Katherine forced a smile. “Homesick?”
“Sure.” He looked at her. “Should we stay awhile?”
She nodded. “This is another rendezvous point I arranged with Peter.”
They walked the paths in silence for some time. Finally, Katherine said, “I usually go into the mall and use the facilities. I’ll buy you an orange juice.”
“Okay. They might be having a Memorial Day sale on the large cup.”
They walked across the crowded parking field toward the mall. Katherine said, “I spoke with my sister yesterday—there’s a secure phone with a voice scrambler in Mr. O’Brien’s office.”
“Just your normal law firm voice-scrambler phone. What did she say?”
“According to Ann, there was no one code-named Odysseus, or Ulysses, who might have been involved in this business. There was a Homer, an Englishman, who did turn out to be a Soviet spy, but he’s dead and buried. Ann tried to call Nick about this, but she couldn’t get hold of him. They both have the same information anyway. I think we’ve reached a dead end there.”
Abrams said, “I thought one of those names might have some esoteric meaning to people in the know.”
“I also asked Pat O’Brien about it, but he said basically the same thing.” She paused, then added, “I decided I had to trust him.” She looked at Abrams, then continued, “But . . . he seemed very . . . quiet afterward. I think he knows something.”
Abrams nodded, then said, “I gave it some thought . . . and if those names don’t mean anything, then it has to be the theme of the story.”
“You mean a warrior who wanders for many years after the war, then returns home after being believed dead?”
“Yes.”
Katherine nodded. “Arnold was trying to give us a clue to his killer, or killers. Or a clue to Talbot himself.”
“Yes. Is there any warrior—a leader, an officer who has returned from the dead? Anyone who can be generally described as an Odysseus?”
She nodded. “There were a number of people in the OSS who were missing in action, then turned up alive after the war. But Ann ran that through her computer and discovered that most of them are dead now. The remainder are not involved in intelligence or government work of any sort. There are four who are, but they’re very unlikely candidates to be involved in this business.”
Abrams did not speak.
She looked at him for some time, then said, “There’s something on your mind.”
He replied, “Well . . . how about a man who has not yet returned from the dead?”
She stared at Abrams, then replied, “Those who have not returned from the dead are dead.”
He said, “Of course. I meant a man who was listed as missing in action but whose remains have not been found or identified. Perhaps someone who disappeared under unusual circumstances.”
She stayed silent for a moment, then said, “You know, there’s a scene in The Odyssey where Odysseus is wandering in the netherworld and sees the spirit of the hunter Orion forever pursuing the spirits of the animals he had hunted when alive. And Odysseus says of Orion, ‘Himself a shadow, hunting shadows.’” She held Abrams’ eyes and said, “That’s how I think of Arnold sometimes. That’s how I think of my father, too. Shadows forever pursuing shadows.”
Abrams said nothing for some time, then decided to let this oblique response pass, to not pursue any more shadows himself.
They entered the large mall, crowded with shoppers. Katherine commented, “Do you find it odd to walk among people when you know a great secret that they don’t know? Something so cataclysmic that it will put an end to this commonplace scene very soon. Do you have a sense of heightened perception?”
Abrams said, “I’m not sure we know much more than anyone in this mall. Unless, of course, Peter Thorpe is in the mall.”
She looked around. “I don’t see him. Do you see anyone you know?”
“No. I’m thirsty. Are you buying?”
“I don’t seem to have any money with me.”
“I see you’ve been dealing with O’Brien long enough to have picked up some of his bad habits, such as hitting me for loose change.”
She smiled.
Abrams bought two orange juices from the stand and handed her one. “I don’t want to miss Mr. Thorpe. What’s our schedule?”
“I told him we’d be entering Prospect Park by eleven thirty. We’ll take the subway up.”
He glanced at his watch. “We have some time.” He walked over to a game arcade and deposited a quarter into a machine. It was a space-invader game, and Katherine could see that Abrams was adept at it. She said, “I see where you spend your time.”
Abrams was concentrating on the game. “These little green bastards are trying to invade the earth, Kate—take that . . . and that!”
She laughed. “I can’t believe this.”
“Eye-hand coordination . . . quick think . . . snap decisions. . . . Watch out! . . . Zap!”
She looked at the video screen. “Oh . . . they’re moving faster . . .”
“Have no fear . . . earth is safe when Tony Abrams is at the helm.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” The game ended and he straightened up. “Take a shot at it.”
She stood tentatively at the controls. Abrams pushed the button and the game began. She said, “I don’t understand this.”
“Just keep blasting away.”
She moved the controls erratically. “The green aliens are winning.”
“Keep blasting.” Abrams had begun playing the game next to her. “This is a good one. Enemy missiles are falling on my cities.”
“Sounds charming. Is there a counterespionage game?”
“No . . . too hard to program . . . oh, damn it, there goes Pittsburgh.”
“No loss. How do I stop these little green men?”
