I tried to make the circumstances come back to me, but all I could dredge up was a weird, strangely detailed nightmare about being mixed up in a totally loused-up operation down in Mexico that had ended with me getting myself stupidly trapped, like a TV-style agent, in a gimmicked, TV-style taxi..
I sat up abruptly on the couch, realizing that it had not been a dream, and that this was not my first awakening since. That had taken place in the shabby old limousine on a dirt road somewhere in the coastal forest-call it jungle if you like-near Mazatlбn. I'd been quite alone when I awoke. The cab door had been open, and the fresh air had revived me after a fashion, but I hadn't been capable of much coherent thought. I'd just been uneasily conscious of having heard a loud noise that I was supposed to do something about.
Then the sound had come again, and a big jet airliner had passed low over the trees, obviously circling to land somewhere nearby. I'd glanced at my watch; it read ten-fifteen. If it was the plane, I thought, it was almost two hours late, but that, I'd gathered, was not unusual.
I'd remembered fuzzily that back at the hotel a U.S. agent, feminine gender, was chaperoning two corpses, staffing to give me time to get out of the country. It seemed like a very good plan with which to proceed, since there was clearly nothing left to be done here.
Harsek had taken only the red-haired girl and her belongings. I still had my tickets, personal documents, suitcase, and even my gun-well, Vadya's gun. The taxi key was in the ignition. Getting shakily out of the rear of the car, I'd steadied myself against the door to let a wave of dizziness pass. A small, gleaming object on the ground had caught my eye and I'd picked it up mechanically: a fired cartridge case from a 9mm Luger – the Luger, not the Browning. Apparently Harsek had shot at something with his own gun. If his record was a reliable indication of his marksmanship, he'd probably hit it, but there seemed to be no dead men-or girls-lying around.
I'd dropped the fired case. Why should I clean up after Harsek? I'd crawled behind the cab's steering wheel, started the ancient machinery, and headed in the general direction the plane had taken, descending. I'd found my way to the airport in time to join the line of passengers waiting to turn in their tourist cards to the Mexican immigration officials and take off for Los Angeles.
I couldn't remember much about the flight, but I had a very clear recollection of the call I'd made from the L.A. airport when I was safely on U.S. soil once more. Mac had reacted to my report just about the way you'd expect.
"I seem to recall telling you, Eric," he'd said in his coldest voice, "that there is no room for sentimentality in this work. Or sentimentalists, either."
"She was a cute kid," I said deliberately. "The longest, thickest, reddest hair you ever saw in your life. A cunning little face with adorable freckles. I just couldn't bear to shoot holes in her, sir."
"I see." He was silent a long time, apparently giving careful consideration to my words and the tone in which they'd been spoken. "Very well, Eric. We will have to talk with some people in the morning. Under the circumstances, it cannot be avoided. These joint operations are a nuisance, aren't they? Be prepared to tell all about this enchanting young lady you couldn't bring yourself to harm, and exactly why you couldn't bring yourself to harm her."
"Yes, sir."
"I believe the city of Santa Fe is reasonably convenient both to Los Alamos, where the people in question are staying, and Albuquerque, where I'll have to land since there are no jet connections closer. Am I right?"
"Yes, sir. Forty miles one way and sixty the other."
"Very well, I will arrange the meeting for Santa Fe. But there is already a good deal of unhappiness about this affair. Some shooting took place earlier that didn't go quite as planned, I gather. Under the circumstances it might be better if you were not readily available until tomorrow. You can find a place to stay in the area without putting up at a local hostelry, can you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought you probably could," he said dryly. "Give the lady's address and telephone number to the switchboard girl before you hang up. I will call when we're ready for you. Oh, and Eric…
"Yes, sir."
"Initiative is a commendable attribute in an agent, but I hope you know what you're doing. Don't let your hospitable friend keep you up too late. You will have to think and talk very clearly in the morning."
There had been no question of my staying up late; I'd been practically walking in my sleep when I knocked on Carol's door. I couldn't remember exactly what story I'd told to explain my shaky condition, and being a bright girl she probably hadn't believed it, but she'd let me in anyway, and I'd got my rest and slept the drug residues out of my system. At least my brain seemed to be working clearly once more, if not too happily. I wasn't looking forward to the coming inquisition.
I yawned, sitting there, and looked around. The room had the usual disheveled look of a living room temporarily converted for slumber. Various items of furniture had had to be shoved aside to let the bed unfold, and it wasn't a very big room to start with.
The clutter was enhanced, if that's the proper word, by a scarred leather camera case of professional dimensions-not one of your jazzy little over-the-shoulder gadget bags-accompanied by a heavy, business-like tripod and a big, beatup box containing, I knew, an assortment of portable lighting units and stands. This was all stacked in a corner ready to go.
The room itself was pleasant in the old-fashioned southwestern way, with the ceiling supported by the bare round beams known as vigas, and the windowsills nice and deep due to the thick-waned adobe construction. There was a corner fireplace, the small round kind in which the logs are supposed to burn propped on end, Indian-fashion, which works fine if you can get the same pitchy piсon wood the Indians used, but not otherwise.
The walls were white and covered with carefully arranged groups of photographs, some straight grownup fashion shots, but mostly pictures of child models looking happy and clean and starched and lovable in their pretty clothes. Some framed magazine covers gave color to the arrangements. The pix were technically pretty good, but just a little too sweet for my taste. After all, I'd had some kids once-they're growing up elsewhere with a substitute papa-and they'd never looked like that, even to my prejudiced eyes, except perhaps for a moment or two before church on Sunday morning.
"Well,, it's about time you woke up," Carol Lujan said, appearing in the doorway with a tray. "I hope you still take your coffee black and your eggs over lightly, after all your mysterious travels." She came forward. "Just one word of warning: if we should ever get married, don't expect breakfast in bed for the rest of your life. The service is only for hung-over gentleman friends who drop in to sleep it off. What's the matter, doesn't your fancy government relations job pay hotel expenses?"
So apparently I'd told her I'd been on a binge, perhaps in the line of duty, say an official reception or cocktail party. Government public relations was the cover story I'd been using since we met earlier in the summer. I mean, it's not considered proper to go around telling people, even nice girls you sleep with, that you're a secret agent.
"Who said anything about matrimony?" I asked, grinning.
"Not you, that's for sure," she said dryly. "Careful now, don't spill it."
She put the tray on my lap and straightened up, a moderately tall, blonde girl with the healthy, well-scrubbed look that's always in style in my fashion book, no matter what kind of bloodless human skeletons may be cavorting on the cover of Vogue this season. She was wearing a brown-checked pleated skirt and a brown pullover sweater with the sleeves shoved casually above the elbows. There were yellow developer stains on her fingers, and there was a wedding ring on her left hand, but the marriage it represented had terminated, I knew, even before my own.