by Winona Kent
Copy Two was far more ingenious. He took out his pocket calculator. It was a wafer-thin item with twelve memory circuits and the capacity to undo the stubbornest of locks (combination or electronic), trace telephone numbers, and act as a timing device for explosive detonations, should such functions ever be required of it. In its more innocent moments, Evan’s Mr. Chips was engaged in the rather mundane process of totting up agents’ percentages and calculating how much income tax he was going to have to pay that year.
He keyed in the codes, spreading them throughout the twelve memory cells, switched off the reader, and stuck the strip of microfilm onto the back of his Visa card with a sliver of Scotch tape, flush with the magnetized band. He replaced card and calculator in his wallet.
What he needed now was a mole—a person to do a little undercover detective work for him down at the station.
Robin was sleeping. His father slouched in the chair beside the bed, keeping watch, trying to remember what it was like to be nineteen and facing something as terrifying as the past twenty-four hours must have been for his son.
He yawned. Robin was flat on his stomach, shot full of-Demerol, most of the pillows tumbled aside. He stirred slightly, and Evan sat up, wondering if he’d wake. Visiting hours were over at eight; it was already five past seven, and there were one or two rather important questions he had to ask before he retired back to his hotel for the night. False alarm; Robin slept on. Evan settled back in the chair again, not wanting to wrench him out of his induced sleep.
He studied Robin’s face. He looked like his mother. Not totally—those were his own eyebrows and his thick, red-flecked eyelashes. That was his chin. But the rest was undeniably Gwennie.
Except his hair…and those undeniable blue eyes. God knew what little-known ancestral crevice that had crept out from. Evan yawned again, reached across to the bed, and borrowed one of the pillows, tucking it in behind his head. The warm, slightly sweet-smelling hospital air was slowly winning the battle with sleep. Would they forgive him, he wondered, for putting his feet up on the bed? With a quick glance at the door, he slipped off his shoes.
Just for a few minutes. Just until Robin woke up.
Over in Buchanan B, Robin’s English class had convened for the morning. Textbooks out, his fellow students sat ready around the square of tables. Oral examination, worth fifty percent of the final mark. Piers Plowman. The Prologue. It was Robin’s turn to read aloud.
“In a somer seson whan soft was the sonne,
I shope me in shroudes as I a shepe were,
In habite as an heremite unholy of workes;
Went wyde in this world wondres to here.”
He picked his way through the text, proceeding slowly, carefully, aiming for correct pronunciation, proper inflection. His classmates sat around him, idly doodling in their books, unconcerned with his progress.
“Explain!” barked the teacher, interrupting him.
Robin glanced up. What did it mean? What was he talking about? This was a foreign language—from another country, another century. He couldn’t explain.
“You know,” somebody whispered. “You know it all.”
Frightened, he looked down the table. It was the woman with the hair. Her eyes blazed at him.
“Tell me!” said the teacher, and Robin jerked his head up again. Berringer.
No, he thought, I can’t—I can’t.
“What does it mean?”
“In the summer…the sun shone…” Stop. Stop.
“Continue reading!”
“Ac on a May mornynge on Malverne hülles,
Me byfel a ferly of fairy, me thoughte.
I was wery forwandred and went me to reste
Under a brode banke bi a bornes side,
And as I lay and lened and loked in the wateres,
I slombred in a slepyng; it sweyved so merye.”
“What does it mean?”
Robin’s eyes flew around the room, his heart wild. He knew.
“You know,” Rosie whispered.
“You know!” Berringer thundered, striding toward him from the front of the classroom, whipping the strap through the air. “You know! Tell me!”
“Hülles…hills…hills in May…no…I don’t know! I don’t! I don’t!”
He jerked awake, his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing rapid, terrified. He was sweating. He buried his head under a pillow, waiting for the world to slow down, for his blood to stop surging and the adrenaline to end its demolition-derby scream through his body.
“Robin.”
There was a hand on his wrist; he pulled away, the nightmare still horrifically real.
“Robin,” his father said again. Robin pushed the pillow aside, only partially convinced that the seminar room, with its grueling exam and apathetic students, did not exist.
“Was I saying things?” he asked. His voice and mind were still hazy and not totally connected with one another.
“You were making some rather odd noises, yes.”
“This is what happens when you spend too much time studying the Age of Chaucer,” he said. “You start to dream in stupid Middle English.”
Evan smiled, remembering his own somewhat disjointed literary education. “All I seem to be able to recall is The Wife of Bath,” he said, “and I cheated—I bought the Penguin translation.” He sat down in the chair again, glancing at his watch. Twenty-five past seven. “How are you otherwise? Hills in May and Middle English aside.”
“Oh,” Robin said, “it could be worse.” Not much worse. He could barely move: the joints in his shoulders, elbows, knees, wrists were swollen and stiff. Those bastards. What he’d like to do to them. He closed his eyes.
“Robin,” Evan said, leaning forward, pressing the tips of his fingers together.
Robin opened his eyes again. His father looked good: he’d put on a tweedy sports coat, a blue pullover, and gray trousers. He’d shaved. He’d combed his hair. He smelled like the men’s toiletries aisle at London Drugs.
