impose a cold neutrality on De Vries's emotions, warning over and over again that his inner self would explode one day and betray him. It was a useless plea, for Freddie was a demonic romantic, riding the blinding white crest of the wave, not understanding the power beneath, preferring the shining armor of a surfing Siegfried to the force of an unseen Neptune below.
His wife, Karin, understood. How often would she and Harry talk in Amsterdam, alone, while Freddie went out playing the outrageous role of a diamond merchant, gulling players of the darkest arts of espionage until they opened up to him .. . temporarily. That very image ultimately destroyed him, for his hatred led him to one more kill he shouldn't have made.
It was the end of the minor legend that was Freddie de V. Harry had tried to comfort Karin, but she was beyond consolation. She knew too well what had led to his death, and she swore she would operate differently.
"Forget it!" Harry had yelled.
"You're not going to make any difference, can't you understand that?"
"No, .1 can't," she had replied.
"To do nothing is to admit that Freddie meant nothing. Can't you. understand that, my dear Harry?"
He had no answer then. His only impulse was to take this woman, this intellectual companion he felt so deeply for, into his arms and love her. But it was not the time, nor, perhaps, would it ever be. She had lived with her dead Freddie, loved her dead Freddie. Harry Latham had been that man's superior, but he was not his equal.
And now, nearly five years later, she had come back into his life from Paris. Even more remarkably, as the guardian of his brother, Drew, who was marked for execution! Jesus Christ .. . no, he had to impose his legendary control on himself. Maybe it was the ache in his head that seemed to grow stronger, that allowed his frustration to surface when normally it wouldn't. Regardless, he would fly to Paris in the morning on a diplomatic jet to a private field at De Gaulle Airport, and be met by Karin de Vries in an unmarked embassy vehicle.
He wondered what he would say to her. Would he be foolish enough, when he saw her, to say things he shouldn't say? It didn't much matter.. .. The ache in his head was pulsating. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and took two more aspirin.
Glancing at himself in the mirror, he abruptly looked a second time.
A pale rash was developing above his left temple, partially obscured by his hairline. His nervous system was making its mark literally.
It would go away with a mild antibiotic or a few days of diminished tension; perhaps the sight of Karin de Vries would hasten its disappearance.
There was a knock on the suite's door, probably a maid or a steward looking after his needs; it was early evening, and such were the courtesies of the better London hotels. Early evening, he mused, walking out into the sitting room. Where had the day gone?
Gone? Wasted was the better word, for he had spent ten hours being interrogated by his tribunal. Ad nauseum, they had questioned him about the information he had brought out of the Brbderschaft valley rather than accepting it and setting the machinery in motion. To make matters even more aggravating, the three-man panel was augmented by several senior intelligence officers from the U.K." the U.S." and France, all querulous, argumentative, and arrogant. Wasn't it conceivable that he had been fed disinformation, erroneous data that could easily be denied on the outside possibility that Alexander Lassiter was a double agent? Of course it was conceivable! he had said. Disinformation, misinformation, human or computer error, wishful thinking, fantasizing-anything was possible! It was their job to confirm' or deny, not his. His work was finished; he had delivered the material, it was their function to evaluate it.
Harry reached the door and spoke.
"Who is it?"
"A new old friend, Sting," came the reply from the corridor.
Catbird! thought Latham, instantly freezing his reaction. The Catbird no one at the Agency had ever heard of Harry welcomed this strange intruder; he had been too worn out, too wasted to think clearly last night when the CIA impostor had paid him a visit.
"Just a moment," he said in a louder voice.
"I'm dripping wet from a shower, I'll go put on a robe." Latham ran first to the bathroom, threw handfuls of water over his hair and face,