171790.fb2 Brain Damage - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 19

Brain Damage - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 19

17

SEXTANT, whose name then had been Vlado Priol, was six years old when he saw his mother raped, and his parents killed. He witnessed those horrors while huddled under blankets in a dark corner of the cave on Mount Krn, and whatever he became in later life began on that night in the cave. But it would be a mistake to call that night the turning point of his life. That came ten years later when, with the help of David Ogden, he killed the man who had done the rape and murders.

This, he knew, made him a most unlikely candidate for his present assignment, and for the first time ever he was tempted to question the judgment of the man who had shaped his life. David Ogden had known him as no one else could have known him, then or since. It was Ogden who had found him stiff with fear beneath the blankets, Ogden who had buried the bodies of his parents, and Ogden who had taken him down off the mountain and into the home of the farmers who had cared for him for the next ten years. And it was Ogden who had returned as an agent of vengeance, had shown him how to kill his man, and then had taken him to America. Ogden had known both the boy and the man, had known what that night in the cave had done to him, and still he had given him this assignment. A job of rape. To the man who once had been Vlado Priol.

Why me?

He had asked himself the question over and over, and he could think of only two possible answers. First possibility. That those mushrooms in Ogden 's brain had warped him entirely, and the assignment had been issued by a man without reason. Second possibility. That a sane and reasonable David Ogden had issued his orders with a total confidence in the man who once had been Vlado Priol. Confidence in the icy killer he had become, confidence in the faithful executioner of his wishes over the years. Perhaps even more than that, a confidence in the man who had seen first-hand the terror of rape, and would know exactly how to use that terror. Of the two possibilities, Sextant was obliged to believe in the second. He really had no choice. But still, he asked, why me?

He asked the question as he sat with his feet extended in front of a hearth that produced a smoky, fitful fire. The house that he had rented was a cottage set off from the highway, and screened from the road by a stand of fir and pine. It was small, only a living room, a bedroom, and a bath, but it was enough for what had to be done. The girl and her friend were in the bedroom, bound and gagged, while Sextant sat in the living room with his animals. The animals were restless. Beer-gut, Richie, and Phil sat on the far side of the room, their heads together, muttering. The first case of beer had long been exhausted, and they had started on a second. They kept their voices low, shooting glances across the room at him, but they were straining at the bit.

It was Beer-gut who finally made the move. He heaved himself up out of his chair, and came across the room to ask, "Look, what's holding up the parade?"

Sextant did not bother to stretch his neck to look up. Staring straight ahead, he said, "I am."

"What the hell for? Let's get it going."

"When I say so."

Beer-gut shrugged. "You're the boss, but don't wait too long. Me, I'm feeling fine, but you get much more beer into Richie and Phil, and they'll start to lose their enthusiasm. You know what I mean?"

Sextant wondered, Do I know what he means? Academically, yes. If they drink too much beer they won't be able to produce an erection, and they won't be able to perform sexually. So, yes, I know what he means. But in another sense, since I've never had an erection in my life, I don't understand at all.

"I know what you mean," he said. "Just be patient."

"What about the boy?"

"What about him? You're being paid to do a job on the girl. That's all you have to worry about."

"I was just thinking that if you want me to start on the boy, just say so. No extra charge."

It took Sextant a moment to understand the meaning of the words. He smiled tightly. "As I recall, you were the one who once called me a faggot."

Beer-gut seemed surprised. "Shit, that don't mean nothing. Sticking it into a boy don't make a man a faggot. A hole is a hole, you know?"

If it were possible for me to feel disgust, thought Sextant, this would be one of the times to feel it. But it wasn't possible. That's something else I don't feel.

"Leave the boy alone," he said. "I want him to see it happen, but that's all. Keep your hands off him."

"You mean you want him to watch us do it?"

"That's right."

Beer-gut grinned. "Nice touch."

Is it? Yes, I suppose it is, a very nice tough. Sextant looked at his watch. Only just past eleven, not nearly late enough. That night on Mount Krn it had happened after midnight, and that seemed an appropriate time for it to happen now. It also seemed appropriate that the boy should see it happen. That other time a boy had watched, a much younger boy than this one, but still, that also seemed quite fitting.

