by Dan Simmons
“Mr. Harod, so glad you could make it.” Five men sat on folding chairs set in a not-quite-closed circle. The room may have been meant as a master bedroom or large study. The floors were bare, the louvred shutters were white, and the fireplace was cold. Harod knew the men— or at least their names. From left to right they were known as Trask, Colben, Sutter, Barent, and Kepler. They wore expensive, conservatively tailored suits and sat in almost identical postures, backs straight, legs crossed, arms folded. Three of them had briefcases set near them. Three wore glasses. All five were white. They ranged in age from the late forties to the early sixties, with Barent being the oldest. Colben was almost bald, but the other four appeared to share the same Capitol Hill barber. Trask had been the one who spoke. “You’re late, Mr. Harod,” he added.
“Yeah,” said Tony Harod and stepped closer. There was no chair set out for him. He took off his leather jacket and held it over his shoulder by one finger. He was wearing a bright red silk shirt, open down the front to show off a shark tooth’s medallion on a gold chain, black corduroy pants set off by a large, gold R2-D2 belt buckle given to him by George Lucas, and heavy chukka boots with massive heels. “The flight was late.”
Trask nodded. Colben cleared his throat as if he were about to speak but contented himself with repositioning his horn-rimmed glasses.
“So what do we know?” asked Harod. Not waiting for an answer he went to the closet, removed a metal folding chair, and set it down backward in the cusp of the circle. He straddled it and laid his jacket across the top. “Is there anything new?” he asked. “Or did I make this fucking trip for nothing?”
“We were about to ask you,” said Barent. His voice was refined and well-modulated. There was a hint of both Eastern Shore and En gland in the vowels. Barent was obviously not a man who ever had to raise his voice to be heard. He was being listened to now.
Harod shrugged. “I gave one of the eulogies at Willi’s memorial service,” he said. “Forest Lawn. Very sad. About two hundred of Holly-wood’s famous showed up to pay their respects. Ten or fifteen of ’em had actually met Willi.”
“His house,” Barent said patiently. “Did you search his house as requested?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” said Harod. His mouth had become a thin line in the pale face. The muscles at the corners of his mouth, so often expressive of sarcasm and cruel humor, were pulled tight with strain. “I only had a couple of hours. I spent half of that chasing out some of Willi’s old lover boys who had keys and who’d come back like vultures to pick at the bones of his estate . . .”
“Had they been Used?” Colben asked. There was anxiety in his voice. “No, I don’t think so. Willi was losing his power, remember. Maybe he used a little conditioning with them. Stroked them a little. I doubt if he even did that though. He didn’t have to, what with his money and his in at the studios.”
“The search,” said Barent. “Yeah. So I had about an hour. Tom McGuire, Willi’s lawyer, is an old friend of mine and let me go through the papers in Willi’s safe and desk. There wasn’t much. Some film and literary properties. A few stocks, but not what you’d call a portfolio. Willi tended to stick to the film industry in his investments. A lot of business letters, but almost nothing personal. His will was read yesterday, you know. I got the house . . . if I pay the fucking taxes. Most of the money was tied up in projects. He left the rest of his bank account to the Hollywood A.S.P.C.A.”
“The A.S.P.C.A.?” repeated Trask. “You bet your ass. Old Willi was an animal freak. He was always complaining about the way they were used in films and lobbying for stricter laws and shop rules protecting horses in stunts and all that crap.”
“Go on,” said Barent. “There were no papers which might indicate Willi’s past?”
“No.”
“And nothing to indicate his Ability?”
“No. Nothing.”
“And no mention of any of us?” asked Sutter.
Harod sat up straight. “Of course not. You know Willi didn’t know anything about the Club.”
Barent nodded and steepled his fingers. “There is no chance of that, Mr. Harod?”
“No chance.”
“Yet he was aware of your Ability?”
“Well, yes, I mean, of course. But you agreed years ago that we’d let him know about that. You said that when you told me to get to know him.”
“Yes.”
