Bloodshift

by Garfield Reeves-Stevens

  “The appointment at the Haaberling Institute came through, didn’t it?”

  Robert thought back on it: the first meeting with Major Weston; the incredible honour of being offered a position at the renowned Haaberling Institute while in one’s twenties was unheard of. Still he was reluctant to leave his experiments at Berkeley. He felt that after two years he was finally close to the breakthrough he needed to isolate the mechanism by which certain cancers appear to simultaneously invade the body at several sites rather than developing within it at one location, then spreading. But Weston was insistent. It was good for the country to have an American at Haaberling, and when his appointment was finished at Stockholm Robert could expect an immediate offer from the Centres for Disease Control in Atlanta and work on anything he wanted.

  Besides, Weston had promised that he would look after the experiment being left behind, personally.

  With a little misgiving, but enormous excitement, Robert had accepted. And now the rats were fried by a computer that shouldn’t even have had control over the temperature.

  “I suppose so,” he sighed finally. “But Weston seemed to be spending a lot of time in Washington. He’s a pretty busy guy to be looking after my rats.”

  Erica giggled. “I know how to look after your rats,” she said, and began whispering into her husband’s ear.

  He laughed and rolled on top of her, kissing her. But afterward, as she slept again, he stared at the ceiling trying to figure it all out.

  “Dammit,” he said to the darkness. “I was so close. I know I was.”

  When the bedside alarm went off two hours later, he was still thinking. But he never once thought that it was anything other than an accident.

  Chapter Six

  THE FLICKERING DARKNESS Granger Helman stared up at disappeared in a wash of light as the Greyhound bus he rode drove into the tunnel.

  The discontinuity gave him that vague sense of having forgotten what it was he had just been thinking. He settled back into his seat, trying to regain his body position of a few moments before to see if that would, by association, recapture his thoughts. It didn’t. All he could think of now was that for the first time since he was a child, he was frightened. Not as in his closings, apprehensive or nervous about possibilities which he had anticipated and must avoid, but truly frightened.

  New York, January 15

  He remembered as a child, alone in the house, a ball he had been playing with rolled through the basement door, and down the wooden stairs. He had to get the ball, yet he was too small to reach the basement light switch. He had made it halfway down the stairs before his child’s mind penetrated the darkness and saw what waited for him there. They were grinning their idiotic grins, dim light from the kitchen behind him glinted off their spittle-flecked teeth, the oily fur and the eyes that always watched him through the floors. They had been waiting for him to come, just once, into the basement when he was alone and it was dark. He could feel the kitchen door slowly shutting behind him as the light faded and the darkness grew and the long grabbing things stretched silently through the wooden stairs for his feet. He had flown up those stairs in two jumps and slammed the door shut behind him. In the basement, he knew he had heard them exhale and settle back to begin their wait again.

  A few days later his father found the ball wedged in behind the furnace. Granger knew it couldn’t have rolled there on its own and never played with it again.

  That’s what it was to be frightened, and that’s what Helman felt as the wash of light vanished and the bus rolled out of the Lincoln Tunnel onto the night streets of Manhattan.

  The Port Authority Bus Terminal was fluorescent bright, crowded, and still under construction or renovation or just falling apart. Half the walls were covered with thick plastic sheeting or graffiti-covered plywood. The other half were covered with people, leaning and sitting, bus travellers, or pretending they were, waiting away from the snow and cold outside. Helman studied each face, peered through each wall of plastic. Somewhere, he knew, the caller was watching him. He had tried every switch and dodge he could think of in the past twenty hours, but he was certain they hadn’t worked. Helman had lost control.

  The voice on Miriam’s phone had suggested Helman attend a meeting in Manhattan.

  “When?” Helman had asked.

  “Twenty-eight hours, Mr. Helman. Eleven. Tomorrow evening.” Helman had never heard a voice like it. He assumed a masking device was distorting the speaker’s normal voice. He couldn’t be sure if it were a man or a woman.

  “Where?” Helman knew he had no choice. He must agree with whatever the caller set forth. The threat of the evidence in the package ensured his compliance.

  “Manhattan,” said the voice.

  “Where in Manhattan?” Helman protested. “A bar, hotel, address?”

  “We know where you have been, we know where you are. We will meet you in Manhattan, by whichever routes you choose, at eleven, tomorrow evening. Yes?” The word was drawn out, like a hiss.

  “Yes,” said Helman, and the line went dead. The next morning, Helman drove his sister’s Rabbit to the Budget lot in Concord. There he rented a Citation to be dropped off at LaGuardia that evening.

  He drove south on 93, varying his speed, searching for following cars which matched his variations. None did.

  He exited at Manchester and parked at the airport. At the American Airlines desk he bought a ticket for a LaGuardia flight in two hours and went into the Skyline bar to wait.

  Thirty minutes later, he went into the men’s room. When he came out, his brown hair was black, he had a moustache, and his cheeks were swollen with cotton batting, giving him the look of a man twenty pounds heavier. His L.L. Bean boots had been replaced with black broughams with two-inch thick metal inserts that wedged uncomfortably against his heels and arches, altering the way he walked. His jeans had become black pinstriped suit pants, and his blue parka, now folded and belted across his stomach to add to the illusion of his extra twenty pounds, had been switched with a black leather topcoat. Instead of the casual duffel bag he had started with, he carried a small, thin attaché case. In his left hand he carried a brown paper bag, obviously holding a bottle of liquor which he grasped around its neck.

