The Eiger Sanction (5 page)

The new division was called Search and Sanction, the SS. The in-house slang name, Sweat Shop, is based on the initials and a back formation corruption of “wet shop,” in which “wet work”—killing—is the primary function. The Search Division handled the task of discovering those responsible for the assassination of a CII agent. Sanction Division punished the offenders with death.

It was typical of Dragon's sense of the dramatic that the personnel of Sanction all carried code names based on poisons. “Wormwood” had been a Sanction courier. And there was a beautiful Eurasian woman who always made love to the target (of either sex) before killing. Her code name was Belladonna. Dragon never assigned Jonathan a code name. He considered it providential that he already bore a name appropriate to a scholar: Hemlock, the poison of Socrates.

Dragon gave a glossed and romantic version of these facts to Jonathan. “Are you with us, Hemlock?”

“If I refuse?”

“I wouldn't have brought you here had I considered that likely. If you refuse, the church you have set your heart on will be demolished, and your personal freedom will be in jeopardy.”

“How so?”

“We know about the paintings you have collected. And duty would demand that we report their existence, unless, of course, doing so would deprive us of a trusted and useful associate.” The carmine eyes flickered under cotton puff eyebrows. “Are you with us?”

Jonathan experienced a plunging vertigo as he nodded over the book in his lap. He caught his breath and blinked down at the unremembered page. The chocolate had cooled and a tan skin had formed over it. The thunder and wind had passed over, leaving only the regular, soporific rattle of rain against the stained glass window. He rose, turned off the reading light, and walked with the certainty of custom through the dark nave. Still weary after a day of lazing, he rested for a time in his vast sixteenth-century bed, looking out past the rail of the choir loft to the dimly rippling colored windows, letting his aural attention stray, tuning in and out the sound of the rain.

The Montreal tension was still a knot in his stomach. The first layers of sleep closed over him gently, only to be harshly dissipated when he jolted upright in fear. He tried to hold any image before his mind to cover the white dots of mucus. And he found himself concentrating on harlequin flecks in warm brown eyes.

Suddenly he was awake and sick. He had passively fought it all day, but he could no longer. After vomiting, he lay quite nude on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor for more than an hour, putting his mind back together.

Then he returned to bed, and to the image of the harlequin flecks.

His groin tingled. He brought the room into focus through defensive slits. “Oh, no!” he croaked. “What the hell are you doing, Cherry?”

“Good morning, Jonathan,” she said cheerily. “Did that tickle?”

He groaned and turned over on his stomach.

Cherry, dressed only in her tennis shorts, slipped under the sheet with him, her lips touching his ear. “Nibble, nibble, nibble,” she said, and did.

“Go away,” he muffled into his pillow. “If you don't leave me alone, I'll...” He could think of no appropriate punishment, so he groaned.

“What will you do?” she asked brightly. “Rape me? You know, I've been thinking about rape a lot lately. It's not a good thing because it doesn't give the couple a chance to communicate on an interhuman level. But it has one advantage over masturbation. It isn't so lonely. You know what I mean? Well, if you're bent on raping me, I guess I'll have to take it like a woman.” And she spun over and threw her arms and legs out, like St. Andrew crucified.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Cherry! I ought to spank your ass.”

She was instantly up on one elbow, speaking with serious concern. “I never suspected you were a sadist, Jonathan. But I guess it's the duty of a woman in love to satisfy the sexual peculiarities of her man.”

“You're not a woman in love. You're a woman in heat. But all right! You win! I'm getting up. Why don't you go down and make me a cup of coffee.”

“It's right there beside you, impetuous lover. I made it before I came up.” There was a tray with a coffee pot and two cups on the bedside table. She arranged his pillows as he pulled himself to a sitting position, then she poured out his coffee and passed him the cup, which he had to struggle to balance when she climbed back into bed and sat beside him, their shoulders and hips touching, her leg over his. Jonathan sensed that the major league sex play was over for the moment, but she was still nude to the navel and her bikini tan gave her white breasts the advantage of contrast against the soft copper of the rest of her.

“Hey, Jonathan?” she said earnestly, as she looked into the bottom of her coffee cup, “let me ask you something. It's true, isn't it, that the early morning would be about the best time for me to get at you. It's true, isn't it, that men often wake up with erections.”

“That usually means they have to piss,” he growled into his cup.

She digested this bit of information in silence. “Nature is wasteful,” she commented sadly. Then her spirits bounced back. “But never mind! Sooner or later, I'll catch you at an unguarded moment. Thenbam !”

