Fiction 1, Chapters 19 & 20

Chapter 19

"I am a wall, and my breasts like towers: then

was I in his eyes as one that found favour."

Song of Solomon, King James' Bible

EDMONTON, ALBERTA:

Diana seemed somewhat puzzled at her superior's demeanor on the ride back, especially when Langerhans simply walked off after the limo reached our hotel. It was nothing that he did or said __more of a lack of behavior than anything strange.

I hadn't given him a chance to arrange for someone to rescue Polewicz before we left, either. The odds were even, I figured, whether he would call his security people to do so immediately, or simply return to cut him loose personally. The security man had started to struggle a bit as the other lifted him up at my direction, but all that had got gotten him was a dose of pepper spray and a quick tie-up for his trouble.

Diana and I walked side by side into the lobby, toward the elevators. Jack lagged about twenty feet behind while his father garaged the vehicle.

"What was wrong with Mr. Langerhans, Mr. Carter?" she asked.

"My Christian name is Alan, please. I believe that he was still concerned about one of his associates who was taken ill at the party. Lester Polewicz. Do you know him?"

"I've met him, but when I'm in town I tend to hang with the technical crew."

"Yes. Well, you know why Theo asked you to accompany us, don't you? So that you might give me an overview __over the next few days, or so__ of the Institute's general plan to combat the environmental damage that has been done."

"But that's the strange part; I'm hardly ever here. Most of what I know is hearsay from the other biologists on the project, and we're so specialized that I really don't know any of the technical details."

"Well, Diana, I would say that makes you an ideal spokesperson for your Institute. That is the way you say it over here, I think: 'spokesperson.' You have the background to grasp the concepts fully, but not the intimate knowledge to betray any patentable secrets."

"I suppose so, but it still seems strange."

"What about that nightcap?" I urged.

"No, Alan. I think I'm ready for a hot bath and a good night's sleep; nothing more."

"Fine. Might we meet for breakfast tomorrow at ten."

"Sure. I have to kill time anyway, while my data runs through a preliminary assessment __just in case they have questions. Making notes on a glorified tugboat bouncing over the ocean blue is not conducive to good penmanship. They've tried to fax me stuff to explain to them when I'm in San Diego, but it's useless."

"What would you say to a swim afterwards, at the Mall."

"Would you make me go up those humongous water slides?" Her eyes lit up like blue headlights.

"At gunpoint." -"This is my rifle; this is my gun...."-

"Great. The hotel has its own entrance on the lower level. So if we wear our suits to breakfast, we don't have to waste any time."

"Won't that bother the hotel; bathing suits in the dining room?"

"Oh, no," she laughed. "I meant under your sweats or a robe. We just bring a bath towel each from our rooms. You know?"

"I know," I said. "Until then." This time I did kiss her hand, keeping our eyes in contact. And I didn't even lick her palm. Sensitivity pays off, I'm told.

It was almost time to call the CIA. Jack had my briefcase with the wig and beard as well as the camcorder, and his father was bringing the "black box" from the Limo trunk up to the room. While Jack was rigging up the camcorder to the TV set for a run-through, I took the telephone equipment back down into the garage and put on the coveralls, along with the hair.

It wasn't likely that anyone was set up to snoop us yet, but I kept my eyes peeled anyway. The main telephone break-out box was a breeze to locate in the sub-basement and there was nobody to even ask for my ID. -Disappointing that; when I've got so much ID to show off-

Gerardo Laguna had questions to ask. A barter system exists in Washington, D.C., among the lower class scribblers __I hesitate to use the word journalists. There's lots and lots of dirt around about lots and lots of people you never heard of, and that dirt is mostly traded around for other dirt. Until somebody suddenly becomes famous or notorious and their dirt turns to gold.

It was now around one in the morning in D.C., and the vampires should just be licking their fangs at this point in their workday. I've only been involved in character assassination for a short time now __more for self-defense than anything else__ but since Gerardo Laguna doesn't mind giving the scoop to some of the other sleazoids, our sleaze-hound has quite a credit balance in that community already.

"That's right, Derek Bracken, Division Chief, CIA, whatever you can got. Get back to the 800 number pronto, Ok?"

The Chevy was parked at a garage three blocks away. When I got to the motor home, Allison gave me some of the latest info from the data banks on Morgen Industries. I shoved it in the briefcase and set up a transmission for dispatch the next day to the Mounties. It was almost time to get them involved. The CIA or Treasury Seal would ensure that it would receive serious attention, even if most of the supporting data was circumstantial. Whichever organization to attribute as the source of the e-mail message was still an open question. But the rocket itself was all set to go out under either aegis we chose at the time.

I got back to the hotel about three AM and set the alarm for six. Hardly worth the bother.

Breakfast? Forget about breakfast.

Oh, it was good, all right. Grapefruit, omelet and coffee. What's not to like. I had brought a terrycloth robe for each of us, for the walk back to the hotel. It turned out __on asking__ that they were provided as a service for guests; although not usually at the front desk.

The truth is that I don't remember anything Diana and I talked about at breakfast. Nothing was said about business; I can remember that much. What's the expression? Small talk? Chit-chat? Whatever!

