Authors: Dan Simmons
T
he problem is,” said Tony Harod, “I’ve never killed anyone.”
“No one?” asked Maria Chen. “No one,” said Harod. “Never.”
Maria Chen nodded and poured more champagne into each of their glasses. They lay naked, facing each other in the long bathtub in Room 2010 of the Chestnut Hills Inn. Mirrors reflected the light of a single scented candle. Harod lay back and looked at Maria Chen through heavy-lidded eyes; her brown legs rose between the sharp white boundaries of his knees, her thighs were parted, her ankles touched his ribs in the soapy water. Bubbles hid all but the top curve of her right breast, but he could see the other nipple, as sweet and heavy as a strawberry in the dark water. He admired the curve of her throat and heavy weight of her black hair as she threw back her head to drink from the overflowing champagne glass.
“It’s midnight,” said Maria Chen, glancing at his gold Rolex on the counter. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” said Harod. They clinked glasses. They had been drinking since nine
P.M.
It was Maria Chen’s idea to take a bath. “Never killed anyone,” muttered Harod. “Never had to.”
“It looks like you will have to now,” said Maria Chen. “When Joseph left today, he reiterated Mr. Barent’s insistence that you be the one to . . .”
“Yeah.” Harod stood up and set his glass on the counter. He toweled off and held out his hand. Maria Chen took it and rose slowly from the bubbles. Harod used the towel gently, dabbing her dry, running both arms around her from behind to draw the thick terry cloth across her breasts. She shifted her weight to one foot and moved her thighs apart slightly as he dried between her legs. Harod dropped the towel, lifted Maria Chen in both arms, and carried her into the bedroom.
It was like the first time for Harod. He had not had a woman on her terms since he was fifteen years old. Maria Chen’s skin tasted of soap and cinnamon. She gasped when he entered her and they rolled across a wide expanse of soft sheets; Maria Chen lying atop him when they stopped, still joined, still moving, their hands and mouths sliding against one another. Maria Chen’s orgasm was sudden and powerful, her moans soft. Harod came seconds later, closing his eyes and clinging to her as a falling man clings to the last thing that might break his fall.
The phone rang. Continued to ring.
Harod shook his head. Maria Chen kissed his hand, slid across the sheets to answer it. She handed the receiver to him.
“Harod, you’ve got to get down here now,” came Colben’s excited voice. “All hell’s breaking loose!”
Colben went back into the control room. Men sat at monitors, scribbled notes, whispered into headset microphones. “Where the hell is Gallagher?” bellowed Colben.
“Still no word, sir,” answered the technician at Console Two. “Fuck it then,” said Colben. “Tell Green Team to quit looking for him. Assign them to back up Blue Two near Market.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colben strode down the narrow corridor to stand behind the last console. “The spooks still at Home Castle?”
“Yes, sir,” said the young woman in front of the monitor. She threw a switch and the view shifted from the front of Anne Bishop’s house to the alley behind it. Even with the light-intensifying lenses, the figures near the garage fifty meters down the alley were mere shadows.
Colben counted twelve shadows. “Get me Gold One,” he snapped. “Yes, sir.” The technician handed him an extra headset. “Peterson, I see a dozen of them now. What the fuck is going on there?”
“Don’t know, sir. You want us to move in?”
“Negative on that,” said Colben. “Stand by.”
“Eight more unknowns on Ashmead,” said the agent at Console Five. “Just passed White Team.”
Colben pulled his headset off. “Where the hell is Haines?”
“Just picked up Harod and his secretary,” called the man at Console One. “ETA in five minutes.”
Colben lit a cigarette and tapped the female technician on the shoulder. “Get Hajek and the chopper over here right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Agent James Leonard stepped out of Colben’s office and beckoned him over. “Mr. Barent on line three.”
Colben closed the door. “Colben here.”
“Happy New Year, Charles,” came Barent’s voice. From the static and hollow tone, it sounded like a satellite call to Colben.
“Yeah,” said Colben. “What’s up?”
“I was talking to Joseph earlier,” said Barent. “He has some concerns about the way the operation is going.”
“So what’s new?” said Colben. “Kepler is always bitching about something. Why didn’t he stay here if he was so fucking concerned?”
“Joseph said that he had other things to take care of in New York,” said Barent. There was a pause. “Is there any sign of our friends?”
