing in his carriage, demeanor or dress that would either attract attention or make an impression on anyone.
The office was on the twenty-second floor of a sterile glass-and-chromium New Orleans skyscraper that had all the warmth and pizzazz of a fiy swatter. He checked his watch as he got off the elevator.
Two minutes early. Perfect.
He entered the office of Sunset Oil International.
"My name is Duffield," he told the secretary. He did not offer a card.