  The liquor bag was the element of misdirection necessary to a successful disguise. Packages were always examined by people on surveillance duty. Packages were how weapons and cameras and stolen items were smuggled. They could not be ignored unless their contents could be identified after a few seconds inspection, as Helman’s liquor would be. Anyone who watched him could see the bottle top where Helman had carefully peeled back the bag. However, those few seconds of inspection diverted attention from the build and face of a subject. Those few seconds established the subject as existing background to the scene. The examination that followed was usually less critical, especially if a number of people requiring attention were also entering and exiting the surveillance area. It had worked for Helman before. He didn’t know if it would work now, if indeed he was being watched, but he had to try.

  As a commuting businessman, walking with slumped shoulders and a tired gait, seemingly eager to find the nearest Holiday Inn and settle down with his bottle, Helman walked over to the Eastern counter and bought a ticket for Newark. The flight left in twenty minutes.

  There were only twelve people on board. He recognised them from the airport corridors or the bar. Either none of them was following him, or someone was better at disguise than Helman.

  In Newark, Helman took the cotton out of his cheeks and sat in a bar. The Port Authority bus left the airport every twenty minutes. He waited until what he thought would be the last moment, and took the ten P.M. bus.

  He was walking up the exit stairs to Eighth Avenue

  at twenty minutes to eleven. He was prepared to attend the meeting as scheduled. In his circles, few made threats they could not back up.

  For no reason other than to keep himself moving, he began to walk toward Times Square. The shows
were letting out and the side streets were jammed with taxis and limousines. Horns sounded in a continual undulation of impatience. Clumps of people walked briskly on the sidewalks and into the choked streets, eager to make as much headway as possible before the show crowds had dispersed, leaving the area to the street people who made the visitors nervous.

  Another time, Helman might have been caught up in the lights, the activity, and the excitement of so much life surrounding him, but that night he was caught up in other things.

  It was ten minutes to eleven.

  If contact wasn’t made by twelve, he had made up his mind to go into hiding. His sister and her two boys would unfortunately have to go with him. Somebody wanted him. He could not afford to leave anything behind by which they might snare him. He loved them too much. They were his only family. His only refuge. Miriam was waiting for his call. He searched the Times Square crowd.

  It was five minutes to eleven.

  He decided to cross over to Nathan’s for some coffee. He could sit near the window and continue to watch.

  Two hands grabbed his upper arms. Two men flanked him.

  “Look straight ahead, Mr. Helman. Keep walking. Your ride is on its way.”

  A hand took away his attaché case. He was made to walk faster, along 42nd to Sixth.

  A silver Fleetwood limousine, almost as common in Manhattan as a yellow cab, waited at the corner, exhaust forming an ominous ground mist around it.

  The two men guided Helman toward it. The windows were darkly tinted. He could not see who waited for him. At least, he thought, they won’t kill me in this car; it’s too expensive. But somehow their surveillance had picked him up, despite all his efforts, within minutes of his arrival in a darkened city of millions. Perhaps expense was of no concern to them.

  Steps from the limousine, the door swung slowly open. No hand appeared to be on it. Helman was guided inside. The two men did not follow.

  Another figure sat in the far corner of the car.

  “Thank you for being punctual, Mr. Helman. I am Mr. King. I will accompany you to your meeting.”

  Helman felt a tightness constrict his chest. It was the voice from the phone call Exactly. There had been no masking device. Mr. King actually spoke like that.

  “Your surveillance is very good, Mr. King.” Helman controlled himself, resisting his temptation to lash out. The situation belonged to the man across from him. Helman must wait; carefully choose the proper moment to react.

  Mr. King leaned forward and Helman saw his face, deeply shadowed from the overhead light. It was completely unremarkable. Except for the eyes. For one moment they seemed to shine with a tiny highlight of their own. Yet they were so dark in shadow.

  Helman did not have time to consider it further.

  Mr. King reached out, peeled off Helman’s moustache and removed his wig.

  “Our surveillance has to be good, Mr. Helman. As do all our procedures.” He put the hairpieces in a plastic bag and placed them on the back window ledge. He spoke again.

  “And now, Mr. Helman, your reputation does precede you. Please lie face down on the floor.”

  Helman didn’t move.

  “There is a chance, Mr. Helman, that you will walk away from your meeting. In that case, it will be a distinct advantage for you not to have any more information than you actually require. Do you understand?”

  Helman stretched out on the floor, his face near the man’s Feet. They didn’t want him to know where they were taking him. It was a good sign, a reason for hope. Just as he had granted Roselynne Delvecchio her freedom, seconds before her death.

  Helman felt the man’s hand on his neck. He felt the strong thumb and forefinger lightly position themselves on the proper spots, and felt nothing else.

  Only then did Mr. King press the button on the console to signal the driver that it was safe to drive on.

