Private Demons

by Robert Masello

  “Omar isn't authorized to make deals,” Ali said, suddenly pulling her backwards and off balance. “Omar is only in the cultural affairs department.”

  She stumbled back, and Omar gave her a little push on one shoulder. She felt herself falling, and landed a split second later on a wide marble bench at the edge of the pool. Omar grabbed her legs and threw them to either side of the bench; Ali yanked her hands backwards, over her head.

  “No way,” Mandy protested. “Let go of me.” She raised one leg to kick at Omar, but he just knocked it aside. Ali pulled harder on her cuffs, and she felt her body unwillingly arch on the cold stone bench.

  “Yes, I like that,” Omar said. He dropped one hand quickly into the pool, then rubbed the water over his cock. “I like that,” and pinning her down, he entered her.

  She started to scream, but Ali took the breath out of her by bending her hands even further toward the floor. She gasped, in pain and confusion, and heard somebody, somewhere in the room, break a bottle; Omar's shoulder was butting her in the mouth. She bit it, hard, but he didn't even slow down. She bit again, and catching some hairs between her teeth, gave a savage wrench. He jerked upwards for a moment, gazed down at her with glassy eyes, and balancing himself on one arm, used the other to swat her across the mouth. She tasted blood.

  “You fucking—” she said.

  And he hit her again, this time with a closed fist. It felt as if a huge bell had just clanged in her head. Her face went numb. He thrust himself into her two, three more times, then shuddered and paused. She heard, distantly, the sound of his voice, but everything was muffled by the ringing in her ears. It sounded as if Ali had responded—she felt her wrists released—and then she was being rolled aside, off the marble bench and into the pool. She cracked her hip and elbow on the edge, then sank, like a stone, deeply into the water. She felt herself plunging deeper and deeper into the pool, her toes finally grazing the smooth bottom. She wanted to stay there, under the water, forever, away from her attackers, caressed by the warm, all-encompassing water. But she didn't want to die, not even now; she rose to the surface, gasping for air, coughing up chlorine and blood. She threw her lashed hands up onto the edge of the pool.

  Omar said, “Cunt. You cut my shoulder.” And he stamped his heel down on her fingers.

  She pulled back, and went under again. Only this time it was even harder to return to the surface. She tried to hold onto the rim of the pool, but Omar—or possibly Ali—was there again, kicking her wet hands back in her face. She went down, the water filling her nose and mouth and ears; the ringing was swallowed up by a thick, gurgling rush. She wanted to go up, up toward the air, but felt herself sinking, still sinking . . . she needed to breathe, but there was only water, pouring into her, filling her up, weighing her down . . . pulling her down, where it was silent, and suffocating . . . warm . . . and strangely peaceful . . .

  “When will you be back?” she said to Lucien.

  “I can't be sure.”

  She brushed some hair away from her eyes. “This may sound dumb but . . . could you bring me something back?”

  “What would you like?”

  For a second, her face lit up like a child's. “A surprise. You decide.”

  “I will,” Lucien said. It pleased him that he could bring her some joy. But he also wanted to know if there was anything else she could tell him. He waited, then asked if she could see anything else he should know.

  A look of perplexity stole across her face; she seemed to fade away for an instant, and then once again assume her previous definition.

  “I'm still fairly new at this,” she said, her voice too fading in and out. “But I've got to tell you . . . I don't have a good feeling about this.”

  “About what?”

  “About that ship that caught fire . . . about what's going to happen.”

  He waited again, seeing from her expression that she was struggling to remember, or articulate, something.

  “Why,” she suddenly said, as if to herself, “do I keep seeing the nun who once taught me algebra? I hated her; she was a real bitch. And she always wore that full, long black habit.”

  Lucien listened carefully.

  “She always reminded me of some kind of bird—a crow, or maybe a vulture.” And she looked at Lucien, as if perhaps he could explain where this vision was coming from.

  That he could not do. Its origins were as mysterious to him as they were to her. But in his own mind's eye, he saw again that black-robed figure he had imagined earlier. Its hands were lifted, as if in the act of reclaiming something. He felt, without knowing how, a sense of power emanating from the figure. And he longed, more than ever, to confront this strange vision and with his own two hands, to unveil it.

  CHAPTER

  6

  She awoke, as she always did, with the first gray streaks of dawn. She was lying on her back, on the straw pallet she had laid in the corner of her convent cell. Outside, she heard a parrot screech. Her palms were moist.

  She didn't dare look. This could not be happening. Not again. Not to her. Gingerly, she curled her fingers, so that they touched the palms of her hands. The blood was caked and dry around the outside of each wound, but moist and warm in the center. It must have been going on while she slept. Slowly, she sat up, and in the faint light that passed through her open window looked at her hands. There was a purple wound, as if from a puncture, plainly discernible in each palm. She drew the worn sheet away from her legs. The top of each foot, though not yet bleeding, bore a similar purple bruise.

  As did her right side, halfway down the rib cage.

  It couldn't be. It couldn't be happening.

