O’Brien stood and checked his harness as he moved toward the door. The Beechcraft had been modified for sky divers and the door had been fitted with roller tracks, rather than the conventional swing-out hinges. Also, the normal eight seats had been removed to accommodate about twelve standees. The Beechcraft also had an autopilot so that the pilot could come back and shut the door after a jump, eliminating the necessity of a jumpmaster or copilot.
O’Brien stood at the door and looked out the small oval window. The craft banked to the left as a cloud passed in front of the moon, throwing a black shadow over the desolate landscape. A light twinkled here and there, and O’Brien was reminded of the signal lights from the partisans on the ground.
One never knew who was actually controlling those signal lights. Certainly, he thought, one of the most frightening experiences of modern man was taking off from a blacked-out airstrip in a plywood aircraft whose worthiness was always in question; then running a gauntlet of enemy fighters, sometimes running through anti-aircraft fire over occupied territory; then, if you’d made it that far, jumping from the relative safety of the aircraft into a bleak, inhospitable landscape and floating down, much too slowly, to an uncertain reception.
And having survived those terrors, one had to complete the mission and get the hell out. And for secret agents, capture did not mean POW camp. It meant a concentration camp, torture, interrogation, and nearly always a newly raked sandbox where you knelt for the bullet in the back of the neck. There was, however, always the L-pill.
Yet, he had survived. Others had not. There was no accounting for it. But having survived, he felt he owed something. He owed it to those who ended their lives in battle, in the torturer’s chamber, with cyanide, or in the sandbox, to continue the mission. Right after the war there had been scores to settle with certain Gestapo and SS gentlemen. But within a year he and his friends had met the ultimate enemy: the Soviet state security forces.
O’Brien looked at his watch again: ten seventeen. He wondered why Bellman hadn’t flashed the green light. O’Brien rechecked his gear: knife, rucksack, and canteens.
How many jumps, he thought, can a man make before his luck runs out? Every one, they said, except the last one.
Sonny Bellman turned to the man in the right-hand seat. “Approaching jump time.”
The man nodded, stood, and squeezed behind his seat to retrieve his parachute pack.
Bellman said, “I wonder if he’s going to be angry at me.”
The man said, “Mr. O’Brien enjoys surprises.”
“He likes to jump alone. But I suppose it’s all right.”
“No one will mention it to you. I promise.” Peter Thorpe raised a heavy rubber mallet and swung it down viciously at the base of the pilot’s skull. Bellman made a short sound of surprise, then slumped forward toward the control yoke. Thorpe yanked him back, then reached over and engaged the autopilot. The aircraft continued to track straight ahead, holding course, speed, and altitude.
Thorpe looked at his watch and yawned. “Christ, what a weekend.”
He strapped on his parachute, opened the door, and entered the cabin.
The light from the open cockpit door caught O’Brien’s eyes and he turned toward it, squinting. The door closed again, throwing the cabin in near darkness except for the single red light.
Thorpe moved wordlessly toward O’Brien.
O’Brien said, “Bellman? What’s wrong?”
Thorpe yawned again. “Jesus, Pat, why would you want to jump into the Pine Barrens on a Sunday night?” Thorpe stopped a few feet from O’Brien. “Most people your age are playing checkers.”
O’Brien put his hand on his survival knife. “What are you doing here?”
“Everybody has a shtick—that means panache — mine don’t always go over so well. I thought I’d cultivate yours.” He chuckled softly. “Do you mind?”
“I mind that you didn’t ask.”
“Sorry, Pat.” Thorpe peered out the side window. “Blue moon. Should be full in a few weeks. There’s a shooting star. Make a wish.”
O’Brien glanced at the cabin door a few feet away.
Thorpe turned quickly toward him. “Listen, Pat, this Talbot business has me worried.”
O’Brien didn’t reply, and the drone of the engines outside seemed to fill the cabin. The moon shone through the windows now, and Thorpe’s body cast elongated shadows on the far wall.
Thorpe said, “In fact, Patrick, you worry me.”
“You ought to be worried. We’re very close.”
“Are you? I wonder.”
O’Brien spoke in a controlled voice. “What is your motive?”
Thorpe shrugged. “I’m not certain. Not political. I mean, who in their right mind would side with those morons? Really, did you ever meet such a drab, boring bunch of ill-bred clods? I’ve been to Moscow twice. Jesus, what a shithole.”
“Then why?” O’Brien unclipped the strap of his knife sheath.
Thorpe saw the movement in the red light. “Forget it, Pat.”
O’Brien said, “Just tell me why.”
Thorpe scratched his head, then said, “Well, it’s very complex. It has to do with danger… Some men jump from airplanes… others race cars… I commit treason. Every day is an adventure when you commit a capital offense. When you know that each day could be your last. You remember?”
O’Brien said, “You’re sick, Peter.”
“Probably. So what? Insanity, like a drug addiction, has to be fed. The Company provides food, to be sure, a veritable feast for most appetites. But not for mine. I need the ultimate nourishment. I need the blood of an entire nation.”
“Peter… listen, if you want to alter history — and I suppose that is your ultimate motive — you can do it by helping us foil their plans. You could become a triple. That would be the crowning act of—”
“Oh, be quiet. You’re too glib. Damned lawyer. Listen, how often do you get the chance to see a nation die? Think of it, Patrick — a highly developed, complex civilization succumbing to its own advanced technology. And I can stand on a hill and watch — watch the end of one human epoch and the beginning of another. How many people throughout the ages have been in so unique a position to cause such a sudden and catastrophic shift in the course of this planet’s history?”
O’Brien listened to the droning of the engines, then spoke in a voice that suggested he’d accepted what Thorpe said, but had a last discomforting thought.
“All right, Peter. But what kind of world will it be? Could you live in such a world?”
Thorpe waved his hand in a motion of dismissal. “I’m pretty adaptable.” He laughed.
“And what would you do for an encore? There’d be nothing left for you. No one to betray—”
“That’s enough!”
O’Brien wanted to ask how this would all come about, but as a trained intelligence officer who knew he was facing his own death, there was no reason to indulge himself by satisfying his curiosity. He was not going to be able to report or act on the information, and the more he asked Thorpe, the more Thorpe would know how little or how much O’Brien already knew.
Thorpe seemed to read O’Brien’s mind. “How far along are you, Patrick?”
“I told you. Close. You won’t pull it off.”
“Bullshit.” Thorpe rubbed his chin, then said, “Katherine once told me, and I’ve heard elsewhere, that you’re one of the best natural intelligence men on either side. You’re brave, resourceful, cunning, imaginative, and all that… So… I know you’re good… but how good? I mean, if you suspected me, why didn’t you act before I got to you? I should have been snatched, drugged, tortured, and interrogated at least a year ago. Are you slowing up, old-timer? Did you let Katherine’s feelings for me get in the way? Or perhaps you didn’t suspect me. Yes, that’s it. You really don’t know anything.”