32
Ignacio Carrera’s breathing was violent but metronomical, as if he was exercising to Prussian martial music that no one else could hear. The barbells with which he struggled were heavier than he was, and judging by his cries of agony, which echoed through the private gym, the weight was too difficult for him.
Nevertheless, he continued without pause. If the task had been nearer possibility, it wouldn’t have been worthwhile. His strenuous efforts distilled alcohol-clear drops of sweat from him; perspiration streamed down his slick flesh, dripped off his earlobes, nose, chin, elbows, and fingertips. He wore only a pair of royal-blue workout shorts, and his strikingly powerful body glistened like every boy’s dream of brute masculine strength. The sound of tortured tissues being torn down and stronger muscle fibers growing in their place was almost audible.
On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, without exception, Ignacio Carrera worked diligently on his calves, thighs, buttocks, hips, waist, lower back, and stomach. He had a prodigious set of stomach muscles: His belly was hard and concave, like a sheet of corrugated steel. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, he labored to improve his chest, upper back, neck, shoulders, biceps, triceps, and forearms.
On the seventh day he rested, although inactivity made him nervous.
Ignacio yearned for the transmutation of his flesh—every ounce, every cell. For relaxation, he read science fiction, and he longed to have the body of the perfect robot that occasionally appeared in those books—flexible yet invulnerable, precise in its movements and capable of grace yet charged with crude power.
He was only thirty-eight years old, but he looked much younger than his true age. His hair was coarse, thick, and black, and while he exercised, he wore a bright yellow ribbon around his head to keep the hair out of his face. With his strong features, prominent nose, dark and deeply set eyes, dusky complexion, and headband, he could have passed for an American Indian.
He did not claim to be an Indian, American or otherwise. He told people that he was a Brazilian. That was a lie.
In more genteel times, the gymnasium on the first floor of the Carrera house had been a music room in which guests in formal attire had frequently attended evenings of chamber music. At one end of the room was a circular dais on which a piano had stood. Now the enormous space—thirty by thirty feet—was carpeted solely with scattered vinyl mats and furnished largely with exercise machines. The high ceiling featured richly carved moldings, painted white with accents of gold leaf, and the plaster was pale blue.
Carrera was on the dais, imitating a machine, grimly working through yet another set of two-arm, standing presses. His obsessive-compulsive behavior in his private gym was similar to his approach to everything in life. He would almost rather die than lose, even when his only competition was himself. He pressed the great weight up, up, up again, through a haze of pain that, like a fog, engulfed him. He was determined to make it through the set of ten repetitions, just as he had endured tens of thousands of other sets over the years.
Antonio Paz, another bodybuilder who served as bodyguard and exercise partner to Carrera, stood slightly behind and to one side of his boss, counting aloud as each repetition was concluded. Paz was forty years old, but he also appeared to be younger than he was. At six-two, Paz was three inches taller than Carrera and twenty-five pounds heavier. He had none of his employer’s good looks: His face was broad, flat, with a low brow. He also claimed to be Brazilian, but he was not.
Paz said, “Three.” Seven repetitions remained in the set.
The telephone rang. Carrera could barely hear it above his own labored breathing. Through a veil of sweat and tears of pain, he watched Paz cross the room to answer the call.
All the way up with the barbell. Hold it at any cost. Four. Bring it down. Rest. Take it up. Hold. Five. Lungs burning. Bring it down. Machinelike.
Paz spoke rapidly into the phone, but Carrera could not hear what he was saying. The only sounds were his own breathing and the fierce thudding of his heart.
Up again. Hold. Arms quivering. Back spasming. Neck bulging. The pain!
Glorious.
Bring it down.
Paz left the telephone handset off the hook and returned to the dais. He resumed his former position and waited.
Carrera did four more presses, and when at last he dropped the barbell at the end of the set, he felt as though quarts of adrenaline were pumping through him. He was soaring, lighter than air. Pumping iron never left him tired. On the contrary, he was filled with an effervescent feeling of freedom.
