Free The Prisoner (1979) by Hank Stine

head, staring through a chink between curtain and frame in the tall bay window: his front room was lit.)
    The door closed and he went towards his apartment, body held tight in the expectancy of some further illusion.
    The door swung open before him.
    Beyond it the short, obsequious body of his butler stood framed in the light. The severe black of his suit curved round him like the carapace of a giant and sinister beetle. His face was swart, solemn, angelic (or stupid). There was something Montenegrin in the man’s tiny smooth features, dark skin and bland expression.
    He stalked into the room, wheeled (a warm 18th century landscape to his left, above the fireplace), staring down at the dwarf and frowning.
    The little man stared back impassively, face a round rubbery mask, eyes flat and a little stupid.
    ‘A Pernod, Sancho,’ he ordered. He had, after all, a great deal to do. Tiredness was a hard ache between his shoulders.
    The dwarf bowed, closed the door, and went past the bay window to the kitchen.
    He let his hands fall and turned about, going over to the shelving.
    The pale grey screen on the television was unlit, dustless, the blue wood shelves enclosing it dustless. He grasped the edges of the screen and pulled out: the front section of the chassis rolled towards him, swung to the side, revealed a wall safe in the back of the cabinet.
    He knelt, reached in and twisted the dial to O, turning it slightly to both sides, clearing it. Then he rotated the dial right to 21, left to 33, and then back to 12. The tumblers clicked. He let go and seized the handle, pulled down, then back.
    The door came open. There were three stacks of twenty pound notes (four hundred pounds each) on the top shelf. A wide, flat box took up the bottom. He took a stack of notes and placed it in his inside coat pocket. Then he closed the door, raised the handle and spun the dial, locking it.
    The dwarf was behind him, Pernod on a silver tray. He took it and sipped. It was almost disgustingly sweet: but the aftertaste—He shuddered.
    A soft, muted chime rang at the door.
    He looked up and nodded. The dwarf went to the door and opened it.
    Janet.
    She stood still, brown eyes staring, mouth (in the moment before surprise) precise, full, English. Her dark brown hair (cut tight around face and shoulders, as it had been when last he’d seen her) stirred him. Then she was moving towards him and he took her in his arms.
    ‘John,’ she said and pressed against him, too relieved even to kiss.
    He held her tightly and, after a moment, said brutally: ‘I can’t tell you anything.’
    She shivered and went tense.
    ‘Isn’t…Can you at least…’She hesitated, chose carefully. ‘Is it a mission for my father?’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘I certainly can’t tell you that.’
    She straightened and pulled away, smoothing her dress. She looked up at him evenly, face strained and hurt in a way he had never seen before. ‘I can’t take much more of this.’
    ‘Do you remember the message I sent you?’ he said gently.
    ‘John.’ Her eyelids trembled in bewilderment. She seemed reluctant to speak. ‘That was you, wasn’t it? Tell me it was you.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was.’
    Her eyes, on his, were uncomprehending.
    ‘There won’t be much more,’ he said. ‘I promise you that.’
    Her eyes were wide, the deep, luminous brown of the iris hesitant but hopeful. ‘Is it over?’ she asked.
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘but it almost is.’
    He stepped away and raised two fingers to the dwarf. ‘Brandy.’
    The little man inclined his head and went off.
    Janet’s hand reached out, seeking his: her eyes denied it, fixed on the cold brick hollow of the fireplace. He closed his fingers around hers (cool and strong to the touch) and moved towards the antique leather divan opposite the logs. Her eyes came around, puzzled, then understanding.
    She settled herself back against the corner, face pale above the stark black of her dress. Mouth and chin were