Potboiler

“Possibly everybody, in parts.”

“They sent me in knowing I would fail,” he said. “I was a pawn.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Didn’t they care about getting you back?”

She shrugged.

“You could have died.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t seem too bothered by that possibility,” he said.

“We’re all going to die, at some point.”

“That’s an awfully forgiving line to take on folks who, as far as I can see, have shown no concern for you.”

“You don’t become a beekeeper if you’re not ready to get stung,” she said. “And let’s be fair. I’ve had a comfortable life, courtesy of them. Everything’s a compromise.”

“How long have you been a spy?” he asked.

“Never ask a lady that.”

“Was it Bill’s idea?”

She laughed. “I was the one who recruited him.”

“Did you love him?”

“Enough.”

“What about me.”

“I’ve always loved you, Arthur.”

They made love.

“Sorry we’re not galloping off across the misty moors,” he said.

“It’ll do.”

“I’m still looking into that beefcake for your birthday.”

She smiled. “I can’t wait.”

They made love.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Tomorrow is Casablanca, last stop on this side of the Atlantic before we cross. Once you get to Havana the first thing you need to do is check yourself into a hospital.”

He nodded.

“Promise me you will.”

“Of course,” he said, “but I’ll be fine, as long as you’re with me.”

“That’s what I mean,” she said.

He didn’t understand.

Then he did.

“No,” he said.

“It’s too dangerous for me to stay with you, Arthur. And it’s too dangerous for you to stay with me.”

“Carlotta. Please.”

“I’ve worked with these people for thirty years. I know how they think. They hate loose ends.”

“I’m not a loose end.”

“To them you are. You know too much. Not to mention that if Zhulk was telling the truth, he’s bound to renege on the gas, now that you’re gone. That’s an enormous setback for our side. They’re going to be mad. Someone’s got to be blamed, and you’ll make an ideal scapegoat.”

There was a silence.

“‘Our side’?” he said.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”

He felt the hardness coming on.

“Go someplace far away,” she said. “Start over.”

“I don’t want to start over.”

She put her hand on his. “I’m sorry.”

They lay without speaking, listening to the ocean beat against the side of the ship.

“Whatever you do,” he said, “please don’t tell me I’m like a moth drawn to a flame.”

“All right, I won’t tell you that.”

The waves raged like war.

“Make love to me again,” she said.

He turned his head on the pillow. Her eyes were full of pain. He kissed them shut. Then he closed his own eyes and did his duty.

111.

They stood on deck, watching the rising sun gild the medina, listening to the muezzin’s fading wail as it yielded to the plashing of floukas in the harbor. Pfefferkorn was leaning on the railing to take the weight off his broken leg. Carlotta had her arm around his waist.

“I’ll miss you more than you know,” she said.

“I’ll know,” he said.

She started for the gangplank.

“Carlotta.”

She turned around.

“Read it at your leisure,” he said.

She tucked the letter into her coat, kissed his cheek, and walked away.

Pfefferkorn tracked her slender form as it moved along the waterfront. She was headed to the American embassy. There she would make contact with the local field agent. She would report that the West Zlabians had released her in the wake of Pfefferkorn’s execution at the hands of the East Zlabians. He would be gone before anyone thought to start hunting for him.

Jaromir helped him back down to the infirmary. He tucked Pfefferkorn into bed and handed him a tepid mug of thruynichka.

“To your health,” Jaromir said.

Pfefferkorn took a long pull. It burned.

SEVEN DEUS EX MACHINA

112.

The mercado was of a piece with the rest of the village, sleepy, low-slung, and salt-eaten. Life began before dawn with the arrival of fishermen offloading buckets of wriggling squid and fraying sacks of shrimp. At half past five the produce trucks pulled up, and by nine all but the sickliest foodstuffs were gone. Toward midafternoon the people rose from their siesta, yawning men jellied by drink, heavy-bosomed women shooing half-naked children with incongruously ancient Indian faces, boys doing battle over a scabby, wheezing fútbol until once again drawn homeward by the sweet smell of stewed pork.