Cannibals and Missionaries (45 page)

But that outburst, just now, was troubling. If he was trying to curry favor with the people’s army—which was certainly what it had sounded like, given the raised voice—Victor must be in a bad state. Somehow, presumably, he must have come to fear that his captors were going to get wind of the CIA link-up. Jim knew how such a fear could grow in a nervous mind; he had clients like Victor years ago when he was still practicing law. Every day that passed, far from calming him, would appear to increase the danger. And he had no one to share his worry with, no one to laugh him out of it, show him that it lacked any basis in reality…. Or did it? “Wait a minute, Carey,” Jim said to himself. Victor might have reason. That college where he taught in upstate New York might be swarming with envious colleagues only too eager to denounce him to the nearest “underground” news sheet—Jim doubted that Victor was very popular. And a story like that could be picked up and sent merrily out on the waves by an early-morning newscaster who found himself short of hijacking copy. From that point on, world-wide diffusion would depend on the conscience of journalism, often pretty elastic. Anything damaging to the CIA was considered newsworthy these days, whoever got hurt in the process. Hell, the revelation, duly supplemented by CIA denials, could have been carried
already
by the news services. “Over” then to Radio Moscow, and back to Ostberliner Rundfunk, coming home to roost finally on the
kapers’
short-wave aerial, crowing like the Pathé cock.

Jim’s imagination, he observed, was quite equal to supplying extra fuel to Victor’s, should it stand in need of it. And he had no difficulty in picturing the sequel: the “trial,” the confession, the sentence, the bullet-plugged body dumped in the field without benefit of funeral service. The only question was, would poor old Victor have the stamina to wait to be accused? Unable to stand the suspense, he might decide to anticipate the workings of revolutionary justice and accuse himself, claiming to have been “re-educated” by his current experiences. That way, he might hope to be pardoned, though Jim, in his place, would not be too sanguine. To maintain credibility, the
kapers
needed another execution.

As he glanced at Victor, pale and silent, squatting by the sofa, his arms wrapped around his chest, Jim was feeling sympathetic vibrations. What had been passing through his mind was a troop of mere possibilities, but the possible by definition was a thing that was capable of happening. The idea suddenly gripped him that he would have to save Victor. He did not know who or what had made him Victor’s keeper. Perhaps it was a caprice—the old bottom-dog business—or Victor’s increasing resemblance to a bum calling out the Salvation Army in him. Or his obligation as a senator to a putative federal employee. Anyhow something would have to be done to rescue Victor from the fear he was in, before he did something on his own that was bound to be ill judged.

If only there were some way of getting him out of here…That was the best hope. Invalided out maybe? On the next departing whirlybird. He asked himself whether Victor was capable of playing sick. He looked sick enough already—doubtless because of bad conscience and attendant lack of sleep. He was a hysterical type, certainly, and that type was gifted at working up symptoms. With a short inner laugh Jim pictured Victor receiving the stigmata. But of course nothing could be done without his cooperation. Jim sighed. He had no choice but to be frank with him, confront him with his guilty secret or—correction needed—the secret Jim was imputing to him. And if he denied having any problem? Or wept and playacted while admitting it? Jim was not in a mood for dramatics.

To his relief, Victor came clean almost from the start. It was as though he had been hoping that Jim would confess him. “Apologies, Senator, for that goofed-up performance. I figured you’d understand. I was trying to plant the idea that I was getting ready to defect to their side. I thought that if I seemed to be willing to serve in their ranks, they might figure that there was a lot of information I could pass on.” He raised his eyes, forcing Jim to meet his look. “Actually, I don’t know a damn thing. I only had the one contact, the same one I met every time. You knew right away, didn’t you?”

“No. Not right away. I expected there might be a Spook with us but I hadn’t yet settled on you. The cat threw me off.” “Funny. I thought you knew that first morning on the plane. When you made friends with Sapphire. I decided you were trying to show me you were sorry for me, didn’t blame me too much. You’re a tolerant guy, Senator.” “I’m an indifferent man, Victor. That’s my secret. Enough of these boyish confidences. What we want is an action plan. These folks aren’t indifferent. Before anything rough happens, you and I have to get you out of here. Do you know how to fake a temperature?”