He went into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him. There were two beds in the room. Lila lay on one of them, and Chicken on the other. Their ankles and wrists were bound, and their mouths were stopped with rags. They had been lying quietly, but when they saw him they began to struggle, straining at the ties.

"Don't do that," he said. "It won't do you any good."

They continued to struggle, and the sight disturbed him. He had seen it before, and it always disturbed him when people struggled to avoid their fate. He liked things neat and tidy, and all this thrashing was… undignified.

He knelt between the beds so that they both could hear him clearly. "Stop it. I can make you stop it, I can hurt you. Now stop."

The girl stopped struggling, but the boy continued to strain against his ties. Sextant sighed. "Very well, if you insist."

He put two fingers high on the back of the boy's neck, and pressed, feeling for the nerve. He found it, and pressed harder. The boy's body jerked violently, arching on the bed, and falling back. The breath went out of him, and his eyes rolled. It was as if he had been given an electric shock.

Surprised, Sextant removed his fingers. The reaction was extreme. He had used that touch many times, but he had never seen it work that way. He checked pulse and respiration, and watched as they came back to normal.

"Now will you lie still?"

The boy nodded weakly.

Sextant turned to the girl. "Are you going to behave yourself?" She nodded. On an impulse of curiosity, he put his hand on her breast. She flinched away from him. "I told you not to do that."

She lay still. He kneaded her breast gently, and after a moment he felt her nipple rise under his palm. As he continued to stroke her, he searched himself for a feeling. Any sort of feeling. Lust? Eagerness? Anything? No, nothing. Nothing at all. He could have been kneading dough to make bread.

Still kneeling on the floor, he turned to the other bed. He put his hand on Chicken's thigh, and the boy flinched just as the girl had. He slid his hand between the boy's thighs, and felt for his genitals. He cupped them, and began to stroke. Once again he searched himself for feeling, and once again he felt nothing at all. More flesh, more meat, that's all.

He shook his head, irritated with himself for having tried the experiment. It had been years since he had tried an intimate touching of a male or a female, and there had been no reason to suppose that anything had changed. He had always been that way, and he always would. He could play the charade. He could go through the motions either straight or gay, but that was all he could do. In the end he could do nothing, because he felt nothing.

What do they feel? he wondered.

He looked into the girl's eyes, and then into the boy's. Hers were filled with fear, but he noted with approval that the boy's eyes were narrowed into slits of concentrated hate. Good boy, he thought. If you're angry enough, you don't have time to be afraid. It was a lesson that he had learned early, and he had learned it so well that it had been many years since he had felt either anger or fear. He took no pride in the accomplishment. Anger and fear were simply two more of the emotions that he lacked. And yet, he did not think of himself as a robot, devoid of all feelings. Could a robot be thrilled by a Mozart quartet? Could a robot enjoy the patterned complexities of a Pirandello? Could a robot… He broke off the thought. He was what he was, and what he was most of all was the creature created by David Ogden. A man of ice.

He tried to remember what it had been like in that short period of his life before David Ogden came into it, but his memory stopped at his life in the caves. The people of Cankar's partisan band were mostly countrymen, small farmers and woodsmen who had taken to the mountains in July of 1941 when the call had gone out for resistance to the invaders. Few of them were Communists, but they all supported the right of the Communist Party to direct the resistance. All of them detested the king, the government-in-exile in London, and the rival Chetnik guerrillas operating under Mihajlovic. Even the youngest of them felt that way, and the youngest had been Vlado Priol.

It was, in many ways, a wonderful time for him. To live in a cave, to eat by an open fire, to wear goatskins, wash rarely, and roam the mountainside was a dream come true for a six-year-old boy. And if the caves were often cold and damp, the fires sooty, the goatskins itchy, and the diet a monotonous routine of bread and beans, still he had a loving mother who held him close in the night, a father who was brave and strong, and as the older brother that every boy needs and rarely has, he had David Ogden.

