"The article said . .."
"I don't care what the article said!"
"That's great!" said Jennings. "Just hold it like that!"
The camera came too close and Thorn pushed it aside, knocking it from Jennings' hand. It crashed hard on the cement, and for a moment everyone stood in silence, shocked by the burst of sudden violence.
"Can't you people have some respect?" Thorn gasped.
Jennings knelt, gazing up at him from his knees.
"I'm sorry," said Thorn in a shaking voice. "Send me a bill for the damage."
Jennings picked up the broken camera and stood slowly, shrugging as he looked into Thorn's eyes.
"That's okay, Mr. Ambassador," he said. "Let's just say .. . you 'owe' me."
After an uneasy nod, Thorn turned on his heel and entered the Embassy, as a Marine ran up from the street, too late to survey the aftermath of the incident.
"He busted my camera," said Jennings to the Marine. "The Ambassador busted my camera."
They stood nonplussed, then disbursed, each going his separate way.
Thorn's office was in turmoil. The trip of Saudi Arabia was in jeopardy because Thorn was balking, saying, without further explanation, that he was unable to go. Planning the trip had occupied his staff for the better part of two weeks, and his two aides were up in arms, feeling cheated that their work had gone to waste.
"You can't cancel," entreated one. "After all this, you can't just call and say ..."
"It's not canceled," retorted Thorn, "it's postponed."
"They'll take it as an insult."
"So be it."
"But why?"
"I don't feel like traveling right now," replied Thorn. "It's not a good time."
"Do you realize what's at stake here?" asked his second aide.
"Diplomacy," answered Thorn.
"More than that."
"They've got the oil and they've got the power," said Thorn. "Nothing will change that."
"That's precisely why..."
"I'll send somebody else."
"The President's expecting you to go."
"I'll talk to him. I'll explain."
"My God, Jerry! This thing's been planned for weeks!"
"Then replan it!" Thorn shouted.
His sudden outburst created silence. An intercom buzzed, and Thorn reached for it.
"Yes?"
"There's a Father Tassone here to see you," replied a secretary's voice.
"Who?"
"Father Tassone from Rome. He says it's a matter of urgent personal business."
"I've never heard of him," replied Thorn.
"He says he just needs a minute," responded the voice. "Something about a hospital."
"Probably wants a donation," mumbled one of Thorn's aides.
"Or a dedication," added the other.
"All right," Thorn sighed. "Send him in."
"I didn't know you were such a soft touch," remarked one of the aides.
"Public relations," muttered Thorn.
"Don't make a decision on Saudi Arabia yet. Okay? You're down today. Just let it sit."
"The decision is made," said Thorn with fatigue. "Either someone else goes or we postpone it."
"Postpone it until when?"
"Until later," responded Thorn. "Until I feel better about leaving."
The doors swung open, and in the massive archway stood a diminutive man. He was a priest; his robes were disheveled, his manner tense, his sense of urgency felt by all in the room. The aides exchanged an uneasy glance, uncertain whether it was safe to leave the room.
"Would it... be all right..." asked the priest, in a thick Italian accent, "... to speak with you alone?"
"It's about a hospital?" asked Thorn.
"Sir . .
After a moment, Thorn nodded, and his aides moved hesitantly from the room. When they were gone, the priest closed the doors behind them; then he turned, his expression filled with pain.
"Yes?" Thorn asked apprehensively.
"We have not much time."
"What?"
"You must listen to what I say."
The priest refused to move, remaining with his back touching the door.
"And what is that?" asked Thorn.
"You must accept Christ as your Saviour. You must accept him now."
And there passed a moment of silence, Thorn at a loss for words.
"Please, signor ..."
"Excuse me," interrupted Thorn. "Did I understand you to have a matter of urgent personal business?"
"You must take communion," the priest continued. "Drink the blood of Christ and eat his flesh, for only if He is within you can you defeat the child of the Devil."
The atmosphere in the room burned with tension. Thorn's hand reached for the intercom.
"He's killed once," whispered the priest, "and hell kill again. Hell kill until everything that's yours is his."
"If you'll just wait outside ..."
The priest had begun to approach now, his voice rising in intensity.
"Only through Christ can you fight him," he entreated. "Accept the Lord Jesus. Drink of His blood."
Thorn's hand found the intercom button and pushed.
"I've locked the door, Mr. Thorn," said the priest
Thorn stiffened, frightened now by the priest's tone.
"Yes?" asked the secretary's voice through the intercom.
"Send for a security guard," replied Thorn.
"What's that, sir?"
"I beg you, signor," pleaded the priest, "listen to what I say."
"Sir?" repeated the secretary.
"I was at the hospital, Mr. Thorn," said the priest, "the night your son was born." Thorn was jolted. Riveted in place.
"I... was a ... midwife," the priest said in a faltering voice. "I . . . witnessed ... the birth"
The secretary's voice came again, this time edged with concern.
"Mr. Thorn?" she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."
"Nothing," responded Thorn. "Just. . . stand by."
He released the button, gazing fearfully back at the priest.
"I beg you ..." said Tassone, choking back tears.
"What do you want?"
