In the House of Secret Enemies Read online

  “Negative,” I said quickly. “Sooner or later that other torpedo is going to be around here. Without you I’m naked as a bird. Let’s wait until we find out the whole story.”

  Garth didn’t like it, but I was right and he knew it. He leaned to one side, half shielding me.

  “Just don’t pass out on me.”

  “Not likely.” It was, but there didn’t seem any percentage in stressing the point. I took deep breaths, rationing my strength.

  I watched Paula perform her act, but the hall had an annoying tendency to slide in and out of focus.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Statler Brothers Circus proudly presents … that master of the high wire … COUNT ANAGORI!”

  The count had the impact and presence of a laser beam as he sprinted from the wings, a long, black silk cape billowing out behind him. He was rewarded with the greatest homage an audience can bestow upon a performer, a breathless gasp of astonishment and anticipation. Anagori paused once in the circle of light, released the cape and was halfway up the rope ladder before the cloth finally settled on the floor. I leaned forward, squinting into the bank of bright lights that followed him, lighting his way to the platform sixty feet above the floor of the armory. The hall suddenly righted itself with a sharp jolt as the adrenaline squirted into my bloodstream, staving off the effects of the fever.

  I had hoped for the exhilarating shock of instant recognition. It didn’t come. As far as I could tell, the man standing on the platform was a total stranger.

  His élan, the electricity of his stage personality, made him seem larger than life. I judged his height at around six feet, his weight somewhere around one hundred eighty pounds. Age was more difficult, but I guessed he was in his early thirties, like myself. Every muscle rippled beneath his crimson tights.

  “Who is he?” Garth’s voice was strangled.

  I could do nothing but shake my head, uncertainty falling around me, chilling me like a cloak of ice.

  “Damn it, Mongo! Who is he?”

  “I don’t know … I’m not sure. Not yet.”

  Extremely confident, eschewing the traditional equipment checks, the count hefted his long balance pole and stepped out onto the thin, metal umbilical cord that was all that remained between life and a rather messy death on the concrete below; the count used no safety net. My hands trembled as I lifted my field glasses to my eyes and adjusted the focus; the figure of the count blurred for a moment, then sprang into focus. I blinked away a few drops of sweat and stared hard.

  Anagori was good, incredibly good. He danced on the wire, pivoting and swinging back and forth, his face a mask of indifference. He might have been practicing in the middle of a gymnasium.

  Yes. His face—dark, intense and brooding for all its indifference—was somehow familiar, but who was he, and where had I seen him?”

  One thing was certain: Count Anagori had not developed his skills overnight. He had started at a very early age. A man like that isn’t discovered in a Florida tryout, not unless he goes that route intentionally. Knowing Statler, the idea of where Anagori came from had been quickly submerged in the sea of dollar signs implicit in the artist’s skills.

  I left the man’s face and concentrated on his style; his smooth, flowing motion and muscular control, his repertoire of moves. Somewhere … somewhere I had seen someone else move like that, many years before.

  “You still don’t know who he is?” Garth’s hand was resting on the butt of his gun inside the waistband of his trousers.

  “No,” I said. Then, as an afterthought: “Nyet.”

  Nyet? Nyet!

  Once again I was cold, cold as the brutal wind blowing across the Russian steppes. Suddenly I knew who Count Anagori was and why he was here.

  “Vladimir Denosovitch Raskolnikov.”

  “Who?”

  Garth had leaned close, but other things were happening now, emotions bringing on reactions I couldn’t control. The name had brought with it images: the mutilated head of Bruno Jessum staring with dead eyes at the equally dead body of Bethel; the pale eyes of the killer who had left his knife in my body.

  Two innocent people killed because of an accident, a coincidence. Two innocent people dead because Vladimir Denosovitch had simply picked the wrong circus in which to work.

  Rage gripped me by the neck and shoulders, pulling me up out of my seat. Garth grabbed at me but it was already too late. I had already cupped my hands to my mouth.

  “Raskolnikov!”