The beach is fake and the six-foot waves rolling in are all fresh water, powered by electricity. Which is appropriately referred to in Canada, as "hydro"; come to think of it. But the waterslides are gigantic and the palm trees look real. They probably are real, too. The glass dome that tops the Waterpark's seven acres is sixteen stories high and they brag that the temperature never deviates from 30 Celsius or 86 Fahrenheit.

We rented a couple of chaise lounges and stripped down to our suits as I stood, gawking, in the middle of the largest enclosed shopping mall in the world. The largest one; in a little city like Edmonton, no less. My boxer shorts came from a heavier era, and I thought they looked a little weird with the strings pulled up tight so as not to fall down.

No such problems with Diana's suit. I suppose it was conservative enough by today's standards; not a string bikini. But it and she were doing wonderful things for my hormones. Listen to what I'm going to say about the outfit. I'll save the goodies in the package for later.

The top piece covered her from rib-cage to collarbone, technically. The back, sides and most of the front were pretty much sheer netting, concealing nothing. Black circles of opaque material covered a good deal of each individual breast, but so finely that the delicate fibrous structure of the erect nipples showed as though the fabric was nothing more than sprayed lacquer on her body. A little sag, maybe; just enough for provenance, as they say about great art. No implants there.

The bottom covered her about halfway up her abdomen and was cut high over full hips, joined to the top on each side, and extending down to cover her mons veneris with the same black fabric that emphasized more than it concealed. She took my hand and led me to the water. I can't do justice in describing her hips. Some might say they were too heavy, or that there was a mild case of love handles, just barely discernable to the appreciative eye.

All I can say is that I felt relieved that my suit was too big and the water was cool.

Diana and I really waded more than swam, and then climbed eight flights of stairs to spend the next twenty seconds hydro-planing down to the mother waters. But that starts to wear thin __especially after the fourth time. I am too goddamn old; that's all there is to it. There are twenty-two slides, altogether, but the biggest one was enough for me.

Pretty soon we throttled down to my speed and hit the lounge chairs with a couple of sodas in hand. After a while Diana's fingers stroked my thigh, tracing the course of thirty-two stitches.

"Where did you get this, Alan? It still looks angry." There was more concern than curiosity in her voice.

"You'd be angry too," I said, "all things considered. I should love to give you a romantic story about my war wound, but this was just an accident. Something stupid with a glass panel." -Something that would instantly identify me to the CIA, too. Damn! When will I learn?-

Her stroking hand decided me. "Speaking of that, love, I feel the need for a cold swim. Join me?"

"Sure. Getting hot?" She asked the last with a good-natured smile in her eyes. But her hand gripped the inner muscle of my lower thigh as she said that; encouraging, even a little intimate, just not immediately provocative. I stood, straddling her chaise, and lifted her body clear to stand her on the lounger, putting my lips on the same level as her breasts. My hands, with spread thumbs, slowly descended from under her arms, past her breasts, and outward below the waist, to rest lightly on the sides of her hips.

It is true that my sensitive thumbs barely stroked the outer edge of her aureoles in passing, and the outstretched fingers of my hands softly cupped the firmness of the center of each hip. But the whole mating dance, so far, still fell far short of copping a feel. Titillating, sensual, but not violating her essential privacy.

Diana seemed like a woman of quality, well worth a certain degree of delicacy in my approach. Obviously, she was well aware of and comfortable with her sexual appeal. The bathing suit was no habit to be worn by a nun. But I could sense that the stronger our attraction, the more reserved she would be. Until she made up her own mind about me. When she did, we would come together as quickly as a stroke of lightning.

I saw her back to her room and took the key from her to open the door.

Son of a bitch; it was a Roman room. There will be wet dreams tonight, I thought. More about that later.

She brushed by me and lightly kissed me on the lips, before slowly closing the door. Leaning between it and the wall at the doorway, Diana Stuart was one of the most beautiful slices of life it has ever been my frustrated pleasure to watch slowly disappear.

The door stopped before it closed completely. Her arm and hand extended and I reluctantly placed the key in her palm, closing her long, tapering fingers over it.

"Thank you for a lovely morning, Diana. I have to be out this afternoon, but I would appreciate a run-through on the Institute this evening, if you are free."

"I'd love nothing more," she said. "About five?"

"Fine. There is a small conference room in my suite. Are you free all evening?"

The suite was really three executive bedrooms with interconnecting doors. The center room had the beds removed and replaced with a large, oblong table and eight board-room chairs. The hotel also has luxury "Theme" rooms with glitzy decor, like Arabian, or Hollywood, or Canadian Rail, which has Pullman-style sleeping berths, a dome shaped ceiling and a fully operational signal crossing.

Or a Roman room, like Diana's, with a big round bed and a mirrored Jacuzzi.

"I might be," she said, interrupting herself with a tantalizing lick of her lips. "What did you have in mind?"

What I really was thinking of was watching myself soap her naked body in the mirror. -Ah, well; next time- "There is a wonderful seafood restaurant in Sherwood Park. Or would that be too much of a busman's holiday?"

"No, that's fine. Dress up again?" Through the narrow opening, I watched her take off the robe she had worn over the wet suit. Delicious, nutritious, salacious, I thought.

"Just a sport jacket for me," I answered. "And no saloon car, just a rental. Come as you are, if you wish."

