Two or three times Colben came in to carry on a halfhearted interrogation, but Saul felt the man’s lack of interest. Like Saul, Colben was waiting. Everyone in the complex of trailers was waiting. Saul could feel it. Waiting for what?
Saul used the time to think. He thought about the Oberst, Melanie Fuller, Colben, Barent, and the unknown others. For years he had labored under a basic and fatal misperception. He had thought that if he could understand the psychology of such evil that he could cure it. He realized that he had been searching for the Oberst not only for his own clouded personal reasons, but also with the same eager scientific curiosity that an immunologist at the Centers for Disease Control would try to track down and isolate a new and lethal virus. It was interesting. Intellectually stimulating. Find it, understand it, cure it.
But there would be no antibodies for this plague bacillus.
For years Saul had been aware of the research and theories of Lawrence Kohlberg. Kohlberg had devoted his life to studying ethical and moral development. For a psychiatrist steeped in postwar psychotherapy theory, Kohlberg’s musings seemed simplistic to the point of childishness, but lying in his cell listening to the whisper of ventilation, Saul realized how much sense Kohlberg’s theory of moral development made in this situation.
Kohlberg had discovered seven levels of moral development— supposedly consistent through disparate cultures, times, and places. A Level One was the essential infant— no sense of good or bad, all actions regulated by needs and wants, actions inhibited only by negative stimuli. The classic pleasure-pain basis for ethical judgments. By Level Two, humans responded to “right and wrong” by accepting the authority of power. The big people know best. A Level Three person was fixated on rules. “I followed orders.” Level Four ethics were dictated by the majority. A Level Five person devoted his or her life to creating and defending laws that best served the widest common good, while defending the legal rights even of those whose views the Level Five person could not accept. Level Five people made wonderful A.C.L.U. lawyers. Saul had known his share of Level Fives in New York. Level Sixes were able to transcend the legalistic fixation of Level Fives, focusing on the common good and higher ethical realities across national, cultural, and societal boundaries. Level Sevens responded only to universal principles. Level Sevens appeared to be represented by the occasional Jesuses, Gandhis, and Buddha’s.
Kohlberg was not an ideologue— Saul had met him several times and enjoyed his boyish sense of humor— and the researcher enjoyed pointing out simple paradoxes arising from his own hierarchy of moral development. America, Kohlberg had said at one cocktail party at Hunter College, was a Level Five nation, established and founded by the most incredible assortment of practical Level Sixes in any nation’s history, and was populated primarily by Level Fours and Threes. Kohlberg stressed that in day-to-day decisions we often ranged below our highest level of moral development, but we never went higher than our developmental level. Kohlberg would sadly cite the inevitable destruction of all Level Sevens’ teachings. Christ handing his legacy to the Level Three Paul, the Buddha being represented by generations of priests never capable of rising above Level Six and rarely reaching that.
But the one thing Kohlberg never joked about was his later research. He found— to his early amazement and disbelief, fading to acceptance and shock— that there was a Level Zero. There were human beings beyond the fetal stage who had no moral bearings whatsoever; not even plea-sure/pain stimulus was a reliable guide to these people— if “people” was what they were.
A Level Zero could walk up to a fellow citizen on the street, kill that person on a whim, and walk away without the slightest trace of guilt or afterthought. Level Zeroes did not want to be caught and punished, but did not base their actions upon avoidance of punishment. Nor was it a simple case of the plea sure of the forbidden criminal act outweighing fear of punishment. Level Zeroes could not differentiate criminal acts from everyday functions; they were morally blind. Hundreds of researchers were testing Kohlberg’s hypotheses, but the data seemed solid, the conclusions convincing. At any given time, in any given culture, one or two percent of the population was at a Level Zero stage of human moral development.
They came for Saul on Monday afternoon. Colben and Haines held him while a third man injected him. He was unconscious in three minutes. When he awoke later with a headache and sore left arm, someone had inserted something in his flesh.