  Raskolnikov froze on the wire, then swayed, his pole bouncing up and down like an antenna in a hurricane. The crowd moaned; somewhere to my right a woman screamed. Raskolnikov regained his balance and headed back toward the platform.

  At the same time something whistled past my ear, collided with the steel beam behind my head and sang off into the darkness. Garth’s gun exploded in my other ear and I turned in time to see the white-coated man drop his machine pistol and grope at the hole Garth had opened in his belly. Even as I watched, life blinked out in the man’s eyes and he toppled forward, his blood soaking into the popcorn he had dropped in the aisle.

  I looked back up to the platform; Raskolnikov was gone. The rope ladder was still, which meant he hadn’t come down. He was still up there, hiding somewhere in the darkness of the steel latticework supporting the roof of the armory.

  People were milling and screaming. Garth struggled to make his way down through the crowd, his gun in one hand and his police shield in the other. I knew he wasn’t going to be successful in what he was trying to do. By the time he got reinforcements, Raskolnikov would be gone.

  Where? How? I scanned the ceiling. The armory lighting system was old. Even with all the houselights on there were still patches of darkness staining the roof like squares on a checkerboard.

  At the far end of the armory, high up in a large field of night, was a long bank of frosted windows left partially open for ventilation. In my mind’s eye I could see Raskolnikov walking the girders, zig-zagging back and forth through the patches of darkness, making for those windows. If I remembered correctly, there was a sloping roof outside. Raskolnikov would find a way to get to the ground.

  I had no idea how a man dressed in red tights would manage to hide in the streets of Albany, but if Raskolnikov was who and what I suspected, I knew such small details had already been anticipated and planned for. Statler would be out one high-wire walker, and the police one killer; but if I was right, there was a good deal more at stake. I had a strong hunch Raskolnikov’s talents ranged far beyond those of a mere circus performer.

  High up as we were, the first tier of supporting girders was just behind and above my head. I tried to ignore my light-headedness and the ache in my side as I leaped up and grabbed the lower lip of the first I-beam, swinging myself up and over until I was sitting astride it. The throbbing hurt beneath the thick bandage suddenly exploded into a fireball of scorched nerve endings and I bit into my lower lip to keep from screaming. Still, the wrench to my freshly stitched wound was not entirely unrewarding. I had traded dizziness for searing pain. In view of where I was going, I did not consider it an entirely bad bargain.

  I heard Garth yelling at me from somewhere below, but I didn’t look down. Frankly, I don’t like heights; still, the only thing between a killer and his freedom was a certain four-foot-eight-inch dwarf. I had to cut Raskolnikov off from his escape route. I could only hope that I could bluff the other man long enough for Garth to get some help. I knew a great deal depended on how much Raskolnikov knew—or didn’t know—about the seriousness of my knife wound; the Russian wasn’t likely to hang around very long for a dwarf that could be blown off his perch by a moderately strong whistle. Ah, well. It was time to find out just how unbelievable I was.

  I clung to the currency of my pain, using it to buy my way up the interlocking maze of girders to the very top tier. Occasionally the sounds of the crowd below drifted up but, for the most part, I moved in a sea of silence broken only by the scrape of my shoes on the ste
el. Sweat poured off me, but it was the special dampness, the thick, warm wet in my side, that worried me most.

  I headed for the bank of windows as fast as I could, balancing with my arms, taking a straight route. It was reasonable to assume that Raskolnikov had taken his time, moved carefully along his route, and that I was ahead of him. Reasonable? My life depended on it. In a few moments I would find out if he had been as reasonable as my assumption.

  I passed into the lake of darkness covering the windows. If Raskolnikov was already there, waiting in my path, I was dead. It would simply be a matter of waiting behind one of the vertical beams, then pushing me as I passed. In my condition, I’d be able to offer no defense.

  I stepped quickly through the dark tangle of girders. Raskolnikov wasn’t there. I chose a wide girder about seven feet from the windows and sat down hard, bracing my back against a vertical beam.