The door closed on something between a feminine guffaw and a giggle.

Back in my room, I arranged a rented Lincoln with the Bell Captain and then viewed and listened to the videotape segments that Jack had listed as possibly worthwhile. They needed enhancement for some long stretches and that could only be done by me back at the motor home.

Jack had been told that I wouldn't need him at all that day, so he was no doubt doing the town with Allison __leaving Mickey to mind the store there.

With Allison's help and a little guidance from me, Mickey was beginning to take over some of the simpler computer chores. But things were pretty mundane these days for everybody but me. Diana was certainly one job, though, that I would surely never delegate.

Then the hair, the beard, the coveralls, two briefcases and sneaking off to the motor home.

WINTERBURN, ALBERTA:

Jack and Allison came back while the tapes were running through an 8mm. VCR and the computer enhancement hardware. It would take another three or four hours before the sound quality would be maximized. Only a half hour, one pass, was required to take all of the jiggles out of the video portion.

While that was running, I finished up making a brass key from a plastic master.

"What's that?" Jack was curious.

"Hi, Allison. Hi, Jack," I held my work up to eye-level. "This is a key to Diana Stuart's hotel room." The modeling clay was just a discarded lump on the counter-top.

"We'll be out tonight after seven," I continued. "I want you to search her room and plant a bug in her phone." I showed him the bug. It was the type known as an "Infinity Transmitter" that should give me access to all the conversations in her room, not just those on the telephone.

Then I went to a cupboard and took out the Tessina camera and the miniature flash. We had an informal lesson in copying documents, and while he was practicing I loaded a few of the special film cassettes with fine-grain film for him.

Afterwards, it was time to retrieve the e-mail, faxes and messages that had come in for Gerardo, deposited by the lower-crust scum of D.C. __a deposit of grimy clay fallen from the feet of the upper-crust scum, or at least one of them.

While that was coming in, I was talking sporadically about Diana __our breakfast and swim together. Nothing gushy, just the normal exuberance that any man might display on getting acquainted with a woman that he finds admirable. "After this is over, you two ought to try those water slides together. It's a lot of fun." My spirits were pretty high and they most likely thought that I was in love, at least a little.

Allison looked at me strangely. She didn't understand about the bugging; how could she? Part of me had to be sure. Part of me wouldn't care if Diana was Imelda Marcos, in disguise. For a growing part of me, it would break my heart if Diana wasn't genuine.

Time to beard the lion in his den. Bracken of the CIA, that is.

It took an hour to run through all the cheap shots, half-truths and outright lies, before I was able to dig up a worthwhile nugget of something that was confirmed. Not only by two sources; that's useless in a city of parrots. But there were at least four or five __it was hard to tell__ separate sightings involving probable boyfriends, and the last three were the same young man, a Senate Page who lived in Fairfax. All right!

But how to employ the threat? It wasn't as simple as saying, "Hey, I know you're gay in a more than happy way. If you don't want everybody to know it, you'll cooperate with me." Hell, I have no moral character at all, but if you threaten me with something, you'll regret it immediately. You'd get the exact same punishment from me for the threat, that you would have gotten for the deed. He was married but, even so, he might not care whether he was 'outed' or not.

Bracken was a top dog in a tough town although the rumors had it that the pressure was getting to him. A certain amount of subtlety was indicated, especially if he had already decided to cooperate. There was no sense chasing him away.

The "black box" and the techniques that Mac had taught me years ago were good; they had my personal confidence. But for something like intimidating the CIA, it would be foolish to get overconfident __so the public library was the high ground to use again for the next battle. If anything went wrong, it was better not to compromise the hotel or the motor home.

I used Morty's name and number to get through to Bracken's secretary. The LED display on her telephone console would show that my call was internal. Only the central switchboard console would record it as an outside call, from Fairfax, Virginia. Just across the Potomac.

"Is Mr. Bracken available?" I inquired.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Weiner, he's not," she replied civilly __just barely. "I don't see your name on the telephone schedule for this afternoon. Why don't you leave a message and make yourself available on Monday. I'll see if I can free up a few minutes to get back to you then with his instructions."

"I have to talk to him now. His orders."

"I am sorry, Mr. Weiner, but he's in an important meeting at the moment and can't be disturbed."

It figured that "in an important meeting" meant that he was in his office but couldn't care less. "At an important meeting" would have meant he was out getting his hair cut or something, away from the office.

"This isn't Weiner, Mrs. Vauxhall, and I would rather not take up any more of your Saturday. I'm sure that you'd like to get home to," I looked down at my notes again, "Amy and Curtis."

Silence. Then, "Who is this?"

"This is Quirk. Put him through immediately."

It took about one minute __just long enough, no doubt, to discover that I wasn't in Morty's office, re-holster the guns and rush to get a trace on the incoming circuit.

Bracken got on the phone. He sounded like a Cracker version of the Pepperidge Farm man. "Hello, Mr. Quirk. It's good to hear from you. Have you made any further progress? Please don't be too specific since the line isn't scrambled."

I had lifted the key loader and encrypting device in the jeep radio, and incorporated it into my black box a few days before. "Don't worry about that, Bracken," I said. "Just punch in your current 'Summa' code number, and we can 'dish' all you'd like."

