Chameleon

by William Diehl

  When he reached the top, O'Hara was instantly overwhelmed by the eeriness. It was not so much the place as the ambience of the place: the hooded monk, a faceless specter bent over the crank of the basket; the monastery itself, an adobe maze commanding the cramped mountain top like some medieval gaol, its squat, weather-scarred buildings, connected haphazardly by roofed walkways; and underscoring it all, a chilling and constant moaning pierced by an occasional scream that reminded O'Hara of Dante's description of the torments of hell.

  Billy and the Magician were huddled in the low arched doorway of what appeared to be the main building.

  "I am Frère Clef," the hooded monk said.

  "O'Hara. This is Mike Rothschild, and you know Billy."

  "Oui. Bonsoir, mon ami."

  "Bonsoir," the Haitian replied.

  Frère Clef turned back to O'Hara. "You should know that those who have joined our order have taken a vow of silence," he said. "I am the gatekeeper. By tradition, I alone may converse with visitors."

  He spoke softly, his accent a hybrid. British, a touch of French, perhaps even a bit of Spanish.

  "We understand you are here to see the man with the umbrella and that you are sympathetic with his plight."

  "That's correct," O'Hara said.

  "Bon. Please follow me."

  Billy elected to wait in the grim anteroom while the monk led O'Hara and the Magician along walkways that protected them from the rain. They went down through the catacomb-like monastery, past doors with barred windows, and suddenly O'Hara realized where the wailing was coming from and why, and the name of the place made sense for the first time.

  La Montagne des Yeux Vides: the Mountain of the Empty Eyes.

  Well-named. Lifeless eyes peered out at them from behind bars, arms reached out to touch them, and with each crack of lightning, a chorus of woe arose from the lips of inmates.

  The monastery was an insane asylum, the silent monks its caretakers.

  The Magician cast O'Hara an apprehensive look and rolled his eyes heavenward.

  Another crack of lightning, another chorus from the damned.

  They entered the last of the buildings and went down a short flight of wide stone stairs. Torches flickered in sconces on the bare walls of the grim, winding hallway. The building, chilled by rain and wind, smelled dank and foreboding.

  The hooded man stopped at the first cell. "I have told him you are coming," he said. "But his reaction may be ... a bit startling."

  "Frère Clef, is Danilov insane?"

  "You didn't know? Oh yes, Brother Umbrella is quite mad. He seeks repentance in his madness." The monk peered through the barred door. "You will find that he ... what is the word—meanders? He meanders in and out of the real world."

  "Are you treating him?" the Magician asked.

  "I am afraid those who have been sent to Les Yeux Vides are beyond treatment. Brother Umbrella was brought to us by friends, but he asked to be secluded here."

  "He asked to be brought here?" said the Magician.

  "Yes. He was suffering extreme paranoia and had become occasionally irrational. He thought everyone was trying to kill him. He even believes his umbrella is deadly."

  Believes! O'Hara thought. Obviously the monks of Les Yeux Vides did not know who Danilov really was. Or care. And they thought his deadly umbrella was harmless.

  "How long has he been here?" O'Hara asked.

  "Four months. And since coming here, he has slipped further away from reality." He pointed to a bell beside the door. "You may ring the bell when you are finished. Oh, one other thing. He believes this is his home. He does not realize he is one of them. Good luck."

  The monk unlocked the door and slid back the large shot-bolt lock.

  "Monsieur, you have guests," he said and padded silently back up the stairs.

  They entered the room cautiously, remaining near the door, and their eyes were assaulted by flickering candlelight. Candles were everywhere, casting a ghoulish yellow light over Danilov's cell—or cells—for it was actually two cells connected by an arch carved through the stone wall. The main room was a surprise: there was a large oak table, pushed against the wall opposite the arch, covered with papers and notebooks; a large bookcase, choked with books in many languages against another wall; a cot with several down pillows opposite it; a small table beside the cot; a high-backed chair at the desk, and two others shoved haphazardly in corners. The walls were covered with maps, photographs of flowers and wild animals, and a small black-and-white photograph of downtown Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, which appeared to be a dismal, grim-looking city.

  The other room contained a bed, a night table and a large, bulky free-standing closet. Nothing more.

