Exile Hunter by Preston Fleming

assurances, pal. Denniston has told me how
you’ve concealed your prior relationships with Eaton and his
daughter. If it were up to me, I’d order an investigation going all
the way back to your first contact with those people. For all I know,
you may have been in cahoots with Eaton’s insurgent gang all the
way back to the Cleveland bank job. And how convenient that you
arrived in London around the same time they did. I think that’s
worth exploring, too.”
    At the mention of
London, Linder bristled.
    “That’s utter
hogwash. I never laid eyes on Eaton or the Kendalls in London. Neil
can back me up on that. And as for all your finger pointing, it looks
to me like you’re desperate to divert attention from your crude
moneymaking dodges. I suggest you watch your step, Bob. If somebody
like me sees enough to blow the whistle on you from a casual walk-by,
others could do worse. So go ahead and fly me home in shackles if you
want. I’ll see you in court. We’ll find out soon enough whose
version of events the judge believes. You’d better hope Neil backs
you up...”
    At the mention of
Denniston’s name, Bednarski let out a loud guffaw.
    "Denniston back me
up? Can you really be that stupid? Who do you suppose came up with
the whole operation? You’re out of your cotton-pickin’ mind if
you expect any help from him."
    “You’re a liar,”
Linder answered heatedly. “And this is far from over. You won’t
get away with what you’re doing.”
    “Yes, we will,”
Bednarski assured him with contempt oozing from his bloodshot eyes.
He moved his face close to Linder’s and lowered his voice. “The
fix is in, buddy. People up the line are already counting their
share. We take care of them; they take care of us. But you, Linder,
if you keep taking the wrong attitude, you’ll lose everything. Do
you hear me? Everything.”
    Linder shook with
impotent rage for minutes after Bednarski left the cell. Then the
loudspeaker over the cell door crackled to life. For hours afterward,
Linder heard muffled screams, moans, and anguished cries for mercy
that he was certain were recordings played to intimidate him. Except
that, over time, the voices came to sound increasingly like those of
Philip Eaton and Roger Kendall.
    * * *
    Linder fell asleep at
last when the loudspeaker went silent. Having dreaded sleep so often
for fear of nightmares, it struck him as ironic that his waking life
now inspired more fear and apprehension than the accusing faces of
his former targets. His worry about ever again enjoying a sound
night’s rest without the aid of alcohol or drugs now seemed moot.
    At the same time,
Linder was unable to sweep aside the curtain of fear that had fallen
between him and his future. While he knew enough about psychology to
understand the perils of negative feedback loops and self-fulfilling
prophecy, a verse from the Book of Job stuck in his mind: “For the
thing which I greatly feared is come upon me…” And the kinds of
things that he feared most—failure, disgrace, betrayal, hardship
and pain—were standard-issue weapons in his employer’s arsenal.
    Even after Bednarski’s
disclosures, Linder still found it difficult to comprehend how he had
misread the situation so badly. Ignoring his inner voice and
intuitive cues had been bad enough. Not detecting any of the usual
warning signs he usually associated with operations about to go sour
was worse. He had arrived in Beirut a long-time friend of Neil
Denniston and on passable terms with Bob Bednarski. Despite
Denniston’s recent performance, Linder still found it hard to
believe that his friend could betray him as ruthlessly as Bednarski
had claimed.
    In retrospect, it
seemed to Linder that his fundamental error, his original sin, so to
speak, had been to join the Department of State Security in the first
place. He had joined at a time when he saw ample reason to believe he
would lose his job in the CIA’s clandestine service, as so many of
his fellow veterans of