“I have to ask you some questions.”
“Oh.” He remembered. Anthony had warned him. Debriefing. That was what it was called in spy circles. Now you will tell us everything you know. Back to the nightmare. He swallowed.
“I have to ask you about Berringer and Grosch, what they said to you, what you said to them.”
“OK.” The back of his throat was aching.
Evan pulled his chair closer, wishing he didn’t have to do this. But if he waited, certain details might be lost—buried by the mind, part of the healing process. This way, at least, he could get it over and done with.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, “after you left Anthony and you were walking back to your car.”
After Evan left, Robin tried to sleep, but every question his father had asked kept bubbling up to the top of his mind, along with all his answers. He rolled onto his side, catching his breath and digging his fingers into the pillow as the bruises along his rib cage were pressed into the hard hospital mattress.
“They wanted to know who had the robot,” he’d told Evan. “They kept going back to that. Who did I give it to?…Who did I give it to?”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said it was stolen.” He’d glanced up at his father just then, and caught the expression on his face, the look in his eyes. Guilt. “I stuck to the story.”
“All the way?”
Robin had nodded. “All the way.”
“Good fellow.”
Evan had written some of the answers down; others, he had let go, keeping them at the back of his mind, or discarding them—Robin wasn’t sure which. Everything seemed important. He searched his memory of the night, trying to remember.
“They knew things, Evan. They knew Rosie gave me the robot. They knew I had it, all along.”
“How?” Evan was interested.
“Berringer said somebody had seen Rosie and me together. He said not to concern myself, because I didn’t know who the person was.”
“‘The person,’” Evan said. “He used those words? No gender identification?”
“‘The person,’” Robin confirmed.
Evan studied the pattern on the linoleum floor. Who else had Rosie been in contact with that day?
“Can you remember anything else?”
Robin nodded. He was trying to recall the words, the name. “It was near the end,” he said. “They might have thought I was unconscious…they were talking.” He stopped, and swallowed, forcing the terrible ache away. He’d been so close to giving in.
Evan raised his head and waited until his son was ready to go on.
“They were talking,” Robin said.
“About what?”
“Something like—if I didn’t break down, what they were going to do.” He shut his eyes, concentrating, trying to remember. “Somebody wouldn’t be very pleased with them.”
“Man or woman?”
“Woman.”
“Were any names mentioned?”
Robin tried to picture the sounds the words had made…how they looked, written out. R…A…M…
“Mara,” he said. “Her name was Mara.”
Evan thought long and hard. Didn’t sound familiar. Another codename? He’d check with Donnie.
“There was somebody else. One of them made a joke—about Mara. About her eternal reward—Shirda.”
Another blank. Both names were faintly exotic—like the Hare Krishnas who used to hand out plastic flowers and wonderfully illustrated but totally incomprehensible books at LAX.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” Robin said, opening his eyes. One half hour talking with his father, remembering, going over all of the details, had drained him. He was empty. “Except…I asked about Rosie. I asked Berringer if he killed her.”
“What did he say?”
“He said no, and then told Grosch to start hitting me again.” He glanced up at his father, eyes trusting. “You think they still want me, Evan? You think they’ll come after me?”
“They’ll have to find you first.”
His answer struck Robin as funny. He laughed, a little bitterness creeping into his voice. “They’ve managed to do that already once this week, haven’t they?”
Evan was studying the floor again. He’d get somebody from the department assigned to keep an eye on him.
“I think you’ll be all right,” he said. He looked at his watch. Visiting hours were nearly over. Outside, in the corridor, there were voices—that hushed tone reserved for hospitals and churches. Feet shuffled on the linoleum.
“I’m hungry.”
“Are you?” Evan said, a little surprised. “Didn’t they feed you this evening?”
“I think I slept through supper.”
Evan patted the pocket of his jacket. He had half a Skor bar, left over from his own dinner. “Here,” he said, peeling the paper wrapper down like the outside of a banana. He had a thought, and smiled. “Happy Birthday.”
“You missed it by a couple of months.”
“I know—I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK.” He bit into the crunchy center.
“Robin,” his father began, “how well do you know the people down at CGUL?”
His son thought for a moment. “Fairly well.”
“Would you say that you could move with comparative ease throughout the station and not arouse suspicion?”
“Maybe.” The toffee was sticking to his back teeth: he dug at the chocolate-coated candy with his tongue. “Why?”
“I need a map. A detailed one: a diagram of the station’s layout—offices, filing drawers, hallways, where doors go, everything labeled. And who’s there at night—on-air staff, cleaning people. Do you think you could do that for me?”
“You want me to go down there?”
Evan nodded. “Visit Rolf. Use any pretext.”
“When?”
“Before Friday.”
Robin smiled. “Evan,” he said. “I can barely move. How can I possibly creep around a radio station doing undercover reconnaissance work for you when I need help just to get over to the bathroom?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of a way.”
Robin looked at him. “Why don’t you ask Ian? He’s Rolfie’s best buddy now that he’s decided to embrace the decadent capitalist free-enterprise system.”
