Fountain Society Part 4

Peter stared down from his terrace. It's not that big a drop, he thought. There were guards at the front of the building, but only an hourly patrol around back. As for the motion sensors, they only pointed out-ward into the trees, not toward the residence wing. The power panel was located at the end of the corridor in a utility room he had scoped out after dinner. If he had to, he could disable the sensors. And he had to. He had had it with the rules and regimen and he was sick and tired of being treated like a freak. I'm not a prisoner, he thought. I'm voluntary. Jesus, now he was thinking like a mental patient. In fact, the meeting with Wolfe had left him feeling like a lunatic, his mind buzzing with crazy questions and his body in high agitation, like a newly captured animal before it submits to its cage. It's not as though I'm going AWOL. All I want to do is run barefoot on the beach. Is that too much to ask? He pictured himself jogging through the water, feeling the sand against the soles of his feet, smelling the salt air, seeing the moon on the bay. h.e.l.l, everybody else has celebrated my rebirth-now it's my turn. He changed into running clothes and climbed over the balcony. For a moment he hung from the railing, feeling the ease of his muscles, knowing that this would have been impossible for him to do just a short time ago. He smiled, then let go, dropping easily to the ground, silent as a cat. A loping run brought him soundlessly to the end of the building. Slipping into the doorway, he opened the panel. found the circuit breaker and tripped it. He listened.

No alarm. No stirring of feet. h.e.l.l, the place was in the middle of a Marine base on a tourist island owned by the U.S. military. How worried could they be? He started off through the woods.

Once he was far enough away from the compound, he broke into a run, feeling the muscles in his legs propel him powerfully, effortlessly through the trees. With a growing sense of freedom he watched the moon appear and disappear through the palm fronds, felt the air rush in and out of his lungs, heard the sounds of the night yield to the gentle lapping of the sea. Within ten minutes he was on sand and in another five, he broke out onto the beach. It was a restricted beach, earmarked for the practice of amphibious landings in time of war. The last time it had seen any soldiers was before Desert Storm. Now it was deserted: back to nature, thought Peter. He took off his shoes and started running barefoot: it felt even better than he had imagined.

Elizabeth had almost turned back a dozen times, but each time she stopped she felt some wordless gravity pulling her on and began to walk again, beating her way through dark gra.s.ses, palms and mangrove, often losing the glow she had seen earlier and finding her way only by moonlight or by feeling her way like a blind person. She figured she would give it five more minutes, or another hundred yards, all the while thinking, You're being really stupid, you know that? What if you run into some drunks or dope smugglers or wild animals? She realized she was sounding like her own mother and forced herself to continue on. Then, when it was simply too dark to see anything, she stopped and caught her breath. What the h.e.l.l was she doing, traipsing around in the middle of nowhere like this? Were there poisonous snakes on this island? Quicksand? Lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!, she thought, and turned back. She had taken no more than three steps when a sudden dip in the terrain sent her pitching forward, a bush caught her foot, and she sprawled forward into pitch-black air. She hit, none too gracefully, and rolled a.s.s over teakettle through a thick stand of brush, then clunked against a dune. Unhurt, breathless and glad she was in one piece. She even laughed at herself. It had been a long time since she had done something like this, just on impulse. Because of the pale green light everywhere around her, she realized she could see perfectly well. Then she saw the bay.

It was hidden from the road and ocean by way of a narrow pa.s.sage between two steep, jasmine-scented hills, but from here it was spread out before her like a magic carpet of emerald stars. It glowed as though lit from beneath, a dreamy, drifting greenish blue like a million galaxies had been caught and steeped in water. It took her breath away. It looked absolutely familiar.

1 know this place, she thought. But why?

She dimly recalled Ivor Greeley, back at the Casa del Frances, telling Mary Blanchard and her friends about something called Phosph.o.r.escent Bay. This must be it, she realized, and she had found it as though from memory. Standing up, she brushed herself off, feeling wonderfully at home. As she approached the bay, the moon disappeared behind some clouds, but there was no diminution of light-the surface of the water was its own light and it s.h.i.+mmered and s.h.i.+fted in hue as she reached the pale strip of beach. Once there, she could see that the glow was radiating not from one central source but from millions of tiny points. Light-emitting organisms, she guessed, without knowing why it didn't feel like a guess at all. And then she remembered her dream, the one in which Hans was a sea of stars. It was this place-she was certain of it-as certain as she was of her own name. How could she come upon-by some deep and hidden instinct-a place she had seen only in a dream? Fear came rus.h.i.+ng back, almost as if she were in the presence of a ghost, and she turned to get the h.e.l.l out of there. But she never moved beyond that. Someone was running down the beach toward her. As he came closer and closer, it was harder and harder for her to breathe. No, it couldn't be. In town, in the bars, every third man had looked like him for a nanosecond, until it wasn't, of course. She waited for her heart to quiet down. But this time it went right on pounding. The main slowed to a trot and then stopped, raking both hands back through his pale blond hair in a gesture she had seen a hundred times. He was staring at her and she was staring at him, neither moving an inch until the moon came out from behind a cloud. And then they actually saw each other: and there was not a shadow of a doubt in either one's mind any more. Elizabeth saw Hans.

And Peter saw the woman he had been dreaming about since the moment he had occupied this body-the Angel of his dreams, right down to the eyelash, and it scared the living h.e.l.l out of him. He had never seen her before in the flesh, and yet he knew in the depths of his soul that this was the woman he had loved in his dreams without reservation or boundary night after blissful night. For a moment, neither of them could move or speak. Then Peter saw her take a step closer, and another. Then he moved toward her, hearing her call out. "Hans?"

Hans! His name was Hans! He found himself running toward her. As soon as he did, the woman streaked toward him, laughing. Cras.h.i.+ng together, they flung their arms around each other. "It's you. It's really you. But how-"

He silenced her with a kiss. "It's me," he heard himself say. "I'm so frightened-"

"Don't be frightened. Shh," he said, seeing tears spring to her eyes. Without another word they held each other. The night fell away and they sank down together, fumbling at each other's clothes, breathless with joy. The only thought in Peter's mind was the complete and terrifying certainty that this woman, with her pale hair and clear gray eyes and exotic cheekbones, this strong, loving creature, this pa.s.sionate Angel, was the lover of his clone. Then all thought vanished as his physical need for her, a thing so unabashed and physical he barely felt it coming, hit him, canceling all doubt and fear. Waves of light flowed over them; he entered her so swiftly he couldn't believe it was happening. For the first time in his life, his body had seized utter control of his mind, taking whatever it could find to give love to this woman. She seemed so hungry for him, too, such a miracle of warmth and energy that he climaxed almost immediately. Instead of being disappointed, she seemed delighted, letting out a little yelp of surprise and grat.i.tude, then burrowing into his arms, kissing his neck and crying softly. They lay together until their breathing smoothed and their hearts went from gallop to walk. "Oh G.o.d," was all she could say.

"Amen," said Peter, utterly tongue-tied.