“You mean the old kraut,” said Colben. “No. Not since the explosion in the ware house yesterday.”
“Do you have any idea why Willi would sacrifice one of his own operatives to terminate Dr. Laski? And why such overkill? Joseph said the city fire department had to be called in.”
“How the hell should I know?” snapped Colben. “Look, we’re not even sure that was Luhar and the Jew in there.”
“I thought your forensics people were working on it, Charles.”
“They are. But it’s a federal holiday tomorrow. Besides, as close as we can tell, Luhar and Laski were sitting on top of thirty pounds of C-4. There wasn’t much left for forensics to look at.”
“I understand, Charles.”
“Look,” said Colben, “I’m going to have to go. We have a situation developing here.”
“What kind of situation?” asked Barent through the static. “Nothing serious. Some of those goddamn kids from the gang are farting around in the secured zone.”
“This will not complicate the morning’s business, will it?” asked Barent. “Negative,” snapped Colben. “I’ve got Harod on the way over here now. If need be, we can seal off the area in ten minutes and take care of the Fuller woman ahead of schedule.”
“Do you think Mr. Harod is up to the task, Charles?”
Colben stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. “I don’t think Harod’s up to the task of wiping his own ass,” he said. “The question is, what do we do when he screws up?”
“I presume you have considered the options,” said Barent. “Yeah. Haines is ready to step in to take care of the old woman. Once Harod fucks up, I’d like to deal with that Hollywood phony myself.”
“I presume you would recommend termination.”
“I recommend that I stick a Police Special in that punk’s mouth and blow his fucking brains all over West Philly,” said Colben.
There was a brief silence broken only by static. “What ever you feel is necessary,” Barent said at last.
“Oh,” said Colben, “his chink secretary will have to disappear too.”
“Of course,” said Barent. “Charles, just one other thing . . .”
Agent Leonard stuck his head in the office and said, “Haines just got here with Mr. Harod and the girl. They’re all aboard the chopper.”
Colben nodded. “Yeah, what’s that?” he said to Barent. “Tomorrow is very important to us all,” said Barent. “But please remember that once the old woman is removed from the board, Mr. Borden remains our chief interest. You will contact him to negotiate if possible, but terminate him if the situation dictates. The Island Club is putting much trust in your judgment, Charles.”
“Yeah,” said Colben. “I’ll remember. I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
“Good luck, Charles,” said Barent. The line hissed and went dead. Colben hung up, pulled on a flak vest and baseball cap, and slipped his.38 and clip-on holster into the front pocket of his arctic parka.
The rotor blades began turning faster even as he ran crouching toward the open door of the he li cop ter.
Saul Laski, Taylor, Jackson, and six younger members of Soul Brickyard watched the helicopter rise and depart to the northeast. The panel truck had stopped along the high wooden fence half a block from the entrance gate to the FBI control compound.
“What do you think?” Taylor asked Saul. “There go your voodoo man?”
“Perhaps,” said Saul. “Are we near the construction end of the lot here?”
“Near’s I can tell,” said Taylor. “Are you sure you can get the equipment started without keys?” Jackson spoke. “Shoot, man. Three months in the motor pool of a construction battalion in Nam before I ended up out in the boonies. I could hot-wire your mama.”
“The bulldozers will suffice,” said Saul, knowing, as Jackson knew, that a bulldozer required more than a simple hot-wiring to start it.
“Hey,” said Jackson, “I get ’em started, are you going to be able to handle yours?”
“Four years building and maintaining a kibbutz,” said Saul. “I could bulldoze your mama.”
“Careful, man,” said Jackson, grinning broadly. “Don’t start playing no dozens with me, babe. White boys just don’t have the knack for good insults.”
“In my cultural group,” said Saul, “we make a habit of trading insults with God. What better practice could one have for playing the dozens?”
Jackson laughed and slapped Saul on the shoulder. “You two cut the shit,” said Taylor. “We two minutes behind.”
“You’re sure your watch is correct?” said Saul.
Taylor looked indignant. He held out his wrist to show an elegant Lady Elgin complete with 24-karat gold trim and inlaid diamond chips. “This don’t lose five seconds a year,” he said. “We got to
move
.”
“Fine,” said Saul. “How do we get in?”
