Carrion Comfort (85 page)

H
arod was blindfolded and drugged when they dropped him off a block from Disneyland. When he returned to full consciousness he was sitting behind the wheel of his Ferrari, fully clothed, his hands untied, his eyes covered with a simple black sleep mask. The car was parked behind a discount rug store, between a garbage Dumpster and a brick wall.

Harod got out of the car and leaned on the hood until most of the nausea and dizziness was gone. It was thirty minutes before he felt well enough to drive.

Avoiding the freeways, heading west through Saturday traffic and then north on Long Beach Boulevard, Harod tried to sort things out. Much of the previous forty hours was blurred or dreamlike— long conversations he could recall only fragments of— but the intravenous bruises and vestigial tingling from the final tranquilizer dart left no doubt that he had been drugged, dragged off, and put through hell.

It had to be Willi. The last conversation— the only one he could remember completely— left no doubt of that.

The man in the balaclava had come in and sat on the bed. Harod wanted to see the man’s eyes, but there were only the mirrored lenses reflecting his own pale and stubbled face.

“Tony,” the man said softly in that irritatingly familiar accent, “we are going to let you go.”

At that second Harod was sure that he was going to die. “I have a question for you before you leave, Tony,” the man said. His mouth was the only human part of his head. “How is it that you’re going to provide most of the human surrogates for the island Club’s five-day competition this year?”

Harod tried to lick his lips, but there was no saliva to wet his tongue. “I don’t know anything about that.”

The black balaclava went back and forth, mirrored lenses reflecting white and white. “Oh, Tony, too late for that. We know you’re providing the bodies, but how are you going to do that? With your preferences for using women? Are they really willing to carry on the games with just women this year?”

Harod shook his head. “I need to understand this before we say good-bye, Tony.”

“Willi?” croaked Harod. “For Chrissakes, Willi, you don’t have to do all this to me. TALK to me!”

The twin mirrors steadied on Harod’s face. “Willi? I don’t think we know anyone named Willi, do we? Now, how is it that you are supplying both sexes when we both know you can’t?”

Harod had strained against the handcuffs, arching his back to kick the man’s balaclavaed head off his fucking shoulders. Without hurry, the man stood up and moved to the head of the bed, out of range of Harod’s feet or hands. He gently grasped Harod’s hair and lifted his head free of the pillow. “Tony, we will get the answer from you. That much must be obvious. Perhaps we already have. What we need now is for you to confirm it while you are conscious. If we have to sedate you again, it will necessarily delay your release time.”

Delay your release time
sounded like a euphemism to Harod for “put off the time until we kill you” and that was fine with him. If silence— even silence under pain and duress— could postpone the inevitable bullet in the brain, Harod was willing to be as silent as the fucking Sphinx.

Except that he did not believe it. He knew from fragments of memories that he had done all the talking anyone could want; he had spilled his guts while under what ever chemical stimulus they had given him. If it
was
Willi, which seemed probable, then he would find out. It might even be in Harod’s interest that Willi found out. Harod still held out hope that Willi had further use for him. He remembered the pawn’s face on the chessboard at Waldheim. If these two were being run by Barent or Kepler or Sutter or a coalition of these three, then they wanted confirmation of things they either knew or could easily find out. Either way, what Harod needed now was a
dialogue.

“I’m paying Haines to find bodies for me,” he said. “Runaways, excons, former informers with new identities. He’ll set it up.
They’ll
be working for pay, thinking they’re involved in some sort of government scam. By the time they realize that the only pay they’ll get is a shallow grave, they’ll be on the island and in one of the holding pens.”

The man in the balaclava chuckled. “
Paying
Agent Haines. How does his real master feel about that?”

Harod tried to shrug, realized that it was impossible in his handcuffed position, and shook his head. “I don’t really give a damn and I don’t think Barent does either. It was Kepler’s idea to give this shitty assignment to me. It’s basically an IQ test, not a test of my Ability . . .”

The mirrored lenses went up and down. “Tell me more about the island, Tony. The layout. The holding pens. The camp area. The security. Everything. Then we have a favor to ask.”

That was the instant that Harod had been certain that he was dealing with Willi. So he had talked for an hour. And he had lived.

By the time Harod reached Beverly Hills, he had decided to tell Barent and Kepler about it. He couldn’t keep straddling the fence forever— if it was Willi behind the abduction, the old man might even expect him to go to Barent. Knowing Willi, it probably was part of the master plan. But if it was a test of loyalty set up by Barent and Kepler, failure to report it might have fatal consequences.

When Harod had finished telling what he knew about Dolmann Island and the Club’s sport there, the man in the balaclava had said, “All right, Tony. Your help has been appreciated. There is only one favor we have to ask as a condition of your release.”

“What?”

