Glamorama (79 page)

“But they met a long time ago,” I mutter. “Jamie told me she’d met Bobby years ago, that they were hanging out for years.”

“They had met, this was confirmed,” Palakon allows, nodding. “But Bobby Hughes meets a lot of people. Not all of them tend to work for him. Not all of them end up being recruited.”

Pause. “What about the hat you asked me to bring?” I ask.

Palakon sighs. “The hat I asked you to bring was intended for the group that Jamie Fields works for.” A long pause suggests that this is an answer.

“So … Jamie Fields doesn’t work for Bobby Hughes?” I ask. “No, she doesn’t, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says. “Jamie Fields works for the United States government.”

“What was … in the hat?” I ask tentatively.

All around: heavy sighs, a smattering of flinches, men repositioning themselves. Palakon glances over at Crater, who nods, resigned. I’m on the verge of placing where I first met the Interpol inspector but Russell distracts me by lighting a cigarette. There’s no relief in knowing Jamie doesn’t work for Bobby, because I don’t believe it.

“In the seams of the hat,” Palakon starts, “was a prototype for a new form of plastic explosive.”

I turn ice cold, chills wash over my body in one enormous wave and veins freeze up, start tingling. I’m writhing in my chair, unable to sit still.

“We were uncertain of how detectable it was,” Palakon says. “We needed a carrier. We needed someone no one would suspect. Someone who could transfer this sample to Europe.”

“But once you boarded the
QE2
, Victor, you had obviously been spotted,” Crater says. “Something got leaked. We’re not sure how.”

“I’m not … really clear on this,” I manage to say.

“I agreed to get you out of the country for your father and I did,” Palakon says. “I also agreed to something else.” He pauses. “I owed … a favor. To another party.” Another pause. “I agreed to bring this other party the prototype for Remform. But the two things—you heading to Europe and the delivery of the plastique—were not related. Your father knew nothing of that. This was my mistake and I take full responsibility. But things were urgent and moving fast and I needed to find a carrier immediately. You were available.”

“What exactly is Remform?” I’m asking.

“It’s a plastic explosive that escapes detection from, well, just about anything,” Palakon says. “Metal detectors, x-ray machines, trace detectors, electron-capture vapor detectors, tagging, trained dogs.” Palakon shrugs. “It’s highly efficient.”

“Who was the Remform … for?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not something you need to know, Victor, but it definitely was not intended for Bobby Hughes. In fact, quite the opposite. It slipped into the wrong hands.” Palakon pauses gravely. “I thought you would be protected. You weren’t. I’m sorry. The Remform was stolen—we now realize—during your voyage on the QE2. And we did not—I swear to you, Victor—understand the situation until we met last week at the hotel.”

“We didn’t realize any of this until Palakon made contact with you last week,” Delta confirms.

“I didn’t realize where the Remform was located until you told me,” Palakon says.

“Why don’t you guys just tell Jamie what’s going on?” I ask.

“That would be far too dangerous for her,” Palakon says. “If we attempted any kind of contact and she was found out, an enormous amount of time and effort would have been wasted. We cannot risk that.”

“Does my father know any of this?” I ask.

“No.”

I’m stuck, can’t form a sentence.

“The fact remains that Bobby Hughes has the Remform and obviously
has plans to manufacture and use it,” Palakon says. “That was not supposed to happen. That was definitely not supposed to happen.”

“But … ,” I start.

“Yes?”

The room waits.

“But you know Bobby Hughes,” I say.

“Pardon?” Palakon asks. “I know of him.”

“No, Palakon,” I say. “You know him.”

“Mr. Ward, what are you talking about?”

“Palakon,” I shout. “I saw you in a videotape shaking Bobby Hughes’ hand, you fucking bastard, I saw you shake that asshole’s hand. Don’t tell me you don’t know him.”

Palakon flinches. “Mr. Ward, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. But I have never met Bobby Hughes face-to-face.”

“You’re lying, you’re fucking lying,” I shout. “Why are you lying, Palakon? I saw a videotape. You were shaking his hand.” I’m out of the chair again, stomping toward him.

Palakon swallows grimly, then launches into, “Mr. Ward, as you well know, they are quite sophisticated at altering photographs and videotapes.” Palakon stops, starts again. “What you probably saw was just a movie. A special effect. Just a strip of film that was digitally altered. Why they showed this to you I don’t know. But I have never met Bobby Hughes before—”

“Blah blah blah,” I’m screaming. “What a load of shit. No way, man.” There’s so much adrenaline rushing through me that I’m shaking violently.

“Mr. Ward, I think you have been a victim of this as well,” Palakon adds.

