things. “On his biography. That’s what we’re working on. I’m his authorized biographer.” He seemed to be waiting for applause. “I have a contract. I have a letter—”
“I just bet he does,” whispered Pamela, from behind.
“And, anyway, he was going to put together some notes for me. Scribblings, really. On those yellow pads he likes. I just came to pick them up.”
Beck realized that the moment had arrived to do her job. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clark,” she began. “This really isn’t a good time.”
“Of course. Of course. I do understand. But I think he’d be rather upset if you turned me away—”
“I’m afraid we’ll just have to take that chance,” said Pamela, edging Rebecca out of the way. “You’ll have to come back.”
The smile broadened. “Pamela. You’re Pamela.”
“That’s right. And it’s not good to see me again, because I’ve never met you in my life.”
Lewiston Clark toyed with his beard. “He would have left something for me. Notes for the biography. Or he might have written ‘autobiography’ on it, but he means me.”
“Another time, Mr. Clark,” said Pamela, starting to swing the door. “I’ll be sure to tell him you came by.”
“I was his student,” the writer persisted. “This was years ago. I was his student, and then we worked together. I know the Ambassador’s memory is slipping, but I can’t believe he hasn’t told you about me.” Actually Jericho had never been a real ambassador. As Director of Central Intelligence, he had held the rank as a courtesy when traveling abroad, but nobody used the title except for people who wanted to pretend to be in the know. “I should say, by the way, that it’s an honor to work with him, and—”
As Pamela went through her chilly explanations again, the visitor’s eyes lifted, and widened, and Beck turned to see what had caught his attention. Up on the landing, Phil Agadakos had emerged from the sickroom. Jericho used to say that Dak had the best poker face he had ever seen; even so, a shock of recognition passed over his tired featuresbefore he suppressed it; and when Rebecca turned back to look at Lewiston Clark, she spotted the smiling wariness with which she herself had learned to soldier through unexpected encounters with creditors, or ex-lovers, or old adversaries.
They knew each other.
CHAPTER 6
The Interrogation
(i)
She left Pamela to deal with the pushy visitor, and crossed the creaky foyer to greet Dak as he descended the stairs. “How’s he doing?” she asked.
Phil Agadakos was not looking at her. He continued to stare at the bearded man being refused entrance by an adamant Pamela.
“Mr. Agadakos?”
“Yes?” Eyes still on the door, now successfully shut.
“Does he want me?”
“Hmmm?”
“What did he say? Is he awake?”
“He’s fine,” the old spy said, and Beck knew he was hardly listening. The blue eyes had lost their grandfatherly quality, regaining a shadow of the chill that she remembered from another age. “Fine,” he said again.
Pamela joined them. She had at last managed to get Lewiston Clark off the doorstep. “Are you staying for dinner, Dak?” she asked sweetly. “We have a freezer full of trout.”
He conjured a small pucker that was almost a smile. “Alas, duty calls.”
“Duty?”
“Work.”
“I thought you were retired,” teased Pamela, who could be warm and welcoming as spring, or chilly and forbidding as mountain snow.
“Retired from a particular job, yes. Retired from my line of work— well, one never really retires, does one?”
Pamela laughed, although nothing seemed funny, and headed off to the kitchen to join Audrey, who, in the continued absence of Jimmy Lobb, had taken on the household chores.
Dak waited until the kitchen door was firmly shut. His smile vanished. He turned back to Beck.
“Who was that man at the door? The redhead?”
“A writer. Clark, Lewiston Clark. He’s working on Jericho’s biography. Used to be
“I just bet he does,” whispered Pamela, from behind.
“And, anyway, he was going to put together some notes for me. Scribblings, really. On those yellow pads he likes. I just came to pick them up.”
Beck realized that the moment had arrived to do her job. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clark,” she began. “This really isn’t a good time.”
“Of course. Of course. I do understand. But I think he’d be rather upset if you turned me away—”
“I’m afraid we’ll just have to take that chance,” said Pamela, edging Rebecca out of the way. “You’ll have to come back.”
The smile broadened. “Pamela. You’re Pamela.”
“That’s right. And it’s not good to see me again, because I’ve never met you in my life.”
Lewiston Clark toyed with his beard. “He would have left something for me. Notes for the biography. Or he might have written ‘autobiography’ on it, but he means me.”
“Another time, Mr. Clark,” said Pamela, starting to swing the door. “I’ll be sure to tell him you came by.”
“I was his student,” the writer persisted. “This was years ago. I was his student, and then we worked together. I know the Ambassador’s memory is slipping, but I can’t believe he hasn’t told you about me.” Actually Jericho had never been a real ambassador. As Director of Central Intelligence, he had held the rank as a courtesy when traveling abroad, but nobody used the title except for people who wanted to pretend to be in the know. “I should say, by the way, that it’s an honor to work with him, and—”
As Pamela went through her chilly explanations again, the visitor’s eyes lifted, and widened, and Beck turned to see what had caught his attention. Up on the landing, Phil Agadakos had emerged from the sickroom. Jericho used to say that Dak had the best poker face he had ever seen; even so, a shock of recognition passed over his tired featuresbefore he suppressed it; and when Rebecca turned back to look at Lewiston Clark, she spotted the smiling wariness with which she herself had learned to soldier through unexpected encounters with creditors, or ex-lovers, or old adversaries.
They knew each other.
CHAPTER 6
The Interrogation
(i)
She left Pamela to deal with the pushy visitor, and crossed the creaky foyer to greet Dak as he descended the stairs. “How’s he doing?” she asked.
Phil Agadakos was not looking at her. He continued to stare at the bearded man being refused entrance by an adamant Pamela.
“Mr. Agadakos?”
“Yes?” Eyes still on the door, now successfully shut.
“Does he want me?”
“Hmmm?”
“What did he say? Is he awake?”
“He’s fine,” the old spy said, and Beck knew he was hardly listening. The blue eyes had lost their grandfatherly quality, regaining a shadow of the chill that she remembered from another age. “Fine,” he said again.
Pamela joined them. She had at last managed to get Lewiston Clark off the doorstep. “Are you staying for dinner, Dak?” she asked sweetly. “We have a freezer full of trout.”
He conjured a small pucker that was almost a smile. “Alas, duty calls.”
“Duty?”
“Work.”
“I thought you were retired,” teased Pamela, who could be warm and welcoming as spring, or chilly and forbidding as mountain snow.
“Retired from a particular job, yes. Retired from my line of work— well, one never really retires, does one?”
Pamela laughed, although nothing seemed funny, and headed off to the kitchen to join Audrey, who, in the continued absence of Jimmy Lobb, had taken on the household chores.
Dak waited until the kitchen door was firmly shut. His smile vanished. He turned back to Beck.
“Who was that man at the door? The redhead?”
“A writer. Clark, Lewiston Clark. He’s working on Jericho’s biography. Used to be
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