“And besides, Willi always thought my Ability was weak and unreliable compared to his. Because I didn’t need to Use anyone all the way like he did and because . . . because of my own preferences . . .”
“Not to Use men,” said Trask. “Because of my own preferences,” said Harod. “What the fuck did Willi know? He looked down at me even when he’d lost everything but the power to keep Reynolds and Luhar, his two stroke-addicts, in line. He wasn’t even successful at that half the time.”
Barent nodded again. “So you do not believe that he was capable of Using people to cancel others any longer?”
“Christ no,” said Harod. “Not really. He might’ve been able to use his two goons or one of his lover boys, but he wasn’t stupid enough to do that.”
“And you let him travel to Charleston for this . . . mmm . . . reunion with the two women?” asked Kepler.
Harod gripped the back of his chair through the leather jacket. “What do you mean, ‘let him’? Hell, yes, I let him. My job was to watch him, not limit his travel. Willi traveled all over the world.”
“And what do you think he did at these reunions?” asked Barent. Harold shrugged. “Talk over old times. Chew the fat with those two other has-beens. For all I know, he was still banging the old crones. How the fuck should I know? He usually only stayed away two or three days. It was never a problem.”
Barent turned to Colben and made a gesture. The bald man unclasped his briefcase and removed a brown, wire-bound booklet that looked like someone’s photo album. He carried it across the circle to Harod.
“What the shit is this?”
“Look at it,” ordered Barent.
Harold flipped through the album, quickly at first, then very slowly. He read several of the news clippings all the way through. When he was finished he took off his dark glasses. No one spoke. A horn blasted somewhere on M Street.
“It’s not Willi’s,” said Harod. “No,” said Barent. “It belonged to Nina Drayton.”
“Incredible. Jesus-fucking-incredible. It can’t be real. The old broad must’ve been senile, delusions of grandeur. Wishing it was like the good old days.”
“No,” said Barent. “It appears that she was present at most of the appropriate times. They quite probably are hers.”
“Holy shit,” said Harod. He put his glasses on and massaged his cheeks. “How’d you get this? Her New York apartment?”
“No,” Colben answered. “We had someone in Charleston last Saturday because of Willi’s plane crash. He was able to retrieve this from Nina Drayton’s belongings at the coroner’s office before the local authorities had an opportunity to see it.”
“You’re sure?” asked Harod. “Yes.”
“The question is,” said Barent, “were the three still playing some variant of their old Vienna Game? And if so, did your friend Willi have any similar documents in his possession?”
Harod shook his head but said nothing.
Colben removed a dossier from his briefcase. “Nothing conclusive has been found in the remains of the aircraft. Of course, few recognizable items have been found at all. More than half of the bodies remain to be recovered. Those which have been pulled out of the swamp are generally too fragmented to be identified quickly. It was a very powerful explosion. The swampy conditions hinder recovery. It is a difficult situation for investigators.”
“Which one of the old bitches was responsible?” asked Harod. “We are not sure,” said Colben. “It doesn’t appear, however, that Willi’s friend Mrs. Fuller survived the weekend. She is the logi
cal candidate.”
“What a shitty way for Willi to die,” Harod said to no one in particular.
“If, indeed, he did die,” said Barent. “What?” Harod leaned back. His legs straightened and his heels made black marks on the oak floor. “You think he didn’t? You think he wasn’t aboard?”
“The ticket agent remembers Willi and his two friends boarding,” said Colben. “They were arguing, Willi and his black colleague.”
“Jensen Luhar,” said Harod. “That brainless asshole.”
Barent said, “But there is no guarantee that they remained on board. The ticket agent was called away from the boarding area for a few minutes prior to the sealing of the aircraft.”
“But there’s nothing to suggest that Willi wasn’t aboard,” pressed Harod. Colben put away the dossier. “No. However, until we find Mr. Borden’s body, we cannot safely assume that he has been . . . ah . . . neutralized.”
“Neutralized,” repeated Harod.
