When nobody answered, Sully sighed and looked around. “Well, this speculation won’t get us anywhere. Wright, what was it you wanted to see us about? It is your latest theory du jour?”
Faraday glanced at him. “No theory,” he said. “Just some pictures.”
Sully groaned. “Again with the photographs? That’s why we’re here? You’re in the wrong profession, you know that?”
Faraday ignored this. “After Evan told us about the theft—after the first hue and cry died down—I went out to the vault. The door was wide open, nobody seemed to care about it anymore. So I took some shots.”
Sully frowned. “Why?”
“Why do I ever take shots? Documentation.” He paused. “Conti seemed to be blaming us already. I thought maybe…well, maybe I’d find some evidence to clear us. I didn’t get a chance to print them until an hour or so ago.” He opened the folder, drew out half a dozen eight-by-tens, and passed them to Sully.
The climatologist shuffled through them quickly, then handed them to Marshall, clearly unimpressed.
The first photo showed a blurry interior of the vault. Chunks and blocks of ice littered the floor, but otherwise it was empty save for the heater in the rear and the large hole between the I beams. Marshall turned to the second photo. This was clearer: a close-up of the hole itself.
“And?” Sully prompted.
“People were saying the thief must have crawled in under the vault.” Faraday removed his glasses, began polishing them on the cuff of his shirt. “Cut out the block of ice with a hacksaw.”
“Yes, we all heard that. So?”
“Did you see that shot of the hole? Look at the kerf pattern.”
“The what?” Sully asked.
“Kerf. The saw marks. If somebody was breaking into the vault from underneath, the marks should go from down to up. But when I examined the edges of the hole in close-up, the marks did the opposite. Went from up to down.”
“Let me see that.” Sully plucked the photos from Marshall’s hand, examined them closely. “I don’t see anything.”
“May I?” Marshall retrieved the photos, looked at the close-up again. Although the silver paint of the floor reflected the bright light of the vault, he could immediately see that Faraday was right: the wood splinters weren’t forced upward. Instead, they clearly angled down.
“Whoever it was didn’t break in from underneath,” he said. “They sawed their way out from inside.”
Sully waved his hand in impatient dismissal. “Wolff’s gotten to the two of you. You’re seeing things.”
“No. It’s there all right.” Marshall glanced at Faraday. “You know what this means?”
Faraday nodded. “It means whoever stole the cat knew the combination to the vault.”
18
Until now, Marshall had been no deeper inside Conti’s capacious suite than its threshold. But as the director gestured for him to enter, Marshall immediately understood why Conti had appropriated not only the commander’s quarters but the deputy commander’s as well. The rambling but spartan set of rooms on C Level had been converted into a sprawling, opulent salon. Leather couches, velvet banquettes, and plush ottomans were placed in complementary attitudes atop expensive Persian rugs. Draperies and postmodernist paintings in discreet frames camouflaged the drab metal walls. The centerpiece of the space was a huge, hundred-inch LCD screen in the rear, its base hidden by rows of chairs set before it: a private cinema for viewing rushes, feature films, and—Marshall felt certain—the Greatest Hits of Emilio Conti.
The director was polite, even cheery, and the only hint he hadn’t slept in perhaps thirty-six hours was the blue-black smudges beneath his eyes. “Good morning, Dr. Marshall,” he said with a smile. “Good morning. Come in, come in. Seven-thirty: excellent. I appreciate promptness.” He’d been watching something on the vast screen—black-and-white, slightly grainy—and with the flick of a remote he switched it off. “Please, sit down.”
He led the way across the room. Through an open doorway, Marshall could see a small conference table, surrounded by ergonomic work chairs. A Moviola stood in a far corner, strips of film trailing from its spools. Marshall stared at it, wondering if this anachronism was part of Conti’s work flow or simply a directorial affectation.
Conti took a seat before the screen and motioned Marshall to do the same. “What do you think of my little screening room?” he asked, still smiling.
