by Winona Kent
Charlotte swallowed. She looked in desperation at Anthony.
“It’s OK,” he said. But he didn’t sound very convinced about that.
Mara accompanied Charlotte to the door, the gun pointing at her back, aimed at a spot between her shoulders. What, oh what, was now going to become of Anthony?
Chapter Twelve
Early Thursday Evening
Without his audience, the High Bagraj of New Dehra Dun became a simple entity—a lone man—Larry Hamelin. Uncomplicated. Relaxed. The blissful smile faded and was replaced with a freshly lit cigarette. The robe became cumbersome. He moved about the room like someone who preferred the freedom of a jogging suit and Nikes. He sat down on the leather couch and assessed Anthony, who still stood before him, held firmly in place by the guard.
“You’re a cocky kid,” he said. “Just the type to come tumbling through my ceiling armed with a tape recorder and some wild story about trying to find your brother.” He blew a stream of foul-smelling smoke in their direction. Gitanes. “Why are you really here?”
Anthony wished the guy would let go of his arm. “I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “I was worried about Ian.”
“And you thought you’d find him up there?” Hamelin nodded at the overhead lights. “Try again.”
Anthony didn’t say anything.
“Melvyn,” Hamelin said, to the guard, “is this the individual you saw earlier, down by the airstrip?”
“It’s him,” the guard affirmed, tightening his grip.
So, they had spotted him. And chosen to do nothing. I should have known, Anthony thought. It was all too easy. Nobody’s hired help was that incompetent.
“And were you impressed by my collection of satellite dishes?” Hamelin inquired.
Anthony thought for a moment. “Actually,” he said, “I was more curious. What could you possibly be thinking of doing with all of them?”
Hamelin was enjoying his cigarette. “I bought them for the benefit of my followers,” he replied. “The better to enable them to see and hear the Shirda’s message, no matter where they happen to be in the world. I shortly plan to ship them out to the various branches of my community.”
“I didn’t know Dehra Dun had any branches,” Anthony said.
“It doesn’t. Yet. But by next week I anticipate all that will have changed. I have people trained and waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“The signal,” Hamelin replied, flicking a tube of ash into a glass dish on the floor by the side of the chesterfield. “The word.”
Anthony studied the man. He was a lot like the character he had created for “The Christopher Robin Caper,” except, of course, that the nefarious Dr. C.R. had been somewhat of a buffoon. The last thing Larry G. Hamelin could be mistaken for was a mad scientist. He was too cool—too calculating.
“Where’s my brother?”
“Ian? I imagine he’s off somewhere, preparing himself for tonight’s initiation ceremony. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you—he’s joined my flock. He’s on my payroll.” Hamelin leaned forward. “I own him.”
“I doubt that,” Anthony said, with a small laugh. “Whatever else he is, my brother’s not stupid. I can’t come up with a single reason why he’d want to get mixed up with you—or your cause.”
Hamelin smiled. “Money,” he replied. “Ian Harris can be bought.” He expelled another stream of blue smoke. “Didn’t you know?”
“What’s he going to do for you?” Anthony countered, barely bothering to conceal the condescension in his voice. “Give you lessons in dressing for success?”
Hamelin clasped his hands around one of his knees. The fellow amused him: Whatever he lacked in his father’s tact, he made up for in tenacity. And he was a most intense young man. Persistent. Foolhardy.
“Your brother came to me solely on reputation. I required someone sympathetic to the movement. He happened to fit the profile. I wanted a person capable of producing some very persuasive copy. He has an excellent track record.”
He looked at Anthony.
“You don’t believe me.”
“No,” Anthony answered coolly. “I don’t.”
The man in the uncomfortable yellow robe and Birkenstock sandals finished his cigarette in silence. He stubbed it out in the glass ashtray. “You’ve been watching too much television,” he said. “It’s made you overly suspicious.” He consulted Melvyn. “Take our amateur spy downstairs and prepare him for Number One. Give him something to think about for a couple of hours while we get this initiation ceremony out of the way.”