“Keep blasting. . . .” Abrams stared at his video screen and took his hands off the controls. Missile after missile arched and whistled across the screen, vaporizing the cities in video mushroom clouds accompanied by a loud audio blast. He said quietly, “You know, sometimes I think that the real world doesn’t exist to any greater extent than that world exists. Human destiny may be determined by a video game tape played by colossal beings on a twenty-thousand-foot screen. The history of mankind could be a series of programmed possibilities stored in a memory chip; a few moments of idle recreation for other beings. The end of this world will come when the quarter runs out. Or perhaps the tape will break . . . we might see a big black rip in the sky, a short, snappy jerk. The End.”
She looked at him. “You’re in a philosophical mood.”
He turned away from the video games. “Running excites my brain. . . . Let’s head out.”
They left the mall and walked to the BMT station on Bay Parkway. Katherine said, “We’ll run Prospect Park, then that’s it.”
“Well, I hope Thorpe can join us there.”
“Yes, this is the last possible rendezvous point. He’s done the park with me a few times and knows the route.”
“Good. We’ll keep a sharp eye out for him.”
She glanced at him as they descended the stairs of the subway station.
They stood well back from the edge of the platform and waited for the train. Abrams scanned the few people on the platform. After a minute of silence he said, “There’s always that one percent chance he’s working solely in the interests of the United States government.”
She replied in a low voice, “I give it a fifty-fifty chance.”
“You’re very generous. But the net result is the same—as long as I’m not a hundred percent certain, I won’t summarily execute him.”
She turned to him sharply. “You will not do that under any circumstances.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have no proof. It’s not your right—”
“Hold on. You’re the one who told me you would kill your best friend if he turned out to be Talbot.”
?
??Peter Thorpe is obviously not Talbot . . . he may be an accomplice. . . . Anyway, people like Peter, if they have turned, are interrogated, not shot.”
“Well, I think it should be the other way around. I’d think you’d want to talk to Talbot and find out what he’s been up to for these last forty years or so. Thorpe, on the other hand, is low-level. Also, his behavior defies anything we know about human abnormality. Because he’s not . . .”
“Not what?”
“Not abnormal. I’ve seen his type before. Picture a psychiatrist trying to cure a lion of his nasty habit of ripping living things apart. The lion is confused. His behavior is instinctive. The lion does not believe he is nuts. And he isn’t. He’s a lion, doing his thing. And if he’d been raised in a penthouse on Park Avenue, it would make no difference in his behavior. If you dropped in to chat with him when he was hungry or cross about something, he’d rip you apart and not lose any sleep over it. Lions are not guilty of murder, and some people with strong killing instincts are not guilty either. Nonetheless, a bullet in the heart is the correct way to deal with dangerous animals. The person who fires the bullet should not lose any sleep over it either.”
Katherine said softly. “Do you believe that?”
“I believe I believe it. But I’ve never acted on it.”
“Don’t. Not unless your life is in danger.”
“It is. That’s the point.”
“I mean immediate danger. Clear and imminent danger, as we say in law.”
“Ah, we’re back to that split second.”
“It always returns to that.” She glanced at her watch, then put a lighter tone in her voice. “Teach me how to play Space Invaders.”
“That takes a long time.”
“Good.”
He nodded, then said, “First things first. Right?”
“Right.”
The train pulled into the platform and they boarded.
38
West’s hand found the butt of the revolver. Simultaneously, he heard the air crack around his ears and a burning pain seared his bare shoulders. West raised the pistol with one hand, but could not summon the strength to squeeze the trigger.
A second crack of the long whip raked his neck. The gun exploded in his hand and the room was filled with a deafening roar.
Behind him he heard Eva scream.
West’s hand contracted again to squeeze off another round, this one aimed at Thorpe’s face a few feet from his. West’s fingers tightened and his trigger finger pulled back, but there was no explosion. West focused on his hand. The gun was gone and he realized it had recoiled out of his numb and nearly paralyzed hand, though he still felt its presence in his grasp.
Thorpe slid forward and retrieved the revolver. He steadied himself in a kneeling position and leveled the gun at West. “You . . . shit. . . .”
West felt the room spinning as he tried to stand. He heard the whirring sound of the whip again but barely felt it as it sliced across his chest.
Eva struck again, three times in quick succession, until West dropped in a heap to the floor.
* * *
West turned his face quickly away from the smell.
Eva grabbed his ear and turned him back toward the smelling salts.
West’s eyes opened and he found himself looking down at the floor. Slowly he realized he was lying on the gurney again, facedown, his head hanging over the edge. His calves were strapped, but there was no strap restraining his upper torso. Tentatively, he raised himself to his hands and knees.
He felt a ripping flash of pain across his shoulder blades, and collapsed. Another strike of the whip fell on his buttocks and he felt the warm blood trickle over his cold skin.
Thorpe’s voice, shaky and tremulous, reached him through his pain. “So, Nicholas . . . so . . . you are much smarter than I thought . . . and braver than I imagined. . . . Why do I always underestimate you?”
West turned his head and saw Thorpe sitting in a chair, his color ashen, and his clothes and hair disheveled. He noticed again that Thorpe’s light trousers were stained with wetness. West wondered how long he had been unconscious, then the pungent smell of cordite registered, and he knew it hadn’t been very long. He also noticed that there were no wires leading from his body, that all the equipment had been pushed well away from the gurney.