  That was it. I was broke. My physical and emotional bank accounts were empty. I was a hollow shell filled with whispers.

  i didn’t say i wanted a private detective i want you as a friend you were my friend want you everything’s all right, mongo coming to see you was the smartest thing i ever did she asked me to forgive her forgive her i love her love her

  I could feel laughter bubbling in my throat, frothing on my lips like specks of foam. I swallowed it and tensed, suddenly knowing that I was no longer alone. Raskolnikov was moving somewhere out in the darkness. I also knew that it would be Raskolnikov who would be alone if I didn’t find some new source of strength to tap. I was slumping forward, slipping off the girder.

  I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and slapped my side. Strength returned to my legs and I wrapped them securely around the girder.

  Raskolnikov was moving laterally, from my right to my left. He had to have spotted me on the way up, and I guessed he was angling for an attack. Talk was the only weapon left in my arsenal. I knew it was not so much what I said as how I said it that was important. The other man had to come past me to get to the windows, and I had to convince him I was strong enough to stop him.

  “You’re a long way from home, Vladimir Denosovitch.” I listened to the echo of my voice in the empty vault of the ceiling. It was all right, much stronger than I had any right to expect, and Raskolnikov had stopped moving. I imagined I could hear the sound of heavy breathing, but I was not sure whether it was the other man or my fever. “The trip ends here.”

  Finally his voice came, almost indistinguishable from the whispers in my mind. He’d been trained to the height of perfection; a Russian, he spoke English with just the slightest trace of an accent.

  “I have to get out, Frederickson. You know that. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.”

  “You already tried that once, and your man couldn’t handle the job. And you ordered the Jessums killed. Are you telling me you’ve had a sudden change of heart?”

  There was a long silence, and I wondered whether he had detected the weakness in my voice or knew I was simply playing word games.

  “I’m a professional, Frederickson. Surely you realize that. I do what I have to do, but I don’t kill when there’s no reason.”

  “There wasn’t any reason before. You didn’t have to kill the Jessums. The chances are I would never have recognized you, not after all these years. I remembered and made the connections because you forced me to. You panicked. That was hack work, Vladimir Denosovitch. Second-rate.”

  “That was a mistake,” Raskolnikov said after a long pause. There was an edge to his voice. “Now the situation has changed. It’s no longer necessary to kill you; it would serve no purpose. It is necessary that I escape.”

  “You’re that valuable?”

  “I am that valuable. What has happened thus far should have convinced you of that.”

  “Then you’re as good an agent as you are a high-wire walker?”

  “I leave such judgments to my superiors. I’m coming now, Frederickson. Get out of my way.”

  “No!” My own voice sounded detached from me. I could only hope it carried the force I’d intended. “You come close enough for me to see you and you’ll look like Bruno Jessum.”

  “You’ve been investigated. I know you rarely carry a gun.”

  He was right, and my only chance was that he was as much a professional as he said he was. “Wrong again, Vladimir Denosovitch. Your men couldn’t have had more than five or six hours to do their checking, the time between your talk with Bethel and my show at the circus.”

  “What are you talking about?” For a moment, Raskolnikov sounded almost as confused as I was scared. “We checked you after you killed our operative.”

  “Patchwork job, Vladimir Denosovitch.” I said lightly. “You probably used local talent. If you want to stake your life on that report, go ahead. Personally, I’d rather keep you alive.”

  He was thinking about it, exactly what I wanted him to do. But not too much. Talk. I had to talk.

  “You know, I remember the first time I saw you, Vladimir Denosovitch. You were good then, but I must admit you’re even better now …”

  My tongue kept going but, in my mind, I was suddenly back in Russia.

  There were sounds behind me. Raskolnikov was moving.

  “The Moscow Circus is the best in the world, Vladimir Denosovitch,” I said quickly. “Too bad you never made it.”

  The shuffling stopped. I’d hit pay dirt, his pride.

  “My country needed me elsewhere.”

  “As a spymaster setting up and coordinating a nationwide intelligence-gathering net. Beautiful. Everybody’s watching everybody else at the U.N. and the embassies while the big boss himself is off performing for the kiddies at a Saturday matinee. Beautiful, Vladimir Denosovitch! Was that your idea?”