Melvyn started for the door, prisoner in tow.
Anthony resisted. He dug the heels of his boots into the carpet, raising tufted tracks in the gray nap. “What’s ‘Number One,’ Hamelin?”
“One of my conscience exercises. The first. Didn’t you read the material I put into my dormitory rooms?”
“I didn’t get that far,” Anthony said. “I got hung up in the part about the Shirda’s rules and regulations only applying to initiated followers—not to visitors.”
Hamelin tossed the Gitanes package into the air, neatly catching it with one hand. “You’re initiated. Get him out of here, Melvyn.”
The parking lot adjacent to the radio station was floodlit, but largely vacant. The few vehicles that remained were gathered around the front door like horses herded together for warmth on a blustery night. Evan steered the Chevette into the enclosure, cruising past the Pinto belonging to the on-air DJ, the community van, and the beat-up Valiant driven by the husband-and-wife cleaning team from the Philippines. He sped the car around the back, parking it behind a blue Smithrite container, out of sight.
At the same time, approaching from the opposite direction, Randy Lundberg pulled into the fenced-off area of the 7-Eleven, sliding into a spot that afforded him a good view of the station and its surrounding area. He had Robin with him—insurance against his getting lost in the labyrinth should the kid’s old man run into trouble inside.
“Give me a good three-quarters of an hour,” Evan had said. “If I’m not out by half past seven, come in after me. I’ll leave the side door wedged open.”
Taking out his pocket calculator, Evan lined it up with the electronic lock mechanism in the door, pressed the √x button and waited. A series of digits flashed across the liquid crystal display. He withdrew his Haverstock key-lock card, clipped it behind the calculator, pressed M—, and waited once more. The calculator emitted a tiny bleep. Evan pulled it away from the key card, inserted it into the slot, pocketed the calculator, and slipped inside the building.
Though deserted, the newsroom nonetheless clacked with industry. Two high-speed printers by the wall fed information onto fat rolls of yellow paper with a soft, rhythmic, dot-matrix whir. A reel-to-reel Ampex in the corner was recording a voice feed from Toronto, while a police monitor barked muffled instructions from a worn-out speaker, red lights winking up and down the frequencies.
Evan walked softly and quickly between the desks, to the coffee room at the back. There was a vinyl couch and a fridge, a small desk with telephones and monitors for traffic reports, and a kitchen sink with a counter, an automatic drip coffee maker, whitener, mugs, and spoons. A large survey map of the Lower Mainland hung on the wall behind the couch. Confiscating the half-full pot of coffee, Evan poured in a packet of brown powder, sloshed the liquid around vigorously, and replaced the pot on its hot-plate element. Then, opening the rear door, he sprinted down the hallway in the direction of the engineering department.
Tea.
More tea.
I must have more tea.
Around Ian, the floor swarmed with yellow, the floor chanted, the floor swayed. He was buoyed along in a sea of hedonism, pleasure rising, falling, roaring, sighing. He was passed from hand to hand, arm to arm; women clutched at his robe, hugged him, pressed against him, lips parted in ecstasy. Welcome Oran, welcome, welcome—
Somebody curled his fingers around another paper cup contai
ning the tea, and he drank it down greedily, as though it was the first liquid he had had in days and his throat was parched. He reached for another, and another was supplied. Then, he was whirled away in the ocean, to drown in the bells and the tambourines, the chanting and clapping, the damp, suffocating blanket of yellow.
Later—what seemed like hours but was only minutes—he collapsed, exhausted, onto the floor and crawled to the wall, out of the trampling dance of naked feet. He lay for a few moments on his side, back and legs pressed to the cool Cindercrete blocks that made up the foundation of the community hall. He tried to make sense of what was happening, but thinking drained him. Why? Something was blocking the nerve endings, the synapses; something was interfering.
The surging around him grew; gyrating bodies, robes discarded, surrounded the other initiates, enfolding them. Ian dragged himself along the wall, swimming out of the seething dance, arriving at last at the door. He fell outside.