"Hans, tell me what's happening."

Peter searched desperately for something logical to say, then spoke the only truth he dared. "I can't speak yet..."

He pulled her out into the warm water, feeling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s soft against his chest. "That wasn't your corpse in the car. I knew it. But whose was it?" Corpse? He shook his head helplessly. "I don't know." "Jesus, you're in some kind of trouble, aren't you?" He laughed, soundlessly, without meaning to. Was there some kind of trouble he wasn't in now? "I have a knack for the obvious," she said, with girlish embarra.s.sment. And then, "Does this mean I'm in trouble, too?" Good Lord, I hope not, Peter thought, and lied. "No," he said. "Of course not." "Was it you who sent that e-mail? Are you IslandMan?" Emal? IslandMan? He felt a s.h.i.+ver go through him and tried to adopt a neutral expression. Tell her to go home, he thought desperately'. Tell her to get the h.e.l.l out, tell her to forget about you, tell her that you're never going to see her again. "I missed you so much," he sad, feeling tears burn his eyes. Was that his body speaking for him or was he now speaking for his body? Or was there no longer any difference? This last thought simultaneously frightened and liberated him. He watched, mesmerized by her beauty as she gazed out over the luminescent bay. "I dreamed about this place," she sad.

"Did you? I did, too, I think."

She looked back at him and smiled a lovely smile. So much warmth in it, such affection. "You used to come here, didn't you, when you were a little boy." He frowned. "Did I mention that?" he guessed. "Not really." She darkened. "You never told me anything. Was that fax from you? Who was that kid in the car?" His head spun as he pulled her closer. He could feel her trembling and realized that he was as well. "I don't want you to worry," he said. "But I want you to be careful. We can't stay too long together here. Not now. She stared at him in alarm. "I can't leave you after just finding you!" His heart spoke again. "I don't want you to leave," he said. "But... "I should be scared, shouldn't I? I am scared." He nodded gently. "What car did you see?" "A Range Rover, driven by a young guy, maybe mid-twenties. He was waiting for me at the airport when my flight landed and then he came to the hotel." "You spoke to him?"

She shook her head, feeling suddenly so sane for doing what had seemed so crazy. "I didn't take the plane. I snuck over on the ferry and watched the plane come in. I saw him, he didn't see me." He felt a burst of admiration. She was smart and brave and intuitive. And lucky, he began to think, too. Who was that? "Did he look military?"

"I think his car was. He just looked-kind of intense." His mind was racing. He kissed her softly, hoping his pounding heart wouldn't betray his own growing fear, "Change hotels." "No need. I'm at the Casa del Frances."

"Good. That's good."

"Hans, your mother..."

She left the sentence hanging. All he could do was nod, torn between his desire to know more about his past-every-thing possible, as a matter of fact. And about this marvelous woman. But also by a terrible fear of betraying himself as an imposter-or worse. "She okay?" he asked lamely'. "She's okay'. She was devastated, as you can imagine. But she's tough. We talked. A lot. About you." He squeezed her hand. "The less she knows... "Yes. I understand. I don't suppose you can tell me either." "No. Not yet." Peter thought: I'm in h.e.l.l and I'm in heaven and I can't tell the difference. "Can you live with that for now?" Christ, he thought, I don't even know her name. "Yes," she said. "So long as I don't lose you again." "You won't lose me," he said with utter conviction, taking her face in his hands. Their lips met again and then they were making love, more slowly this time, a thing that was tidal and profound and full of mystery. There was a point when both of them were crying, and then they pa.s.sed beyond even that. He felt her tremble on the edge and hold back, and then give in, coming over and over. And then it was his turn-and still later their turn-until everything just fell away. the sea and the moon and the stars, and there was only the two of them together, suspended in a miracle of light against the primordial darkness. How much time had pa.s.sed? He had lost all track, and it was a long while before the uneasiness crept back in. But creep back in it did. He had no idea how long he had been gone from the base. "I have to go," he said.

He felt her tighten. "Where?"

He shook his head, and to his relief, she answered for him. "Not yet. Okay. When do I see you again?" "Tomorrow night," he heard himself say.

"Should I believe you?"

"Yes," he insisted, meaning it.

"Will you tell me what's going on then?"

"I'll explain what I can," he said carefully, as though he were testifying in a court of law, "The Casa del Frances?" "Yes."

"Wait there. Don't go out. I'll try to be there by six. Can you wait that long?" "Of course I can."

He looked in her eyes. Everything was as he had dreamed it, down to the barely' discernable scar tissue along the eye sockets, the strangeness of her face and its amazing, unaccountable familiarity. "What name did you register under?" She frowned, puzzled. "My own name. Oh, you mean because of the kid. No, I had to give the hotel my credit card." "Yes, of course." All right, he thought, I can find out her name when I get there. "Good-bye," he said. He kissed her deeply and disappeared.

Elizabeth watched him go.

She waited until he had vanished around an outcropping of rock, then put her clothes back on and started back for her car. She felt as if she could almost have been dreaming, or had, perhaps, gone mad. But for the first time in weeks, she felt crystalline and strong. She had Hans back again, one way or the other, and nothing else mattered. And not only was he back, but he was back as a Hans tempered by an experience she hardly dared guess at, informed by a depth she had never felt before. There had been a sensitivity in his lovemaking that for the first time put her pleasure ahead of his own, and a gentleness, a sadness and, in the midst of their pa.s.sion, a sobriety and tact that were light-years away from the Hans she had known. As if he had matured overnight, turning from being a brash and cynical boy into a tender, caring man wise beyond his years. What in G.o.d's name had he been through?

Almost giddy, she realized that she knew less than ever who her lover Hans Brinkman really was-and was more compelled than ever to find out. 10 Peter went hack through the trees in a daze. What the h.e.l.l is going on and how am I going to find out about it? Worse, what did I do tonight, what was that? How could I do that to Beatrice? And the most frightening question of all: who the h.e.l.l am I? He knew the answer to none of these questions. All he knew for sure was that something disastrous had happened and if he didn't pull himself together, worse was to come. That he had betrayed Beatrice for the first time in their marriage had begun to torment him the instant he left Phosph.o.r.escent Bay. There had never been anyone but Beatrice, not even during those first difficult years, when they had fought every day, when neither knew from month to month whether the marriage would actually last. And there is still no one, he tried to tell himself, as he ran back down the beach, watching his pale shadow before him on the barren sand. He thought wildly that perhaps he had just experienced a fugue episode. Maybe something had gotten miswired between his brain and his body during the transplant and now he was locked in a dream and couldn't escape. He could see that therein lay madness, but it also made perfect sense. Whatever the reason, he was terrified of three things: that somehow the membrane between fantasy and reality had been ruptured irreparably, that his conscience had been dealt a mortal blow and that he would never again enjoy the safety and order of the rational world he had to this moment so much taken for granted. What am I going to tell Beatrice?

