Buying Time

  Dallas’s day of bed rest was also active. From his secured suite in the Savoy he worked on the consequences of the Singapore steel scam, calling in and debriefing the French actor whom Mme. Demarche had hired to impersonate Neuville. He paid off the actor and Demarche, and then tracked down Kamachi, whose tip had started the whole thing, in Rangoon. In return for a half dozen names and prices, Kamachi transferred £200,000 to Dallas’s Zurich account.

  So the lovers were apart, but their fortunes cuddled together in Switzerland.

  Dallas

  I was looking forward to Dubrovnik, not having been there this century. The weather was good all over southern Europe, so instead of flying, I rented a high-speed floater and put it on automatic pilot. Spent the morning skimming just under the speed of sound, from Dover, around Gibraltar, through the Mediterranean, up the Adriatic. Enjoying being alone. I listened to most of Mozart’s piano concertos and thought a lot about Maria, coming to no conclusion.

  Her agent had booked us into a faded-modern extravaganza of wood and glass that clung to the side of a cliff just south of the old walled city. I admired the view from the balcony for a few minutes, then changed some money at the desk and took a water taxi into Old Town.

  Nothing had changed much in the sixty years I’d been away, which was not surprising. They had a lot invested in staying picturesque.

  With two hours to kill before the meeting, I took a slow stroll along the top of the medieval fortification that encloses the city. Not ancient by the standards of nearby Rome and Greece, it did seem old to me—older than it had last time.

  That had been five years after Singapore, five years after I’d lost Maria. I had almost stopped thinking about her by then. What I do remember thinking, a child of seventy, was that in another thousand years I would be half as old as these walls, with some prospect of outlasting them. Stone will crumble.

  So now what? Tonight would tell, probably. Assuming I know whom to believe.

  I went down to the Placa, the main thoroughfare, and looked for a trinket to give Maria. She’d insisted on paying all of the adastra hotel bill, $400,000 American. (It would have taken half my money at the time, but she didn’t even ask.) I found a small cross carved out of Martian lapis lazuli, which would go well with her eyes, and had it mounted as a necklace.

  The only Slavic language I speak is Russian, and I’d been warned not to use it in Dalmatia. So with English and German and a lot of arm-waving and pointing, I found my way to Alenka Zor’s “villa” at the end of Kneza Damjana Jude—actually an apartment carved out of the limestone supporting the city’s walls, a dozen large rooms arranged in an eccentric L. It appeared to have views of both the city and the ocean, though I thought one of them had to be a holo; maybe both. (This “illusion of an illusion” was one reason Zor had bought the place. She amused herself later on by opening both windows; the views were real. The asymmetry and false feeling of being underground confused your orientation.) The view from the ocean side was so conventionally charming that Alenka facetiously apologized for subjecting us to the picture postcard cliché: a magnificent old castle perched on an island of black rock, glowing in the light of the setting sun.

  Nearly all of the thirty or so people there at this hour were American, British, or Australian, being true to our cultures by showing up more or less on time. Maria might be another forty-five minutes even if she’d just had to cross the street. Having to cross the sea could make it an hour.

  I was surprised and pleased to see Eric Lundley there. Surprised because he hadn’t been at Claudia’s party, though he lives just outside of Sydney, in the Blue Mountains.

  Eric and I had been business partners in real estate and currency manipulation about forty years ago, before I became Dallas Barr again. We kept in touch sporadically; he was the guy I could always call if I needed a gloss on molecular biology or the sex lives of the Jacobean dramatists.

  Eric had found an interesting way around one of the Stileman rules. He was queer for books, the actual physical things of paper and leather and so forth. About the time we were together he was building an extra fortune, several million Australian dollars, with the express purpose of pulling together the largest private book collection in the hemisphere. He put it in a comfortable building up in the Blue Mountains, in the middle of nowhere—and then donated it to the Stileman Foundation. Since it was an outright gift, he was able to put various strictures on its use. Any immortal can study there, even live there. But it can’t be approached by floater; you have to walk two uphill miles through heavy forest. When you get there, you have a few hundred thousand books, but not much else: no phone, and no food other than what you packed in. It’s never very crowded.

