The Key to Midnight

whatsoever about the crisis.
        But Marlowe was reluctant to surrender even a single minor prerogative of his position. He jealously guarded his authority and privileges; it was dangerous to relinquish even a small amount of hard-won power. One backward step on the ladder could turn into a long, bone-crunching fall to the bottom, because everywhere there were schemers who envied their betters and were willing to give them a killing push over the brink at the first sign of weakness.
        Marlowe was jolted out of his reverie by the mighty blast of an air horn. A big lorry loaded with frozen poultry skidded and nearly sideswiped him. He glanced at the rear-view mirror, saw that no one was close behind, and jammed his foot down on the brake pedal harder than he should have. The car began to slide, but he let the wheel spin as it wished, and a moment later he was in control again. The lorry slid past him, swayed as if it would topple, then regained its equilibrium, and sped on.
        Taking heart from the way he handled the car, he told himself that he would manage the current crisis at work with equal skill, once he'd had time to think out all courses of action open to him.
        Marlowe lived on the entire top floor of a large three-story, eighteen-room townhouse that had been converted into apartments. When he parked at the curb in front of the building and switched off the car engine, he sighed with relief.
        As he carefully negotiated the icy sidewalk to the front door, he was pelted furiously by sleet, but it couldn't get under his coat collar because he'd wound a scarf around his neck and then buttoned the collar securely over it.
        At the third floor, Marlowe unlocked his apartment door and felt for the light switch as he stepped across the threshold. He smelled the natural gas even as his fingers touched the switch. But in the fraction of a second that his mind raced frantically through all the ramifications of the situation in search of the safest action, his right index finger recklessly completed its small arc and flicked the switch. Marlowe was blown to Hell with a flash of remorse at all the potato chips never eaten, the beers never drunk, and the women never experienced without the desensitizing barrier of a latex sheath.
        

    * * *
        
        Across the street from the apartment house, Peterson sat alone in a parked car, watching as the third-floor windows blew out, the wall exploded, and Marlowe arced out into the rainy night as though he were a clown shot from a cannon. Briefly the dead man appeared to be able to fly as well as any bird - but then he plummeted to the pavement and did less damage to it than it did to him.
        A man and a woman ran from the front entrance of the building. No one was at home on the second floor, so Peterson figured these two were ground-floor residents. They rushed to Marlowe's crumpled body - but they hastily drew back, sickened, when they got a close look at him.
        The fat man popped a butter-rum Lifesaver into his mouth. He released the parking brake, put the car in gear, and drove away from that sorry place.
        Peterson hadn't received permission to eliminate Marlowe. In fact, he had never expected to receive it, so he hadn't even bothered to ask for it. Marlowe's transgressions had been far too minor to generate a kill order from the directorate in Moscow.
        Nevertheless, Marlowe had to die. He was the first of six primary targets on the hit list. Peterson had made promises to an extremely powerful group, and if he failed to keep those promises, his own life would end as quickly and brutally as Marlowe's.
        He had worked for an hour to set up the gas explosion so it would appear to have been an accident. The bosses in Moscow, who demanded absolute obedience from Anson Peterson, might be suspicious about an 'accident' that killed one of their major London operatives, but they would blame the other side rather than one of their own best agents.
        And the other men, those to whom Anson Peterson had made so many commitments, would be satisfied. The first of his promises had been kept. One man was dead. The first of many.

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    56
        
        Alex and Joanna ate dinner in the cozy, oak-paneled dining room at The Bell and the Dragon. The food was excellent, but Alex was unable to get a full measure of enjoyment from it. While he ate, he surreptitiously watched the other customers,