“I watched them airlift that thing in,” Marshall said, nodding at the LCD. “I’d assumed it was some critical piece of documentary technology.”
“It is critical,” Conti replied. “Not only for assembling my film but for maintaining my sanity.” He waved at two bookcases full of DVDs that framed the screen. “You see those? That is my reference library. The greatest films ever made: the most beautiful, the most groundbreaking, the most thought provoking. The Battleship Potemkin, Intolerance, Rashômon, Double Indemnity, L’Avventura, The Seventh Seal—they are all here. I never travel anywhere without them. Yet they are not just my solace, Dr. Marshall—they are my oracle, my Delphic temple. Some turn to the Bible for guidance; others, the I Ching. I have these. And they never fail me. Take this, for instance.” And with another flick of the remote Conti restarted the film.
The perpetually worried-looking visage of Victor Mature filled the screen. “Kiss of Death. Familiar with it?”
Marshall shook his head.
Conti muted the sound to a whisper. “A forgotten masterpiece of 1947. Henry Hathaway’s breakthrough film—but then you must know Hathaway’s work, The House on 92nd Street, 13 Rue Madeleine. Anyway, in the movie, the hero, Nick Bianco”—and Conti pointed at Mature, his exaggerated face now framed by prison bars—“is sent up to Sing Sing on a minor charge. There he’s double-crossed by his shyster lawyer. In order to make parole, he cuts a deal with the DA: he agrees to squeal on this psychopathic killer named Tommy Udo.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Not only is it a brilliant film—but it’s exactly the solution to my problem.”
Marshall frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
“When we discovered the cat was missing, I was close to panic. I was afraid my documentary—possibly even my career—was in jeopardy. You can imagine how I felt. This was to be my ne plus ultra. It was to put me right up there with Eisenstein.”
A prime-time documentary? Marshall thought. He decided it was better to keep mum.
“I paced half the night, worrying, debating what to do. Then I turned to these”—he waved at the bookcases—“and as always they provided the answer I needed.”
Marshall waited, listening, as Conti nodded once more toward the screen. “You see, Kiss of Death is what’s known as a ‘docunoir’: a hybrid of documentary and film noir. Very interesting concept. Very revolutionary.”
He turned to Marshall, the screen illumination throwing the contours of his face into chiaroscuro. “Yesterday, in the heat of the moment, I was sure this was an act of theft. Now I’ve had time to think. And I’ve changed my mind. I’m convinced it was sabotage.”
“Sabotage?”
Conti nodded. “As valuable as that cat is, the logistics of removing it from the base—spiriting it away—simply don’t work.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “The thieves—and there would have to be at least two, the asset is simply too heavy for one person to handle—would need transportation. That would be impossible to conceal from us. And if anyone were to leave prematurely, we’d know.”
“What about Carradine, the trucker? He not only has the transportation; he’s one of the newest arrivals.”
“His cab’s been thoroughly searched, and his movements are accounted for. As I was saying, stealing the cat would be prohibitively difficult. But if all somebody wanted was for the documentary to stop, for our show to go away…” He shrugged. “Then it would just be a matter of dropping the carcass down some crevasse. Nobody would be the wiser.”
“Who
would want to do such a thing?” Marshall asked.
Conti looked at him. “You would.”
Marshall looked back in surprise. “Me?”
“Well—you scientists. It might be you, in particular. But on careful consideration I think Dr. Sully is the more obvious choice. He seems to be quite put out that I didn’t make him a star of Raising the Tiger.”
Marshall shook his head. “That’s crazy. The documentary was set to go live yesterday—you would have been gone today. Why bother with sabotage?”
“It’s true: I would have been gone today. But postproduction on a successful shoot would take several days longer. Not to mention dismantling the sets, removing the equipment. When I gave Sully an estimated timeline, he didn’t seem especially pleased.” Conti looked at him searchingly. The smile was now gone. “Sully seems like the impulsive type. You don’t. That’s why I’ve come to you. Despite our little fracas the other day, I think you’re a reasonable man. Perhaps more than your colleagues, you realize what’s at stake. So: Where the hell is that cat?”
