The look he gave me was compounded of pity and anger. "Don't be a fool, Mr. Thorne. I suppose I'll destroy it, burn it… They're only paper, you know, those certificates — the real gold's in a Swiss bank vault and it can stay there till eternity for all I care. I only want to make sure… I only want to live out my life with no more shame than I already feel."
But I knew what he wanted to make sure of: that the gold no longer served as a prize that drew everyone on… toward May. I said, "Maybe that's what you want, but from what I've seen of Subotin, it's not the kind of sentiment he'll find terribly compelling. He'll kill you, Mr. Brightman. Or he'll hold you as a way of getting the money from May. So I suggest we get the hell out of here. If we move fast — before he gets too impatient — we should be able to go back the same way I came."
"That sounds like an excellent idea — for you. But not me. Even if I got away, it wouldn't do any good. Now that he knows I'm alive, he'll only track me down somewhere else."
"Not if we call the police."
He smiled. "I can hardly do that."
I flipped my hand. "It was a long time ago, Mr. Bright-man. I suppose the FBI would want to talk to you, but I doubt—"
He shook his head. Once more he was completely self-possessed. "I doubt if you're so naive as to believe that the FBI would be so forgiving, but that's not the real problem. You forget: I'm dead. Buried. If I reappear…"
I hesitated. I'd forgotten that little detail — and I suddenly realized what a nasty little detail it was. But when I looked him in the eye, his gaze didn't flinch. He smiled again. "You see?"
"Whose body was it?"
"Does it make any difference?"
"As a practical matter it might. Was it a bum, some drunk you found in an alley?"
His face twisted sardonically. "No, Mr. Thome. He was a friend — a 'comrade' if you like. I was attempting, through him, to make contact with our former employers."
"Another Hamilton?"
"A more substantial fool. He still believed."
"And what happened?"
"I'm not sure. He had never severed his connections, or at least not as completely as myself — which is what made him useful. It is possible he transmitted my requests and received certain orders in return. Or possibly he decided to kill me on his own because he was afraid that I might expose him. I threatened to do so — I admit that. But I had to bully him. In any case, he did try to kill me… and failed. I killed him instead… and though I've lived a life that I regret almost totally, that's one detail that will never grate on my conscience.
No. The worst of it was the next half hour, when I had to sit in the motel room with his body beside me. But that's when it came to me. Preston was smaller than me, but more or less the right age. It seemed worth a try. If I failed, after all, I could simply stick with my original plan and kill myself. So I bought a shotgun, dressed him in my clothes, set him in my car, and blew his head off. It worked — worked too well for me to undo it now." He walked over to the stove, opened the lid, and tossed his cheroot into the orange glow of the fire. Turning back, he added, "The point is: I'm now dead. And I'm going to stay that way. Everything hinges on it. With me dead, everyone else is much better oif."
"I'm not sure May would agree."
But he was two jumps ahead of me. "Yes, in the short run. But I'm going to die soon enough anyway. I'd already worked that out, you see, when I first went away. I knew it would hurt her — but she'd get over it, and still have a long life ahead of her. All that hasn't changed."
Once again, I sensed the despair and resignation beneath the surface of this man. In truth, it was more than that: it was a kind of self-contempt.
Perhaps he was reading my mind, for now, turning away from the stove and lighting another cheroot, he said, "Do you know what a Communist is, Mr. Thome? How you can spot one? Pick him out of a crowd? Let me tell you. It's very simple: a Communist is that person who can most skillfully justify the greatest number of the murdered dead. Which makes me a failed Communist. Undoubtedly, I can still murder and maim, but I could no longer justify it — I've lost the greatest skill I could once claim to possess."
I nodded my head toward the window. "Very interesting… but a bit theoretical. We have a practical problem."
"You're wrong. I'm being very practical. The solution to our problem is that I stay right here. As you say, Subotin will eventually grow impatient and come and find me — and either I'll kill him or he'll kill me. Ultimately, one more dead body won't make much difference, not to my conscience. What I want you to do — no, please, hear me out — is to make sure that you're safe. God knows, you've done enough. Please don't argue. Just… just believe me, Mr. Thorne. For reasons you may be able to guess — but for others I'm sure you can't — your safety is important to me. May and I have asked far, far too much of you already, and when I said that everyone is better off with me dead… well, that includes you as well."
For a second, this remark hung in the air. And of course I knew then — and knew that I'd known all along. My father had spied for this man. My father had been the other man in the State Department, whom Hamilton had refused to reveal himself to. Here, at long last, right out in the open, was the "something personal" that Travin had hinted at. As a revelation, I suppose it was obvious enough, and it hardly struck like a blow — God knows, I'd let myself come to see it so gradually — but for one instant I closed my eyes and winced in pain. I think Brightman saw this, but, between us, there was a collusive failure of nerve and neither of us said anything. Which was probably all for the best. Turning my head, I again glanced out the window. It was raining again, streaking the glass, hissing down on the roof… and hissing down on Subotin, a professional killer. For the time being, we'd have to let the dead bury the dead — or we'd be joining them. I turned back.
"Do you have a gun?" I asked.
"Yes. A couple of old shotguns, and I think there might be a rifle. Don't worry, Mr. Thorne. I won't have much of a chance, but I will have a chance. If he makes a mistake…"
"That's not what I'm thinking. There might be a better way."
"I'm not interested, Mr. Thorne. Just get out. I beg you."
"Do you really expect me to simply walk away, leaving you here?"
"Of course. Why not? Conscience doesn't require anyone to be a fool, Mr. Thorne. If you truly want to do me a favor, save yourself and continue being a friend to my daughter. Isn't that why you began this — to help her?"
"Just listen for a moment. Subotin doesn't know I'm here— and he doesn't know that you know he's here. That gives us the advantage. In that clearing, he's out in the open. If I go back by the stream — the way I came — and you go straight down the path, we could take him from either side."
He began to protest, but then stopped himself. Because he knew it might work.
I said, "And when I say 'take him,' I mean take him alive. If possible. We can knock him out, tie him up, get him back here. Then give me a couple of hours on a telephone. I used to be a journalist, Mr. Brightman — I suppose you know that. I have certain contacts — CIA contacts. I can guarantee that they'd happily take Subotin off our hands. You could stick around and justify yourself or clear out, that would be entirely up to you. Either way, I don't think you'd have to worry about him ever again."
Brightman took the cheroot from his mouth, and gave a little smile. "If this fails, I'd be no worse off anyway."
"Exactly. Nor would I."
"You're sure?"
"Just get me a gun."