Saul inspected the incision, shrugged, and rolled over to think.
It was sometime Tuesday, he did not know when, that they released him. Haines blindfolded him while Colben spoke. “We’re going to let you go. You’re not to go six blocks in any direction beyond the place where we release you. You’re not to use the telephone. Someone will be in touch later to tell you what to do next. Talk to no one who does not speak to you first. If you break any of these rules, it will go hard on your nephew Aaron, Deborah, and the children. Do you understand this perfectly?”
“Yes.”
They led him to the limousine. The ride lasted less than five minutes. Colben pulled the blindfold off and pushed Saul out the open door.
Saul stood on a curb and blinked stupidly in the dim afternoon light. He looked too late to make out the license plate on the retreating limousine. Saul stepped back, bumped into a black woman carrying a shopping bag, apologized, and could not stop grinning. He walked along the narrow sidewalk, taking in every detail of the brick city street, worn shops, gray clouds . . . a paper blowing against a copper-green lamppost. Saul walked quickly, ignoring the pain in his left arm, crossing against the light, waving inanely to a cursing trolley driver. He was FREE.
Saul knew it was an illusion. Undoubtedly some of the people he was walking past on the street were watching him, following him. Some of the passing cars and vans almost certainly carried humorless men in dark suits, whispering into their radios. The bump on his arm probably contained a radio transmitter or explosive device or both. It simply did not matter.
Saul’s pockets were empty so he walked up to the first man he saw— a huge, black man in a worn red mackinaw— and asked for a quarter. The black man stared at the strange bearded apparition, raised a massive hand as if to swat Saul away, and then shook his head and handed Saul a five-dollar bill. “Get help, brother,” growled the giant.
Saul went into a corner coffee shop, changed the five for quarters, and used the pay phone in the foyer to call the Israeli Embassy in Washington. They could not connect him with Aaron Eshkol or Levi Cole. Saul gave his name. The receptionist did not audibly gasp, but her voice tone shifted as she said, “Yes, Dr. Laski. If you can hold one minute I am sure that Mr. Cohen would like to speak to you.”
“I’m calling from a pay phone in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” said Saul. He gave the number. “I’m out of quarters, can you call me back so we can keep this line open?”
“Of course,” said the Israeli Embassy receptionist.
Saul hung up. The phone rang, the receiver buzzed once when he lifted it, and the line went dead. He moved to a second phone, tried to make a collect call to the Embassy, and listened to the second line go dead.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, walking aimlessly. Moddy and his family were dead. Saul had known it in his heart, but now he knew it. They could do little else to him now. Saul stopped, looked around, tried to spot the agents following him. There were few white men visible, but that meant nothing; the FBI had black agents.
A handsome black man in an expensive camel coat crossed the street and approached Saul. The man had strong, broad features, a wide smile, and large mirrored sunglasses. He carried an expensive leather briefcase. The man grinned as if he knew Saul, stopped, and removed a deerskin glove before offering his hand. Saul took it.
“Welcome, my little pawn,” the man said in perfect Polish. “It is time you joined our game.”
“You’re the Oberst.” Saul felt a strange rippling, shifting sensation deep inside himself. He shook his head and the fee
ling faded somewhat.
The black man smiled and spoke in German. “Oberst. An honorable title and one I have not heard in too long a time.” He stopped in front of a Horn and Hard art restaurant and gestured. “You hungry?”
“You killed Francis.”
The man idly rubbed his cheek. “Francis? I’m afraid I do not . . . oh yes. The young detective. Well . . .” He smiled and shook his head. “Come, I will treat us to a late lunch.”
“You know they are watching us,” said Saul. “Of course. And we are watching them. Not the most productive of activities at the best of times.” He opened the door for Saul. “After you,” he said in English.
“My name is Jensen Luhar,” said the black man as they sat at a table in the almost empty restaurant. Luhar had ordered a cheeseburger, onion rings, and a vanilla malt. Saul stared at a cup of coffee.