And he had the safety of his mountain. There was a war going on all around him, brutal and savage, but he saw little of that. The men went down the mountain to raid, they returned, and sometimes a familiar face would be missing; but, in truth, the war had little impact on him. Mountain born, he knew as much from instinct as from being told that he was safe on the heights of Mount Krn, for the caves were unreachable to anyone not a son of that soil, and it was unthinkable that one of their own might betray them that way to the Germans. Unthinkable, until it happened.

And it happened, it definitely happened. He looked down at the girl, and at the fear in her eyes. "And it's going to happen to you, too."

Lila heard the words, but she didn't know what they meant. Chicken also heard them, but he knew all too well. He knew not only because he had been explicitly briefed on Sextant's intentions, but because for the past few minutes he had been inside Sextant's head. Inside, tapping, and receiving the man's thoughts loud and clear. As clear as it had been in the old days, his young days when he was twelve, and thirteen, and fourteen years old, when tapping had been a part of his nature, and never a chore. Back before the power had started to fade. As clear as that.

At first he couldn't believe his luck. At first he thought it was only luck. At first he thought it was just for the moment, and that it would fade. But it didn't fade, it stayed loud and clear, and after a while he began to understand that something strange had happened. It had happened when Sextant had touched his neck, had pressed those nerves and caused the pain. The pain had been bad, but there had been something more, an electric shock that had shot to the top of his head, and then had… changed something. He didn't know what, but the change was there.

And now, for the past few minutes he had been tapped into Sextant's head, listening loud and clear to the childhood memories of Vlado Priol, the memories of a horror that had come in the night. Through Vlado's six-year-old eyes, he saw most of the band leave the caves that afternoon, off to hunt and to raid with Cankar leading and Ogden as second-in-command, barreling down the mountain on their short and stubby skis and leaving behind only those men who had families. He saw the mountain day blend into mountain night, the familiar routine of fire and food, the mother stirring the pot and the father oiling the parts of an ancient Enfield. He felt the silence of the night, the embrace of trust and safety, and then the sleep. And then he saw the rest of it.

Memories, thought Sextant, and again he wondered if these memories of his were made up of things that he actually had seen, and heard, and felt, or if they were only recollections of the stories that Ogden had told him later on. He tried to sort them out. He remembered the pop, pop, pop, of rifle fire in the night, the rush of his father to the mouth of the cave, and the harsh, quick words of his mother ordering him to lie quietly as she buried him in a mound of goatskins. He remembered the cries of alarm that went up around the camp, the orders shouted in German, and the crack of a grenade rolled into a nearby cave. He remembered peeking out from under the goatskin pile to see the three German soldiers rush into the cave and club down his father before he could fire a shot. He remembered watching the soldiers taking turns with his mother, and that when the first one did it to her she screamed and struck at him with her fists, that when the second one did it he hit her until she stopped screaming, and that when the third one did it she did not scream at all. He remembered when they shot his mother and his father. He remembered when the fire went out, and he lay there in the cold as the Germans left the mountain. He remembered when his own people came back the next day, and when David Ogden found him half frozen under the pile of skins. He remembered it all, but never clearly, only as a story that someone else had told him. He did not question that it had happened, he knew that all too well, but there were times when he found it hard to believe that he had actually been there, and had seen it with his own eyes.

This feeling of unreality stayed with him over the next ten years when he lived without David Ogden in his life. The raid on Mount Krn finished Cankar's band as an effective partisan unit; they could not operate without a haven in the mountains, and so in twos and threes the men drifted away to join other bands. The OSS recalled Ogden to Italy, but before he left he brought Vlado Priol to a trusted man named Debanjak who worked a farm on the outskirts of Kopor, and there the boy stayed until the war was over, and eight years after that, treated as a member of the family. He was sixteen years old when Ogden came back to help him to kill the man who had murdered his parents. Not the German soldier who had pulled the trigger-only God knew where he was-but the traitor who had led the German troops up the face of Mount Krn in the middle of winter. Only a local man could have done that, and it had taken Ogden ten years to track him down.

He came back in June of 1953, slipping over the border between Zone A of Trieste and Zone B, and then down to Kopor. He wore rough clothing, and he carried the papers of a tractor driver from Rijeka. He came to the farm in the middle of the night, and threw pebbles at a window until Debanjak came to the door. The farmer stared, and then opened the door wider.

