Lieber cleared his throat. “It, uh, concerns your daughter, sir.”
“My daughter?” That response wasn’t remotely what Ross had expected. He took the folder and started to flip through it cautiously, as if concerned that something might leap out at him.
And then his face darkened to storm-cloud intensity, thereby confirming the aptness of his nickname.
“Find Talbot,” he growled.
“So how do you find me after all this time?” asked Talbot.
Betty sat across from him at their table at the French restaurant Chez Robin, idly fiddling with the escargots and wondering what in God’s name had possessed her to order them. Several tables over, a violinist was leaning in toward a young couple. The girl was smiling with perfect teeth as the violinist’s bow moved deftly over the violin’s strings, while her young escort was trying to check subtly through his pockets to see if he had a few bucks to give the guy for a tip. For some reason Betty considered the entire scene to be remarkably funny. She glanced over at Glen, realizing he had addressed her, and imagined he was Bruce as she said, “I’m sorry. What?”
He took a long sip of the wine they’d ordered, but never took his eyes off her. She had to admit the ambience of the place was really quite nice. “I asked you what you thought of me,” he repeated.
She had to laugh at that. “I’ll give you credit, Glen,” she said, putting down the tiny utensil she was using to prize a snail from its shell and writing off the snails as an experiment that just hadn’t panned out. “Most guys wouldn’t be foolish enough to ask the woman sitting in front of them what she thought of them. But not you. You go right for the old, ‘But enough about me, let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?’ ploy. That’s a sure winner.”
“I wasn’t trying to ‘win’ you in any way, Betty,” he said. The flickering candle from the centerpiece was reflected in his eyes and, for some reason, creeped her out. “I was, at most, hoping to acquire the talents of both you and Bruce for Atheon. I mean”—and he took another sip, then leaned back—“does part of me wish that it had worked out differently for you and me? Yes, of course. But I’m not one for belaboring the past or wishing I could rewrite it. What’s done is done. I care only about the future . . . as does Atheon.”
At that moment, a pager went off. Betty reflexively checked hers, but Talbot was already pulling his out from his jacket pocket, looking apologetic as he did so. He glanced at the number, sighed, and said, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
“Do you need a phone?”
“No, I have a cell phone. I just never give the number out; only the pager’s. Besides, I hate it when people sit at tables in restaurants and chatter away on cell phones, don’t you?”
“I’ve never given it any thought,” she replied.
He got up and hastened quickly to find a place where he could have some privacy. Betty watched him go, and then noticed that the middle-aged man sitting at the next table was laughing and speaking far too loudly on his cell phone. “Hey,” she snapped at him, “could you keep it down? Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”
In response, the man flipped her an obscene gesture, angled himself so that his back was to her, and kept right on talking. She considered pouring her glass of wine over his head, but decided that would be gauche.
It seemed long minutes passed before Talbot finally returned. Betty looked up at him, and he seemed a bit put out. “Problem?” she asked.
“Oh, no. No,” he replied, “nothing I can’t handle. Actually, I got a message from someone who might interest you.”
“Really.” She neither felt nor sounded interested.
“Yes. Your father. He wants to chat.”
Betty almost knocked over her drink. She caught the glass of wine just before it spilled all over the pristine white tablecloth. She was quite aware that Glen was trying to hide a smirk resulting from her reaction and wasn’t quite doing a good job of it. “Oh, he does. How nice for you both. He hasn’t wanted to chat with me in quite some time.”
“Would you have listened, or wanted to, if he had?”
The question was a bit too pointed for her taste. She scowled as she said, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Glen.”
“You’re right. You’re very right.” He leaned forward. “You’re my business, Betty. You and Bruce.”
“Which one of us are you more interested in?” she asked.
He smiled. “I just want what’s best for you, Betty. I always have. When you were younger, I don’t think you really understood that. But now that we’re both older and wiser, perhaps you do.”
