“Never in the flower beds.”

“Uh.”

The Manishtana plucked another flower. “When you came here,” he said to me, “you could not blank your mind, you could not relax your hold upon the inner workings of yourself, you could not find peace, you could not relate to the unity, the oneness of self, the selfness of one.”

“True.”

“And now?”

“Now I no longer have this problem, Manishtana.”

“And you can meditate?”

“Yes.”

“And you cling to the mantra which I have given unto you?”

“I do.”

“Ah,” said the Manishtana. “And you, Phaedra. When you came first to the ashram, you were not yourself. Your mind had gone from your body, and in your body was a demon, and the demon drove you. And before the demon, before there was ever a demon within you, then there was ice and coldness, and even in the days before the demon you were not yourself. It is so?”

“It is so,” Phaedra said.

“And now the demon has departed, you have thought him away and felt him away and meditated beyond the powers of demonness and deviltry, and yet the ice is also gone, and you are yourself. It is so?”

“It is.”

“Then it is time. You may go now.”

“To meditate?”

He shook his head. “To America.”

“But we don’t have any money,” Phaedra said, “and we don’t know anyone around here, and all we have are these dumb clothes, and we have to leave the ashram. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“We’re going to make love,” I said.

“But after that.”

“You heard the man. We’re going home.”

“How?”

“We shall find a way. Rejoice in the nowness of now. You are no longer a virgin and no longer a nymphomaniac. Instead you have retained the more desirable aspects of each facet of the youness of you. The thouness of thou.”

“The essence of ess.”

“The royal highness of royal high.”

“The finesse of fi.”

“Let’s make love right over there. Right in the middle of all those fucking flowers.”

“He’ll throw us out.”

“He already threw us out.”

“Oh. Let’s, then.”

In the private jet of that famous recording group, the Cock-A-Roatches, Lloyd Jenkins took a deep drag on a brown cigarette, inhaled deeply, and spent a few moments smelling a flower that wasn’t, as far as I could tell, there.

“What I say,” he said, “is if you can’t ball a bird when you’ve a mind to, what’s the point in meditating?”

“A point.”

“So when we saw the two of you, you know, and then that holy man went at you like that, why I thought to myself, here he is, driving them out of the Garden of Eden when they’ve just got the knack of enjoying Paradise. And I thought of all the birds in Liverpool, you know, and we’ve flowershops enough there, and not all those ruddy biting flies. The Mahawhatsit-”

“Manishtana.”

“Eh. He told us, he did, that the flies are part of the oneness of one and the threeness of three, and that the man of spirit makes himself think the ruddy flies aren’t there. It’s a good idea, I’d say, but I’d have to be smoking day and night before I could ignore it when I’ve a fly up my bleeding nose.”

“I love your records,” Phaedra said.

He looked longingly at her. “Ah, girl,” he said. To me he said, “She’s yours, is she?”

“She’s mine.”

“Ah, you’re a fine bloke. We’ll stop in New York, but only long enough to kiss the ground hello. Our birds are in Liverpool, y’know. Flowers are fine, but birds are better. Birds are worlds better than flowers.”

“Amen,” I said.

Chapter 16

“Murder in London,” the Chief said. “Rumors of illegal entry in half the capitals of Europe. Riots in Kabul.”

He lowered his eyes. I had managed, miraculously enough, to be back at my apartment for a full two days before one of his messenger boys brought me word from him. Now we were in his room at a midtown Manhattan hotel where he was registered under a nom de guerrefroide. He was drinking a glass of scotch. I had a glass too, but I was letting it evaporate.

“I don’t want much,” he said. “Just a partial explanation. I suspect we can cover for you in Britain. As long as you’re here and they’re there, it shouldn’t be an overwhelming problem. The top men can decide not to attempt extradition, and the underlings will let that sort of irregularity pass without making too much noise. But I would like to know what happened.”

I couldn’t blame him. He did think I was working for him, and if that was the case, it only made sense that I should let him know what sort of work I had done. His men, of whom I may or may not be one, depending upon one’s point of view, enjoy more than the usual amount of autonomy. No written reports in triplicate, no countersigns and passwords, nothing but the maximum use of individual initiative carried out, hopefully, for the good of God and Country, though not necessarily in that particular order. So he never asked for much, but he did have the right to find out what the hell I had done, and why.

So I told him.

Well, I ought to qualify that. The general story, the way you read it (unless you just happened to open the book to this present page out of the blue, in which case close it, please) does not make it look as though everything that happened took place out of deepset motives of sheer patriotism. So I didn’t think it would do my personal image any particular good to let him know just how offhand the whole bloody business had been.