"In the kitchen," he said. "Quietly. The house is asleep."

He lit a single candle, and they sat at the table. From his pockets, Ogden took a pistol, a paper sack, and a bottle of whisky. When Debanjak saw the bottle, he went for glasses, and poured. Ogden pushed the paper sack across the table to him, and said, "Tobacco, English, the kind that comes in a tin. I took it out of the tin to be safe."

Debanjak nodded his thanks. "What about the pistol? Is that for me, too?"

"For the boy."

Debanjak sighed, a wordless sound of understanding. "He isn't a boy anymore."

"I know. That's why I brought the pistol."

"You found the man?"

"I know who he is, and where he is."

"In the name of God, how did you do that after all these years?"

Ogden shook his head. The workings of the newly formed CIA were none of the farmer's concern.

"Who is he?"

Ogden shook his head again.

"The boy will kill him?"

"It's his right."

"It's his right," Debanjak admitted, "but what happens to him afterward? He goes with you?" Ogden nodded. "How?"

"The same way I came in. You're asking a lot of questions. That's not the way I remember you."

Debanjak looked down at his glass. It was empty. "Maybe it's the whisky. I'm not used to drinking it. Besides, I never thought I'd see you again. Now you come after ten long years and say that you're taking the boy away."

"I'm sorry, but it has to be that way."

"I understand that. If he kills the man, he can't stay here, but he's been with me for ten years, and that gives me the right to ask some questions."

Ogden poured whisky for them both. "Yes, you have the right," he admitted. "I'll answer what I can."

Debanjak leaned over the table. "Just one question. Why now, after all these years?"

"It was never really finished, we just didn't know his name. Now we do. He said something to someone, and that someone told someone else…" Ogden shrugged. "That's how these things happen. It got back to my people, and we decided to close the books."

"Your people have long ears."

"And long arms. Tell me about the boy. What is he like?"

"I told you before, he isn't a boy, he does a man's work on the farm. What's he like? He's strange, that's what he is."

"In what way?"

"Just strange." Debanjak searched for words. "He's a quiet one, doesn't talk much, does his work. He's… he's a cold one. Never laughs, never sings, never shows anything on his face. He has no friends, never jokes with the girls, never causes any trouble. Even when I had to beat him. You understand that while he was growing up I had to beat him once in a while?"

Ogden nodded. In Debanjak's world a young boy had to be beaten regularly in order to curb a natural rebelliousness, and to instill a respect for authority.

"Even then, he never showed pain, he never showed fear, and I never saw a single tear in his eye. Never."

"Is that so unusual?"

"Listen, in this country boys don't cry as a rule, but every boy cries at one time or another. But not this one."

"Not even when he was a child?"

"In ten years I have never seen him cry."

"Perhaps he doesn't have any tears left."

"Perhaps."

"Do you think he will be able to kill?"

"Who knows that about any man? You'll find out soon enough, won't you?"

"Yes. Go and wake him now. I want to start before dawn."

Debanjak's hand was on the whisky bottle. He started to pick it up, then put it down. "Listen, friend, you come here in the middle of the night and you tell me that you are taking him away. I understand the need for that, but there are ways of doing it, and giving me orders in my own home is not one of those ways."

Ogden said carefully, "It was not meant as an order. I'm sorry if it sounded that way."

"Ten years, you see? Like family."

"Yes. Would you wake him, please?"

"Of course."

"There is no need, I'm here," said a voice from the doorway. Vlado stepped into the pool of light that the candle threw. His feet were bare, and his nightshirt was stuffed into a pair of trousers. He was fresh from sleep, but his eyes were clear.

Ogden looked at him carefully. He saw a boy grown into a man, slight of build but clearly muscular. He looked for signs of the boy he had known, but could see none. It was a disappointment. He asked, "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes. I was listening, but I would have known you anyway."

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it. I heard the pebbles on the window."

"You move quietly."

"When I have to."

Debanjak cleared his throat noisily. "Did I teach you to listen at doors?"