The wise thing, the soul-sparing thing, would be to keep everything to himself. Still, he couldn't get rid of the feeling that he had destroyed the covenant between them, and that he was in danger of expulsion from the haven of stability and warmth he had known with her for so many years. Worse, he wasn't in this alone. There was this woman, this amazing nameless woman to whom he was in no way ent.i.tled, whose very existence threatened his sanity and. more to the point, whose own safety was now imperiled by events he had set in motion. Don't fool yourself. be admonished himself, you're responsible for what happened, however it happened, and you owe it to her to see that she gets out of this safely. You're going to keep your promise: you have to see her again. Or was that only his l.u.s.t talking. . .

No. It was much more than l.u.s.t, he knew that. Have you ever known anything with Beatrice like what you've just experienced? he asked himself, pointblank. The question terrified him. In the early years, perhaps her pa.s.sion was at its height. But had his own pa.s.sion and sensitivity been equal to hers? Not until tonight, with another woman, this woman, with years of experience behind him and a new body allowing him to use that experience, had he felt such bliss. And it was no dream. It was real, as real as his betrayal of everything de-cent and principled. You selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he raged, first you sell your soul, and now you've sold out your marriage. At least have the decency to deliver them both to the devil without excuses. And for G.o.d's sake, use your brain and figure out how in h.e.l.l she had come here in the first place! More specifically, who on earth had e-mailed her? There was only one person he could think of: Alex Davies. Alex must have been nosing around in the Fountain files, just as Beatrice had claimed and Wolfe had subsequently denied. The tracking of the clones might well have included wives or lovers, so Alex could know the name of Hans's lover. And if Alex Davies knows about the girl, who else does? And how do I confront them? He stopped running, ragged and spent, facing the answer to that question. He couldn't not without putting the young woman from the beach even more at risk than she was now. Jesus, he thought, as he made his way quietly through the palm grove toward the compound, you really have f.u.c.ked up this time! Nearing the condominiums, he slowed, trying to make as little sound as possible. Then he became aware of a high-pitched whine in his ear, like the wire-thin hum of an ancient television. He stopped, listened, then realized what it was: someone had turned the infrared sensors back on. Just then something big and fast slammed into him from behind and knocked him flying. "Freeze. Do not move! Get your f.u.c.king hands over your head!" More shapes-heavily armed men in dark uniforms tearing in on him. In a daze he realized he had been tackled by Special Forces guards and that he now had a half-dozen high-powered weapons pointed at his head, off-safety and ready to fire. "I'm Dr. Peter Jance!" he screamed. And then, remembering: "Junior!" Somebody kicked him hard in the ribs-once, twice. Next he heard new shouts and a woman screaming, Beatrice's and Wolfe's voices. "What the h.e.l.l you think you're doing, you idiots!" Wolfe raged. The guards fell back. Beatrice ran to Peter, helping him to his feet. Out of the darkness Oscar Henderson emerged, barking out orders. The guards stood to attention. Peter rose slowly, holding his ribs, watching as more men came running from every direction, securing the perimeter. Against what he hadn't a clue. Henderson took in the scene with a glance, his mouth twisted in contempt. "My, my, is it Spring Break already?"

Peter wheeled on him. "I was just taking a jog on the beach. What are you running here, Henderson, a G.o.dd.a.m.n prison camp?" Henderson surveyed him coldly, his voice low and tight. "No, a military base, Dr. Jance. Home to three thousand fighting men, fourteen commands and an undisclosed number of highly sensitive and secret projects, of which you are one. He bellied up to Peter as though Peter's being a young man now gave Henderson the right to deck him if he so chose. "And sensitive, secret projects do not go jogging on the beach at night without an escort. Not on my watch." He spun on Wolfe. "I suggest a leash." He stalked away with his men, leaving Peter to face Beatrice. She looked at his wet, rumpled clothes, his unruly hair and his evasive eyes, then walked away without a word. There was a moment of awful silence. Then Peter felt Wolfe's hand at the small of his back, guiding him toward the restricted wing. "Nice job, Peter," Wolfe said. "Really firstrate. How far did you get?" Bite your tongue, thought Peter. Whatever you say to Wolfe tonight, Beatrice will hear it tomorrow. "Look," he said, trying to take the edge out of his voice, "I'm not a lab rat on a running wheel. If I want to run on the beach at night instead of using your G.o.dd.a.m.n treadmill, I will." "And the risk to your cerebral arteries be d.a.m.ned." "They're my cerebral arteries. Unless, of course, you don't want any more work out of me. "Now who's making threats?" Wolfe said through his teeth and then pulled back. "I'll arrange for bodyguards who can keep up with you. "Alone," said Peter.

"Can't allow it."

"I run alone. That's a deal-breaker."

Now Wolfe was scrutinizing him. "If I could be sure that's all you were doing." Say nothing, thought Peter. "All I'm doing," said Peter, "is clearing out the cobwebs." Wolfe c.o.c.ked an eyebrow with suspicion. "And they're cleared out? You're back with the program?" Wolfe's eyes were bright, daring Peter to say no. "Back with the program," said Peter as he watched Wolfe's expression stiffen. "That's good to hear. You can run on any beach on the base at any time." Wolfe stuck out his hand. Peter shook it, feeling Wolfe's long bony fingers tighten around his knuckles. He gave me life, now he thinks he owns me, thought Peter. "How're your ribs?" Wolfe asked.

"They hurt like h.e.l.l, thank you."

"You're welcome," Wolfe said. "Now let's get you into the clinic." The two old friends walked off together, side by side. That way, Peter knew, neither had to turn his back on the other.

By the time Elizabeth got back to the Casa del Frances, it was four in the morning. On the return trip from the beach she had been jumpy and paranoid, circling two blocks in a figure-eight before parking her car outside the gate. She, too, was unable to pa.s.s through security, in this case the white-haired guard in the folding chair. He had locked the gate, forcing her to ring the bell. But he didn't respond. She could see him in his tiny booth next to the driveway, propped against the wall, his pearly-white scar visible in the moonlight. She leaned on the bell until a light came on in a downstairs room, and then Ivor Greeley appeared in the door in an old terry cloth bathrobe, carrying a set of keys on a big ring. "We usually don't have guests coming back this late," he grumbled. "Ivor, I'm sorry. I tried to wake the guard, but he's not even moving." Greeley threw a look at the old man, then called, "Toro!" The old man lurched forward, his blue-veined lids popping open. Greeley patted Elizabeth's shoulder, noting her soggy clothes. "You just have to know the trick. He used to be a matador in Mexico City. Got himself all busted up when he overstayed his welcome. Somebody had to give him a job." "Not much in the way of security, though, do you think?" said Elizabeth, with a backward glance at the street. Ivor shrugged. "You didn't get in, did you?" He walked back into the hotel while the ex-matador made an elaborate show of relocking the gate. Elizabeth went straight to her room, double-locked the door, lay back on her bed and tried to piece together the night's events. First, why was Hans here? And why had his death been faked? Who was that in the morgue photographs? Who was that in his coffin? No answers made sense. Drugs? A Colombian cartel working through the islands toward Miami? Or had he embezzled some huge amount of money that now had its rightful owners putting out a hit on him? No, she decided, it's something even more bizarre than that. The thunder on the island, the military bases-it must be CIA. Or black ops. The career in finance, the high-profile marriage, were they part of a cover story or was that really Hans? He hadn't known about the email, though he had tried to pretend otherwise-she had seen that in his eyes. The kid in the Range Rover, that was news to him as well. Bad news. Who had summoned her down here if not Hans? And why? Her unshakable feeling of having been to Vieques before, almost as if she had lived here as a child, what did that have to do with anything? She thought of Rose-Anne-how devastated she had been at Hans's death, how gamely she had tried to rebound from her grief. Would Hans put his own mother through such agony with no warning? Only if he were a completely different man from the one she had known. But wasn't he?

