He had been at the office most of the night, and had gone home only to shave and change his shirt. Now the guard in the lobby looked surprised and said, "Good morning, Mr. Carroll--you back already?"
"An angel appeared unto me in a dream and said, 'Get back to work, you lazy son of a bitch.' Good morning."
The guard laughed. "Mr. Maxell's in your office, sir."
Anthony frowned. Pete Maxell was supposed to be with Luke. Had something gone wrong?
He ran up the stairs.
Pete was sitting in the chair opposite Anthony's desk, still dressed in ragged clothes, a smear of dirt partly covering the red birthmark on his face. As Anthony walked in he jumped up, looking scared.
"What happened?" Anthony said.
"Luke decided he wanted to be alone."
Anthony had planned for this. "Who took over?"
"Steve Simons has him under surveillance, and Betts is there for backup."
Anthony nodded thoughtfully. Luke had got rid of one agent, he could get rid of another. "What about Luke's memory?"
"Completely gone."
Anthony took off his coat and sat behind his desk. Luke was causing problems, but Anthony had expected as much, and he was ready.
He looked at the man opposite. Pete was a good agent, competent and careful, but inexperienced. However, he was fanatically loyal to Anthony. All the young agents knew that Anthony had personally organized an assassination: the killing of the Vichy French leader Admiral Darlan, in Algiers on Christmas Eve in 1942. CIA agents did kill people, but not often, and they regarded Anthony with awe. But Pete owed him a special debt. On his job application form, Pete had lied, saying he had never been in trouble with the law, and Anthony had later found out that he had been fined for soliciting a prostitute as a student in San Francisco. Pete should have been fired for that, but Anthony had kept the secret, and Pete was eternally grateful.
Now Pete was miserable and ashamed, feeling he had let Anthony down. "Relax," Anthony said, adopting a fatherly tone. "Just tell me exactly what happened."
Pete looked grateful and sat down again. "He woke up crazy," he began. "Yelling 'Who am I?' and stuff like that. I got him calmed down . . . but I made a mistake. I called him Luke."
Anthony had told Pete to observe Luke but not to give him any information. "No matter--it's not his real name."
"Then he asked who I was, and I said, 'I'm Pete.' It just came out, I was so concerned to stop him yelling." Pete was mortified to confess these blunders, but in fact they were not grave, and Anthony waved aside his apologies. "What happened next?"
"I took him to the gospel shop, just the way we planned it. But he asked shrewd questions. He wanted to know if the pastor had seen him before."
Anthony nodded. "We shouldn't be surprised. In the war, he was the best agent we ever had. He's lost his memory but not his instincts." He rubbed his face with his right hand, tiredness catching up with him.
"I kept trying to steer him away from inquiring into his past. But I think he figured out what I was doing. Then he told me he wanted to be alone."
"Did he get any clues? Did anything happen that might lead him to the truth?"
"No. He read an article in the paper about the space program, but it didn't seem to mean anything special to him."
"Did anyone notice anything strange about him?"
"The pastor was surprised Luke could do the crossword. Most of those bums can't even read."
This was going to be difficult, but manageable, as Anthony had expected. "Where is Luke now?"
"I don't know, sir. Steve will call in as soon as he gets a chance."
"When he does, get back there and join up with him. Whatever happens, Luke mustn't get away from us."
"Okay."
The white phone on Anthony's desk rang, his direct line. He stared at it for a moment. Not many people had the number.
He picked it up.
"It's me," said Elspeth's voice. "What's happened?"
"Relax," he said. "Everything is under control."
7.30 A.M.
The missile is 68 feet 7 inches high, and it weighs 64,000 pounds on the launch pad--but most of that is fuel. The satellite itself is only 2 feet 10 inches long, and weighs just 18 pounds.
The shadow followed Luke for a quarter of a mile as he walked south on Eighth Street.