Thorpe said, “Eva will practice her specialty for a while.” He stood. “I’ll be back in a few hours with Katherine. It’s been my experience that people who can endure pain and hold out under torture crack very quickly when someone they’re close to is being tortured. You’ll see what I mean.”
West swallowed several times, then found his voice. “Be sure . . . be sure to clean yourself . . . before you go. . . .”
Eva struck with the whip and West howled.
Thorpe smiled, then said to Eva, “I want him alive and conscious when I return.”
Eva replied, “He will be a different man when you return.”
Thorpe moved toward the door.
West called out, “Peter . . . you blew it, Peter . . . you’re an amateur. . . . You’re not as smart as you think. . . .”
Eva raised the whip, but Thorpe held up a hand and stared at West. There was something in West’s voice that he didn’t like. “What are you talking about?”
“They’ll kill you for letting me die.”
“You’re not going to die. Yet.”
“Yes. I’m going to die. Now.” West suddenly yanked a small tuft of hair from the top of his head and stuffed it in his mouth.
Thorpe lunged across the room and thrust his fingers down West’s throat. West bit down hard and Thorpe screamed, drawing two bloody fingers out of West’s mouth.
West chewed the hair and let out a long sigh, then his body convulsed for a few seconds. He lay still, his tongue protruding and his eyes wide open. The bitter-almond smell of cyanide drifted from his mouth and nostrils, causing Thorpe to move quickly back. “Oh . . . you son of a bitch! You did it! You bastard . . . Nick . . . Nick!”
Thorpe moved cautiously closer to West and examined the small bald spot on the top of his head where the hair implant had been. “I’ll be goddamned. What the hell won’t they think of next?”
Eva stared at the body.
Thorpe thought a moment, then said, “Well, I won’t underestimate you again, Nick.” He watched Eva as she flexed the whip. He could tell she felt cheated, frustrated. He said, “Whip him.”
She looked at him with wide eyes. “What?”
“Whip him. There’s a drug that reproduces the effects of cyanide, but only causes a deep coma.”
She nodded and raised the whip, slashing a deep wound across West’s lower back.
Thorpe stepped forward and examined the wound. There was no sign of blood circulation. “Damn it!”
Eva stared at Thorpe, an accusing look in her eye, which gave way to bewilderment. “I do not understand . . . the hair . . . ?”
Thorpe gave her a sharp look. “Yes, you stupid cow. Cyanide suspended in artificial hair. Have you ever heard of that?”
“No.”
Thorpe sat down and rubbed his forehead. “Oh, Christ.” He glanced up at Eva. “We checked his teeth, anus . . . nostrils . . . pipe and tobacco . . . didn’t you check his hair?”
She nodded. “With a comb and ultraviolet light. But I noticed nothing.”
Thorpe licked his lips. “Goddamn it. We’re in trouble.”
“Me? You are the interrogator. You are the one who released his arms the first time, causing all this . . .” She waved her arm around.
Thorpe nodded and wiped a line of perspiration from his upper lip. He thought a moment, then said, “But you wanted his upper torso and arms free for the whipping. You said you liked to see them thrash around . . . try to cover their back and head with their arms, bite their knuckles . . .” He looked at her. “This was your show.”
She swallowed. “Well . . . yes . . . but . . .”
Thorpe seemed deep in thought, the
n he looked up at her. “Actually, Eva, what happened is this—while I was gone, you released his arms and chest, turned him over, and began whipping him, against my orders. He couldn’t stand the pain and committed suicide—”
“No! It was you!” She realized the danger she was in, and took a step back. She shouted, “No! Do not kill me!” She dropped her whip and put her arms out in a protective gesture.
Thorpe stood, drew his revolver, and aimed it at her face, then fired at point-blank range.
Eva’s head snapped back and her arms shot out as she backpedaled, trying to regain her balance. She fell, then as Thorpe watched, incredulous, she got to her feet.
Eva stood with both hands covering her face, as though she were weeping into them, but instead of tears, blood flowed through her fingers. “Oh . . . oh . . . what has happened?”
Thorpe stepped up close to her and examined the exit wound behind her ear; a mass of blood, grayish fluid, and splintered bone and cartilage. He realized the shot had been badly placed. “Oh, shit!” He considered putting another bullet in her head, but that would look amateurish to the people who would have to dispose of the body.
Eva sank to her knees, one hand over her eye, the other now behind her ear, squeezing the entry and exit wounds in a vise. The blood was running down her neck and arms, dripping onto the floor.
Thorpe looked at the trail of blood on the floor and realized he would have to mop it up himself. “Christ, woman, die!”
“Help me. Please . . . who has done this? West has done this. . . .”
Thorpe laughed. “Poor Nicko, gets the blame for everything.”
Eva remained on her knees, but showed no sign of dying soon. She moaned, “West has tricked us. . . . We will tell Androv . . .”
Thorpe smiled again. “I have my story for Androv. You can give him yours when you meet in hell.” Thorpe pulled her to her feet, and half carried her across the room. He reached out and unlatched a thick steel door, opened it, and stood her inside a butcher’s freezer. He hefted her up and snagged her dress on a meat hook, then released her.