“You know what the funny thing is, Glen? Some people grow older, but not wiser.”
“That’s very true.”
“So—” She swirled the liquid around in her glass. “Just what does my father want to ‘chat’ with you about?”
“Why, Betty,” said Glen, as if he were pouncing on an opening, “I don’t see that’s any of your business.”
She grimaced slightly, then nodded and said, “Touché, Glen. Touché.”
The violinist was suddenly playing in her ear. She turned, gave him a look that would have ignited tungsten, and said in a voice dripping with honey, “If you don’t move away, I’m going to shove that bow so far up your—”
He moved away.
“That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Betty,” said Talbot, raising his glass in a toast. “You always know just what to say, on any occasion.”
The rest of the dinner went more or less as Glen Talbot anticipated it would, which was unfortunate but not unexpected. Betty made polite chitchat, was noncommittal about the notion of moving to Atheon, and was obviously fighting to restrain herself from asking about her father.
Glen shook his head in mute astonishment. It didn’t matter how bright a woman was, or at least thought she was: They were all still very much the same, and all still very predictable, no matter how much they fancied they were mysteries to men. Well, to some men, they were. But he had solved the mystery long ago, and knew just what to say and just how to say it.
Betty declined his offer to take her home. That was acceptable to Talbot, since he had accomplished everything he needed to. He knew that originally she had rejected Atheon out of hand; now she wasn’t so sure. And she was going to push that uncertainty onto Krenzler, which was exactly what Talbot wanted. And Glen Talbot was very much in the habit of getting what he wanted.
Arriving home at his apartment building, Glen pulled into his reserved space and killed the engine. He stepped out of the car, paused a moment, then suddenly reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek blue metal Smith & Wesson. He turned and aimed it straight at a shadowy figure that had been approaching him, and now froze in its tracks.
Then he squinted into the darkness and lowered the gun, speaking in a voice as convivial as if he were encountering an old friend by chance while strolling the boardwalk in Atlantic City. “Agent Krenzler, as I live and breathe . . .”
“And as I almost didn’t,” replied Krenzler. She stepped from the shadows into the pool of light emanating from the overhead lamp. Her face looked a bit more careworn than when her adoptive son, Bruce, had last seen her. “A little trigger-happy these days, aren’t you, Mr. Talbot?”
“One can’t be too careful, Monica. There are monsters everywhere.” He slid the gun back into his shoulder holster and draped his jacket over it. “So what are you doing in Berkeley? Have you been reassigned?”
“No. No, merely passing through. I just—” She cleared her throat, then came closer to him. Her hands seemed to be moving in vague patterns. “I just . . . was wondering how Bruce was doing.”
“How would I know?” replied Talbot.
Her face hardened. “Mr. Talbot, don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. I know about the listening posts. I know you have his movements monitored 24-7. I know what you want of him. If Bruce gets so much as a toothache, you know about it before he calls his dentist.”
“W
ell, tell me, Monica, if you’re so anxious to find out what Bruce is up to, why not just go stop by and see him yourself? Or give him a buzz? You know he’d always like to hear from dear old Mummy.”
“You know why not,” she said tonelessly.
He smiled a wolfish smile at that. “I’ve no idea . . . oh! Wait! Perhaps it has something to do with your superiors feeling that you’d gotten too close to your assignment.”
“My assignment.” Monica Krenzler acted as if those were the funniest words ever spoken, except the humor involved was bleak and depressing. “You try it sometime, Mr. Talbot. You try being ‘assigned’ to be the adoptive mother of a child by a government organization that keeps waiting for the child to manifest some sort of . . . of aberrant behavior on a genetic level. You try caring for him, supporting him, steering him in career and life directions that are mandated not by what you feel is best for him, but by superiors who have their own agendas for him. You try doing all that without getting ‘too close’ and see just how successful you are.”
