“Don’t move,” Marsh said from the darkness behind Conrad and to the left. Phosphorescent green light bloomed. Marsh stepped around and played a crackling wand over Conrad’s shoulders, chest and extremities. Marsh resembled a hugely ursine airline security checker in cyclopean headgear and a Hawaiian flower print shirt and Bermuda shorts. He sweated Scotch in the sultry confines. “He’s good.” He snapped the wand off and Conrad went blind with green aftershocks.
Singh switched on a floor lamp.
The apartment was subdivided into a hive—Conrad counted four flimsy wooden doors and a curtain of beads. Each door had been painted a different color: red; orange; blue; and white. The outer area had been stripped to some open beer bottles, pregnant ashtrays and a folded laptop computer on the kitchenette counter; a sectional and a moldy phone book, but no phone. Near the balcony sliding door Mediterranean incense sizzled in an iron brazier shaped like a Buddha with pronounced incisors. Conrad wondered if they’d ripped the thing off from an art gallery or a museum.
Marsh unhooked his headgear, slapped it on the counter. He squinted and rubbed his blunt hands on his shirt. His stubbly head was something that should’ve rolled from a cannon barrel. “You got crabs, Singh.”
“Indeed? You are referring to the jet Cutlass, Nevada plates, number Alpha-Charley-two-two-oh-niner? I picked him up at the museum. He parked about half a block down on the west side of the street. Poppa Z’s goons, I presume. They seem quite proprietary regarding our friend here.”
Marsh regarded Conrad. “In the old days, we just garroted guys, or stabbed them with a poisoned umbrella tip. Things are too damned complicated. We got lasers; we got masers; we got nanoviruses and white frequencies that’ll short your cerebral cortex in one-one-hundredth of a millisecond. For instance —we got a killsat in synchronous orbit, keyed to your heat signature. Actually, it’s a Russian surplus geological satellite with minor tweaks; shoots x-rays into the ground so corporations can decide where to drill. The fact it’ll cook any organic life in its projection path is a happy side effect. You can smoke just about any bunker in the world with one of these puppies. It’s all in knowing where to point it. Wanna drink?”
Conrad leaned against the wall in the pale outline where a picture had hung. He didn’t trust his voice. He shook and dripped. His clothes stuck to him as if he’d strolled through a sauna.
“What’s with him?” Marsh grabbed Conrad’s briefcase, tossed it aside. “Going downhill fast, aren’t you, killer? Don’t look much like a world beater from where I’m standing. Good thing we brought you here for this little powwow. Things are getting out of hand.”
Singh rinsed a couple of glasses in the sink and a dumped scotch into each. He pressed one on Conrad. “Health!”
“Your liver’s got to be the size of a soccer ball. How’n the hell do you stay in shape to do what you do?” Marsh said.
It was an old question, Marsh’s notion of an icebreaker. Conrad drank his glassful, enjoyed the ephemeral bite, the transitory and finite thrill, like gasoline drying on pavement. Besides frequent visits to the Big Stage, how did he maintain his edge, his dominant physical power? Ask a crocodile, fat and torpid on its sunny clay bank how it stayed fit and deadly. Same answer would apply. “If you aren’t planning to snuff me, let’s discuss business.”
Marsh and Singh exchanged glances. Marsh said, “Snuff you? You thought—?” The big man laughed. His cheeks flushed and he hacked phlegm into a kerchief. “Oh shit, that slays me. You need to relax, son. Where do you think we are, Zimbabwe? Drama queen.”
“He was joking about the killsat—the cone isn’t that precise; we might get toasted as well. I would’ve just had one of our sniper associates do the deed at the museum. Far less messy. Here, let’s freshen that a bit, yeh. There’s a lad.” Singh poured Conrad another dose with a trembling hand.
Why was Singh nervous? Have I ever seen them like this? Conrad didn’t think so. Damn it, maybe they meant to kill him after the transaction, kind assurances notwithstanding.
Murmurs and a groan escaped the room with the Brahms. More giggling from beyond the white door. The humidity was thicker, stronger. Shadows swelled in the cracks and corners, began to rise in a tidal trough.
“Who’s here?” Singh gestured with his glass at the white door.
“Vonda. The hooker, remember? She got here a few minutes ago.” Marsh gave his partner a bluff and hearty grin that lacked conviction. A convulsion of the jaw and nothing more.