  There was a large vase of daisies on the floor near the desk, where Danilov was sitting, pen in hand, bent over a sheaf of papers and writing furiously.

  "Un moment, un moment," he said with the wave of a hand. And when he had finished what he was working on, he turned around. His face told the whole story, for here was a man haunted by his own ghosts, driven to insanity by age, conscience and fear; an assassin, urged further into madness by his own bizarre, self-imposed imprisonment; a madman sequestered among madmen, totally oblivious of his predicament. His cabbage-face was drawn and sunken. Self-destruction lurked in eyes that were listless one moment, bright as a diamond the next. His hair, what there was of it, had turned pure-white and clung, in sweat-matted disarray, to his skull. His palsied hands were knotted with arthritis. Beads of perspiration clung to his worn-out face. He was wearing a pair of soiled, hopelessly wrinkled white pants and a white dress shirt, open almost to the waist.

  "Parlez-vous français? Habla Usted español? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

  "English. We speak English."

  "English," he said, "so you are Englishmen, then?" He spoke the language well, although with a guttural accent.

  "Americans."

  "Americans!" He stared at them suspiciously and then said, in a fevered and annoyed tone, "Yes, yes, what is it? I'm a busy man. Can't you see I'm busy? Eh? Look at this desk, just look at it! Projects, projects, pro—Never enough hours in the day to get ... My secretary ... I haven't seen ... uh, she's off on holiday. That bitch."

  He frantically moved papers around on the desk.

  "Danilov?" O'Hara said.

  The haunted man peered at him through the flickering candlelight. "I know you," he said. There was panic in his voice. "You're here to kill me." He backed into the corner of his cell-like room, whimpering like a scared puppy, holding his umbrella in front of him, its point gleaming dangerously. O'Hara backed away from the deadly weapon.

  "I want to help you," O'Hara said.

  "I don't want help. Get away from me. You're one of them."

  "One of whom?"

  Danilov's mood changed suddenly. "Don't try to—You think I'm a fool? How did you get—All right, all right, where's Security? Security! How did you get—Security! They sold me ... sold me ... Oh, those bastards ..." He closed his eyes and beat one fist on his knee.

  "Nobody sold you out, Danilov. I promise you, your secret is safe with us. I've been on the dodge myself—for over a year."

  Danilov's mood changed again. He giggled and spoke in mock musical tones. "Don't believe you," he said, as if he were singing a song. "You lie. Everyone lies. Did you know that lying is an art?"

  He waited for an answer, his eyebrows raised, then went on, "In the KGB they teach lying, like they teach point in ballet. Basic. Basic!" A long pause. "Who are you? I do know you, don't I?"

  "We've never met officially. My name's O'Hara."

  "O'Hara ... O'Hara ... Irish, eh? IRA?"

  "American."

  "Yesyesyesyoutoldmethatallrightallright," he babbled in frustration. Then, just as quickly, he became almost playful again. "Well, slip the doodle-do, right?" He leaned on the umbrella and danced a jig around it. "The cock-a-doodle-do." He raised his head and crowed like a rooster.

  "Mad as a fuckin' hatter," the M
agician whispered. "Let's get the hell outa here. This guy's absolutely tutti-fruiti, off-the-wall, bananas, Sailor."

  "We didn't come all the way up here to end up with nothing, Magician." O'Hara raised his voice and called out, "Mr. Danilov?"

  The little man stopped and peered forlornly over his shoulder at O'Hara.

  "We have a similar problem, Mr. Danilov."

  The little man stopped his dance and looked at O'Hara quizzically. "Oh, really? The soil up here ... terrible, terrible. But ... I have prevailed, sir." He pointed to the daisies. "Grown in pure rock. This place is a veritable Gibraltar. But ... I did ... prevail."

  "My problem is not gardening," O'Hara said.

  "Oh?"

  "My problem is, my own section chief sanctioned me."

  Danilov looked at him with suspicion. Then his mind began to shift; there was a glimmer of recognition, perhaps. "Happens all the time," he said. "When you trust someone, that's the one not to trust. I call it my reversal theory, eh? Or is it the other way around?"

  "We want to help you, Danilov."

  "To do what?"

  "Do you know why you're here?"