  So when Eric gets out of the clinic, he makes his million as quickly as possible, puts it in the bank, and lives off the interest, renting a small place near the library to serve as a mail drop. Then he lives with his books for a decade or so. About a year before he goes into the clinic, he plugs himself into that weird outfit in Vegas and has his Turing Image updated. (He might be the only Stileman immortal who also has a TI, since it takes fifteen or more years to complete the initial programming. I’ve always assumed he did it so that if he forgets something, he can consult himself.…)

  It’s a strange sort of passion, but more constructive than most. And it certainly makes him a handy person to know.

  He hadn’t seen me come in. I circled the room and sneaked up behind him. “Eric,” I said quickly, “which American President invested in dirigibles for interstate transport?”

  “Roosevelt. The second,” he said without turning around. “Must be you, Andric—I mean Dallas.”

  We shook hands. “This is where we’re supposed to say, ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’” he said.

  “Never seen your chin before.” He used to have a full red beard; now it was freckles. “How come you didn’t make the meeting last week? It was right next door.”

  “Can’t stand Claudia. No offense; I know you used to—”

  “Long time ago. Little too strange for me now.”

  He nodded, looking around. “Been coming to these things long?”

  “No. Claudia’s was my first.”

  “Would’ve been mine, too.” He pointed his glass at Briskin. “Sir Charles wrote last month, explaining about the mob and inviting me. Now I wish I’d been there. Quite a bombshell they dropped.”

  “Know more tonight.” I wondered whether Briskin had planned to invite Eric into the Steering Committee. Probably.

  “Interesting that we were both asked at the same time,” Eric said.

  “I was told that the guy who was blackballing me died. Dmitri Popov.”

  “Really. Now that’s interesting. Didn’t know he was immortal.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Not personally … but we had some indirect dealings. That was before anyone knew he was Russian.”

  “When he was with the CIA.”

  Eric shrugged. “He was in the information business; I’m in the information business. We traded.”

  “You have hidden depths, Eric.”

  “Virtual abysses. That’s probably it, though. We didn’t part on friendly terms.” He looked around the room, thoughtful. “I wonder how many people were invited to this little tea party when he died.”

  “And whether it was an accident?”

  “Oh, it was no accident. But I just assumed it was the intelligence community, one side or the other, or maybe both, who did the deed.”

  “You know that for sure, or is it an opinion?”

  “Anyone who knows Volvo floaters knows they can’t do that on their own. It was a real clumsy cover-up. I guess you were still in the tank?”

  “Until last month, yeah.”

  “You ought to go back and read about it. I know you don’t follow news, but this item was pretty interesting.”

  “I don’t know, Eric. If this outfit gets rid of members who have inconvenient opinions, maybe it’s time for u
s to tiptoe out the back way.”

  “No, we ought to study it and see if there’s any link.” His eyes brightened with the prospect of research. “It’s like your president, Kennedy, when he was assassinated. Was that before your time?”

  “I was thirteen or fourteen.”

  “Same kind of thing, on a bigger scale. Anyone who knew military weapons knew that the assassin couldn’t have done what he did with the weapon he was supposed to have used—an Olympic-class marksman with sniper experience couldn’t have done it. But it was seventy years before the whole truth finally came out.”

  “When there was nobody left in power who could be affected by it.”

  “Exactly. Likewise, the investigation of this one seems to have trailed off into nothing. No doubt impeded by misinformation and bribes.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I do have a lot of stuff on it here and there in the library. Maybe we ought to get together on it and do some headscratching. For insurance.”

  “Yeah, let’s.” I saw Maria and waved. “You know Maria Marconi?”

  “Nope.”