“You say that you are to pick up the . . . volunteers . . . from Richard Haines on Saturday, the thirteenth of June. We will contact you on Friday the twelfth. There will be one or more people we will be substituting for some of Haines’s volunteers.”

Of course
, Harod had thought.
Willi’s trying to mark the deck somehow.
Then the impact of that fact really hit him.
Willi’s really coming to the island!

“Is that agreed?” asked the man behind the mirrored lenses. “Yeah, right.” Harod still could not believe they were going to let him go. He could agree to anything and then do what ever he damned pleased.

“And you’ll keep the substitution to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“You realize that your life depends on doing this? Depends on it now and in the future. There is no statute of limitations on betrayal, Tony.”

“Yeah, I understand.” Harod wondered how stupid Willi thought he was. And how stupid had Willi become? The “volunteers” as this guy called them were numbered and kept waiting naked in a pen until a random drawing determined who would fight and when. Harod could see no way that Willi could rig that, and if he hoped to bring weapons in that way through Barent’s security screen, Willi had become the senile old fart Harod had earlier mistaken him for. “Yeah,” repeated Harod, “I understand. I agree.”

“
Sehr güt
,” the man in the balaclava had said. And they let him go.

Harod decided to call Barent as soon as he got a bath and a drink and had discussed the whole mess with Maria Chen. He wondered if she had missed him, worried about him. He grinned as he imagined her calling the police to report him missing. How many times over the years had he disappeared for days— even weeks— without letting her know where he was going? Harod’s grin faded as he realized just how vulnerable that sort of life-style had left him to precisely what had just happened to him.

He slid the Ferrari to a stop under the baleful gaze of his faithful satyr and plodded toward the house. Perhaps he would call Barent after a bath, a drink, a massage, and . . .

The front door was open . . .

Harod froze in his tracks for several interminable seconds before lurching through the open door, feeling the drug-induced dizziness rise up as he careened off walls and furniture, calling Maria Chen’s name, barely noticing the toppled furniture until he tried to jump an overturned chair and fell heavily to the carpet. He jumped to his feet and resumed his shouting and searching.

He found her in her office, curled on the floor behind her desk. Her black hair was matted with blood in front and her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. The grimace on her face showed purpled lips pulled back and at least one broken tooth in front.

Harod vaulted over the desk, went to one knee, and cradled her head on his other knee. She moaned when he moved her. “Tony.”

Tony Harod found that in the pure white heat of the profoundest fury he had ever felt, no obscenities came to mind. No shouts formed themselves. His voice, when he could speak, was little more than a murmur. “Who did this to you? When?”

Maria Chen started to speak, but her damaged mouth made her stop and fight back tears. Harod leaned closer so he could hear the whispers when she tried again. “Last night. Three men. Looking for you. Didn’t say who sent them. But I saw Richard Haines . . . in car . . . before they rang bell.”

Harod hushed her with a gesture and lifted her in his arms with infinite care. As he carried her toward his room, realizing with growing wonder that it had been only a severe beating and that she would survive and be well, he found to his total amazement that tears were coursing down his cheeks.

If Barent’s men had been here last night looking for him, he realized, then it left no doubt that it had been Willi who had kidnapped him.

He wished that he could lift a phone and call Willi at that moment. He would like to tell him that there was no more reason for the elaborate game, the absurd precautions.

What ever Willi wanted to do to Barent, Harod was more than ready to help.

S
aul and Natalie drove back to the safe house early on Saturday afternoon. Natalie’s relief was obvious, but Saul had ambiguous feelings. “The research potential was awesome,” he said. “If I had been able to study Harod for a week, there’s no end to the data I could have accumulated.”

“Yes,” said Natalie, “and odds are that he would have found a way to get to us.”

“I think not,” said Saul. “Just the use of the barbiturates appeared to have inhibited his ability to generate the rhythms necessary to contact and control other neural systems.”

“But if we’d kept him a week, people
would
have been looking for him,” said Natalie. “No matter how much you learned, you wouldn’t have been able to go on to the next part of the plan.”

“Yes, there’s that,” agreed Saul, but there was regret in his voice. “Do you really believe that Harod will live up to his part of the bargain about getting someone onto the island?” asked Natalie.

“There’s a chance he will,” said Saul. “Right now Mr. Harod appears to be operating under a policy of damage limitation. There are certain incentives urging him to go along with the plan. If he does not cooperate, we are no worse off than we were.”

“What if he cooperates to the point of taking one of us to the island and then handing us over to Barent and the others as a prize catch? That’s what I would do if I were him.”

Saul shivered. “In that case, we would be worse off than we had been. But there are other things to take care of before we face that possibility.”

The farm house was as they had left it. Natalie watched as Saul replayed segments of the videotapes. Even the sight of Tony Harod on tape made her a little sick. “What next?” she asked.