Never in all their months together had Hans made love to her the way he had tonight. What had happened down here to liberate him? Was it simply being back in his childhood home? Or was it that he no longer was leading a double life? And if he was CIA, why, when she happened upon him at what might well be his base of operations, had he been so tender, so loving, so spontaneous? Or was that all part of the act, a result of his training? Impossible. If that was an act then the world makes no sense at all. She thought of calling Annie, but dismissed it immediately, The fewer innocent people involved the better. Rose-Anne? That was a more difficult question. No, not yet, she thought, popping up from bed for the third time to check to see if anyone was watching from the street. Until she a.s.sessed how much danger she was actually in, it was possible that Rose-Anne might even be in on it. Hadn't the woman encouraged her to come down here by mentioning it so often? And by telling her how much Hans had cared for both her and this island? Mother and son in the CIA together?

At this point, thought Elizabeth, nothing was too peculiar. With visions of Rose-Anne and Hans, clad head to toe in black and mowing down hordes of drug-runners with their AK-47s, she fell headlong into a deep and uneasy sleep. 11 In the core lab of the Fountain Compound, Peter Jance, Jr. was dreaming. His team buzzed around him, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with ideas. He had planted those ideas in their heads, and over the last week they had blossomed brilliantly. Cap Chu and Rosemarie Wiener had finally worked out the ancillary equations for the enhanced propulsion beam, and Hank Flannagan had completely redesigned the fusion circuitry to fit in half the s.p.a.ce and handle three times the power of possible voltage surges. Alex Davies had run a dozen alternate models of the completed weapon through a Kray and was reporting, in a low robotic voice, on his success. Meanwhile Peter stared at his shoes. The think tank smelled of the sea and chalk dust and Rosemarie Wiener's new perfume, the latest personal secret weapon in her a.r.s.enal. "-fully destructive to living tissue. The enemy, in effect, will melt in the beam. Buck Rogers to the nth plus one," said Alex dryly. "Yeah, but will it blow up again?" said Cap Chu. "I've been running continuous trials and we're already into the millions. Not one failure. Money-back guarantee." Peter raised his eyes from the pale green linoleum. He felt miles away-back in Phosph.o.r.escent Bay, in that warm, glowing water, melting into the embrace of a nameless Angel. "And the ramifications?" Peter heard himself say. They all turned around.

"We win," Flannagan said.

"What about the people who are going to be vaporized by this thing?" A silence fell over the room. Only a civilian would bring this up, or perhaps a college soph.o.m.ore, and Peter was neither. "They'll go quick," said Flannagan, "and they'll probably deserve it." Peter felt the soles of his feet begin to twitch. "Like the n.a.z.is, you mean. There were nervous glances all around. "Yeah, okay," said Cap Chu. "Isn't that why your dad helped build the A-bomb? To beat the Germans to the punch?" "In the beginning," said Peter, "that was the rationale. Then we-" he began, and then corrected himself "-my dad and others realized the n.a.z.is had gone down a blind alley. Their idea of a nuke was loading an atomic pile aboard a s.h.i.+p and sneaking it into an enemy harbor, But we-" he continued, glancing at Alex Davies, who was chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, "-they went ahead anyway. Because it was there. Once they knew they could make it, they didn't want to stop." "Yeah, but still," said Rosemarie, "what if the n.a.z.is rise again? And this time around they know what they're doing?" "When the n.a.z.is come back," Alex Davies a.s.sured her, "they won't be wearing swastikas. They'll be wearing business suits and talking about living in peace and harmony." His eyes shone with mischief. "Kind of like us." "Who says?" said Cap Chu.

"Charles Manson-his very words. I'm sorry, dude," Alex Davies turned back to Peter, "you were saying?" Peter rose and looked out the window. "What if" he said, "this technology we're perfecting is further miniaturized to suitcase size, which it will be sooner or later, and it's stolen or given away via some rider to some bill n.o.body really gives a s.h.i.+t about and ends up in what we laughingly call the wrong hands. Then we're looking at New York really sizzling in the summer. They all looked at him for a long moment, then Cap Chu burst into laughter. "G.o.d, you're good."

"I'm sorry?" said Peter.

"I thought your dad was a put-on artist, but you're way better." The others laughed, all except Alex, whose eyes had been following Peter like a hawk. "In any case," Alex said, "if the computer trials continue to pan out, we'll be going back to White Sands soon." At this, they all went on alert, Peter included, "No s.h.i.+t?" said Flannagan "So," said Mex, fixing Peter in his sights, "it's a little late for liberal angst." Peter met his eyes until Alex turned back to the chalkboard. "d.a.m.n," said Rosemarie, "I was about to get accredited in scuba." "Maybe you can take up sand diving at Los Alamos," said Flannagan. Their conversation bubbled on, excited or disappointed by the prospect of moving back to the desert depending on each person's proximity to girlfriends, family or favorite bars. Peter heard none of it. All he heard was his inner voice, urging him to think fast and to find a way to get that woman to New Mexico.