Vlado did not look at him. His eyes were fixed on Ogden. "No, but you said that I'm strange. Strange people listen at doors."

"I meant no harm by it."

"I know that." To Ogden, he said, "Did you mean what you said about taking me with you?"

"Yes."

Vlado finally looked at Debanjak. "May I go?" Debanjak nodded. "Then I'm ready."

"You know what has to be done?"

"I'm ready for that, too. I've been ready for ten years. It's something I should have done then."

Ogden looked at him curiously. "Then? You mean that night?"

"Yes."

There was a long silence, and then Ogden said, "You were a child. There was nothing you could have done."

Vlado shook his head. "I should have done something."

"That's foolish talk. Did you have a pistol?"

"You know that I didn't."

"A knife?"

"No."

"They would have shot you down."

"I know, but I should have done it. I should have fought, and died. That's the way it was in the mountains. One fought, and one died. You know that. Even I knew that, and I was only a child. But I didn't do anything. I just lay there under that pile of skins and let them do that to my mother."

Ogden sighed. "Do you think about this often?"

"Every day."

"You'll feel better about it after you kill him."

"Maybe."

"You will. Now go and get dressed. Don't take much with you, just enough to fill your pockets. We'll leave when you're ready."

When Vlado had gone upstairs, Ogden said to Debanjak, "Did you notice that he didn't say hello to me? He never touched me, or reached for my hand. He never said a single soft word, and he used to be like a little brother to me."

Debanjak shrugged. "I told you he was a strange one."

Debanjak gave them a bottle of water and a small sack of plums, and they left with the sun just up as they headed southeast for Rijeka. It was a journey that could have been made in two hours by car, but walking took them the better part of the day under a sun that was soon hot and heavy. While they walked, Ogden talked and Vlado listened. The name of the traitor was Josip Koller, and he had done it for money. There had been no politics involved, none of the Royalist-Communist rivalry that had split the Yugoslav resistance movement during the war. Koller had led the Germans up the mountain for a price, the price had been paid, and the secret had been kept, until now. At the end of the war he had moved out from under the shadow of Mount Krn and had settled in the seaside city of Rijeka where he had established a small business selling paper and twine. Now, eight years later, he was a respected citizen and a prosperous merchant. He had never married, and he lived alone. He was an easy target.

"He goes to sleep every night about ten," said Ogden as they walked along kicking dust. "We'll go in around midnight. One shot and it's over."

"While he's asleep?" Vlado asked.

"Easiest way."

"I want him awake. I want him to know why he's dying."

"Negative. This is a job, and we don't have time for dramatics. In and out, understand?"

Vlado nodded. "All right, all I want to do is kill him."

"That's it. Any questions?"

"I thought I wasn't supposed to ask any."

"There was one I was sure you'd ask. I thought you'd want to know if we were sure that Koller is the man."

Vlado looked at him in surprise. "Is there any doubt?"

"Not in my mind, but nobody's perfect. In this business, mistakes get made all the time. What if we've targeted the wrong man?"

Vlado thought for a while as he trudged along. He shrugged, and said, "Then that's his bad luck, I guess."

Christ, he's an icicle, thought Ogden. That's what I was hoping he would say, but he sure as hell isn't the same kid I knew on that mountain.

It was six in the evening when they came to the outskirts of Rijeka, and they found a shady hollow on the side of a hill where they could rest and wait for darkness. They ate the plums, and Ogden went over the workings of the pistol and the silencer until he was sure that Vlado had it right. Then they slept, waking when the first breezes of the night found their faces.

Just after midnight, Ogden led the way down into the city, and to a small house on a side street near the port. The street was still, and there were no lights. They went around through a garden to the back door, and Ogden dealt with the lock. He edged the door open, and it creaked.

Ogden whispered, "Let's see how quietly you can move with your shoes on." He led the way down a corridor to a room with an open door. He motioned Vlado through the doorway. The room was filled with the odors of must and sweat, and the sound of heavy breathing. Faint light came through the shutters, enough to see a man asleep in a bed. Ogden pointed to the man, and then to his own temple. Vlado nodded. He walked to the bed, put the pistol against the man's head, and pulled the trigger. There was a flat crack, louder than expected, and Josip Koller was dead.

