Assignment - Quayle Question (12 page)

The guard touched a button in a steel stanchion and a footbridge came down over the canal. An electronic sensor was visible, set into the stones to the left of the paneled door. Deirdre shivered and held tight to Durell’s arm as they were urged across the footbridge and through the doorway. Old tapestries, ruined by mildew and the sea air, hung from the interior walls. There was a small foyer, a flight of stone steps, and an interior lobby large enough for any metropolitan hotel. Rusty suits of armor stood in corner niches. A series of glass terrace doors opened toward the black Atlantic. To the left was another staircase, going up and then dividing at a landing, to right and left.

“Over there,” the guard said.

A lighted panel flickered to life on the wall beside the staircase. A buzzer sounded. The panel went black, then brightened again, and black letters moved across it as if produced by a computer.

LET THEM COME UP, SEARCH THEM FIRST.

“Yes, sir,” the first guard said.

AND REMOVE THEIR WEAPONS.

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus said, “Hell, no.”

“I think we’d better,” Durell decided. He felt the muzzle of the nearest automatic rifle graze his elbow. He gave up his .38 and watched Deirdre take a small pistol from a bra holster. The other men looked at her legs while she handed the gun over. Marcus scowled stubbornly, then yielded, too.

VERY WELL. BRING THEM UP.

Durell looked about for a TV scanner in the huge room, but could not find it. He followed Deirdre up the staircase.

Another screen at the top of the steps flickered.

STOP DAWDLING!

Durell said, “Is that Rufus Quayle?”

The guard nodded. “Himself, no less.”

“Can he hear us?”

“He can hear, see, do everything but talk.”

“He can’t speak?”

“You’ll see, in a minute.”

An elevator took them up into the tower. There was an air of decayed voluptuousness, of old wealth here, as if it had once been designed for ultraluxury and then was left to the elements for many years. Durell let himself be urged forward.

CHILD?

Deirdre said, “Yes, Uncle Rufus.”

YOU WERE NOT INJURED SERIOUSLY?

“No. I’m fine.”

YOUR ASSAILANT IS DEAD?

“Yes, Uncle Rufus.”

DO YOU REMEMBER THIS PLACE?

“Vaguely. I was only a little girl when we came here for Thanksgiving. Dad and Mother and I. But I’ve never forgotten Ca’d’Orizon.”

YOU FIND IT CHANGED?

“Sadly. Yes.”

EMPTY AND FORLORN. LIKE ME. BUT STILL STRONG AND STUBBORN. NOTHING WILL DEFEAT ME. DURELL?

The large screen set in one wall of the big tower room flickered and flashed, the black letters marching with electronic swiftness across the white, bright expanse, in reply to the swift manipulations of the old man’s fingers. There was something hypnotic in watching the quick bursts of words and symbols flicker into life and then die. Durell turned from the screen to look at the old man.

The report on Rufus Quayle put him at sixty-two years of age. He looked twenty years older, a giant wreck of a man, like the gallant hulk of an old sailing vessel driven ashore and left to rot, a victim of time and tide. His thick hair was totally white. His big frame, with wide shoulders and long legs, looked wasted under the worn brown bathrobe draped over his figure. He sat in a large chair on a dais, and an extension desk to his right supported the button keys of what looked like a teleprinter. His big hand hovered over the keys like the talons of an eagle. Opposite, on the wall, was the screen. His mouth swooped downward, lips tightly compressed in eternal silence. A wide silk muffler hid his ravaged throat. Under heavy, bushy white brows, his dark eyes were harsh and piercing.

DURELL?

“Yes

ARE YOU SATISFIED, NOW THAT YOU HAVE FOUND ME?

“Not quite, Mr. Quayle. You have a lot to answer for. The government would like to put some questions to you.”

WHAT MADE YOU SO CERTAIN I WAS HERE?

“Deirdre told me a few things about you and about this place. There were other leads. I simply followed them.”

THERE HAVE BEEN NO STRANGERS AT CA’D’ORIZON FOR A LONG TIME. YOU MAY CONSIDER YOURSELF PRIVILEGED. AS YOU CAN SEE, I HAVE SOME MEDICAL PROBLEMS THAT I PREFER NOT TO BE MADE PUBLIC. THERE IS THE MATTER OF PROTECTING THE' IMAGE OF Q.P.I. OF COURSE.

“You can’t speak, is that right?”

MY LARYNX HAS BEEN EXCISED. CANCER. PROSTHETIC DEVICES TO GIVE ME A VOICE OF SORTS HAVE FAILED.

“And that’s why you haven’t been broadcasting your editorials over your radio stations for the past two months?”

CORRECT. WOULD YOU LIKE SOME COFFEE? I HAVE SOME LOUISIANA TYPE, WHICH I UNDERSTAND YOU PREFER. OR PERHAPS SOME BRANDY? DINNER?

Durell shook his head again. It was cold in the room. Outside, beyond the wide window that faced the sea, the early night was marked by the thick sea mist that rolled in over the beach. The three men who had escorted them stood quietly by the tower room doors. Durell was not sure if he was a prisoner here or not.

