TEN

   TO get to her room in the BOQ, they had to walk past Gideon’s door. He paused there to take a long look at the floor around it, even using his cane to probe the strands of the nearly nonexistent carpet nap. There were no toothpick slivers. (He had switched from paper clips to toothpick pieces; they were easier to break off and much less likely to be spotted by intruders. He had also taken to putting one at each side of the door for insurance.)

When Janet asked what he was doing, he explained and added, "I suppose you’re going to say this is paranoid too."

"Even paranoiacs have enemies," she said seriously.

Janet’s room was a replica of his, except for the mess.

Janet took a slip and blouse from the green plastic-covered armchair and tossed them on one of the beds. "Setzen Sie sich," she said. "I’ll make some drinks."

After rummaging first in a desk drawer and then in the closet, she located a bottle of Scotch and poured some into a couple of paper cups. She gave Gideon his drink, kicked off her shoes, and sat on one of the beds, her back propped against the white metal bars at its head. As she drew her legs up, Gideon caught a glimpse of long, tawny thighs. Suddenly, he was both excited and shy. He looked down into his cup and swirled the liquid around.

"So tell me," Janet said, "how do you like teaching for USOC?"

"It’s okay, but it’s been pretty dull so far."

Janet laughed as she brought the drink to her lips, spluttering the Scotch a little. When she had done that over wine with Eric, it had been an annoying mannerism, contrivedly girlish. Now it seemed spontaneous and charming.

"Janet Feller," he said. "Nice name. Right out of a teenage romance. Do you know I don’t know anything about you?"

"Ah, you would like to hear more about the dissertation, then? Excellent. Let me read you the first two hundred pages—"

"No, I mean about you."

She told him. For over an hour, through three cups of Scotch, she told him how she’d been raised in Illinois; how at eighteen, on a trip to Athens with her parents, she’d fallen in love with a Greek truck driver; how she’d married him against the wishes of both families and then lived two hellish years in his mother’s house in Piraeus, never managing to learn the language. Somehow, her father, an elementary-school principal, had managed to engineer a divorce and bring her back to Champaign, where she had lived at home while working on her B.A. in history. Her father’s graduation present was a trip to New York. There she promptly met and married another truck driver. That had lasted two months.

This was all vaguely unsettling to Gideon. Janet was full of surprises. Every time he thought he had her fitted into a niche, she came up with something new.

"Hmm," he said, "you seem to fixate on truck drivers, don’t you? I wonder if there’s a name for that. Truckerphilia, maybe."

As soon as he said it, he was sorry. He had meant to be entertaining, but it had come out flip.

Janet, however, appeared to be amused. "It does seem that way, doesn’t it?" she said as she got up to pour their fourth drinks. "Truckerphilia. Sounds naughty. Say, you don’t by chance happen to drive a truck, do you?"

"I could learn," he said, feeling loose and happy. "I don’t see why it should be difficult. I’m super-competent in a Rabbit, except for parking and backing up, and turns give me a little trouble." He sipped his Scotch, enjoying her laughter. "Go ahead, what happened after that marriage?" As she hopped back onto the bed, Gideon watched her smooth thighs more openly.

"Nothing; that’s all there is. I put in four years of graduate work at the University of Chicago, came to USOC three years ago, and I’ve been teaching and trying to write my damn dissertation ever since. Oh, and I never got married again, and I’m thirty-one."

Thirty-one was what he’d guessed. "Astounding," he said. "Quite well preserved, in my opinion."

"So I assumed from all that leering and heavy breathing."

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so obvious."

"Like hell you didn’t. I gather you’re a leg man. A legophiliac." She smiled sweetly. "Or did I just forget to put on any pants?"

Gideon’s cheeks turned hot. Women had changed a lot in the decade since he’d been in active pursuit. He’d had little practice at the new banter and, try as he did, no witty response came to mind. Angry with himself for being a prude, he bent over his empty cup, trying to hide the fact that he was blushing.