Studying the bank of video monitors in Henderson's office, Wolfe turned to the colonel. "He's in dreamland again," Henderson agreed. They could see Peter from two angles, wide and close. While his team scurried about the lab, arguing, scrawling on the chalkboard, Peter sat staring at the concrete wall as though it were a picture window. "No doubt about it," said Henderson. "He got his pencil shaved in town. There's a big singles scene there, you know," "Really?" Wolfe asked deadpan. Beneath his own concern for the project's future, he detected a faint echo of perverse satisfaction. If Peter was cheating on Beatrice, there might be a chance it would spell the end of their marriage. Had it ever been tested before? Not to his knowledge, although over the years he had often secretly prayed for something to go wrong between his two old friends, something that might leave the field clear for himself and Beatrice. But priorities were priorities: by straying off the base, Peter had put himself and the entire project at risk, and the heedlessness had filled both Wolfe and Henderson with alarm. The difference between the two men was that Henderson was much more ready to act. "If I had my way," said Henderson, "I'd take him down with a tranquilizer gun and perform a partial castration." "I wonder what Beatrice would say to that," Wolfe responded. "I think she'd be the one to hold his nuts. Let's get his a.s.s in here." Henderson pushed the b.u.t.ton that hid the video screens and called for his aide. Five minutes later the door opened and Peter walked in wearing a look of distracted irritation. Henderson opened and closed the subject in one breath. "Jance, you've got to stop s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around." Peter eyed him. "No more Coltrane in the think tank." "That too." Henderson came around his desk, his manner heavily paternal. "Look," he said, placing a giant hand on Peter's shoulder, "I know it must be a hoot. Suddenly you're in a young body, with all that testosterone running around in your brain, but-" Peter shrugged Henderson's hand away. "It's much more than that," he said. "Then why don't you tell me about it? And wipe that d.a.m.n smirk off your face." On his old friend's behalf Wolfe felt his gut tighten up. "Oscar," he said, "there's no reason to be hostile." "It's all right, Freddy," said Peter, drawing himself up. "You want to hear about it, Colonel? Fine. It's not just hormones. It's a liver that actually cleans my blood. It's a heart that floods my brain with the richest, most oxygenated blood I've enjoyed in forty years. Another examplemy knee joints. Instead of calcified, bone-on-bone hinges, they're finely tuned machines-ligaments, cartilage and muscles perfectly toned and intact, cus.h.i.+oned by fully functional menisci. It's a pleasure to climb stairs again. And I have lungs that don't grow congested when I run. I can smell, taste, feel, see and hear a million things I'd either learned to despise in their mined form or forgotten existed at all. You know the overtones I can hear now on a violin string playing a Bach part.i.ta? I'd forgotten there were such things." "I'm talking more about your d.i.c.k," Henderson said. Peter's icy eloquence, Wolfe knew, only served to increase Henderson's anger. "As in, the d.i.c.k that's leading you around." Peter returned his gaze. "I don't know what you mean. "That's bulls.h.i.+t and you know it's bulls.h.i.+t." Peter gave a defiant laugh. "Go f.u.c.k yourself Colonel. I don't have to dance for you. Henderson came at him in one fluid move, slamming him against the wall, hand crus.h.i.+ng his throat before Peter could even throw up an arm in self-defense. Henderson pushed his face into Peter's, his free hand waving Wolfe away. "Jance," he said, "I know more ways to kill someone with my bare hands than you do from behind a machine a safe mile away, so don't get smart with me. I don't mind looking in the face of the people I do." He inhaled deeply, then said very quietly, "You better watch your a.s.s, Peter, or you and your love toy will both end up on the sc.r.a.p heap." Peter's eyes flinched with real fear. Enough was enough, thought Wolfe. "Henderson," he said, as calmly as he could, "if you continue in this vein I'm going to have to report it to Was.h.i.+ngton." "If you don't, I will," Henderson said quietly. He held Peter's eyes for another long second, then let go. Peter stayed on his feet, but Wolfe could see that his eyes had teared up from the a.s.sault to his windpipe and his breath was hoa.r.s.e and desperate. Henderson confronted both of them. "I know you two are the geniuses and your names will be in all the books when mine's just a numbered stone in Arlington. But, by G.o.d, I've been ordered to see that this project does not get derailed by anybody and I include everybody in the word anybody.' No exceptions." "You kill me, you won't have much of a project," Peter rasped out. "That's your trump card, is it?" said Henderson. He stepped closer to Peter. "You think your friend Wolfe put all his eggs in one basket? There's plenty more where you came from." Wolfe saw Peter stiffen with suspicion. "Meaning what?" "What makes you think you're the only one?" Henderson shot back. Peter couldn't speak. He looked at Wolfe, and Wolfe said as discreetly as he could, "Oscar, I'd like to be alone with Peter for a moment?" Henderson wavered, then shrugged. "It's time our boy learned the facts of life. Office is yours." He went out, slamming the door behind him. The d.a.m.n fool, thought Wolfe. This was a conversation he had been hoping to avoid, and now that it was forced upon him, it would have to be handled with perfect delicacy. The sight of his old friend with Henderson at his throat had stirred complicated emotions, most of them unwanted. "What was that supposed to mean?"

Wolfe looked at him cautiously. "I think you know." "I don't. I'm sorry." Wolfe saw Peter's eyes dart away, as if he were about to tell a lie. "What was that threat he made? Who does he think I saw?" Wolfe continued to eye him. "You tell me. Did you see someone? Have you been with anyone?" Peter stared back, too fixedly. "No," he said. Wolfe let it go. "I believe you.

"And what's this about others'?"

"Naturally," said Wolfe, beginning to rummage through Henderson's desk, "if it works out with you, there will be further attempts. That was always the Society's plan." "But that's not quite what he said, is it? Are there others in the works?" Careful, thought Wolfe. This man's senses are at their peak, and even before he could always smell an outright lie. "In the works? No. You're the only one, Peter, I swear." Under a pile of Soldier of Fortunes in Henderson's drawer he found a fifth of Jim Beam. "Eureka," Wolfe said. He took a brief swig, then offered it to Peter, who shook his head. "This body didn't drink.'

"But your brain does. Come on, I miss my old pub-crawling pal." Relenting, Peter took the bottle, drank, and winced. "Christian Barnard or Mengele?" "I'm sorry?"

"Which doctor are we, Freddy? How will we be remembered?" "Oh" said Wolfe, savoring the bourbon rush, "I thought it was something like that." "And I know what you're going to say. If we stopped every time we got cold feet, we'd still be living on a flat earth without penicillin." The liquor burned in his gut, but his head felt a nudge of relief. "Praying to the savage G.o.ds," said Wolfe, "atop b.l.o.o.d.y ziggurats. Actually, I wasn't going to take that tack-" "You ever read Gulliver's Travels?"

"Not since I was ten years old."

"You remember the Studbugs? Or the Struldbruggs, or some d.a.m.n thing?" He accepted the bottle one more time, what the h.e.l.l. He had his own fond memories of drinking with Wolfe in the old days. "Anyway, Swift had Gulliver find this place where people were born every so often who wouldn't die. The only difference between them and everyone else was that they had a red dot on their foreheads and they lived forever. And what happened was that everybody who had a normal life span grew to despise the Studbugs. Everybody got born, lived and died, but the d.a.m.ned red-dot ones stayed around forever." "As I recall," said Wolfe, "they made them their leaders." "You're thinking of some other book," said Peter. "Everybody hated them because they hogged everything. They never died or left their land or money to anybody; they never gave up the business to the son, or disappeared so that the daughter could a.s.sume the full mantle of adulthood. Oh, and they stank after a while, too. You see what I'm saying?" "Actually, I don't."

Peter looked at him. Could he be this out of touch with what now seemed to be an obvious truth? "Species need to refresh themselves, Freddy, not be thrown into artificial stasis! We're trying to do an end run around two billion years of evolution." Wolfe emitted a sharp laugh. He leaned across the desk. "We're two billion years of evolution, you sap! It's the Entopic Principle, Peter-the laws of nature exist because our brains can imagine them. And improve upon them. We're evolution's quantum leap. We labored through trial and error for millions of years until we invented ourselves! We go from biplanes to lunar-landing craft in a single lifetime now, and if it can be thought of it can be done. And will be done. Period." Peter took that in for a moment, then countered, aiming for the sole weak spot he thought Wolfe might have. "What's Alex up to?" "What?" said Wolfe.

