“Ian Finn! Here for Peter Finn!” cried the lead officer, in a practiced shout.
The round door set deep in a flat wall of iron in front of him kicked out an inch with a loud snap. The guard grabbed it and swung it open with a subtle creak before ushering him into the anteroom. This was a gap between the outside of the block and the prison cells where he would be processed. Peter never made seeing him easy. Or anything easy for his family, really. That his mother was still devoted to the man remained baffling to Ian, vows or no.
As he stepped over the threshold, the two interior guards there stared openly. This was new. He’d only ever come here as a frightened little boy and then a wary young man. Now he was a celebrity of sorts. It occurred to him that by visiting this place he was publicly associating himself with his father. Would people think he was a terrorist too? He’d hijacked an airplane in a bid to win the last round. In a bid to get a shot at the English, actually, as much as anything. Did that make him a terrorist?
One of the officers stepped forward, a short, stout fellow with a buzzed head of prickly red hair. “Sign here, Mr. Finn.” Ian almost winced at the admiration in his voice. After he signed himself in, the guard looked at his signature as if he wanted to pocket it. The other guard cut in, a portly man with a flat nose and a thick moustache.
“This is his April visit,” he said. “No more this month.”
“Fine,” Ian said. He wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t his last visit, ever.
“You’ll need to submit to pat down and a body scan before we can allow you into the two way room.”
Ian nodded.
“So you’ll need to surrender your, ah, your gun,” said the first.
“Oh. Right.”
Ian took off his light jacket and pulled up his t-shirt. He took his revolver from its place snug above his left hip, his custom holster impressed lightly into the skin as if it was a part of him. He felt a twinge of pain that he barely managed to hide from the officers as he grasped the gun. He handed the gun to the younger officer with clenched teeth. He might as well have a banana there for all the good it would do him in a pinch these days.
As the younger officer logged his gun, holding it like a crystal egg, the elder slipped a keycard into a second round door set in the back wall. It clicked open and he swung it out to reveal the two-way visiting area. The officer turned to Ian and Ian realized now that he recognized him. He’d been here at Ian’s last visit, before anyone knew about the Tournament. He’d been watching over his father for years. Ian remembered, now, that he was British ex-military, and that he’d never been very good at hiding his hatred of Peter.
“Ten minutes,” he said, voice low and gruff, his face close to Ian’s. Ian smiled. The anger sat much better with him than the admiration. Then he turned to see his father.
Peter sat on the far side of a thick wall of plastic, behind an inset speaker. He smiled broadly and uncrossed his legs to scoot forward. He rested his arms on the metal desk in front of him. He didn’t look like the type who killed men. He was slight, like Ian, and he had long, gray hair with only the barest hint of his son’s curls. He was dressed in state-issued orange attire that accentuated his thin figure and that, tied at the waist, looked like hospital scrubs. He wore thick, round eyeglasses that exaggerated the green of his eyes. A manic green. He also wore a simple shiny gold pin on his sagging, frayed collar. As Ian walked to the opposing chair, Peter almost got up, as if the two inches of plastic between them had disappeared. He caught himself, but his smile never faded.
Ian sat down and watched Peter for a second, neglecting the receiver. It had been nearly three years since he last saw him, but Peter seemed not to have aged. If anything, he seemed more vigorous, more alert. Ian felt strongly that the Tournament and Ian’s involvement in it was a source of energy and pride for Peter, a vindication. When Ian had first received his commission from Father Darby, he’d paid Peter a visit because the operation smelled strongly of his father’s involvement. Darby and Peter were very close, both before and after his arrest. When he’d broached the subject, tentatively, hedging it as a joke in case he needed a way out of the conversation, Peter had played dumb. For nearly half a year after that, whenever Ian called to schedule a visit, he was told his father wasn’t accepting anyone. That had always been Peter’s way of dealing with things he felt best left alone.