Janet leaned forward and clasped her arms around her knees. "Hey, Gid," she said softly. Coming from her, in that tone, "Gid" didn’t sound so bad. "That was crude, wasn’t it? I’ve had too many Scotches. Now I’m embarrassed. Look, how about telling me something about you? You know everything about me."

"There isn’t much to tell," he began, but then he found there was. At first he talked about his childhood in Los Angeles, about how he’d wanted to be an anthropologist before he even knew there was such a thing, about how he’d supported himself through his Ph.D. at Wisconsin with a host of part-time jobs: waiting tables, being a night watchman, delivering cigarettes to vending machines. ("Did you drive a truck?" asked Janet. "Only a little one," Gideon said, "a panel truck." "Oh," she said, with a make-believe pout, "that doesn’t count.")

He told her, too, about how he’d boxed at local fight clubs for fifty dollars a fight when part-time jobs dried up. Once, calling on a talent he hadn’t known he possessed, he had lived for two months on his takings as a ping-pong shark in the Student Union. They were both laughing, and he was feeling relaxed again. But suddenly he found himself in the dangerous region, the region he’d never shared with anyone. He told her about Nora and what she’d meant to him, and even—at least to the extent that words could do it—about what it had been like when she had died.

When he was done, she came over to him and knelt between his legs, laying her head against his chest and embracing him with unexpected strength. It made Gideon’s entire body tingle. Bending his head, he kissed her soft, fresh-smelling hair, then turned up her face and kissed her gently on the lips. Their faint raspberry taste was a surprise, an exciting one.

When he released her head, Janet remained looking into his face for a long moment, then hugged him even harder. With nearly unbearable pleasure Gideon could feel her breasts against him, her body pressed hard between his legs. He ran his hands through her hair and over her face.

Catching one of his hands, she brought it to her lips and kissed it.

"You’re a nice man, Gideon. I like you very much," she said, with her head against his chest. Her voice had a throaty quality that hadn’t been there before.

"Um," said Gideon, his own voice a little unsteady, "I appreciate the warm and no-doubt sisterly intent of all this, but I have to confess that my own feelings are becoming rather, um, amatory."

Janet shifted her knees to snuggle in even closer. Her fingertips played gently over his thighs. "I’m aware of that, my friend. I’m not wearing a suit of armor, you know. However, I think ‘erotic’ would be more accurate than ‘amatory.’ In fact, I’m positive," she said as her hands continued to explore him. "And if you think I’m being sisterly, you sure got a funny family."

Gideon was breathless. He had forgotten the way it could be. "Janet, Janet, come and lie down with me," he said.

She led him to the bed and began to unbutton her blouse. He stopped her, though, and with trembling, reverent fingers, undid the buttons one by one, slowly and with care.

"HM?" he said drowsily. He was lying on his back, not sure if he was awake or asleep. Janet’s head was tucked into his shoulder, her body pressed against his side, her leg thrown over his.

"What?" she replied, her voice muffled by his chest.

"No, I asked you what you said." On its own, his hand moved slowly down her side into the deep valley of her waist, up and over the big, delicious, roller-coaster curve of her hip.

"Mmm. How do you expect me to concentrate when you do that?" she said, her voice becoming interested.

"Hey, are you in the mood for a little more…?" The arm that had been lying across his chest shifted, and her hand began its way down his belly.

Laughing, he caught and held it. "No, wait, have a heart. Believe me, I’ve shot my wad."

"Gideon, what a gross expression. I’m surprised at you."

"It’s not gross at all. The phrase stems from how you fired a cannon in the nineteenth century. You take a wad of—"

"I know what it stems from. I mean that the use of that particular metaphor under these particular circumstances is somewhat coarse. Wouldn’t you say so?" Her hand broke free and moved on down him. "Besides, it feels to me like the old cannon’s getting ready to shoot another wad."

"Now that’s gross," he said, catching her hand again and moving it away. "Come on, hold off a minute and tell me what it was you said."