“Bam?”

“Not very onomatopoetic, I guess.”

“Let's hope not.”

She was withdrawn for a moment, then she turned to him and asked, “It isn'tme , is it? I mean, if I weren't a virgin you'd take me, wouldn't you?”

He locked his fingers behind his head and stretched all the way to his pointed toes. “Certainly. In an instant. Bam.”

“Because,” she pursued, “I'm really fairly pretty, and I'm filthy rich, and my bod's not bad.” She paused for a complimentary comment. “Hey! We were talking about my bod!” Again she paused. “Well, at least my breasts are nice, aren't they?”

He did not look over. “Certainly. They're great.”

“Now cut it out!Look at them. They're a little small by current standards, but they're firm and cute, don't you think?”

He cradled one in his palm and inspected it with professional myopia. “Very fine,” he vouched. “And two in number, which is especially reassuring.”

“Then why don't you break down and make love to me?”

“Because you are self-consciously cute. Furthermore, you are a virgin. I could forgive the cuteness on the assumption that you'll outgrow it. But the virginity—never. Now why don't you put your blouse back on.”

“No-o. I don't think so. Who knows? You might suddenly get a normal impulse and—ta-da!”

“Ta-da?”

“It's better than bam. Here, let me give you more coffee.” She refilled his cup then carried her own to the edge of the loft, where she leaned against the railing, looking out over the nave musingly.

Cherry was Jonathan's nearest neighbor, occupying with her domestic staff a rambling mansion a quarter of a mile down the road. They shared the cost of maintaining the artificial sand beach that connected their properties. Her late father, the corporation lawyer James Mathew Pitt, had bought the estate shortly before his death, and Cherry enjoyed managing the property. During trips, Jonathan entrusted her with the care of his home and the payment of his local bills. Of necessity, she had a key, and she drifted in and out to use his library and to borrow champagne for her parties. He never attended these parties, not caring to meet the liberated young people of her circle. Needless to say, Cherry knew nothing about him, save that he was a teacher and art critic and that, so far as she knew, he was independently well off. She had never been invited to descend into the private gallery in the basement.

Little by little, their sex play had developed into a pattern of epic enticements and stoic refusals, the whole thing based on their mutual understanding that it was Jonathan's role to fend her off. She would have been at a loss, had he ever failed to do so. The battle was never totally without charm because it was fought with humor on both sides. And there was the spice of distant possibility to keep a tang in their relationship.

After a longish silence, Cherry spoke without turning to him. “Do you realize that I am the only twenty-four-year-old virgin on Long Island—discounting paraplegics and some nuns? And it's all your fault. You owe it to mankind to get me started.”

Jonathan swung out of bed. “Avoiding virgins is not only a matter of ethics with me. It's also a matter of mechanics. Virgins are hard on older men.”

“O.K. Punish yourself. Deny yourself the delights of the flesh. See if I care.” She followed him into the bathroom where she had to raise her voice to be heard over the roar of water into his Roman pool. “I really do care, you know. After all,someone's got to get me started.”

He called from the toilet beyond. “Someone's got to collect the garbage too. But not me.” He punctuated with a flush.

“Nice analogy!”

He returned to the bathroom and lowered himself into the hot water. “Why don't you get dressed and go make us a little breakfast.”

“I want to be your lover, not your wife.” But she returned reluctantly to the bedroom.

“And put your shirt on before you go down,” he called after her. “You might meet Mr. Monk down there.” Mr. Monk was the groundsman.

“I wonder ifhe'd be willing to relieve me of this disgraceful chastity?”

“Not on what I pay him,” Jonathan mumbled to himself.

“I assume you want your eggs raw,” she called as she left.

After breakfast, she wandered about in the greenhouse garden while he brought the morning mail into the library, where he intended to do a touch of work. He was surprised and disturbed not to find the usual blue envelope from CII containing his cash payment. By routine, it was always placed by hand in his mailbox during the night after his return from a sanction. He was sure this was no oversight. Dragon was up to something. But there was nothing he could do but wait, so he went over his accounts and discovered that, after he had spent the ten thousand for the new Pissarro and paid his groundsman in advance for the summer, he would have very little left. There would be no lavish living this season, but he would get by. His major concern was that he had promised the underground art dealer in Brooklyn that he would have the money today. He decided to telephone and persuade him to hold the painting for an extra day.

“...so whencan you pick it up, Jonathan?” the dealer asked, his voice crisp with the overarticulated consonants of the Near East.

“Tomorrow, I imagine. Or the next day.”