  “She was the bait they used to lure me in.” She came over and I made introductions.

  She handed me an envelope. “You were in and out too fast, Dallas. The bellman had a message for you.”

  Cream-colored expensive stock, the envelope sealed with wax and marked by a signet ring. I opened it:

  Dear Dallas,

  I feel foolish resorting to this but have never completely trusted electronic security.

  There is something about this business that I don’t like. Various things that may or may not have to do with one another. Taken separately, they are innocent enough, but considered together they begin to stink.

  Anyhow, I would like the benefit of your experience. Please contact me here as soon as you come back to Earth.

  With an access of paranoia, I remain

  Your friend,

  Lamont Randolph

  I showed the note to Eric and Maria. “Looks like there’s a lot of this going around.”

  Eric read it carefully. “This guy here tonight?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “From the tone of the message,” Maria said, “you might expect him not to come. He struck me as a man who wouldn’t take chances.” To Eric: “He’s the one who supposedly lured me into this organization for the purpose of luring Dallas. Though it turns out he was just following orders.”

  “Too much intrigue in this mob,” Eric said. “Maybe you’re right, Dallas. Let’s quit and start our own secret organization.”

  “Think I’ll give him a call.”

  Alenka directed us to a phone she said was secure (though she said it with a shrug), and I punched up the number on the hotel stationery.

  A tired-looking stranger’s face appeared on the screen. “Lieutenant Cook, Homicide.”

  “Sorry. I was calling 5283–7752x205.”

  “That’s right,” he said, brightening. “The penthouse at the Royal Sydney Hotel. Show yourself, please.”

  I clicked it off. “Could they trace it here?” Maria asked.

  “In the States they could.”

  “Not in Australia,” Eric said, “not legally. So this Lamont Randolph either was killed or he killed somebody else.”

  “Was there anything in the Sydney papers?”

  “I don’t read the Sydney papers. We could punch them up here, though.”

  It took a few minutes to get the phone’s data acquisition talents to agree to speak English—it wanted to speak Slovenian, Alenka’s language, rather than Serbo-Croatian. We finally got it to deliver the front page of the Sydney Herald for the last few days. On the day of the note:

  IMMORTAL DIES IN PLUNGE FROM BALCONY WINDOW

  POLICE: NOT MURDER?

  28 NOV (ANZP) At 6:13 this morning Lamont Randolph, 89, “jumped-fell-or-was-pushed” from the balcony of his luxurious apartment in the Rocks. He fell into a stream of light traffic and was immediately struck by a tank truck. His body was dragged more than 50 meters before the driver could bring the vehicle under control. He was pronounced dead on the scene by traffic paramedics from the downtown barracks.

  POLICE CHIEF: “SUICIDE UNLIKELY”

  Police declined to speculate about the nature of the incident beyond a few simple observations. Lieutenant Harley Cook, the 12th Precinct’s chief of homicide, admitted: “It seems unlikely that the man would have jumped. A wealthy person has access to many less harrowing ways to end it all, and besides, there was no note and, as far as we can tell from a few interviews, none of the psychological precursors to suicide.”

  Lieutenant Cook refused to call it homicide, though. “The hotel’s security is impressive; you can’t just take an elevator up to the penthouse. At the time of Randolph’s death there was a bodyguard on duty in the foyer that provides the only entrance to the living quarters.

  “The balcony has a low railing; one could conceivably be pacing and absentmindedly stumble over it. Or he could have been sleepwalking.” With the press of further questioning from reporters, Lieutenant Cook ended the interview.

  JUST HAD THIRD STILEMAN

  Lamont Randolph had received the Stileman Treatment three times, most recently last November. For more than thirty years he has been on the board of directors of General Nutrition, an American firm whose Pacific base of operations is in Syndey.…

  My first instinct was to tiptoe out the door and disappear, but we agreed that that would be too conspicuous. Besides, it might be handy to know what we were supposed to believe about Lorne-Smythe’s death.

