Tanner’s Virgin

I had to take her some place where they could do something for her. That much was obvious. Some place quiet and restful and eminently sane. Those qualifications gave me three reasons for ruling out the place I had originally assumed we would go, since New York was neither quiet nor restful nor sane, and never will be. In New York all I could do would be to turn her over to an analyst, which would involve paying around thirty dollars an hour for a period of several years to establish that Mrs. Horowitz had discouraged little Debbie from smearing her fecal matter on the wall. I could think of many things for which to blame Mrs. Horowitz, but this was not one of them, and I couldn’t see any reason to spend thirty dollars an hour for revelations of this nature.

Or else we could go back to Switzerland. They have a thing there called the Sleep Cure, and I supposed that Phaedra could take it. They just keep you asleep almost forever and let your unconscious work things out on its own. You get better, the idea seems to be, but because you are asleep during it all your conscious mind doesn’t know that you’re better. So you go on being the same old lunatic, but deep down inside you’re sane.

I may have that wrong. Somehow, though, my own personal situation is such that I’m illogically biased against anything called the Sleep Cure. Mea culpa, perhaps, but sic friat crustulum.

Oh.

About seventy miles out of Anardara, I knew where I would take her.

And about ninety miles out of Anardara, the helicopter opened fire on us.

Chapter 13

At first I didn’t know what the hell it was. I heard a droning noise, but the chopper was overhead to our rear and I didn’t see it. Then there was a rattling noise. Puffs of dirt dug a line across the road in front of us. I hit the brake, and the helicopter hovered into view up ahead, and another blast of automatic weapon fire dug up the road.

Phaedra’s eyes were wide open. “What the hell is that?”

“A helicopter. Out of the car. Fast.”

“But-”

“They’re trying to kill us.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Get out of the car and make it quick. Open your door. That’s right. Now go for the ditch – no, wait, give them a minute to swing across to the other side. Jump for the ditch when I tell you… Okay, now!”

She made a half-hearted leap for the ditch. I sprang out after her and goosed her along, and we wound up in the ditch by the side of the road. She started to straighten up. I grabbed hold of her, pulled her down.

“It smells in here,” she said.

We were calf-deep in water, and she was right; it smelled. I guess it was some sort of drainage ditch, but that didn’t make sense because the area we were passing through was relatively arid. From the aroma it could have been a sewer, except that this was an even more ridiculous notion. We were in the middle of nowhere, with no towns or villages nearby, let alone a city large enough to have sewers. I decided it was just one of those great underground springs that happened to surface. But instead of being a pure, clean, cold underground spring, this one stank like a sewer.

“What are they doing, Evan?”

“Circling.”

“Why?”

“To make another pass at us.”

“They want to make a pass at us?”

“Not that kind of a pass. They want to zoom in on us and shoot the hell out of us.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they friends of yours?”

“That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I mean, do you know who they are?”

“No.”

“Well, you don’t have to bite my head off.”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“I mean yes, I know who they are,” I said.

“You just said you didn’t.”

“I just saw them again. Those crazy sons of bitches.”

“Who are they?”

“Some Russians. Some crazy, cockeyed Russians. They tried to drown me and shoot me and stab me and poison me and explode me. They’re the most hostile bastards imaginable. Oh, great.”

“What?”

“They know we got out of the car.”

“Well, of course they do. They’re not blind.”

“I guess not.” I had the gun out, the butt cozy in my hand, the trigger firm beneath my forefinger. It was reassuring and all that, but I didn’t see what in hell I could possibly accomplish with it. It is possible to bring down a helicopter with a rifle, if you’re a good shot and a lucky person. With a pistol, the only way to manage it is to be flying in the helicopter at the time and to shoot the pilot. Even then it’s a chancy operation at best.

Phaedra started to straighten up. I got a hand on her shoulder and shoved her down again. Her purple silk thing came unglued and began to unwind itself from her flesh. She began to breathe faster, and I turned to her and saw the light glinting wildly in her eyes.

“For Christ’s sake,” I said.

“I can’t help it.”

“I mean, there’s a time and a place for everything-”

“We had time before. And a place.”

“Honey-”

“You just don’t love me at all!”

“Then what am I doing in Afghanistan?”

“Getting us all killed.”

I clenched my teeth. The cruddy little helicopter was hovering all over the place now, buzzing here and there, loosing experimental bursts of gunfire hither and yon. The man flying the thing looked vaguely familiar, and I guessed that I had seen him before on the boat across the Cha

“Why do they want to kill us, Evan?”

“They want to kill me. They don’t care about you.”

“Why?”

“Because they never even heard of you.”

“I mean, why do they want to kill you?”

“Because they’re idiots,” I said. “They know that I know that they plan to overthrow the government of Afghanistan in a couple of days. What they don’t know, although I keep trying to tell them, is that I don’t give a damn what they do with the government of Afghanistan as long as you and I can get out of the goddamned country first. But they won’t – I could shoot them now.”

“Why don’t you?”

I braced my elbow against the side of my body, rested my gun hand on the rim of the ditch. They were hovering directly across the road from us, with the Bulgarian spraying the ditch on that side with Bren gun-fire. I drew a bead on the pilot and let my finger tighten up on the trigger.

“No,” I said, and lowered the gun.

“Oh, Evan. I know it’s immoral to kill, but-”

“Immoral to kill?” I stared at her. “Are you out of your mind? Killing those sons of bitches is the most moral thing I can think of.”

“Then-”

“But if they don’t go back and tell their boss that they accomplished their mission, he’ll know we’re still alive. He’ll know I’m still alive, that is. And he’ll send more clowns after us, and maybe next time we won’t get out of the car in time. But if we let them go home-”

“They’ll tell their boss that they couldn’t get us.”

I shook my head. “Not likely. Nobody likes to run home boasting about a failure. They’ll figure they got us in that ditch. Watch – here they go, up, up and away.”

I was two-thirds right. They went up, and they went up. And then the nose of the Bren gun appeared over the side of the chopper, and a burst of bullets descended, headed for the trunk and gas tank of the 1968 Balalaika sedan.

I grabbed Phaedra and pulled her down flat in the ditch. Filthy water soaked my robes, coursed all over her naked body. She said something, but I never learned what it was, because the sound of the exploding car drowned it out.

“You should have shot them when you had the chance, Evan.”

“I know.”

“Because we’ll never get out of here now.”