Victor did, and he could make his pulse race. At once he was full of energy. “When shall we start? Shall I stretch out on the floor now?” Jim interposed a caution. “Let’s not tip our hand too soon. We don’t want Greet giving you a thorough physical tonight.” For the time being, he proposed, Victor should merely let it be known that he was not feeling too well and wanted to be left alone. Victor nodded. “Then tomorrow I can suddenly be worse.” “Tomorrow
morning
?” Victor was racing his engine. They ought to be careful with their timing. Victor should not have to play sick for too long; he was not a convincing actor, judging by the recent performance, and it might overtax his abilities to keep up the pretense. “Let’s aim to find out, first, when our pilots are slated to go.” The acute phase, if Victor could manage it, should be arranged to coincide, as if providentially, with a helicopter waiting in the wings. “But I already know that,” said Victor. “Tomorrow. Carlos said so. They’re just waiting to clear the flight landing with the Germans in Aachen.”

Tomorrow morning, then, Jim agreed. “Denise can take your temperature and report it to Greet. She’ll examine you and order the Royal Air Force to take you aboard. And she won’t waste much time in the process. Hell, you might have a contagious disease.” The promise of action—
any
action—was enlivening. But Victor, all at once, before he had even started, developed cold feet. A discouraging personality: Jim wondered how the Agency had managed him, but they had experience with unstable types. “Maybe it’s too soon, Senator,” he argued. “We don’t
know
that Dirk and Pieter will be shipping out tomorrow.” “We don’t. But you just said that we had good reason to think it. And you’ll have to be ready to get onstage with your act.” Their roles had reversed in the course of a half-hour; Jim was impatient to begin, and Victor was hanging back. “I’m afraid, Senator.” “Fine. Let’s see your teeth chatter. But don’t overdo it for now.” Victor lay down on the floor. “I need a bar of soap.”

Jim laughed aloud. It was the old army game, popular with draft dodgers till the medics caught on; it had been used in the Navy too, he acknowledged, by scared young pilots hoping to duck out of a mission. A bar of soap was placed in the armpit, secured, usually, by adhesive tape; he had never understood the chemistry of it, but in a few hours the body temperature went way up. “How long will you need to have it there?” “Two or three hours. All night will be OK.” “Can you manage without the adhesive?” Victor thought he could if he did not move around much. “But can’t you pinch some from Denise’s kit?” he wondered. “Better not, my friend, if you think you can get along without it. Adhesive leaves marks.” “They come off with ether.” “No.” Jim was enjoying himself and he was sorry to see his confederate lapse so readily into a state of total dependency. He did not even have soap of his own. Jim passed him a fair-sized bar of Ivory in a Statler Hotel wrapping from his inactive shaving kit. “Laundry soap would be better,” said Victor. “Well, you’ll have to make do with what’s available. Be grateful it isn’t Camay.”

During the night a hand tugged at him. “Senator?” “What is it, Victor?” “Don’t you want to try it yourself? That way, we could be shipped out together.” “No. Nice of you to think of it. But two would tax credibility.” “Well, you could leave me here.” Jim wondered whether he meant that. “Thank you, Victor, but I’m in no special danger that I know of. You’re a case all to yourself. Say, what about the pulse?” “Oh. Well, I’d need pepper for that. A
lot
of pepper. I don’t see how we could get any. They never give us pepper.” “Well, forget it. When Greet comes to examine you, you won’t need pepper to make your pulse race.” “That’s true.” It was good to know, at any rate, that Victor had some respect for limits: he could have proposed that Jim raid the kitchen for him. Essaying to fall asleep again, Jim set himself the puzzle of what war Victor had dodged—too young for Korea, too old for Vietnam. Korea, he concluded.

“Do you mind if we talk a little?” Reluctantly, Jim moved nearer, renouncing sleep for a second time. “I want to tell you something. Jim—do you mind if I call you that? My mission in Iran. I was only going to report back to the Agency. I couldn’t see how that could hurt your committee. You were going to hold a press conference anyway.” Not in Teheran, brother, Jim observed to himself. But he let Victor go on. “You won’t believe it, but I
identified
with your committee. I would never have agreed to sabotage what it was trying to do. Like this afternoon. I really hold to what I said about art. I came on strong because I meant it. On that one point, I share the hijackers’ credo. It just so happened that I was able to play up to them without compromising my integrity.” In the darkness Jim grimaced. “Maybe you
ought
to defect, Victor.”