“Catfish!” Taylor called and one of the boys in back pushed open the rear door, swung himself onto the roof of the van, jumped to the top of the ten-foot-high wooden fence, and dropped out of sight on the other side. The other five in the rear followed. They carried heavy backpacks in which bottles clinked.
Saul looked at his taped left arm. “Come on,” hissed Taylor, pulling himself out of the cab.
“That arm’s going to hurt,” said Jackson. “You want a shot of something?”
“No,” said Saul. He followed the others up and over.
“This can’t be legal,” said Tony Harod. He was watching streetlights, high-rises, and expressways pass under them as they roared along at only three hundred feet of altitude.
“Police he li cop ter,” said Colben. “Special clearance.”
Colben had his jumpseat swiveled so that he could almost lean out a window panel that had been opened on the starboard side. Cold air roared in and sliced at Harod and Maria Chen like invisible blades. Colben held a Colt .30 caliber military sniper’s rifle cradled in a special mount in the open window. The weapon looked clumsy with its bulky nightscope, a laser sighting device, and an oversize magazine clip. Colben grinned and whispered into the headset mike just visible under his parka hood. The pilot banked hard right, circling above Germantown Avenue.
Harod held on to the padded bench with both hands and closed his eyes. He was sure that only his seat belt kept him from tumbling out the open window and falling thirty stories to the brick street below.
“Red Leader to Control,” Colben called, “status report.”
“Control here,” came Agent Leonard’s voice. “Blue Team Two reports incursion of four automobiles carrying Hispanic males into secured area at Chelten and Market. More unidentified groups in alley behind Castle One and Castle Two. Group of fifteen unidentified black males just passed White Team One on Ashmead. Over.”
Colben turned and grinned at Harod. “I think it’s just a fucking
rumble
. Spades versus greasers on New Year’s Eve.”
“It’s past midnight,” said Maria Chen. “It is New Year’s Day.”
“What ever,” said Colben. “Well, what the fuck. Let them fight as long as they don’t interrupt our Sunrise Operation. Right, Harod?”
Tony Harod held on and said nothing.
Sheriff Gentry was panting heavily as he ran to keep up with the leaders. Marvin and Leroy led a loose line of ten gang members through a dark maze of alleys, backyards, junk-strewn empty lots, and abandoned buildings. They reached the entrance to an alley and Marvin waved everyone down. Gentry could see a van parked sixty yards away, past Dumpsters and sagging garages.
“Federal pigs,” whispered Leroy. The bearded youth glanced at his watch and grinned. “We a minute early.”
Gentry rested his arms on his knees and panted. His ribs hurt. He was cold. He wished he were home in Charleston, listening to the Dave Brubeck Quartet on the stereo and reading Bruce Catton. Gentry rested his head against cold brick and thought of something that had happened when they were leaving Community House, something that had changed the way he looked at Germantown and Soul Brickyard.
A young boy— no older than seven or eight— had come running in just as the last team was ready to leave. The youngster had run straight to Marvin. “Stevie,” the gang leader said, “I told you not to come down here.” The little boy had been crying, brushing away tears with his arm. “Mama say you should come straight home, Marvin. Mama say she and Marita need you at home and you should come now.” Marvin had taken the child into another room, his arm around him. Gentry had heard “. . . you tell Mama I’ll be home first thing in the morning. Marita, she stays there and takes care of things. You tell them that, OK, Stevie?”
It had disturbed Gentry. So far the gang had been part of a five-day nightmare he had been living. Germantown and its inhabitants had been perfectly consistent with the nightmarish sequence of pain, darkness, and seemingly unrelated events going on around Gentry. He had known that the gang members were young— Jackson was an exception, but he was a lost soul, a visitor, an alumnus returned to his old haunts because life had left him nowhere else to go. Gentry had seen few other adults on the cold streets; those he had seen had been silent, bruised-looking women on hurried errands, old men walking nowhere, peering out from tavern doors, the inevitable winos lying in littered storefronts. He had known that this was not the true community, that in summer the streets and stoops would be filled with families, children jumping double dutch, teenagers shooting baskets, young men laughing, leaning against polished automobiles. He had known that the nightmarish emptiness was a result of cold, and new violence on the streets, and the presence of an invading army that thought itself invisible, but with Stevie’s arrival the knowledge had become reality. Gentry felt himself lost in a strange, cold place, fighting in the company of children against adult opponents who held all the power.