Marshall returned the stare. Despite the director’s carefully composed expression, it was obvious that Conti was doing a desperate dance, searching for a way, any way, to salvage the situation.
“What about Logan?” Marshall asked, recalling the previous evening’s conversation in the RASP room. “He came here out of nowhere. Nobody knows what he wants. I’m told he’s a Yale professor—professor of history. Doesn’t that strike you as strange—and very suspicious?”
“It is strange. So strange, in fact, that I have to discount him as a suspect. He’s too obvious. Besides, I already told you: my money’s on sabotage, not theft. And Dr. Logan has no reason to sabotage my documentary. So: Where’s the cat? Sully would have told you, I think. Is it retrievable?”
“Sully didn’t tell me anything. You’re barking up the wrong tree. You should be searching among your own team.”
Conti regarded him carefully, his expression slowly dissolving into something very much like regret. “That’s Wolff’s job.” He sighed. “Listen. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I can do this one of two ways. If we find that cat, I can make the film I originally intended. With my skills, I can even turn this delay into a benefit: make things more exciting, increase the audience. Everybody wins. Or—I can make this a crime story.”
He jerked his thumb back at the screen. “I’ve always wanted to make a noir picture. Now I can—except I have a true story to tell. A huge story, documented as it plays out in real time: the sabotage, the investigation, the ultimate triumph of justice. Such a story would never die, Dr. Marshall. Imagine the publicity—positive or negative—for those portrayed. All I need do is cast it. Find the hero…and the villain.”
On the huge screen, Victor Mature was crossing a busy street, the urban skyline rising behind him. “Look at him,” Conti said. “An average Joe, caught up in something bigger than himself. Remind you of anybody?”
Marshall did not reply.
Conti shifted again. “So what’s it going to be, Dr. Marshall: do the right thing, side with the cops, squeal on the bad guy? Or do something else…something much more stupid?”
As Mature left the frame, the camera panned in on another figure, hiding in a dark alley: pale, lean, all in black with a white tie, eyes strangely empty. Tommy Udo. Emerging from concealment, he looked carefully around, then disappeared into a doorway.
“I always loved Richard Widmark in this role,” Conti said. “He plays such a great psycho. His mannerisms, his nervous hyena laugh—pure genius.”
Now the killer was creeping stealthily up a narrow staircase.
“I was hoping to cast you as Mature,” Conti said. “But now I’m not so sure. You’re beginning to look a little more like Widmark.”
The killer had entered an apartment and was confronting a terrified old lady in a wheelchair.
“That’s Nick Bianco’s mother,” Conti explained.
The camera looked on, with monochromatic dispassion, as the woman was interrogated, shaken about. Widmark was smiling now, a strange lopsided smile, as he manhandled the grips of the wheelchair, steered it out of the shabby apartment and onto the landing.
“Watch this,” Conti said. “An imperishable moment of cinema.”
Widmark—still smiling, a pale, grinning death’s-head in a black suit—positioned the wheelchair at the top of the stairs. There was the briefest of pauses. Then, with a sudden violent thrust, he sent it and its struggling occupant tumbling down on a one-way ride to perdition.
Conti froze the picture on Widmark’s contorted face. “The network is calling me in six hours. I’ll give you four to make your choice.”
Silently, Marshall rose.
“And remember, Dr. Marshall—one way or the other, I’ll be casting you.”
19
In days past, the officers’ mess had been full of noise and bustle, radiating the kind of irrepressible glee more common to a frat party than a remote army base. This morning it felt more like a morgue. People sat in twos and threes, picking listlessly at their breakfasts, barely talking. Furtive, suspicious glances were exchanged, as if the guilty party could be anyone. Standing in the doorway, Marshall realized this was, in fact, true: anybody in the mess might be the culprit.