He said, “We’ve come about your daughter, sir.”

YES. DEBORAH. HAVE YOU FOUND HER?

“We’re looking for her.”

AND MARTIN PENTECOST?

“He’s missing, too.”

YOU HAVE NO LEADS?

“Some. Have you heard from her kidnappers?”

Rufus Quayle stirred in his chair. His hovering fingers over the teleprinter were still for a moment while his eyes, under the bushy white brows, glared at Durell and then at Deirdre.

ROBERT, BRING ME SOME BRANDY.

“Yes, sir.” One of the men promptly left the room.

MR. DURELL, DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE COMPANY?

“They’re after the Q.P.I., yes.”

MARTIN PENTECOST, MY GENERAL MANAGER, HAD MADE A STUDY OF THEIR ACTIVITIES. THEY HAVE BEEN ACQUIRING, BY THREAT AND VIOLENCE, CONTROLLING INTERESTS IN A NUMBER OF MEDIA CHAINS SIMILAR TO Q.P.I. ARE YOU AWARE OF THIS?

“That’s what brought you to our attention.”

MY DAUGHTER DEBORAH HAS THE CAPACITY TO INTERPRET, ANALYZE, AND DRAW CONCLUSIONS FROM A MASS OF DATA. MARTIN WISHED HER TO DEDUCE WHAT SHUMATA’S NEXT STEP WOULD BE. HE WAS FAIRLY CERTAIN THAT Q.P.I. WAS THE NEXT TARGET, BUT HE WANTED CONFIRMATION FROM DEBORAH. NOW THEY HAVE BOTH DISAPPEARED. THE PATTERN SEEMS CLEAR ENOUGH.

“Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

NOT YET.

“Are you willing to pay to get Deborah back?”

A REASONABLE RANSOM, YES.

“In money?”

THEY HAVE NOT YET NAMED A SUM.

“They want Q.P.I., Mr. Quayle.”

THEY SHALL NOT GET IT.

“Nothing else will satisfy them.”

I WILL NOT SELL Q.P.I.

“Not even to save your daughter’s life?”

NOT FOR ANYTHING.

Robert came back with a tray holding a brandy decanter and glasses. Rufus Quayle waved the tray negligently aside, his eyes fixed on Deirdre.

REMARKABLE.

“What is, Uncle Rufus?” she asked quietly.

YOU LOOK MORE LIKE MY DEAD WIFE, IN HER YOUTH, THAN DEBORAH DOES.

“Does that please you?”

IT DISTURBS ME. DO YOU RESENT THE FACT THAT WE HAVE NOT COMMUNICATED THROUGH ALL THESE YEARS?

“No. It doesn’t matter.” Her hand felt cold in Durell’s. “I’m sorry you’re ill, that’s all.”

A MATTER OF STUPID PRIDE, HIDING LIKE THIS. IT WILL PASS. HAVE YOU BEEN THREATENED, TOO, MY DEAR?

“Not directly.”

The piercing blue eyes glared at Durell. The hovering fingers flew over the keys of the teleprinter. Letters flickered and raced across the screen, forming words and sentences.

DURELL, I HAVE HIRED THE BEST PRIVATE AGENCIES I CAN LOCATE TO FIND DEBORAH. SO FAR, THEY HAVE TURNED UP NO CLUES WHATEVER TO HER WHEREABOUTS. I WANT TO FIND HER. PERHAPS YOU CAN DO IT FOR ME. WILL YOU HELP?

“We’re working on it, Mr. Quayle, for reasons of our own. Not to save Q.P.I. for you, if it’s merely commercial and international business pressures, but to prevent terrorism and anarchy anywhere in the world. To put an end to it, Mr. Quayle. It’s going to stop right here. We have our own interests in getting the criminal people at the top of I. Shumata.”

YOU KNOW WHO THEY ARE?

“Not all of them, no, sir.”

I’D LIKE YOU TO WORK FOR ME, MR. DURELL.

“I have a job already, sir.”

STRICTLY FOR ME. NAME YOUR PRICE.

“You couldn’t pay me enough, Mr. Quayle. I don’t hire out for private enterprises.”

DAMN IT ALL, I WANT MY DAUGHTER BACK!

“But you won’t give up Q.P.I. for her.”

NO. NEVER.

“Not even if they kill her?”

DO YOU THINK I AM A MONSTER?

“In some ways.” Durell stared levelly at the sick giant. “In other ways, I’m glad you won’t surrender to these people. They want to control the media, to move the minds of people all over the world, for their own purposes; in this case, I suspect, it might be war. We don’t want any of that to happen. It’s imperative that this zai-batsu’s growth, through violence and terror, end right here.”

THEN WORK FOR ME, DURELL.

“I’m already employed, Mr. Quayle.”

FIND DEBORAH!

“I intend to. But you have a problem, Mr. Quayle.” SEVERAL, I AM SURE.

