feel her beginning, although she was still a few seconds away.
“What do you know about it?” he said.
More than I’ll ever be able to tell you
, Kate thought.
Then she went for the sky and took Paulie with her.
The old student lamp was off and they lay holding each other in their separate darks. For Paulie Walters, it had been a knowing,
drowning, passionate experience, a rising tide of wanting that had swept away the past days of bereavement. For these moments
at least, his grief had been lessened in the plain, lumpy bed of his boyhood.
It was very different for Kate Dinneson. Something seemed to be waiting for her in the dark, and it was less than good. She
was going through one of those panic attacks that turned simple breathing into an act of balance.
She felt vile. Why? She had done only what she had set out to do, which was to love this warm, caring, very special man, and
get him to love her in return. Whom had she hurt?
No one, she thought, but it was just the beginning.
So?
So we could end up with a very large investment in each other
.
Wonderful. What could be better?
If he finds out you killed his mother and father?
He won’t find out
, she told herself, and dropped it right there.
A faint, far-off ringing in the dark woke Paulie. A luminous digital clock said 1:07 A.M. but the nearest telephone was across the hall in his parents’ bedroom. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled away from the warm,
fragrant body beside him and went to take the call.
“Paulie,” said Tommy Cortlandt’s voice. “I guess I woke you. How are you doing?”
It was six hours earlier in Langley, and the CIA director usually worked late, so he was probably calling from his office.
“I’m all right, Tommy.” Paulie waited briefly. “Got anything good for me?”
“I’m not sure how good. But I’ve had some people checking back through our data base and they did come up with one small possibility.”
Cortlandt paused and the connection hummed between them.
“I have to tell you, I can see nothing but damage resulting from your even getting involved in this wild goose chase.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a deeply emotional thing that can get obsessive.”
Paulie stood naked in his parents’ bedroom with the phone against his ear. In the wavering moonlight he looked at the bed
in which his mother had died, and the broad stain left by his father’s blood on the pastel-colored rug.
“Not to mention the danger,” he heard Cortlandt say.
“The danger?” Paulie echoed dimly.
“Remember,” said Cortlandt’s distant voice, “you’ll be going after a killer you won’t know or see, while he’ll certainly be
knowing and seeing you.”
“Anything else?” Paulie asked.
“No.” The CIA director’s sigh carried over more than six thousand miles. “So here’s what I have. According to the still classified
records, only three of our own people ever knew your father killed the Falangas. Two of them were killed at the scene, and
we’ve been out of contact with the third since he retired to Switzerland about ten years ago. But I do have his last known
address and the name he was using at the time.”
“Go ahead.”
“He was calling himself William Meister and living at 15 Ausdorf. That’s in Zurich.”
Paulie scribbled the information on his mother’s telephone pad. “Who was he?”
“A good pro. Spent almost thirty years with us. Maybe a little burned out near the end, but who isn’t?”
“What did he have to do with the Falanga hit?”
“Whatever your dad told him. It was your father’s operation. A lot of people had very good reason to kill your father, Paulie.”
“Maybe. But not to kill my mother along with him.”
The CIA director left that one alone.
“Anyway,” said Paulie, “I appreciate what you’ve done.”
Paulie hung up and stood staring at the name and address he had written down. Too much depended on them. He wished he had
more.
Kate stirred as
“What do you know about it?” he said.
More than I’ll ever be able to tell you
, Kate thought.
Then she went for the sky and took Paulie with her.
The old student lamp was off and they lay holding each other in their separate darks. For Paulie Walters, it had been a knowing,
drowning, passionate experience, a rising tide of wanting that had swept away the past days of bereavement. For these moments
at least, his grief had been lessened in the plain, lumpy bed of his boyhood.
It was very different for Kate Dinneson. Something seemed to be waiting for her in the dark, and it was less than good. She
was going through one of those panic attacks that turned simple breathing into an act of balance.
She felt vile. Why? She had done only what she had set out to do, which was to love this warm, caring, very special man, and
get him to love her in return. Whom had she hurt?
No one, she thought, but it was just the beginning.
So?
So we could end up with a very large investment in each other
.
Wonderful. What could be better?
If he finds out you killed his mother and father?
He won’t find out
, she told herself, and dropped it right there.
A faint, far-off ringing in the dark woke Paulie. A luminous digital clock said 1:07 A.M. but the nearest telephone was across the hall in his parents’ bedroom. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled away from the warm,
fragrant body beside him and went to take the call.
“Paulie,” said Tommy Cortlandt’s voice. “I guess I woke you. How are you doing?”
It was six hours earlier in Langley, and the CIA director usually worked late, so he was probably calling from his office.
“I’m all right, Tommy.” Paulie waited briefly. “Got anything good for me?”
“I’m not sure how good. But I’ve had some people checking back through our data base and they did come up with one small possibility.”
Cortlandt paused and the connection hummed between them.
“I have to tell you, I can see nothing but damage resulting from your even getting involved in this wild goose chase.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a deeply emotional thing that can get obsessive.”
Paulie stood naked in his parents’ bedroom with the phone against his ear. In the wavering moonlight he looked at the bed
in which his mother had died, and the broad stain left by his father’s blood on the pastel-colored rug.
“Not to mention the danger,” he heard Cortlandt say.
“The danger?” Paulie echoed dimly.
“Remember,” said Cortlandt’s distant voice, “you’ll be going after a killer you won’t know or see, while he’ll certainly be
knowing and seeing you.”
“Anything else?” Paulie asked.
“No.” The CIA director’s sigh carried over more than six thousand miles. “So here’s what I have. According to the still classified
records, only three of our own people ever knew your father killed the Falangas. Two of them were killed at the scene, and
we’ve been out of contact with the third since he retired to Switzerland about ten years ago. But I do have his last known
address and the name he was using at the time.”
“Go ahead.”
“He was calling himself William Meister and living at 15 Ausdorf. That’s in Zurich.”
Paulie scribbled the information on his mother’s telephone pad. “Who was he?”
“A good pro. Spent almost thirty years with us. Maybe a little burned out near the end, but who isn’t?”
“What did he have to do with the Falanga hit?”
“Whatever your dad told him. It was your father’s operation. A lot of people had very good reason to kill your father, Paulie.”
“Maybe. But not to kill my mother along with him.”
The CIA director left that one alone.
“Anyway,” said Paulie, “I appreciate what you’ve done.”
Paulie hung up and stood staring at the name and address he had written down. Too much depended on them. He wished he had
more.
Kate stirred as
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