Call After Midnight (21 page)

Nick grabbed the envelope. Inside were two pages. “My God. Look at this!” He passed the pages to Sarah.

It was a photocopy of a six-year-old visa application. Included was a poor-quality reproduction of a passport photo. The eyes were strangely familiar. But had Sarah seen this man on the street, she would have passed him by without a second glance.

Sarah's heart was beating fast. “This is Geoffrey,” she said softly.

Wes nodded. “At least that's how he looked six years ago. When his name was Dance.”

“How did you get this stuff?” asked Nick.

“Whoever cleaned out Geoffrey Fontaine's file didn't
bother to dispose of Dance's. Maybe the file's too old. Maybe they figured the face and name have changed, so why bother?”

Sarah flipped to the next page. Simon Dance, she saw, had had a German passport, with an address in Berlin. His occupation had been architect. He was married.

“Why did he apply for this visa?” she asked.

“It was a tourist visa,” Wes pointed out.

“No, I mean
why
?”

“Maybe he wanted to see the sights.”

“Or scout out the possibilities,” added Nick.

“Have you checked this old Berlin address?” asked Sarah.

Wes nodded. “It's gone. Got demolished last year to make way for a high-rise.”

“Then we're left with no leads,” said Nick.

“I've got one last source,” offered Wes. “An old friend, who used to work for the Company. He retired last year. Got disgusted with the practice of spying. He just might know about Simon Dance. And Magus.”

“I hope so,” said Nick.

Wes rose. “Look, I can't hang around too long. That van's waiting outside my house. Call me tomorrow around noon. I should have something by then.”

“Same procedure?”

“Yeah. Give me fifteen minutes after you call. I can't always get to a pay phone right away.” He looked at Sarah. “Let's hope this thing's resolved soon. You must be tired of running.”

She nodded. And as she gazed across the table at the two men, she thought that it wasn't the lack of sleep or the irregular meals or even the minute-to-minute fear that was wearing her down. It was the anxiety of not knowing whom to trust.

* * *

“Y
OU'VE BEEN AWFULLY
quiet,” Nick said. “Is something wrong?”

They were walking the streets back to their
pension
. Night had turned the city garish; darkness was what Sarah longed for, a place away from the traffic and the neon billboards. She gazed up at the sky, but there were no stars; there was only the gray haze of reflected city lights.

“I don't know, Nick,” she sighed. She stopped and turned to him. Beneath a flashing billboard, they stared at each other as the neon lights glowed red and white and red on their faces. His eyes were impenetrably dark, the eyes of a stranger. “Can I really trust you, Nick?”

“Oh, Sarah. What a ridiculous question.”

“If only we'd met some other way! If only we were like everyone else—”

He touched her face, a quiet gesture of reassurance. “What happened, happened. We take it from here. You just have to trust me.”

“I trusted Geoffrey,” she whispered.

“I'm Nick, remember?”

“Who
is
Nick O'Hara? I wonder, sometimes. I wonder if you're real, if you're flesh and blood. I worry that someday you'll just dissolve before my eyes.”

“No, Sarah.” He drew her into his arms. “After a while you'll stop wondering. You'll know I'm real. It might take a year, two years, maybe even a dozen years. But you'll learn to trust me.”

Trust? she thought bitterly. Trust was something you learned as a baby, something that was supposed to keep you wrapped up and warm, like a blanket. It was one of life's cruel illusions. She'd outgrown the concept. She'd discovered how alone everyone really was.

But she hadn't outgrown desire. Or need.

A short time later, as they stood holding each other in their room, she found herself hungrily storing up what might be her last memories of Nick: his smile, his laughter, the smell of his skin. From somewhere in the building came the scratchy music of a phonograph, a German ballad, sung by a woman with a sad, throaty voice. It was a song meant for a cabaret, a song for a room of darkness and smoke. The music drifted lazily through the night, into their open window.