In fact, the only other act that gave him as much of a rush was killing. Carrera loved to kill. Men. Women. Children. He didn’t care about the sex or age of the prey.
He didn’t often get the chance to kill, of course. Certainly not as frequently as he lifted weights and not as often as he would have liked.
Paz picked up a towel from a chair at the edge of the dais. He handed it to Carrera. “Marlowe is on the line from London.”
“What does he want?”
“He wouldn’t say. Except that it’s urgent.”
Both men spoke English as if they had learned the language at an upper-class school in England, but neither had ever attended any such institution.
Carrera stepped off the platform and went to the telephone to deal with Marlowe. He didn’t move with the heavy, purposeful steps of his bodyguard but with such lightness and grace that he appeared to know the secret of levitation.
The telephone was on a table by one of the tall, mullioned windows. The tapestry drapes were drawn aside, but most of the light in the room came from the huge chandelier that hung above the dais; its hundreds of crystal beads and finely cut pendants shimmered with rainbow beauty. Now, in the late afternoon, the winter sunlight was thin, tinted gray by curdled masses of snow clouds; it seemed barely able to pierce the panes of the windows. Beyond the leaded glass lay Zurich, Switzerland: the clear blue lake, the crystalline Limmat River, the massive churches, the discreet banks, the solidly built houses, the glass office buildings, the ancient guildhalls, the twelfth-century Grossmunster Cathedral, the smokeless factories—a fascinating mix of oppressive Gothic somberness and alpine charm, modem and medieval. The city shelved down the hills and spread along the shores of the lake, and the Carrera house stood above it all. The view was spectacular, and the telephone table seemed to be perched on top of the world.
Carrera picked up the receiver. “Marlowe?”
“Good afternoon, Ignacio.”
Rolling his shoulders and stretching as he spoke, Carrera said, “What’s wrong?”
He could be direct with Marlowe, because both his phone and the one in London were equipped with state-of-the-art scrambler devices, which made it nearly impossible for anyone to eavesdrop.
Marlowe said, “A couple hours ago Joanna Rand called British-Continental to ask about the payoff on her father’s life insurance.”
“You spoke to her?”
“Someone else. And a few minutes ago I was finally told about it, as if it wasn’t terribly important. We have some idiots here.”
“What did your idiot say to her?”
“He told her we hadn’t any files that old. He used the Phillips name, of course. Now what do we do?”
“Nothing yet,” Carrera said.
“I should think time is of the essence.”
“It’s not actually necessary that you think.”
“Obviously the whole charade is crumbling.”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re damned cool. What am I to do if she comes calling?”
“She won’t,” Carrera said confidently.
“If she’s beginning to question her entire past, what’s to keep her from popping up here in London for a closer inspection?”
“For one thing,” Carrera said, “she carries a posthypnotic suggestion that makes it impossible for her to leave Japan. When she attempts to board a plane—or a ship, for that matter—she’ll be overwhelmed by fear. She’ll become violently ill. She’ll need a doctor, and she’ll miss her flight.”
“Oh.” Marlowe considered that information for a moment. “But maybe a posthypnotic suggestion won’t have much force after all these years. What if she finds a way around it?”
“She might. But I’m getting daily reports from Kyoto. If she gets out of Japan, I’ll know within an hour. You’ll be warned.”
“Nevertheless, I simply can’t have her nosing around here. Far too much is at stake.”
“If she gets to England,” Carrera said, “she won’t stay long.”
“She can cause irreparable damage in just a day or two.”
“If she gets to London, she’ll be seeking an unraveled thread of the conspiracy. We’ll provide several she can’t overlook, and all of them will lead to Zurich. She’ll decide this is where the mystery can be solved, and she’ll come here. Then I’ll deal with her.”