  Helman woke in stages.

  First he became conscious that he was thinking and tried to place himself. He remembered lying on the car floor. He was puzzled because now he could feel himself in a sitting position. The seat was soft and comfortable on the parts of his body which did not feel numb. He couldn’t feel any of the car’s vibrations.

  Then he remembered his eyes and he opened them.

  Eleven pairs of eyes stared back.

  He jerked his body upright from the chair, twisting to see his position, to see if he were trapped. His neck and head caught fire with pain and he collapsed back into the chair, sweat bristling on his face. He fought back the urge to moan.

  “There are aspirin, water, and cognac, if you wish any, on the table beside you.” The voice came from Helman’s right. It was the voice from the phone, from the car.

  He turned his head slowly and saw Mr. King sitting a few feet away in a similar chair. For a moment, Helman thought he was in some sort of club.

  The walls were dark and fabric covered, the ceiling high and crossed with gleaming dark wood beams, catching innumerable highlights from a brilliant crystal chandelier.

  Then he saw the eyes again. All other thoughts ended.

  Eleven people sat behind a massive, intricately carved table. They stared at him and their faces were just eyes. He stared back, willing his eyes to focus, to show him the truth of what he saw.

  Each face was just eyes. The rest was covered with a black cloth which hung from a cord tied behind the head and crossing just over the bridge of the nose. Their bodies were draped in formless black jackets—perhaps robes? Even their hands were swathed in black cloth, like improbable mittens.

  “Who are you?” he said, quite softly. The movement of his jaw ripped into the back of his neck like scalding blades.

  A voice began. It took Helman some moments to tell from the movement of a black cloth that the speaker was the figure seated third from the left.

  “You are Robert Granger Helman. You are also David Michael Franklin, William Terrence Rosner, Stephen Phillip Osgood.” The figure paused. He seemed to smile through his mask, then continued. “et al.”

  They were the names of Helman’s ‘drops.’ The dummy identities he and his broker used to funnel payments, and which Helman used as operating identities when closing deals. He had more than the three the figure had named, all backed by passports, credit cards, social security payments, and mailing addresses, but the ones named were his active ones. The rest were dormant until he had a need for them. Helman was not concerned with the revelation. He had expected it.

  “The figure continued.

  “All of them born about 1975 it would seem. About the time you came in contact with a ‘broker’ ”—Helman noted with interest that his broker was not named—“and became involved in the closing of certain ‘deals.’ ”

  A third person at the table began speaking.

  “Mr. Helman, you are what is commonly referred to as a contract killer, a hit man. We have knowledge of twelve of what you call your deals. We have direct evidence linking you to seven of them. We suspect your total number of assassinations at between twenty and twenty-five. However, we feel seven is more than enough to interest the FBI. And any indictments filed against you would be certain to more than interest your past ‘clients.’ Panic, we are sure, would be much more likely considering the names you might be persuaded to reveal to save yourself.

  “If you live through to your trial date, you can be certain your sister and her children won’t. We shall see to that personally,”

  In the silence that followed, Helman felt the trap inexorably closing. He looked around at the room he was in: the paintings, the sculptures by the double doorway, and the rich oriental carpet beneath him. All spoke of wealth, old and considerable. The people who faced him, their voices all curiously similar to the man’s beside him—a regional accent from a language other than English would fit in with his suspicions—were talking of murder.

  Murder, wealth, and a group based in a common foreign location meant only one thing to him. A war was to begin. One of New York’s famili
es had linked him with some closings which might have been arranged by another family. They had somehow set him up in the Delvecchio deal, and now wanted him to give evidence about who hired him and why. That evidence could be taken to a war council as justification, in the end, for taking control of New York City. Helman had always tried to stay away from organised crime. Now he felt he hadn’t tried hard enough.

  It was time for him to react.

  “You probably have more information about the closings you’re talking about than I do,” he began. “All of them are arranged through the broker you mentioned.

  Except when a name or a face has been in the papers, I often don’t know who the deal is, and I never know who my client is.” His first approach would be to make them think he was a pawn.

  The group at the table reacted oddly, as though of all the things Helman might have said, his last statement wasn’t one of the expected ones. The masked figures looked at each other in silence for a few moments. The figure in the middle, who hadn’t spoken before, turned to Mr. King and asked, “Does he wish to be commended for his ignorance? Surely that is the only way he can operate?”

  The man in the chair addressed the group.

  “No, my Lo—,” he stopped abruptly and began again. But Helman had caught it. Was he actually going to call the man at the table “my Lord?”

  “No, sir. He believes you are one of the organisations his assassinations have been directed against. He will no doubt assume that his latest assassination, evidence of which we have presented to him, was arranged by you to furnish a hold over him. He believes you will now request him to furnish information about his previous employers so you may use that information against them. He is trying to establish himself as blameless in the planning of the assassinations so you will not kill him.”

  Another figure at the table seemed impressed with the explanation of Helman’s statement.

  “Is this true, Mr. Helman?”

  Helman was confused. Nothing here was making sense. He felt as if he were on display, not about to be subjected to interrogation on the eve of a gangland war. And why was one of the men at the table called “Lord?”