Peter popped his eyebrow and flicked a glance at the receiver, waiting. Ian peered at him. It didn’t seem fair that his father would be so vibrant in this place while he should feel so weary with the freedom he was given. It was unnatural. Where was his father’s anger? Peter picked up the phone and tapped his wrist where a watch would be, if he was allowed one. Ian picked up his end.
“Ian my boy! It has been so long!” It was disorienting to be so close to him and to hear his voice as if across a thousand miles.
“Hi dad.”
“You look tired.”
“You look quite rested.” Ian sat back in the chair.
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Peter replied, eyes bright. “We are, all of us, finally waking up from our long sleep under the boot of the old ways.”
Ian refused to be drawn into his political rhetoric. He waited, watching the clock. It settled over him that this was a waste of time, after all. Peter, seeing his son’s glance, stopped himself. This caught Ian’s attention. He’d never stopped himself before.
“There’s so much, Ian. So much I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, back then. When the Tournament was being birthed.”
Ian sat up and almost dropped the phone. This was the first time his father had ever spoken openly of The Tournament.
Peter saw that he’d gotten his son’s attention and nodded. “I know you have questions. Have had them for years now.”
“Well what the hell changed? Why are you talking now?” Ian found himself yelling.
Peter took it in stride. “You need answers now. You didn’t then, but you do now that the Tournament has been presented to society, on its way to adulthood. It will need your help to grow into its full potential,” Peter said, and his eyes flared again as he looked down at Ian’s injured arm. Ian took it off the table.
“I always knew you were a part of why I was chosen.”
Peter shook his head vigorously. “I merely suggested you, Ian. I was one of many they consulted, but I somehow knew that you would be chosen. You’re a Finn.”
Ian swallowed and his eyes unfocused. “I don’t know what you expected me to be, dad. But whatever it was, you were wrong.”
“Was I?” Peter indulged, smiling.
“Yes. You were. I’m not like you. I’m not a—”
“—A killer?” Peter finished, smiling still.
Ian paused.
“I beg to differ. I know what happened at Shawnee. I’m not completely shut away,” he said, plucking at the pin on his collar. “What would you have done to that Englishman if Mazaryk hadn’t pulled you off? Hmm?”
Ian looked away. Peter waited.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of killing, Ian. Not if it serves a greater cause. I’ve made my peace,” Peter said flatly.
“Yeah, and what was your greater cause?”
“Freedom.”
“By blowing up a postal truck?”
“By pulling eyes our way. To our cause.”
“Fat lot of good that did you.”
“It brought enough eyes on me that they eventually saw you. And you were perfect. A citizen of Ireland with the blood of a Northerner. Think about it, Ian! You are the unification we fought for! And right when the Tournament is destroying the old order of government!” Peter’s eyes were wide and brimming now, glossed with madness.
“Unification? You have no idea what I am. You never got the chance, dad. You’ve lost it in here. If you ever had it.”
Peter pushed on. “I know far more than you think. And you know what you must do.” He moved right up to the barrier and sought out Ian’s eyes, scanning his face like a p
ile of diamonds. “You must stop Mazaryk. You must destroy the Black House. He claims he’s fighting for the purity of the Tournament, but he’s simply replacing one empire with another. He’s no son of Pollix.”
Ian felt bombarded by his father’s words. In many ways he was saying the right things, but he made them sound wrong. He felt battered, stuck in an undertow at the meeting of two tides. But Peter’s last words froze him.
“You knew his father?”
Peter came back to himself and looked at his son as if he’d been caught murmuring a strange name in his sleep. The look was brief, but Ian saw it. Then it was swept away by his old smile.
“Not well enough, apparently. If he produced one like Edward,” Peter offered.
“Time’s up!” came the yell. The guard by the door behind Peter arose from a high stool and adjusted his belt as he walked towards him.