Saul looked around. “Well, there are a few things to do. Transcribe and evaluate the interrogations. Go through and relabel the EEG and med-sensor tapes. Begin the computer analysis and integration of all that data. Then we can begin the biofeedback experiments using the information we’ve gained. You need to practice the hypnosis techniques we started and to study your files on the Vienna years and Nina Drayton. We both need to take a critical look at our plans now in light of the Dolmann Island data, possibly reassess the role Jack Cohen should play in them.”

Natalie sighed, “Great. What do you want me to start on first?”

“Nothing.” Saul grinned. “In case you didn’t notice during your stay in Israel, today is my people’s Sabbath. Today we rest. You go on upstairs while I get ready to prepare a real welcome-back-to-America meal: steak, baked potatoes, apple pie, and Budweiser beer.”

“Saul, we don’t have any of that. Jack stocked up with canned goods and freeze-dried stuff.”

“I know that. That is why, while you take a nap, I will be shopping in that little store down the canyon.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing, my dear.” Saul turned her around and gave her a pat on the small of the back. “I’ll call you when the steaks are cooking and we can have a celebration drink of that Jack Daniels you’ve been hoarding.”

“I want to help make the pie.” Natalie said sleepily. “Deal,” said Saul. “We will drink Jack Daniels and bake an apple pie.”

Saul took his time shopping, pushing the cart down brightly lighted aisles, listening to featureless music, and thinking about theta rhythms and aggression. He had long ago discovered that American supermarkets offered one of the easiest possible avenues to successful self-hypnosis. He also had long had the habit of shifting into a light hypnotic trance to deal with complex problems.

Saul realized as he moved from aisle to aisle that he had spent the last twenty-five years following the wrong paths in trying to find the mechanism of dominance in humans. As with most researchers, Saul had postulated a complicated interaction of social cues, physiological subtleties, and higher-order behaviors. Even with his knowledge of the primitive nature of the Oberst’s possession of him, Saul had searched for the trigger in the unmapped convolutions of the ce re bral cortex, descending occasionally to the cerebellum. Now the EEG data suggested that the ability originated in the primitive brainstem and was somehow broadcast by the hippocampus in conjunction with the hypothalamus. Saul had long thought of the Oberst and his ilk as some form of mutation, an evolutionary experiment or statistical quirk illustrating normal human powers in diseased excess. The forty hours with Harod had changed that forever. If the source of this inexplicable ability was the brainstem and early mammalian limbic system, Saul realized, then the mind vampire’s ability must predate Homo sapiens. Harod and the others were sports, random throwbacks to an earlier evolutionary stage.

Saul was still thinking about theta rhythms and REM status when he realized he had paid for the groceries and was being presented with two overflowing sacks. On a whim he asked for four dollars in quarters. Carrying the groceries to the van, Saul considered whether to call Jack Cohen or not.

Logic argued against it. Saul was still resolved not to involve the Israeli more than was absolutely necessary, so he could share none of the details of the past few days. And he had no other requests of the agent. Not yet. Calling Jack would be sheer self-indulgence.

Saul stowed the groceries in the van and trotted over to a stand of pay phones near the supermarket entrance. Perhaps it was time for a little self-indulgence. Saul was in a triumphant mood and wanted to share his good feelings with someone. He would be circumspect, but Jack would get the message that his time and effort had paid off for them.

Saul dialed the number he had memorized for Jack’s home phone. No one was home. He retrieved his change and direct dialed the Israeli Embassy, asking the receptionist for Jack’s extension. When another secretary asked who was calling, Saul gave the name Sam Turner as Cohen had suggested. He was to have left word that Sam Turner had immediate priority.

There was a delay of almost a minute. Saul fought the sick feeling of déjà vu rising in him. A man came on the line and said, “Hello, who is this please?”

“Sam Turner,” said Saul, feeling the nausea grow. He knew he should hang up.

“And who are you calling for, please?”

“Jack Cohen.”

“Could you please tell me the nature of your business with Mr. Cohen?”

“Personal.”

“Are you a relative or personal friend of Mr. Cohen’s?”

Saul hung up. He knew that it was more difficult to trace a telephone call than the movies and television suggested, but he had been on the line long enough. He called information, received the number of the
Los Angeles Times
, and used the last of his change to dial directly.

“Los Angeles Times.”

“
Yes,” said Saul, “my name is Chaim Herzog and I am adjutant information officer for the Israeli consulate office here in town, and I am calling to check on an error in an article you carried this week.”

“Yes, Mr. Herzog. You want Files and Records. Just a second and I’ll connect you.”

Saul stared at the long shadows on the hillside across the highway and when the woman said “Morgue,” he jumped. He repeated his cover story to her.