Victor’s voice brightened. “Do you think so? It’s true that underneath I have an ambivalence about them. But I’d never really fit in. They’d never really accept me.” “Victor, the Apostate.” “Why do you have to mock, Jim? It’s been so fatal to you as a leader. And you’re better than that. But I want to go back to what I started to say. When I took the assignment to work my way into your committee, it didn’t feel right to me. I can confess that now. I didn’t see the harm in it, but it rubbed me the wrong way. Sailing under false colors with a group like yours that I respected. You don’t know it, but I’m a scholar in my field. I met Aileen once at a scholarly gathering, though she doesn’t remember it. But there was the free trip to Iran, where I could brush up on my subject in my spare time, and then there was the chance of associating with you people on equal terms…. Well, you know how it is.”

“You were tempted,” agreed Jim. “But my conscience must have bothered me finally. Over Christmas, I did some heavy drinking, and, like a lot of compulsive drinkers, I have an allergy to alcohol. I can’t handle it. Well, you know what happened. I blacked out in my hotel room and if it hadn’t been for Sapphire I would have missed the plane at Kennedy.” That detail was new to Jim. “Yes. My unconscious must have wanted me to miss it. Anyway, I’ve been punished.” He waited, as if expecting Jim to complete his thought. “Sapphire?” “Of course. I killed her, Jim.” “Strange. I had the impression that Jeroen killed her.” “You’re mocking me again. You know what I mean. I had no business bringing her. It was my insecurity and selfishness. Because I wanted company, somebody to be with me that loved me, whatever I was or did. She didn’t want to come. Sapphire hated traveling, hated the cage. So I let her out.” He groaned. “For humane motives, Victor.” “Not entirely. I’ve gone over and over it, Jim. No. She got on my nerves, clawing at the cage and wailing. That began to undercut me. It was a reproach, telling me I shouldn’t have brought her. And I was still drinking. When I drink, I can’t stand any authority telling me what to do. If I hear of a rule, I’m bound to break it: observe the green light; no smoking in the toilet. All that stewardess had to do was tell me that I should keep
‘Minou’
in her cage.
So I let her out.
I tell myself that at least I could have kept her in my lap. Why didn’t I? Because I didn’t care, really, whether she prowled the aisles and disturbed the other passengers. I
liked
the idea. And that stunt she has—had—of hiding. The manhunt they put on for her. That was really rich!”

“But the second time? With the hijackers?” “I don’t remember. Maybe I was half-asleep. And how could I expect a hijacker to shoot her?” His voice rose suddenly, sounding shrill and aggrieved, as though someone was accusing him. That was where examinations of conscience tended to end—in a burst of pitiful anger. The Church was right; confession to a priest, carrying absolution and penance, was wiser. Poor Victor had run the gamut of emotions. The sequel, now, would be tears. No doubt he was right in blaming himself about the cat, but then everyone here, surely, had something to answer for that would make the present event appear like the workings of justice. “Let’s catch some sleep now,” he urged, and returned to his pallet.

He was disturbed, for the last time, by Archie. Oh, Christ. Archie wanted to tell him, while the others were still asleep, that he had slipped a folded plan of the house and surrounding ground, with a sketch of a practicable tunnel, into Eloise’s vanity-case, under her powder-puff, camouflaged by a thick layer of face-powder.

Twelve

H
ENK COULD HAVE TOLD
them not to depend on the release of the big NATO helicopter for the execution of their plan. Morning had scarcely broken when he learned from the downcast pilots that they would not be going today. Carlos had wakened them to say that their departure had been put off indefinitely, and Pieter was taking it hard: his wife in Sneek was due to have their first baby at any moment. Henk commiserated but saw no ground for appeal. The
kapers
must have their reasons. Having consoled the pilots with philosophy—the child would be born anyway—he was startled by Jim’s reaction to the news when it reached him finally during the breakfast service. “Jesus!” he swore, and let his cup of coffee spill over on Denise’s tray. What was it to Jim that a young father would not see his wife through her labor? Then, during the toilet “break,” Jim and Victor enlightened him.