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  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF CAMPBELL ARMSTRONG

  “Campbell Armstrong is thriller writing’s best-kept secret.” —The Sunday Times

  “Armstrong is among the most intriguing of blockbuster writers … near to unputdownable.” —GQ

  “While touching on suspense with a skill to please hard-core thriller addicts, he manages to please people who … warm to readable novels of substance.” —Daily Mail

  “Armstrong’s skill is not just an eye for a criminally good tale but a passion for the people that will populate it.” —The Scotsman

  “Subtle and marvelous … This is a dazzling book.” —The Daily Telegraph on Agents of Darkness

  “A consummate psychological thriller … Without doubt, Armstrong is now in the front rank of thriller writers.” —Books on Heat

  “Armstrong has outdone both Frederick Forsyth and Ken Follett.” —James Patterson on Jig

  “A full throttle adventure thriller.” —The Guardian on Mambo

  “A wonderful puzzle that keeps us guessing right to the end.” —Publishers Weekly on Mazurka

  Asterisk

  Campbell Armstrong

  A book for Keiron

  asterisk: the character * used in printing or writing as a reference mark … or to denote a hypothetical or nonoccurring linguistic form

  —Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary

  1

  Saturday, April Fool’s Day

  In his dark-blue suit the major general might have been a businessman awaiting the arrival of a client. He sat at a table in the cocktail lounge, a place of plastic plants and stained polyurethane ceiling beams, some Tudor fraud, and sipped from a glass of Seagram’s and 7-Up. He held a leather attaché case in his lap. He looked at his watch. 12:10. What could be keeping Thorne? He hated unpunctuality at the best of times but now, especially now, it was quite intolerable. He lit a cigarette, turned the glass around between the palms of his hands, gazed across the crowded tables of the lounge.

  Muzak played. The King and I. He had once been very fond of it.

  But it was past and dead like so many things.

  He stared at the door that led to the street. Thorne would come through at any moment. By the same token, so could any of the others. Lifting one hand from the edge of the attaché case, he rubbed his eyelids. Then he replaced his dark glasses.

  He smoked another cigarette, ordered a second drink. In the old days there wouldn’t have been these nerves. But something gives; something in the body yields and after a time you just can’t cut it. You looked at death and what you saw was no longer an old enemy but something that grew increasingly familiar. Come on, Thorne, come on. He raised his glass to his lips and noticed that his hand was trembling. It had been a long time since he had last seen that. Still, he thought. Keep still. He put the glass down, spilling some of the drink on the surface of the table.

  The tape stopped.

  He listened to the babble of voices from all sides. He watched the door. His heartbeat, as if there were some quite desperate thing trapped in the cage of his ribs, was explosive. It was twelve seventeen. Thorne’s father, old Ben, would never have kept a man waiting. Punctuality had been a law for Ben. If a man can’t be on time then it means his life is a mess.

  But Ben was dead. That was one of the worst adjustments of growing old; one by one, your nearest friends had gone.

  And me, he thought. Me. How do you think of something so inconceivable as nonexistence? The door swung open, closed again. A young couple, hand in hand, a pair of lovebirds. She was smiling and lovely, he was tall and cool and unflustered. The major general considered his wife a moment, the track of some memory. A specter. He was twenty years older than her; had there ever been a time when they’d looked like the couple that had just come in?

  He closed his eyes. There was new Muzak now. The sound of voices drowned it. Dying, he thought. The fight didn’t seem worth it now. He tapped his fingers on the attaché case. They said young Thorne was smart, trustworthy, a man Going Places. All he could hope was that something of the old man had rubbed off on his son. Honor. At least that.

  The door opened again. A middle-aged man, heavily built, constructed like some retired football player, came in and looked across the tables. How can I be sure? the major general wondered. Please, Thorne, please. The middle-aged man found an empty table some distance away and sat down and took a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his maroon leisure suit. You hardly ever saw cases like that anymore, the major general thought. They had once been all the rage. The man turned his head a little in the direction of the major general who glanced once more, once more, at his watch.

  12:24.

  Thorne.

  He ran the tip of a finger around the rim of his glass. The trouble with fear, he thought, is the fact that it quickly becomes a constant. It becomes the norm of your life and not the exception. You live all the time on the dark edges. Because you can’t live anyplace else.

  He looked across the bar. Waitresses, like small panicked birds, darted back and forth between the tables and the bar, carrying trays, setting glasses down, flustered by the noise, the unseasonable heat. If Thorne didn’t come, he would have to talk to one of the waitresses. That was the only course.

  He looked at the man in the maroon leisure suit.

  Then down at his attaché case.

  Somehow, one way or another, the world would have to know.

  A truck, a tanker of some kind, had slammed into the center strip of the highway and skidded about a hundred yards on its side. The driver, seemingly unconscious, was surrounded by medics; two cars of the highway patrol were parked some distance from the truck, their lights flashing. The ambulance sat sideways, blocking the fast lane.

  Thorne got out of his car and looked impatiently along the highway. How long before they could get this thing moving? Behind him there was a long line of vehicles. A few drivers, like himself, had come out of their cars and were trying to get a look at the accident. He felt the kind of hopeless anxiety that goes nowhere but into some frustrated resignation. He got back inside his car and drummed his fingers on the wheel. How much longer?