His father shook his head. “Can’t use Ian,” he said. “Unfortunately.”
“Why not?”
Evan paused. “Ian’s too close to the problem.”
“Star Tech?”
He nodded. “I have to stop an ad from airing early Saturday morning.” He looked at his son. “Think you can manage the map?”
Robin peeled the wrapper down further and took another bite. “I don’t know when they’ll let me out of here,” he said, his mouth full of chocolate.
“If it’s before Friday?”
“OK.” The idea of his being up and walking around by the end of the week seemed rather remote. But if his father wanted to recruit him, and if his father thought the possibility existed—
Evan felt that twinge of guilt again. Best not tell Robin that the person this most concerned, on a rather significant level, was Rolf. The man had been a part of his son’s life for the past seventeen years: how Robin would react to the news of his possible affiliation with the KGB was an unknown variable.
He got to his feet, legs and back stiff from sitting in one place too long. “I’ll try to come and see you again tomorrow,” he said. “I can’t promise.”
“OK.”
“Sleep well,” he said, touching his son’s head. “You did a good job.”
And now—sleep wouldn’t come. If he thought about it, he could still feel the spot where his father’s fingers had brushed his hair. All Robin’s good-byes and hellos in the past had somehow been made less painful by lack of physical contact. He liked building walls. He felt safe behind them. Departure gates were easier to approach when there were no hard emotions to get in the way.
He pulled the pillow over his head again and licked all the way around the candy bar Evan had given him, savoring the smooth, sweet chocolate and the hard core of buttercrunch underneath. Something was happening. It was a warm, curious sort of feeling—one that at the same time made the back of his throat begin to ache again. Why?
What was so terrible about finding out that your father cared? And what was so terribly hard about wanting to love him back?
Chapter Eight
Wednesday
It was Jennifer. Gwennie opened the door, a little surprised to see her eldest son’s housemate shivering on her front step at that time of the morning. Why wasn’t she at work?
“Come in,” she said, hurrying her into the warm hallway, shutting the door to keep out the chilly, threatening-to-rain day. “Anthony’s here.”
“Hi,” Jennifer said, poking her head into the living room.
“Hi,” Anthony answered.
Jennifer gave Gwennie her coat and followed her through to the kitchen. She sat down at the breakfast nook and lit a cigarette while Gwennie put the kettle on.
Their voices drifted out of the kitchen. Anthony listened with only vague interest: he was fast-forwarding through the Spy Squad collection, searching for that one episode.
“I know where he went,” Jennifer told Gwennie, rubbing the long, brilliantly red nails of her right hand with the fingertips of her left. “What I don’t know is why. That’s what’s got me worried.”
Gwennie leaned against the countertop beside the stove, her arms folded. “Well, he did ring me last night to tell me he was going down to the States for a few days—something to do with his work. Did he leave without telling you?”
“I was at aerobics,” Jennifer replied, disparagingly. “I got a note. Taped to the bathroom mirror. ‘Called away to the States on business, don’t worry, back soon, love, Ian.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. How can I not worry when I know he’s gone there?”
“Where
?” Gwennie asked, perplexed.
“To this place. There’s an article on it in yesterday’s paper. New Dehra Dun—that’s what it’s called. This—I don’t know—this weird guy runs it.”
Gwennie looked at Jennifer. The surest way to drive Ian mad was to cluck over him like a mother. He’d left home for precisely that reason at eighteen, craving independence and an end to the questions concerning his whereabouts and companions. Evan was right: she would give them complexes if she didn’t stop.
“Do you want to know what I think?”
Jennifer looked at her, lips glossed and pouty.
“I think he’s gone to talk to that fellow about some sort of advertising deal. You know how those dreadful salesmen go on and on after the news. I expect he’s popped down to have a little chat with the man about buying some air time.”
“No,” said Jennifer, with an adamant shake of her head. “You don’t understand. He’s been talking about this man for months. He’s obsessed. The guy has power, wealth—he’s very rich.”
Gwennie stared at her feet, uncertain what to think about Ian, or Jennifer. On the stove, the teakettle was beginning to boil, whistling away like a tiny enameled steam engine.
In the living room, Anthony listened as his mother took the kettle from the stove and poured the boiling water into the teapot. He got up from the floor and went to the wooden box by the fireplace, where the old newspapers were kept. Last night’s Sun was on the top of the stack; he reached in and pulled out all the sections, carrying them back to his spot in front of the television.
“He calls himself a High Bagraj,” Jennifer was saying. “His followers believe in renouncing all their worldly possessions and donating all their money to the cause. That’s sinister enough for me, Gwennie. God knows what kind of mind control they exercise over you once you get down there.”
On the television screen, Jarrod Spencer and his capable cohorts, Mandy and Huff, had been captured by an evil scientist bent on ruling the world. In order to accomplish this, the nefarious and nearsighted gentleman in the white lab coat had taken over an important satellite tracking station high in the mountains of Colorado. Only one more set of coordinates needed to be obtained, and his mission would be termed a success. Feverishly, he adjusted dials and flicked switches, comparing the jumble of readouts with a list he had fixed to his oversized clipboard.