Corrie smiled when she thought of what would happen when the woman returned. Sarah looked like all the other straitlaced types who so despised working women like Corrie. All of her life, Corrie had sensed the disdain of those “virtuous women.” She’d wanted to fight back, but how can one spar with cold silence? Tonight the tables would be turned. It was a brazen way to do things, putting this woman Sarah on display, but Corrie didn’t question her instructions.
In fact, she rather relished them.
* * *
IN A QUIET coffeehouse a mile away, Sarah sat on a hard wooden bench and stared at the candle on the table. Her life—what there was of it—had somehow come to this strange and lonely point in time. Outside, the world went about its business. Cars honked on the street, young men and women laughed and shouted as they walked in the night. But Sarah’s universe was made up of this table and this room. Had she ever existed before this moment? She could hardly remember. Was I ever a child? she wondered. Did I ever laugh and dance and sing? Was there ever a time when I wasn’t afraid?
She didn’t ask these questions out of self-pity. She felt only bewilderment. In two weeks she’d lost touch with everything she’d once called familiar. Closing her eyes, she hungrily pictured her old bedroom, the mahogany nightstand, the brass alarm clock, the chipped china lamp. She went over every detail, the way one goes over a favorite photograph. Her old life, before fear had swept it away forever.
Strange, she thought, how one learns to keep going. Now her money was running low. She was alone. She didn’t know where she was headed or how she would get there. But she had learned one thing about herself: She was a survivor.
Today had proved it. The pain of Nick’s betrayal still cut like a knife; she would never recover from a wound that deep. Yet somehow she’d found the strength to move on. Surviving had turned into something automatic, something one did by way of instinct. All those false, pretty dreams of love had been left behind. Now she had only one clear goal in mind: to live long enough to end this nightmare.
In a few hours, she’d be with Geoffrey again. He would see to her safety. Moving in this world of shadows was second nature to him. And even if there was no love between them, she did believe he cared, just a little. It was the one hope she had left.
She dropped her head as a profound weariness settled on her shoulders. She’d walked for miles through the streets of Amsterdam. Both body and soul had been battered, and she longed to sleep, to forget. But as she closed her eyes, the memories returned: the taste of Nick’s mouth, the way he laughed so gently when they made love. Angrily she forced the images from her mind. What had once been love was now turning to cold fury. At Nick for betraying her. At herself for being unable to give up the memories. Or the longing.
He had used her, and she’d never forget that. Never.
* * *
“THERE’S NO WORD on Sarah,” said Potter as he walked into Nick’s Amsterdam hotel room. He was carrying two cups of coffee. He closed the door with his foot and handed a cup to Nick.
Nick watched Potter flop into a chair and wearily rub his eyes. They were both dead beat. And hungry. Somehow they’d forgotten about supper; probably a first for Potter, judging by his girth. Since leaving Berlin they’d consumed nothing more substantial than black coffee. A quick shot of caffeine was what they both needed, thought Nick as he downed his cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. It was going to be a sleepless night.
“Slow down, O’Hara,” said Potter. “You’re gonna eat up your stomach, gulping it fast like that!”
Nick grunted. “You don’t know my stomach.”
“Yeah, well, the last thing I need is to get blamed for your bleeding ulcer, too.” Potter glanced at his watch. “Damn. That deli down the street just closed. I could’ve used a sandwich.” He fished a package of broken crackers from his pocket. “Saltines. Want some?” Nick shook his head. Potter tossed the broken crackers into his mouth and crumpled the cellophane. “Bad for my blood pressure. Too much sodium but, what the hell, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry.” He brushed the crumbs off his suit and watched Nick pace the floor. “Look, things are moving fine without you having a nervous breakdown. Why don’t you just turn in?”
