Oversight (14 page)

“Report results of voice stress scan.”

“No irregular patterns found.”

Either she’s uncommonly honest or she’s on something. “Marilyn, compare scan to reference scans and report closest match.”

“Ninety-three percent match: Demendicil-user profile.” She adds, “Discretion is the best medicine. At International Chemical, that’s what we believe. And with Demendicil, you can keep your thoughts to yourself. One tablet daily protects against voice-stress scans, polygraph tests, crypto-encephalograms, and body-language translation. Give yourself the privacy you deserve with Demendicil. “

Marilyn’s voice drops to a whisper and her pace accelerates. “Must have federal security clearance to purchase. Side effects may include dizziness, sleeplessness, loss of appetite, violent rages, depression, mild catatonia, hallucination, agoraphobia, nasal bleeding, uncontrollable hiccups, disregard for patriotism, subversive frugality, and empathy toward strangers.”

Sam closes his eyes.

“Side effects occurred in less than one percent of test subjects. Among paid test subjects, the incidence of side effects was even less. In the unlikely event of adverse reaction, International Chemical reserves the right to access any and all personal files, records, or receipts to determine the extent of your responsibility for your condition…”

A knock on the door raises Sam’s eyelids to half-mast.

“Mr. Crane?” The voice is unfamiliar.

Rubbing his face, Sam swings his feet onto the carpet then plods over the door, still dressed. His chest hurts again, now that the anesthetic has worn off.

Another knock, more urgent.

“What?” he says through the door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Cayman wants a word.”

Sam fumbles with the chain lock, then opens the door.

Two large men in white suits and tanned skin stand side by side in the corridor. Both have mustaches. One wears a pink tie and a pinkie ring tight as a tourniquet. The other wears his collar open, revealing a gold cross half-buried in chest hair.

Sam has to laugh. “You two would be the muscle.”

The two men nod. “Mr. Cayman sent us to collect you,” says the one with the tie. “He said you’d know what this is about.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course,” says the man with the tie.

His companion frowns.

“You think not, Mr. Civet?” asks the man with the tie.

Mr. Civet folds his arms and shakes his head.

“May we have a moment, please?”

Sam nods. “Take your time,” he says, then heads back to put his shoes on. When he returns to the doorway, it seems the two men have come to an agreement.

“All set?” Sam asks.

“Indeed,” says the man with the tie. “Mr. Civet was under the impression that you didn’t really have a choice because even if you declined our invitation, you’d still end up accompanying us. I have convinced him that even if one of your two courses of action might have had deleterious effects upon your person, it’s still a legitimate choice. That’s what makes America great: freedom.”

Mr. Civet nods solemnly.

“Well, I’m anxious to meet with Mr. Cayman,” Sam says, “so lead on. Mind if I let my friends know I’m leaving?”

The man with the tie summons a genial smile. “If you’re referring to the two FBI agents in the rooms across the hall, I think it best that you let them sleep. The mountain air can be most intoxicating. If I had to guess, I’d say they’ll be asleep most of the day. Don’t you think, Mr. Civet?”

Mr. Civet purses his lips and nods. Sam notices that the “Sominal Says Do Not Disturb” signs have been hung outside the agents’ rooms.

The man with the tie gestures down the corridor. “After you, Mr. Crane.”

By six a.m., Sam is airborne again. Cayman’s plane is smaller this time, a Gulfstream Ten. It’s still quite comfortable. The man with the tie—Mr. Fossa, Sam has learned—is playing cards with Mr. Civet. They tell him none of the network’s various electronic diversions are available; the relay transmitter has been closed on Cayman’s orders. Sam is more than a bit annoyed, given the goings-on at home. He needs to talk to quite a few people.

His only entertainment during the five-hour flight to Havanaland is a selection of movies cached during previous trips. He scrolls through the files on his seat’s video system. He’s seen most of the action titles: The President, Revenge of the President, and The President Strikes Again. He’s heard good things about The President and the Despot, but he’s not in the mood for a saccharine buddy picture. He settles for The Importance of Being Rich, a comedy of manners and mix-ups supposedly based on a true story. Anything to take his mind off terrorism.

