"You were his friend."
Miles's voice became crisp. "I hope you'll understand if I find this harping on ethics a little presumptuous in a killer!"
"I was holding him when he died."
Miles's tone softened instantly. "I know. And I'm truly sorry about that."
"You remember how he always joked about going out with a clever line? At the last minute he couldn't think of one, and he died feeling foolish." Jonathan's control was flaking off.
"I'm sorry, Jonathan."
"Oh, that's fine. You are really and truly sorry! That fixes everything!"
"I did what I could! I arranged a small income for Marie and the children. What did you do? You rammed your rod up her that very night!"
Jonathan's hand flashed over the table, and Miles was snapped sideways in his chair with a backhand across the face. Instantly, the blond wrestler left his barstool and started toward the table. Miles stared hate at Jonathan, tears smarting in his eyes, then, after a struggle with his self-control, he raised his hand, and the wrestler stopped where he was. Miles smiled sadly at Jonathan and gestured the bodyguard away with the backs of his fingers. Angry at being denied his prey, the wrestler glared for a moment before returning to the bar.
Jonathan realized at that moment the first thing he would have to do would be to discourage the blond bodyguard.
"My fault probably, Jonathan. Shouldn't have baited you. I imagine my cheek is red and unsightly?"
Jonathan was angry with himself for allowing Miles to taunt him into premature action. He finished his Laphroaig and gestured to the waiter.
Until the waiter left the table, neither Jonathan nor Miles spoke, nor did they look at each other until the cerebral toxic of adrenalin had drained off. Miles had turned away, not wanting the Indian waiter to see his glowing cheek.
Miles smiled forgiveness at Jonathan. He had not wiped the tears from his eyes, imagining they might help his case. "I tender you a bit of information as a propitiatory offering."
Jonathan did not respond.
"The man who made the fiscal arrangements with me for Henri's death was Clement Pope—Dragon's boy."
"That's good to know."
"Jonathan—tell me. What if Henri had set me up?"
"He would never have done that to a friend."
"But if he had. Would you have gone after him like you've come after me?"
"Yes."
Miles nodded. "I thought so." He smiled wanly "And that vitiates my case considerably. But I still don't intend to allow myself to die, a sacrifice to your peculiar reverence for the epic traditions of friendship. Neither heaven nor reincarnation attracts me. The one seems dull, the other undesirable. So I feel bound to protect this fleeting life of mine with all my energies. Even if it means killing you, dear Jonathan."
"What are your other choices?"
"I would hardly have come to the marketplace if I were not in a position to bargain."
Big Ben entered the lounge. With his habitual broad smile, he started to join Jonathan, then he saw Miles, and sat at the bar instead, eyeing the blond wrestler with flagrant disdain.
"You might at least give me your attention, Jonathan."
"A friend just walked in."
"Does he realize the possible cost of that privilege?"
"You're wasting my time, Miles."
"I may be saving your life."
Jonathan retreated into his gentle combat smile.
"When I left CII, Jonathan, I went into business in San Francisco. I'm in transportation. I move things from one point to another point and distribute them. All sorts of things. It's amazingly profitable. But life has not been comfortable for me, with the specter of you lurking in every shadow."
"Distressing."
"Then, early this month, I received an assignment to transport a bit of information from Montreal to... somewhere else. Gaining the information necessitated the killing of an agent. I didn't participate in the assassination because, unlike you, I am not a predator." He glanced to see the reaction. There was none. "But I know who did the killing. You got one of them shortly later. And now you're after the other. Dragon has told you that he will have the identity of this other person by the time of the sanction. Maybe. Maybe not. I know who it is, Jonathan. And until you have that information, you're in great danger."
"How so?"
"If I tell this person who and what you are, the hunted will become the hunter."
"But you're willing to sell this man out to me?"
"In return for your promise to stop stalking me. Don't let this bargain pass you by."
Jonathan looked out the window at a circle of girls near the pool laughing and screeching as they playfully teased the neurotic Pomeranian, which danced frantically in one spot, its claws clicking on the tile, urine dribbling from beneath it. Jonathan turned and looked at the wrestler still sitting at the bar, keeping him under observation. "I'll think about it, Miles."
Miles smiled with patient fatigue. "Please don't play me like an amateur. I can't remain inactive and unprotected while you 'think about it.' I believe it was you who first advised me never to con a con."
"You'll know my decision within five minutes. How's that?"
Then Jonathan's voice mellowed. "Whichever way it goes, Miles. We were once friends... so..." He held out his hand. Miles was surprised, but pleased. They shook hands firmly before Jonathan left for the bar where only Ben and the blond bodyguard sat. The latter leaned back on two legs of his stool, his back to the bar and his elbows hooked over it, eyeing Jonathan with a snide superior expression. Jonathan approached him, his whole bearing diffident and apologetic. "Well, as you saw, Miles and I have made up," Jonathan said with a weak, uncertain smile. "May I buy you a drink?"
The wrestler scratched his ear in disdainful silence and leaned further back on his stool to create more distance between himself and this fawning nobody who had dared to slap Mr. Mellough.
Jonathan ignored this rejection. "Boy, I'm glad it worked out all right. No man of my size looks forward to tangling with a guy built like you."
The wrestler nodded understandingly and pressed his shoulders down to set the pectorals.
"Well, just so you know," Jonathan said. He converted his motion of departure into a skimming kick that swept the tilted barstool from beneath the wrestler. First the edge of the bar, then the brass rail cracked the blond head as it thudded down. Dazed and hurt, his long hair tumbled into his face, the wrestler had no time to move before Jonathan had stepped on his face with his heel and pivoted. The nose crunched and flattened underfoot. The sound brought gall to the back of Jonathan's throat, and his cheeks drew back with nausea. But he knew what was necessary in situations like these: they must remember the hurt.
Jonathan knelt over the wrestler and snatched the face up by the hair until it was only inches from his own.
"Hear me. I don't want you out on my flank like that. It scares me. I don't like being scared. So hear this. Come near me ever, and you're dead. Hey! Listen to me! Don't pass out while I'm talking to you!"
The wrestler's eyes were dulled by pain and confusion, and he did not respond.
Jonathan shook him by the hair until several strands came out between his fingers. "Did you understand what I said?"
"Yes." The reply was faint.
"Good boy." Jonathan set the head back gently on the floor. He stood up and faced Ben, who had watched the whole thing without moving. "Will you take care of him, Ben?"
"All right, ol' buddy. But goddam my ass if I understand what's going on."
"Talk about it later."
Two Indian busboys grunted under the task of conducting the toppling giant to his room, as Jonathan walked back to the entrance of the lounge. He stood there, looking across at Miles who, alone of the patrons, had been aware that a conflict had occurred. Their eyes, so similar in color and frost, intersected for a moment. Then Miles nodded slowly and turned his attention away, gracefully flicking a particle of dust from the sleeve of his velvet jacket. He had his answer.