“I can’t.” Nick stopped at the window. The city of Amsterdam stretched out in an endless sea of light. “She’s out there somewhere. If I only knew where…”
Potter lighted a cigarette and strode across the room for an ashtray. After sixteen hours on the job, he was looking a little frayed. His suit was rumpled and his face was pastier than usual. But if he was discouraged by the recent turn of events, he didn’t show it. Potter, the bulldog. No style, no charm, just a thick body with a thick head, all dressed up in a polyester suit. “For God’s sake, O’Hara.” He sighed. “Turn in! Finding her is our job.”
Nick said nothing.
“Still don’t trust us,” said Potter.
“No. Why should I?”
Potter sat down and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Something’s always eating you, isn’t it? What is it about you career guys in the foreign service? You go around the world nursing your ulcers, whining about the idiots in Washington. Then you turn around in public and put on that patriotic face. Hell, no wonder our foreign policy’s so screwed up. It’s administered by schizophrenics.”
“Unlike central intelligence, which is run by sociopaths.”
Potter laughed. “Yeah? At least we get things done. Matter of fact, you might be interested to hear I just got off the line to Berlin. We’ve turned up some info on those two dead men.”
“Who were they?”
“The driver of the Citroën was German, once connected to Mossad. The neighbors had a notion he and Helga Steinberg were brother and sister, but it’s obvious now they were just associates.”
“Helga,” Nick murmured thoughtfully. “She’s the link we need. If we could find her…”
“Not a chance. Helga Steinberg’s too good. She knows every trick in the book.”
“What about that hit man?”
Potter sat back down and blew out a cloud of smoke. “The hit man was Dutch.”
“Any connection to Helga?”
“None. Obviously he was just carrying out a contract. But she got him first.” He grinned. “What a shot! I’d like to meet the broad someday. Hopefully not in a dark alley.”
“The man had no record at all?”
“Nothing. His papers indicated he was a sales rep for some legitimate company, here in Amsterdam. Did a lot of traveling. But there’s one interesting thing. It may be just the slipup we’ve been waiting for. Two days ago there was a transfer of funds to the man’s account. A big transfer. We traced the source to another firm, the F. Berkman company, also here in Amsterdam. They import and export coffee. F. Berkman has been in business ten years. It has offices in a dozen countries. Yet it barely shows a profit. Funny, don’t you think?”
“Who’s this F. Berkman?”
“No one knows. The company’s run by a board of directors. None of them have ever met the man.”
Nick stared at Potter. The same thought had occurred to them both. “Magus,” said Nick softly.
“That’s what I wondered.”
“Sarah’s right smack in his territory! If I were her, I’d be running like hell in the other direction!”
“Seems to me she’s done a lot of unexpected things. She’s sure not behaving like your everyday scared broad.”
“No,” said Nick, sinking tiredly onto the bed. “She’s not your everyday scared broad. She’s smarter.”
“You’re in love with her.”
“I suppose I am.”
Potter regarded him in wonderment. “She’s some change from Lauren.”
“You remember Lauren?”
“Yeah. Who could forget her? You were the envy of every guy in the embassy. Tough luck, about your divorce.”
“That was one hell of a mistake.”
“The divorce?”
“No. The ma
rriage.”
Potter laughed. “I’ll let you in on a secret, O’Hara. After two divorces I’ve finally figured it out. Men don’t need love. They need their meals cooked and their shirts ironed and maybe a little action three times a week. But they don’t need love.”
Nick shook his head. “That’s what I thought, too. Until a few weeks ago…”
The phone by the bed suddenly rang.
“Probably for me,” said Potter, stubbing out his cigarette. He started across the room, but Nick had already grabbed the receiver.
For a moment there was only silence. Then a man’s voice asked, “Mr. Nick O’Hara?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll find her at the Casa Morro. Midnight. Come alone.”
“Who is this?” demanded Nick.
“Get her out of Amsterdam, O’Hara. I’m counting on you.”
“Wait!”
The line went dead. Cursing, Nick slammed the receiver down and ran for the door.
“What—where you going?” called Potter.
“Some place called Casa Morro! She’ll be there!”