“Wanda?” Conrad said, chilled.
“Vonda.”
“Oh! Vonda. Yes, right then. Let’s hurry this along, shall we. It would be impolite to keep the lady waiting.”
“Yeah. Meter’s running.”
The lamp flickered and everyone stared at it. Conrad’s throat was tight again; his body felt too heavy, too full of sand and water. The room seemed to have gained several gravities.
“Time to get down to brass tacks,” Marsh said, as if briskness would dispel doom. “Here’s the score. This is the kiss off. You and us, we’re through. The operation has been terminated. The operation never existed. We don’t know anything about the underground battle royales, your crazy fucking sister, Project TALLHAT, nothing. We don’t know no Conrad, Conrad.”
“Fine by me. What’s the catch?”
“We’ll be out of your hair once we’ve squared accounts.”
“Squared accounts. What does that mean.”
“Means we needs must part,” Marsh said.
“And the shoe drops.”
“The deal is—you buy out our interest in your future enterprises, indemnify us against the possibility we lose a ton profit on account of your, uh, premature demise. Say, oh, five hundred grand.” Marsh patted the laptop. “We can handle the transaction right here.”
Conrad held up two fingers. “Okay, boys. I’ll go two-hundred even, and this had better be good. Not here. I don’t trust you that much, M. I’ll retreat someplace a tad more secure and wire your payoff.” Half a million wasn’t beyond his capability, but the last thing he wanted was to hand these two jackals enough money to cap him and disappear to whatever tropical paradise they’d been lining up since they were cadets at spook academy.
Even as Marsh opened his mouth, Singh cut in, “Jolly idea. Agreed. Agreed, Robert?”
Marsh shook his head in defeat. “Do you understand what kind of guy you’re messing with? I mean, really, truly, understand?”
“The Brazilian? He’s done some antisocial things—”
“Not him. He’s a patsy, a stooge—just like your daddy was. Ciphers for the real player, the wizard behind the curtain. I’m talking about Drake. Ambrose Zora Drake. Really should a told us about him.”
The jig was up, then. They knew everything. Probably not everything, but more than enough.“What’s to understand? Drake killed my brother and probably my sister. Because of him my mom blew herself to hell and my dad ended up in a nut hatch. I think that covers the episodes you missed.”
“Whoa, whoa. It’s always about baby Imogene, isn’t it, bud? I looked into all that. You poor dupe. Your sister… How can I put it, Singh?”
“Delicately,” Conrad said. He dropped his empty glass and straightened.
“Hey, we’re friends,” Marsh said. He and Singh casually sidled away from Conrad’s considerable reach. “I’m just saying, okay? She might not have given you the whole story. You’re loyal and that’s sweet. But she wasn’t spotless, she wasn’t exactly true blue. I’m not casting judgment—we all gotta eat. Sis hooked up with Lorca, who is quite a dubious character, then they took a hit of the Brazilian’s wonder drug and were never quite the same. She went to the dark side. Am I right?”
Conrad looked at the floor, felt the big vein in his neck throb. “Drake is alive. Really and truly.”
“Oh, that is affirmative,” Singh said.
“Drake was the brains behind the Brazilian. Drake probably owned the Brazilian since Souza enrolled in med school back in Eighteen-fucking
-whenever.”
“Why are you afraid of him? Like you say, he’s gotta be older than Mengele. A has-been on the lam from everybody with a badge.”
“Guess again, Connie. Take as many guesses as you need, even.”
“You picked Jonah’s whale for an enemy,” Singh said. “Drake is far beyond the likes of us peasants.”
“An untouchable? Counting down until the ball drops in a Nazi retirement home?”
Marsh and Singh exchanged looks again. Marsh barked and poured more liquor. “Drake runs a show you wouldn’t believe. As for Nazis, well, same ballpark. He’s a satyr. He’s Caligula and de Sade and the Pope rolled in a ball. Frankly, I bet he could buy and sell the Vatican. Guess that qualifies him as an untouchable.”
“What if he’s a terrorist too?” Conrad said.
“Plenty of terrorist masterminds are good with Uncle Sam. As of this moment, mums the word from HQ. Drake definitely has friends in our government. Get the drift?”
“Drake indulges peculiar appetites and our chain of command is at least peripherally aware,” Singh said. “There are documents, pictures… I regret having seen them.”
