had no time to waste on such crap now. He went where his work took him. If anyone meddled with him, he stomped all
over them. He even liked Cambridge. People here weren’t goddam over—friendly. They let him alone.
Twenty minutes later he was out on the street, walking toward the river. On the grass edge along the river, occasional people
with notebooks walked briskly. It was too cold not to wear a coat, but he had no choice about that. Harvey strode along like
a health fanatic taking in the river air. He passed one old boy, a dignified professorial type with a stoop, thick-glassed
spectacles and a bulging briefcase. In a couple of minutes, Harvey turned and followed him.
He gauged his walking speed so he caught up to the man at the bridge. He crossed over on the bridge’s side—walk behind him,
the traffic heavy in both directions over the bridge. Harvey tossed his packaged sweatshirt over thebridge wall into the water. He unwrapped his umbrella and threw the paper over the wall. Then he unscrewed the metal tip
of the furled umbrella and flicked that into the water.
Walking only a few feet now behind the man with the briefcase, Harvey tested the half-inch hypodermic needle at the tip of
the umbrella. He held the needle shaft and pressed it in very slightly so that the hidden rubber bulb exuded liquid at the
needle’s sharp point. Like a snake’s fang. He had taken the umbrella from a Bulgarian in Gaithersburg, Maryland, who would
not be needing it anymore. They were at the center of the bridge. A lot of cars. No other pedestrians on their side.
Harvey walked a few quick steps directly behind his victim and poked him in the right buttock with the tip of the umbrella.
“Yikes!” the old fellow howled and dropped his briefcase. He waved his arms and shouted and cursed in Russian at Harvey.
“I’m very song, mister,” Harvey told him. “I thought you was someone else.”
The Russian switched to excellent English. “Even if I were someone who had the misfortune of your friendship, that umbrella
of yours delivers a painful jab.”
Harvey looked contrite and threw the offending umbrella over the bridge wall into the water. “I’ll never do it again, sir.”
Surprised at Harvey’s gesture, the Russian nodded. Harvey picked up his briefcase and handed it to him. “Thank you,” the man
said.
“Commie motherfucker,” Harvey said pleasantly to him and continued quickly across the bridge.
He looked back from the Harvard Business School side and saw to his satisfaction that the old geezer had started to stagger
a bit, as if he had had one too many.
Dwight Quincy Poynings had no true need for an office except as somewhere to go during the day when he hadn’tany particular plans. A reception area, a conference room and his private office made up the suite. An executive secretary
answered the phone and typed his occasional letters. Family lawyers and accountants watched over the family businesses. The
enterprises that Dwight had initiated himself—the TV stations and the major-league baseball team—were managed by professionals
who made it clear to him they would resign instantly if he encroached upon their areas of responsibility. This he did now
and then, till he grew bored and had to rehire the people who had walked out—often having to pay them ridiculous in—creases
in the process. If it weren’t for his ocean-racing yacht and his political views, Dwight felt he would be lost. And first
time he won either the Bermuda or the Fastnet, he was going to start building a boat for the America’s Cup.
Two sons at Dartmouth, one daughter married, and then there was Sally. He never could make head or tail of that girl, even
when she was little. Even so, this El Salvador business was a bit much. What could she have in mind?
He was depending on Harrison Sloane Dudley to enlighten him. Dudley and he had been to Dartmouth together in the old days.
Now that Dudley was a
over them. He even liked Cambridge. People here weren’t goddam over—friendly. They let him alone.
Twenty minutes later he was out on the street, walking toward the river. On the grass edge along the river, occasional people
with notebooks walked briskly. It was too cold not to wear a coat, but he had no choice about that. Harvey strode along like
a health fanatic taking in the river air. He passed one old boy, a dignified professorial type with a stoop, thick-glassed
spectacles and a bulging briefcase. In a couple of minutes, Harvey turned and followed him.
He gauged his walking speed so he caught up to the man at the bridge. He crossed over on the bridge’s side—walk behind him,
the traffic heavy in both directions over the bridge. Harvey tossed his packaged sweatshirt over thebridge wall into the water. He unwrapped his umbrella and threw the paper over the wall. Then he unscrewed the metal tip
of the furled umbrella and flicked that into the water.
Walking only a few feet now behind the man with the briefcase, Harvey tested the half-inch hypodermic needle at the tip of
the umbrella. He held the needle shaft and pressed it in very slightly so that the hidden rubber bulb exuded liquid at the
needle’s sharp point. Like a snake’s fang. He had taken the umbrella from a Bulgarian in Gaithersburg, Maryland, who would
not be needing it anymore. They were at the center of the bridge. A lot of cars. No other pedestrians on their side.
Harvey walked a few quick steps directly behind his victim and poked him in the right buttock with the tip of the umbrella.
“Yikes!” the old fellow howled and dropped his briefcase. He waved his arms and shouted and cursed in Russian at Harvey.
“I’m very song, mister,” Harvey told him. “I thought you was someone else.”
The Russian switched to excellent English. “Even if I were someone who had the misfortune of your friendship, that umbrella
of yours delivers a painful jab.”
Harvey looked contrite and threw the offending umbrella over the bridge wall into the water. “I’ll never do it again, sir.”
Surprised at Harvey’s gesture, the Russian nodded. Harvey picked up his briefcase and handed it to him. “Thank you,” the man
said.
“Commie motherfucker,” Harvey said pleasantly to him and continued quickly across the bridge.
He looked back from the Harvard Business School side and saw to his satisfaction that the old geezer had started to stagger
a bit, as if he had had one too many.
Dwight Quincy Poynings had no true need for an office except as somewhere to go during the day when he hadn’tany particular plans. A reception area, a conference room and his private office made up the suite. An executive secretary
answered the phone and typed his occasional letters. Family lawyers and accountants watched over the family businesses. The
enterprises that Dwight had initiated himself—the TV stations and the major-league baseball team—were managed by professionals
who made it clear to him they would resign instantly if he encroached upon their areas of responsibility. This he did now
and then, till he grew bored and had to rehire the people who had walked out—often having to pay them ridiculous in—creases
in the process. If it weren’t for his ocean-racing yacht and his political views, Dwight felt he would be lost. And first
time he won either the Bermuda or the Fastnet, he was going to start building a boat for the America’s Cup.
Two sons at Dartmouth, one daughter married, and then there was Sally. He never could make head or tail of that girl, even
when she was little. Even so, this El Salvador business was a bit much. What could she have in mind?
He was depending on Harrison Sloane Dudley to enlighten him. Dudley and he had been to Dartmouth together in the old days.
Now that Dudley was a
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