"To save you, Mr. Thorn. So Christ will forgive me."
"What do you know about my son?"
"Everything."
"What do you know?" demanded Thorn.
The priest was trembling now, his voice thick with emotion.
"I saw its mother," he replied.
"You saw my wife?"
"I saw its mother!"
"You're referring to my wife?"
"Its mother, Mr. Thorn!"
Thorn's face hardened, and he gazed back evenly at the priest.
"Is this blackmail?" he asked quietly.
"No, sir."
"Then what do you want?"
"To tell you, sir."
"To tell me what?"
"Its mother, sir . . ."
"Go on, what about her?"
"Its mother, sir . .. was a jackall" A sob escaped the priest's throat. "He was born of a jackall I saw it myself!"
With a sudden crash, Thorn's door flew open, a Marine entering, Thorn's aides and secretary behind
him. Thorn was ashen, immobile, the priest's face wet with tears.
"Something wrong in here, sir?" asked the Marine.
"You sounded strange," added the secretary. "And the door was locked."
"I want this man escorted out of here," said Thorn. "And if he ever comes back •.. I want him put in jail."
No one moved, the Marine hesitant to put his hands on a priest. Slowly, Tassone turned and walked to the door. There he stopped, looking back at Thorn.
"Accept Christ," he whispered sadly. "Each day drink His blood."
Then he left, the Marine following him, all the others standing in confused silence.
"What did he want?" an aide asked.
"I don't know," whispered Thorn gazing after the priest. "He was crazy."
>
On the street outside the Embassy, Haber Jennings leaned up against a car, checking out his spare camera, having put the broken one away. His eye caught sight of the Marine escorting the priest down the front steps, and he snapped off a couple of shots of the two as the priest slowly shuffled away. The Marine spotted Jennings and walked to him, eyeing him with distaste.
"Haven't you gotten into enough trouble with that thing today?" he asked, indicating Jennings' camera.
"Enough trouble?" smiled Jennings. "Never enough."
And he clicked off two more shots of the Marine at point-blank range, the Marine glaring as he withdrew. Then Jennings changed focus and found the small priest; he snapped off one more shot of him as he disappeared in the distance.
Late that night, Jennings sat in his darkroom gazing at a series of photographs, his eyes curious and confused. To make sure his spare camera was operating efficiently he had shot off a roll of thirty-six pictures at varying exposures and speeds, and three of them had turned out defective. It was the same sort of defect he'd had a few months ago in the shot of the nanny at the Thorn estate. This time it involved the shots of the priest. Once again it seemed to be a flaw on the emulsion, but this time it appeared more than once. It came twice in a row, then skipped two shots, then returned, exactly as before. Even more curious, it seemed linked to the subject, the strange blur of movement hanging above the priest's head as though it were somehow actually there.
Jennings lifted five photos from the developer and examined them closely under the light: two shots of the priest with the Marine, two close-ups of the Marine alone, then one more of the priest alone in the distance. Not only did the blemish disappear in the two shots of the Marine, but when it reappeared in the final shot, it was smaller in size, relative to the size of the priest. As before it was a kind of a halo, but unlike the blemish that defaced the photo of the nanny, this one was oblong in shape, suspended well over the subject's head. The haze that enveloped the head of the nanny was inert, conveying a sense of peace, but the one above the priest's head was dynamic, as though in motion. It looked like a ghostlike javelin about to skewer the priest to the ground.
Jennings reached for an opium joint and sat back to speculate. He had read once that film emulsion was sensitive to extreme heat, just as it was to light. The article appeared in a photographic journal and dealt with ghostlike images that showed up on film taken in one of England's famed haunted houses. The writer, an expert in photographic science, had speculated on the relationship of nitrate to temperature change, noting that in laboratory experiments intense heat had been found to affect film emulsion the same way as light Heat was energy, and energy was heat, and if indeed, apparitions were, as some speculated, residual human energy, then under the right circumstances their shape could be recorded on film. But the energy the article spoke of was without relation to the human body. What was the meaning of energy that clung to the outside of a human form? Did it come at random, or did it have some meaning? Did it have to do with external influences, or was it perhaps born of anxieties festering within?
Anxiety was known to create energy, this the principle of the polygraph used for He detector tests. That energy was electrical in nature. Electricity was also heat. Perhaps the heat generated by extreme anxiety burst through human flesh and could thus be photographed surrounding people in states of great stress.
All this excited Jennings, and he dug through his film emulsion charts, finding the order number of the most light-sensitive film made—Tri-X-600, a new product so sensitive that one could photograph fast action by candlelight. It was probably the most heat-sensitive as well.
The next morning, Jennings bought twenty-four rolls of Tri-X-600 and a series of accompanying filters to experiment with the film outdoors. The filters would cut out light, but possibly not heat, and he would have a better chance of finding what he was looking for. He needed to find subjects in states of extreme stress, and so he went to a hospital, there secretly photographing patients in the terminal ward who knew they were dying. The results were disappointing, for in ten rolls taken, not a single blemish appeared. Clearly, whatever the blemishes were, they had nothing to do with an awareness of death.