“Look here, if she
does
slip past your people in Kyoto and out of the country, if she
does
show up in London by surprise, I’ll make my own decisions about how to handle her. I’ll have to move fast.”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” Carrera said with a softness that was more ominous than any shouted threat could have been.
“I’m not just part of your game, you know. In fact, it’s little more than a sideline to me. I’ve got a lot of things going on, a lot of interests to protect. If the woman comes knocking at my door without warning, and if I feel she’s endangering my entire operation, then I’ll have her terminated. I’ll have no choice. Is that clear?”
“She won’t arrive without notice,” Carrera said. “And if you harm her without permission, she won’t be the only termination.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m merely explaining the consequences.”
“I don’t like to be threatened.”
“I haven’t the authority to whack you,” Carrera said. “You know that. I’m just telling you what others will surely decide to do with you if you make a wrong move with this woman.”
“Oh? And who would pull the trigger on me?” Marlowe asked.
Carrera named a singularly powerful and ruthless man.
The name had the desired effect. Marlowe hesitated and then said, “Are you serious?”
“I’ll arrange for you to receive a phone call from him.”
“For God’s sake, Ignacio, why would a man of his position be so intently interested in one of these relocations?”
“Because it’s not simply another relocation. She’s special.”
“What makes her different from the others? Who is she?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You can, but you won’t.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve never seen her,” Marlowe said. “She’s liable to show up on my doorstep, and I wouldn’t even recognize her.”
“If the need arises, you’ll be shown a photograph,” Carrera said impatiently, eager to end the conversation and return to his exercises.
A moment ago Marlowe had been securely wrapped in that false but unshakable sense of superiority that came from pride in lineage, from years at Eton and then Oxford, and from the upper-crust, old-boy circles in which he moved. Now he was worried about being relegated to a secondary role in a major operation. To a man like Marlowe, who felt that he had been born to special privilege, any indication that he was
not
regarded as an insider was not merely a blow to his sense of job security but to his entire self-image. Carrera could hear a burgeoning anxiety in the Brit’s voice, and it amused him.
Marlowe said, “You must be exaggerating the need for security. After all, I’m on your side. Surely a description of this woman can’t hurt anything.”
“I can’t give you even a description. Not yet.”
“What’s her name?”
“Joanna Rand.”
“I know
that
name. I mean, what’s her real name?”
“You shouldn’t even ask,” Carrera said, and he hung up.
A strong gust of wind pressed suddenly and insistently against the window. A few specks of powdery snow spun through the ash-gray afternoon light. A storm was coming.
33
Shortly after six o’clock in the morning, Alex was awakened by Joanna’s cries for help.
He was sleeping in the room next to hers, lying atop the covers in pants and T-shirt. His shoes were beside the bed, and he stepped into them as he plucked the pistol off the nightstand.
When he burst into Joanna’s room and switched on the lights, she sat up in bed, blinking, dazed. She had been asleep and calling for help in a nightmare.
“The man with the mechanical hand?” he asked as he sat on the edge of her bed.
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“I already have. It’s always the same.”
Her face was pale. Her mouth was soft and slack from sleep, and her golden hair was damp with perspiration, yet she was a vision in yellow silk pajamas.
She leaned against him, wanting to be held—and they were kissing before he realized the depth of comfort that both of them needed. He slid his hands down her silk- sheathed back, up along her sides, to her breasts, and she whispered “yes,” between kisses. He was overcome not merely by desire but by a great tenderness unlike anything he had ever felt before, by something that for a moment he couldn’t name. But then he
did
have a name for it—love. He wanted her, needed her, but he also loved her, and in that moment he half believed in love even though he still struggled to resist its pull. The very thought of that freighted word brought to mind his parents’ faces, their voices, their protestations of affection always followed swiftly by anger, shouts, curses, blows, pain. He must have become tense, because the quality of their kiss changed. Joanna felt it too, and when she pulled away, Alex didn’t try to hold her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m confused.”
“Don’t you want me?”
“More than anything.”