It was a man, the young European from Copley’s waiting room.
“Let us take care of him for you now, Mr. Lessing.” The voice was high and boyish, the accent German. “This person works for a private agency, in close touch with Israeli State Security. We’ll deal with him.” To the older man he said, “You can take your fingers away from your cheek, mein Herr. Your little bird up in the balcony will not sing any more.”
“And who the goddamned hell are you?” Lessing snarled. Should he feel relieved, or was this just another frying pan? A new and hotter fire?
“The name doesn’t matter. You want to see more of Paris, Mr. Lessing, or are you done here? We have a taxi waiting, the red, white, and black sedan outside: Mulder’s Taxi Service.”
Of course. I remember. Every word, every syllable I heard that day is seared forever into my soul.
CHAPTER TEN
Friday, November 28, 2042
The spangled wrapping paper crackled as Jameela’s fingers found the little plush-covered box inside. She took out the diamond ring and held it up to the glow from Lessing’s Aladdin’s lamp on the center table.
“Your birthday, darling,” Lessing said. “Shall I say, ‘You shouldn’t have?’ Or shall I just take it and run?”
“Take it and stay.” The stone was small but of good quality; Wrench had gone with Mulder on a business trip to Amsterdam, and he had brought the ring back for Lessing.
Jameela bowed her head, letting her sable tresses coil down to cover her face. All he could see were her chin and her lips; he thought they trembled a little.
She said, “I… can’t.”
“Because of your father?”
“My family. Most of them. They don’t want me to marry a foreigner, a non-Muslim… even a non-Shi’i Muslim.” One comer of her mouth lifted in a smile. “Most especially a non-Shi’i Mus-lim!”
“Lots of Indians marry foreigners these days,” Lessing protested. “Shakeela and George Townsend over in Kanpur, Willa Buller and Muneer Khan… that professor from Texas and his Bengali wife….”
“It depends on the family… the level in society.”
“You’re no barefoot village maiden in head-to-foot pardah!”
“Purdah’s the custom. The head-to-foot tent our conservative women wear is called a burqa.”
“Some of your people call it a shuttlecock; that’s what it looks like! Damn it, you know what I mean. Your family’s not the sort that marries its daughter off sight unseen to some distant cousin!” Hemimicked a thick Indian accent: ‘“You should be putting on your best sari, my daughter! Today is your vedding day! Surprise!’”
Jameela dissolved into laughter. The lamp light turned the ring into a rainbow of scarlet and orange-gold upon her palm, and he knew that she was close to accepting it. He forced himself to stay silent, crosslegged on the carpet before her, letting her reach her own decision. The lamp spilled a warm, orange glow over her high cheekbones, and he found himself loving her more than he had thought he could love anyone. He was being trite, of course, but he didn’t care. If every human being on earth could experience this same exhilaration, this anticipation, then well and good! He, Alan Lessing, was going to savor his share to the utmost!
It was a lovely mood. They were snug and safe here, the room cozy, the electric heater bravely helping the Indoco staff quarters’ central heating system stave off the chill of the North Indian November night; it got a lot colder in India in the winter than most foreigners knew. The scene was as old as the Neolithic caves; it was exactly as Lessing had planned — and, he told himself, as Jameela herself wanted it
“Hi, in there!” Wrench’s light, tenor voice pierced through the closed door. “You two decent? Gotta talk to you, Lessing.” Only then did he knock.
“Let me think a little more,” Jameela whispered to Lessing. She knelt and let her tongue flicker briefly at Lessing’s lips, then rose in a rustle of silk and disappeared into the bedroom.
There were times when, all unknowing, Charles Hanson Wren came very close to getting himself unzipped.
“What is it?” Lessing glumly donned his white bathrobe, let himself out, and drew Wrench off down the corridor toward Goddard’s flat. The latter was off on a sales trip to Hong Kong or some place.
“Come up to the main house. Mulder wants you.”
Lessing almost refused, then thought better of it. The old man had seemed nervous, even anxious, since Lessing’s return from Paris, and if he summoned his security becgee at this hour there was a reason. Jameela watched impassively as he changed out of his bathrobe to khaki slacks and bush-shirt. She said nothing, which made him want to stay with her all the more. She was disappointed. The mood was broken, and there could be no mending it tonight. In fact, this might be a good opportunity to let her think.
Damn Wrench — and Mulder — anyway!
Wrench ushered him into Mulder’s private study in the upper story at the front of the main house. Its big windows looked out over the lawns and the driveway, and at night the lamp-spangled spires of the Indoco factory rivalled Divali, the Hindu Festival of Lights. Like the rest of the mansion, the study was furnished in Indian kitsch, courtesy of Mrs. Fairy Godmother Mulder: heavy, carved, varnished, pseudo-Mughal furniture; bone-inlaid tables; carpets in Persian designs; brass trays and bronze images of the Hindu gods; and tapestries and miniatures painted in gaudy Rajput red-oranges and blues, a style that Jameela privately labelled “Late Tourist”.
Mulder waved them both to seats. “Some good news, Alan.”
“Sir?”
“You’re apparently off the hook. Our people tell me that the Americans have withdrawn their A.D. request. The Israelis have also gone quiet.”
Wrench flashed his perfect, toothpaste-ad smile at him. You re old news, buddy, the paper on the bird cage floor. Be grateful! The only one who fondly remembers you is Hollister. He still thinks you tried to thumb him. But then Hollister thinks that of his own mother, so you’re in good company.”
“My… employer… on the Marvelous Gap job?” Mulder shrugged. “Who knows if you don’t? Nobody’s heard a thing for a couple of months. We’ve turned up nothing.”
Wrench said, “They must’ve finally realized you couldn’t tell the difference between Pacov and a piss sample. Your Marvelous Gap spesh-op is common knowledge, though. They… whoever they are… can’t keep it secret, so there’s no point thumbing you. They’ve got Pacov, and you’ve got your pay. You can’t finger them, and so they have ceased to care about you. Game, set, and match to them!”
“Things’ve gone elsewhere.” Mulder picked up a sheaf of flimsies from his desk blotter. “We’ve heard from Joachim Kuhn, the young German we sent to help you in Paris. He says everything there
is peaceful, too “
“Whoa,” Lessing interrupted. “What about that kikibird who was on my tail there?”
“Oh, yes. The one with the nasty photographs. He was using the name ‘Harry Rosch’ in Paris. Actually, he’s Mordechai Richmond, an American Jew from Kansas City. Kuhn traded him back to the Vigilantes for Zion in exchange for one of our Austrians and a French Neo-Nazi teenager into the bargain.”
Lessing found himself blurting, “You should’ve thumbed the bastard!” Richmond’s offhanded malevolence affected him more than he would have admitted.
“No point!” Wrench said. “Europe’s like that. Full of our guys and their guys, double and triple agents, all kinds. We pop one of theirs, they pop one of ours. Better to trade… like baseball cards.”
“Maybe that’s how you play, but I play different!” Lessing looked down and saw that his fists were clenched. “How did Richmond trace me? Nobody knew I was going to Paris except for you two and Goddard. Yet Richmond was right there, Johnny on the spot”