  “You’re guessing,” Raskolnikov said softly. “Most of this is your imagination.” I had a feeling our conversation was rapidly drawing to a close.

  Hot flashes: Russia, city after city, command performance after command performance. Then, in the central city of Chelyabinsk, where my guide said: “This one will be great. This one walks the wire.”

  Afterward, Vladimir Denosovitch Raskolnikov and I had drunk vodka together.

  “But I’m right, aren’t I, Vladimir Denosovitch? You’re big. As big as they come. They trained you, set you up with false residency papers and smuggled you into Florida. Your assignment was to establish an intelligence drop route corresponding to the stop route of whichever circus picked you up. That circus happened to be Statler’s.”

  “You’re thinking out loud.” His voice seemed much closer to me now, but I couldn’t turn even if I wanted to. My head and shoulders seemed part of a single granite block. It was all I could do to keep talking.

  “You couldn’t have begun to put all this together before a few minutes ago,” Raskolnikov continued. “Not before you called my name.”

  Which was why, now, he did have to kill me. As long as the secret of the route was safe, it could continue to expand and operate. Raskolnikov would disappear back into the vastness of Russia and somebody else would be sent to take his place. I was the only one left, besides Raskolnikov, with all the pieces to the puzzle.

  “You’re badly hurt, Frederickson. Very badly hurt.”

  Time had run out. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Raskolnikov standing beside me, his arms wrapped around the girder on which I was leaning. There was almost a trace of sympathy in the other man’s voice—sympathy and chagrin at being held up for so long by a man who couldn’t even stand.

  He braced himself with his legs and placed his hands on my shoulders, pushing me forward and to the side. My arms and legs were now hanging limp and useless. I could see my blood flowing out onto the girder, dripping down into the darkness.

  “My brother knows,” I whispered hoarsely. “We’ve been talking about this for days. He’ll make the same connections and backtrack along the circus route. The ring is smashed.”

  “No,” Raskolnikov said. “Ther
e was no time. I’m sorry, Frederickson. I truly am. You are a very brave man.”

  I didn’t find the sincerity in his voice any comfort. It was almost over now, and I vaguely wondered whether or not I would faint before I hit the sharp wooden and steel angles of the seats below.

  Then Garth’s shot caught Raskolnikov in the throat. It was a good shot, considering the fact that Garth had a bad angle leaning into a half-opened window and was firing into the shadows.

  Raskolnikov gargled on his way down. There was the ugly sound of a body breaking on the seats, screams, then silence. I could see Garth in front of me, struggling to get his body through the window.

  Good show; but considering the fact that I was already most of the way off the girder, I didn’t think he was going to get to me in time.

  It was the first time I’d been wrong all day.

  Here’s a piece about chemical manipulation of behavior, among other things. Long-suffering Garth may have his problems here, but years later I will really lay this situation on him in the novel The Cold Smell of Sacred Stone.

  Rage

  Slow day; anathema to a criminology professor moonlighting as a private detective. I had a graduate seminar to teach later in the afternoon, but my lecture was prepared and I was in my downtown office, staring out my second-floor window, hoping for some business to blow in off the street. I had to settle for my brother.

  Someone else was driving the unmarked car, but it was Garth—all normal six feet two inches of him—who got out on the passenger’s side, then walked stiffly across the sidewalk and into the building. I ran my finger over a water spot on the glass. It wasn’t unusual for Garth to drop by for coffee when he was in the neighborhood, but this time there had seemed a tension—an urgency—in the way he moved that was incongruous. I went out by the elevator to meet him.

  The elevator doors sighed open—Garth’s face was ashen, his eyes two open wounds. He pushed past a young couple, glanced once in my direction, then rushed into my office. I went after him, closing the door behind me. He had already stripped off his jacket, and the black leather straps of his shoulder holster stood out like paint stains on the starched white of his shirt. He took the gun from its holster and slid it across my desk. “Find a drawer for that, will you, brother?” Garth’s teeth were clenched tightly together and the voice behind them trembled.