En route, Parker wakened, complaining that his mouth felt dry.
“Here, sip this Coke,” Chris told him.
Parker said it helped. He sounded groggy. “You’re letting me go?”
“Why not? You did your part. We’ve got what we wanted.”
The Coke had been mixed with scopolamine. By the time they arrived in Washington, Parker had become hysterical, flailing at hallucinations of spiders that tried to smother him. Chris let him out in a porno district where prostitutes backed away from Parker’s wails and insane gesticulations.
The scopolamine would wear off by the next day. Parker would find himself in a psychiatric ward. Though his hallucinations would have disappeared, another effect of the drug would persist. His memory of the last two days would have been erased. He wouldn’t recall being kidnapped. He wouldn’t recall his interrogation or the cottage or Chris, Saul, and Erika. The authorities, having been warned by Parker’s wife about his disappearance, would feel relieved to have found him. They’d conclude he wasn’t the saint he pretended to be. A porno district. Sure, the hypocrite had gotten more fun than he bargained for. By the time the authorities investigated further, Saul and Erika would have finished the job.
18
The Haven Motel was half hidden behind a steak house, a movie theater, and a bar on the outskirts of Washington. “All the comforts,” Saul said as he parked near the office. He and Erika had chosen the place because it looked sleazy enough so a clerk wouldn’t question why they’d rent a room for just a few hours. But it wasn’t sleazy enough that the police would make a habit of rousting it.
While she waited in the car, Saul went in the office. The soft drink machine had an Out of Order sign. The Naugahyde sofa was cracked. The plastic plants were dusty. Behind the counter, a woman barely turned from a Clint Eastwood movie on television. Saul registered as Mr. and Mrs. Harold Cain. The only time the woman looked interested was when she took his money.
Back in the car, Saul drove to the unit assigned to him. He turned the Pinto around, noting a driveway that led to a side street. Checking the room, they found a black-and-white television, a bureau with glass stains, a bed with wrinkled sheets. The faucet dripped in the bathtub.
They carried several boxes in. Using one of the credit cards Misha Pletz had supplied, they’d gone to a Radio Shack and bought a computer, printer, and telephone modem. Working quickly, they unpacked the components, integrated, and tested them. Saul went outside, chose a concealed vantage behind a garbage bin, and studied the entrances to the motel’s parking area. If he saw trouble approaching, he could warn Erika, using a small walkie-talkie he’d also bought from RadioShack.
In the room, Erika picked up the phone and touched a sequence of numbers Parker had mentioned. The sequence put her in contact with the NDA. She heard a beep from the phone. The computer had answered its number, awaiting instructions. She touched an alphabetical sequence—SUNSHINE, the name of Parker’s cocker spaniel—and heard another beep; the computer was primed to gather information. This method of dealing with the computer had been designed to allow the efficient exchange of data over long distance. Parker’s equivalent in San Diego, for example, didn’t have to come to Washington to use the NDA’s computer, nor did he have to contact Parker and explain what he needed. All he had to do was phone the computer directly. The method was simple and secure, but to make it work, you had to know the codes.
Erika set the phone in the modem, a small receptacle for the ear and mouthpiece, linked to the computer. She sat at the keyboard, typing instructions. The message passed through the modem and the phone to the NDA’s databank. Parker had explained that his computer wouldn’t release information unless it received the code word FETCH. She typed this now. The printer next to her began to clatter, translating the electronic signals received through the phone. She waited, hoping the NDA’s security force wouldn’t trace the phone call.
The printer stopped. Nodding, she typed GOOD DOG, the sign-off code Parker had given her, turned the computer off, put the phone on its cradle, and grabbed the printouts.
19
Chris slumped discouraged on the sofa. The night’s rain added to his gloom, drumming on the cottage’s roof. Drops trickled down the chimney, landing on the burnt wood in the fireplace, raising the bitter smell of ashes. He felt damp. “If there’s another pattern, I don’t see it.”
Saul and Erika frowned at the printouts on the table. She’d asked only for essential data: place and date of birth, religious affiliation, education, special skills, commanding officers, battle commendations.