“Make it the next day. Tomorrow I take the family to Jones Beach. And you will have the twelve thousand we agreed on?”

“I will have theten thousand we agreed on.”

“It was only ten?” the dealer asked, his voice laden with grief.

“It was only ten.”

“Jonathan, what am I doing? I am allowing my friendship for you to threaten the future of my children. But—a deal is a deal. I am philosophic. I can lose with grace. But make sure you bring the money before noon. It is dangerous for me to keep the item here. And also, I have another prospective buyer.”

“You're lying, of course.”

“I don't lie. I steal. There is another buyer. For twelve thousand. He contacted me today. So, if you don't want to lose the painting, be prompt. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good. So! How is the family?”

“I'm not married. We go through this every time. You always ask me how the family is, and I always remind you that I am not married.”

“Well, I am a forgetful man. Remember how I forgot it was only ten thousand? But seriously, you should get a family. Without children to work for, what is life? Answer me that.”

“I'll see you in two days.”

“I look forward to it. Be punctual, Jonathan. There is another buyer.”

“So you told me.”

For several minutes after he hung up, Jonathan sat gloomily at his desk, his spirits dampened by fear of losing the Pissarro. He wondered uneasily what was in Dragon's oblique mind.

“Feel like banging balls?” Cherry called from across the nave.

There was nothing to be gained by moping, so he agreed. The storm had rinsed the sky clear of clouds and the day was brilliant with sunlight. They played tennis for an hour, then they cut their thirsts with splits of champagne. She imitated his sacrilegious habit of drinking the wine from the bottle, like beer. Later they cooled off with a short swim. Cherry swam in her tennis togs, and when she came out, her shorts were nearly transparent.

“I feel like an Italian starlet,” she remarked, looking down at the dark ecru outline through her wet shorts.

“So do I,” he said, dropping down on the hot sand.

They small-talked while she let handfuls of sand seep from her fist onto his back. She mentioned that she was going to spend the weekend on the Point with some of her friends. She invited him to come along. He refused; her too-young and too-liberal friends bored him with their nomadic affections and catatonic minds.

A cool wind scudded down the beach, an omen that there would be rain again before evening, and Cherry, after proposing without much hope that Jonathan take her into the warmth of his bed, went home.

On his way back to the church, Jonathan caught sight of Mr. Monk, his groundsman. For a moment he considered backtracking to avoid encounter, but embarrassed at being cowed by an employee, he walked bravely onward. Mr. Monk was the best gardener on the Island, but he was not much sought after. Thoroughly paranoiac, he had developed a theory that grass, flowers, and shrubs were his personal enemies, out to get him by means as diabolic as they were devious. It was his practice to rip up weeds, trim hedges, or cut grass with sadistic glee and retributive energy, all the while heaping scatological abuse on the offending flora. As though to spite him, gardens and grounds flourished under his hand, and this he viewed as a calculated insult, and his hatred flowed the more freely.

He was growling to himself as he punished the edge of a flower bed with a spade when Jonathan approached diffidently. “How are things going, Mr. Monk?” he asked tentatively.

“What! Oh, it's you, Dr. Hemlock. Rotten! That's how things are going! These shitty flowers want nothing but water! Water, water, water! A bunch of turd-eating lushes, they are. Water heads! Say, what kind of swimming suit was that neighbor lady wearing? I could see right through to her boobs. A little cross-eyed, they were. You take a look at this spade! Near bent in half! That's how they make them these days! Not worth a tiny pinch of coon shit! I remember the time when a spade...”

Jonathan mumbled apologetically that everything looked fine, and he sneaked off toward his house.

Once under the cool and reassuring expanse of the vaulted nave, he discovered he was hungry. He compiled a lunch of macadamia nuts, Polish sausage, an apple, and a split of champagne. Then he smoked a pipe and relaxed, purposely not harkening for the ring of his telephone. Dragon would contact him when he was ready. Best just to wait for him.

To distract his thoughts, he went down to the gallery and passed some time with his paintings. When he had taken as much from them as he could just then, he sat at his desk and worked desultorily on the overdue Lautrec article, but it was no good. His mind returned to Dragon's intentions, and to the threatened Pissarro. Without putting it into words, he had known for some time that he could not continue working for CII. Conscience, of course, played no part in his growing disaffection. The only pangs he ever felt over killing a member of the scabby subculture of espionage were resentments at being brought into contact with them. Perhaps it was weariness. Tension, maybe. If only there were a way to support his lifestyle, his home, and his paintings without association with the Dragons and the Popes and the Melloughs...