way, he was relieved. Whatever happened, he’d find out what was going on.
His sense of relief evaporated as Meehan started for him, limping. His
knee
, Chris thought, alarmed. Impulsively, he drew back and bumped against the door. “Leave me alone,” he said, remembering the agonizing pain he’d felt when Meehan had twisted his arm behind his back.
Meehan didn’t reply but kept moving toward him. Knowing what the agent meant to do, Chris ducked away from him so that Meehan’s lunge for his arm missed.
The agent made a snarling noise and shouldered him hard, knocking him back against the door, which flew open. Chris fell back into the shadowy bathroom, catching a glimpse of the man in the gray tweed suit who started forward, saying Meehan’s name with an urgent tone.
Meehan didn’t stop, but bent over Chris and clutched at his jacket. Chris tried to pull away from him, accidentally bumping his right knee against the agent’s injured one. Meehan hissed in pain and jerked back. Chris tried to push himself up and the man in the tweed suit grabbed his left arm, pulling him to his feet. “Take it easy now,” he said.
A tone of kindness in the man’s voice made Chris relax for an instant. Then, seeing Meehan lunge at him, he tensed again. “Waita second,” he snapped, trying to turn from Meehan, pulling the other man around with him.
“
Hold
it,” the other man said.
Then Meehan had his right arm and was starting to pull it up behind him. A bolt of fury struck Chris and he rammed his knee deliberately against Meehan’s injured one. With a hoarse cry, Meehan jerked back; Chris turned to the other man. “I’ll go with you,” he said breathlessly, “but I don’t want my arm twisted—”
His voice froze in shock as he saw Meehan reaching under his suit coat. “No,” he murmured, shrinking back as Meehan snatched a revolver from a holster underneath his arm.
“Meehan, Jesus!” the other man said. Letting go of Chris, he stepped in front of him. Meehan tried to shove him aside, but the man grabbed Meehan and wouldn’t let go. Chris had an impulse to turn and run for his car while the two were struggling but he decided against it. Meehan might shoot him before he reached the car.
He stood, shaken, in front of the bathroom door, watching the two men grapple. “Damn it, Meehan!” the man in the tweed suit said. He glanced across his shoulder at Chris. “Get in your car and wait,” he ordered.
Chris needed no further encouragement. Hastily, he walked across the station. “You can’t
do
that,” he heard the man say to Meehan, and Meehan’s tight, infuriated response: “I
want
him, Nels.”
Chris got into the Pontiac and closed the door, shaking. The attendant came over, looking disturbed. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Shall I call the police?”
“They
are
the police,” Chris said. He knew it wasn’t true but it was close enough to satisfy the attendant. He swallowed, adding inanely, “What do I owe you?”
“Twenty-seven thirty,” the attendant said. “You needed a quart of oil, too.”
Chris started to make a groaning sound, then realized it didn’t matter; he wasn’t going any further anyway. Taking out his wallet, he took out a twenty and the ten and handed them to theattendant. Turning around, he looked toward the rest room. The two men were talking now. Meehan still looked angry but his revolver was put away now. Chris frowned. Wasn’t it odd that they were just ignoring him? What was to prevent him from—?
The thought evaporated as he looked at the ignition slot. Of course, what else?
The key was gone.
“Here you go,” the attendant said, giving Chris his change.
Chris took it, then turned around again to look at the two men. What were they talking about? And who were they working for? Obviously, they were American. The CIA? Why
him
? The project was important, yes, but he’d done nothing suspect. Anyway, what was happening was far more complicated than just a
His sense of relief evaporated as Meehan started for him, limping. His
knee
, Chris thought, alarmed. Impulsively, he drew back and bumped against the door. “Leave me alone,” he said, remembering the agonizing pain he’d felt when Meehan had twisted his arm behind his back.
Meehan didn’t reply but kept moving toward him. Knowing what the agent meant to do, Chris ducked away from him so that Meehan’s lunge for his arm missed.
The agent made a snarling noise and shouldered him hard, knocking him back against the door, which flew open. Chris fell back into the shadowy bathroom, catching a glimpse of the man in the gray tweed suit who started forward, saying Meehan’s name with an urgent tone.
Meehan didn’t stop, but bent over Chris and clutched at his jacket. Chris tried to pull away from him, accidentally bumping his right knee against the agent’s injured one. Meehan hissed in pain and jerked back. Chris tried to push himself up and the man in the tweed suit grabbed his left arm, pulling him to his feet. “Take it easy now,” he said.
A tone of kindness in the man’s voice made Chris relax for an instant. Then, seeing Meehan lunge at him, he tensed again. “Waita second,” he snapped, trying to turn from Meehan, pulling the other man around with him.
“
Hold
it,” the other man said.
Then Meehan had his right arm and was starting to pull it up behind him. A bolt of fury struck Chris and he rammed his knee deliberately against Meehan’s injured one. With a hoarse cry, Meehan jerked back; Chris turned to the other man. “I’ll go with you,” he said breathlessly, “but I don’t want my arm twisted—”
His voice froze in shock as he saw Meehan reaching under his suit coat. “No,” he murmured, shrinking back as Meehan snatched a revolver from a holster underneath his arm.
“Meehan, Jesus!” the other man said. Letting go of Chris, he stepped in front of him. Meehan tried to shove him aside, but the man grabbed Meehan and wouldn’t let go. Chris had an impulse to turn and run for his car while the two were struggling but he decided against it. Meehan might shoot him before he reached the car.
He stood, shaken, in front of the bathroom door, watching the two men grapple. “Damn it, Meehan!” the man in the tweed suit said. He glanced across his shoulder at Chris. “Get in your car and wait,” he ordered.
Chris needed no further encouragement. Hastily, he walked across the station. “You can’t
do
that,” he heard the man say to Meehan, and Meehan’s tight, infuriated response: “I
want
him, Nels.”
Chris got into the Pontiac and closed the door, shaking. The attendant came over, looking disturbed. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Shall I call the police?”
“They
are
the police,” Chris said. He knew it wasn’t true but it was close enough to satisfy the attendant. He swallowed, adding inanely, “What do I owe you?”
“Twenty-seven thirty,” the attendant said. “You needed a quart of oil, too.”
Chris started to make a groaning sound, then realized it didn’t matter; he wasn’t going any further anyway. Taking out his wallet, he took out a twenty and the ten and handed them to theattendant. Turning around, he looked toward the rest room. The two men were talking now. Meehan still looked angry but his revolver was put away now. Chris frowned. Wasn’t it odd that they were just ignoring him? What was to prevent him from—?
The thought evaporated as he looked at the ignition slot. Of course, what else?
The key was gone.
“Here you go,” the attendant said, giving Chris his change.
Chris took it, then turned around again to look at the two men. What were they talking about? And who were they working for? Obviously, they were American. The CIA? Why
him
? The project was important, yes, but he’d done nothing suspect. Anyway, what was happening was far more complicated than just a
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