“Hold on!” Potter grabbed the phone. “Let me call Van Dam. We need backup—”
“I’m on my own on this one!”
“O’Hara!”
But Nick was already gone.
* * *
FIVE MINUTES AFTER Nick left his hotel, the old man received a call. It was his informant.
“She’s at the Casa Morro.”
“How do you know this?” asked the old man.
“O’Hara was called. We don’t know by whom. He’s already left. The Company will be following shortly—you haven’t got much time.”
“I’ll send Kronen for her now.”
“What about O’Hara? He’ll be in the way.”
The old man made a sound of dismissal. “O’Hara? A minor detail,” he said. “Kronen can deal with him.”
* * *
JONATHAN VAN DAM hung up and walked briskly from the phone booth. It had started out as a mild spring evening, but now a chill had crept in with the mist and he found himself buttoning his overcoat. The thought of returning immediately to the warmth of his hotel room was tempting. First, though, he had to stop at a drugstore. A simple excuse was all he needed, a bottle of antacid for an upset stomach, or perhaps some milk of magnesia for sluggish digestion. Should anyone ask, he would have a reason for his short absence from the hotel.
He stopped at an all-night pharmacy. The clerk barely looked up from his magazine as Van Dam walked in and surveyed the shelves of medicine. There was something comforting about seeing all those good American brands. It made him feel close to home. The doorbell tinkled and another customer wandered in, a man in a black overcoat. The man was hacking loudly as he paused by the cold remedies and rubbed his hands together. Van Dam selected a bottle of Maalox, for which he paid eight guilders, and walked out into the mist.
It took him ten minutes to reach the hotel. He opened the Maalox, poured a therapeutic dose down the drain and changed into his pajamas. Then he waited in bed by the phone.
In a short while, things would be happening at Casa Morro. He didn’t like to think about it. In all his years with the Company, he’d never once felt bullets whistle past his cheek, never once engaged in violence. He’d certainly never killed a man—in person, that is. When violence was necessary, he’d done it secondhand. Even his wife Claudia’s death had been arranged at a comfortable distance. Van Dam disliked the sight of blood. He had been a continent away when Claudia was shot by the prowler. By the time he returned home, the blood had been cleaned up and the floor waxed. It was as if nothing at all had changed, except that he was free, and also extremely wealthy.
But a month later he’d received a note. “The Viking has talked to me,” was all it said. The Viking. The man who’d pulled the trigger.
Van Dam had been paralyzed by fear. He’d thought of disappearing, to Mexico perhaps, or South America. But every morning he’d awakened in the bright sunshine of his bedroom and thought, No, I can’t leave my home, my comforts.... So he’d waited. And when the old man at last made contact, Van Dam had been ready to deal.
Information was all that was asked of him. It was minor data at first, the budget of a particular consular office, the takeoff schedule of transport planes. He suffered only a few pangs of guilt. After all, it wasn’t the KGB he was dealing with. The old man was merely an entrepreneur, unconcerned with global politics. He could not be considered the enemy. Van Dam could not be considered a traitor.
Before long, though, the demands grew serious. They always arrived without warning. Two rings on the telephone, then silence, and Van Dam would find a package left in the woods or a note stuffed in a tree hollow. He’d never laid eyes on the old man. He didn’t even know his real name. He was given a phone number, to be used only in emergencies. The few times he’d used it, the calls had been brief and mediated by a series of clicks and pauses— obviously a string of radio patches, designed to make tracing the calls impossible. Van Dam had found himself trapped by a captor who had no name and no face. But it was not a disagreeable arrangement. He was still safe. He had his house and his fine suits and his brandy. In truth, the old man was a most benign master.
* * *
“IT’S MIDNIGHT,” SAID SARAH. “Where is he?”
Corrie swept a strand of long black hair off her face and looked up from her desk. “Simon wants proof.”
“He’s seen my wedding ring.”
