Aaron Elkins - Fellowship Of Fear

The three men at the stone fence did not encourage him to give up. They had given him his chance; the choice was his. Dispassionately, they swung their weapons slowly to the right, following him. At the end of the row of vines, the bald man gathered himself. His intention was obvious. He would fire a few quick shots to cover himself, then dash across the ten feet of open space to the start of the next row. But what then? Give up, Gideon urged silently. Throw the gun down. The man propped himself up like a racer, ready to make his run.

"Give up! Surrender!" Gideon was startled by his own hoarse shout, and strangely embarrassed, as if he had made some ill-bred noise. On the terrace, faces turned reproachfully toward him. Bruce Danzig, huddling under a table a few feet away, threw him a disgusted glance. He half-expected to be hushed by the others.

Angrily he shouted again: "Surrender, damn you! They’ll kill you!"

The bald man paid no attention. He scrambled across the open space, firing a nervous shot as he ran. The men at the fence swiveled in calm unison, and their guns jerked at the same time, ending with little flourishes, as if they were a formal firing squad.

Nevertheless, the bald man made it across the open ground to the cover of the vines. He ran a few feet into the rows, then sat down with his back against a support post. Gideon saw him take a deep breath and let his chin sink to his chest as if he were quietly weeping.

Thank God, he thought, he’s had enough. He relaxed his tense shoulders and heaved a sigh of relief. At the same time, he was uncomfortably aware of a small dark part of him that was disappointed, that would have liked to see the thing carried out to its bloody end.

As he shook his head to clear the thought away, he saw the men at the fence rise and walk confidently forward, their guns held loosely. Puzzled, Gideon looked at the fat bald man. He had not moved, was not moving, was not looking at them. He still sat slumped against the post, his head drooping dispiritedly. The book lay open on his lap as if he were reading it.

And in the middle of his chest, just below his chin, a red flower of blood bloomed rapidly over his sky-blue shirt.

Even less coherent than usual, Dr. Rufus was the picture of consternation. And yet there was something about the agitated features, the contorted expression, that didn’t quite fit, something that bothered Gideon, worried him. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He leaned forward and watched intently as the chancellor dabbed at his neck with a sodden handkerchief and babbled on.

He had already been babbling for some time. As soon as the shooting had stopped, one of the NSD agents had run up to the terrace-he was surprisingly young, seen up close-and brusquely herded the USOC group into the interior of the wine restaurant, there seating them at several long tables. In a strong Scottish accent, he had flung terse, excited questions at them: Had anyone recognized the two men? Were they already on the terrace when the group arrived? Who saw them first? What were they doing? Did they talk to anyone?

The responses had been listless and uninformative, and the agent, still flushed and edgy from the killings, quickly became hostile. Dr. Rufus, as protector of his brood, had sprung up and begun to prattle. But what was it about him…?

"…and when I saw that he had a gun," he was saying, "or rather that they had guns…why, I…I was so startled I couldn’t believe my eyes…in a place like this…I still can’t believe it, just can’t believe it…"

"I want to know exactly how he got his hands on the book," the agent said, looking at the floor.

"The book, yes, the book!" Dr. Rufus said. "Why ever would he steal a book? Why, he just ran right up to the table and…and…"

It came to Gideon at last, with a shock that made him blink. He stared at Dr. Rufus for another few seconds, then leaped suddenly to his feet. The chancellor stopped in mid-exclamation; his eyes riveted on Gideon’s face. The others looked up to see what had cut off the reassuring, familiar river of words.

Gideon pointed a shaky finger at Dr. Rufus and spoke, his voice choked.

"It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one."

Every sound in the room stopped. There was a strained hush, an electric stupefaction. It seemed to Gideon they were all caught in a flash photograph; the only movement was the trembling of his finger, the only noise the pounding in his ears.

"The spy, the mole, whatever they call you," he said. "The USOC spy. The traitor."

Outraged noises burst from half the throats in the room. Eric Bozzini jumped up angrily, Janet turned an appalled face toward Gideon. John looked as if someone had hit him on the head with a mallet.

Gideon’s confidence wavered. He shouldn’t have been so impulsive; he should have waited, checked out his ideas, talked to John. His finger was still leveled dramatically at Dr. Rufus’s nose. A little shamefacedly, he dropped his hand to his side.

Dr. Rufus finally found his voice. "Gideon…my dear boy, I know you don’t really mean…I hardly know what to say…" His palms were lifted, his eyebrows raised in astonishment.

Gideon looked at him a little longer. "No, it’s you all right," he said.

Another hostile roar came from the faculty. Bruce Danzig bobbed up from his chair and rapped his fist delicately on the table. "Damn you, Gideon!" he shouted, every vowel and consonant meticulously wrought.

The agent strode to the center of the room. "That’s enough now," he said. "Everyone sit down." The authority of sudden death still cloaked him. Everybody sat.

The agent looked at Gideon with dull eyes. "Now," he said. "Just you."

Gideon spoke directly to the agent, working hard to keep his voice steady. "It’s Dr. Rufus who’s working for the KGB, who had that information put in my book, who arranged those two-"

It was too much for Danzig. He was on his feet again, his little breast heaving like a bird’s. "You idiot, you don’t know what you’re talking about-"

Gideon cut him off. With his heart in his mouth, he took a gamble. "Bruce, you said there was a rush request on the Weidenreich book. Who was asking for it?"

"Well…" Danzig darted a sudden look at Dr. Rufus.

Gideon pressed him. "It was Dr. Rufus, wasn’t it?"

Danzig spoke carefully. "Well, it was the chancellor’s office. But that happens all the time. His secretary-"

Gideon pushed on. "And before I left for Torrejon, Dr. Rufus sent me to the library. He said you were holding some books for me. Where’d you get them? Who suggested the titles?"

Danzig stammered wordlessly, but his confused glance at Dr. Rufus was answer enough. He sat down slowly, blinking.

"That’s an awful lot of interest in my books," Gideon said, talking more to himself than Danzig. "And I remember something else. I wasn’t planning on taking any books with me to Sigonella either. But he pressed me-remember, Bruce?-he told me what a fine library you had, how you’d be hurt if I didn’t take any. And he made sure he knew just which books I did take…"

He had been dreading looking at Dr. Rufus. Now he turned to him. "…didn’t you?" he asked quietly.

A look at the chancellor drained the belligerence from Gideon as if someone had pulled out a plug. Dr. Rufus was staring at him, trembling all over and blowing his lips in and out like a hooked fish on a pier. He looked about as much like a spy as Santa Claus did. Gideon’s heart went out to him. He had liked Dr. Rufus, really liked him. He still did.

"I think we three should have a private little talk," the agent said without expression. He made a curt hand motion to Dr. Rufus, a wordless "Get up, you." Better than words, it summarized the sudden, awful role transformation that had come to the chancellor of United States Overseas College. It saddened Gideon to see him obey the rude gesture.