It was raining and cold. Ian crawled through the sodden grass, feeling the wetness seep through his shoes and his robe, the knees of his jeans, the water squelching up between his fingers. There was a picnic table by a tree, far away, under a yellow light. He couldn’t judge the distance; his senses seemed warped. Unable to stand, he struggled on his hands and knees across the open field, touched the cedar planks, pressed his cheek into the wet, sweet-smelling wood. He pulled himself up onto the bench and crumpled with his head on his arms on the tabletop.
There was movement in front of him, and he looked up, blinking. Hamelin stood in the rain, placid, observing.
“You’re not celebrating, Oran. Why aren’t you inside with the rest?”
“I came out for some air.”
“It’s wet here. Cold. Come with me. Inside.”
“In a minute,” Ian said, not wanting to move.
“Come inside the hall,” Hamelin coaxed. “You’re wet. You’re cold.”
Ian allowed himself to be led, stumbling, back into the naked carnival of writhing limbs. It was hot in the hall, and it smelled of sweat and smoky, exotic incense. Hands came out of nowhere, tearing at his robe. Hamelin pressed another tablet into his mouth and tipped a paper cup to his lips. Ian drank, and the nonreality returned, surging through his mind and body.
“Come with me,” the Shirda said, leaning close to Ian, smoothing his voice into his ear. “I want to show you something.”
They went outside again, into another building, down some stairs, underground. There was a room. Hamelin unlocked the door. They went inside.
It was a cave, black, with a blue light. It was warm. There was a fire blazing in a stone fireplace. Primitive. There was Anthony.
Ian stood where the Shirda planted him, facing his brother. He swayed a little, unsteady on his feet, trying to clear the webs from his brain. Think. Think!
Anthony was shackled to a wooden scaffold directly beneath the blue light. His arms were outstretched; he was kneeling. He raised his head and looked at Ian without speaking.
“I caught him eavesdropping,” the Shirda said. “Literally. Did you know he was in Dehra Dun?”
Yes. “No.”
“He doesn’t believe I’ve hired you to write my speeches. He suspects there’s something more. He suspects my intentions. And yours too, I might add. Is there anything you’d like to say to your brother?”
Ian looked at Anthony. “Go home,” he said.
“Ian…”
“Go home,” he repeated, trying to ignore the plaintive tone in his brother’s voice. Think. “Leave me alone. This is none of your business.”
Anthony’s head sank; he looked at the floor again. His back and shoulder muscles were taut, his arms aching.
“He doesn’t belong here,” Ian said, to Hamelin.
“I’ll send him back,” Hamelin confirmed, leading Ian out of the room, locking Anthony inside once more. “When the information I’m waiting for arrives. When you complete your side of the contract. When my plans have been finalized.”
Ian glanced back at the door. “Don’t hurt him,” he said.
Hamelin merely smiled.
Feet up, Evan lounged behind the news director’s desk, perusing a five-star final edition of the Vancouver Sun. On the air, in the studio next door, the DJ fed information to his listeners.
“Outside in downtown Vancouver, it’s plus six and overcast. Showers tonight, more scattered showers expected tomorrow. CGUL would like to remind you—if you drink, don’t drive. These are the Beatles.”
The opening chords of “Hey Jude” rang out over the newsroom monitor, and Evan swiveled his chair around so that his back was to the studio door. The door flew open and the DJ streaked past, heading in the direction of the men’s washroom. Evan waited until he was certain the DJ was safely installed, then folded up his newspaper and slipped quietly through to the studio.
Twin cart racks sat on the console, loaded, as Robin had predicted, with commercials. Beside the racks were a telephone, a headset, and a clipboard, with the DJ’s notes attached. Quickly, Evan scanned the labels on the tapes, flipping the racks around like a supermarket shopper looking for fast, cheap reading material. Star Tech—Star Tech—he’d already been most of the way through the station and had found nothing—no copy, no half-baked reel-to-reels. It had to be here.
It wasn’t.
