SEVENTEEN

   AS soon as he saw the figure at the top of the stairs, Gideon knew there was something odd about him. A slight, dark young man of twenty with flashing black eyes, he looked distinctly out of place in the BOQ. He was certainly no air force officer. He would have seemed more at home on the stage of a flamenco cabaret or with a sword and muleta in his hands at the Plaza Monumental. He was an American, though; Gideon’s anthropological intuition told him that. He had the graceful slouch of a New Yorker or perhaps an Angeleno; a big-city boy returned as an indifferent GI to the land of his fathers.

What caught Gideon’s attention, however, was the boy’s hesitant stealth, a furtiveness that was almost appealing in its naivete: an abrupt, startled stop when he first saw Gideon at the foot of the stairs, then a quick intake of breath for courage, and a patently feigned nonchalance as he descended. He was even whistling tunelessly as he passed Gideon at the middle of the stairway.

He was nearly past when Gideon saw what he was carrying in his hand. Gideon reached behind him and grasped the boy by the upper arm. The biceps was stringy and tough.

"I think that’s my radio you have there, isn’t it?"

"What?" said the boy. His eyes darted quickly to the side, and Gideon tightened his grip. "Hey, let go of me, man. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You don’t let go of me, I kill you!" The words were accompanied by a snarl, but the heart-pounding fear behind them was obvious: He tried to shake off Gideon’s hand, and they both bumped roughly into the wall and staggered down a couple of steps.

The orderly stationed at the reception desk, a large, powerful man with huge forearms, came to the foot of the stairs. "Hey, what’s going on?" he said.

"This kid was just walking out with my radio," Gideon said.

"Like hell," the boy said. "This is my radio, man."

"Suppose we go up to my room and see," Gideon said.

"Sir, do you want me to call the MPs?" The orderly stood in the middle of the stairwell, one gigantic hand on each bannister.

"I think that would be a good idea," said Gideon.

"No, wait, man," the boy said. "Okay, I took the radio, but… the door was open…I just saw it there…it was stupid…Hey, let me go, man. I never done anything like this before."

Gideon was sorry for the boy, hemmed in by two threatening men who towered over him, but he didn’t believe his story.

"What were you doing here?" he asked.

"I’m a courier. I was delivering a message. My name’s Manny Pino," he volunteered. "Look, man—"

"To whom?" asked Gideon.

"Huh?"

"To whom were you delivering a message?"

"Major… Major Rosen."

Gideon looked at the orderly. The man shook his crewcut head. No Major Rosen there.

"But," the boy said, "I couldn’t find him, he wasn’t here, so I—"

"Where’s the message?" said Gideon.

The boy began to cry. Gideon kept a firm grip on his arm. "Call the MPs," said Gideon.

   THE military police had been able to get nothing more from Manny Pino. In the end, they had taken him away snuffling and terrified. They had also taken the radio and had told Gideon to check through his things to see if anything else was missing.

Grumbling, more annoyed than angry, he found the list of his belongings—so well-used that it was beginning to fray along the creases—and quickly checked off the items. As he had somehow expected, nothing else was missing.

He flung himself into the standard-issue green armchair and pondered. He knew why he was so irritated; he was in the dark again. Only a few hours ago, he had considered things pretty well wrapped up. Delvaux had cogently if implausibly explained away almost everything. As far as Gideon had been concerned, the case was closed; he was ready to forget the theft of the socks.

And then he had returned to his room to pack before leaving for the airport, and found everything blown wide open again. Why in the world would anyone take the trouble to break into his room to steal a $14.95 plastic portable radio? The calculator standing there in plain sight was worth five times as much. It made about as much sense as the socks.

He did, however, know a few things for certain. He knew, most comfortingly, that it was definitely not Ferretface’s doing, unless Monkes had arranged for it before he was killed; and he knew that the theft had conveniently occurred during the time Marks had ordered him to stay away from his room. That made it rather likely that whoever was behind it had access to NSD’s instructions…or was acting on NSD’s instructions.

Was it possible that Delvaux had not been leveling with him? He pondered some more, frowning blankly at the neat green lawns below.