She pulled her hand free and poked him in the side. "Oho, so that’s the way it is, is it? The old story. First it’s all tender supplications, but now that he’s had his way with her, it’s ‘hold off a minute,’ is it? You nasty… man!" She punctuated the last word with another jab in the side.

"Ouch!" Laughing, he leaned over and pinned both her wrists to the bed. "I’m pushing forty, you know. I can’t do this sort of thing all night. Now what was it you said?"

"All right. I don’t know what you think I said that was so important, but all I said was that I’m glad you’re stopping in Heidelberg. Is that such a surprise?"

"That wasn’t what you said. You said you were glad I didn’t go the usual route directly from Sigonella to Torrejon."

"So what’s the difference? Gideon, you’re hurting my wrists."

He let go at once, and she immediately grabbed for him again. They rolled over, wrestling and laughing, and ended up in a long, sweet kiss that quieted them both and almost made Gideon lose the thread he was trying to follow. Lying in Janet’s arms, pressed against her from face to toe, he made a last effort.

"The difference is, Janet, that Eric told me there wasn’t a direct route; that the only way to get from Sigonella to Torrejon was by coming through Frankfurt."

"That’s crazy. Since you were flying military anyway, you could easily have gone just to Naples and then to Torrejon, or maybe even on a direct flight. Or you could have flown commercial from Catania to Rome, then to Madrid. That’s no reason to come back to Germany."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I think so. I work part-time in the Logistics Office, and I make up a lot of the itineraries."

"You work with Eric?" There was a slight chill in his voice.

"Oh, for gosh sake, don’t go all green-eyed monster on me. A lady has to support herself you know."

She kissed him briskly. Then she turned on the lamp near the bed and propped herself up on one elbow. Gideon rolled over on his back, his hands behind his neck.

"This oddball routing," Janet said, "do you think it has something to do with the funny stuff that’s been happening to you?"

"I sure wouldn’t be surprised. Obviously, my ferret-faced friend was aware that I was back." He paused, chewing his lip. "Maybe I was even brought back so he could do whatever it is he had in mind. Or has in mind."

"But what could Eric possibly have to do with that?"

"I don’t know, but I intend to find out." He turned toward her again. She was still on one elbow, one round breast swaying gently, inches from his face.

"My God, Janet," he said softly, "how beautiful you are." He cupped the mysterious heaviness of one lovely globe in his hand and moved it toward his lips.

"Be serious, now, Gideon; don’t do that," she said, but Gideon noted that she didn’t pull away. "This stuff scares me. Do you think you’re in danger? Is Eric involved? What could the point possibly be?"

"Mmm," said Gideon.

"Gideon, don’t do that," she said again, but her voice was husky. She began to stroke his hair.

"Mmmmmmm," he said.

   DEEP in the night, he had a childish nightmare. A glaring monster—an old movie-style zombie with outstretched arms, but with features that were familiar—pursued him. He couldn’t run; his feet were caught in gluelike mud. He must have cried out because he was awakened by Janet caressing his cheek.

"Sh, sh," she said. "It’s all right, I’m here. Shh."

When he was free of the dream, she said, "Do you want to talk about it? Did it have to do with the little rat in the Haupstrasse?"

As soon as she said it, he knew to whom the features had belonged.

"Yes," he said. "You know, the way that guy looked at me tonight… as ifI were a…a…"

"A fat green worm he found in his soup."

"Ugh. Yes. Like that. That’s what bothers me the most. That man detests me, absolutely despises me—and I don’t even know who he is. It’s so—"

Janet placed her fingers on his mouth and then gently cupped his face. "Sh," she said again. "Four a.m.’s a rotten time to try to think anything through. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Hug me, please."

But when he jumped out of bed four hours later, Janet merely opened one eye. "Eek," she said. "There’s a naked man in my room." She chortled and went back to sleep.