  In the thin shift she wore all day, and slept in each night, she poked her head out the door of her room, and after seeing no one else had yet arisen, scurried down the stone corridor. There was only one shower stall, with a rickety bamboo screen surrounding it. Still wearing her shift, she pulled down on the chain that was connected to the tin water tank perched just above, and a desultory spray gurgled from the rusty shower head. She quickly rinsed herself, lifting the shift away from her body to let the water course over her. The water abruptly stopped, and she pulled the chain again. This time, she held her hands up to the spray and rubbed them lightly together. The blood ran in a thin pink stream down her forearms. When it stopped again, she pulled the chain, holding her face under the nozzle. She let the tepid water wash the sleep from her eyes, then lowered her head to let the last of it run over her scalp; her black hair was cut raggedly and very short. She dried herself with the communal towel that hung on a wash line outside the stall, then, with her hands folded into her armpits, made her way back toward her cell. On the way, she passed two of the other sisters, just up.

  “Good morning, Sister Celeste,” one of them said. “I didn't hear the bell this morning. Did you ring it?”

  Sister Celeste said nothing; she seldom did. Instead, she ducked back into her cell, put on the frayed black habit she wore each day, and slipped her feet, carefully, into a pair of loose sandals. There were a dozen other nuns in the convent, and she could hear the sounds of their stirring. She hurried outside.

  The sky was the color of pale, burnished gold, and a damp mist still clung to the tops of the trees. This was Celeste's favorite time of the day, the time when the earth appeared to be most at peace, and most filled with promise. She crossed the yard, a barren patch of hard-packed red earth, and stopped at a low, stone well. The bucket was conical, made from an old shell casing; an iron bell hung beside it. With the dipper from the bucket, she banged the bell, and set it swinging on its chain.

  A moment later, the jungle too seemed to spring awake. A flock of birds shot out of the trees surrounding the yard and circled the convent, calling wildly to each other. A monkey chattered from the top of a coconut palm. From under one of the outbuildings, a chicken strutted into the yard, pecking at the dirt. The echoes of the bell died away, but the world had now come to life for another day.

&
nbsp; Sister Celeste looked to see that no one was watching, then studied her palms in the morning light. The bleeding had stopped, but a faint purple crescent marked the skin of each hand. God, she feared, was speaking to her . . . to Celeste, who spoke to no one. But what was He saying? And how, she wondered, was she supposed to answer?

  It couldn't be happening. It simply couldn't be.

  The chicken squawked, and pecked the ground between her feet. Sister Elizabeth came into the yard. Celeste went to open the chapel, as she did each day, for the morning prayers.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Simone had organized the press conference with the same precision and efficiency she organized all of Lucien’s business affairs: four rows of chairs had been set up, with six seats in each one. A press release had been placed on each chair, along with a notepad and a pen for any reporter so disorganized he’d forgotten the basic tools of the trade. Standing ashtrays had been set up in the back row, for the smokers.

  Lucien sat at a long table in the front of the room, with Phil Epstein on one side of him and Dave Newton on the other. After the reporters had taken their seats—there were only two seats left to spare—Newton led off with a general statement and update on the accident. Hands had shot up and questions had been called out the minute he finished, but Newton asked for all questions to be held until later. Epstein took over next, and in his most deliberate and straightforward manner, went through some of the technical questions and the numbers involved—the amount of liquefied gas carried on board at the time of the explosion, the extent of the pollution, the projected cost of the cleanup effort, what the company was doing about it now. He politely fielded a few questions, before one of the reporters positively commanded his attention.

  “Has your emergency control team, as you call it, arrived at the scene yet?” she asked, with a skeptical tone.

  Epstein glanced up from his notes, adjusted his glasses to see who was speaking, and said, “Yes, they have, Winifred. I should have known it was you.”

  “It’s Ms. Flint to you.”

  There was a smattering of laughter.

  “And when did they arrive?” she continued.

  “Approximately twenty hours after the accident. It’s not an easy part of the world to get to.”

  “The Garuda got there.” Winifred Flint was known to the rest of the press corps as much for her tenacity as for her undisguised left-wing sensibilities. Short and feisty, her black hair cut in a no-nonsense fashion straight across her brow, she worked as a New York correspondent for an English newspaper called The Sentinel. No one took the paper seriously—much too socialist, much too ecologically oriented—but Winifred Flint wasn’t so easy to dismiss.

  “Of course the Garuda got there, “ Epstein coolly replied. “That was its usual route. Are you getting at something I don’t understand?”

  “Probably.” She stood up now and leaned on the chair in front of her; she was bulky, and favored loose shapeless clothes like the navy-blue tunic she had on now. “What I’m getting at, in my own bumbling fashion, is the larger question of the exploitation of Third World resources for First World gains. That, and the cavalier attitude toward the destruction of land and water considered so far away that no one will give a damn. If Exxon can sweep Alaska under the rug, why shouldn’t L.C. Carriers be able to cover up for a little blunder in the Gulf of Thailand? After all, it’s only gooks and such that are going to be affected.”

  Epstein started to answer, and got as far as, “That’s totally uncalled for—” before Calais himself rose from his seat and with his fists resting on the table said, “I’m a gook myself. Have you forgotten that?”

  The room fell silent, and even Winifred Flint appeared to have no immediate retort.