“None of them was born at the same time or place,” she said. “They’re a mixture of religions. They’re each specialists in different things. They had different commanding officers and served in different areas of Southeast Asia. What’s the connection? Unless we’re wrong, there has to be something that links them together.”
Chris stood wearily, crossing the room toward the table. He paused beside Erika, reading the printouts again. “There.” He pointed down the left side of the page. “Each pair was educated in the same city, but the cities are different from each other. Omaha, Philadelphia, Johnstown, Akron. It doesn’t make sense. And over here.” He pointed to the right. “They each had cryptonyms, but I don’t see any other pattern. Butes and Erectheus. What the hell does that mean?”
He ignored the data he’d already eliminated, focusing on the information that puzzled him.
Omaha, Neb. Kevin McElroy. Castor.
Omaha, Neb. Thomas Conlin. Pollux.
Philadelphia, Pa. Saul Grisman. Romulus.
Philadelphia, Pa. Christopher Kilmoonie. Remus.
Johnstown, Pa. Neil Pratt. Cadmus.
Johnstown, Pa. Bernard Halliday. Cilix.
Akron, Ohio. Timothy Drew. Amphion.
Akron, Ohio. Andrew Hicks. Zethus.
Shade Gap, Pa. James Thomas. Butes.
Shade Gap, Pa. William Fletcher. Erectheus.
Gary, Ind. Arnold Hackett. Atlas.
Gary, Ind. David Pews. Prometheus.
The list continued—nine pairs, eighteen names.
“Pennsylvania’s mentioned often,” Saul said.
“But what’s it got to do with Nebraska, Ohio, and Indiana?”
“Let’s try the cryptonyms,” Erika said. “The names are foreign. Greek and Roman, right? From myth.”
“The category’s too general. That’s like saying Omaha and Philadelphia are in the United States,” Chris said. “We’ve got to find a more specific connection. Cadmus and Cilix? Amphion and Zethus? I don’t know who they were or what they did, let alone what they’ve got to do with each other.”
“Then start with the pair you do know,” Erika said. “Yourselves. Romulus and Remus.”
“Common knowledge. They’re the brothers who founded Rome,” Saul said.
“But we never founded anything, and we’re not brothers,” Chris said.
“We might as well be.” Saul turned to Erika. “Castor and Pollux. They sound familiar. Something to do with the sky. A constellation.”
Erika nodded. “When I learned night navigation, my instructor said to let the ancient warriors guide me. Castor and Pollux. They’re called the Gemini—the morning and evening stars.”
“Gemini,” Chris said. “Twins.”
“What other names look familiar?” Saul asked. “Here—at the bottom. Atlas.”
“The strongman who holds the sky above the earth.”
“Prometheus.”
“He stole fire from the gods and gave it to humans.”
“But there’s no connection between them.”
“Maybe,” Erika said.
Chris and Saul looked at her.
“What we need is an index to myth,” she told them. “I think I know the pattern now, but I have to find out who Cadmus and Cilix and the others were.”
“There’s a dictionary over here,” Chris said, checking several shelves of books beside the fireplace. “A lot of old paperback
s. Here. A desk encyclopedia.” Two volumes. He picked up the first, turning its dog-eared pages. “Atlas,” he said and started reading. He glanced up abruptly. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Saul looked startled.
“What’s the other cryptonym that begins with A?”
Saul quickly scanned the printout. “Amphion. He’s paired with Zethus.”
Chris urgently flipped pages, reading. “Jesus, I don’t believe it. Tell me the other names.”
“Alphabetically? Butes is paired with Erectheus, and Cadmus is paired with Cilix.”
Chris kept flipping pages, reading anxiously. “I know the pattern. I know how they’re related.”
The room was still. “They’re related in the most basic way there is,” Erika said.
“You figured it out.”
“I wasn’t really sure till I saw the look on your face.”
“Atlas and Prometheus were brothers. Amphion and Zethus were twins.”
“Like Castor and Pollux,” Saul said.
