Jake Grafton had properly rejected his spur-of-the-moment proposal to send Herb on to his next incarnation. The complexities of the proof problem troubled Toad not a whit: he knew Herb was guilty — but there undoubtedly were other people involved in Herb Tenney’s slimy little mess; there had to be. Maybe as few as three or four others, maybe the whole damned CIA, all sixteen thousand of them slopping through kimchi right up to their plastic photo ID badges. As usual Grafton was right. Why trade the devil you knew for heaven knows how many you didn’t?
And just what was Herb’s mess? If the CIA were merely squashing billionaires like stinkbugs, that could be forgiven as some kind of kinky weekend sport, sort of like tennis with live grenades. If they switched to American billionaires they could probably get a TV contract and sell tickets. No, if that were the game they wouldn’t be so twitchy.
So what was going on?
Keren was a newspaper mogul, wasn’t he? Perhaps his papers had uncovered something the CIA didn’t want uncovered. Now that made sense. Arms for Iran? Cocaine for guns? Maybe something to do with the last American election.
But all of this was pure speculation. He was trying to guess what the puzzle looked like after getting a fuzzy glimpse of one small piece.
Toad glanced over his shoulder at the admiral in the backseat. He too was looking at the grim secret police headquarters and the grotesquely ugly buildings across the street, but his face showed no emotion.
You’re never gonna be an admiral, Toad-man. Never! You don’t have the cool for it.
His mind turned from that happy subject to his serious contemplation of the murder of a fellow human being. He had been serious, he reminded himself guiltily. What if Grafton had said yes? Then it would have been his responsibility. No, Toad told himself, then it would have been the responsibility of both of you.
Are you that frightened of Herb, Toad asked himself.
Yes!
In spite of the mild temperature, Toad Tarkington shivered.
Toad almost went to sleep in the afternoon briefing, a technical seminar on how properly to dispose of nuclear warheads. The speakers were physicists and chemists and weapons designers, all of whom were in love with their subjects as far as Toad could tell.
When Herb Tenney slipped in and dropped into an empty seat, Toad came wide awake. Herb looked none the worse for his ordeal and sat listening as if he could actually understand this technical mumbo jumbo.
Toad tried to ignore Herb, which was difficult. He well knew that some people could sense when they were being watched, and he didn’t want Herb to get the idea that he and Grafton were responsible for his recent unpleasantness, at least not for a while.
Still, when the break in the presentation came and he saw Jake Grafton angling through the crowd for Herb, Toad managed to be within earshot.
“Herb, I thought you were going to be here this morning,” the admiral said.
“I’m sorry, sir. Something came up unexpectedly.”
“This is important,” Grafton replied.
“I’m aware of that.” Toad thought this reply had just a trace of disrespect in it, which would be typical of the Herb Tenney he had come to know and love.
“We’re supposed to be working together on this, Mr. Tenney,” Jake said, his voice so low Toad had to step closer to catch the words. “I don’t know what else you have going on here in Moscow and I don’t really care, but if you can’t give this assignment the attention required then I’m going to have to report you to Washington. I expect you to be at official functions clean and sober and on time.”
“It won’t happen again,” Tenney replied matter-of-factly, without a trace of rancor.
“Fine,” Jake said, and walked away.
That evening back at the embassy Toad Tarkington dug into his luggage. A couple years ago at a Virginia pawnshop he had purchased a Walther PPK, a slick little automatic in .380 ACP caliber. It had probably once belonged to a cop who had used it as a hideout gun because it had a spring-steel clip spot-welded onto the left side of the slide. The clip allowed the pistol to be slipped behind the waistband in the small of the back and hooked onto the top of the trousers. It rode there quite nicely, such a small package that it would usually escape notice, yet it could be drawn easily with the right hand.
He had brought along only enough shells to load the magazine once, so he did that now and slipped the magazine into the pistol. He cycled the slide to put a round in the chamber, then lowered the hammer. He tucked the pistol into the small of his back, checking carefully to make sure the clip engaged his waistband, then fluffed his shirt out over the protruding grip.
It wasn’t much of a gun. Still, it felt good to have it.
He had brought more gun along, a 9mm Browning Hi Power, but it was too bulky to tote around unobtrusively. Toad got out the Browning and cycled the slide and sat on the bed thinking about Herb Tenney and his little white pills.
He pointed the gun at the mirror above the dresser and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a metallic thunk.
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Now he remembered the little square of paper he had found in the pocket of the shirt he was wearing when he unfolded it this morning. He fished it from his wallet and held it up where he could read it.
Your touch, your kisses
open the pathways to my heart
Rita was fond of writing little love notes and putting them where he would find them at a moment when he least expected it. He wondered when she had written this one. Perhaps when she was ironing the shirts, the afternoon he was packing. Or days before.
Rita…
Funny, but when he was dating and playing the field he had never realized how much he could love a woman. Or how much a woman could love him.
Strange how life reveals its mysteries. Just when you think you have the game scoped out, that you know all the rules and all the intricacies, all it has to offer, a new rich vein of truth reveals itself.
Rita is what you have to lose, Toad Tarkington. Death is not the threat. That’s coming sooner or later any way you cut the cards. The richness of life with Rita and the extraordinary gift of what might be—that is what Herb Tenney and his little white pills can deprive you of.
He held the Browning up where he could see it. Without realizing it he had eared back the hammer.
He pulled the trigger and listened again to the thunk as the hammer slammed down.
The embassy residents were at dinner when Herb Tenney dusted his bathroom sink with fingerprint powder. Yes, there were fingerprints there, most of them smeared but a couple fairly nice. He used tape to lift the best ones and placed the tape on a white file card.
Back at his desk he compared the prints to those on the fax he had received an hour ago on the CIA’s private com equipment. One of them was a perfect match.
So Jake Grafton had personally searched the place. That dweeb Tarkington was probably with him when he did it. The fax also supplied him with a copy of Tarkington’s fingerprints, but developing more raw prints for comparison hardly seemed worth the effort. Herb Tenney sighed and stowed the bottle of powder and the brush and tape in the fingerprint kit.
That arrest this morning had been a farce. They had stopped his car a block from the embassy and handcuffed him. Then a Russian had driven him and his car to KGB Headquarters. There he was escorted to a cell and stripped and X-rayed.