Coming from Singh, that was saying a lot, Conrad knew. “I’ve heard things. So what. Another rich bastard with the usual kinks. I know the type.”
“Wrong, stud. Whatever you’ve heard, I promise that ain’t the half of it.” Marsh’s eyes glittered. “Nothing is going to see light of day in our lifetimes. Records of his activities have a habit of getting misplaced or destroyed. Don’t they, Singh?”
“Oh, yes.”
“People on high have dropped the cloak of darkness over his shoulders. It’s not unusual, happens all the time. bin Laden, Noriega, guys like that were on the dole long before they became public enemy numero Uno. In some ways, it gets worse. At least for you.”
Conrad was growing cold as the sweat dried and his senses found equilibrium. “Worse. What does worse mean?”
“Drake may be the wart on the ass of an extremely large toad. Surely you figured out he’s not unique.”
“Not unique?”
“He’s junior member of a peer group, the elite of the elite.” Singh lighted a cigarette. He sighed. “The Order of Imago. You’ve probably heard of it during your investigations. It’s one of those loudly whispered secrets—like the Masons and the Satanists, only more so. Powerful, powerful men. Tycoons, industrialists, Old World nobility. A wicked old-boys secret handshake society. We know it exists. We’ve met a member or two, heard some stories. They’ve established a few communes in remote areas. There’s one in Arizona and another in Southern California. Probably five or six others. Didn’t Imogene tell you?”
“Nothing specific. Wild talk.”
The men stared at him. Their faces were luminous as wax. Mummies. The liquid giggle floated from the bedroom and Marsh’s glance twitched that direction. His tongue distended slightly. He sported the lump of a burgeoning erection.
Singh said, “Why did you lie to us about your sister? You should’ve told us from the start who she was after.”
“What, and ruin a beautiful relationship.”
“Perhaps it’s our fault. We should’ve dug a bit deeper, should’ve understood this wasn’t just about Imogene. It all goes back to your father. He owed Drake everything, didn’t he?”
“I’ve always liked you, man. So, I guess I’m kinda sorry about this.” Marsh began to tremor. He looked like a man in the throes of palsy.
Conrad picked up his glass and filled it again. He noticed Marsh had reached into his Bermuda shorts, was stroking himself. “What does this group want? Aren’t you two even a teensy bit curious?”
“Dunno, bud. Cults aren’t my forte. I’m just giving you the Action News headlines…” Marsh’s eyes went dead and his face softened, lost animation. “Sorry, Singh. I’m done here.”
“Rob —”
Marsh wheeled and shuffled to the white door. He hesitated, shoulders heaving, before he shoved open a dark slot and bulled through. No music, no giggling, nothing. Vacuum sucked the door shut.
Singh said dreamily, “Bugger it all.” He wagged his head as if it weighed upon his neck. “Did you follow that trial of a certain naughty senator. Four or five years ago? The one they say raped the intern? I had the dubious pleasure of interviewing that sterling fellow. He’d made an exceedingly strange request during his interrogation. He demanded to speak with an intelligence operative, someone involved with national security. So, in I went. The senator mentioned Ambrose Drake as a benefactor. The senator is from the oldest money, colonial bluebloods in tall hats. Kind of guys who presided over the witch trials. He made this crazy claim his ancestors knew Drake personally.”
The floor lamp began to flicker rapidly.
Something fell. Two, three, four beats and the lamplight steadied. An ashtray had plunged to the floor, dumped its contents; the brazier rocked gently on its base. The red and blue doors hung open, revealing cavities.
“Singh. What’s happening?” Conrad had fallen into a half crouch, fingers spread in anticipation of violence. His terror was muted, muffled, as if this were a dream and the floor was quicksand and it was happening to someone else, someone on TV, perhaps, an actor rehearsing his wooden lines, standing on the X.
“You know.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”
Singh’s eyes were huge and dewy. Saliva gathered in the corner of his slack mouth. “Vonda is lonely.” He shuddered and removed his gaze from the white door. “So this hapless senator, the one with his neck on the block, swore that Dr. Drake was involved in, how shall I say, extreme occult practices. Decidedly anti-American practices. The senator claimed to have made a pact with Drake and friends in return for his celebrity status and all the fruits that accompanied such success. I relayed this story to my superior…expecting to get a laugh. Nobody was laughing. My boss quietly advised me forget what I’d been told. And I did.”