“Your name is Wilhelm von Borchert,” said Saul. “If there ever was a Jensen Luhar, he is long since destroyed.”
Jensen Luhar made a curt motion with his hand and removed his sunglasses. “A matter of semantics at this point. Are you enjoying the game?”
“No. Is Aaron Eshkol dead?”
“Your nephew? Yes, I am afraid he is.”
“Aaron’s family?”
“Also deceased.”
Saul took a deep breath. “How?”
“As far as I can tell, your Mr. Colben sent his pet Haines and some others to your nephew’s home. There was a fire, but I feel sure that the unfortunate family was dead before the first flames were lit.”
“Haines!”
Jensen Luhar sipped from his long straw. He took a large bite of cheeseburger, delicately dabbed at his mouth, and smiled. “You play chess, Doctor.” It was not a question. Luhar offered Saul an onion ring. Saul stared at him. Luhar swallowed it and said, “If you have any feel for the game, Doctor, you must appreciate what is going on at this moment.”
“Is that what this is for you? A game?”
“Of course. To view it as anything more would be to take life and oneself far too seriously.”
“I’m going to find you and kill you,” Saul said softly.
Jensen Luhar nodded and took another bite of his cheeseburger. “Were we to meet in person, you would certainly try. You have no choice in the matter now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the esteemed president of what is euphemistically known as the Island Club, a certain Mr. C. Arnold Barent, has conditioned you to fill that single purpose— killing a film producer whom the world thinks already dead.”
Saul sipped cold coffee to hide his confusion. “Barent did no such thing.”
“Of course he did,” said Luhar. “He would have had no other reason for seeing you in person. How long do you think your interview with him lasted?”
“A few minutes,” said Saul. “A few hours is more likely. The conditioning would have had two purposes: to kill me on sight and to make certain that you would never be a threat to Mr. Barent.”
“What do you mean?”
Luhar finished the last of his onion rings. “Play a simple game. Visualize Mr. Barent and then visualize yourself attacking him.”
Saul frowned but did so. It was very difficult. When he recalled Barent as he last saw him— relaxed, tanned, sitting on the ship’s balcony overlooking the sea— he was amazed to find a blend of friendship, plea sure, and loyalty stirring in him. He forced himself to imagine hurting Barent, swinging a fist toward those smooth, handsome features . . .
Saul doubled over with the sudden pain and sickness. He gasped on the verge of vomiting. Cold sweat erupted on his brow and cheeks. Saul fumbled for a glass of water and swallowed convulsively, thinking of other things, slowly untwisting the knot of pain in his belly.
“Interesting, ja?” said Luhar. “It is Mr. Barent’s single greatest strength. No one who spends time with him could ever wish to do him harm. Serving Mr. Barent is a source of plea sure to a great many people.”
Saul finished the water and used a napkin to wipe the sweat off his brow. “Why are you fighting him?”
“Fighting him? No, no, my dear pawn. I am not fighting him, I am playing him.” Luhar looked around. “As of yet they have no microphones close enough to pick up our conversation, but in a minute a van will park outside and our privacy will disappear. It is time for us to take a walk.”
“And if I don’t go?”
Jensen Luhar shrugged. “Within a few hours the game will grow very interesting indeed. There is a part for you in it. If you wish to do anything about the people who terminated your nephew and his family, it would serve your purposes to accompany me. I offer you freedom . . . at least from them.”
“But not from you?”
“Nor from yourself, dear pawn. Come, come, it is time to decide.”
“I will kill you someday,” said Saul.
Luhar grinned and pulled on his gloves and sunglasses. “Ja, ja. Are you coming?”
Saul stood up and looked out of the window. A green van had pulled to the curb. Saul followed Jensen Luhar outside.