In my head, I was trying to convert the telephone to a television. His chagrin over the digital encrypter would be something to see, no matter what. But if he wasn't serious about dealing with me squarely __forget about fairly__ he'd be pushing all the other buttons right then, as well. Then he'd have his secretary getting hold of a goon squad to grab me as soon as the call was successfully traced, provided that I wasn't too far away. Bracken would be talking with me for some time either way, but he'd want to hold me on the line for at least twenty minutes if he was moving against me.

That's the time it takes to get from Morty's office to uptown Fairfax. Ok, it would take me longer than that to strike the bargain I needed.

"Bracken," I said with a crack of the whip. "I've got a deal to propose to you."

He cut the Cracker bullshit. "I didn't like the last one, Quirk. What makes you think I'll like this one any better." He was mumbling in the background as he listened for my response.

I took my time. Let them come.

"I'll give you the conspirators' arms depots and the men ready to hand them out. You'll get their action timetable and their backers. Hard evidence."

"We'll get that anyway, Quirk. What do we need you for?"

"Cut the shit, Bracken. I know better. You've got until the Aurora Compact meetings __a week__ to get off your ass. No more than that, and probably less. That's as far as the Institute is concerned. As far as I'm concerned, you've got this phone call. If you don't say 'go,' or I have any reason to believe you don't mean it, you'll be finished in this town. Treasury gets the credit and you get the blame. The squirt goes to the Mounties tomorrow, if you want to get in on it. Weiner gets the glory if you do __God knows I've got no reason to like the CIA, except for him."

"There's nothing new there, Quirk," he rasped. "Feed me; give me something I can go with, and maybe we'll work together." He was mumbling then to someone on another line.

"Tomorrow night" __I complied with his request immediately__ "the Institute is going to send an important message to their backers. I'll tell you who that is, if you don't know."

"Don't bother, Quirk, we know. But their best stuff is all encrypted. Even with a Cray on it, there's no hope without a key from somebody inside."

"I'll give you the next best thing. The exact text of the message. A kind of disinformation plant, in your jargon. One that will get you the coding scheme in hours. You'll get your copy of the text through Weiner __if there's no interference or surveillance, that is."

Bracken broke off his mumbling. "How can you do that? Have you got an agent in the organization?"

"Try and get it through your thick skull," I snarled, "I'm a civilian, Bracken. I'd like to feed you a lot of crap like the Man From Uncle, but I'm only mixed up in this by accident __believe it or not. I don't want to see a break-up in Canada any more than you do_____"

A terrible suspicion had occurred to me.

My voice went cold. "Bracken, if you or the Company are backing the wrong horse, tear your tickets up now. The Institute is going down. Don't get caught in the fall."

"You're way off base, son," he said angrily. "And you don't threaten the United States of America, either."

"When I vote, Bracken, I vote with a sledgehammer. Don't forget that. Anyway, 'how' is none of your business."

"What do you want?" He'd never believe in Santa Claus even if it was raining reindeer crap.

"You won't believe this:" __and he wouldn't, I knew__ "just Polewicz and a minor league player to be named later." Claiming Tedeschi would get me nowhere, I knew. If I was going to take him out, it would be better to have a cast-iron alibi __like being in bed with Bracken__ than an obvious motive.

"Why?"

"My business," I told him. "But I want Park invited back in to play. And copies of everything when it's decrypted, past, present and future. From Park, through Weiner. On CD-ROM or tape: either Colorado 120 Megabyte Cartridge, or 1600 BPI reel; ASCII, not EBCIDC. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Not really," he admitted, "but it's on the tape. Somebody will figure it out. What do you want with Polewicz? He's the Security Chief, right?"

"My business again. You or the Canadians can have him back when I'm through with him. It's personal."

"I don't have the authority to let you do that, Quirk. Besides, you might be in a little trouble yourself before then. Maybe you'll be too busy walking around an eight by twelve to worry about how things turn out."

That sounded like the hook was being jerked to set it in real good. They were probably at the building by now. Time to stop him without losing the potency of the threat.

"Bracken, get something straight. I'm not asking you for Polewicz. I'm telling you beforehand what I'm going to take out of this deal, because you asked. And it ends there; we're quits. No comeback at Weiner or Park. And don't look for me to get in your way and don't try to get in mine."

"Listen to me, you two-bit gypsy_____" He was bellowing at the other end.

"I don't mean to interrupt you when you're on a roll, Bracken, but if you're planning to hear that I've been picked up by the DIS in Fairfax, you're going to be awfully disappointed. Why don't you check the address before they close in?"

"What do you mean?" He was puzzled by my confidence.

"Just do it, Bracken, and the rest of it too. Or you'll be sorry you didn't. Don't take my word for it; just check with the DOD. I'll wait for you. Go ahead."

The CIA has no jurisdiction inside the country, except under the most restrictive circumstances. But they do have full-time and immediate access to certain Department of Defense personnel, the Defense Investigative Service, to do their domestic dirty work.

More mumbling in the background; a rustle of paper; more mumbling. "No! No! Call them off. Tell them it's the wrong place. They don't have a warrant. Reporters are on the way." "Reporters" would be the ultimate deterrent.