  So we circulated separately for an hour, each of us paying special attention to what sort of chat was going on around Sir Charles Briskin. With Maria he was neutrally friendly; with Eric he was somewhat formal; with me he communicated a conspiratorial “watch what happens next” attitude.

  The news of Lamont Randolph’s death percolated through the rooms. It was especially jarring since to some extent he must have been on everyone’s minds, having led last week’s discussion and, with Alenka Zor, invited them here.

  At nine Alenka asked everyone into the dining room, where the heavy elegant furniture had been moved aside and dozens of folding chairs set up.

  Sir Charles unnecessarily introduced himself and said a few words about poor Lamont Randolph. “As to the unlikelihood of suicide,” he said, “we, of course, know a few things that the authorities do not. And perhaps Randolph, in the course of his investigation … perhaps he learned something that we do not know.”

  He paused to let that settle in. “Randolph was coordinating data and opinions gathered in his region, which, of course, includes the Sydney clinic. He had contacts within the clinic, legal and otherwise.”

  “Just one minute,” said a man with a clotted German accent. “You’re trying to say that … this thing that Randolph learned was so depressing that it drove him to take his own life?”

  “Only recognizing the possibility,” Briskin said.

  “That’s fantastic,” Alenka Zor said. “He was no hypersensitive child.”

  Briskin looked uncomfortable. “As may be. It’s only peripherally relevant—”

  “The hell you say,” said a woman with a Texas accent. “What if he learned too much and the foundation had him killed? That’s pretty damn relevant.”

  “It doesn’t seem plausible—”

  “The hell it don’t! If I needed somebody put away like that, not sayin’ I ever did, that bodyguard in another room wouldn’t cut no ice. Just land a good man on the roof, have him climb down to the penthouse balcony, do the dirty deed, run back up to the roof, walk down a couple flights, then take the elevator down and walk out. Nobody in the lobby; they’re all outside on the sidewalk, busy gawkin’.” She paused in the speculating silence. “Go ahead and tell me the foundation couldn’t do that.”

  “Of course it could,” Briskin said. “If it wanted to, it could have everyone in this room killed. But that’s not the wa
y it does business.”

  “Perhaps its business has changed,” Alenka said. “If he could prove it is offering only a hundred years, not a thousand—”

  “All right. It’s possible. Anything is possible. Let’s concentrate on what is known.” He glared around the room for a moment. “Let me introduce Dr. Joseph Reingold. Head neurologist for the London clinic. I don’t have to tell you what he is risking by being here.” Reingold was a short, pudgy, balding man. Like many secret immortals, he had chosen an apparent age and physiognomy that would draw no special attention.

  “It would have been a terrible risk,” Reingold said, “a month ago, three weeks ago. But now everything is changing; everything has to be reconsidered. Including foundation policy separating us from our clients. Because we all have to work very fast.”

  “It’s true then?” Alenka said.

  Reingold nodded. The room was still as a held breath. “Apparently Dr. Lorne-Smythe did die of entropic brain dysfunction. It is possible,” he said over the sudden murmur, “is possible that his death was an anomaly. That something unique to his medical history accelerated the aging process.”

  “The polo accident,” Briskin said.

  “Possibly. Not likely. Hundreds of immortals have had mild concussions.” He pointed at me. “You’re Dallas Barr. How many concussions have you … brought upon yourself?”

  “Maybe half a dozen,” I said. “Seven, eight.” Across the room Kamachi smiled and touched his silver dome.

  “And you’re one of the oldest. You’re more than fifty years older than I am.”

  “Two years younger than Lorne-Smythe.” I said quietly.

  The doctor nodded. “You and about twenty of the oldest immortals visited the London clinic over the past week, cooperating in a series of tests. We have no early conclusions, I’m afraid—in fact, no clear indication as to in which direction we ought to proceed. Other than obvious concern over the physiology of the brain.”