Carrion Comfort

by Dan Simmons

  Saul stood so quickly that his chair went over backward. He leaned over the table and Natalie noticed the muscles under the tanned flesh of his forearms, the terrible scar on his left arm, the faded tattoo. His voice was lower when he spoke again, but not calmer; the ferocity was simply under control now. “Natalie, this entire century has been a miserable melodrama written by third-rate minds at the expense of other people’s souls and lives. We can’t stop it. Even if we put an end to these . . . these aberrations, it will only shift the spotlight to some other carrion-eating actor in this violent farce. These things are done every day by people with no shred of this absurd psychic ability . . . people exercising power in the form of violence by right of their place, position, by bullet or ballot or the point of their knife blade . . . but by God these sons of bitches hurt our family, our friends, and we’re going to stop them.” Saul stopped, leaned on his hands, and lowered his head. Sweat dripped to the table.

  Natalie touched his hand. “Saul,” she said softly, “I know. I’m sorry. We’re very tired. We need sleep.”

  He nodded, patted her hand, and rubbed his cheeks. “You get a few hours’ sleep. I’m going to bed down on the roll-away in the observation room. I have the sensors programmed to set off the alarm when Harod wakes. With luck, both of us can get seven hours’ sleep.”

  Natalie flicked off the light and walked with him to the bottom of the stairs. As she started up she paused and said, “This means that we definitely have to go ahead with the next part, don’t we? Charleston?”

  Saul nodded tiredly. “I think so. I see no other way. I am sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” said Natalie although her skin tightened with fear at the thought of what lay ahead. “I knew it would come to that.”

  Saul looked up at her. “It doesn’t have to.”

  “Yes,” said Natalie. She started slowly up the stairs, whispering the next sentence only to herself, “Yes, it does have to.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Los Angeles Friday,

  April 24, 1981

  Special Agent Richard Haines used a Bureau scrambler phone to contact Mr. Barent’s communications center in Palm Springs. He had no idea where Barent was when the billionaire answered the phone. “Richard, what do you have to report?”

  “Not much, sir,” said Haines. “The Bureau here has been keeping track of the local Israeli consulate— that’s standard procedure— but they don’t have any record of Cohen visiting either the consulate or the import office that is the Los Angeles front for in-county Mossad operatives. We’ve got a man in their operations here, and he swears that Cohen wasn’t here on business.”

  “That’s all you have?”

  “Not quite. We checked out the Long Beach motel and confirmed that Cohen was there. The day clerk said that he’d been driving a rental car the morning he checked in— Thursday the sixteenth— but that he’d had a van, the clerk was pretty sure that it was a Ford Econoline, when he checked out on Monday morning. One of the maids remembered that there were several large boxes— almost crate-size, she said— stored in his room on Saturday and Sunday. She said that one of them was labeled Hitachi.”

  “Electronics?” said Barent. “Surveillance equipment?”

  “Possibly,” said Haines, “but the Mossad usually provides that kind of equipment without buying it over the counter.”

  “What if Cohen was working alone . . . or for someone else?”

  “We’re going under that assumption right now,” said Haines. “Have you been able to ascertain whether Willi Borden was in the area?”

  “No, sir. We staked out his house again . . . it hasn’t been sold yet . . . but there’s no sign of him or Reynolds or Luhar.”

  “What about Harod?”

  “Well, we haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

  “What does that mean, Richard?”

  “Well, sir, we haven’t had any surveillance on Harod for several weeks and when we’ve tried to call yesterday and today, his secretary tells us that he’s out and she doesn’t know where he is. We have people over there today, but so far he hasn’t left his house or shown up on the Paramount set.”

  “I am somewhat disappointed, Richard.”

  Haines began to shake slightly down the length of his body. He propped his elbows on the desk and gripped the receiver tightly in both hands. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been difficult handling the Wyoming investigation while supervising the special team here in California.”

  “What else has come of the Wyoming search?”

  “Ah . . . nothing concrete, sir. We’re sure that Walters, the affected air force officer who . . .”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Well, Walters was in a Cheyenne bar on Tuesday evening. The bartender is pretty sure he remembers a group of men who included someone who fit Willi’s description . . .”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “It was very crowded, Mr. Barent. We’re assuming it was Willi. We’ve checked all of the hotels and motels in an expanding radius that’s reached Denver, but no one remembers seeing him or his two companions.”

  “This is becoming a litany of futile actions, Richard. Have you had any leads in discovering Willi’s current location?”

