Chapter 28

  THREE HOURS of poring over the photostats and Sir William’s notes had produced four theories, and Fleming had fallen asleep with them contending in his thoughts after long work with the information he had gathered and had spent the evening analyzing. Tempting as it was to choose his favorite theory and then look for material to support it, he realized this would do a disservice to his mission and to the danger that was still all around him. He continued to review and evaluate the theories, at last taking them to bed with him, his thoughts circling like a flame-enchanted moth around the role Gadi Soleilsur played in this destructive drama; the more he thought, the less he liked the images his imagination conjured for him of a man of vast wealth without the checks of law or custom upon him, answerable only to his own ambitions. Sleep came over him in a muffling cloud, putting all thoughts of Soleilsur to rest along with his tired bones. This time, if he had dreams, they faded before he woke just after sunrise; he jolted out of sleep as if to answer a summons, wakened by a sudden loud noise in the corridor. He rose, showered and shaved, then dressed in the same garments he had worn the day before, thinking as he did that he ought to modify his appearance somehow, for if anyone were pursuing him, he would recognize Fleming by his tweed jacket more easily than by his face. He knew whatever he chose, it would have to conceal his holster and revolver on his belt at the small of his back. He needed something less conspicuous to wear, something his followers wouldn’t expect.

  When he checked out of the hotel an hour later, he took a cab into the city, not to the airport as had been recommended, but to downtown Houston. Luggage in hand, he chose a sporting goods store, and looked for a roll-top pull-over, selecting one in navy-blue, and then a hunting jacket of a similar shade. Last, he chose a dark fedora, and went in search of a men’s room, where he changed clothes in a stall, and put his shirt and jacket into his luggage. Satisfied with his appearance glimpsed in the mirror, he went out into the street and hailed a cab, and asked for the recommendation of a good hotel, and went there. He took his bags into the lobby and found a chair off to one side, and spent the morning watching people come and go, taking relief from his anonymity. He decided not to return to the airport until late that night, in case the airport were under surveillance.

  Shortly thereafter, the man who had occupied the telephone booth next to Fleming the previous evening used it again. “Sorry, boss,” he said when the man with the French accent answered the ring, “I lost him.”

  “How could you?” The man in Baton Rouge asked the question silkily, which made it worse.

  “He didn’t go to the airport. He went downtown.” The man could feel panic rising beneath his breastbone.

  “Is he meeting someone?”

  “I have no idea,” the man in the telephone booth said. “He didn’t call anyone other than that FBI fella in New Mexico.” He coughed. “Some of the information was about you.”

  “So you told me,” Soleilsur said in a dangerously bored voice.

  “What should I do?”

  Soleilsur considered his answer. “Go to the airport and wait for him. He’ll have to end up there eventually. I rely on you to keep watch over him once he arrives. I only hope no mischief has been done: Mister Fleming has proven to be most elusive quarry.”

  “Yes,” said the man in the telephone booth with ill-disguised relief. “He has.”

  “According to my sources, he was a spy during the War. He must have kept his hand in.” There was a brief silence. “It’s a pity that he got away from you.”

  The man in the telephone booth cringed. “I’m sorry,” he said again with feeling.

  “No doubt.” Soleilsur paused. “Are you booked on the flight with him?”

  “Just like you told me,” the man said eagerly, wanting to show his competence in some way.

  “Very good,” Soleilsur approved coolly. “See you don’t manage to lose him on the airplane.”

  If the sarcasm stung, the man didn’t protest. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Is there anything you want to happen to him?”

  “Yes. But not yet.” Soleilsur cleared his throat for punctuation. “See he gets back safely, and keep watch on him. Telephone me once you know where he has gone, and I will tell you what you are to do. You will follow my orders expressly.”

  “I’ll do it,” said the man in Houston and hung up before Soleilsur could say anything more to him.