"Why is he sending out e-mails?"

"E-mails? I don't know what you mean," he said. "My impression is that Alex is back on board. Is there something I should know?" he asked, watching Peter carefully. The frightened look had come back into Peter's eyes-the same look as when Henderson had threatened his so-called love toy-and it occurred to Wolfe that maybe there was someone. Well, if there was, she shouldn't be that difficult to find. "I'm sorry, Peter, I'm not following," he said. "I think you follow more than you want me to know," Peter said. "And why, by the way, have you been seeing so much of Beatrice?" Somebody has to, thought Wolfe, realizing with a start that he had almost said it out loud. "You've behaved badly to Beatrice," he said stiffly, putting the bottle down. "If I try to console her, I consider I'm doing three people a favor." This seemed to chasten Peter. He took a long pull from the whiskey; this time it felt good. "In any case, thank you for calling off your dog," he said. "Henderson isn't my dog," said Wolfe, "so there's no way I can call him off. If you get my drift." "I do," said Peter.

"It's serious business, Peter. Many lives are at stake." "Including mine."

"I'm afraid so, yes. This is not something you opt out of. You've signed on for life." "And beyond."

"Exactly."

"I appreciate your candor," said Peter. "And you're right about evolution." "Am I? I'm glad to hear that."

"And actually," Peter added, rising unsteadily, "that little bit of freedom you've given me? I swear it's increased my brain's output. I think we're almost home." "Really, Peter?"

"Really. We're on the verge of actually a.s.sembling the weapon." "Lethality equal to what we saw on the range? I want to pa.s.s this on to Henderson." "More. No residuum at all. Adversaries will simply vanish by the battalion," said Peter, sweeping an arm through the air. "The trick will be limiting the killing, not trying to heighten it." "So we're home?" said Wolfe, watching Peter carefully. "I'd say so."

"Remarkable," said Wolfe. They were home, so Peter was expendable. Henderson had been more right than he knew "It's strong enough to wipe out every living thing within five miles, plus break down the atomic structure of the larger molecules. Carbon molecules, for instance, might just fly apart. That might make rocks turn into miniature nuclear grenades, for all we know. And Freddy, the best part? This will confirm everything you told them the Fountain Society could deliver. You're going to be able to write your own ticket after this. You can tell Henderson to take a hike, have the funding to do whatever kind of experiments you want to do. Take us all into the twentyfirst century." "And no more doubts?"

"No more doubts. Except now I have to pee. "Well," said Wolfe, "I'm glad these little talks are helping." They both laughed, gripping hands in a firm handshake. At the door they even embraced. Wolfe watched Peter walk down the hall toward the rest room, then closed Henderson's door. He really thought he was giving a performance, Wolfe thought. Charming the pants off me. And all for what, to buy a little time with your inamorata? Peter, dear deluded fool, I could always talk rings around you, couldn't I? And now I know that I can drink you under the table as well. He recapped the Jim Beam, stowed it back in the drawer and pushed the b.u.t.ton that reexposed the surveillance monitors. A video screen picked up Peter leaving the rest room, dabbing at his mouth with a paper towel. Wolfe grinned, realizing that Peter had gotten sick from the liquor. And then the most pleasant realization he had had in a long while struck him: one day very soon he, Frederick Wolfe, would truly have it all.

Later that afternoon, Peter lay on his bed staring at the ceiling's acoustical tile. His head ached from the bourbon and his senses felt minutely dulled, but he could still feel the woman as if she were lying beside him, the texture of her hair, the touch of her hand, the taste of her mouth. For several days he had practiced fending off the memory of their night on the beach, not always with success, but now, with Henderson's threats ringing in his ears, he found he could think of nothing but the woman. End up on the sc.r.a.p heap. You and your love toy. Did that mean Henderson was already aware of her existence on the island? Had Alex Davies somehow tipped him off? Not willingly, no, he couldn't imagine that being the case. Of all the people on the base, Wolfe included, Alex was least adept at concealing his contempt for the military. But with Alex, anything was possible. Whose side, for instance, was he on, if anybody's? He couldn't ask Alex directly without further implicating himself and the woman as well. Then what was he supposed to do? Warn her-tell her to take the next plane back to wherever she had come from. No. The threat was real and his duty to the woman was clear, whatever his emotions. He had promised to see her again, and now there was every reason in the world to go. For another few minutes he lay on the bed, trying to calculate how he could slip away and return without inviting any more suspicion. A key turned in the lock.

Peter bolted upright, half-expecting to see Henderson, but instead it was Beatrice. He saw the anguish in her face and it made him instantly heartsick. "I'm sorry," she said. "I a.s.sumed you'd still be at the lab." He gave a halfshrug, feeling utterly sheepish. "The thoughts weren't flowing," he said.

"I'll only be a moment," she said. "I left some things behind." He watched her cross the room, brus.h.i.+ng past the Erlenmeyer flask of dried flowers to open the drawer of a scarred blond bureau. Watching her graceful movements, seeing the pain in her eyes, he felt a sudden urge to confess, to share his own pain and confusion. Beatrice, I'm in trouble, I need your advice. "What have you been working on?" he said gently. She shot him a look: how quickly they forget. "Use of genetically altered blood," she said tonelessly. "In combat trauma." "Yes, of course, I'm sorry.

She nodded, just barely, but it was enough for him to feel encouraged. "I feel terrible," he said.

"Yes? About what?"

If Henderson knows, she surely suspects, he thought. "About the way," he said, experimentally, "we ye grown apart." "Only six inches or so, I'd say. But it does make a difference." At this flash of wit-which seemed to imply ignorance of any third party to their difficulties-Peter took heart, rising from the bed and going to his wife. She moved away, but not toward the door, which further gave him hope. "I was told we're going back to White Sands soon," he said. No, he was wrong, she was angrier than he had a.s.sumed-she was staffing to empty her drawers, packing a small suitcase. "You really feel you're ready to travel?" "Of course I am," he said.

She turned and looked at him, moving a strand of hair from her eyes. "Or would you rather stay here?" He tightened. "Why would I want to do that?" She hesitated a moment, keeping her back to him. "For the sake of your recovery," she said. Her voice sounded hollow-as though she were trying to convince herself there was nothing more than his health at stake. As she dropped some toiletries into her bag, Peter moved closer and touched her hair. She pushed his hand away. "Please, don't condescend." "To want to touch you, B., is not condescension." "And don't call me B. That's what my husband used to call me. Beatrice will do just fine, thank you." Peter sank.

"Beatrice, please? Don't abandon me because I'm different now. I need you. "Do you, Peter?"