Barent stood and went to the window. He pulled aside the tab curtains that hung above the white shutters. His skin looked porcelain-smooth in the indirect light. “Mr. Harod, is there any possibility that Willi von Borchert knew about the Island Club?”
Harod’s head snapped back as if he had been slapped. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You are sure?”
“Positive.”
“You never mentioned it? Not even indirectly?”
“Why the fuck would I do that? No, goddammit, Willi didn’t know a thing about it.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Willi was an old man, Barent. I mean old. He was half crazy because he couldn’t Use people anymore. Especially Use them to kill. That’s kill, Colben, k-i-l-l, not neutralize or cancel policies or terminate with extreme prejudice or any of your other fucking agency euphemisms. Willi killed to stay young and he couldn’t do it anymore and the poor old fart was drying up like a prune left out in the sun. If he’d known about your goddamn Island Club he would’ve crawled here on his knees to beg you to be let in.”
“It’s your Island Club, too, Harod,” said Barent. “Yeah, so I hear. Only I haven’t been there yet so I wouldn’t know.” Barent said, “You will be invited for the second week this summer. The first week is not the . . . ah . . . necessary one, is it?”
“Maybe not. But I guess I’d like to rub elbows with the rich and powerful. Not to mention do a little stroking of my own.”
Barent laughed. Several of the others followed his lead. “My God, Harod,” Sutter said, “don’t you get enough of that out in Tinsel Town?”
“Besides,” said Trask, “wouldn’t you find it a bit difficult? I mean, given our guest list for the first week . . . I mean, in light of your preferences.”
Harod turned and looked at the man. Harod’s eyes had become thin slits in a pale mask. He spoke very slowly, each word clicking into place like shotgun shells going into a chamber. “You know what I meant. Don’t fuck with me.”
“Yes,” said Barent. His voice was soothing, the British accent more audible. “We know what you meant, Mr. Harod. And this may be your year for it. Do you know who will be on the Island this coming June?”
Harod shrugged and turned his gaze away from Colben. “The usual bunch of boys eager for summer camp, I suppose. I’d imagine Henry the K will be there again. Maybe an ex-president.”
“Two ex-presidents,” said Barent with a smile. “And the chancellor of West Germany. But that is not so important. We will have the next president.”
“The next president? Jesus Christ, didn’t you just put one in?”
“Yes, but he is old,” said Trask and the others laughed as if it were a favorite in-joke.
“Seriously,” said Barent, “this is your year, Mr. Harod. When you help us clear up the details of this Charleston mess, nothing will remain in your way to full membership.”
“What details?”
“First, help us ascertain that William D. Borden a.k.a. Herr Wilhelm von Borchert is dead. We will continue our own inquiries. Perhaps his body will be recovered soon. You may help us simply by eliminating other possibilities if any arise.”
“All right. What else?”
“Second, carry out a much more thorough search of Mr. Borden’s estate before anymore . . . ah . . . vultures descend. Make sure that he has left absolutely nothing which could embarrass anyone.”
“I’m flying back to night,” said Harod. “I’ll go back to Willi’s place in the morning.”
“Excellent. Third, and finally, we would like your assistance in dealing with this final Charleston detail.”
“What’s that?”
“The person who killed Nina Drayton and who almost certainly is responsible for the death of your friend Willi. Melanie Fuller.”
“You think she’s still alive?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to help find her?”
“No,” said Colben. “We’ll find her.”
“What if she’s left the country? I would if I were her.”
“We will find her,” said Colben. “If you don’t want me to find her, what do you want me to do?”
“We want you to be present when she is apprehended,” said Colben. “We want you to cancel her policy.”
“Neutralize her,” said Trask with a thin smile. “Terminate her with extreme prejudice,” said Kepler.
Harod blinked and looked to the window where Barent stood. The tall man turned and smiled. “It is time to pay your dues, Mr. Harod. We will find the lady for you. Then we want you to kill the meddling bitch.”