  He switched on his car radio, rolled down his window. The day was hot, the air uncomfortably humid. There was a news item or two on the radio: the possibility of another oil embargo, a coal-mine disaster in Kentucky, the unmanned spacecraft was sending back pictures of the Martian surface. He turned the radio off and wondered if the old boy would wait.

  Up ahead now he saw the medics carry a stretcher into the ambulance. The truck, like some surreal metal elephant, lay on its side; a posture of death. If it were important, the major general would surely wait. Besides, what was the mystery? What was the reason for this meeting? And why in some suburban restaurant? Thorne realized he hadn’t seen the major general in—what?—fifteen, sixteen years? The last time had been at the funeral. He remembered the small reassuring man in military uniform with a look of genuine sorrow in his eyes. They had shaken hands after the service, the only mourner, Thorne remembered, who had looked genuinely sad—apart from his mother. Having shaken hands, the major general had taken a handkerchief from his pants and blown his nose; his eyes were watery. Your dad stood for something, John. He stood for a set of values that aren’t so obvious anymore in this great country of ours. And Thorne recalled the pain in the man’s face, the obvious struggle to control his grief, the way the voice shook. It had been a rainy morning; rain had soaked the flag draped around his father’s casket, it had fallen against the black veil of mourning worn by his mother, pr
essing it flat upon her face so that her shock, her loss, was apparent to anybody who looked.

  Walking away from the graveside, the major general had put his arm supportively upon the widow’s elbow, and something in the gesture had struck Thorne as incongruously gentle, something he would not normally have associated with a man in military uniform. But there it was—a certain softness, a consideration, a moment of compassion. It had touched him; it had helped alleviate, in a small way, the sorrow of the morning. On the way out of the cemetery, the major general had drawn Thorne aside and said: Be true to his values, John. Try your best to be true. A brief salute, one man to another, not a patronizing gesture made by a soldier to a kid. Then the small man had walked off into the rain, to the waiting car.

  Every Christmas since then he had received a gift from the old boy—handkerchiefs, socks, an electric razor, and on the Christmas of his twenty-first year a wristwatch. It was always accompanied by a card whose message rarely varied: I hope this finds you well … I hope the last year has been good and the next will be even better.… Occasionally he heard from his mother that she had seen the major general, usually by chance, and that the old soldier was anxious to impart advice—on financial matters, on her late husband’s papers, whatever. It was almost as if the major general were keen to make himself a surrogate member of the family, anxious somehow to please the ghost of a dead man.

  And then the call last night. Incoherent, scared, urgent. We must meet and talk. It’s vital. Vital. Thorne saw that the inside lane had been cleared now. A highway patrolman was signaling cars forward, passing them through slowly. He put his Volkswagen in first. The clutch was slipping. It had always slipped in first, right from the time he had bought it. Vital, he thought. What could be so vital to an old man on the edge of retirement?

  He looked at the bored face of the patrolman as he passed. He felt some sympathy: it was a dumb way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

  12:49. The major general rose from his table, wiped his lips with a napkin, and called to the waitress for his check. She was young, pretty, anxious to please. New on the job, the major general thought. He took two five-dollar bills from his wallet and laid them on the table. His check came to three dollars.

  “I want you to do something for me,” he said.

  She looked at the notes, then at his face, as if she were encountering for the first time the kind of drunk customer she had been warned about. But she smiled still. The major general placed the attaché case on the chair.

  “I am about to forget my case,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  Mad, he thought. She sees madness in me. Or senility. He looked quickly at his watch. 12:51. Even if Thorne were not like his father, whom else could he trust at this stage of the game? He remembered a fifteen-year-old boy in a cemetery. A day of grief, but the boy had carried it well. He was hurting inside, he wanted to weep, but he had carried it the way a man might. Was that what he was trusting? A fading, fifteen-year-old memory?

  “Why would you want to forget your case?” the waitress asked. She was blond and had her hair bunched back and behind the smile there was the edge of some suspicion.

  “I’m leaving it for somebody, do you see?” the major general said. It had to be enough for Thorne.

  He looked across the tables. The man in the maroon leisure suit sat stiffly over a glass of beer which clearly he had no intention of drinking. He was not looking in the major general’s direction. It could be anyone, he thought. It could be more than one.

  “Somebody called Thorne will come here,” he said to the girl. He was conscious of speaking too quickly. There was a tightness in his chest. “He will ask for me. Burckhardt. You will say that I had to leave. You will give him the attaché case.”

  “Sure, no problem,” the girl said. She was looking from the case to the two five-dollar bills.

  The major general nodded. “All my life I’ve been a great tipper,” he said. He winked at the girl. She picked up the notes. He walked away from the table. It was a constant thing, he thought: you begin to worry when you don’t feel menaced. He reached the front door and went outside. For a moment he forgot where he had parked the car, a rented Ford, nondescript. What color was it? What did the damn thing look like?