“You know what you must do,” Peter said quickly. “When I said it’s in your blood, I meant it.” The guard plucked the phone from Peter’s hand and lifted him standing. Peter didn’t resist him, but he shouted inaudibly after Ian as they took him away, locking the round door behind him with a solid snap and leaving Ian to stare at his own reflection in the plastic. He stared for several minutes, until the older guard came up to him and thumped him on the shoulder and gave him the thumb out.
By then, Ian knew where he had to go.
Chapter Eleven
FRANK TRACED A THICK foundation crack all of the way up the weathered concrete exterior of the building. He blinked in the sun and flinched as some condensation dripped on his head. He wiped it off and then smelled his hand. There was no rain today. Hopefully it was water dripping from one of the air conditioners which leaned precariously from the windows above. The building’s façade was flaked around a bright red door, exposing older layers of paint in a technicolor blend both dilapidated and striking.
“You’re telling me that the American lives here?” Frank asked.
Claudia had returned to them the next day, which Lock took to mean that she was at least passably honest. Either that or she just wanted the rest of her outrageous fee. She wore a long blue dress made of a jersey material that clung to her and a small black leather jacket that might have fit across the front of Frank. She also wore the grimly mocking expression of yesterday, although it was less confident today, more cautious.
“His name is Harry Jessop, and this is the address the old woman gave.”
“You don’t seem too sure,” Lock said, stepping up to examine a tarnished brass plaque to the right of the door. It was illegible.
Claudia scratched at the wisps of hair just behind her ears. “This place is a home for old people. It’s ... strange.”
Lock looked pointedly at her.
She stared right back. “In Russia, you don’t do this,” she said, gesturing at the building with both hands. “You live with the old. They are all family.”
“So ... what? These are the really disagreeable old folks?” Frank asked.
Claudia nodded, then stopped to think. “Or crazy.”
“Well that’s just wonderful.” Frank opened the heavy door with a wooden creak. “You first.” He ushered Claudia in and then he and Lock followed.
Inside they found a well swept lobby with a modest arrangement of fragrant lilies on a small round table in the center. A young man in a boxy suit stood behind a high desk at the far end, in front of an old sliding-grate elevator with an exposed brass indicator light, its long dial resting upon a stenciled letter G. He looked up politely as they approached. Claudia pressed ahead and broke out into a coy half-smile. She came to a bouncing stop at the desk and put both of her hands demurely in front of her. Her eyes beamed at him. When she spoke, her pitch was more girlish than anything either man had heard from her over the past twenty-four hours. The desk clerk ate it up.
“She’s a slippery one,” Frank muttered, elbowing Lock.
“She’s helping us, and we need it. Every second of it.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Claudia turned back to them and Frank was surprised to feel the full effect of an actual smile coming from her. For a moment he, too, was enamored. She motioned back at them and spoke further. Frank and Lock nodded and smiled, not knowing why. After a pause the young man nodded and pointed to a signature line on a notepad. Claudia signed and he rattled open the gate to the elevator. All three stepped inside and filled it out like a telephone booth. It dinged indignantly and Frank stepped off.
“Second floor,” Claudia said, pulling the gate closed and with it dropping her smile like a mask. She and Lock ascended slowly while Frank waited his turn. The young man giggled and patted at his own stomach.
When Frank arrived on the second floor he was surprised by the activity. All around him old men and women walked the squared hallways or sat and talked by one of the windows he’d seen from below. He was surprised to find many of them smoking and laughing, squinting at these new visitors and rocking softly. He was expecting something far more sterile and communist, like a big bomb shelter. He caught up with Lock and Claudia as they maneuvered the angular hallways. The building used every inch of its modest breadth.
“Down the hall here,” Claudia said.
“What did you tell that guy to get us up here?” Frank asked.
“That I was Harry Jessop’s granddaughter and you were my guardians.”
“Guardians?”
Claudia shrugged, checking the numbers on the whitewashed doors as they walked down the hallway. “Remember, he might be crazy. This is a place for ...” She trailed off as they came to the correct door. A small bedside table stood in the alcove, dusty, still sporting generic Christmas cards. A small wooden sign propped there stated his name in English. Several flyers were jammed under the door, another taped to the doorknob.