  At noon, Fleming changed hotels, finding another lobby where he could sit and study the people. Apparently there was a convention in town, for men with name-tags and red vests gathered in noisy groups near the bar. For a short while Fleming wondered if he ought to try to join them, but he knew he could not fit in, and that would make him more obvious than he was. He kept to his chair.

  By four-thirty in the afternoon he was heartily bored, and he was becoming restless. He didn’t think it was time to go to the airport yet, nor did he have any other destination in mind. Finally he took his bags and went out into the street to walk the fidgets out of his legs. Making no particular note of where he was going, in forty minutes, he was thoroughly lost, as the streets seemed to sink under looming buildings; the sky was beginning to darken as the sun dropped low in the west, setting the high clouds ablaze with orange, magenta, and purple.

  “¡Ehi! ¡Hombre! ¿Tienes cualqui’ dinero?” The youth at his elbow was no more than sixteen. He went on in awkward English. “Money. You got any money? Hey! I’m talking to you.”

  Fleming glanced at the lad, sizing him up. “Only English money,” he said. “It won’t do you much good, I’m afraid.” He had put his pounds in his wallet and his dollars in his inner pocket in anticipation of his arrival in Jamaica, and to resist the temptation to spend any more than necessary of the ninety-two dollars left to him.

  “Give it to me,” said the young man, reaching into his capacious trouser pockets and pulling out a knife.

  Fleming thought of his revolver lying along his back in its holster, and made himself remain calm. “I think not,” he said, taking stock of his situation in a swift survey of his locale. He had gone down a side-street and was now surrounded by small, shabby houses, most of them with tiny, fenced, dry gardens in the front. A few people were on the street, but none of them paid any attention to what was going on, and Fleming doubted anything less than an explosion would command their attention.

  “I want your money,” the young man insisted.

  “You may want it all you like. You will not get it,” said Fleming, finding a sudden rush of welcome excitement running through him. He had wanted a fight for the last three days, and finally he was to have one! His only concern was for his luggage, and that made him hesitate.

  The youth mistook this for fear, and grinned, assuming he had seized the advantage. “You scared? Huh? ¿Hace temer, gringo?” He mocked Fleming, thinking he had gained the advantage with the knife. He made a dramatic slash at the air, and yelled in outrage and pain as the side of Fleming’s hand chopped at his upper arm, rendering his hand and fingers numb. The knife clattered onto the street, the noise startlingly loud.

  “No, not a jot,” said Fleming, an eager light in his eyes. “I’m not afraid. But you should be.” With that, he swung around, his leg rising, and slammed his foot into the young man’s back.

  With a shout, the young man tried to lunge, grabbing the knife awkwardly in his left hand and holding it low, ready to slice at Fleming’s guts.

  Fleming moved quickly, side-stepped the youth and kicked out, catching his attacker in the side of the knee.

  The boy howled and fell forward as Fleming bent down and picked up the lad’s fallen knife.

  “Don’t mess with the English, my boy. The Spanish learned that lesson with the Armada. See you keep it in mind.” He picked up the knife and put it in his trouser pocket. He felt invigorated and energetic in a way he hadn’t in days. He could almost find it in himself to be sorry for the youngster who had tried to rob him. All but whistling, his pulse elevated with excitement and triumph, he took his bags and went back the way he came, ready for supper and anything his unknown opponents might throw at him. By the time he reached a brightly lit business street, he was feeling hungry and confident, and he made for a restaurant that boasted the “Best Italian Food in Texas.”

  By the time he had finished his tolerable meal, he decided he was ready to go to the airport. He called a cab from the Bella Napoli, and asked to be taken to the airport. When he arrived, he decided not to go into the customs inspection line and the International Wing immediately, where he might be expected to go, but to the central waiting area. He noticed the last international flight out left at ten forty-five, bound for Buenos Aires; he would go through with those passengers, he decided.