  He crossed the parking lot. When he found the car he fumbled his keys from his pocket, opened the door, and got inside. He drove to the motel where he had stayed the previous night. He parked the car, stepped out, and looked around.

  A young man stood on the edge of the diving board above the pool. He raised his arms over his head, then, in a series of burnished twists, he was gone. The major general heard him hit the water. He took out his key and went inside his room. It was cool, the drapes drawn, the air conditioner blowing. He sat on the edge of the bed and smoked a cigarette. The telephone, he thought. Yes. Why not? You never knew if there would be another chance.

  He asked the operator to place a collect call to Mrs. Anna Burckhardt in Fredericksburg, Virginia. “Your name?” she asked. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  Momentarily he hesitated. A shadow, passing on the outside, crossed the drawn drapes. Anna, he thought: too much has been lost, too much has simply leaked away. He put the receiver down: where was the point to it now? He walked to the window, parted the drapes a little way. He saw the colored parasols around the pool. A long time ago he had told the boy: Be true to those things your father stood for. Be true. Now he could hope. He dropped the drapes back in place.

  It was the perfect bitch, Tarkington thought. Nothing is simple in daylight. But there hadn’t been an encounter, at least he could tell them that. He had seen an expectancy of death in the man’s eyes. It was what you grew accustomed to. You recognized it as such.

  He sipped some of his beer, left a few coins on the table, then went outside. He found a telephone booth on the far side of the building. The number. His memory for numbers was pitiful. He took a small dark notebook from his inside pocket, leafed through the pages, made a call.

  He heard Sharpe’s voice, sleepy as always. You couldn’t trust that, though. What was that joke around the place? Sharpe by name, Sharpe by nature?

  “They didn’t meet,” Tarkington said. “Don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”

  “Where did the old man go?” Sharpe asked.

  Tarkington looked across the parking lot. The white sun glinted on windows, mirrors. He had forgotten his shades. He was forever buying sunglasses and leaving them places. He squinted.

  “It wouldn’t much matter,” Tarkington said.

  There was silence. Tarkington could see Sharpe behind the desk in his office. A sterile room. Sharpe was a workhorse. Saturdays even. A man gets ahead. Tarkington felt the sun burn on his forehead. In the field, you tired easily: Sharpe had presumably forgotten that.

  “Lykiard is with him,” Tarkington said. “It doesn’t make a lot of difference now.”

  “Loose ends is what I hate,” Sharpe said.

  “Loose ends is what you don’t get with Lykiard.”

  An anxious-looking woman, chewing on her lower lip, fidgeting with her purse, was pacing up and down outside the telephone booth. She had the appearance of someone with an emergency on her mind. Locked out of her car, Tarkington thought. Needs a locksmith. Good luck, lady.

  Tarkington put the receiver down and stepped out of the booth. The woman rushed past him and slammed the door behind her. He walked to his car. It’s the waiting, he thought. Always the waiting. But it was Lykiard’s baby now. It was a job for the human eraser.

  He hadn’t waited after all.

  Thorne asked the hostess if a Mr. Burckhardt had left a message for him. She was wearing a long dress, suggesting this place had some claim to class. She looked like a forlorn bridesmaid.

  “Are you Mr. Thorne?”

  Thorne said he was.

  “Your party had to leave,” she said.

  “Did he—”

  “He asked us to give you this.” She reached
behind her desk and brought out a brown leather attaché case. Thorne took it.

  “No message? Didn’t say where he was going?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Just the case.”

  Saturday, Thorne thought. The sheer waste of it. He smiled at the hostess, who was leaning against a sign that read PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. He needed a drink. He was led to a table, ordered a gin and tonic, drank it slowly. He found a small key attached to the handle of the case by a piece of string. He opened the case, glanced inside. A manila folder containing sheaves of paper. What was it? The old boy’s memoirs? An analysis of the faults of our defense system? He closed the case and locked it. He stirred his drink, then finished it. There are better things to do on a Saturday, he thought. Better ways of passing time.

  He got up from the table, paid the waitress, and went outside. He walked to his Volkswagen, slung the case in back, and drove away. On Interstate 95 he saw a plane begin its ascent from the runway of Washington National Airport. A DC-9. Beyond, on the other side of the Potomac, there were disintegrating jet vapors in the sky above Andrews Air Force Base.

  2

  Marcia was sunbathing on the balcony of the apartment when he let himself in with his own key. He put the attaché case down, took off his jacket, shirt, and necktie, and stepped through the glass door to the balcony. She smiled without looking at him. She was staring up at the sky, her eyes hidden by sunglasses.

  “Welcome,” she said.

  There was a pitcher of lemonade, in which the ice had already melted, on a small table. He poured a glass for himself and deliberately spilled a few drops on Marcia’s stomach. She grimaced.

  “Keep you awake,” he said.

  “I’m not asleep,” she answered.

  She was wearing a black two-piece swimsuit. Her skin was turning red. Later, it would darken to brown and she would look … terrific, Thorne thought. But then she always looked terrific. He sipped the lemonade, which was bitter. He remembered that lately she had begun a campaign against the use of sugar after reading a book in which sugar was said to be a killer. Now, when she wanted a sweetener, it had to be honey.