A fat woman in a long nightdress walked into the room. She opened her mouth to scream. Ogden had his pistol out, but Vlado turned and shot the woman square in the chest. She went down, and lay without moving. Ogden checked both bodies.

"Done," he said. "Out, and no talking."

Back on the street, they walked quickly and silently down to the port. There were lights in this part of town, but not many of them, and two waterfront cafes still open. Rickety piers jutted into the harbor, and Ogden made for one that lay in darkness beyond the second cafe. A rowboat was tied to the end of the pier, and Ogden motioned Vlado into it. He climbed in himself, and cast off.

"You row," he said, breaking the silence. "Straight out past the mole."

When they were under way, Vlado said, "Did you know about the woman?

"No. I told you, mistakes get made all the time."

"Was I right to shoot her?"

"Yes, it had to be done. I would have done it if you hadn't."

"Good. I wasn't sure. Where are we going?"

" Italy. Keep rowing. There's a fishing boat waiting about a mile off shore."

"You told Debanjak that you were going out the same way you came in.

"Yes," Ogden agreed. "That's what I told Debanjak."

An hour later the fishing boat loomed out of the darkness, and they were taken aboard, the rowboat abandoned. The fishing smack was old and the crew was older, two ancient mariners who spoke to Ogden in a grunted Italian that Vlado did not understand. Ogden said, "There's food in the cabin if you want some."

"No," said Vlado. "I'm not hungry."

"How do you feel?"

Vlado thought about that. "Empty."

"Then you should eat."

"Not that kind of empty. I thought it would make me feel good to kill him, but it didn't. I didn't feel anything. It was like a game. I pulled the trigger, and he was dead. The same thing with the woman. I felt nothing."

Ogden nodded.

"That isn't right, is it? It shouldn't be that way."

It sure as hell shouldn't, thought Ogden, but he said, "Different people take it differently. Don't worry about it."

They sat on the deck with their eyes astern, watching the florescence of the wake spread out behind them. Ogden started to fill his pipe, but one of the Italians said something, and he put the pipe away.

"No lights," he explained. "We're still in Yugoslav waters. Another hour before we're out of the gulf."

"And then?"

"Four hours, maybe five to Rimini." He saw Vlado's blank look. "In Italy."

" Italy. What happens to me then?"

"A car to Rome, and then we fly to the States. America."

" America." Vlado said it softly. "And then what?"

"I have a home for you in a place called Maryland with a good family, people I know. A new name, new papers, a school. You have a new language to learn, a whole new life. I have it all arranged."

Vlado tried the word. " Maryland?"

"That's it."

"And you? Where will you be? "

"I'll be around. You'll see me once in a while."

"Once in a while." Vlado was silent, staring out into the night. " Ogden, I don't want to go to Maryland, and I don't want to go to a school. I want to stay with you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Couldn't we do it that way?"

"Not now. After a while, maybe. After you've done some growing up, but not now."

"I want it to be now."

"I know."

"Please."

Ogden shook his head. Carefully, almost delicately, he put an arm around the boy's shoulders, and held him. Those shoulders began to shake, and he held him closer. He did not look at him. The kid was crying for the first time in ten years, and he deserved a little privacy.

"Listen, what the fuck is going on?"

Sextant, still kneeling on the floor between the two beds, was jolted out of his reverie by the rasp of Beer-gut's voice behind him. He shook his head, leaving that other time reluctantly. He did not turn around.

"For Chrissake, let's get this show on the road. It's stupid sitting around like this."

"Get out."

"God damn it, you can't…"

"Get out," Sextant repeated. His voice was low and controlled, but it was deadly. Feet shuffled, and the door closed behind him. Sextant still had not turned. His eyes were on the two young people on the beds, shifting from Lila's terrified face to the hatred burning in Chicken's eyes.