A pact.
Imogene had said it first, shouted it at him. The truth was heavy and it squirmed in Conrad’s mind. Barbs. God will eat us all.
Sudden vertigo and the squeak of neglected hinges interrupted Conrad’s train of thought. The white door had swung slightly ajar; the pitch blackness inside had grown solid and swollen and sprung its cage.
The room rippled at the periphery, distorted and elongated precisely as it might’ve if Conrad had eaten a massive dose of shrooms or suffered a nasty concussion. Pressure built upon his flesh and in his bones. Objects on the counter rustled; the laptop slid several inches. The room seemed to be listing by a few degrees, a cabin in a sinking ocean liner.
“Farewell, Conrad,” Singh said. “It occurred to me we owed you a parting gift, a token of our esteem as it were.” He took a small packet from inside his coat and handed it to Conrad. “I don’t recommend viewing these on a full stomach. Nonetheless, these disks contain all you’d ever care to know regarding the proclivities of Dr. Drake. Some in color.”
“Come here.” A female voice; a soft, sweet invitation that hinted of mysterious pleasure, of chocolate and peppermint, clamps and whips, a long, slow descent into the ultimate darkness of a sundew. “Come here, come here.”
The lamp dulled, dulled and reddened as a beam seeping through closed fingers. Marsh called, “Tell him goodbye, Leo. I need to show you something.”
Singh smiled beatifically. His shadowy face gleamed. “Goodbye, Conrad. See you soon.”
Conrad didn’t answer. He blundered out into the hallway and fled, following the swaying overhead lights. Someone kept calling his name.
Interlude
The first knockdown fight Conrad had was as a teenager and with his father.
Dad was a scary man. Big body, big brain, murderous temper. A scary man and a terrifying drunk. He was drunk most of the years Conrad knew him and the two seldom spoke. Dad took him aside after Mom crashed her plane and had a father-son type of chat in the cellar of their home in the foothills of the Olympic Mountains where
they’d dwelt since Ezra’s death. The cellar was much larger than it appeared and housed a number of machines and assorted lab equipment. Dad spent the majority of his waking hours down there, experimenting, plotting, muttering and cackling to the rats and the spiders. Conrad would’ve rather had the conversation in the traditional venue—on a rowboat in the lake, fixing the junk farm truck, chopping wood, anything but the damned cellar. Unfortunately, the old man had become exquisitely paranoid in his dotage and didn’t like to hang around in the open lest somebody should take a shot at him, or swoop down and roll him in a carpet and rendition him to some middle eastern hellhole for questioning.
Dad popped the cork on a bottle of Bushmill’s and guzzled it, one bloodshot jaundiced eye fixed upon his son all the while. He set the bottle aside and wiped his mouth and said, You like to fight, Connie?
This surprised Conrad. He’d never been in trouble at school, never thrown a punch. Most of the kids liked him. Those that didn’t wanted to screw Imogene in the worst way and left her brother in peace for obvious reasons. The bruisers who didn’t want to fuck her were scared shitless of her. She’d socked one guy who got too fresh in the testicles with the cute little set of brass knuckles she hid in her purse. Those guys left Conrad alone too. On the rare occasion some fool decided to jump him, nothing exciting came of it. Conrad could absorb a golf club blow to the head and shake it off, just stand there and take a beating until the bully got too tired to swing. That scared people worse than Imogene’s brass knuckles and pointy shoes. Which, after messing with Conrad, they experienced close up anyway.
Conrad shrugged. He seldom spoke around Dad, except in shrugs and grunts, and monosyllables.
Dad said, You’re a special case. Some of my friends in the military would be most eager to get you in their clutches. Ever ponder a career in the Marines? See the world with the Navy? No? Glad to hear it, because I won’t allow it. Your mom would haunt me if I did. And he glanced around as if Mom lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce. Anyway, Connie. You’re special and life is going to become extremely interesting for you in the Chinese curse sense of the word. This family has always been afflicted with that kind of thing. It goes back to my ancestors and I’m sorry your mom and you kids got roped into the mess. The thing is, I’m sending you to live with a friend of mine in the Mediterranean. He’s got all kinds of connections. You’ll finish school and go on from there.
The Light is the Darkness Page 10