"Yes," he said. His voice, echoing back to him from the blank walls, sounded choked and puzzled. He felt like a child watching an adult weep at a funeral, knowing he couldn't possibly understand the pain around him, yet the tears were welling up in spite of his confusion. Turning, she saw that he was about to cry and he felt her break inside. If I can still feel that, he thought, there's hope. "I'm still me. You're still you. We knew there would be adjustments-a few changes-" "A few changes!" she said. "Jekyll and Hyde are slouches compared to you!" He had to laugh. And then so did she, though with less ease. But she let him take her in his arms, and as soon as he did, she began to cry Silently he stroked her hair. "It's been h.e.l.lish," he said. "Has it? I'm glad." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "Would you care to be more specific?" He didn't know how to begin. "Wondering who's in control." "You or your body?"

"It's driving me crazy It's frightening. And the doubts are coming back. In spades." "Tell me." She folded her hands in her lap as though trying to hide the wrinkles. "I'm not old anymore. I don't have an old man's thoughts. Old men are much more comfortable making weapons of ma.s.s destruction," he said, relieved for the moment to be taking the high road. "But you were young, Peter, when you went into weaponry "Maybe so. But why does it feel so different now?" "And why is the sky blue? And why is there something rather than nothing? You tell me, Peter, because I don't know anymore. You bought this body with your career, so there we are. "Yes, here we are." He held her tighter. "I've missed you so much." "Have you really?" She was near breaking again. "Yes," he said, kissing her. Her hands trembled as they moved to his chest, then slid down his s.h.i.+rt, over his trousers and to his crotch. He felt no pa.s.sion. None whatsoever.

He looked away guiltily. She took her hand away. "Beatrice, I'm exhausted, that's all it is." She pursed her lips. "In spite of your youth." "Don't turn your back. Give me a chance." "Peter, is there someone else?" She was looking at him from the corner of her eye. This is it, he thought. "Because really, I don't care if it's just your body jumping over the fence like an alley cat. Under the circ.u.mstances, I could forgive that. But if it's you doing the jump-ing... if there's someone that means something to you.. . That's what I'm asking." He lifted her chin, turning her face toward him. "Beatrice, there never was anyone but you. Her gray eyes froze. Was?"

"And never will be."

"You swear?"

No, there was a wall beyond which he could not pa.s.s. He couldn't lie to Beatrice, the way he had lied to Wolfe. He was aware in full measure that if he did, his soul would indeed be lost forever. And then he lied anyway.

"I swear," he said, wanting with all his heart to believe it was true. "You're lying," she said.

G.o.d help me, thought Peter.

"And you're a wretched liar, too, you s.h.i.+t." Helpless, he watched her s.n.a.t.c.h up her handbag, walk briskly to the door and out of the apartment. Then, even before he could move, she was back, tears in her eyes. But now there was a terrible fury as well. "What the h.e.l.l am I doing? she asked no one in particular, and threw down her bag. "You get out!" She threw open the door and stepped back. The power of her rage was overwhelming. There was a primal force in her eves, more devastating than any weapon he could dream of devising. It smashed into his very being and exposing his selfishness in all its squalor. He walked out, and heard the door slam behind him.

Outside in the corridor, his feet seemed glued to the tile. Voices were drifting in from the breezeway one of them Henderson's. Prying himself loose and m.u.f.fling his footsteps, he hurried in the opposite direction, out the side exit and across the stretch of weed-choked sand toward the palm grove, barely acknowledging the guard who was posted on the path to the beach. Within minutes he reached the water's edge and started running toward the lights on the horizon. A half-hour later he was at the base boundary, about to cross over to Phosph.o.r.escent Bay. From there he could walk or hitch a ride to Esperanza and the woman who was waiting for him at the Casa del Frances, unaware of the dangers swirling around them both. Except there was a naval guard, a Seal at the fence between the two beaches. "Dr. Jance?"

"Yes, that's right."

"This is as far as we're authorized to let you run, sir." Peter held on to his composure. "I know that. Just thought I'd say h.e.l.lo before turning back. Pretty bay over there, isn't it?" The Seal glanced back over his shoulder at the luminous blue water and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. G.o.d knows what kinda s.h.i.+t's in there to make it glow like that. Probably radioactive runoff from the base." Peter nodded, then turned back the way he had come. He ran, panic rising as he put more and more distance between himself and his goal. At the far end of the beach he stopped. Another guard, a quarter mile ahead. He looked left, he looked right, and then he looked out to sea. You can do this, he thought.

Removing his shoes, he slung them around his neck and waded into the water. He'd been a strong swimmer in his youth, but then he instantly realized this body hadn't learned the same skills. It struggled through the surf, having to focus with all his strength, literally teaching his muscles and limbs how to navigate the water. It took a good fifteen minutes to find any semblance of the crawl stroke he had won swimming meets with in college. A hundred yards out into the open sea he turned right and swam parallel to sh.o.r.e, fighting a considerable crosscurrent. For an hour he churned on in this manner, each exhausted pause sending him drifting backward, cursing his clumsiness and plunging forward in renewed desperation. In the second hour, he experienced severe cramping and, despite the warmth of the water, his extremities began to grow numb. And then something b.u.mped him, something big. Peter swore and kicked out in panic, flas.h.i.+ng on all the varieties of shark that were endemic to these waters. When his foot hit metal, he realized he had collided with the buoy that marked the channel into the marina in Sun Bay He clung to it until he regained his breath, then struck out for sh.o.r.e. In another twenty minutes he was washed up on the beach. He had lost his shoes, and was chilled to the bone, shaking so hard he could barely see straight. Stumbling to the road, he flagged down a car of astonished German tourists and told them his sailboat had sprung a leak. They bought his story and kindly drove him to Casa del Frances, even giving him a pair of tennis shoes that, unbelievably, fit. Thanking them profusely, he staggered toward the inn. Despite his exhaustion, he had never felt so purely in the momentlike Byron swimming the h.e.l.lespont. Or-and his mood darkened at the thought-like a salmon fighting its way upstream to sp.a.w.n and die. You hypocrite, he fumed, you didn't have to go to all this life-threatening trouble. You could have found some other way to warn her. A phone call would have sufficed. No, they must be monitoring all my calls by now, he thought. You would have put her life in even greater danger. You're doing the right thing. He rang the bell at the hotel's gate. Inside the guard's shack, a white-haired old man with a scarred, sunken face sat dozing on a folding chair; steadying himself, Peter beaned him with a well-aimed pebble from the driveway. The man snapped awake, shuffled over and let Peter through. Peter tipped him a soggy ten-spot and, fighting for breath, asked for the American woman with blond hair. The old man beamed and pointed at the lighted window. "Ole," he said, waving this strange gringo whose body shook like a leaf in a hurricane inside the hotel. 12 Elizabeth heard the tap on her window twice before she realized it was him trying to get her attention. Her heart leapt as she raced down the tiled stairway to the lobby. There she found Peter, disoriented, soaked and s.h.i.+vering, face pale as paper, eyes glazed. And he had also lost the power of speech. It was all she could do to get him up to her room and strip off his soggy clothes. She dried him with a towel and rubbed some color back into his hands, then helped him into her bed, pulling the covers over him. She sat beside him, finally having the time to be astonished at his condition. "What happened, Hans? Sweetheart, you can tell me. What's going on?" At the sound of the endearment, Peter's whole body started shaking again and he held on to her for dear life. He was terrified-and not just of losing his mind. As a result of his exertions, his entire left side had gone numb, just as it had blanked out after the operation. Both his hearing and eyesight were blinking on and off like Christmas lights. The strain of the swim, following Henderson's stranglehold, might well have dislodged one of the sensitive splices of nerve at the back of his throat. His heart was pumping harder than it ever had before, as though desperately trying to force enough blood through the still-brittle, seventy-six-year-old vessels in his brain. He was an accident waiting to happen, an old man riding a fiery stallion and he couldn't let go of his fear. When he could finally form a sentence, he found he was afraid to speak. "That kid you saw. At the Azure Horizon. Did he have wild blond hair? Looked rather strange?" "Yes."

