“I appreciate that, Iskander, but it’s only because I believe in you. I want you to stay in the house today and speak to no one. Understand?”
Itani looked at him quizzically.
“I’ll be out for a few hours. When I return, we’ll do a session to make sure that those headaches of yours don’t come back. It would be terrible if they spoiled your return to boxing.”
He left Itani and went to his study, where he took a call from Landow, who’d taken an early flight from Washington and was now at his San Francisco hotel.
“We have to talk,” Borger said.
“Yes, we certainly do, Sheldon. I’ll come to the house.”
“No. There’s been an accident here. We’ll take the ferry to Sausalito, from the ferry terminal. You know where it is. The one o’clock ferry.”
“What sort of accident?”
“I’ll fill you in when we meet.”
“I’m not sure I like what I’m hearing.”
“It’s nothing that can’t be worked out, Colin.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Colin?”
“It would be terribly disappointing should anything cause this to fail, Sheldon.”
“I told you the accident that happened here can be worked out. I’ve already done what’s necessary to—”
“There’s another problem,” Landow said flatly.
“What other problem?”
“As you so discreetly suggested, not on the phone.”
“The ferry leaves at one,” Borger said. “Be there at twelve forty-five.”
* * *
They arrived at the terminal simultaneously. Borger was dressed uncharacteristically casually; Landow wore his usual sport jacket and turtleneck, forest green this day. He carried a manila envelope.
“What’s this about an accident?” Landow asked as they walked to the passenger holding area with their tickets.
“I’ll tell you when we’re under way,” Borger said.
The men said nothing to each other as they waited to board. As they walked down the gangplank toward the gleaming white ferry whose idling engines churned the green water of the slip and created a constant gurgle, Borger smiled at Landow and said, “It’s a beautiful day to be on the water.”
Landow grunted.
Borger was fond of the ferry ride across the bay to Sausalito and sometimes took it on the spur of the moment, reveling in the sunshine and salt air, the magnificent orange Golden Gate Bridge coming in and out of view as the ceaseless fog swirled around and over it, its damp cold felt even from a distance.
The ferry backed from its slip, turned, and headed for the picturesque town of Sausalito, once a busy lumber port, now an elite, touristy conclave of bohemians, many of whom lived on their “arks,” houseboats, moored along the bay that formed one of the world’s largest and most diverse houseboat communities. Borger and Landow found a spot on the upper deck away from the throng of day-trippers and helmet-clad locals with bikes but where it was hard to hear over the sound of the engine and the stiff wind.
“Here’s the situation,” Borger said, leaning close to Landow’s ear. “Itani killed someone last night.”
“What?” Landow responded.
“A prostitute I supplied for him,” Borger said. “There was some sort of squabble, and he hit her hard enough to kill her.”
Landow looked away from Borger and thrust his sizable chin into the wind.
Borger continued. “It’s all been taken care of, but I thought you should know.”
Landow returned his attention to Borger. “What do you mean it’s been taken care of?”
Borger explained how the body had been disposed of and that Itani had no memory of the event. “In a sense,” Borger added, “as tragic as it was, it proves to me how complete his amnesia is. He’s ready, Colin.”
“Why didn’t you exercise more control over him?” Landow asked.
“I wasn’t at home when it happened,” Borger explained.
“I’m surprised that you’d admit that.”
“There was no need to be with him every waking moment. Let’s not get sidetracked. He has to get out of San Francisco immediately.”
“He’s scheduled to leave four days from now.”
“Make it sooner, tomorrow. Where will he be staying?”
“A safe house we own in Virginia, right across the river from the District. You’ll be traveling with him.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“No. I’m staying here in San Francisco. I’ve already told you that. Peter will accompany him. Jake Gibbons, too.”
Landow’s prolonged sigh said many things.
“Listen, Colin,” Borger said, unable to keep annoyance from his voice, “I have worked long and hard to prepare Itani for this. He is under my control, not yours, and I’ll make the decision about how to control him. There’s no need for me to be in Washington. Let’s put this to rest. I want him on a plane to Washington tomorrow.”
Landow again faced the wind, a pose, a sailing ship’s captain looking for land.
“I’ll have Itani ready to leave tomorrow,” Borger said. “He thinks he’s traveling there to resume his boxing career. Jake Gibbons is giving him a phony management contract this afternoon, which should appease him for a few days. Peter is perfectly capable of handling him. I have the same level of control over Itani by telephone as I do in person. The relevant code words have been implanted and enforced many times.”
When they reached Sausalito, they walked along the Bridgeway on their way to a bar. Landow said, “We’ll do it your way, Sheldon. I can only say that a tremendous amount of thought, planning, and money have gone into this project. It had better work as planned.”
They secured a table on the patio overlooking the bay. They ordered Bloody Marys.
“There’s another problem,” Landow said after the waiter had delivered their drinks, taken their lunch orders, and walked away.
“Yes, you indicated that when you called. What is it?”
“Sheila Klaus.”
Borger had just started to sip his Bloody Mary. He returned the glass to the table and said, “What about her?”