“Butes and Erectheus? Brothers. Cadmus and Cilix? Brothers. Romulus and Remus…”
“But where’s the parallel?” Saul spun to the printouts. “Castor and Pollux were twins, but the men assigned those cryptonyms are McElroy and Conlin. They sure as hell don’t sound like twins.”
“That’s true,” Erika said. “And here, farther down, Pratt and Halliday don’t sound related, but they’ve been given cryptonyms that refer to brothers. It’s the same with all the other names. Drew and Hicks, Thomas and Fletcher, Hackett and Pews—if they’re not related, why give them cryptonyms that refer to brothers?”
“Maybe they came from broken homes,” Chris said. “If their parents got divorced and married someone else, McElroy and Conlin could have different names but still be related.”
“Maybe in one case,” Erika said. “But all of them from broken homes with parents remarried?”
“I know. It’s stretching,” Chris agreed.
“Besides, you and Saul don’t come from a broken home. As you said, you’re not related.” Suddenly her eyes became wary. She turned to Saul. “Then you said something else. You said, ‘We might as well be.’ Why did you say that?”
Saul shrugged. “We’ve known each other almost as long as if we’d been brothers. Since we were five. Right, Chris?”
Chris smiled. “You’re the best friend I’ve got.”
“But why?” Erika said, her voice strained with confusion. “I don’t mean why you’re friends. I mean why you’ve known each other so long. Did you grow up in the same neighborhood?”
“In a way. We met at the school,” Saul said.
“What school?” Erika frowned.
“The Franklin School for Boys in Philadelphia. Where we were raised. We didn’t come from a broken home. Hell, we didn’t come from any home at all. We’re orphans.”
Chris stared toward the rain beyond the window.
“That’s the other puzzling detail in the pattern,” Erika said. “Each pair of men was educated in the same city. McElroy and Conlin in Omaha. You and Chris in Philadelphia. The others in Akron and Shade Gap and so on. Since all their cryptonyms form a pattern, you’d think those cities would form a pattern as well.”
“They do,” Chris said. In anger, he turned from the rain at the window. “Boys’ Home.”
“What?” Saul stared in dismay.
“It’s in Akron.” Trembling with rage, Chris walked toward Saul and Erika. “The Haven for Boys is in Omaha. Pennsylvania has the Johnstown Boys’ Academy and the Shade Gap Boys’ Institute, not to mention our own Franklin School for Boys in Philadelphia. The cities on these printouts read like the top ten boys’ schools in the country. But don’t let the titles fool you,” Chris told Erika bitterly. “Haven for Boys, or School for Boys, or Boys’ Institute. They all mean the same damn thing: orphanage.” He clenched his teeth. “The men on this list all share one thing in common with Saul and me. They’re orphans. Each pair was raised in the same institution. That’s why their cryptonyms suggest they’re brothers, even though their last names are different.” Chris breathed painfully. “Because when each member of a pair met the other, their loneliness forced them into a bond. They formed so strong a friendship they became the emotional equivalent of blood brothers. Goddamn him, Saul! Do you understand what he did to us?”
Saul nodded. “Eliot lied to us in the most fundamental way I can think of. He never loved us. All along—from the start—he used us.”
Erika clutched Saul and Chris strongly by the arms. “Would one of you mind telling me what in God’s name you’re talking about?”
“It takes a lifetime,” Chris said. He slumped on the sofa and moaned.
20
The rain fell harder, making the morning seem like dusk. Eliot stood at his office window, brooding, unaware of the stormy Virginia landscape. His skin looked as gray as the rain. Behind him, someone knocked on his door. He didn’t turn to see who entered.
“Something strange, sir. I don’t know what to make of it, but I thought I’d better let you know.” The voice belonged to Eliot’s assistant.
“It’s not good news, I gather,” Eliot said.
“They had a security leak over at the National Defense Agency. Yesterday their chief programmer was found in a porno district. Hallucinations, fits. The police thought he was high on something, so they put him in the psychiatric ward to dry out. Well, this morning he’s all right, but he can’t remember going to the porno district, and he doesn’t remember taking any drugs. Of course, he could be lying, but—”
“Scopolamine,” Eliot said and turned to him. “Get to the point.”