The streets off Germantown Avenue were narrow and contradictory. At one time the tall skinny buildings might have been pleasant houses— some reminded Saul of the narrow houses of Amsterdam. Now they were overcrowded slum dwellings. The small shops and businesses might once have been the nucleus of a true community— small delicatessens, tiny grocery stores, family shoe stores, small businesses. Now they advertised dead flies in the windows. Some had been turned into low-rent apartments; a grimy three-year-old stood in a display window and pressed her cheek and smudgy fingers against the glass.
“What did you mean when you said you were ‘playing’ Barent?” asked Saul. He looked over his shoulder but caught no sight of the green van. It did not matter; Saul was sure that they were still under surveillance. It was the Oberst he wanted to find.
“We play chess,” said Luhar. The big man turned his face and Saul could see his own reflection in the dark glasses.
“And the stakes are our lives,” said Saul. He desperately tried to think of a way to cause the Oberst to reveal his location.
Luhar laughed, showing broad, white teeth. “No, no, my little pawn,” he said in German. “Your lives mean nothing. The stakes are nothing less than who makes the rules of the game.”
“The game?” echoed Saul. They had turned onto another side street. No one was visible except a pair of heavy black women coming out of a Laundromat at the end of the street.
“Surely you are aware of the Island Club and its annual games?” said the Oberst. “Herr Barent and the rest of those cowards have been afraid to let me play. They know that I would demand a wider scope to the play. Something that would befit a race of Übermenschen.”
“Didn’t you get enough of that in the war?”
Luhar grinned again. “You seek to provoke me,” he said softly. “A foolish goal.” They had stopped in front of a nondescript cinderblock building next to the laundromat. “The answer is ‘no,’ ” he said. “I did not get enough of it in the war. The Island Club thinks that it has some claim to power merely because it influences . . . leaders, nations, economies. Influences.” Luhar spat on the sidewalk. “When I set the rules to the game, they will see what real power can do. The world is a piece of rotted, worm-ridden old meat, pawn. We will cleanse it with fire. I will show them what it is to play with armies rather than their pitiful little surrogates. I will show them what it is like to see cities die at the loss of a piece, entire races captured and utilized for projects at the whim of the User. And I will show them what it means to play this game on a global scale. We all die, pawn, but what Herr Barent fails to see is that there is no reason for the world to survive us.”
Saul stood on the sidewalk and stared. The cold wind tugged at his coat and made his skin crawl with gooseflesh.
“Here we are,” said Luhar and produced a ring of keys to open the door of the featureless building in front of them. He stepped into the darkn
ess and gestured to Saul. “Are you coming, pawn?”
Saul swallowed. “You’re more insane than I had dreamed,” he whispered.
Luhar nodded. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “But if you come with me you will have a chance to continue in the game. Not the larger game, regretfully. You will have no place in that. But your inevitable sacrifice will allow that game to be played. If you come with me now . . . of your own free will . . . we will remove those impediments which Herr Barent has shackled you with so that you might continue to serve me as a loyal pawn.”
Saul stood in the cold, clenching his fist and feeling the pain in his left arm where the surgical implant throbbed. He stepped into the darkness.
Luhar grinned and bolted the door behind them. Saul blinked in the dim light. The first floor was empty except for sawdust and stacks of loading skids on a wide expanse of ware house floor. A wooden staircase led to a loft. Luhar pointed and Saul went up the stairs.
“Good God,” said Saul. In the loft a single table and four chairs were visible in the dim light filtering through a begrimed skylight. Two naked corpses occupied two of the chairs.
Saul stepped closer and inspected the bodies. They were cold and locked in the vise of rigor mortis. One was a black man, about Luhar’s height and weight. His eyes were opened and filmed with death. The other corpse was a white man a few years older than Saul, bearded and balding. His mouth hung open. Saul could see the exploded capillaries of cheeks and nose that suggested advanced alcoholism.
He watched as Luhar took off his expensive camel’s hair coat. “Our doppelgängers?” said Saul.