The Fraternity of the Stone (34 page)

Drew's speech was distorted by his puffy lips. "After I blew up the car, I was seen!"

"By the child who survived?"

"He fell from the car before it went over the cliff. No one could have guessed that would happen. But that's not who saw me!" Drew swallowed blood.

He took advantage of his injury, prolonging a coughing spell, needing time to think. It was obvious now that if he told these men what had really happened in those mountains, they'd think he'd lost his mind. They'd decide that he was even more undependable than they'd first suspected.

"It was someone else," Drew said, gagging. "When I ran up the opposite slope, a car came around the bend in the road." He coughed again."It was headed down from the monastery. A man got out. I turned. He saw me. The car had a two-way radio antenna." Drew's breath whistled stridently through his mangled lips. "I knew the police would be alerted. I didn't dare go to the rented car I'd parked in a village down the road, so I went the other way - up - through the mountains. A blizzard set in. I got lost. I nearly died. It's taken me this long to get back to Paris."

The first man shook his head. "You must think we're pretty stupid. You're supposed to be an expert when it comes to survival in the mountains. That's why you were chosen to do the job. The child you saw. Is that why you sold us out? Because you lost your nerve?"

"I didn't lose my nerve! I told you the truth!"

"Oh, sure. But let's see if your story's the same when the amytal takes effect. For your information, the hit was necessary. The stakes were enormous."

Drew's mouth filled with blood; he spat it into a handkerchief. "Nobody explained a thing."

"Iran," the second man said.

("Hold on," Father Stanislaw said. "You don't mean they told you the purpose of the mission?"

"Everything."

"Dear God."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. I was hearing things I shouldn't know."

"They never meant for you to leave that house alive."

"It certainly looked that way. Till then, I'd thought I had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. If I could bluff my way through. But when they started volunteering information... ")

"Iran," the second man said. "The people are rioting. The Shah's about to be deposed. So the question is, who gets to take his place? The man you killed in the mountains" - and his wife, and almost his son, Drew thought - "pretended he was in France on vacation. Actually, he'd come to represent American oil interests, to negotiate for business-as-usual with the future ruler of Iran, You know who I'm talking about."

Drew shook his head, puzzled. "How the hell would I?"

"Quit it. Of course you know who he is. Since you sold out to him. An exiled Muslim fanatic. The Ayatollah Khomeini. He's living right here in Paris. And he's worse than the Shah. At least the Shah's pro-American. The Ayatollah isn't. So what are we to do? Let Iran - and all that oil - go someplace else?"

The first man interrupted. "Your job was to kill that executive, and then the Ayatollah. To take them out with explosives. And to make sure you came back with photographs. Because we wanted it to look as if the same nasty folks had done both hits. The photographs would be sent to the major newspapers, along with a bragging note from the Iran People's Movement."

"I've never heard of it," Drew said.

"Of course not. It doesn't exist. We made it up. What difference does that make? The note would have said that the Ayatollah - and the American oil executive -had been executed because they'd made a bargain to replace the Shah with the same old repressive government. And when Iran's indignation reached its peak, the next popular choice to rule the country, a man just behind the Ayatollah, would have taken over. But he'd have done what the Ayatollah should have. He'd have cooperated with the Western oil companies."

(Father Stanislaw nodded. "And because an American and his family had been killed, no one would have suspected that American interests were to blame. It might have worked."

"Except.

"Indeed, except for you."

"And because of me, the Iranian hostage crisis occurred, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, Reagan defeated Carter... ")

"It could have worked!" the first man shouted at Drew, his face distorted with anger. "But, boyo, just one problem. It all depended on a timetable. Forty-eight hours from one hit to the next, but you didn't stay on schedule!. On those two days, we knew for sure you could get at both the oil executive and the Ayatollah.

We'd learned their itinerary. We'd found the spots where they'd be most exposed!"

Drew tried to shift the blame. "You should have allowed for contingencies. If the timing was so important, why wasn't another operative given the second assignment?"

"Because, you stupid bastard, the same man had to do both hits! Because of the camera! Both hits had to be recorded on the same roll of film. When we sent the photographs and the negatives to the press, we wanted the pictures to be in the same numbered sequence - to prove to Iran that whoever had killed the oil executive had also killed the Ayatollah. The Iranians had to be convinced that one of their own groups was responsible."

"Why blame me? You've got the camera. Reschedule the second assignment."

The first man sighed and looked at his companions. "You hear what he's saying? How simple he thinks it is to make things right again. Boyo, we can't reschedule! It's too fucking late! The Ayatollah's tightened security around him. We can't get near him anymore. Not close enough to use that camera. That first hit's worthless now! You did it for nothing!"

Drew heard the young boy's screams of grief.

"But the second hit - or rather, the one you didn't do," the aristocratic man said, "your failure earned you something, didn't it. How much did the Ayatollah pay for you to get conveniently lost in the mountains? You went to him, right?"

"That isn't true."

"I said quit it!" The first man stepped behind the sofa, yanking Drew's head back, pressing the knife against his throat again.

The third man continued. "Be reasonable. We want an excuse that makes sense. Later, after I give you the amytal, if your story's the same, we'll know you're not lying. And if we can sympathize with your reasons, we'll call it an honest mistake. We'll set you free. Of course, you wouldn't ever be hired again. But I don't think you'll object."

Drew's throat was stretched so taut that he couldn't speak. The man behind him seemed to understand; he removed the knife.

Drew coughed and swallowed. He had no more to invent. "All right." He massaged his throat. "I lied."

"Now there, that's better. At last, we're making progress," the third man said.

"But I didn't sell out. It's not what you think. Something - I don't know how else to say it - happened to me in the mountains."

