Samuel Edwards - Neptune

It was a mild shock to realize he had killed more people than he could count, more than he cared to remember. Yet he didn’t think of himself as a murderer. Every day of his life he lied, cheated and dealt in chicanery; every day of his life he took advantage of the trust and basic decency of most people. Yet he still thought of himself as an honourable man.

His rule for subordinates was simple: ‘Act, don’t think.’ He would be wise to follow his own admonition.

The trouble with his kind of career, after so many years, was a growing inability to distinguish between reality and make-be-lieve. At times he was uncertain whether the real world lay within the realm of the Corporation or outside it.

Not that it mattered, damn it! He was spending far too much time thinking about himself, a tendency he sometimes displayed on aeroplanes, when he had nothing better to do. Such idle thoughts were dangerous. Other men, equally efficient, had been destroyed that way. Or had flipped and were forced into retirement.

When he retired it would be because he’d had enough, and was quitting of his own free will. If he retired. He doubted whether he was capable of leading any other life.

Forget retirement! A new assignment beckoned, and he hoped it would keep him busy, too busy to think.

The journey passed without incident, perhaps because Porter observed every required precaution. During a two-hour stopover in Tokyo he locked himself in a men’s room stall in the in-transit-passengers lounge. In Seattle, where the crew changed, he went forward to the flight deck and stayed there until the aircraft was ready to take off. Neither there nor in New York was he to observe immigration and customs requirements.

The yellow Cadillac, a two-door sedan, appeared on the ramp when Porter emerged from the arrivals building, the driver turning the car over to him without a word and jumping into a taxi. The heavy traffic in the vicinity of Kennedy Airport made it difficult for Porter to check on surveillance, but before he reached the Connecticut Turnpike he had satisfied himself that he was not being followed. All the same, he looked frequently in his rear-view mirror. A senior operative stayed alive by reducing risks to a minimum.

After an uneventful two-hour drive he reached Winthrop, a manufacturing centre and university town which he had never before visited, and stopped at a gas station, where he was given directions to the Inn. In another fifteen minutes he drove up a hill to a rustic, nineteenth-century hotel located on a bluff overlooking Long Island Sound. He parked and locked the car, then strolled into the tiny lobby, where a desk clerk interrupted a telephone conversation long enough to tell him he was expected and hand him a room key. He was not asked to sign the register.

Porter’s third-floor room was large, comfortably furnished, and equipped with the usual air bonditioner. He was still English enough to prefer fresh air, so he opened the window and was rewarded by a sea breeze. Below, on the left, he could see water breaking over rocks, and on the right a bikini-clad blonde was sleeping on a small beach. He studied her with pleasure, then unpacked his belongings and went into the bathroom for a shower and shave.

Refreshed after the flight of more than twenty-four hours, he had nothing to occupy him until he was summoned, so he wandered downstairs and discovered a bar beyond the lobby. Seating himself on a stool, he ordered a beer. The young bartender seemed taciturn, and handed it to him without comment. There was only one other customer, a middle-aged man in a plaid jacket, and Porter avoided conversation by looking out of a picture window at the sea.

The man in the plaid jacket sat erect and straightened his necktie.

A moment later a girl came into the bar, and Porter would have known her figure anywhere. She looked as sensational in a dress of thin, soft material that clung to her body as she had in a bikini, and seeing her face for the first time, he realized she was lovely. Her green eyes were enormous, her lips were full and she wore make-up with the expertise of a model or actress. He wondered if she were someone he should recognize, but shrugged away the thought since he rarely went to a film.

The blonde showed no self-consciousness as she seated herself on a bar stool and ordered a Scotch and water.

Predictably, the man in the plaid jacket tried to strike up a conversation with her. ‘That’s a great tan you’ve got, especially this early in the season.’

She made no reply.

‘You must have a head start. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’ll bet you were in the Caribbean, or down in Florida, maybe.’

Porter could only see the back of her head now, but it was apparent she was not encouraging small talk with plaid jacket.

The man continued to chat as she drank, however, and was undeterred by her silence.

Porter wondered why the bartender didn’t tell the boor to leave the lady alone. Certainly he himself had no intention of interfering. One of the basic rules of his profession was succinct: Thou shalt mind thy own goddam business at all times. He rolled a cigarette, struck a match on the underside of the bar and inhaled deeply.

The girl finished her drink.

Before she could either pay for it or order another, plaid jacket saw his chance. ‘Let me buy you one,’ he said, and moved to the stool beside her, with one hand gripping the edge of the bar only inches from her body.

The blonde picked up a heavy glass ashtray and brought it down on the man’s hand.

His howl of pain filled the bar. ‘My God, you could have broken my hand!’ he shouted.

Porter caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror behind the bar. Her expression was calm, her green eyes revealing no emotion.

Plaid jacket took some money from his pocket with his uninjured hand, threw it on to the bar and stalked out, muttering to himself.

‘Another Scotch and water, please, and I’ll sign for it,’ the girl said in a husky voice.

Porter ordered another beer, and signed, too. The incident amused him, but he told himself the blonde had given herself away. She had been too efficient, too calm, too precise. He rolled another cigarette.

Several couples drifted into the lounge, seating themselves at tables.

A short time later a man with salt-and-pepper hair strolled in, immaculate in a lounge suit with unfashionable, narrow lapels, a solid-coloured, knitted tie and a shirt with a button-down collar. Brian Davidson had dressed in no other way since he had been an Ivy League undergraduate a quarter of a century earlier. There was no recognition in his eyes as he looked at Porter, and a moment later he departed.

Porter knew what was required of him, and followed. He was not surprised when the blonde did the same.

Davidson climbed the stairs to the second floor, and Porter allowed the blonde to precede him. The charade was absurd, and only a man who had spent his entire Corporation career behind a Washington desk would have played it. Porter could imagine few ways of making themselves more conspicuous. Fortunately no one was on hand to watch the parade up the stairs.

Brian Davidson unlocked the door of a second-floor suite, waved the pair in and carefully closed the door behind him. ‘Welcome, both of you,’ he said, primly shaking hands. ‘Miss Adrienne Howard, Mr Porter.’

‘I win a bet, ten to one odds,’ Porter told the girl. ‘You were so slick getting rid of that roue that I knew you had to be a member of the club.’

Adrienne Howard bristled. ‘I didn’t see you rushing to my defence, Mr Porter.’

He grinned at her. ‘I knew you could take care of yourself. By the way, the handle of your mini-Luger shows.’

The blonde glared at him as she pushed her pistol out of sight.