So long ago, he thought, sitting on the deck with Ogden 's arms around me, crying my heart out. And for what? Because I had killed a man and a woman? Certainly not. Because I had just found Ogden again, and was about to lose him again? Perhaps. Because I was finally able to cry for my mother, and what they had done to her? That, yes. Definitely yes, but after that no tears. No tears when Ogden left me with those people in Maryland, and no tears when he came back for me three years later. No tears when he sent me to kill the senator in Chile. Or the Jew in Cairo. Or the bomb in the garage in Santa Monica. Or the Canadian jet with all those people on board. No tears for any of those jobs, or for all the jobs in Nam and after Nam. Never a tear, and now, after all those knives in the night that I drew for David Ogden, the wheel comes round again. Rape, the short and ugly word like a stab in the dark. Why me, David? I'll do it, of course. I've always done whatever you've asked, but I have to tell you, David, that I do not want to do this one. There it is, flat out. I do not want to do this.

I do not want to do this.

Chicken heard the words that rang in Sextant's brain like the tolling of a hollow bell. He heard them clearly, just as he had heard all the rest of it. He had heard it in Slovenian, the mother-tongue that Sextant thought in, for, like any other sensitive, he could absorb a language from another man's mind. He stared up into Sextant's eyes, and was not surprised to see sorrow there. He stared into Sextant's mind, and was not surprised to see a sadness without limits. He tapped in further, and saw the warping of the boy who had become the man. And he saw that the man was a fraud. He thought of himself as a man of ice, without compassion, but he was wrong, the compassion was there. It was twisted out of recognition, and it was buried so deep that it could only be sensed by a sensitive. But it was there, and Chicken knew that he had to get it to the surface.

Take the gag out of my mouth, he thought. Take it out.

Nothing happened. Sextant continued to stare at him.

Take out the gag. He repeated the thought over and over. He knew he was wasting his time, but it was all that he could think of to do. He squirmed on the bed, and Sextant looked at him curiously.

"Full of hate, aren't you?" he said. "You'd love to cut my heart out, wouldn't you?"

Chicken shook his head. Take out the gag.

"You don't? Well you should. I would, if I were you."

Chicken shook his head again. Take out the gag.

"Don't even know what hit you, do you? One minute you're walking along with your girl, and the next minute… well, here you are. Don't know how, don't know why, and you don't even know what's coming next."

Chicken nodded. Take out the gag.

"Yes? Yes what? You do know what's coming? You smart enough to figure that out?"

Chicken nodded. Take out the gag.

"It's not going to be pretty, son. Believe me, I know. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Chicken nodded violently. Take out the gag.

"You think there is? You're wrong, boy, nothing at all. All you can do is keep on hating. Hating helps a lot."

WILL YOU TAKE OUT THE GOD DAMN GAG.

Sextant frowned. "You want to tell me something, don't you?"

Chicken nodded.

"Sure, why not, but keep your voice down. You start to yell and I'll hurt you bad." Sextant's fingers worked quickly, and the gag came off. "Well, what is it?"

Chicken grimaced as the gag came off. He worked the muscles in his face, and he wet his lips.

"Come on, you wanted to say something."

Speaking in Slovenian, Chicken said, "I have a great deal to say, Vlado Priol."

Sextant's eyes narrowed at the sound of the language. A knife appeared in his hand, and the point pricked the skin of Chicken's neck. In Slovenian, he said, "What do you know about Vlado Priol?"

Chicken swallowed hard, and tried for a steady voice. "How can I talk with a knife at my throat?"

Sextant lowered the knife. "Talk."

All the way, thought Chicken. Roll the dice. "I will continue to talk in Slovenian because I don't want the girl to understand. Your name is Vlado Priol. You have other names, one of which is Sextant. Your control is…was, David Ogden. Your assignment is the rape of that girl over there. Are you aware that your mission has been aborted?"

More to himself than to Chicken, Sextant muttered, "It can't be aborted. Gibraltar rules."

"Nevertheless, it is."

"How do you know these things?"

"I work for the same people that Ogden worked for. The same people that you have worked for from time to time."

Sextant came close to smiling. "You? How old are you?"

"Sixteen. The same age as you when you killed Josip Koller."

A silence, and then Sextant said quietly, "You're a dead man."

"I don't think so." Chicken was amazed at his own calm.

"You are. After that you have to be."

