The Blackbird

Nine

There was no way out of it. Grofield spent the long half hour of the ride back to Quebec thinking about that, learning reluctantly to accept it. There was no way out, he was going to have to try to get the information Ken and his buddies wanted, and at the same time keep that other bunch from kidnapping him again, and at the same time keep Marba and General Pozos from finding out he was actually working for the American government. A juggling act, that’s what he was going to have to perform, simply because there was just no way out of it. They had him in a cage.

The third man was driving, with the stranger beside him, and Ken in back with Grofield. Nobody did much talking until they were back in the city of Quebec again, this time coming in from the northeast, having traveled down out of bleak and snowy mountains north of the city. As the buildings of the city began to fill in the spaces around them, Ken said, “Have you met Henry Carlson yet?”

“He was in my room when I woke up. He wanted to know why Vivian Kamdela had been to see me.”

Ken looked sharply at him. “She went to see you?”

Grofield told Ken the history of his day, and when he was done Ken said, “All right, that’s good, that gives you a way in. She’ll be back, or others will come instead. You can’t let them know you know they work for Colonel Rahgos... ”

“I do?”

“President of Undurwa,” Ken reminded him. “Your friend Marba’s country.”

“Oh. Right.”

“What you do is, you insist on talking to their boss. Sooner or later they’ll take you to Marba, and from there on you can ad-lib.”

“I prefer working from a script, but all right.”

“In the meantime, we’ll try to find out who that bunch was that put the arm on you.”

“That’d be nice.”

“And keep them from doing it again.”

“That’d be nicer.”

They arrived at the hotel a few minutes later, but did not drive on in. Instead, they parked on the Place d’Armes. The short winter twilight had settled on the city now, and across the way the Chateau Frontenac was dramatically lit in amber and green.

Ken said, “We’ll check out your room first, just in case they’re waiting for you. You take a walk around the block and then go on in.”

“All right.”

The effects of the drug had mostly worn off by now, but Grofield was still a little shaky when he stepped out of the car. The cold air slapped his face, waking him up and making him dizzy at the same time.

The stranger said, “You okay?”

“I’ll do until the real thing comes along.”

“That’s the stuff.”

“I bet it is.”

Grofield tottered away, and had a boring walk past open restaurants and closed stores on Rue Sainte Anne, Rue des Jardins, Rue Buade, Rue du Trésor and back to Rue Sainte Anne again. By then he was more than ready to cross the Place d’Armes and go on into the hotel.

He didn’t know if anyone paid attention to him in the lobby or not. He didn’t really care. He simply walked over to a waiting elevator, told the uniformed boy, “Three,” and was taken up to the third floor. He walked tiredly down the long hall to his room, reflecting that he’d been out of bed less than three hours and was already exhausted again, and fumbled with the key until he got the door open.

He went in and the lights were on. Henry Carlson was sitting in the same chair as before, slouching, his book open on his chest. Ken was at the telephone, and had turned to stare in disbelief at Grofield.

Grofield said, “Did I come back too soon?”

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Ken said, and cradled the phone. He came quickly across the room toward Grofield, his face twisted with rage. “You son of a bitch, you had the gall to come back!”

Carlson wasn’t moving. A hilt jutted out of the middle of the book. The book had been stuck to his chest with a knife. Carlson wasn’t ever going to move again.

Grofield looked from Carlson to Ken and saw Ken’s fist coming at his face.