“You know that we arranged for her to be released from prison.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that she still claims her innocence. The programming obviously worked and continues to.”
“So far. It was our belief that it was safer having her out of the hands of the authorities.”
“And I agree. But either way, I see no reason for my control of her not to continue.”
Landow asked, “Do you know a psychologist named Tatum, Sheldon? Nicholas Tatum?”
“No, I don’t think that I do.”
“He claims that he knows you.”
“So?”
“He says that he met you at conferences.”
“That’s possible. I’ve attended many of them.”
“He further claims that he’s aware of Lightpath and your involvement with it.”
Borger drank. “That’s highly unlikely,” he said.
“Sheldon, this Tatum has been working with Sheila Klaus.”
“Working with her? How?”
“When she was incarcerated. He hypnotized her on more than one occasion. He’s the reason we worked through channels at the highest levels to gain her release.”
Borger’s furrowed brow mirrored his sudden concern. “How do you know this?” he asked.
“A credible source.” Landow leaned closer. “According to that same source, Tatum was able to summon Klaus’s other personality, Carla Rasmussen.”
“Nonsense! Whoever told you that?”
“That same source, who, I might add, heard it directly from Tatum. I’m also told that Carla Rasmussen identified you by name as the doctor she spent time with.”
What had been concern now morphed into fear. Borger drank from his Bloody Mary and summoned his thoughts. “This is very troubling, Colin,” he
said. “Something will have to be done about this Tatum character.”
“That goes without saying,” Landow said. “The question, Sheldon, is what do you intend to do about it?”
“I think that’s your responsibility,” Borger said.
“My responsibility?”
“You and your people back at Langley.”
“Oh, no, Sheldon. I’m afraid that you have that wrong. The work you did with Ms. Klaus, and now with your latest find, is outside the realm of what the agency has approved.”
“Now wait a minute, Colin,” Borger said in a loud voice.
Landow raised his hand, leaned closer, and said, “Quietly, Sheldon. We’re in a public place.”
Borger was angry at being chided but lowered his voice. “Everything I did with Sheila Klaus and am doing with Itani has been with your blessing. How dare you lay it all on me? You’re the contact with the money people in Oklahoma. You’ve approved my work at every stage.”
“You’re quite right,” Landow said, “but my involvement has been outside of my usual channels at the Company. As far as they are concerned, you and the work you do at Lightpath is purely legitimate, government-approved science.” He looked left and right before adding, “I’m afraid that if this Dr. Tatum manages to link you to Mark Sedgwick’s murder, and to the upcoming event, you’ll be quite alone in defending yourself. You knew from the very beginning that your work has gone far beyond the experiments that have been sanctioned by the Company. You also knew that should something go awry, there would be no link to the Company, which will deny anything and everything.” Landow smiled. “But all is not lost, Sheldon. You have only Ms. Klaus and this new subject to worry about—unless there are others I haven’t been made aware of.”
Borger said nothing as he finished his drink and stared out over the bay.
“I get the feeling, Sheldon, that you might have lost interest in the work we’ve been doing.”
Borger turned his attention back to Landow. “It isn’t a matter of losing interest in the work,” he said. “You know, Colin, when you recruited me, you had no idea that you’d recruited a genius.”
Landow, who seldom laughed, laughed. It was a controlled laugh, as pinched as his voice.
“I’m serious,” Borger said. “Do you realize what I’ve accomplished? Until I came aboard, you were dealing with theory. Was it possible to create the perfect spy, the perfect assassin? How many millions of taxpayer dollars have been spent in pursuit of that elusive goal? I’d like to have just a small percentage of what was spent. And what did those millions buy the CIA? Possibilities, that’s all. But I’ve gone far beyond theories, Colin. I’ve proved that it can be done in the most tangible of ways. You know, they say that we use only a small portion of our brains. I’ve proved them wrong. I’ve tapped into the brain as no one has ever done before. All the surgery in the world can’t produce what I have, the ability to totally control another human being, to lead that individual to do things that have only been speculated about. I did it, Colin, and no one can take that away from me. They ought to give you a huge bonus for having discovered me, build a monument to you on the Mall. Because of me, the nation will be safe from those who would harm it. Because of what we’re about to achieve, the world will be a better place.”
“I’ve never cared for monuments,” Landow said sourly. He pushed his soup bowl and salad plate away and sat back. “So,” he said, “I’ve told you of the threat this Tatum poses. I suggest you take some action.” He slid the manila envelope across the table. “Here’s background and a few photos of Dr. Tatum. I can’t do more than provide you with information. What you elect to do with it is entirely up to you.”
Borger picked up the envelope and weighed it in his hands as though he could read its contents without opening it. He motioned for the waiter, who delivered their check, which Borger paid with a credit card. A satisfied smile crossed his face. “My treat,” he said, “to celebrate my retirement. Is that what you do when leaving behind this sort of work? Retire? It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? What about you, Colin? Are you considering retirement?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“If you do, I insist upon being invited to your going-away party. Let’s go, Colin. I have things to do.”