“I just might,” Talbot said without a trace of sarcasm. “It sounds like a stimulating intellectual exercise.” Then he took a few steps toward her, until he was almost in her face. “You’ve got to learn when to let an assignment go, Monica. It’s over. He’s not your problem anymore. He’s mine.”
“His whole life has been one of having his fate determined by others acting behind his back,” Monica said, her simmering anger almost boiling over. “When does he get his own life?”
“When do any of us?” Talbot asked reasonably. “Many people will tell you that their lives are guided and determined by God.”
“You and your people aren’t God,” Monica told him.
Talbot’s smile widened. “As far as your adoptive son is concerned, Monica, we’re God, Satan, heaven, and hell all rolled into one.” He started to reach up to pat her on the cheek in a patronizing fashion, but she brushed the hand away with a quick movement and simply glared. “Have a good career, Agent Krenzler,” he said, and then walked off, leaving her smoldering in the parking lot.
He continued to chuckle to himself as he went up to his apartment. But instead of entering, he turned and, producing a key, entered the apartment next door to his. It was dimly lit and he saw an assortment of electronic equipment off to one side. There were boxes from pizza delivery and Chinese restaurants scattered about. There was no sign of anyone around. He called out softly, “Sitwell?”
There was the sound of a toilet flushing and moments later, a thin, blond man with oversize glasses emerged, tucking in his shirt. “Nature calls to us all,” he said apologetically. “How was dinner?”
“More or less as I expected it.”
Sitwell grunted as he returned to the array of electronics and slapped a pair of earphones over his head. Apparently reading Talbot’s mind, he said, “Don’t worry, I had a recorder going just in case anything interesting happens with Bruce. Although nothing ever seems to.”
“Is he at home now?”
“A-yuh. But he’s not doing much of anything. No phone calls. No company. Typically ripping night at the Krenzler household. Or should we call him Banner?” Sitwell asked with an eyebrow raised.
“Whatever,” said Talbot, shrugging. “And, yeah, I know he’s not the most exciting guy in the world. Why do you think I worked so hard to get Betty into his life? Made sure she was offered a job at the same lab Banner was working at. Pulled strings to guarantee she was assigned to work with him. I practically did everything I could short of passing notes for them in study hall.”
With a bitter laugh, Sitwell said, “They pay me to listen in on people, Mr. Talbot, not to figure out why people do what they do. So I never gave it much thought.”
“It’s very simple,” Talbot told him. “We want to see what happens if Banner gets upset, as per the files his father kept on him. But Brucie keeps himself wrapped too tight. So we needed someone to get under his skin to get to him. And believe me, Sitwell, nobody, but nobody, can get under your skin quite like Betty Ross.”
“I’ll kill her,” growled Thunderbolt Ross, pacing his office. “No, on second thought, I’ll kill Talbot. No, on third thought, I’ll kill both of them. Save me time.”
Lieber stood there and watched the general move from one side of the office to the other without breaking stride. “Begging the general’s pardon, but why is Atheon’s interest in Lawrence Berkeley labs in any way the fault of the general’s daughter?”
“Because Atheon’s up to something, Lieber,” Ross said sharply. “Supposedly we all work for the same people, but something’s going on. I know it. And I’m having trouble thinking about it dispassionately because my daughter’s involved. If she hadn’t gone to work for those damned people, I wouldn’t have this problem!”
“But didn’t she used to date Talbot? Wouldn’t it be worse if she were married to him by now?”
Ross glared at him. “I don’t recall asking you to provide worst-case scenarios, Lieber. Dismissed.” Lieber tossed off a salute, which Ross quickly returned, and then quickly departed the office, leaving Ross to stew in his own annoyance and frustration.