  “Well, sir, we have all airline. Amtrak, and bus line scheduling computers on alert should any of Willi’s entourage use a credit card or fly under their own names. We’ve expanded that alert to include the Jew psychiatrist who probably died in Philly, and the Preston girl. We have Customs covered; it’s an A-l priority on the Bureau’s weekly list. And there are alerts to each of our regional offices and their local liaisons . . .”

  “I know all of this, Richard,” Barent said softly. “I asked if there were any new leads.”

  “Not since we got the trace on Jack Cohen’s computer incursions last Tuesday.”

  “You still believe that Cohen was being Used by Willi?”

  “I don’t know anyone else who would be exploring connections between Reverend Sutter, Mr. Kepler, and yourself, sir.”

  “Perhaps we were premature in . . . ah . . . greeting Mr. Cohen the way we did upon his return.”

  Haines said nothing. The visible shaking had stopped, but a slick sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip.

  “What about the gas station receipt, Richard?”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir. We checked that out. The own er says that it’s very busy, he can’t remember everyone who stops there. We confirmed through his credit card carbons that it was Cohen. The boy who filled out the credit card form has a week off and is backpacking in the Santa Ana Mountains somewhere. It’s a long shot anyway . . .”

  “It seems to me, Richard, that it is time you began following up on the long shots. I want Willi Borden found and I want the Cohen connection nailed down. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I would hate to become so disappointed that I had to call you back here for disciplinary action, Richard.”

  Haines used the sleeve of his Joseph Banks poplin sports coat to wipe the sweat from his face. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now did you not mention that you considered it a possibility that the Israelis had a safe house . . . or more than one . . . near Los Angeles. Ones that your Bureau would not have yet discovered?”

  “Uh . . . I said it was possible, Mr. Barent. It doesn’t seem very likely.”

  “But it is possible?”

  “Yessir. You see, a couple of years ago there was this middle-level Al Fatah Palestinian who’d been the accountant for Black September. He agreed to defect to the U.S.A., but the CIA agents he’d thought he was dealing with were actually Cohen’s Mossad. So they brought this man to the States, let him see that he was in L.A., and then spirited him away somewhere where neither the CIA nor the Bureau could find them to . . .”

  “Richard, this is irrelevant. You have reason to believe that there might be another safe house somewhere near Los Angeles?”

  “Yessir.”

  “An
d it might be near the San Juan Capistrano gas station.”

  “Yessir, but it might be anywhere.”

  “All right, Richard. Here is what you will do. First, you will immediately go to Mr. Harod’s house and conduct a thorough interrogation . . . I emphasize thorough, Richard . . . of Miss Chen. If Harod is there, interrogate him. If he is not there, find him. Second, you will utilize the full resources of your Los Angeles Bureau station and what ever other local resources are necessary to find that backpacking gas station attendant and any other witnesses you may want to question. I want to know precisely what vehicle Mr. Cohen was driving, who was with him, and what direction they went from this particular gas station. Third, begin a survey of electronics supply stores in the Long Beach and surrounding areas. Find out if Jack Cohen or Willi purchased anything there. Fourth, re-interrogate the maids and clerks at the Long Beach motel to discover the smallest bits of additional information. You may use what ever form of persuasion you deem necessary.

  “Finally, I will offer some help from this end. A dozen of Joseph’s plumbers will be sent out this afternoon to aid you in your . . . ah . . . confidential investigations. Also, we will find out about that additional safe house. I will have that information to you within twenty-four hours.

  Haines rubbed his eyebrows. “But how . . .” He shut up.

  C. Arnold Barent’s chuckle sounded static-filled over the scrambled circuit. “Richard, you certainly don’t believe that you and Charles were my only sources of information? If all else fails, I will telephone certain . . . ah . . . contacts I have within the Israeli government. Because of the time difference, it may be tomorrow morning before I have a specific address for you. Do not wait that long. Begin a search of the area around San Juan Capistrano this afternoon. Check land sales records, homes that are unattended much of the year . . . simply drive around and look for a dark Econoline van if nothing else occurs to you. Remember, you are looking for a private dwelling in a secure area, most probably away from residential areas.”

  “Yessir,” said Haines. “I will be back to you as soon as possible,” said C. Arnold Barent. “And Richard?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Do not disappoint me again.”

  “No, sir,” said Richard Haines.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Los Angeles Saturday,

  April 25, 1981

  Harod 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.