It was now full light and, although the street was busy, Luke easily kept track of the gray homburg hat bobbing among the heads crowded together at street corners and bus stops. But after he crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, it disappeared from view. Once again, he wondered if he might be imagining things. He had woken up in a bewildering world where anything might be true. Perhaps the notion that he was being tailed was only a fantasy. But he did not really believe that, and a minute later he spotted the olive raincoat coming out of a bakery.
"Toi, encore," he said under his breath. "You again." He wondered briefly why he had spoken in French, then he put the thought out of his mind. He had more pressing concerns. There was no further room for doubt: two people were following him in a smoothly executed relay operation. They had to be professionals.
He tried to figure out what that meant. Homburg and Raincoat might be cops--he could have committed a crime, murdered someone while drunk. They could be spies, KGB or CIA, although it seemed unlikely that a deadbeat such as he could be involved in espionage. Most probably he had a wife he had left many years ago, who now wanted to divorce him and had hired private detectives to get proof of how he was living. (Maybe she was French.) None of the options was attractive. Yet he felt exhilarated. They probably knew who he was. Whatever the reason for their tailing him, they must know something about him. At the very least, they knew more than he.
He decided he would split the team, then confront the younger man.
He stepped into a smoke shop and bought a pack of Pall Malls, paying with some of the change he had stolen. When he went outside, Raincoat had disappeared and Homburg had taken over again. He walked to the end of the block and turned the corner.
A Coca-Cola truck was parked at the curb, and the driver was unloading crates and carrying them into a diner. Luke stepped into the road and walked to the far side of the truck, positioning himself where he could watch the street without being seen by anyone coming around the corner.
After a minute, Homburg appeared, walking quickly, checking in the doorways and windows, looking for Luke.
Luke dropped to the ground and rolled under the truck. Looking along the sidewalk at ground level, he picked out the blue suit pants and tan oxfords of his shadow.
The man quickened his pace, presumably concerned that Luke had disappeared off the street. Then he turned and came back. He went into the diner and came out a minute later. He walked around the truck, then returned to the sidewalk and continued on. After a moment, he broke into a run.
Luke was pleased. He did not know how he had learned this game, but he seemed to be good at it. He crawled to the front of the truck and scrambled to his feet. He looked around the nearside fender. Homburg was still hurrying away.
Luke crossed the sidewalk and turned the corner. He stood in the doorway of an electrical store. Looking at a record player for eighty bucks, he opened the pack of cigarettes, took one out, and waited, keeping an eye on the street.
Raincoat appeared.
He was tall--about Luke's height--and his build was athletic, but he was about ten years younger, and his face wore an anxious look. Luke's instinct told him the man was not very experienced.
He spotted Luke and gave a nervous start. Luke looked straight at him. The man looked away and continued walking, edging to the outside of the sidewalk to pass Luke, as anyone might to avoid contact with a bum.
Luke stepped into his path. He put the cigarette into his mouth and said, "Got a light, buddy?"
Raincoat did not know what to do. He hesitated, looking worried. For a moment, Luke thought he would walk by without speaking; but then he made a quick decision, and st
opped. "Sure," he said, trying to act casual. He reached into the pocket of his raincoat, took out a book of matches, and struck one.
Luke took the cigarette out of his mouth and said, "You know who I am, don't you?"
The young man looked scared. His training course had not prepared him for a surveillance subject who started to question the shadow. He stared at Luke, dumbstruck, until the match burned down. Then he dropped it and said, "I don't know what you're talking about, pal."
"You're following me," Luke said. "You must know who I am."
Raincoat continued to act innocent. "Are you selling something?"
"Am I dressed like a salesman? Come on, level with me."
"I'm not following anyone."
"You've been behind me for an hour, and I'm lost!"
The man made a decision. "You're out of your mind," he said. He tried to walk past Luke.
Luke moved sideways, blocking his path.
"Excuse me, please," Raincoat said.
Luke was not willing to let the man go. He grabbed him by the lapels of the raincoat and slammed him against the shop window, rattling the glass. Frustration and rage boiled over. "Putain de merde!" he yelled.
