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Trace of Memory

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> I sat at the kitchen table in Margareta's Lima apartment and gnawed the last few shreds off the stripped T-bone, while my girl poured me another cup of coffee. "Now tell me about it," she said. "Why did they burn your house? And how did you succeed in getting here?" "They got so interested in the fight, they lost their heads," I said. "That's the only explanation I can think of. I thought I'd be as safe as a two-dollar watch at a pickpockets' convention: I figured they'd go to some pains to avoid damaging me. I guessed wrong." "But your own people...." "Maybe they were right: they couldn't afford to let the Ruskis get me. Funny—if they'd just thought to write me a letter and ask for my co-operation...." "But how did you get covered with mud? And the blood stains on your back?" "I had a nice long swim: five hours' worth. Then another hour getting through a mangrove swamp. Lucky I had a moon. Then a three-hour hike ... and here I am." "I hope you're feeling better now that you've had something to eat. You looked terrible." "Another block and I wouldn't have made it. I felt sucked dry. The scratch on my back is nothing, but maybe the shock ... I don't know." "Lie down now and sleep," said Margareta. "What do you want me to do?" "Get me some clothes," I said. "A grey suit, white shirt, black tie and shoes. And go to my bank and draw some money, save five thousand. Oh yeah, see if there's anything in the papers. If you see anybody hanging around the lobby when you come back, don't come up; give me a call and I'll meet you." She stood up. "This is really awful," she said. "Can't your embassy——" "Didn't I mention it? A Mr. Pruffy, of the Embassy, came along to hold Smale's hand ... not to mention a Colonel Sanchez. I wouldn't be surprised if the local cops weren't in the act by now ... unless they all think I'm dead. That impression won't last long after you show up with a nice fresh check on my account and spend part of it on a man's suit. I'll get some sleep and light out as soon as you get back." "Where will you go?" "I'll get to the airport and play it by ear. I don't think they've alerted everybody. It was a hush-hush deal, until it went sour; now they're still picking up the pieces." "The bank won't be open for hours yet," said Margareta. "Go to sleep and don't worry. I'll take care of everything." I made it to the bedroom and slid out on the big wide bed, and consciousness slipped away like a silk curtain falling. <hr class="tb" /> I knew I wasn't alone as soon as I opened my eyes. I hadn't heard anything, but I could feel someone in the room. I sat up slowly, looked around. He was sitting in the embroidered chair by the window: an ordinary-looking fellow in a tan tropical suit, with an unlighted cigarette in his mouth and no particular expression on his face. "Go ahead, light up," I said. "Don't mind me." "Thanks," he said, in a thin voice. He took a lighter from an inner pocket, flipped it, held it to the cigarette. I stood up. There was a blur of motion from my visitor, and the lighter was gone and a short-nosed revolver was in its place. "You've got the wrong scoop, mister," I said. "I don't bite." "I'd rather you wouldn't move suddenly, Mr. Legion," he said. He coughed, his eyes on mine. "My nerves aren't what they used to be." The gun was still on me. "Which side are you working for?" I said. "And can I put my shoes on, or are you afraid I'll pull a gat out of my sock?" He rested the pistol on his knee. "Get completely dressed, Mr. Legion." "Sorry," I said. "No can do. No clothes." He frowned slightly. "My jacket will be a little small for you," he said. "But I think you can manage." I was sitting on the bed again. "I'm going to get out a cigarette," I said. "Try not to shoot me." I reached for a package on the table, lit up. His eyes stayed on mine. "How come you didn't figure I was dead?" I asked, blowing smoke at him. "We checked the house," he said. "No body." "Why, you incompetent asses. You were supposed to think I drowned." "That possibility was considered. But we made the routine checks anyway." "Nice of you to let me sleep it out. How long have you been here?" "Only a few minutes," he said. He glanced at his watch. "We'll have to be going in another fifteen." "What do you want with me?" I said. "You blew up everything you were interested in." "The Department wants to ask you a few questions." "Look, I'm just a dumb guy," I whined. "I don't know nothing about all that stuff. I was just the guy that peddled it, see?" He took a drag on his cigarette, squinted at me through the smoke. "You ran up an A average in college," he said, "including English." "You boys really do your homework." I looked at the pistol. "I wonder if you'd really shoot me," I mused. "I'll try to make the position clear," he said. "Just to avoid any unfortunate misunderstanding. My instructions are to bring you in, alive—if possible. If it appears that you may evade arrest ... or fall into the wrong hands, I'll be forced to use the gun." I pulled my shoes on, thinking it over. My best chance to make a break was now, while there was only one watchdog. But I had a feeling he was telling the truth about shooting me. I had already seen the boys in action at the house. He got up. "Let's step into the living room, Mr. Legion." I moved past him through the door. In the living room the clock on the mantel said eleven. I'd been asleep for five or six hours. Margareta ought to be getting back any minute.... "Put this on," he said. I took the light jacket, wedged myself into it, looked at my reflection in the big