sounded logical. It sounded as if it could be true but Don knew that wasn’t the reason Klieger would come. He would want to see the ceramics, that was true, but would he want to handle them so much that nothing else mattered? And, if so, why? Why tonight?
Waiting between the cases, eyes on the long vista of the gallery with its shining glass and neat exhibits Don fought the question that had puzzled him all along. In a way it was a seeming paradox, but he knew that it only seemed that way to him. As the visitors began to arrive and the air vibrated to their murmured comments as they studied the exhibits the question nagged at his peace of mind.
Klieger must know he would be walking into a trap.
Yet he would come, Don was certain of it.
So, if Don wasn’t mistaken and he was certain he was not, Klieger must consider the visit to be worth certain capture.
Capture or—
Bronson moved, an automatic gesture, one hand sliding beneath his coat, and Don snarled at him with savage impatience.
“There’ll be none of that! Do you understand? You won’t be needed!”
Inwardly he cursed Penn’s cold, inhuman logic. In war it is good sense to destroy material you can’t use to prevent it falling into enemy hands, but this wasn’t war and Penn wasn’t dealing with machines or supplies.
Klieger must know the risk he ran of being shot to death.
Don started as Earlman gripped his arm. Max jerked his head, eyes bright in the haggard face as he stared down the gallery.
“There, Don,” he breathed. “Down by that big case. See him?”
Klieger!
He was—ordinary. Engrossed with the hunt Don had mentally fitted the quarry with supernatural peculiarities but now, watching him as he stood, entranced by pottery fired before the dawn of Western civilization, he seemed nothing but what he was. An ordinary man with more than an ordinary interest in things considered beautiful by a minority.
And yet he had knowledge, which made him the most dangerous man to the security of the West.
“Got him!” Earlman’s whisper was triumphant. “You did it again, Don! You called it right on the nose!”
“Get into position.” Gregson didn’t take his eyes from the slight figure he had hunted so long. “Stand by in case he makes a break for it. You know what to do.”
“I know.” Earlman hesitated. “Bronson?”
“I’ll take care of him.”
Don waited as Earlman slipped away, gliding past the cases to lean casually at the top of the far stairs. He sensed the other’s relief and understood it. They had worked together for eight years and his failure would, in part, have been shared by Earlman.
But he had not failed.
Savouring the sweet taste of success he walked forward half-conscious of Bronson at his heels. Klieger did not turn. He stood, caressing a shallow, wide-mouthed bowl in his hands, eyes intent on the still-bright colours.
“Klieger!”
Slowly he set down the vase.
“Don’t run. Don’t fight. Don’t do anything stupid.” Don’s voice was a grim whisper. “You can’t get away.”
“I know.”
“Just in case you’re wondering I’m from the C.I.A.”
“I know.”
“This is the end of the line, Klieger.”
“I know.”
The calm, emotionless tones irritated Gregson. The man should have complained, argued, anything but the flat baldness of the repeated statement. Savagely he gripped a shoulder and spun Klieger round to face him.
“Do you know everything?”
Klieger didn’t answer. Heavy lids dropped over the eyes and Don remembered how Levkin had described them. ‘Remarkable’ the owner had said, but the word was misleading. They were haunted. There was no other description, no other word. Haunted.
“What are you going to do with me?” Klieger opened his eyes and stared up into the grim face of the hunter. Don shrugged.
“Why ask? You’re the man who is supposed to know everything.”
“I am a clairvoyant,” said Klieger calmly. “I can see into the future, but so can you. Do you know everything?”
“I—” Don swallowed. “What did you say?”
“How else would you have known that I would he here? And I mean know, not guess. You were certain that you would find me, as certain as I am that—”
“Go on.”
“You have the talent. By knowing that I would be here at this time you ‘saw’ into the future. Not far, perhaps, but too clearly, but you ‘saw. What other proof do you need?”
“But I simply had a conviction that— Is that how clairvoyancy works?”
“For you, obviously yes. For others perhaps not exactly the same. But when you are convinced beyond any shadow of doubt that at a certain time a thing will happen, or that a thing will happen even if the exact time is not too precise, then you have the gift which General Penn values most highly.” Klieger gave a bitter smile. “Much good may it do you.”
Don shook his head, conscious of receiving knowledge too fast and too soon. At his elbow Bronson shifted his weight a little, poising on the balls of his feet. Around them was a clear space as the other visitors moved down the line of cases. The three of them stood in an island of isolation.
“I am not coming back with you,” announced Klieger. “I have had enough of Cartwright House.”
“You have no choice.”
Klieger smiled. “You forget,” he pointed out gently, “it isn’t a question of choice. It is a simple question of knowledge. I shall never see the general again.”
Bronson made an incoherent sound deep in his throat.
He was fast, incredibly fast, but Don was even faster. Warned by some unknown sense he spun as the gun flashed into view, snatching at the wrist as it swung level, twisting and forcing the black muzzle from its target with viciously applied leverage. Muscles knotted then the bone snapped with the dry sound of a breaking stick. Bronson opened his mouth as the gun fell from nerveless fingers then Don slashed the hard edge of his palm across the nerves in the neck and the mute collapsed.
Quickly Don scooped up the gun and heaved Bronson to his feet, supporting the unconscious man as he fought mounting tides of hate. Hate for Bronson who lived only to take revenge on the world for his disability. Hatred for Penn who could find a use for the psychopathic mute and others like him. Licensed murderers in the sacred name of expediency; safe