Raincoat was younger and fitter than Luke, but he offered no resistance. "Get your damn hands off me," he said in a level voice. "I'm not following you."
"Who am I?" Luke screamed at him. "Tell me, who am I?"
"How should I know?" He grasped Luke by the wrists, trying to shake his hold on the lapels of the raincoat.
Luke shifted his grip and took the man by the throat. "I'm not taking your bullshit," he rasped. "You're going to tell me what's going on."
Raincoat lost his cool, eyes widening in fear. He struggled to loosen Luke's grip on his throat. When that failed, he began to punch Luke's ribs. The first blow hurt, and Luke winced, but he retained his hold and moved in close, so that subsequent punches had little force. He pressed his thumbs into his opponent's throat, choking him. Terror showed in the man's eyes as his breath was cut off.
Behind Luke, the frightened voice of a passer-by said, "Hey, what's going on here?"
Suddenly Luke was shocked at himself. He was killing the guy! He relaxed his grip. What was the matter with him? Was he a murderer?
Raincoat broke Luke's hold. Luke was dismayed by his own violence. He let his hands fall to his side.
The guy backed away. "You crazy bastard," he said. The fear had not left his eyes. "You tried to kill me!"
"I just want the truth, and I know you can tell me it."
Raincoat rubbed his throat. "Asshole," he said. "You're out of your goddamn mind."
Luke's anger rose again. "You're lying!" he yelled. He reached out to grab the man again.
Raincoat turned and ran away.
Luke could have chased him, but he hesitated. What was the point? What would he do if he caught the guy--torture him?
Then it was too late. Three passers-by had stopped to watch the fracas and were now standing at a safe distance, staring at Luke. After a moment, he walked away, heading in the direction opposite to that taken by his two shadows.
He felt worse than ever, shaky after his violent outburst and sick with disappointment at the result. He had met two people who probably knew who he was, and he had got no information.
"Great job, Luke," he said to himself. "You achieved precisely nothing."
And he was alone again.
8 A.M.
The Jupiter C missile has four stages. The largest part is a high-performance version of the Redstone ballistic missile. This is the booster, or first stage, an enormously powerful engine that has the gargantuan task of freeing the missile from the mighty pull of earth's gravity.
Dr. Billie Josephson was running late.
She had got her mother up, helped her into a quilted bathrobe, made her put on her hearing aid, and sat her in the kitchen with coffee. She had woken her seven-year-old, Larry, praised him for not wetting the bed, and told him he had to shower just the same. Then she returned to the kitchen.
Her mother, a small, plump woman of seventy known as Becky-Ma, had the radio on loud. Perry Como was singing "Catch a Falling Star." Billie put sliced bread in the toaster, then laid the table with butter and grape jelly for Becky-Ma. For Larry she poured cornflakes into a bowl, sliced a banana over the cereal, and filled a jug with milk.
She made a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and put it in Larry's lunch box with an apple, a Hershey bar, and a small bottle of orange juice. She put the lunch box in his school bag and added his home reading book and his baseball glove, a present from his father.
On the radio, a reporter was interviewing sightseers on the beach near Cape Canaveral who were hoping to see a rocket launch.
Larry came into the kitchen with his shoelaces untied and his shirt buttons done up awry. She straightened him out, got him started on his cornflakes, and began to scramble eggs.
It was eight-fifteen, and she was almost caught up. She loved her son and her mother, but a secret part of her resented the drudgery of taking care of them.
The radio reporter was now interviewing an Army spokesman. "Aren't these rubberneckers in danger? What if the rocket goes off course and crash-lands right here on the beach?"
"There's no danger of that, sir," came the reply. "Every rocket has a self-destruct mechanism. If it veers off course, it will be blown up in mid-air."
"But how can you blow it up after it's already taken off?"
"The explosive device is triggered by a radio signal sent by the range safety officer."
"That sounds dangerous in itself. Some radio ham fooling around might accidentally set it off."
