idiot. I know the rules of the game." Against his will, a brittle laugh seeped from the back of his throat. "I helped write them."
The younger Cousin helped the blind man off with his coat. Tapping his white baton before his feet, the blind man made his way into the hotel room. "Well, Oskar," he called out, uncertain where in the room Oskar was, "in the end pushing him didn't do any harm, did it?"
Oskar said, "So: it is my opinion he would have come around eventually."
The younger man waved Oskar off. He had once seen the blind man lash out with his baton at the legs of someone who crossed him.
Oskar shrugged. "The important thing," he told the blind man, "is that he has come through with what you wanted. It is true what he said about the awakening signal, yes?"
The blind man found the seat with his baton and settled into it. The younger man extracted a red file from a briefcase and opened it on the table. The blind man ran his fingertips over several pages as if they were written in braille. "Of course the awakening signal is in his handwriting," he said. "That's how we first discovered that he knew it."
"If he had typed in the signal," said the younger man, "it might never have occurred to us to use him. He'd still be bringing home American mascara to that bitch of a wife of his."
"What about the postcard?" Oskar asked. "It is conceivable that the Americans will administer truth drugs to him. Every detail must check out if they are to swallow the whole story."
"There was a postcard/' the younger man confirmed. Only the sleeper in question never sent it."
"We arranged for it to be sent,” the blind man confessed smugly, "to fill in the single gap in the novator's knowledge. Since he and this sleeper of his aren't going to meet again, he will never find that out."
"So: alt that remains to be done now is to convince my clients to accept the deal, and then ship the novator and that whore of his out of the country, yes?"
"Your clients will agree to the deal' the blind man announced in a tone that left no room for doubt. And with a laugh that contained no trace of humor, he added, "I was never more sure of anything in my life."
Francis had come down with a head cold. It was serious enough to make him skip his Tuesday-night film. Wednesday morning he telephoned Mrs.
Cresswell to say he had a fever and would not be coming in. She put him on hold for a moment, which irritated Francis because it conveyed the impression that he required permission to stay away from the office.
Then Carroll came on the line. "Mrs. Cresswell tells me you are under the weather," he said. Something in Carroll s voice made Francis suspect that his cheek muscle was atwitch.
"I have a hundred and one," Francis informed him as if it were an accomplishment.
"A hundred and one what?" Carroll's mind was on other things.
"A hundred and one degrees of fever!" Francis cried into the mouthpiece.
"I can't see to drive."
"It's not enough," Carroll retorted. "Grab a cab." And lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, he confided, "We are starting to haul in our fish."
Francis swallowed. We are starting to haul in our fish! It was the most original operation he had ever been involved in in his career. If it succeeded, history would be diverted as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient stream!
"Did you hear what I said?" Carroll hissed into the phone.
"I shall be right in," Francis said with great dignity. "I only need to put on an appropriate tie."
For eighteen excruciating days, the Potter didn't hear a word from Oskar. After the first week went by in sinister silence he broke down and dialled B one-forty-one, twenty-one, but almost had his eardrum shattered by the peculiar whining sound that in Moscow indicates the number is out of order. Had it all been a hoax? Someone's idea of indoor sport? Or even worse, a trap designed to test his loyalty? But ii it were a trap, why would they wait to spring it?
In the state he was in, throwing pots
The younger Cousin helped the blind man off with his coat. Tapping his white baton before his feet, the blind man made his way into the hotel room. "Well, Oskar," he called out, uncertain where in the room Oskar was, "in the end pushing him didn't do any harm, did it?"
Oskar said, "So: it is my opinion he would have come around eventually."
The younger man waved Oskar off. He had once seen the blind man lash out with his baton at the legs of someone who crossed him.
Oskar shrugged. "The important thing," he told the blind man, "is that he has come through with what you wanted. It is true what he said about the awakening signal, yes?"
The blind man found the seat with his baton and settled into it. The younger man extracted a red file from a briefcase and opened it on the table. The blind man ran his fingertips over several pages as if they were written in braille. "Of course the awakening signal is in his handwriting," he said. "That's how we first discovered that he knew it."
"If he had typed in the signal," said the younger man, "it might never have occurred to us to use him. He'd still be bringing home American mascara to that bitch of a wife of his."
"What about the postcard?" Oskar asked. "It is conceivable that the Americans will administer truth drugs to him. Every detail must check out if they are to swallow the whole story."
"There was a postcard/' the younger man confirmed. Only the sleeper in question never sent it."
"We arranged for it to be sent,” the blind man confessed smugly, "to fill in the single gap in the novator's knowledge. Since he and this sleeper of his aren't going to meet again, he will never find that out."
"So: alt that remains to be done now is to convince my clients to accept the deal, and then ship the novator and that whore of his out of the country, yes?"
"Your clients will agree to the deal' the blind man announced in a tone that left no room for doubt. And with a laugh that contained no trace of humor, he added, "I was never more sure of anything in my life."
Francis had come down with a head cold. It was serious enough to make him skip his Tuesday-night film. Wednesday morning he telephoned Mrs.
Cresswell to say he had a fever and would not be coming in. She put him on hold for a moment, which irritated Francis because it conveyed the impression that he required permission to stay away from the office.
Then Carroll came on the line. "Mrs. Cresswell tells me you are under the weather," he said. Something in Carroll s voice made Francis suspect that his cheek muscle was atwitch.
"I have a hundred and one," Francis informed him as if it were an accomplishment.
"A hundred and one what?" Carroll's mind was on other things.
"A hundred and one degrees of fever!" Francis cried into the mouthpiece.
"I can't see to drive."
"It's not enough," Carroll retorted. "Grab a cab." And lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, he confided, "We are starting to haul in our fish."
Francis swallowed. We are starting to haul in our fish! It was the most original operation he had ever been involved in in his career. If it succeeded, history would be diverted as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient stream!
"Did you hear what I said?" Carroll hissed into the phone.
"I shall be right in," Francis said with great dignity. "I only need to put on an appropriate tie."
For eighteen excruciating days, the Potter didn't hear a word from Oskar. After the first week went by in sinister silence he broke down and dialled B one-forty-one, twenty-one, but almost had his eardrum shattered by the peculiar whining sound that in Moscow indicates the number is out of order. Had it all been a hoax? Someone's idea of indoor sport? Or even worse, a trap designed to test his loyalty? But ii it were a trap, why would they wait to spring it?
In the state he was in, throwing pots
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