Well, at least Talbot would be along shortly, and perhaps they could get this whole thing cleared up. Because if they didn’t, then there would be hell to pay, and Thunderbolt Ross intended to be standing there collecting the tolls.
in dreams, the
knowledge he seeks
are memories he
cannot grasp
Once Bruce Krenzler reached his house, he parked his bike and limped inside. He considered sliding into a bath and soaking his aching legs, but his mind couldn’t stop racing. He knew in a vague way that he was hungry, and the only reason he became at all aware that he had made himself dinner was because at one point—while tending a small Zen moss garden atop his makeshift desk—he suddenly realized that his stomach was full.
He put down the gardening tools, walked into the kitchen, and found an empty tray from a frozen dinner in the garbage can. Granted, a frozen dinner wasn’t the most memorable of suppers, but even so he couldn’t help but think he shouldn’t be so much in a world of his own that he would completely forget making and eating dinner within moments of having done so.
Then, as problems he’d been having with an equation suddenly presented themselves with possible answers, he pushed thoughts of his absentmindedness out of his brain. Within five minutes, he was back to wondering why he was no longer hungry, but was so busy scribbling figures, calculations, sketches, and DNA sequences onto scratch pads that he stopped thinking about it altogether.
After a while Bruce got up and stretched, scratching absently under his chin and wondering how long he’d been working. He’d gotten home around seven or so, and been at it . . . what? An hour? Two at most? He glanced at a clock, rubbed his eyes in order to clear them, and looked again. And the clock said the same time it had an instant before: 2:27 A.M., the numbers and letters of the digital readout glowing in the dimness.
Had time flown by that quickly? Was it possible?
Well, it didn’t really matter if it was possible or not; it had, so there was no point in debating the possibilities of it. He stretched his arms, yawned, shook out the cramped muscles of his legs, and moved to the window.
One of the things Bruce had gotten used to about himself—indeed, one of his strengths as a scientist—was his ability to see patterns in everything around him. Sometimes they were utterly pointless: mundane digits in a checking account number that recombined, or sequences of letters drawn from various sources that spelled out something. At other times the result would be sudden bursts of insight that invariably led to a flurry of activity that might or might not lead to a new and even more interesting breakthrough. Betty likened the ability to that of the protagonist from that movie about the mathematician who developed psychotic behavior, a comparison that didn’t exactly thrill Bruce.
So it didn’t surprise Bruce at all when, while staring out at a willow tree ill
uminated by a street lamp, the shadows and branches of the tree seemed to form an intricate latticework of shapes and patterns. It was like nature was giving him a Rorschach inkblot test. The shapes kept changing as the wind blew: one moment they were octopus tentacles writhing through a sea of air, now they were long fingers interlacing like the hands of a silent film villain, who was rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation of his malevolent plan reaching fruition.
And now they looked like a stairway, and now they looked like two interlocking faces of . . . of . . .
He stared and stared, and continued to stare, and even though the branches moved a dozen times more, the image they had formed just a bit earlier remained in Bruce’s brain, frozen there like a gray-cell snapshot. Two faces, ensnared in each other, but they weren’t human faces. They were like—like a pair of animals. Animals that were . . .
An association floated through his mind, and almost escaped unmolested, but then he snagged it and pulled it down to him, and the thought came to him: stuffed toys.
Yes. That was it. The shadow imagery had born a resemblance to a couple of stuffed toys. But what kind of toys they were precisely, and whose they were, he couldn’t say. He suspected, for no particular reason, that they were his. But he didn’t know when he had received them and, more important, from whom.
Then he blinked, and partially turned away, only to snap his head back and look again, for Bruce was sure that he had seen something else that was most definitely not a shadow. It was a figure, standing tall, shoulders squared, and—could I be anymore melodramatic?—radiating an aura of menace.
But when Bruce focused his full attention on the spot, he saw nothing save the waving branches.
Perhaps there had never been a man there. It might have been nothing more than his sleep-deprived mind adding yet more shapes to the wavering shadows of the deceptive willow. It was certainly a supposition preferable to the idea that someone was lurking about in the shadows at 2:30 in the morning, watching him . . .