Okay, it was Alex. "Was there anyone with him?" "Not that I saw."

"No military man? A colonel? Ham-faced, big jaw, bulging temples? Brutallooking guy? Doesn't ring a bell?" She stared at him, a terror in her warm gray eyes. The same color as Beatrice's, he realized, the irises bright, the white clear, the way his wife's eyes used to be. Her voice, too, was a throaty alto. And then he thought: Cod help you, Jance, that's the oldest dodge known to man. Beatrice, I just couldn't help myself, she reminded me so much of you. No, you weasel, that's your hard-on talking. In that respect, his circulation was working perfectly. "This colonel, does he know I'm here? At this hotel?" "If he doesn't," said Peter, "he'll figure it out pretty quick." "How? Why? Hans, what is this all about?" He couldn't tell her, but he could prepare her. "You would hate me if you knew. And I don't want you to hate me." "Why not?"

It was out before he could censor himself. "You mean too much to me." You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he thought. Tell her she's got to leave-that's what you came to do, not lead her on. He was starting to shake again, and she was squeezing his hand. She looked at him, took a breath, then asked "Hans, are you CIA?" All right, he thought, you can buy some time here. "If you think I'm CIA" he said, attempting a smile, "then the Agency has a bigger image than they think." "Those photos of your corpse, those were faked, weren't they? The accident?" "More or less," he said, feeling his soul slipping through the fingers of this half-a.s.sed lie. "And your mother? She doesn't know, does she? Or was she lying to me?" "She doesn't know." Cod, he thought, how many other people are at risk here? "Hans, she's suffering."

"I know," said Peter doggedly. "I couldn't tell her. It would have put her in jeopardy." And that's why you have to go, he thought, but still couldn't bring himself to say it. "Do you want to get out? Is that why you're in trouble?" "Yes," he said. This finally was the truth, even if it was one he had been afraid to fully admit to himself. And why this fear? Because Beatrice was still loyal to the cause? Perhaps, he thought, it would be n.o.ble to think this was the only reason. But at that very moment, he heard himself blurt out another. "I've fallen in love with you," he said. She kissed him on the forehead. "I know, Hans," she said with a wonderful tenderness. "Your mom told me." He pieced that together as best he could. But a subtle s.h.i.+ft was taking place. He no longer wanted to know more about Hans. Now he wanted to know more about this woman. "Won't they start to miss you at home?" "Yes, sure, the career, I guess. And Annie." "I would think so," he said. "You really should go back." She shrugged, as if it were already too late. "My agency, they've lost interest. After you died' I went to pieces. Lost some bookings." An actress? A singer? A model? She was studying him gravely. "I even slept with somebody else," she said. He felt a stab of jealousy and it thrilled him. "Listen, I understand, I disappeared on you-" "I did it to find you. Because," she said, "I love you, too. Incidentally." His heart swelled. "You took an awful chance." "Story of my life. Hans, did you mean what you said just now? About getting out?" She was in front of him, cross-legged, excited, sweeping back her hair. "Yes."

"Then why don't we? I can't stand it any more if you're not there. I think about you nonstop. Back in St. Maurice I wasn't sure about us. I was starting to think I was some sort of m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t for staying with you. But everything feels so different now-" "The danger," he said.

She gave him a peculiar look. "No. It's not just the danger. It's you. I feel so close to you now. Before, you were so impossible." "Maybe I still am," said Peter. Tell her. Now. "No. You've changed. I can feel that we'll make it work now. I don't care who you are or what you've done, if you really want to be with me, that's all that matters." Her brow furrowed. "Do you have your pa.s.sport with you?" Pa.s.sport. "Not on me."

"Where is it? Are you in a hotel? I could go get it if you're still feeling woozy. "You can't. It's on the base."

She remembered that razor-wired gate, the armed guard, and felt a chill. "Is it safe to go back there? Maybe you shouldn't." "I have to. My traveler's checks, my pa.s.sport, everything's back there." Come on, he thought, you owe her this much: "This isn't going to be easy. There's someone else on the base." She stopped. He could feel her defenses come up. "A woman?" she asked. "Well, yes."

"Is Yvette here with you?" she asked, as if it all might be one vast conspiracy now, involving even his wife. "No," he said. "lt's not that. Not Yvette..." He paused. He was getting in way over his head. "You don't know her, believe me. But I can't just abandon this person, there's too much danger." "Someone involved in this thing with you?" she asked almost shyly. "Yes. Extremely involved. Very much at risk. And you, you're already in danger-" She nodded slightly, trying to make sense of it. "The man you mentioned? This colonel?" Peter took her hand. Looked in her eyes. About this he could speak the truth. "He wields a lot of power-I can't begin to describe it," he said, seized in the instant with a sense of his own mortality and with a frightening realization that his coming to her that night was completely rash. The project was all that Henderson or any of them cared about. No one was indispensable, including him, especially with his half-drunk boast to Freddy Wolfe that the success of the new weapon was a fait accompli. In doing that, he now realized, he had put himself fatally at risk. Inside, he laughed bitterly at himself. The irony was that he had been trying to convince Wolfe of his loyalty, as if his words might speak louder than his actions. "How much money do you have? Enough to rent a boat?" "Sure, with my faithful Visa."

"Do you know how to handle one?"

"I'm sure I could figure it out, but why-" "Because they may be watching the airport. Do you understand how serious this is?" She nodded, undaunted, even excited. "And you're coming with me?" He steeled himself. "That remains to be seen. "I understand," she said, eyes dimming with disappointment. "You're keeping your options open." "I'm thinking about your safety," he said firmly. "As well as mine. Tomorrow, midnight, four hundred yards off the coast, halfway down the southern stretch of the military zone, just past that bioluminescent bay where we met." Where we met again, he thought, wincing to himself. But she hadn't picked up on it. Her gray eyes were bright. "Midnight. I'll be there." "The boat has to be big enough to get us to Puerto Rico." "Then what?"