They took the ferry back to San Francisco, where Landow caught a cab at the ferry terminal and Borger walked to the parking lot in which he’d parked. He was glad to be away from the overbearing Landow. What was he? he thought as he drove home. Nothing but a bureaucrat working for a dysfunctional spy agency.
But another series of unpleasant thoughts bombarded him as he neared his Nob Hill mansion. If Landow was right that this Nicholas Tatum had managed to break through Sheila Klaus’s programmed barriers, he, Borger, was in jeopardy. This realization evoked a burst of anger in him, and he slammed his hand against the steering wheel. First Elena being killed, and now this.
As he pulled into his circular driveway, the first thing he noticed was a strange car parked by the front entrance. It took him a moment before he recognized it as belonging to Mica Sphere.
He opened the front door and saw her sitting in the living room with Itani, a plate of deviled eggs and crackers the cook had prepared between them, a Tom Collins in Itani’s hand, a glass of white wine in hers.
“Sheldon,” she said, standing. “Where have you been?”
“I was ah … I was at a meeting. What are you doing here?”
She crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “I wanted to thank you for a lovely evening last night and to give you this.” She held out a small box. In it was a sterling silver cigar cutter.
“It’s lovely, Mica, but I don’t smoke cigars anymore.”
“Then maybe it will prompt you to start again. You always looked so distinguished when you did. Oh, why didn’t you tell me about your houseguest?” She turned and indicated Itani. “We’ve been having a wonderful conversation about his boxing career. You devil, you never told me that you were going to manage a fighter. He showed me the gym you installed and—”
“Thank you for the gift, Mica. I’ll get myself a drink and—”
“Love to spend more time with you and your young friend, but I really must run.” She said to him sotto voce, “He’s adorable, the strong, quiet type. If I were into men, I might spend more time here with him.” She called to Itani, “Good-bye, Iskander. I hope to see you again soon.”
“Yes, that would be nice,” Itani said.
“Bring your drink with you, Iskander,” Borger said after Mica had left. “We need to do another session.”
CHAPTER
28
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Nic Tatum taxied his Micco SP26 to the hangar, parked alongside three other aerobatic aircraft, shut down the engine, and drew a deep, satisfied breath. He’d put the slick craft through its paces that morning, performing loops and rolls, sheer vertical climbs, free-fall dives from a stall, Immelmanns, and sustained inverted flight. Spending an hour in the Micco was always exhilarating, but this morning was even more so.
It had been a tense couple of days. When Sheila Klaus had been freed from prison, the judge had emphatically denied the prosecution’s request that she be confined to house arrest and be prohibited from leaving the area. “You either have a case against her,” he’d proclaimed from the bench, “or you don’t. You either bring formal charges and lock her up, or you let her go, no strings attached.”
And so Sheila was free to live her life as she wished, unless the authorities came up with more concrete evidence to recharge her with Mark Sedgwick’s murder. No one in the U.S. attorney’s office would bet the farm on that.
Tatum had met with Mac Smith the day after her release and expressed his concern for her, talking about the ramifications of whether she’d been programmed to kill Sedgwick. “The fact is, Mac, she’s a killer,” he said, reluctant to use such a harsh term but deciding to not hold back. “And she’s a killer because someone turned her into one.”
“Let’s say that’s true,” Smith said, “and I’m not questioning for a second that you’re right. The question is, what can you or anyone else do about it?”
“Expose it,” Tatum said with hesitation.
“How do you do that?” Smith asked.”
“I’m not sure,” Tatum replied. “I suppose the first step is to spend more time with her.”
“Do you think that she’d agree to that?”
Tatum shrugged. “I can call and ask,” he said.
“That’d sound like you’re chasing business.”
“Ambulance chasing.”
“No, that’s what it would be if I called her as an attorney. Maybe you should start with a call to this psychiatrist in San Francisco. What’s his name?”
“Borger. Sheldon Borger. He’s not likely to talk to me. Hell, I’m suggesting that he programmed a murderer.”
Smith laughed. “Yes, I can’t imagine that he’d open up to you about that. What about the friend of yours you spoke with?”
“Dave Considine. He confirmed just about everything I’ve thought.”
Which wasn’t entirely true. Considine had offered little in the way of new information. He’d spent their dinner listening and agreeing with what Tatum had said.
“Maybe you should talk with him again.”
“I intend to.”
“I don’t think I mentioned what Marie Darrow told me after she’d accompanied Sheila home from jail,” Smith said. “According to her, as she was leaving, Sheila seemed to go into some sort of trance state and told Marie, in a very different voice, to leave. Sheila said to Marie, ‘We’re fine now.’”
“We’re. Plural. Sheila and her second personality Carla Rasmussen.”
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Smith asked.
“I don’t have any patients today. I’ll probably head home, work out, and call Dave Considine to set up another meeting. I suppose I’ll spend most of the day trying to figure out what to do about Sheila Klaus.”
Smith walked him to the elevator. “I wish there were some way that I could help you, Nic.”
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