Lock wasted no time. He marched up to the door and rapped loudly, stepped back and straightened his track jacket. Frank cleared his throat.
No answer. Claudia looked relieved and ran her finger in a line along the dusty table. Frank stepped up to the door and nudged Lock aside.
“Mr. Jessop?” he called. “Harry Jessop!” He raised a balled fist to the door and prepared to slam but never got the chance. The door opened to reveal a startled old man, blinking rapidly in the light of the hallway. His bald head was speckled with liver spots and his big ears were haloed with fuzzy hair. He was short, shorter still because of a noticeable hunch. He wore a white undershirt and mesh basketball shorts under a purple robe, and large sandals. He fumbled with donning a pair of square black eyeglasses and sighed sadly once he got them on and was able to look fully upon the three of them.
“Niet adriens, Niet adriens,” he said, waving them away. “No thank you! I have it already. Don’t understand. Can’t speak Russian. Thank you. Goodbye.”
He shuffled back inside and moved to close the door.
“Wait! Mr. Jessop. Just a minute, please,” Frank said.
Harry Jessop froze, his bowed back to them. He shuffled around again. “You’re American?”
“Yes,” Lock said eagerly. “Both of us. The young lady is helping us around town.”
Harry eyed all three. “I don’t know you, do I?”
“Not yet,” Lock said. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“Talk ...” Harry repeated distantly. He ran the word over his tongue as if he was adjusting a toothpick in his mouth. His face went blank for a moment, then he became interested in the old cards on the table. “When did these get here?”
“About the Tournament, Mr. Jessop,” Lock said, dampened urgency in his voice.
Harry paused, his hand grasping a Christmas card. “The Tournament. That’s what they call it now, yes.”
Lock bobbed on the balls of his feet. Frank could see a well of words about to spring forth from him and he wasn’t sure the old man could stand the wave, so he stepped forward first. “Do you have a minute, Harry?” he asked gently.
Harry was lost in the Chri
stmas card again, counting back the months on his fingers. Lock’s heart sank. In the silence they could hear the muddled sound of a television program on low volume coming from the back. A soccer match.
“A minute? Yes.” Harry walked inside without another word, leaving the door open. The three stood in the doorway for several seconds before they followed him.
Harry sat upon a well-worn chair of faded plaid fabric opposite the television. To his right an empty water glass and a shorter tumbler of brown liquor sat upon a squat wicker end table. A small, puffy couch cut across the far corner of the room. He pointed at it and offered them a seat. Claudia had gone silent and stood by the television as it clicked and cooled. Frank and Lock sat down on the sofa, forced close together. A cloud of dust billowed from the cushions and hung in the window’s harsh spring light.
Harry watched the blank television in silence, so Lock spoke first.
“We’re trying to figure out how the Tournament started, and what it has to do with the Black House. You know the Black House? It’s had these eight torches on it for years, back before anyone knew about the Tournament. Why are there eight sconces on the house?” The words poured from him, and he did not pause to breathe. Frank put a hand on his knee to steady him, but he didn’t notice.
Harry flinched at Lock’s voice. He picked up the empty water glass and set it down again.
“We were talking about the Tournament—” Lock began again, but paused as Frank heaved himself off the couch, using Lock’s knee, and picked up the empty water glass himself. All of them watched as he brought it over to the tap, filled it up, and brought it back to Harry. Harry took a long drink of the water and forgot all about them. Lock tried a different tack.
“You said That’s what they call it now. What did they use to call the Tournament?”
“Did you talk to Ilya at the desk? He always helps me.”
“Ilya? What? No, we wanted to ask about the Tournament, Harry,” Lock said, leaning towards him.
“Ilya can help you when you get lost. I’ve been lost many times. He helps. I’m Harry Boris Jessop. What are your names?”
The Tournament Trilogy Page 70