“One major problem,” said Durell. “Are you sure you’re quite safe here?”

SAFE ENOUGH.

“But I found you here. A simple matter of reasoning it out, checking your other facilities to see if you were living somewhere else in the world. It came down to Ca’d’Ori-zon. The Shumata people know you are here, too. The man named Tomash’ta who was killed on the beach belongs to them. He was a kamikaze killer, a Red Lotus type. If he came, they’ll send others.”

SO MY LIFE IS IN DANGER?

“Yes.”

YOU WANT ME TO BE MOVED ELSEWHERE?

“As soon as possible.”

A long arm gestured toward the teleprinter screen.

I LIKE IT HERE. THIS IS MY HOME. THIS IS WHERE I STAY. NO SON OF A BITCH IS GOING TO MOVE ME OUT.

“They might. Feet first.”

I’M NOT AFRAID OF THEM.

“Then you’re not very wise,” Durell said.

NOBODY SPEAKS TO ME LIKE THAT.

“It’s time someone did. You’re being stupid. You think you’re safe here, but you’re not. You’ve already been exposed. I don’t care how good you think your men are. They’ll get in, sooner or later. They’ll make it all the way in and put a bullet through your head—if not worse.”

I’VE BEEN THREATENED BEFORE.

“Not like this.”

I WONT LEAVE HERE. I DON’T WANT POLICE PROTECTION. A LOT OF STUMBLE BUMS. I’M BETTER OFF HERE.

“How much do you love your daughter, Quayle?”

I TOLD YOU, I’M NOT GIVING AWAY Q.P.I. FOR HER.

“But suppose they manage to kill you? What happens to Q.P.I. then?”

WHAT’S THAT?

“Your hearing isn’t impaired, is it?” Durell said savagely. “It’s time you faced reality, old man. I don’t care how powerful you are. Who can you trust to keep Q.P.I. out of the hands of these people?”

NOBODY. JUST MYSELF. AND YOU CAN’T TALK TO ME—

“Suppose they kill you? Assume it as a possibility, if not a probability.” Durell's voice was deliberately harsh. His words echoed in the big stone tower room. “If you’re dead, who runs Q.P.I. then?”

MARTIN PENTECOST.

“But they’ve got him. Would he hold out the way you do?”

A troubled frown moved the heavy brows on the old eagle’s face.

I’M AFRAID FOR THE WORLD, DURELL.

“So am I.”

Q.P.I. HAS A LOT OF POWER TO MOLD PUBLIC OPINION. I’VE ALWAYS DONE MY BEST TO USE THAT POWER PROPERLY. I DON’T THINK MARTIN WOULD HOLD OUT.

“Right,” Durell said. “And if they manage somehow to kill you, which I think they’ll do if you stay here, who inherits everything you own?”

THAT’S NOBODY’S BUSINESS BUT MINE.

“Who is your heir, Mr. Quayle?”

There was a long pause. The distant boom of the night surf on the beach came dimly through the thick walls of the house. Mist moved in gray ribbons against the black windows. The old man stirred uneasily in his chair. He touched the scarf at his throat and looked impatiently at the teleprinter buttons at his fingertips. He started to tap at them, changed his mind, and looked angrily at Durell.

YOU’RE A HARD MAN.

“Who inherits Q.P.I., Mr. Quayle?” Durell insisted.

DEBORAH, OF COURSE.

“And where is she now?”

DON’T KNOW.

“You do know. You know these people have her.”

YES.

“And those people have no scruples about using any methods they care to try on her. They’ll make her sell. It will all be done nicely and legally, just as all the other networks around the world were yielding to whoever is behind I. Shumata. I think it’s one man, Mr. Quayle. With distorted ideas of manipulating the world. He’ll get Q.P.I. from Deborah.”

There was a long silence. The boom of the surf sounded louder. The old man did not move for several moments. He seemed to be staring at something Durell could not see, something in the far past or the future. Quayle touched the scarf at his throat again and seemed to shrink within the shabby fabric of his worn bathrobe.

YES. YES, GODDAMN YOU. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?

Deborah felt as if a violent storm had ripped wide paths of destruction through the orderly fields of her mind. She did not know how much time had passed since she had seen Martin’s body hanging from a hook somewhere in this desolate place. Perhaps a day. More likely, two days. She dimly remembered a night, then another, passing by while she was ignored in her cell. It was not the same cell that she had occupied before her first questioning. This one had an arched roof, in Mexican-Indian fashion, and she could see out through a narrow barred window over the empty, heat-hazed plain below. Like a princess in a tower, she thought with grim irony. That’s what she had always been, in a sense. A prisoner of her father, first, who used the queer talents of her mind, and then of Q.P.I., too, whose every facet was another grain of wheat in the fields of her mind.

“Miss Quayle?”

She did not turn away from the barred window. It was the same voice, mellifluous and cold, filled with a pungency she could almost smell, like fire and brimstone from some other nether world whose existence she had always, as an intelligent woman, calmly denied.