“Now he wants to see you. But from a safe distance. You’ll have to look the part. Go upstairs, second room on your right. Look in the closet. I think the green satin will suit you.”
“I don’t understand.”
The woman sat back and smiled. The lamplight fell fully on her face, and for the first time, Sarah saw the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Life hadn’t been kind to this woman. “Just put on the dress,” she said. “There’s no other way.”
Sarah climbed the stairs to a hall lighted dimly by a single Tiffany lamp. The room was unlocked. Inside she found a wide brass bed and a closet full of gowns. She changed into the green satin dress and glanced at herself in the mirror. The thin fabric clung to her breasts, and her nipples stood out plainly. But modesty meant nothing to her now. Staying alive was all that mattered. For that she’d wear anything.
Downstairs, Corrie eyed her critically. “You’re so thin,” she sniffed. “And take off your glasses. You can see without them, can’t you?”
“Well enough.”
Corrie gestured toward the front window. “Go, then. I’ll watch your purse. Take a book if you like, but sit with your face toward the street, so he can see you. It will not take long.”
The heavy velvet curtains parted. Sarah stepped through into a cloud of perfumed air. What struck her first were the faces, staring at her from the street, all of them strangers’. Was Geoffrey’s among them?
“Sit,” said one of the whores, nodding toward a chair. Sarah sat down and was handed a book. She opened the cover and looked intently at the first page. The book was written in Dutch. Even though she couldn’t read a word, it was still a shield between her and the men outside. She clung to it until her fingers ached.
For what seemed like forever, Sarah sat as still as a statue. She heard laughter drifting in from the street. Footsteps rained on the cobblestones. From the disco a block away came the steady beat of music. Time slowed down and stopped. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Where was he? Why was it taking so long?
Then, through the noise surrounding her, she heard her name. The book slid from her nerveless fingers and thudded to the floor. She felt the blood drain from her face as she looked up.
Nick was staring incredulously through the window. “Sarah?”
Her reaction was instantaneous. She ran. She bolted through the velvet curtains and dashed up the stairs to the room where she’d found the dress. It was mindless flight, the instinct of a desperate woman fleeing from pain.
She was afraid of him. He was out to hurt her, to hurt Geoffrey.
If she could just reach the room and lock him out…
But as she scrambled through the door, Nick grabbed her arm. She jerked herself free and flung the door in his face, but he’d already forced his way in. Stumbling backward, she retreated as far as she could, until the backs of her legs collided with the bed. She was trapped.
Shaking uncontrollably, she screamed at him, “Get out!”
He moved forward, his hands held out to her. “Sarah, listen to me—”
“You bastard, I hate you!”
He kept moving closer. The distance between them inexorably melted away. She swung at him. The blow struck him so hard her fingers left red welts on his cheek. She would have hit him again, but he grabbed her wrists and hauled her toward him.
“No,” he said, “listen to me. Dammit, will you listen!”
“You used me!”
“Sarah—”
“Was it fun? Or was it a chore, bedding the widow for the good old CIA?”
“Stop it!”
“Damn you, Nick!” she cried, flailing helplessly against his grasp. “I loved you! I loved you….” Somehow she found the strength to wrench free again, but her momentum carried her backward and she toppled across the bed. He came down on top of her, his hands closing over her wrists, his body covering hers. He was too heavy to push away. She couldn’t fight him any longer. All she could do was lie beneath him, sobbing and struggling vainly, until her strength was gone and she was limp and exhausted.
At last, when he knew all the fight had left her, he released her hands. Slowly, tenderly, he pressed his lips against her mouth.
“I still hate you,” she said weakly.
“And I love you,” he said.
“Don’t lie to me.”
He kissed her again, and this time his lips lingered, unwilling to part from hers. “I’m not lying, Sarah. I never have.”
“You were working for them all along—”
“No. You’re wrong. I’m not with them. They cornered me. Then they told me everything. Sarah, it’s over. You can stop running.”