  “This company conducts business in virtually all parts of the globe. Anyone who took the trouble to do the research would know that. And such a person would know,” he said, fixing Flint with a steely look, “that we don’t take our responsibilities lightly—least of all in the East.”

  “Then you tell me,” she said, finding her tongue again, “what caused the Garuda to explode. Your henchmen here have offered nothing but vague defenses, of your maintenance procedures and personnel screening and cargo control. If you’re as confident about all that as you seem, then what about the obvious alternative? Is it possible that we’re in for another disaster, any day now, for the same reason this one went off?”

  Calais wondered if she knew what she was getting at. He paused, and Flint seemed to take some encouragement from that.

  “Mr. Calais, isn’t it possible that what we’re witnessing here is just the opening shot in a war of the plutocrats? That East and West are meeting here, to see just who’s the greediest?”

  The other reporters, looking puzzled, had turned in their seats to look at Flint.

  “Mr. Calais,” she pressed on, “who is your greatest rival in that region of the world? What shipping concern?”

  Calais waited again, to see what she would say.

  “Isn’t it a venerable old firm called Gold Prow? A venerable old firm that hasn’t been doing so well lately?”

  So she knew that much.

  Emboldened, she went on. “Could they be worried about the inroads you’ve been making? Could they feel threatened by it? Could they, in fact, feel threatened enough to strike back any way they can?”

  She was smart; she’d taken the first hurdle easily. None of the others had. Lucien wondered whether she’d be able to take her line of reasoning any further. “What you are suggesting,” he said, “has been considered. It is still being considered.”

  The briefest smile flickered at Flint’s lips, and Lucien knew then that she had been shooting in the dark—but shooting well. He intended to ask Epstein, after the press conference, who this person was. Even in an adversary, he admired intelligence.

  “I can only say,” Lucien added, “that no stone is being left unturned. I am leaving New York this afternoon to oversee the situation myself.”

  “Not to plan your retaliation?” Flint ventured.

  “No.”

  “It’s one o’clock,” Epstein abruptly announced. “This conference is officially over. Thank you all for coming.”

  There were a couple of protests from reporters who had yet to ask any questions, but Epstein and Newton stood up and briskly collected their papers. Lucien nodded to Flint, then drew his hands together in front of his face, in the traditional wai. She seemed not to know how to respond. She had hit on the Gold Prow connection, but nothing more; the stock transactions Lucien had been conducting she knew nothing about. Lucien’s secret struggle with Lord Sykes had not even been contemplated. Still, she was onto the scent—and others soon might be—and Lucien knew that he had to come up with some answers of his own, and soon.

  The flurry of activity followed Lucien into his own office. Newton was speculating out loud on the effect of his press packet, Epstein was swearing he’d never let Winifred Flint near another conference, and Simone was trying to catch Lucien’s attention so she could apprise him of his calls for the past hour. Lucien finally had to put up his hand and ask for quiet.

  “Phil,” he said, “I don’t want Winifred Flint barred from anything. Understood?”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t want it,” Lucien repeated. “That’s all you need to know.”

  Epstein threw up his hands in disgust.

  “I’m leaving in a few minutes. Is there anything else you want to discuss before I go?”

  Epstein, who routinely took over when Lucien was out of town, said he had everything under control. “The field surveyor for the Jamaican mining operation is coming in at three. He’s going to run down the expansion plans. Bauxite demand is up again this year.”

  “Fine. Take care of it. And remind them in Singapore that other tankers are available elsewhere. We’ll raise our offer to thirty-six million, but that’s it.”

  Epstein nodded.

  “Da
ve, you did a great job with the press. But no more conferences; I hate them, and we’ve done our part.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Newton asked. “I can stonewall ‘em from now on if you want.”

  “No. Quite the opposite. We have nothing to hide; let’s not appear to. As our information firms up, you supply it as needed.”

  Newton looked relieved; stonewalling was surprisingly hard work. It meant ducking calls, dodging reporters, suppressing inquiries. And when it was all over, it meant bringing the press around to your side again. Newton liked keeping things on reasonably friendly terms.

  Simone took advantage of the moment to hand a sheaf of pink slips to Lucien. He sat down in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk and glanced through them. At the bottom of each, she had already noted to whom the call had been referred or what action had been taken. On all except the last. It simply said, “Hallie Patton, 12:10 P.M.,” followed by her phone number.

  “What did you tell her?” he asked.

  “Only that you were leaving the office shortly, and that you’d be out of the country for several days.”

  And she would think he had planned to leave without even calling to let her know. But would he have called? Would he have shown her that courtesy? He couldn’t honestly say that he would have.

  “If that’s it,” he said to them all, “you can get back to business. Simone, call down to Hun and tell him I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  When she’d closed the door, he picked up the phone, pressed the button for his private line, and dialed Hallie’s number. It rang twice and then he heard an answering machine click on. A gruff man’s voice said, “You know who you called. Now leave your message and hope for the best.” There was a beep, and Lucien, still flustered by the unexpected voice, fumbled for something to say. After a few seconds, without actually uttering a word, he hung up. Had he dialed the right number?