  He found a sofa in the smoking lounge next to the restaurant café and sat down to enjoy a cigarette or two. Reviewing all he had learned, he hoped that Hotchkiss would be able to provide him some additional information in the morning, for he was certain that he needed more in order to help him decide which of his theories would be the one to pursue. For the next two hours he went through six cigarettes, then decided he needed a cup of coffee—even lackluster American coffee—to clear his throat.

  When he had had two cups of coffee, he went into the news-stand next to the café and bought two newspapers and a notebook. He knew it was dangerous to write down his thoughts, in case his musings should fall into the wrong hands, but he needed to grapple with the situation as he understood it more concretely, which meant writing it all down. If only he had some kind of device that would obliterate writing for all but the writer, he thought, how useful it would be. He watched as the crowds began to thin, until, after nine, the air terminal was growing empty. Two of the airlines shut down their counters for the night, and three uniformed janitors began to clean and buff the floor.

  At nine o’clock he took his luggage and went through the terminal into the International Wing, and handed his passport and ticket to the Immigration officer, who read both and remarked, “You’re not leaving until tomorrow, according to this.” He held up the ticket.

  “At a heathenish hour,” Fleming agreed. “I thought it wiser to stay here than hope to find a cab at five A.M.”

  “You got a point,” said the officer. “Just don’t pass through this gate again, or you’ll have to get stamped again, and it’ll be a real hassle.”

  “I’ll stay on this side of the gate,” Fleming promised, and went on to the lounge where he discovered three men already sitting, luggage at their feet, prepared to nap the night away.

  Fleming chose a modern sofa by the window where he could set up his bags as a pillow and a hassock, made himself as comfortable as possible, and began to scribble notes to himself, summing up all the elements of the last few days. He wasn’t sure he should take Hotchkiss up on his offer for an early morning call, but decided to hold that option open. He continued to make notes, generally columns of initials of the men who appeared to be involved in this perplexing situation. Cathcart seemed to be a crucial part of the puzzle. What was Soleilsur’s role in all this? And who was Soleilsur? That question niggled at him as he continued to write initials and draw arrows. He added two pairs of question marks for whomever had been following him. He marked Krandall with a cross as a reminder he was dead, and Sir William with a minus, indicating his missing status. He put a question mark by MP, and added Canada? after.

  It was almost midnight when Fleming rose to stretch his legs, and have the luxury of another cigarette. He noticed it was the next-to-the-last in the Players pack, and he decided that he would save the last one for the morning. He would buy another pack when he got back to Jamaica.

  “Anything I can get for you?” asked one of the Immigration clerks patrolling the waiting area.

  “A bunk and a pillow,” Fleming quipped, then added more seriously, “nothing, thanks. I need to walk about.”

  “Very good,” said the clerk. “Just remember not to leave the area.”

  Fleming took a turn around the gated portion of the International Wing, using this opportunity to look at the other travelers spending the night in the waiting room: one was a man in his fifties, with greying hair and an expensive suit; another was clearly a student—young, faintly scruffy, with an old jacket over a roll-top pull-over and dark slacks; a third was a nondescript man in a tropical-weight khaki suit; a fourth was a Latin American businessman with patent-leather black hair and a pencil mustache in a pin-striped suit and a wide silk tie; the fifth was a man in a leather jacket so hunched in his chair that his face was concealed; and the sixth was in the Colored section of the waiting lounge, a middle-aged Jamaican in an elegant suit, and with a carnation in his buttonhole. No one moved as Fleming walked by. A second circuit of the room didn’t enlarge much on his primary impressions. He went back to where he had been sitting and made himself as comfortable as possible and tried to get a couple hours’ sleep.

  Chapter 29

  MORE THAN an hour before sunrise Fleming was up and stretching, trying to get himself prepared for the flight back to Jamaica. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and strove to muster his energy.

  There were more than twenty people in the lounge now, most of them looking half-awake. The Immigration desk had three clerks at work, and two guards flanked the gate into the lounge. One man, a large fellow with massive shoulders and a strong Texas drawl, was trying to talk the guards into letting him go back into the airport for a newspaper.