His eye settled on a far table, where a man sat alone, reading a book. He was light-haired and thin, with a carefully trimmed beard. Logan, the history professor.
Marshall helped himself to a slice of whole wheat bread and a cup of tea, and then—on impulse—took a seat across from Logan. “Good morning,” he said.
Logan put down the book—Illuminations, by Walter Benjamin—and glanced across the table. “That remains to be seen.”
“All too true.” Marshall peeled open a small tub of marmalade and spread the contents over his bread.
“I guess it’s worse for them than for us.” Logan nodded toward the next table, where the two photographers, Fortnum and Toussaint, sat woodenly pushing scrambled eggs around their plates with shell-shocked expressions. Much of the documentary crew had been put to work searching the base and its surroundings for the missing cat.
“That’s right. Nobody’s made off with my livelihood.” Marshall was careful to keep his tone light. “You?”
Logan stirred his coffee. “Unaffected by the events.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Professor, right? Of medieval history?”
The stirring slowed. “That’s right.”
“I’m fascinated by the subject. In fact, I’ve been reading a history of the Counter-Reformation.” This was only half true—Marshall’s nightly reading was, in fact, a book on the Counter-Reformation: but it was with the desperate hope that the incredibly dry exposition would help him find sleep.
Logan raised his eyebrows. He had blue eyes that while at first impression seemed almost drowsy were in fact subtle and penetrating.
“I just finished a chapter on the Council of Trent. Amazing, the impact it had on the Catholic liturgy.”
Logan nodded.
“And since it convened for the fourth time in—1572, right?—there hasn’t been another council as influential.”
The stirring stopped. Logan took a sip of coffee, made a face. “Terrible coffee.”
“You should switch to tea. I did.”
“Maybe I will.” Logan put the cup down. “There were three councils of Trent, not four.”
Marshall didn’t reply.
“And the last was 1563. Not 1572.”
Marshall shook his head. “Guess I was more tired than I realized, getting it wrong like that.”
Logan smiled slightly. “I get the feeling you got it just fine.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Then Marshall laughed ruefully. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That was really ham-handed of me.”
“Can’t say I blame you. I arrive out of nowhere, with a bizarre job description and no good reason to be here—and immediately all hell breaks loose.”
“Even so, I had no right to play with you like that.” Marshall hesitated. “Not that it’s any excuse, but I just came from this really unpleasant meeting with Conti.”
“The director? He and that pit bull from the network, Wolff, gave me a good going-over yesterday afternoon. I’ve never seen anybody so paranoid.”
“Yeah. And the worst thing is, it’s catching. I caught a good dose just now.” And it was still resonating: some of the things Conti had said about Sully, in particular, were more persuasive than Marshall cared to admit. He glanced at his watch: he had three and a half hours to make up his mind.
He took a bite of his toast. “So why are you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Logan pushed his cup away. “Doctor’s orders. The climate, you know.”
Marshall shook his head. “I deserved that.”
Another silence settled over the table, but this time it was neither especially awkward nor uncomfortable. Marshall finished his toast. He found his suspicions of Logan fading. There was no logical reason for it, of course, other than the professor was almost certainly what he claimed to be. Rather, it was something about the man—a degree of straightforwardness—that made him difficult to suspect.
Logan sighed. “Okay, let’s start again. Jeremy Logan.” He reached a friendly hand across the table.
Marshall shook it. “Evan Marshall.”
Logan sat back and spoke quietly. “When it comes to my research, I tend to play my cards pretty close to my vest. I make more progress that way. But I guess there’s no reason not to tell you. In fact, you might even be able to help—so long as you don’t mention it to the others.”
“Deal.”
“Actually, I think you’ll see for yourself the wisdom of keeping mum.”
“Somebody told me you were an enigmalogist. I haven’t heard of that particular, ah, discipline.”
“Nobody else has, either. My wife gave me that title once, in a playful moment.” Logan shrugged. “It helps remind me of her.”