There was a subdued exclamation of pain then on the other end. I thought, Maybe he barked his shins or struck a funny bone on something.

And then there was a little muttered cursing. And a long silence. Or maybe Grandma's really found herself another Bubba.

Across the long miles of fiber-optics and copper wires, I could feel the effort he was making to hold his tongue. Then all he said was, "Quirk, you son of a bitch!"

Ah, there it was; something on which to build a professional relationship at last. Now Bracken and I could really get down to brass tacks.

"No need to thank me, Derek," I said, acknowledging his professional compliment. "No need at all. We wouldn't want you to do anything pointless, now, would we?"

It's either "Blades" or the "Curse of Macha", I'll bet on it.

Chapter 20

"I committed fornication against Thee, and all around me

thus fornicating there echoed 'Well done! well done!'...."

Confessions, St. Augustine

SHERWOOD PARK, ALBERTA:

"I love the way you nibble my crawdaddy."

"And I think you're exaggerating. It looks more like a shrimp, close up."

Diana didn't really have to offer me goodies off her plate. I just wanted a double helping of what I was watching expand and contract, wobble and sway, under that black turtleneck sweater.

Not that I'm a breast man, exclusively. Had I been able to look through the table top with my X-ray vision, I'm sure that I would have been lusting over the rest, not even into the entrée yet, so to speak.

Diana and Alan had their first argument.

"They're so dirty, Alan," she claimed. "Filthy really. Gritty and tough; no elegance. You couldn't possibly have one of those and enjoy a glass of champagne."

"Well," I huffed, "if you'd ruin champagne by drinking it with food at all, of course you might not appreciate the experience with clams. But a slightly cool draught of an ale, now, or a stout; that is quite another matter altogether. Then, the perfect seafood accompaniment is the clam or the large mussel. An oyster is a clam without character, you know. I want to have something to chew. A clam must not only be alive when eaten, but aware of its fate. Not only raw, but kicking and screaming as it is being crushed and forced down my gullet." -All right, it does sound pompous. Surely, that's no surprise at this juncture-

"That's your idea of eating shellfish?" she asked, her eyes a little glazed.

"Yes," I insisted, "or at least without the shell. The ale or stout should serve as a marinade within the stomach, to tranquilize the bloody bivalve."

"But not champagne." Diana shook her head to clear it of the drinks we'd had already and the concept of screaming victuals, as well.

I was still on my high-horse. "Of course not. Too many bubbles. No one wants a pixilated mollusk reeling about one's insides."

The unheated discussion was threatening to get out of hand, so I gestured the hovering waiter over and ordered the lobster bisque. Diana did the same and the peace was preserved.

Oh, yes; we'd had several strong cocktails beforehand. Tangueray on the rocks; olives for me, lemon peel for her. We had each whispered "Vermouth" over the rim of our unadulterated glasses. And all the while we disputed the consumption of shellfish, our knees, legs and thighs were finding a common ground for their own discussion. It was nothing perverted or, for that matter, anything that would get me kicked out of the Diners' Club __only the comfortable meshing of friendly limbs. Ishmael said it all in 'Moby Dick'; although I believe __in his case__ that he might have been fixated on Queequeg's harpoon.

"Of course, there are other benefits imputed to oysters, Alan, that I'm not in a position to evaluate." Coyly put.

Nothing loath, I replied without delay. "I hereby volunteer to serve in the control group, if you would only do me the honor of accepting me in your oyster bed, my lady."

But I sobered up over dinner; swordfish for me and blackened salmon for the lady. As our gastronomical appetites came to the fore, conversation was limited to things like seasonings __no argument there. Over coffee __no desert__ Diana kicked off her shoes and rested her long, long legs to the left of my left knee, on the inside of the booth. And naturally, as we began to speak of personal matters, my left hand would punctuate a sentence now and then with a friendly squeeze of her knee or a stroke of her calf.

There is something about nylon hose, something wonderful to the touch, something that increases intimacy even as it separates the agent from the object of desire.

She talked of her life a bit before getting to the point that was on both our minds, in one way or another. "You know, it's nice being here with you. But in a week, I'll be in Dago Bay, and then in the Arctic. Another year or two, and maybe you'd find me in Hawaii, or Guam, or the Aleutians, or someplace like that."

"You have to travel in your field, Diana; as do I. I understand."

"No! You're a man and it's different for you," she insisted. "For me, I have to go where the grant money is. And if I'm lucky and don't get hurt, there's about ten or fifteen years __at best__ for me to make my mark in the field."

I had no trouble following her line of reasoning as she went on. A career such as Diana's would preclude anything resembling a stable relationship. Falling in love with anyone would be a personal and professional disaster for her. She might be far away for six months or a year on any given project. And her male peers in the field __the men that she would find most attractive and have the most contact with__ would be the worst prospects for romance. Seldom, if ever, would there be the opportunity to pick and choose field assignments to be together. When she'd be home, he wouldn't, and vice-versa. Her available options were celibacy, more-than-one-night stands, or quitting the field to teach high-school Science.

Who could understand the problem better than I, a half-breed nomad? Few indeed are the outsiders who may come among the People to share the Travelling Life, and none are they who will wait for us to return to a home we cannot share. Unless one counts those who rest in peace.