"What?" The first man came from behind the sofa.

Drew told them. He'd anticipated their reaction correctly; they looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

"Boyo, not hire you again is right. Something happened to you for sure. You lost your nerve."

"There's one way to know," the third man said and gestured with the full hypodermic. "As I asked you earlier, please take off your coat. Roll up your sleeve."

Drew stared at the hypodermic, his spine feeling cold. They'd brought too much. His interrogators had enough amytal to kill him, as soon as they'd verified his story. He was being invited to participate in his own execution.

"Under amytal, I'll say the same thing," he insisted. "Because it's the truth." Standing, he took off his coat.

He threw it to his left, toward the man with the knife, obscuring his face. He had to reach the pistol. Lunging, he twisted the second man's wrist, tilting the silencer on the barrel toward the gunman's face. He pulled the trigger. The gun made a noise like the muffled impact of a fist against a pillow. The bullet went through the man's right eye, spewing blood and brain.

The man with the knife yanked the coat from his face. Drew shoved the sagging corpse at him. As they toppled, he pivoted toward the third man, jerked the hypodermic out of his delicate hand, and rammed the needle into the side of his neck. Blood flew, crimson spurting from a high-pressure hose, as he shoved the plunger all the way in. The genteel man collapsed.

Drew swung toward the upright lamp, clutched it like a staff, and parried the knife that the first man, freed from the coat and the body, lunged at him. The cord on the lamp broke, extinguishing the bulb. Flickering light from the fireplace silhouetted their movements. Drew whipped the base of the lamp toward his enemy's shoulder, reversed his attack, and thrust the bulb-end of the lamp against the knife hand. He jumped back, using the skills he'd been taught in Colorado, struck his assailant in the crotch with the base of the lamp, and slammed the knife from his hand with the other end.

He grabbed the knife off the floor, ramming it up beneath his enemy's chin, through the tongue, through the roof of the mouth, into the brain.

Drew continued to hold the knife, feeling warm blood cascade down its blade and over his fingers on the handle. He kept the man standing up for a moment, feeling him tremble, scowling at his dying eyes.

Then he released his grip. The man fell backward, his head cracking sharply on the bricks in front of the fireplace.

Drew grabbed his boots and dragged him back from the flames, unable to bear the stench of burning hair. He shuddered, staring at the blood, the bodies around him. The odor of urine, of excrement, filled the room.

Though hardly innocent of the smell, he wanted to vomit. Not from fear but from revulsion. Death. Too much. For too many years.

Chapter 3.

"And then?" Arlene asked. She had taken his hand as he talked, giving him at least some comfort.

"I'd left the pistol in the house. No time to get it, though I'd made time to grab the camera. I'm sure a psychiatrist would find the choice interesting. But I did have a handgun in my emergency cache in Paris, along with money and a passport under another name. I rented a car and drove to Spain. I got rid of the handgun, of course, in case I was searched when I crossed the border."

"Why Spain?" Father Stanislaw asked.

"Why not? I figured they'd be looking for me everywhere. At least" - Drew shrugged - "Spain was warmer. I left the car with the rental company and hired a private plane to fly me to Portugal. There, in Lisbon, I had another alias on a passport. And after that? Ireland. America. Three times, they almost got me. Once, at a service station, I had to set a car on fire. But at least I didn't have to kill anymore. And finally I was home. In America. I knew exactly where I was going. I didn't care about shahs and ayatollahs and oil and terrorists. None of it was important. I'd killed the equivalent of my parents. I'd caused a boy to suffer for the rest of his life as I had. The world was a madhouse. By comparison, those Carthusian monks lived in paradise. They had their priorities straight. They set their sights toward the long view. Toward eternity. Since I was ten, I've been a wanderer. But after I fled from that house on the Seine, faced with the prospect of wandering still more, I finally had a direction. I saw a goal. I wanted peace.

"A priest named Father Hafer was my sponsor. He arranged for me to go into the monastery. But before I entered the Carthusians, I had to get rid of all my possessions. Except these photographs, of course. But when I thought I'd finished, when I wondered if I'd canceled myself, I realized that there was one last thing I had to do. A sentimental weakness. A final breaking of the ties."

Chapter 4.

In darkness, Drew crouched behind bushes and jumped up with all his strength, his fingers clutching the concrete rim of the wall he'd been hiding against. It was March. His bare hands swelled from the aching cold as he scraped the soles of his shoes against the wall, struggling to climb.

He reached the top, sprawled flat upon it, breathing hard, then squirmed down the other side, supporting himself by his numbed fingertips.

He landed on frozen earth, his knees buckling, and surged up defensively, his only weapons his hands. He could have brought a pistol, of course, but he'd vowed that he wouldn't kill again. Subdue an enemy with his hands, that he could justify. But kill again? His soul recoiled from the possibility. If he in turn were killed tonight, it would be God's will. But no one challenged him.

He scanned the dark. After the glare of streetlights on the far side of the wall, his eyes would normally have needed a second or two to adjust to the deeper gloom. But he'd shut his eyes as he dropped from the wall. And now that he'd opened them, his irises were already wide.

He saw murky trees and bushes, a few waist-high upright pipes with taps, watering cans beside them. And tombstones. Rows and rows of them, their shadows stretching off until the night concealed them.

Pleasant View Cemetery, Boston.

He crept through shadows, passing trees and bushes, crouching by gravestones, sprinting stooped across gravel lanes, exhaling with relief as he reached silent grass again. Pressing his back for cover against the wall of a cold mausoleum, he studied the gloom. The darkness was eerily silent. The only disturbance was the lonely far-off drone of a car.

And at last, as he crept farther, he saw them, never confused for a moment as to where they would be.

The headstones, the graves, of his parents.