"Think, Sextant, you're supposed to be one of the bright ones. How many people ever knew about you and Josip Koller?"

"Only one, Ogden, and he's dead."

"Then how did I know? Would Ogden have talked, would he have told anyone your secret?"

"Never."

"Then how did I know?"

Sextant thought. "You're one of them. You're a sensitive."

"Top marks."

" Ogden told me about you people, but I never really thought…"

"Now you know."

"And soon you will be a dead sensitive."

"Are you sure? That means you'll have to kill the girl, too."

"Obviously."

"But your orders from Ogden clearly forbid that. As I recall, he said, I do not want her life, in fact I forbid you to take it. Isn't that so?"

Sextant frowned. He shook his head slightly, as if disturbed by a buzzing insect.

"Those were your orders. Tell me, in all your years with Ogden, did you ever disobey an order that he gave you?"

"Never."

"Did you ever put your personal safety above his wishes?"

"Never."

"But you're going to do that now, aren't you?"

Again, that insect buzzing. "Sometimes… sometimes it is necessary for the agent in the field to…"

"Disobey," Chicken said firmly. "The word is disobey."

Sextant's head went down. "Yes."

"Now listen to me, Vlado Priol." Chicken spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out. "If you can disobey one order, you can disobey another. There is no need for this thing to happen. I've been inside your mind, and I know that you don't want to do it. I know that the idea sickens you, and that you are doing it only out of loyalty to a dead man. But how much longer can you go on being loyal? All your life you've been doing things for David Ogden. Isn't it time that you did something for yourself? Isn't it time…"

Later, after it was all over, Chicken would look back and wonder how effective his plea might have been if he had been given a chance to finish it. But he never did. The door swung open, and Sextant's three animals spilled into the room. They were beer-drunk, they were weaving on their feet, and they were angry.

"Time's up," growled Beer-gut. "We want that little girl, and we want her now."

Richie, behind him, said, "Yeah, I wanna piece of that cute thing."

"We tossed up coins," said Phil. "I get to go first. Odd man in." He giggled.

In quiet Slovenian, Chicken said to Sextant, "Call it off. You can't let this happen."

Sextant said nothing. Still kneeling on the floor, his head was down and he was sunk in thought.

Go for it, thought Chicken. Go for it all the way. In English, he shouted, "Okay, boys, it's party time. Come and get her, she's all yours."

Sextant's head snapped up. "What are you doing?"

"It's what you want, isn't it?"

The three men rushed to the bed. Beer-gut ripped the ties from Lila's legs, and the other two tore at her clothing. Her hands were still bound, but she fought with her feet, kicking out as Richie tugged at her ski pants. She screamed, but with the gag in her mouth it sounded like a muffled moan. She twisted from side to side until Beer-gut pinned her shoulders.

"Get those God damn pants off," he grunted.

"Lie still, bitch."

Sextant, still on his knees, watched without moving. He seemed turned to stone.

"Well," Chicken whispered, "is this really what you want?"

No answer.

"Why don't you take the gag out of her mouth? That way you can hear her scream."

No movement.

"Just the way your mother screamed."

Still stone.

Richie had Lila's pants down around her knees. Phil had cut the ties on her hands, and was trying to get her sweater over her head. Beer-gut leaned over her, trying to kiss her.

"Still the good little soldier?" asked Chicken. "Still following orders?"

No answer.

"That's about what I expected. The last time you hid under a pile of goatskins."

Sextant finally looked at him. In the plaintive voice of a little boy, he said, "I was only six years old."

"Yes, and how old are you now?"

"Damn you," whispered Sextant. "Damn you."

Sextant came up off the floor in a single fluid motion. He plucked Richie off Lila and flung him against the wall. He caught the back of Phil's neck with the edge of his palm, and Phil crumpled to the floor. Beer-gut yelped, and backed away from the bed. Sextant hit him once, almost casually, in the belly, and he doubled over, retching.

Sextant turned back to Chicken. The knife was in his hand again. He cut the ties on Chicken's hands and feet.

"Get her dressed, and get her out of here," he said. His face was wet with tears. For the second time in forty years, Vlado Priol was crying.