George Chesbro - Shadow of a Broken Man

Garth cocked his head to one side and stared at me. "What's the story on Rafferty? Have you found out why he's so valuable?"

"Not yet. But I have a feeling that history is repeating itself."

"Meaning what?"

"I'm convinced almost the same thing happened five years ago. The word on Rafferty-whatever that word is-got out, and people started dying. Lippitt warned me that could happen."

"You say the Englishmen didn't know why Rafferty was important. Do you think Lippitt knows?"

"He knows a lot more than he's telling me. But it still doesn't hold together. If Lippitt knew everything , then it's only logical to assume that he'd be a target. I think everybody was happy with the thought that Rafferty was dead; it's the possibility of his being alive that they can't tolerate. It's crazy. I've been a kind of Judas goat. Everybody thought that Rafferty was dead, and then I went around raising suspicions. Ever since I started making inquiries about Rafferty, I've been followed to see what I know and what I'm up to. I must have convinced a few people that Rafferty's alive; now they've gone independent. I have to get some answers fast."

"Meaning you have to find out what Rafferty knows?"

"It may not be anything he knows." Like Garth, I found myself slipping easily into the present tense when speaking of Rafferty. "It may be something that he does"

"Like what?"

"Maybe he does tricks with his head; maybe he reads other people's minds."

Garth looked at me a long time, probably to see if I was joking. When he was sure I wasn't, he said, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Arthur Morton became very interested in parapsychology around the same time he was working on Rafferty. I think there may be a connection."

"Hell, I can round up at least a hundred 'psychics' within ten blocks of here," Garth said sarcastically. "This is the Age of Aquarius, remember? Last week I could have paid twenty-five bucks to watch some guy bend forks without touching them; the trouble is that I've got a magician friend who can do the same thing-faster. If the Russians or anybody else wanted a 'mind reader,' all they'd have to do is wait outside some television studio. It's a lot of crap, Mongo."

"Well, maybe Rafferty is the real McCoy. The Defense Department takes telepathy seriously."

"I never thought I'd see the day when you'd cite the Pentagon as a paragon of enlightenment."

There was no point in arguing. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Doubtful," Garth said. "Not unless it involves making arrangements for you to take that vacation in Mexico."

I shook my head. It hurt. What I hadn't told Garth was the most important thing: I had to find out if I could finish it, if I could still function as a human being who also happened to be a dwarf. "I want you to call the U.N. and leave a message for Ronald Tal. Tell him where I am and that I'd like to talk to him." I gave Garth the number Tal had given me. I hesitated, then added, "Please, Garth; do it for me."

Garth stared at me, his eyes moist. "Look at you, Mongo," he whispered in a voice that cracked. " Why do you need any more of this shit?"

"I have to keep going, brother. Just take my word for it."

Finally he nodded. Reluctantly. He squeezed my arm tightly, then turned and walked from the room.

The sedatives the doctors gave me didn't help. I thrashed all night, soaking my sheets with sweat, suspended in a dirty twilight between waking and sleeping. Kaznakov chased me through my nightmares, always catching me, breaking my body and my mind. I asked for a shot, and whatever they gave me seemed to work. The quality of my dreams abruptly shifted; in the moments just before waking, I had the sensation that I was a child again and my mother was close, holding back the evil. My dreams turned warm and languid, and I rested.

When I woke up I found Tal standing beside my bed.

"Good morning, Mongo," he said quietly. "I came as soon as your brother called me. I won't ask how you're feeling. I can only say that I'm sorry."

"Thanks, Tal."

"I received permission to visit you early, but your brother made it clear to me that I shouldn't stay long. May I ask what happened?"

"It's not important. I ran into a very nasty person by the name of Kaznakov. You know him?"

The muscles in Tal's jaw tightened. "I know of him. Sergei Kaznakov is a Soviet agent attached to their mission here. The rumor is that he's a specialist-what some in the community call a 'freak.' Frankly, I'm surprised you survived the encounter."

"He has a taste for torture. I suppose that was a lucky- break for me."

Tal smiled. "If you can look at it that way, you must be feeling better already."

Although I hadn't realized it until Tal said so, I was feeling better; I was no longer shaking or sweating.

An attractive nurse entered with a breakfast tray. Tal unbuttoned the jacket of his double-breasted gray suit and helped maneuver the swing-armed table next to my bed. The nurse set the tray down in front of me, waited while I took the appetizer of two pink pills in a cup, then left with a backward, inviting glance at Tal.

"I'm sure Kaznakov doesn't know you're alive," Tal said when the nurse had gone. "If he did, he'd be after you; you're a blemish on his record."

"Best news I've had all day," I said around a mouthful of sodden oatmeal that tasted better than caviar. I was ravenously hungry.

"You should get away. I can arrange it."

"I want to fly down to North Carolina for a day or two when I get out of here. What's my expense account?"

"It will cover whatever you need, but why do you want to go there?"

"I'd just as soon wait to discuss it," I said. I was starting to experience hot flashes again, visions of Kaznakov dogging my steps for the rest of my life. The train of my emotions was threatening to derail again, and I didn't feel like getting into a conversation on the merits of a visit to North Carolina. "I'll tell you this: the Russians think Rafferty may be alive, and I've got a hunch they just may be right. I still don't know why everybody wants him; whatever the reason, it's big. There's a small world war going on out there."

"Yes," Tal said quietly. "That's why the Secretary General is anxious for you to find out everything you can. Maybe we can stop that war."

"The Russians have Rafferty's widow, and her husband."

"The Fosters," Tal murmured. "I know."

"You know?"

Tal nodded. "You were looking at the U.N.; they're fishing in the same waters."

"It doesn't make any sense. Rafferty, if he is alive, gave up his identity-and his wife-five years ago. Why do the Russians assume he'll turn himself in to them just because they've got her now?"

"They're probably hoping to put pressure on him, maybe force some kind of mistake on his part. They may be counting on something as simple as residual affection."

"What happens to the Fosters if Rafferty is dead?" I asked, not sure I wanted an answer. "Or if he doesn't surface?"

"That's hard to say," Tal replied. "With the exception of people like Kaznakov, the Russians aren't interested in just killing people. The kidnapping has to be some kind of ploy. They may not harm the Fosters at all."

"Then again, they might."

"It's possible, if only to maintain their credibility for the next such operation. That's why the pressure's on Rafferty, if he's alive."

"Is there any way to get them out?"

Tal shook his head. "Not diplomatically; the Russians will simply deny that they have them."

I thought I'd picked up on something in Tal's voice. "Is there another way?"

"There's always another way. It would take a covert operation and require the services of some highly skilled men."

"Well? You've got a whole building full of agents."