Of course, the life story that I gave in return was untrue; although much would have been accurate had it not been transposed to Northern Ireland. My father, for example, was a New York City Police Captain, and so he became a Chief Inspector of the Belfast Constabulary. My military service was now in the Royal Artillery; vacations were holidays; schedules were "shedyools." The one thing that I concealed altogether was my twenty-year marriage. Something inside kept me from prostituting the only honest emotions that I had left.

"Anyway, Alan, what I'm trying to say is: 'I like you.' You're fun to be with. There's something about you that's romantic, like you're a pirate or something. I don't know what it is. I want to rub your head for luck, I guess. But I'm scared, too. Now I'd better shut up before I make a complete fool of myself."

"Suppose that we get to know each other a little better," I suggested with a grin, "before we worry about having to move in together or break up, lass."

She had to laugh a little at her own house of cards. "What I mean, I guess, is that I'm not somebody who can just hop right into bed with a man, and the idea of things getting more serious than that is even more of a downer."

By now, we were both reasonably sober and it was time to return to Edmonton. The temperature was on the cool side as we walked to the Lincoln. It was then nine-thirty. The crowded parking lot had thinned out and we stood for a while, heads raised to stare at the stars. A crescent moon dominated the star-fields.

Diana leaned back against me and I put my arms around her waist, hands resting lightly on her smooth stomach, at and slightly below the waistline. The sweater was not tucked in and hugged her halfway down her hips.

Those hips nestled comfortably against me and a much needed erection began to swell between her cheeks. Thank whatever Providence there may be for tall women. Or short, good-natured women, for that matter. A man can sense that transcendent smile of a woman living for the moment within her pleasure. And that smile will fill his own moments with great joy, if he is lucky enough to inspire it. Somehow, just the side of the face __around the eyes__ is enough to entertain the mind's eye with the miracle when it happens, even by moonlight.

She leaned her head further back against mine and pressed even closer to my body. After a moment, I kissed her right earlobe and lightly stroked the side of her left breast as I had done at the pool. Her whole body shivered against mine. Diana turned around toward me and I pulled her lower body against mine with my right hand gripping her hips tightly. The other hand slipped under the bottom of the turtleneck and stroked her bare back in the evening chill.

The darkness rendered us invisible as she leaned into me, and I leaned against the black Lincoln.

We kissed. It was just our lips at first, each softly nibbling at the other's. Then our tongues touched and hers had a smooth graceful texture. Mine brushed the corners of her lips as well, and then caressed her upper lip, until invited to plunge still further.

Our bodies ground together below the waist, driving me into a frenzy. The only way I could get closer to Diana was to get into her. I was about to pick her up and sit her on the edge of the Lincoln's fender when she pulled away.

"Stop, please," she pleaded, breathlessly. "Please. Don't. No more, please."

"Diana, love. You are driving me insane like this." I wanted her, there and then.

"I can't. I just can't, Alan. Not like this." She was rigid in my arms; not willing to let me come closer; not willing to push me away.

It was impossible to look at her, even in the faint light, and not feel an irresistible urge to make love to her. I turned away. There was no sound behind me, but her arms locked around mine as she pressed her breasts to my back.

"Don't be mad, Alan. Please!" she said softly. "It's just that I've never felt this so strongly before, or so soon. Please don't turn away."

"When I look at you I'm beyond control, love; although this is not a place that I would choose either. Let me open the car and we can sit and talk this out. All right?" It was getting difficult to keep my Anglic impersonation straight. I could only hope I didn't sound like Michael Caine by now. My guard was lowered; my hopes were high.

I was a fool.

All we accomplished that night was to turn me back into a schoolboy, looking for a malt shop to show off his best girl. We talked and talked about many things, especially her California upbringing and our mutual interest in the North Country. There was an unspoken agreement to explore each other's mind before our bodies. It was that serious.

So we only kissed goodnight at her door again and scheduled the rest of the week's free time together. And that's the way the week went, with our kisses becoming ever more passionate and self-restraint ever more difficult at night and the heated pool water ever warmer in the morning. It was only a matter of time now: we both knew that.

It didn't even bother me that Diana and I were tailed wherever we went. Not yet, at any rate. And I made the almost fatal blunder of forgetting that the enemy of my enemy is not necessarily my friend. And in this day and age one can be injured or killed for no reason at all, by people who neither know nor care who you are.

The attack came out of the blue. That's not an expression; the two non-descript men erupted from the weird complimentary shadows that always surround a neon-lit parking lot. We had just surfaced from the yuppie sandbox that passes for Edmonton's hottest night-spot when they came to take my legs and maybe what was between them. It was only day four and my love life looked like it might be over before it was properly re-begun.

The pepper spray was in one fist and my car keys balled up in the other. But the principal trouble with both fight and flight was that the goons were between us and the Lincoln and they were upwind in a stiff breeze.

So I knew that they smelled as bad as they looked.

There were no threats; just nasty gap-toothed grins and palms being slapped lightly with one-foot lengths of three-quarter inch steel pipe. They wore ragged topcoats, tattered scarves and caps of one kind or another. Both had short beards or long stubble; you guess which. Kneecaps, shin bones and boots in the balls: what they were serving up was not on the usual menu.

Business or Pleasure? For them? Both!