Somewhere over Arkansas, videoed out and gorged on pretzels, Sam returns to the puzzle in his mind. If Caddis killed Jacob, why doesn’t Caddis have the glasses? Because Jacob sold them before Caddis killed him? Or because someone else killed him and took them before Caddis got there? And if the glasses were so important, why were they left in plain sight, undamaged, on Mako’s beaten corpse? It only makes sense if Mako’s killer was unaware of their significance. Or if the glasses meant something different to Mako’s killer than to Caddis. Then there’s Cayman. And Amy. And the apparent absence of typical forensic evidence—nothing captured on video, no useful DNA, fingerprints, anything.

Sam bangs his head against the Plexiglas inner window, eliciting curious glances from his two traveling companions.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Crane,” says Fossa.

“They’re hardly worth that,” Sam grumbles.

“Such low self-esteem.” Fossa shakes his head.

“You don’t approve?”

“You should look into Dr. Trey-Pak Bat. Technology, Emasculation, and Post-Modern Self-Realization. His lectures changed my life. I’ve been a subscriber for five years now.”

“How much have you paid the good doctor in that time?”

Fossa’s brow furrows, reflecting some mental gymnastics. “It’s not about the money,” he contends. “It’s about mastering our inner machines.”

“And that’s priceless,” Sam deadpans.

“You get what you pay for,” Fossa retorts. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Civet?”

After mulling the question, Mr. Civet nods.

Fossa continues, “Dr. Bat has a name for people like you—”

“Here comes the jargon—”

“Syphons. Your insecurities drain the people around you.”

“What does he call draining the wallets of the gullible?”

Fossa shakes his head, evidently disappointed. “You’re not much of a detective, are you?”

Sam turns toward the window, but can’t let the comment go. “Technically, I’m a spec,” he counters, unwilling to concede the point. “I pursue cases that I choose.”

“An information speculator. A detective. Call it what you will. Yet you look away from the truth. Is it because you can’t see within or you do not wish to?”

Sam sneers. “Such musings from the muscle. Who’d have thought?”

Fossa looks startled. “I see I’ve touched a nerve.”

Mr. Civet smirks. Fossa turns his attention back to the card game. Sam’s gaze wanders among the clouds below.

A moment later, Civet laughs exultantly. “Gin!”

Shortly after two p.m., the plane lands in Havanaland. Meticulously restored to its pre-Castro glory, the resort island is now managed by the Leisure Group, a division of Content Corp. As the Ministry of Tourism’s recent ad campaign proclaims, “Imagine Williamsburg with low necklines, bare midriffs, and high stakes. That’s Havanaland. More fun than the Puritans ever had.”

The air on the tarmac is stifling. Through the humid heat, the passenger terminal shimmers as if shown on a faulty screen.

At the urging of Fossa and Civet, Sam descends from the plane to board an olive-drab jeep idling on the asphalt. Sam asks whether it’s a replica.

Voice raised above the drone of jet engines, the driver says that it’s authentic. “From the Korean War,” he insists. “Mr. Cayman collects military vehicles.”

The four men head toward the city center on the elevated toll expressway. Traffic is sparse; it’s like living a commercial. The open road conveys a sense of freedom, possibilities, and progress—except for the rickety jeep. On the public road below, cars crawl.

A few minutes later, tires crackle through gravel in the courtyard of the old monastery Cayman has converted to a villa. The grace of its Georgian architecture remains undimmed, even darkened by years of exhaust. Two Cuban laborers are in the midst of loading protective cases into a commercial truck. A handful of other crates and boxes stand stacked on the stones. A radar dish spins at a leisurely pace atop an SUV.

Sam follows Fossa and Civet inside past two guards armed with carbines. Portraits of conquistadors line the walls of the expansive foyer. A baroque chandelier beckons the eyes upward. The place could be a museum but for the absence of a gift shop.

Beside the door leading outside, there’s one work that seems out of place: a child’s scribble. Scrawled on cheap, yellowing paper, it rests on an acid-free mat in an ornate gilt frame, under glass. Seeing it, Sam feels guilty that he has similar drawings stuffed in storage somewhere.

“Mr. Cayman awaits, on the terrace,” says Fossa, gesturing toward the doors at the far side of the chamber. “And just so you know, you’re off-network here.”

“Looks like you’re moving house,” Sam observes as he traverses the foyer and exits though the double doors.

Fossa offers no reply.