Letting his breath out, Evan turned around. One of the studio walls was loaded, ceiling to floor, with record albums. The other, directly behind the console, held carts. A hundred thousand carts. Were they labeled? Yes. Filed? Alphabetically. By name. Evan’s eyes flew over the shelves, top to bottom, bottom to top. There were six of them near the floor, possibly half a dozen more, out of reach, by the ceiling. And no ladder. He grabbed the DJ’s chair, wheeled it against the wall, steadied himself and clambered up, knocking tapes out of their slots and sending them crashing to the carpet. With a hurried check over his shoulder, he jumped down, kicked the chair back to the console, gathered the dozen tapes into his arms, and slipped back into the coffee room.
Evan arranged the cassettes into two neat piles and dumped out the doctored coffee. The final na-na-na-na’s of “Hey Jude” faded into the silence, followed by—
Nothing.
What did they call that? Dead air?
The DJ hurtled through the newsroom, zipping up his jeans, cursing vociferously. There was a further moment of quiet. Then—
Out in the rear of the station, the speakers echoed with a hollowness that reminded Evan of the set of Spy Squad—the long gray corridors with blaring sirens and flashing lights, activated to warn of infiltration by enemy agents. He ambled down the linoleum-tiled hallway, humming along with the tune. “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” He smiled to himself, somewhat wryly. There was an apt little theme for this particular assignment, if ever there was one.
Anthony dragged his head upright and tried to work the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. Everything hurt. Even his knees. He hadn’t known there could be so many bones down there, and so little padding.
He assessed his situation: each wrist had been manacled to the wooden scaffolding with an iron cuff and a chain. Each ankle had been similarly confined, and locked to the floor. He was, for all intents and purposes, immobilized.
Gazing out into the black void, he tried to gauge how long he’d been like this. An hour? Long enough for him to have run through every scene he could remember from Waiting for Godot, anyway, start to finish. With a ten-minute intermission while Ian dropped by for a little chat.
Moron. He wouldn’t forgive him for this.
He rattled the chains attached to his wrists, hammering his fists against the wood, venting pure frustration. This was supposed to be one of the famous “conscience exercises.” A couple of uncomfortable hours spent meditating upon your sins, and then what? Milk and cookies?
He glared up at the blue spotlight. “Let me go!” he hollered, his voice flying around the cave, echoing, closing in on itself, dying away to nothing.
&nbs
p; To his surprise, his outburst brought results. The lock mechanism in the door clicked; the handle turned. Anthony twisted his head around so that he could see over his shoulder. He held his breath. Who would it be?
Giselle? She was wearing a yellow robe. She shut the door and came toward him, silently and swiftly, holding a finger to her lips. Kneeling down in front of him, she searched his face, touching his cheeks, his forehead, his lips.
“How are you?” Her voice was gentle.
“I’m all right,” he said. “Somewhat stiff.”
“You shouldn’t have gone out to the hangars.”
Anthony didn’t say anything.
“I know about the dishes,” Giselle said. “We have looked—searched the buildings. Hamelin, he has an arms cache hidden somewhere, too. We’re still trying to find it.”
She soothed her hands over the back of his neck. Anthony shut his eyes as her fingers cooled the hot, strained muscles.
“Giselle,” he whispered, “you have me at a distinct disadvantage.”
“Shh.” She silenced him with a kiss. “Listen. Mara, her name is Lesley Totter. Or Towne. She uses them both. I’m sure you know who she is—she acted with your father in that TV show.”
Anthony nodded.
“She is CIA.”
He opened his eyes, surprised.
“She is also a double agent. We are supposed to have received regular updates on this place from the Americans, but nothing has been coming through. Mara has been moving very slowly, dragging her feet.” She sighed. “I cannot free you, Anthony. They are watching outside. And my job is not yet done—I am needed here. I cannot jeopardize that.”
Anthony bowed his head.
“I will get your friend out—but Hamelin, he wants you where he can keep an eye on you.”
“So what happens to me after this?”
Giselle hesitated. “It is a conscience exercise.”
“I know that. What happens?”
“It isn’t very pleasant.”
“Tell me,” Anthony said, insisting, looking at her again.