Diana was just getting over the initial shock and denial stage. I turned toward her. She was terribly frightened. Protective instincts I didn't even know I had came to the fore.

She had to be kept safe! Had to be!

Pressing the car keys into her open hand, I closed her fist and kept it closed before I was satisfied she wouldn't drop them. I turned her around toward the club entrance and started to give her a push in that direction, when I saw the third bastard in the team, between us and the doorway. His principal shadow almost stretched to my feet.

If there was any sound I couldn't hear it. I could see the Diana was panicking, but quietly; her mouth was shut, looking jagged and strange. The scene was all lit in orange and shaded in blue-green. Her lipstick was no color I had ever seen before. My pulse was pounding in my ears. I have never been so afraid.

I'm not Jack. One, yes! Two, maybe. Three __and her to worry about? No way; these weren't just nasty kids who thought they were tough. I'm dead, I thought; but maybe I can slow them_____ I started to take out my wallet. If they saw my money floating away? Maybe! Just maybe. Maybe not, but what did I have to lose?

Turning back to the two behind us, all of a sudden we saw nothing but two shapes crumpled on the ground and Jack standing next to the open door of the Lincoln. I could see that rare smile again. So could the third assailant. He ran for the hills. Smart man! I was turning brave again and when I'm brave, I'm nasty.

Don't ask me how Jack opened the Lincoln so quickly, without the keys. I know, of course. I taught him how, when he was eleven. Just don't ask, ok?

Diana and I sat in the car for a minute, holding each other just out of sheer relief. The time was wrong and the place was definitely wrong for what had been on our minds when we left the club, hand in hand. It should have been only a short drive back to the hotel and our beds, or bed, but we didn't make it.

We took the long way. By unspoken consent, she and I knew that horniness was out and insecurity in for the forseeable future. We had just endured too much of a shock for anything else. We needed time to settle down; to relax; to calm our nerves.

It started innocently enough. She used the center seat-belts instead of the right hand ones, so that she could snuggle against me. I'd fondle her knee. She'd press her breast against my elbow. I'd give it a rub. Diana would give it a wriggle. Finally, we were stroking each other while she knelt up on the seat and tongued my ear.

Her hosiery stopped at the upper-thigh. I didn't.

Enough is enough; there was no way to stop now. I was being date-raped. It couldn't go on that way without an accident, so I pulled off the road __God knows where we were by that time__ and pulled off her clothes in practically the same moment. We were parked behind an apparently deserted building and I switched the headlights off but kept the engine running. There wasn't really enough room in the Lincoln, so I got out and she as well. We could have left a door open and had enough room, I suppose, but the courtesy lights would have been a real turn-off.

I threw my sport jacket across the passenger's side of the warm hood; then lifted her up to sit her on the jacket. Despite the urgency of our passion, it was no "quickie."

We made love several times in several ways, under the light of the moon and stars. I was gently firm with her, and she was fierce and appreciative with me. The words were the right words, and the deeds could not have been improved upon. Finally, I lifted her down from the hood and held her close to me, asking her if she was all right. She bit my ear.

"I'm not an eggshell, you idiot. I feel wonderful."

Later, we must have been a sight to see walking through the hotel lobby. But you only live once. And after all the trouble of bugging her room, she slept in mine.

I don't think we did anything loudly enough to wake Uncle John. Until the next morning. It had been a long lay-off for both of us, it seemed.

Have you ever noticed, by the way, that the quickest way for a man and a woman to far exceed the heights or the depths they are prepared to climb or plumb together, is to define those limits?

And as I lay there in the night __as we actually slept together__ I dreamed. Almost the same dream, but not the same.

The burning man was beyond life, beyond pain and beyond dying. He lay in a coffin that was burning even as mourners filed by to pay their respects. I was on line, but getting no closer and I couldn't see the face of the burning man. The wrong man.

There was a Wheel of Light above the casket, the ancient Roth Remach, a tool of judgement held by the God of Thunder.

And there was a mirror that allowed me to almost see his face. And more mirrors around then, drawing me forward to face the burning man. My image was there too. And they were the same. I was the burning man. I was the wrong man. Why weren't the flames from the Wheel of Light consuming me?

The image in the coffin was just that now, only my image in another mirror.

Then it changed again as the mirrors changed. I knew they were important somehow. Now they only showed each other, like doors leading only to doors, and the cold wind blew by me through them.

My hands twitched back the covers that I had kicked off my legs. Diana mumbled something but didn't wake up. It was almost morning and I didn't return to sleep; just stared at her face in the early morning light and wondered.

She didn't snore, which could be bad news. Hearsay has it that I do.

Had Diana risen before me, I was afraid that she might well have left without a word. But I woke her very gently and pleasantly, in an age-old way. We didn't say a word in the bedroom; the night before or that morning.

The waitress from room service served us juice, coffee and Danish pastries. Before she took the cart away, Uncle John came out of his room to grab one of everything.

Diana, wearing my complementary bathrobe, was blushing. Not because of Uncle John, or "Basset" to her. She had been blushing since we had gotten out of bed. John McGovern did everything but knuckle his forehead, as he poured his coffee with a "Good morning, Sir and Madam," and took the Danish and beverage to his room.

A good man, that "Basset."