  "Peace. Serenity. I don't want to leave here. I like it here. No surprises anymore. I can't stand surprises. Can't stand ... wondering. Every day is the same here. Food is the same. People are the same. I have a garden, just outside there. But it's raining. Later, perhaps, we can take a stroll. Perhaps in the morning. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps ... Time will tell, eh? Are you a guest here too?"

  He skittered close to O'Hara and said in a low voice, "I must warn you, the food is wretched. But the service, ah, the service ... superb. Absolutely ... superb. Not a lot of jibber-jabber, and quite prompt. Certainly not ... not of course, of course not ... absolutely not the Plaza or the Savoy, but then, the food was never any good in Egypt, either. Do you travel?"

  "I'm leaving," the Magician whispered. "I listen to much more of this, I'll be certifiable."

  O'Hara ignored him and pressed the point. "Mr. Dan-lov, do you know who I am?"

  Danilov strolled the room again, studying O'Hara's candle-jaundiced face flickering before him. "My friend? My brother? My teacher, my priest, my driver, my enemy? L'ennemi, yes. My ... own ... executioner."

  "Do you know who I am?" O'Hara insisted.

  The mad Bulgarian sat down again and pursed his lips. "I was always very good at tests," he said, still pondering, and then he said, "You're the one they call the Sailor."

  O'Hara was taken aback. "That's right," he said with surprise.

  "And you," he said to the Magician, "are the one with the hotel."

  "Be damned," the Magician said.

  Danilov turned back to O'Hara. "You ditched it."

  "Right again."

  "Ditched it. Yes, I remember you. I ditched it too. Not an easy thing to do."

  "Why do you think that is?"

  "Because they don't want that. It's unsafe. They prefer to give you the long sleep."

  "Who is 'they'?"

  "The faceless ones, telephone voices, kill this one, kill that one. For what reason? Never mind. Oh, excuse me, excusez-moi, monsieur."

  "Who is Chameleon?"

  "I know and I don't know."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Everybody, nobody. He is a chameleon. The chameleon is never what it seems."

  "What do you know about Master?"

  He became cautious again. His eyes flicked around the room. "It's very dangerous, you know, to underestimate them."

  "Underestimate whom? You mean Master?"

  "They're philosophical racists. Couldn't do it. Wouldn't do it and now ... no place left for me but here. It is my ... rabbit hole."

  "Why did you run, Danilov?"

  "Too old. Arthritis." He held up his deformed hands. "Senseless. Too many faces. The jolly fat man in the rain ... you can't retire. No such thing as quitting. When you are no longer useful, they dispose of you. Understand? They shove you down the ... what do you call it?"—he made a sound like brrrttt—"... garbage disposal."

  "And the only reason Master wants you dead is because you got arthritis?"

  Danilov nodded ruefully. "Yes, the unpardonable. To get sick. Tried to keep them from finding out. But eventually there were ... things I couldn't do anymore."

  He dry-washed his hands, over and over. Then he said, "I failed them. No such thing ... failure."

  "How did you fail them?"

  "Chameleon."

  "What about Chameleon?"

  "I missed Chameleon."

  "Missed him? Were you trying to kill him?"

  "Oh yes."

  "Did Quill tell you to kill Chameleon?"

  "You must find the ant before you can step on it."

  "Did Quill tell you to find Chameleon?"

  Danilov nodded slowly. He was staring at one of the candle flames, as though hypnotized.

  "And that's the reason?"

  He nodded. "Failure. They wanted me to do that job in Hawaii, too, but I was too far away. Couldn't hold that against me."

  "What job in Hawaii?"

  "The man with the pictures from the Thoreau."

  O'Hara looked at the Magician, his eyebrows rising into question marks.

  "You mean the oil rig that sank?" the Magician asked.

  "Yes. Where we lost Thornby."

  "You mean Thornley, the British agent?" said O'Hara.

  "Yes, only he changed all that. Buried at sea, I understand. Poetic, don't you think?"

  "Did Thornley recruit you into Master?"

  "Yes. Paris. Three years ago. My first job was ... was ... Simmons. Texas. In Houston. Gave him the old whack with the umbrella. Dead in six hours. Heart attack. They never knew." He smiled and winked.