  A thin black man in a janitor’s uniform rolled in a table with a large coffee urn on it which he proceeded to set up on the far side of the lounge. There was a hand-lettered sign hung on the urn: COFFEE 25 CENTS, with a glass put out for the coins. “It’ll be ready in ten minutes,” the janitor announced.

  Fleming took advantage of the intervening time to take his bags and go to the men’s room to freshen up. He dug his brushes and toiletry case out of his bag and brought his hair into a semblance of order, managed to shave and brush his teeth and generally make himself presentable. Two other men came in—a new arrival, and the Latin American fellow—to make similar efforts; none of them spoke. By the time Fleming left the men’s room, the coffee urn was exuding a satisfactory odor, and Fleming fished in his pocket for a quarter to pay for a cup of what he knew would be terribly weak coffee. Still, he told himself, it was hot and with sugar and milk would be tolerable enough.

  Four other men were standing near the table with the coffee urn. One of them, a pudgy man with a thick neck and large ears, said to no one in particular, “Twenty-five cents for coffee! What’s the world coming to?”

  “It was the War,” said the man in the leather coat. He proved to be an innocuous sort, about thirty-four or -five, with the manner that suggested he had seen his share of action—perhaps more than his share. “The rationing drove prices up.”

  “When you could get it at all,” said the one who had spoken first. He had got himself a full cup and was now attempting to drink the scalding liquid.

  “True,” said another, and did his best not to yawn.

  A speaker squawked to life and said that the flight to Jamaica would begin boarding in ten minutes. “Please have all necessary travel documents in hand and be ready to present them at the boarding gate.”

  “Guess that means us,” said the portly man with the big ears.

  Fleming looked around for a telephone booth, wanting to make his call to Hotchkiss. He found one, dialed the long-distance operator, paid in his coins, and was connected with the Pecos Vista.

  Hotchkiss himself was on the switchboard, and greeted Fleming tersely. “I had word from the RCMP around midnight. They found Preussin. He’d been butchered—their word—and his cabin destroyed.”

  “Butchered,” Fleming repeated, disliking the implications. “He didn’t get on the wrong side of a bear or anything like that?”

  “Gutted and skinned. Tongue cut out and hands hacked off. Bears don’t do that. Left in a neat pile, according to the RCMP. Very deliberate. Sending a message, of course. And intended to frighten anyone left alive that might be connected to whatever is going on into keeping their mouths shut.”

  “Are you certain of that?” Fleming asked, already convinced.

  “As certain as I can be without a signed confession. I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, Fleming, but I’d be real careful, if I were you. Whoever’s behind this doesn’t like being studied, that’s for damn sure.” Hotchkiss sounded upset.

  “Seems like it,” said Fleming. “I’ll keep this in mind.”

  “You better,” said Hotchkiss. “The RCMP told me that Preussin had been out of touch with everything, then he came into town—some remote place near Hudson’s Bay—to mail a package. They figure someone was watching for him, and followed him back to his place.”

  “How did the Mounties find him?” Fleming asked.

  “It is now three minutes,” the operator cut in. “Please deposit two dollars to continue the conversation.”

  Fleming fed eight quarters into the telephone.

  When the operator had gone, Hotchkiss resumed his report. “They received a telegram saying that there was a dead man at a private lodge. The telegram gave specific directions to the lodge. They decided to check it out, and they found Preussin.”

  “So it wasn’t necessarily Preussin’s cabin, or lodge, but it might have been,” said Fleming, thinking aloud. “It could be a place where he was held. Are they sure he was killed there?”

  “They say so—blood everywhere,” Hotchkiss allowed. “Anyway, these bastards play for keeps. You keep your eyes peeled.”

  “I will,” said Fleming. “Anything else?” This was quite enough, he told himself.

  “I have a hunch that you’ve picked up a tail again,” said Hotchkiss. “Nothing I can prove, but the back of my neck says so, if you know what I mean.”

  “None better,” said Fleming, realizing he had a similar sensation.