“So you’re telling me we can’t believe anything we’re shown anymore?” I’m asking. “That
everything
is altered? That everything’s a lie? That everyone will believe this?”

“That’s a fact,” Palakon says.

“So what’s true, then?” I cry out.

“Nothing, Victor,” Palakon says. “There are different truths.”

“Then what happens to us?”

“We change.” He shrugs. “We adapt.”

“To what? Better? Worse?”

“I’m not sure those terms are applicable anymore.”

“Why not?” I shout. “Why aren’t they?”

“Because no one cares about ‘better.’ No one cares about ‘worse,’” Palakon says. “Not anymore. It’s different now.”

Someone clears his throat as tears pour down my face.

“Mr. Ward, please, you’ve helped us enormously,” Crater says.

“How?” I sob.

“Because of that printout you gave to Palakon, we believe that Bobby Hughes is using the Remform in a bombing this week,” Crater explains. “A bombing that we now have the power to stop.”

I mumble something, looking away.

“We think this has to do with a bombing scheduled for Friday,” Palakon says matter-of-factly. “That date is November 15. We think ‘1985’ is actually a misprint. We think the 8 is actually an 0.”

“Why?”

“We think 1985 is actually 1905,” Crater says. “In military parlance that’s 7:05 p.m.”

“Yeah?” I mutter. “So?”

“There’s a TWA flight leaving Charles de Gaulle this Friday, November 15, at 7:05,” Palakon says.

“So what?” I’m asking. “Aren’t there a lot of flights leaving on that date, near that time?”

“Its flight number is 511,” Palakon says.

9

I’m told to stay calm.

I’m told they will contact me tomorrow.

I’m told to return to the house in the 8th or the 16th and pretend nothing has happened.

I’m told that I can be placed, eventually, in a witness protection program. (I’m told this after I have collapsed on the floor, sobbing hysterically.)

I’m told again to stay calm.

On the verge of trust, I realize that the inspector from Interpol is the actor who played the clerk at the security office on the
QE2
.

I’m told, “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Ward.”

I’m told, “You’ll be watched.”

“I know,” I say hollowly.

Since I have no more Xanax left and it’s starting to rain I head over to Hôtel Costes, where I wait in the café pretending to be pensive, drinking tea, smoking Camel Lights out of a pack someone left discarded at the table next to mine, until Chloe walks in with a famous ballerina, a well-known former junkie just out of rehab and Aphex Twin, and they all start chatting pleasantly with Griffin Dunne, who’s standing at the front desk, and then everyone but Chloe walks away and in a trance I move forward while she checks her messages and I grab her, embracing her fearfully while glancing around the hushed lobby and then I’m kissing her lips, entering her life again, and we’re both crying. The concierge turns his head away.

I start relaxing but a film crew has followed Chloe into the lobby and a camera starts panning around us and we’re asked to “do that” once more. Someone yells “Action.” Someone yells “Cut.” I stop crying and we do it again.

8

Afternoon and outside silvery clouds glide through the sky as a soft rain keeps drifting over a steel-gray Paris. There were two shows today—one at the Conciergerie, one in the gardens of the Musée Rodin—and she was being paid a zillion francs, naysayers abounded, the catwalks seemed longer, the paparazzi were both more and less frantic, girls were wearing bones, bird skulls, human teeth, bloody smocks, they held fluorescent water pistols, there was serious buzz, there was zero buzz, it was the epitome of hype, it was wildly trivial.

From room service we order a pot of coffee that she doesn’t drink, a bottle of red wine of which she has only half a glass, a pack of cigarettes but she’s not smoking. An hour passes, then another. Flowers sent by
various designers fill the suite, are of colors and shapes conspicuous enough so that we can easily concentrate on them when we’re not talking to each other. A pigeon sits nestled on the ledge outside the window, humming. At first we keep saying “What does it matter?” to each other, ad-libbing like we have secrets we don’t care about revealing, but then we have to stick to the script and I’m sucking on her pussy causing her to climax repeatedly and we arrange ourselves into a position where I’m lying on my side, my cock slowly pumping in and out of her mouth, arching my back with each movement, her hands on my ass, and I don’t relax until I come twice, my face pressed against her vagina, and later she’s crying, she can’t trust me, it’s all impossible and I’m pacing the suite looking for another box of tissues to hand her and she keeps getting up and washing her face and then we attempt to have sex again. Her head leans against a pillow. “Tell me,” she’s saying. “Possibly,” she’s saying. “It’s not beyond you,” she’s saying. We’re watching MTV with the sound off and then she tells me I need to shave and I tell her that I want to grow a beard and then, while forcing a smile, that I need a disguise and she thinks I’m serious and when she says “No, don’t” something gets mended, hope rises up in me and I can envision a future.