rectangular mirror that occupied most of a wall above the low divan. "It's not the real me," I said. "I usually—" The telephone rang. I looked at my watchdog. He shook his head. We stood and listened to it ring. After a while it stopped. "We'd better be going now," he said. "Walk ahead of me, please. We'll take the elevator to the basement and leave by the service entrance—" He stopped talking, eyes on the door. There was the rattle of a key. The gun came up. "Hold it," I snapped. "It's the girl who owns the apartment." I moved to face him, my back to the door. "That was foolish of you, Legion," he said. "Don't move again." I watched the door in the big mirror on the opposite wall. The knob turned, the door swung in ... and a thin brown man in white shirt and white pants slipped into the room. As he pushed the door back he transferred a small automatic to his left hand. My keeper threw a lever on the revolver that was aimed at my belt buckle. "Stand absolutely still, Legion," he said. "If you have a chance, that's it." He moved aside slightly, looked past me to the newcomer. I watched in the mirror as the man in white behind me swiveled to keep both of us covered. "This is a fail-safe weapon," said my first owner to the new man. "I think you know about them. We leaked the information to you. I'm holding the trigger back; if my hand relaxes, it fires, so I'd be a little careful about shooting, if I were you." The thin man swallowed, a black leather bow tie bobbing against his Adam's apple. He didn't say anything. He was having to make some tough decisions. His instructions would be the same as my other friend's: to bring me in alive, if possible. "Who does this bird represent?" I asked my man. I noticed my voice was pitched half an octave higher than usual. "He's a Soviet agent." I looked in the mirror at the man again. "Nuts," I said. "He looks like a waiter in a chili joint. He probably came up to take our order." "You talk too much when you're nervous," said my keeper between his teeth. He held the gun on me steadily. I watched his trigger finger to see if it looked like relaxing. "I'd say it's a stalemate," I said. "Let's take it once more from the top. Both of you go out and—" "Shut up, Legion." My man licked his lips, glanced at my face. "I'm sorry. It looks as though—" "You don't want to shoot me," I blurted out loudly. In the mirror I had seen the door, which was standing ajar, ease open an inch, two inches. "You'll spoil this nice coat...." I kept on talking: "And anyway it would be a big mistake, because everybody knows Russian agents are stubby men with wide cheekbones and tight hats—" Silently Margareta slipped into the room, took two quick steps, and slammed a heavy handbag down on the slicked-back pompadour that went with the Adam's apple. The man in white stumbled and fired a round into the rug. The automatic dropped from his hand, and my pal in tan stepped to him and hit him hard on the back of the head with his pistol. He whirled toward me, hissed "Play it smart" just loud enough for me to hear, then turned to Margareta. He slipped the gun into his pocket, but I knew he could get it out again in a hurry. "Very nicely done, Miss," he said. "I'll have this person removed from your apartment. Mr. Legion and I were just going." Margareta looked at me. I thought over two or three remarks but none of them seemed to fit. I didn't intend to see her get hurt—or involved. Apparently my FBI type was willing to leave her out of it, if I went quietly. On the other hand, this was my last chance to get out of the net before it closed for good. My keeper was watching, waiting for me to try something, tip Margareta off.... "It's okay, honey," I said. "This is Mr. Smith ... of our Embassy. We're old friends." I stepped past her, headed for the door. My hand was on the knob when I heard a solid thunk behind me. I whirled in time to clip the FBI on the jaw as he fell forward. Margareta looked at me, wide-eyed. "That handbag packs a wallop," I said. "Nice work, Maggie." I knelt, pulled off the fellow's belt, and cinched his hands behind his back with it. Margareta got the idea, did the same for the other man, who was beginning to groan now. "Who are these men?" she said. "What——" "I'll tell you all about it later. Right now, I have to get to some people I know, get this story on the wires, out in the open. State'll be a little shy about gunning me down or locking me up without trial, if I give the show enough publicity." I reached in my pocket, handed her the black-and-gold-marked cylinder. "Just to be on the safe side," I said, "mail this to me: John Jones—at Itzenca, general delivery." "All right," said Margareta. "And I have your things." She stepped into the hall, came back with a shopping bag and a suit carton. She took a wad of bills from her handbag and handed it to me. I went to her and put my arms around her. "Listen, honey: as soon as I leave, go to the bank and draw fifty grand. Get out of the country. They haven't got anything on you except that you beaned a couple of intruders in your apartment, but it'll be better if you disappear. Leave an address care of Poste Restante, Basel, Switzerland. I'll get in touch when I can." She put up an argument but I made my point. Twenty minutes later I was pushing through the big glass doors onto the sidewalk, clean-shaven, dressed to the teeth, with five grand on one hip and a .32 on the other. I'd had a good meal and a fair sleep, and against me the secret services of two or three countries didn't have a chance. I got as far as the corner before they nailed me. <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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