Gideon put on enough of his clothes to walk down the hallway to his room. The check of the carpet, almost habitual by now, revealed no toothpick slivers. Entering the room, he found it pleasantly austere, almost monklike, after Janet’s clutter. Not that he was complaining. A little clutter wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

While he shaved and showered, his mind kept drifting happily over the previous night, although he knew he should have been framing questions for Marks. Certainly he wasn’t in love with Janet; he doubted if he would ever really love anyone again. But she was surely the best thing that had happened to him since Nora. Cautiously, he probed his mind for traces of guilt or disloyalty, but none were there. He had crossed a big barrier last night. Things were definitely looking up.

By the time he finished dressing, he was whistling. It was 8:25. If he didn’t dawdle, there’d be time for a cup of coffee and a roll at the Officers’ Club before heading downtown.

At the door to his room, he paused to search for the toothpick slivers so he could reinsert them. They would fall out, of course, whenever he opened the door, and he usually picked them up on entering. When he’d returned from Janet’s room, however, he’d had a cane in one hand and some clothes in the other, so he hadn’t bothered.

Or had he? They weren’t on the floor. A panicky sort of alarm went through him as he searched his memory. No, he was sure he hadn’t picked them up. Opening the door wide, he checked to see if they had somehow lodged in the jamb or the hinges and failed to drop the floor. That hadn’t happened, of course. The wood splinters were simply gone.

Closing the door again, he stood with his back against it, his mind working jumpily. Could he have forgotten to place them before he went out with Janet last night? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember doing it, but he couldn’t remember not doing it either. No, he thought, he must have; there was no way he would have forgotten to do that. Someone must have been in his room, then—perhaps during the night, perhaps earlier when he’d been out with Janet. His check of the carpet when they’d returned hadn’t meant anything one way or the other.

In the back of a notebook, he found the list of articles he had made in Sicily and began to move around the room checking things off. It still didn’t seem possible that anyone had been there; it might mean that someone had seen the two tiny splinters fall to the floor when the door opened, and had simply removed them. Gideon just couldn’t accept that. Each sliver was the pointed end of a toothpick, less than a sixteenth of an inch long. Unless you knew what you were looking for, they would be invisible against the mottled beige carpet. No, it was impossible. No one could have seen them.

But someone had. On top of his desk, in the exact middle, lay a sheet of white paper he hadn’t noticed before, its edges neatly aligned with the borders of the desk. In the middle of the paper, a heavy black circle had been drawn with a marking pen. And in the middle of the circle, neatly parallel to each other, lay the two minute fragments of wood.

With a spurt of energy, Gideon hurried through his list. Nothing was missing. There was no sign of anyone having been there, as far as he could tell, except for the paper on the desk. Going back to the desk, he stood looking down at the slivers, trying to analyze what he was feeling. There was the now-familiar sense of privacy invaded, of vulnerability; he had felt that in both Heidelberg and Sicily, when he’d found that someone had been in his room. But now there was something different. Then, fear had been a prominent emotion. Not now. He wasn’t even remotely frightened. That ferret-faced son of a bitch had come into his room when he wasn’t there, had covered up his tracks without a trace, and then had had the effrontery, the gall, to flaunt the fact that he’d done it, as if Gideon were so stupid he’d never have figured it out for himself. Which happened to be true, but that was beside the point.

What he was feeling was a cold, lucid anger. In the mirror above the desk, he saw his own battered image: red welts from the cuts around his eyes, a livid scar where his cheek had been torn, fading but still-prominent bruises over the rest of his face. What the mirror didn’t show was the anxiety he’d been living with since the first time Ferret-face and his friend had skulked into his room and ambushed him two weeks ago.

Well, he was done being a pawn. If NSD, and John Lau for that matter, couldn’t protect him, he would protect himself. And he’d settle his own scores. No more of this passively waiting around until the next time he got beaten up.

He crumpled up the paper with the slivers and tossed them into the wastebasket. When he walked to the door, his back felt straighter than it had in a long time. He threw the cane on the bed as he left. He felt very, very fine.