"The mechanism responds only to a complex signal, like a code. These rockets are expensive, we don't take any risks."
Larry said, "I have to make a space rocket today. Can I take the yoghurt pot to school?"
"No, you can't, it's half full," she told him.
"But I have to take some containers! Miss Page will be mad if I don't." He was near to tears with the suddenness of a seven-year-old.
"What do you need containers for?"
"To make a space rocket! She told us last week."
Billie sighed. "Larry, if you had told me last week, I would have saved a whole bunch of stuff for you. How many times must I ask you not to leave things until the last minute?"
"Well, what am I gonna do?"
"I'll find you something. We'll put the yoghurt in a bowl, and . . . what kind of containers do you want?"
"Rocket shape."
Billie wondered if schoolteachers ever thought about the amount of work they created for busy mothers when they blithely instructed children to bring things from home. She put buttered toast on three plates and served the scrambled eggs, but she did not eat her own. She went around the house and got a tube-shaped cardboard detergent container, a plastic liquid-soap bottle, an ice-cream carton, and a heart-shaped chocolate box.
Most of the packs showed families using the products--generally a pretty housewife, two happy kids, and a pipe-smoking father in the background. She wondered if other women resented the stereotype as much as she did. She had never lived in a family like that. Her father, a poor tailor in Dallas, had died when she was a baby, and her mother had brought up five children in grinding poverty. Billie herself had been divorced since Larry was two. There were plenty of families without a man, where the mother was a widow, a divorcee, or what used to be called a fallen woman. But they did not show such families on the cornflakes box.
She put all the containers in a shopping bag for Larry to carry to school.
"Oh, boy, I bet I have more than anyone!" he said. "Thanks, Mom."
Her breakfast was cold, but Larry was happy.
A car horn tooted outside, and Billie quickly checked her appearance in the glass of a cupboard door. Her curly black hair had been hastily combed, she had no makeup on except the eyeliner she had failed to remove last night, and she was wearing an oversized pink sweater . . . but
the effect was kind of sexy.
The back door opened and Roy Brodsky came in. Roy was Larry's best friend, and they greeted one another joyously, as if they had been apart for a month, instead of a few hours. Billie had noticed that all Larry's friends were boys, now. In kindergarten it had been different, boys and girls playing together indiscriminately. She wondered what psychological change took place, around the age of five, that made children prefer their own gender.
Roy was followed by his father, Harold, a good-looking man with soft brown eyes. Harold Brodsky was a widower: Roy's mother had died in a car wreck. Harold taught chemistry at George Washington University. Billie and Harold were dating. He looked at her adoringly and said, "My God, you look gorgeous." She grinned and kissed his cheek.
Like Larry, Roy had a shopping bag full of cartons. Billie said to Harold, "Did you have to empty half the containers in your kitchen?"
"Yes. I have little cereal bowls of soap flakes, chocolates, and processed cheese. And six toilet rolls without the cardboard cylinder in the middle."
"Darn, I never thought of toilet rolls!"
He laughed. "I wonder, would you like to have dinner at my place tonight?"
She was surprised. "You're going to cook?"
"Not exactly. I thought I'd ask Mrs. Riley to make a casserole that I could warm up."
"Sure," she said. She had not had dinner at his house before. They normally went to the movies, to concerts of classical music, or to cocktail parties at the homes of other university professors. She wondered what had prompted him to invite her.
"Roy's going to a cousin's birthday party tonight, and he'll sleep over. We'll have a chance to talk without interruption."
"Okay," Billie said thoughtfully. They could talk without interruption at a restaurant, of course. Harold had another reason for inviting her to his house when his child would be away for the night. She glanced at him. His expression was open and candid--he knew what she was thinking. "That'll be great," she said.
"I'll pick you up around eight. Come on, boys!" He shepherded the children out through the back door. Larry left without saying goodbye, which Billie had learned to take as a sign that all was well. When he was anxious about something, or coming down with an infection, he would hang back and cling to her.