The Second Saladin

24

It occurred to Chardy that he would not tell them — not Lanahan here, not Yost, expecially not the man whose presence he thought he felt in it all, Sam Melman — about Trewitt, about Mexico.

“Paul, I guess you’ll just have to get back to Danzig,” Lanahan said. “Ver Steeg” — Lanahan said it bitterly, for he was turning out to be no fan of Yost’s — “says he’ll have it wrapped up in a day or so.”

They sat in the Rosslyn office, a ghost office, full of echoes and silence and stale air, on the Monday morning following the news from Trewitt.

Miles was bitter — he was not on the Dayton team. He had been shelved, it seemed, in favor of men Yost either trusted more or feared less.

“Relax, Miles. You’ll get a shot at Ulu Beg. Yost won’t get him in Dayton.”

“They’ve got Dayton sealed. They’ve got it nailed. It’s only a matter of time,” said Lanahan bleakly. He was sweating. Drops of pure ambition ran from his hairline.

It occurred to Chardy that Lanahan flatly, coldly did not want Yost to take the Kurd. Not without having a hand in it himself.

“No, Miles. Yost doesn’t really know this guy. He thinks he’s some gun-happy Third World terrorist. Just a brainless hooter, a man with a gun and a screwball cause. He doesn’t realize: Ulu Beg’s got it.”

It? What?

But Lanahan didn’t ask, merely stared angrily at Chardy. “Little rats like Yost don’t catch hero-types like Ulu Beg,” he finally said.

“Something like that.”

“Chardy, it’s all nonsense. That’s a silly notion, a schoolboy notion. It’s full of romance, myth. It’s full of bullshit. Ulu Beg is being hunted by men armed with computers, sophisticated electronics and optics. And manpower. Carte blanche. All they want. Bodies and more bodies. A whole agency full of bodies. You make him sound like Geronimo. He can only be caught by the righteous. It’s out of the last century, which, in case you hadn’t noticed, ended some time ago.”

“Okay, Miles. Don’t say I didn’t tell you. I almost like you, Miles. You want into the big time so bad.”

“Just leave it alone, Paul.”

“You want in. You want buddy-buddy with the Harvard boys.”

“Just forget it, Paul. I have to tell Yost where you are. You better get where you’re supposed to be.”

No, Chardy would not tell Miles about Trewitt. Because Trewitt had no brief for Mexico, because there would be all sorts of problems if Trewitt was suddenly operating in Mexico, which Yost had specifically forbidden.

And it also meant one other thing, which may have pleased Chardy the most and explained his decision the best: for the first time he knew something they — all of them — didn’t.

Let Trewitt have some time, some space. Maybe he could come up with something. But what, or who?

Chardy smiled.

I just put some money on Trewitt, he thought. Dreamy Trewitt, preppy kid, all eagerness and sloppy puppy love, full of insane, ludicrous notions of adventure. Weighted with legends, inflated with heroes — a fan really, as far from shrewd, grim, pushy little Miles as you could get.

Chardy thought of the good men he’d backed and who’d backed him in his time, heroes from Frenchy Short on down; and here he was with his chips on Trewitt.

“What’s so funny, Paul?”

“I don’t know. It all is, Miles. You, me, all of it.”

But Miles wasn’t smiling.

“You better get going, Paul. The great man is waiting. And you better get ready to move this weekend. There’s a job coming off.”

Chardy turned, stung.

“I thought he was staying put—” He’d had plans for the weekend.

“It just came up. But maybe Yost will get lucky before then.”

“He won’t.”

“Don’t worry, though. You’re going to Boston.”