  "Let's get back to the Thoreau for a minute. Did they actually sink the Thoreau?"

  "Yes. With all hands. A hundred and some. Eighty million ... a hundred million dollars. It was a terrifying feat. All we lost was Thornby, hardly a fair trade, yes? Took out one of the legs with plastique."

  "And they wanted you to get pictures of the rig that someone else had taken, is that it?"

  "The photographs were of the pumping system. Very revolutionary. But they didn't want to see them, they just wanted them destroyed, and the chap that took them. All the same day. Quaint, eh?"

  "What do you mean, the same day?"

  "The same day they sank the Thoreau was the day they wanted me for the take-out in Hawaii. I suppose they got someone else to do it. I was in London, couldn't get out. Bad weather. Not surprising."

  "Danilov, who ordered the take-out on Chameleon?"

  "The phone."

  "Was it Quill?"

  "Yes."

  "Quill gave you a sanction on Chameleon?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "There are no reasons. There are never any reasons."

  "Can you guess?"

  "He has become a problem."

  "Doesn't he run Master?"

  He nodded.

  "So Quill wants to get rid of Chameleon and take over the whole operation?"

  Danilov shrugged. "There are no reasons," he said.

  Outside, the storm had subsided. Thunder still rumbled between the mountain peaks.

  "Where is Chameleon?"

  "I lost him."

  "Where did you lose him?"

  "Tokyo."

  "He lives in Tokyo?"

  Danilov shrugged again. "Perhaps."

  "So Quill ordered you to seek and destroy Chameleon and you followed him to Tokyo and lost him. Is that when you ran?"

  "No. Found him and lost him in Tokyo."

  "Where? Where did you lose him?"

  "On the street. Poof! he was gone."

  "How did you get on to him?"

  "Too long. One thing and another. Others failed before me."

  "Danilov, how many people have you killed for Master?"

  "How many?"

  "All right, who?"

  "S
immons in Houston, Richman in New York, Garcia in Los Angeles, a man in Teheran, another in Greece. And ... it was cold and rainy ... always cold and rainy ... jolly man. Fat. The boat man. This was in ... in ..." His memory had clouded over again.

  "Did anyone other than Quill ever give you an assignment?"

  "Cutout."

  "Who?"

  He shook his head. "Left a message at hotel. 'Your football tickets are at the box office.' That way I knew to get him at the arena."

  "Which one was this?"

  "Simmons. I remember now, the one in the rain ... that was in Japan. Bridges. Name was Bridges. The jolly shipbuilder. Fat man. Got him coming out of a restaurant."

  "Anyone else?"

  "I ... don't remember..."

  "Danilov, how did you recognize Chameleon in Tokyo?"

  "I ... don't remember ..."

  "And you've never met Quill."

  "Quill is a voice. Chameleon is a ghost. Midas is lost."

  "Midas? Who is Midas?"

  "Midas ..."

  "Is it a person? A place?"

  "I ... don't remember ..."

  He looked up very suddenly, sat straight up in the chair with his hands on his knees, the umbrella at his side. "The teacher will now recite Pound. You can recite Pound, can't you? What a strange name—Ezra. What a heavy burden to put on a son."

  "Danilov ..."

  And then he fell to his knees and began a bizarre litany: "Nabikov, Ivan, a street in Paris, on his way to work. Gregori, Georg, London, right in front of Parliament ..." and continued chanting the list of his victims.

  "You lost him, Sailor," said the Magician.

  "Damn!"

  "You got a lot."

  "He knows a lot more."

  "Not tonight. He's gone back in his rabbit hole."

  Danilov looked at them, his alabaster eyes twinkling with madness again. And roaring like a forest beast, he grabbed the umbrella and jumped up and began slashing at the candlesticks.

  "He's lost it, man. Let's get the shit outta here."

  O'Hara and the Magician backed toward the door as the madman continued to smash out the candles. He charged through the darkness when they reached the door, the deadly umbrella held like a spear before him. They ducked out the door and slammed it shut.

  "Wow!" said the Magician, "that was a cl—"

  The umbrella came slashing through the window in the door, its tip brushing O'Hara's hair. He fell sideways and slammed the bolt shut.