The terrace overlooks the sea, today pristine blue under the cloudless sky. Harris Cayman stands watching the waves, hands clasped behind his back. He’s taller than Sam expected. He wears a white suit, and a white hat with a black band on his graying head. To the right, under an umbrella, a table has been set with two chairs and china. Cold water in a carafe, clouded by condensation, resembles mercury though the glass. In the sun, the silverware shines gold.

“What is it you want, Mr. Crane?”

“Answers.”

Cayman laughs. “I have questions. Will you indulge me?”

“Sure.”

For a moment, Cayman remains silent, still transfixed by the sea. Sensing movement, Sam glances at the garden to the right. A flash of light catches his eye. It’s the scope on a guard’s rifle. From his post in the bushes, the guard stares back.

“Your security doesn’t make me feel secure,” Sam observes.

“A necessary rudeness these days, I’m afraid. Try not to think about it.”

“Ignorance is bliss, eh?”

“A sentiment too often lacking in detectives.”

Cayman turns. He’s a handsome man, the sort always pictured with women half his age in ads for Italian suits, Swiss watches, or German cars. In the tropical climate, his pale skin screams fraud.

“I consider myself a spec,” Sam says.

“So you said to Mr. Fossa. Is that your reflexive response?”

Sam shrugs. “Were you riding remote the whole time?”

“You’re a seeker of truth. Fair enough?”

Sam musters half a smile. “I’ll try to remember that next time I’m head-down in a dumpster.”

Cayman gestures toward the table and takes a seat. Sam does the same.

“There’s no shame in that,” Cayman insists. “Most are not. Most prefer to be lied to.”

“I suppose that makes it easier to get ahead in advertising.”

Cayman grins. “Yes, you do see, don’t you? You have the sight.”

“And you? A seller of lies?”

Cayman lifts the carafe and pours two tall glasses of water. Far above, a jet contrail scars the sky.

“I’m an evangelist, Mr. Crane. A merchant of happiness, of forgiveness and indulgence. And there’s no shame in that either. The world needs both you and me. Of course, you’re not always welcome. And that’s what we need to discuss.”

Sam shrugs. “Popularity is your concern. Let’s talk about my daughter.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. What do you want? Not on a superficial level, not on a professional level, but deep down, what do you want most of all?”

“For that waiter over there to bring lunch.”

Cayman gestures toward the waiter, who nods and ducks into the house. “Come now, Mr. Crane. Surely you can do better. What do you really want?”

“For you to get to the point?”

Cayman looks disappointed. “Not to see your daughter awaken? Not to hold your wife in your arms again? The truth, Mr. Crane. Or does it hurt too much?”

It does. Sam stands and hurls his glass to the ground at Cayman’s feet. It shatters, splintering bright in the sun. There’s movement in the garden. Cayman stands too, hand held out toward the bodyguard.

“Yes, it goddamn hurts!” Sam growls.

Cayman opens his arms. “There. You call down God’s damnation because you long for his power. And who wouldn’t want to be God? Who would abjure comfort, security, bliss?”

“I wasn’t aware that Heaven’s hiring.”

A young man in a suit emerges from the house with a broom and dustpan to gather the broken glass. Sam follows Cayman away from the table so as not to interfere.

“My point is that we’re all would-be gods,” Cayman says. “The way we express that will to power varies, but our purpose remains the same—we’re planning, each and all, a coup against Fate. Deep down, we’re all dictators.”

Sam shrugs. “So?”

“What would you do for that kind of power?”

There’s something in Cayman’s voice, a curious fervor. It’s disturbing. Sam can only laugh.

Cayman laughs too. “I don’t mean to sound delusional,” he insists. “But this is big.”

“Are you going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

“In due time, Mr. Crane.”

“I’m not a patient man.”

“Your daughter is a patient at Zvista. Perhaps you can learn from her example.”

“Is that a threat?” Sam demands.

“It’s a statement of fact. Is the truth threatening?”

Sam’s eyes narrow. His fists tighten.

“Come, sit down,” Cayman says with a shrug. “Lunch is served.”

Sam turns to find the table set and the terrace swept, with the waiter in full retreat toward the house. For the second time, the two men sit down. On serving platters sit a Niçoise salad, a sliced baguette, and a wedge of cheese already losing form in the heat.