Nick turned off the light. The music swelled with sadness; it was a song of parting, a woman's farewell. As long as she lived, Sarah would carry that song in her heart. Then, through the shadows, Nick came to her. The music rose, note upon note of sorrow, as she buried herself in his arms. She sensed him struggling to understand. How she wanted to tell him everything! She loved him. Only now, with her trust in him stretched to a mere thread, did she recognize it. She loved him.

The music faded and died. The only sound left was their breathing.

“Make love to me,” she whispered. “Please. Now. Make love to me.”

His fingers slid down her face and lingered on her cheek. “Sarah, I don't understand…. There's something wrong….”

“Don't ask me anything. Just make love to me. Make me forget. I want to forget.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned, trapping her face in his hands. “I'll make you forget….”

All at once she was drowning in the taste of his mouth. The hunger that had always burned just beneath Nick's
cool surface suddenly burst free. His fingers slid down her neck to her blouse. Slowly the fabric parted, and she felt his hand and then his mouth close eagerly over her breast. She was barely conscious of the skirt falling from her hips; all her awareness centered on what his mouth was doing to her.

She sank down into the bed. He toppled like a tree over her, crushing the breath from her lungs.

“I've wanted you,” he murmured, raking his fingers through her hair, “from the very first day. It's all I've thought about, seeing you like this. Having you, tasting you.” With sudden recklessness he began to tug at his shirt, and in his clumsiness a button tore loose and fell on her naked belly. He pushed the button aside and, bending down, he reverently kissed the flesh where it had lain. Then he rose up and shed the last of his clothes.

Through the window the faint city lights shone in on his bare shoulders. She could see only a faint outline of his face; he was just a shadow hovering above her, a shadow that took on fire and substance as their bodies met. Their mouths found each other. It was a frantic kiss, too passionate to be gentle; he was invading her mouth, devouring her. With both body and soul, she welcomed him in.

His entry was slow, hesitant, as though he was afraid he might hurt her. But in his fever he soon lost all restraint. He was no longer Nick O'Hara; he was something wild, something untamed. Yet even as the end came, even as he threw himself against her, there was a tenderness between them, a caring that went beyond need.

Only when he had fallen exhausted beside her and their hearts had slowed did Nick wonder again about her silence. He knew she had wanted him; she had responded in a way
that had exceeded any fantasy. Just lying beside her now, feeling her head against his chest, stirred his hunger again. But something was wrong. He touched her cheek and felt the dampness. Something had changed.

Later he would ask her. After they'd spent all their passion on each other, he would make her tell him why she was crying. Not now. She wasn't ready. And he wanted her again; he couldn't wait any longer.

As he slid into her a second time, he forgot all those questions. He forgot everything. There was only Sarah, so soft and warm. Tomorrow he would remember what it was he had to ask.

Tomorrow.

* * *

“G
OOD MORNING
, M
R
. C
ORRIGAN
. May we have a word with you?”

From the tone of his voice, Wes knew at once this was not a social visit. He glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk and saw two men standing inside the doorway. One was rumpled and on the heavy side; the other was tall and a little too sleek, even for a Company man. They were not smiling.

Wes cleared his throat. “Hello, gentlemen. How can I help you?”

The tall man sat down and looked Wes straight in the eye. “Nick O'Hara. Where is he?”

Wes felt his voice freeze up. It took him a few seconds to regain his poise, but by then it was too late. He'd given himself away. Shoving aside the stack of papers, he said, “Uh—Nick O'Hara… Isn't he still in Washington?”

The chubby man snorted. “Don't play games with us, Corrigan!”

“Who's playing games? Who are you guys, anyway?”

The tall man said, “The name's Van Dam. And this is Mr. Potter.”

The Company,
thought Wes.
Oh, boy, am I in trouble. Now what do I do?
He rose from his chair, trying hard to look indignant. “Look, it's Saturday. I've got other things to do. Maybe you could book an appointment for a weekday like everyone else?”

“Sit down, Corrigan.”