Harod and Maria Chen had to fly out of Dulles International in order to get a direct flight to Los Angeles before the Red Eye Special. The flight was delayed twenty minutes by mechanical problems. Harod badly wanted a drink. He hated to fly. He hated to put himself at anyone’s mercy and that was precisely what flying always had meant to him. He knew the statistics which showed how safe it was to fly. They meant nothing to him. He had clear images of wreckage strewn across several acres, of twisted pieces of metal still white-hot from flame, of bits of bodies lying pink and red in the grass like slices of salmon drying in the sun. Poor Willi, he thought.
“Why don’t they serve the fucking drinks before takeoff, when we need them?” he said. Maria Chen smiled.
The runway lights were on by the time they finally rolled into their takeoff run, but once above the solid layer of clouds there were a few final minutes of sunlight. Harod opened his briefcase and removed a heavy stack of scripts. There were five possible screenplays on his lap. Two were too long, over 150 pages, so he tossed those back into his briefcase unread. One had an unreadable first page so he set it aside. He was eight pages into the fourth manuscript when the stewardess approached to get their drink orders.
“Vodka on the rocks,” said Harod. Maria Chen declined a drink. Harod looked up at the young stewardess when she returned with his drink. It was his opinion that one of the most asinine acts in corporate history occurred when airlines surrendered to sex discrimination charges and began hiring men as stewards. Even the stewardesses seemed older and homelier to Harod these days. Not this one. She was young and well-scrubbed-looking, not the usual airlines mannequin, and pleasingly sexy in a peasant girl way. She looked Scandinavian. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and lightly flushed cheeks replete with freckles. Her breasts were full, perhaps too full for her height, and they pressed nicely against her gold and blue blazer.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Harod as she set his glass on the small tray in front of him. He touched her hand as she straightened up. “What’s your name?”
“Kristen.” She smiled, but the effect was offset by the speed with which she had pulled her hand away. “My friends call me Kris.”
“Well, Kris, sit down here a second.” Harod patted the wide arm of his chair. “Let’s talk a minute.”
Kristen smiled again, but it was a perfunctory smile, almost mechanical. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re running behind s
chedule and I have to get the meals ready.”
“I’m reading a movie script here,” said Harod. “I’ll probably end up producing it. There’s a part in here that sounds like it was written for a beautiful little Mädchen like you.”
“Thanks, but I really have to help Laurie and Curt with the meals.” Harold grasped her wrist as she started to leave. “Would it kill you to bring me another vodka and ice before you get it on with Curt and Laurie?”
She pulled her arm away slowly, obviously resisting the temptation to rub the wrist that he had squeezed tightly. She did not smile.
The second drink had not come by the time a smiling Laurie delivered Harod’s dinner of steak and lobster. He did not eat it. It was dark outside and the port running lights were blinking redly at the end of the wing. Harod switched on an overhead reading light but finally put away the screenplay. He watched as Kristen moved efficiently to and fro. It was Curt who cleared away Harod’s untouched meal. “Care for some more coffee, sir?”
Harod said nothing. He watched as the blond stewardess bantered with a businessman and brought a pillow for a sleepy five-year-old two rows in front of Harod.
“Tony,” began Maria Chen. “Shut up,” said Harod.
He waited until Curt and Laurie were busy elsewhere and Kristen was alone near the forward rest room. Then Harod rose. The girl turned in the aisle to let him squeeze by but otherwise did not seem to notice him.
The rest room was unoccupied. Harod stepped in and then opened the door to peer back around the corner.
“Excuse me, miss?”
“Yes?” Kristen looked up from stowing trays. “The water doesn’t seem to be running in here.”
“No water pressure?”
“No water at all,” said Harod. He stepped aside to let her enter. Over his shoulder he could see the first-class passengers listening to music on their earphones, reading, or dozing. Only Maria Chen was looking their way.
“It seems to be running all right now,” said the stewardess. Harod stepped in behind her and slid the bolt into place. Kristen straightened and turned. Harod gripped her upper arm before she spoke.
Stay quiet. Harod brought his face close to hers. The compartment was very small and the vibration of the jet engines pulsed through the bulkheads and metal counter.