Jennings was frustrated but undismayed, for he knew instinctively he was on to something. Returning to his darkroom, he redeveloped the photos of the priest and the nanny, experimenting with different textures of paper, blowing them up to closely examine every grain. It was plain, in enlargement, that something was actually there. The naked eye had not seen it, but the nitrate had responded. Indeed, there were invisible images in the air.
All this occupied his time and thoughts for a solid week. And then he reemerged to once again follow Thorn.
The Ambassador had embarked on a series of speaking engagements, and it was easy for Jennings to get access. He appeared at local university campuses, business luncheons, even a factory or two, and was on display for all to see. The Ambassador's style was eloquent, filled with fervor, and he seemed to win his audiences wherever he went. If this was his forte, it was the most valuable asset a political hopeful could have. He stirred people, and they believed in him, particularly the working class, the economic underdogs, for the Ambassador seemed genuinely concerned.
"We stand divided in so many ways!" they would hear him shout. "Old and young, rich and poor .. . but most important, those who have a chance, and those who do not Democracy is equal opportunity. And without equal opportunity the word 'democracy' is a lie!"
He made himself available to the public on these speaking tours, often making special efforts to make contact with handicapped people he would spot in the crowd. He seemed the image of a champion, and more important even than his own innate abilities was the fact that he could make people believe.
In truth, however, the very fervor that people responded to was born of desperation. Thorn was running, using his public duties to avoid personal distress, for a growing sense of foreboding followed him wherever he went. Twice, in the crowds that gathered to hear him speak, he had spotted a familiar clerical black outfit, and he began to feel that the small priest was stalking him. He avoided telling anyone, because he feared it was his own imagination, but he began to become preoccupied with it, searching the crowds as he spoke to them, fearing the appearance of the priest wherever he went. He had dismissed Tassone's words; plainly the man was insane, a religious zealot obsessed with a public figure, and the fact that his obsession involved Thorn's child could be nothing more than coincidence. And yet the priest's words haunted him. Impossible as they were, they echoed in Thorn's mind, and he fought continually against giving them weight It occurred to Thorn that the priest might be a potential assassin, for in the cases of both Lee Harvey Oswald and Arthur Bremmer, the assassins tried to make personal contact of the kind the priest had made. But he dismissed this as well. He could no longer move as he had to if he dwelt on the spectre of death waiting in the crowds. And yet the priest stayed with him; in his waking hours and in his sleep, until Thorn became aware he was as obsessed with the man as the man was with him. Tassone was the predator, Thorn the prey. He felt as a fieldmouse must feel, fearing always, that high above, he was being circled by a hawk.
At Pereford the surface was calm. But in the depths of hidden feelings the fires of anxiety burned bright Thorn and Katherine saw little of each other, his speaking engagements and other duties keeping him away. When they came together, they kept their conversation on a surface level, avoiding anything that would cause distress. Katherine was spending more time with Damien, as she had promised, but it only served to accentuate their distance, the child whiling away the hours in silence, enduring the time rather than enjoying it, until Mrs. Baylock returned.
With his nanny, he was able to laugh and play, but with Katherine he was withdrawn; in frustration she attempted, day after day, to find ways of bringing him out of his shell. She bought coloring books and paint sets, building blocks and wheeled toys, but always they were met with the same
dulled response. One afternoon he evidenced interest in an animal cut-out book, and it was then that she decided to take him to the zoo.
As she packed her station wagon for a day's outing, it occurred to her how different their lives were from those of normal people. Her child was four and a half years old and he had never even been to a zoo. As the Ambassador's family, everything was brought to them, they rarely sought things out. Perhaps it was this lack of normal childhood adventures that had dulled Da-mien's sense of fun. But today there was life in his eyes, and as he sat beside her in the car, she could sense she had finally done something right. He even talked. Not much, but more than usual—struggling with the word "hippopotamus," and giggling when he finally got it right. How little it took to make Katherine happy; a giggle from her child caused her spirits to soar. As they headed for the city, she talked nonstop, and Damien listened intently. Lions were just big cats and gorillas were just big monkeys, and squirrels were related to rats, and horses related to donkeys. He was delighted, absorbing it all, and Katherine made a poem of it, repeating it as they drove. Lions are cats and gorillas monkeys, and squirrels are rats and horses are donkeys. She said it fast and Damien laughed, and she said it faster and he laughed harder. It convulsed him, and they laughed together all the way to the zoo.
On a bright Sunday in winter everyone in London tries to get outdoors; people were everywhere, greedily soaking up fresh air and sun. It was an uncommonly beautiful day and the zoo was packed to capacity. The animals also seemed to be enjoying the sun, their growls and howls heard all the way to the admission gate where Katherine rented a stroller so she could push Damien and not have their day hampered by fatigue.
They stopped first at the swans and watched the beautiful creatures flock around a group of children who were feeding them bread. They pushed through to get a front-row vantage, but at that moment the swans suddenly became disinterested in feeding and majestically turned their tails, slowly paddling away, In mid-pond they stopped, gazing back like disdainful mon-archs, the children pleading and throwing bread. But the swans would not return to feed, Katherine noticing that only after she and Damien left did their hunger appear to have once again returned.