Dean Koontz - Dragonfly

“Any identifying marks?”

“Scar toward the left corner of the upper lip. I believe I heard that it was caused by a sliver of broken glass. Perhaps a cut in a bottle fight.”

“Anything besides the scar?”

“Mole on the left cheek. Long, thick black hair. Kind of a high-pitched voice, soft-spoken. But don't let that fool you. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, Tanaka's stronger than you would think.”

“From the tone of your voice, I gather that you still think Tanaka's going to surprise me.”

“Oh, yes.”

'"How?”

“David, I've told you all that I'm going to tell you. You know enough about Tanaka to keep from falling for some Committeeman trying to pass himself off as your contact. But you don't yet know so much that you'd be a danger to Tanaka if they got their hands on you. Let's keep it that way, okay? Let's keep it on that need-to-know basis.”

Reluctantly, Canning said, “All right.”

“Good.”

“Do you think Tanaka's cover has been blown as thoroughly as mine?” Canning asked.

“Until I told you the name a minute ago, I was the only man who knew Tanaka was involved.”

“You didn't tell the President?”

“He didn't ask.”

Canning smiled and shook his head. The brief glow of anger he had felt toward the director faded away. “The next worst moment is going to be at the airport in Tokyo. They're bound to be watching for me.”

“Do you want me to have the Tokyo police—”

“The last thing we need is a shoot-out,” Canning said. “I'll take care of myself at the airport. But once I get out of there, how do I make contact with Tanaka?”

“Go to the Imperial Hotel and check into the room that's been reserved for you in Otley's name. Tanaka will call you there. Don't worry. Even if the other side knows you're staying at the Imperial, they aren't going to try to hit you in the first few minutes after you arrive. They saw what panic bought them when they tried to get to you in Washington. This time they'll be careful, slow, thorough. By the time they're ready to come after you, you'll be hidden away with Tanaka.”

Canning thought about it for a moment, stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “You're probably right.”

“You'll be in Peking late Saturday.”

And the job wrapped up by Monday morning at the latest, Canning thought hopefully.

“Anything more?” McAlister asked.

“No. That's all.”

“Cable me from Peking.”

“I will. Upon arrival.”

“Goodnight, David.”

“Goodnight.”

Ten minutes later, having been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, Canning was in bed, curled fetally, fast asleep.

“This is the house.”

“Number checks.”

Lights were on downstairs.

The driver pulled to the curb, parked behind a yellow Corvette, and switched off the engine. “How do we operate?”

“As if we're on a case.”

“Seems best,” said the man in the back seat.

“Neighbors are close here. Can't be much noise.”

“There won't be if we use our credentials to get inside,” said the man in the back seat.

The driver doused the lights. “Let's go.”

At seven-thirty Wednesday evening, Washington time — when David Canning was still high over the Midwest in an airliner on his way to Los Angeles— three men got out of a Ford LTD on a quiet residential street in Capitol Heights, just outside the Washington city limits. In the new autumn darkness, with a fight rain drizzling down their raincoats, they went up the walk to the front door of a small, tidy two-story Colonial saltbox-type house. The tallest of the three rang the bell.

In the house a stereo set was playing theme music from a current hit motion picture.

Half a minute passed.

The tall man rang the bell again.

“It's chilly out here,” said the man who wore eyeglasses. “I'm sure as hell going to catch pneumonia.”

“We'll visit you in the hospital,” said the tall one.

“And when I get chilly,” said the man in the eyeglasses, “I always have to go to the bathroom.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said the smallest of the three. He had a thin, nasty voice.

“Well, that's not unusual, is it? Cold air makes lots of people want to go take a piss.”

“You're a real hypochondriac. You know that? First it's pneumonia. Then it's bladder problems,” said the smallest man.

The tall man said, “Will you two cool it?”

A moment later the porch light came on, blinding them for a second or two, and the door opened.

A tall, beefy, rather good-looking man in his late thirties scrutinized them through the storm-door screen. He had a broad, reddish face with a granite-block chin, sharp mouth, Roman nose, and quick dark eyes under bushy eyebrows. He kept his eyes as narrow as paper cuts while he studied the three of them. “What is it?”

“Are you Carl Altmüller?”

“Yes. Who're you?”

“CIA,” the tall man said.

“What do you want here?” Altmüller asked, surprised.

The tall man held his agency credentials up to the screen where Altmüller could see them. “We'd like ten minutes of your time to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“A case we're on.”

“What case?”

The tall man sighed. “Could we come in and discuss it, please? It's damned chilly out here.”

“Amen,” said the agent who wore eyeglasses.

Unlocking the storm door and pushing it open for them, Altmüller said, “I don't know any damned thing that could possibly interest the CIA. Now that's a fact.”

Stepping inside and following Altmüller down a narrow pine-floored entrance hall, the tall man said, “Well, sir, quite often people know things of which they aren't aware. It's quite likely that something you might find inconsequential, something you saw and which meant nothing to you at the time, will be the exact clue that we've been searching for all along.”

In the comfortably furnished living room, an attractive blonde was sitting on one end of the couch. She was wearing a tight blue sweater and a short white skirt; her legs were long and well tanned. She took a sip from an icy drink and smiled at them.

“This is my fiancée,” Altmüller said. “Connie Eaton.”

“Good evening, Miss Eaton,” the tall man said. “I'm sorry to interrupt.”

She glanced at Altmüller and then back at the agent. “Oh, that's all right, Mr.—”

“Buell,” the tall man said. “Ken Buell.”

“Now what's this about?” Altmüller asked, offering them neither chairs nor drinks.

Smiling at the woman, Buell said, “Would you mind going out to the kitchen for a few minutes?”

“Not at all.” She stood up and quickly pressed her skirt with her one free hand.

Turning to the agent beside him, Buell said, “Keep Miss Eaton company for a few minutes.” When Altmüller started to speak, Buell turned to him and said, “What I've come here to see you about is a top-secret matter. Miss Eaton must not listen in on us. And you must not discuss this with her when we've gone.”

Altmüller frowned and said, “I don't understand this.”

The woman squeezed his arm and said, “It'll be all right, Carl.” She smiled at the agent who wore eyeglasses and said, “The kitchen is this way, Mr.—”

He did not pick up on the cue as Buell had done. Instead, he said, “ God, it's nice to be in a warm house! The heater isn't working in our car, and I feel like an ice cube.” He followed her across the dining room and into the kitchen. He closed the kitchen door behind them.

“Would you just have a seat on the couch, Mr. Altmüller?” Buell asked.