Her face was flaming. It was a clear case of terminal embarrassment.

"I've got to go," she said in little more than a whisper. "I'll call you later, Alan." It was almost too low to hear.

"If you go out that door," I insisted, lifting her chin up toward me with a soft caress, "I will die, here on the spot, love." I was standing between her and the door.

She looked up into my eyes, for the first time since we left the bedroom. "Jesus, I feel like I just made a porno movie and sent it to my mother. I can't believe it."

"Is it ashamed of yourself you are?" She glared at me. "Or, are you proud to be such a lovely young lady from La Jolla?"

"That sounds like a dirty limerick," she said, "or is that an accident?"

"Perhaps:" I took a few seconds to compose one.

"A shepherd girl from La Hoy_ah,

Sometimes would just overjoy ya,

She'd abandon her flock,

And dispense with her frock,

To frolic amidst the Sequoia."

That got me a giggle, at least.

"Don't laugh, Diana, please. Phallic images __such as trees__ are a very sensitive issue with the Anglo-Irish; endangered as we both are."

"Is that because St. Patrick chased the snakes out of Ireland?"

"No. He didn't like chicken, not one whit. That's all."

"And____"

"And every American he met said that a properly cooked snake tasted a lot like chicken."

"How do you think up all this ridiculous crap?" she asked; admiring my gall, if nothing else. Purely rhetorical, though __she really didn't want to know.

"Aye, love, it is that," I conceded. "Inspired, though __is it not? And I was hoping that you would polish my skull later."

Eventually, she forgave me for her happiness and mine, and we went swimming again. Heaven help me, I wasn't able to do anything else with her until I had a chance to recover.

"I can think of more opportune times to talk about the Institute, but none more pleasant, lass." We were back in bed, summarizing factual data __among other things. Our short conference of the evening before had covered the methodology of Diana's work with submersible robots in the low arctic. And today after our first swim, we'd discussed the general information that she had picked up about the Institute's goals and endeavors.

Diana had an appointment with Langerhans at three that afternoon, to go over the budget for the next year's voyages and to deliver a sealed envelope containing the INRI proposal. I would spend that part of the afternoon with Morty Weiner, playing secret agent __after another frolic and swim.

Earlier in the morning, I had left the hotel in sweats to jog. Along the route __as soon as it could be established that there were no tails__ my blue outer sweatshirt got switched for a gray inner one, and the wig and beard came out of my hip pack.

The message drop was no big deal: The public bulletin board in a supermarket. The violet card that I posted had been given a funereal outline with a black felt-tipped pen, by running the flat side of the tip around the outside edges of the card.

The message: Poodles would be artistically clipped at a certain address, for an uncertain fee. Call first at a certain time. The telephone number was for the pizza parlor that really existed at that address, not that it mattered. There was no need for a book code just to set up a meet.

Morty and I would be meeting six blocks east of there and two hours earlier.

Diana possessed a typical southern California wardrobe, with multiple changes of bathing suits. I sat on her bed while she showered again and washed her hair. Then, when she emerged from the bathroom, her pirouette was intended to dazzle me with hallucinogenic high fashion. Like two billion men, of a thousand cultures, in three hundred nations __all of whom have failed to get the point of all that fuss__ I faked it.

"Wonderful, love." It was a multi-color adventure on a microscopic scale. Flowers, flowers, everywhere and not a scent to smell.

But, even as we played among the water-spouts, danger was tapping us on the shoulder __though much too lightly.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was almost nine AM in the chapel and some preparation was still necessary for departure at noon. When I left, I wanted to travel light; more emotional baggage didn't have any appeal at all.

Yet clearly, I was not as prepared to kill this man in cold blood as I had thought. Nor was I necessarily capable of walking away from this situation without taking any action.

Damned if I do; damned if I don't. The absurd relevance of that thought restored my good humor and I woke my captive up. He had this tendency to fall asleep at the wrong time; notably when the narrative got more interesting for me than for him.

Up till now, though, there had been plenty of time and getting a few things off my chest had been a necessity for me. But time was getting short for a clean getaway. Story-telling was turning into an expensive luxury.

There was still time, though, to taunt the helpless man with a mock apology. "You're probably shocked by my sexual candor, Father. I'm sorry if that's the case, but I'm afraid that there's even worse to come, unfortunately."

He just shrugged me off. "Spare me your false modesty, Irishman. After thirty years in the Confessional, I can assure you that your concupiscence is less than impressive."

I wasn't terribly offended: fair's fair.

"Be that as it may, Priest. But now I have to clean up any traces of my presence here. So you'll be spared any more of my unimpressive concupiscence for a while. Everything you need to keep occupied is right here, though, including more tapes if you'd like. I've heard them already."

He said, "Go in peace, then."

"That's not likely," I disagreed. "Not considering the butcher's bill, so far."

"Butcher's bill?"

"The body-count. It's a little disconcerting. Too many corpses, no obvious villains left to account for them, and __all of a sudden__ everybody wants to know where this guy Quirk is."

"You have much to lose then, if you waste more time on me. Right, Mr. Quirk?"

"You're all wrong there," was the answer, the correct answer. "I have nothing to lose. So you might do well to listen to the tapes while you can."

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You are at Fiction 1, Chapters 19 & 20