“Last night, while he was in the psych ward, someone used his code to get in the NDA’s computer bank. They’ve got a system over there to find out who asked for what information. That’s where we come in. Whoever used that programmer’s code didn’t want classified information. All he wanted was the major statistics on eighteen men. Since you supervised their training, the NDA thought you ought to know about the leak. The thing is, sir, two of the names were Romulus and Remus.”
Eliot sat wearily behind his desk. “And Castor and Pollux, and Cadmus and Cilix.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.” The assistant sounded puzzled. “How did you know?”
Eliot thought about Castor and Pollux standing guard outside his office door. Then he thought about Saul and Chris. “They’re getting closer. Now that they’ve guessed what to look for, they won’t take long to figure the whole thing out.”
Mournfully he swung toward the rain streaking down the window. “God help me when they do.”
He silently added, God help us all.
Book Three
BETRAYAL
THE FORMAL EDUCATION
OF AN OPERATIVE
1
At 1700 hours on December 23, 1948, United States military intelligence at Nome, Alaska, picked up the evening weather forecast from the Russian ports of Vladivostok, Okhotsk, and Magadan. The Air Force used these reports in conjunction with forecasts from Japanese ports to schedule night testing flights for its B-50s. The Russian forecast told of unseasonably warm weather. Nothing to worry about.
Seven minutes later, all frequencies were jammed by an amplified signal from the Russian naval base at Vladivostok to one of its submarines at sea. Coded and exceedingly lengthy for a Soviet communique, the message was sufficiently unusual for American military intelligence at Shepherds Field in Nome to concentrate on deciphering it rather than pay attention to the Japanese weather reports. They routinely cleared four B-50s for a high-altitude flight to test deicing systems.
At 1900 hours, all four planes were hit by a Siberian cold front with wind gusts of over seventy knots. All deicing systems failed. None of the planes returned to base. The lead plane, Suite Lady, had been piloted by Major Gerald Kilmoonie. When news of his loss arrived at the Eighth Air Force base (SAC) in Tucson, Arizona, General Maxwell Lepage called Roman Catholic chaplain Hugh Collins in P
hiladelphia to deliver the news to Mrs. Dorothy Kilmoonie and her three-year-old son, Chris. He told the chaplain to tell Gerry’s wife that the country had lost the finest skeet shooter he’d ever known.
2
Two years later—1950. On Calcanlin Street in Philadelphia stood thirty row houses. It was a miserable place for a child to play. The street was dark and narrow. The coal ashes and sandlots held concealed traps of rusty nails, broken glass, and rat droppings. The weed-choked cracks in the sidewalk widened to crevasses at the curb and craters in the road. Toward the middle of the block, at its darkest, stood the dilapidated home of Dorothy Kilmoonie.
The house overflowed with tables: a card table with mother-of-pearl inlay; end tables; three-legged parlor tables; a coffee table with cigarette burns all over its top; a high tea table wedged against the Maytag wringer-washer in the bathroom; a dining table; a kitchen table with a chrome border and a Formica top supporting a plastic bowl of wax fruit. There were piles of dead flies beside the imitation fruit. There were similar piles on every table in the house. Also on every table, next to the flies, were pieces of old dry bologna, curled like shavings of cedar wood.
The first thing Chris had done that hot August morning was slide the screen from the parlor window and place a fat headless oily sardine on the windowsill. When his mother had left him alone in the house in July while she went to spend the summer in Atlantic City, she’d put a roll of bologna in the icebox as well as several cans of soup and sardines and boxes of crackers in the cupboard. She’d given money to the neighbors, telling them to look after Chris, but by the end of July, the neighbors had spent the money on themselves and left Chris to survive alone with the food he had. He hated bologna. He’d used it for days to lure the flies into the house. But their distaste for bologna was equal to his. And the rat droppings from the street, though the flies enjoyed them, dried even faster than the meat. The sardines worked perfectly, however. By nine that morning, he could nod with pride at a new heap of flies on the coffee table, killed with a long rubber band from one of his mother’s garters.