Wes reached for the phone to call a security officer, but Potter intercepted his hand before he could hit the button. Fear shot through Wes for the first time. Verbal aggression was one thing; actually manhandling him was another. These guys were playing rough. Wes didn't like violence. Especially when it involved his own body.

“We want O'Hara,” said Potter.

“I can't help you.”

“Where is he?”

“I told you. Washington. As a matter of fact, I called him just two weeks ago, on a consular matter.” Wes looked down at his trapped hand. “Now if you'll kindly let me go?” Potter released him.

Van Dam sighed. “Let's not prolong this nonsense any longer. We know the man's in Berlin. We also know that yesterday, you started making odd little computer searches on his behalf. Obviously he's contacted you.”

“This is all pure specul—”

“Someone with your access code has been busily ferreting out data.” He opened a small notebook. “Let me see. Yesterday, seven a.m., you did a search on the name Geoffrey Fontaine….”

“Yes, well, I filed a report on Fontaine's death a few weeks back. I wanted to review the facts.”

“At seven-thirty you keyed in the name Simon Dance. Curious name. Any reason for that search?”

Wes was silent.

“Finally, twelve noon—your lunch hour, I presume— you requested data on someone or something called Magus. Have you, perhaps, an interest in the Old Testament?”

Wes didn't answer.

“Come, Mr. Corrigan. We both know why you're making these searches. You're doing it for O'Hara, aren't you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Potter snapped impatiently, “We want him!”

“Why?”

“We're concerned about his safety,” said Van Dam. “As well as the safety of the woman traveling with him.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Look, Corrigan,” said Potter. “His life depends on our finding him in time.”

“Tell me another fairy tale.”

Van Dam leaned forward, his eyes locked on Wes. “They're in on deadly business. They need protection.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“If you don't help us, you'll have their blood on your hands.”

Wes shook his head. “Like I said, I can't help you.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Can't. I don't know where he is. And that's the honest-to-God truth.”

Van Dam and Potter exchanged glances. “Okay,” said Van Dam. “Get your men set up. We'll simply have to wait it out.”

Potter nodded and whisked out of the office.

Wes started to rise again. “Look, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but—”

Van Dam motioned him back to his chair. “I'm afraid you won't be leaving the building for a while. If you need to use the head, just let us know, and we'll send an escort with you.”

“Dammit, what's going on here?”

Van Dam smiled. “A waiting game, Mr. Corrigan. We're going to sit back and see how long it takes for your phone to ring.”

I
T WAS
12:50
THAT
afternoon when the taxi let Sarah off on the edge of Potsdamer Platz. She was alone. Losing Nick had been easier than she'd thought. Thirty seconds after he'd left the room to call Wes Corrigan, she had grabbed her purse and headed out the door.

She forced herself not to think of Nick as she walked deliberately across the square. From the map she had seen that Potsdamer Platz was a point of intersection between the British, American and Soviet sectors. Cutting like a knife across the square was the Berlin Wall, which now loomed before her. No matter where one stood in the square, it was the wall that held one's gaze. People paused in the weak spring sunshine and stared at it, as if trying to see through the concrete to a different Germany beyond. Here, even in the presence of barbed wire, were ice-cream stands and laughing children and wanderers out to enjoy the light blue day.

She paused near a busload of students and pretended to listen as the teacher lectured in very precise German. But all the time, Sarah was searching for a face. Where was the woman? The beating of her heart became faster. The teacher's voice faded. Even the laughter of the children receded from her ears.

Then, despite the pounding of her heart, she heard a woman's voice; it spoke softly in passing.

“Follow me. Keep your distance.”

Turning, she spotted the woman from the flower shop walking away with a net shopping bag dangling from her arm. She could be mistaken for any housewife out on her daily errands. At a leisurely pace, the woman headed northwest, toward Bellevuestrasse. Sarah followed at a discreet distance.

After three blocks, the woman disappeared into a candle shop. For a moment Sarah hesitated outside on the sidewalk. Curtains hung across the shop windows; she could see nothing beyond. At last she stepped inside.