I did tell him that I left the country for personal reasons. But somewhere along the line imagination took over from historical sense, and the story he got began to part company with the truth.

Arthur Hook, I explained, was a conscious agent of the communist conspiracy. By shipping potential white slaves to Afghanistan, he was helping Russian agents inside that country raise money for subversive purposes while at the same time striking at the roots of the purity of the women of the free world.

I looked at him, and that seemed to go over well enough, so I gritted my teeth and went on with it. After I learned all of this, I told him, I had to kill Hook so he couldn’t inform his confederates. Then I managed to infiltrate myself into the mass of Soviet agents inside England and leave the country with them, although at the last minute they found me out. From them I learned the details of the plot in Afghanistan. Patriot that I was, I realized it wasn’t enough merely to rescue an innocent American girl from the clutches of communist white-slavers. I also had to quell the commie coup.

(It’s embarrassing to write this down. Forgive me.)

With the aid of pro-Western elements in Kabul, I went on, the revolt was nipped in the bud, crushed to a pulp the day before it was scheduled to break out. The Russian Embassy, traditional setting for scheming and subversion, was now a heap of stones bearing no demonstrable relationship each to the other. The leaders of the would-be putsch would lead no more putsches. A typical band of commie cutthroats, including not only sly Russians but the worst sort of European scum, they had literally been torn to pieces by an irate mob of freedom-loving Afghans.

“And so,” I concluded, “I think it turned out fairly well, Chief. I never expected to get involved in anything that elaborate-”

“You never do.”

“-or of course I would have let you know in advance what I was getting into.”

“Mmmm,” he said. He finished his drink and started to refill our glasses, then looked at me in surprise when he noticed that I had not yet finished mine. He glanced accusingly at me, and I drank my drink, and he poured more whiskey for each of us.

“Your track record,” he said, “has always been good.”

I didn’t say anything.

“And I don’t suppose this is actually bad, is it?”

“Well-”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But there is something I ought to tell you, Tanner. Something you ought to know. Something – well, unusual.”

“Oh?”

“Slight miscalculation on your part, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Rather serious, actually.”

“Oh?”

He swung his chair around and looked at the window. I drank a little of my scotch. I was beginning to feel the need for it.

Without turning he said, “Tanner? The coup in Afghanistan. Not theirs, you see.”

“Sir?”

“Ours.”

“Ours?”

“Ours. Oh, not ours ours. Or of course you’d have known about it. No, not our department’s sort of show, not by a long shot. Don’t approve myself, as you well know. No, this was the personal property of the Boy Scouts.”

I almost swallowed my tongue. I swallowed scotch instead. I said, “The CIA.”

“Quite.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Afghan government’s been neutralist, you see. Been accepting a devil of a lot of aid from the Russians. New road, I understand-”

“If you saw the other roads, you’d understand why they accepted it.”

“Don’t doubt it. At any rate, someone at the Agency decided the government was playing it a bit too cozy with the Soviets. As they interpreted it, there would be a Red takeover within the year. They decided to anticipate events by staging a pro-Western takeover before the Russians were in position for a move.”

“And the men in Kabul -”

“Were CIA operatives.”

“But they were Russians. And Eastern Europeans. And-”

He was nodding. “Inherited that whole crew after the last war,” he said. “Ukrainians, White Russians, that whole lot. Every secret agent type in Eastern Europe who was anti-Soviet came into the OSS after the war and then went CIA when the new outfit was formed. Collaborationists, a lot of them. No doubt about it. Pocket Hitlers, that type. But many of them were very valuable to the Agency.”

“Uh,” I said. I remembered assuring the Vulgar Bulgar that I was a devoted Russian myself. And afterward he and his bully boys redoubled their efforts to kill me. This had made little sense to me then. It made more sense now, although it didn’t make me any happier.

“Well, this isn’t good,” I said.

“Oh?”

“I mean, well, I got a lot of men on our side killed. The CIA’s men, that is. And I thought I was crushing a Commie plot, whereas I was actually crushing one of our own plots. An anti-commie plot, that is. Move. Coup. Whatever the hell it is.”

“I think you might safely call it a plot.”

“Er,” I said. I choked back a burst of hysterical laughter. Hysteria seemed called for; laughter did not. I drank the rest of my drink. The Chief turned to look at the window again, then turned around to face me. I looked at his pudgy hands, his round face.

As I looked at him, he slowly began to smile.

The smile widened. The lips parted, and a chuckle came out. The chuckle turned into a laugh.