“Which day did this article run, sir?”

“I’m sorry,” said Saul, “I do not have the clipping here and I forgot which day.”

“And what was the name of the gentleman you mentioned?”

“Cohen,” said Saul, “Jack Cohen.” He leaned against the telephone and watched large blackbirds work at something lying in the bushes just off the highway. Overhead, a helicopter roared west at five hundred feet. He imagined the woman in Files and Records tapping at her computer keys.

“Here it is,” she said. “Wednesday’s paper, April twenty-second, fourth page. ‘Israeli Embassy Official Killed in Airport Mugging.’ Is that the article to which you are referring, sir?”

“Yes.”

“That was an Associated Press story, Mr. Herzog. Any error would have originated with the wire ser vice office in Washington.”

“Could you read it to me, please?” asked Saul. “Just so I can see if the mistake was actually there?”

“Certainly.” The woman read the four-paragraph article, starting with—“The body of Jack Cohen, fifty-eight, se nior agriculture attaché at the Israeli Embassy, was discovered in the Dulles International Airport parking lot this afternoon, an apparent victim of robbery and assault” and ending with—“Although there are no leads at this time, police are continuing their investigation.”

“Thank you,” said Saul and hung up. Across the road, the blackbirds abandoned their unseen meal and flapped skyward in a widening spiral.

Saul drove up the canyon at 70 m.p.h., straining the van to its limit of power and maneuverability. He had spent at least a full minute standing by the phone, trying to construct a logical, reassuring argument that Jack Cohen’s death could, indeed, have been a mugging gone wrong. Such coincidences occurred all the time in real life. Even if not, part of his mind argued, it had been four days. If the murderers had been able to tie Cohen to the safe house, they would have arrived by now.

Saul did not buy it. He turned onto the farm lane in a cloud of dust and accelerated past trees and fences. He had not brought the Colt automatic with him. It was in his bedroom, upstairs next to Natalie’s room.

There were no cars in front of the house. The front door was locked. Saul opened it and stepped in. “Natalie!” There was no answer from upstairs.

Saul looked around, saw nothing out of place, walked quickly through the dining room and kitchen to the observation room, and found the dart gun where he had left it. He checked to make sure there was a red dart in the chamber and took the box of darts with him as he ran back to the living room. “Natalie.”

He had gone up three of the steps, dart gun half raised, when Natalie came to the head of the stairs. “What is it?” She rubbed sleep out of her eyes.

“Get packed. Grab everything and just throw it in. We have to get out of here now.”

She asked no questions as she turned and headed for her room. Saul went to his, lifted the pistol from where it lay atop his suitcase, checked the clip, and pulled back the action to put a round into the chamber. He made sure the selector was on safe and dropped the pistol in the pocket of his sports coat.

Natalie had her suitcase in the back of the van by the time Saul brought his own backpack and bag out. “What shall I do?” she said. Her own Colt was visible as a lump in the large pocket of her peasant skirt.

“Remember those two jerry cans of gasoline Jack and I found in the barn? Bring them to the porch and then stay out here and watch for a car turning into the lane. Or for a helicopter approaching. Wait, here’s the van key. Keep it in the ignition. Right?”

“Right.”

Saul trotted inside and began detaching wires from the electronic equipment, pulling adapters, and tossing equipment into boxes with no regard to what belonged where. He could leave the video recorder and camera, but he would need the EEG, telemetry packs, tapes, the computer, printer, paper, and radio transmitters. Saul carried boxes out to the van. It had taken Saul and Natalie two days to set up and calibrate the equipment, and prepare the interrogation room. It took him less than ten minutes to tear it down and get everything in the back of the van. “Anything?”

“Nothing yet,” called Natalie.

Saul debated only a second and then carried the cans of gasoline into the back of the house and began dousing the interrogation room, the observation room, kitchen, and living room. It struck him as a barbaric and ungrateful act somehow, but he had no idea what Haines’s or Barent’s people could surmise from what was left behind. He tossed the empty cans outside, checked to make sure the rooms on the second floor were empty, and loaded the last of the things from the kitchen. He took his lighter out and paused on the porch. “Am I forgetting anything, Natalie?”

“The plastic explosive and detonators in the basement!”

“Good God,” said Saul and ran to the stairway. Natalie had made a nest in the center of the boxes in the back of the van for the cushioned crate of detonators, and when Saul returned she set it in.

He made a final tour of the house, pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels from a cupboard shelf, and ignited the gasoline trails. The effect was immediate and dramatic. Saul shielded his face from the heat and thought,
I’m sorry, Jack.

Natalie was behind the wheel when he came out and she did not wait for him to pull his door shut before the van was moving toward the lane, throwing gravel high into the weeds. “Which way?” she asked when they reached the road.

“East.”

Natalie turned east.