“I’ll drive you.”
Gray shook his head. “I need the air.”
Hudson fell into step beside him. Gray eyed the stone walls as they walked. It was the moss that drew his attention. It was the detail that drove home just how lush England was. During the endless months in Sudan and Chad, he’d grown used to the desiccation. He associated the desert with death. Here, life was an exaltation of green, the air a nectar of temperate humidity. He was home, but the abundance was almost an affront, not a comfort.
Hudson said, “You looked angry back there.”
“Did I?” Gray answered, giving nothing.
“When John mentioned God’s comfort.” When Gray said nothing, Hudson continued. “I don’t suppose this is something you care to hear right now —”
“You suppose correctly.”
Hudson ploughed on. “Don’t turn away. This is when you need your faith most of all.”
Gray snorted. “And where was God when I needed Him most of all?”
“He’s with you now.” Hudson’s voice was strong with gentle sincerity.
They walked for a minute in silence. Gray didn’t snap back at Hudson. He was too tired, too numb, and coming from Hudson, the words didn’t have the empty-tin ring of platitudes. They never did. Hudson was just enough of an iconoclast that he had always known the priesthood itself wasn’t for him. He still would have made a good one, Gray had always thought. He did make a fine missionary. He was the man Gray had aspired to be, and over the years he had followed Hudson’s example. He had also followed his friend’s dreams. They had done good. They had built Ties of Hope into something real and effective. He had felt what he thought was the genuine warmth of faith. But now? Jean Paul Richter said it: Every soul in this vast corpse-trench of the universe is utterly alone.
They approached the drive to Gethsemane Hall. The police were still investigating. The barriers were still up. Home was barred to him. Gray didn’t rage. The Hall was home only in the ancestral sense. He’d spent most of his life in the London holdings of the family, and much (too much) of his adult life abroad. But today the fact that he couldn’t enter his own grounds was an echo of the larger barrenness of his return home. London was hardly any better. The flat was huge with the sounds of absences. He’d been staying in Roseminster, at the Nelson Inn, caught in limbo.
“Stay with me for a while,” Hudson said. “I don’t think you should be alone.”
“I want to be.” Gray stared through the gate. He couldn’t see the Hall from here. He thought he could sense it, though, a huge weight that anchored the landscape.
“Do you realize,” Korda asked, “what an embarrassment everyone who was in Geneva and is still alive represents? Do you?”
He hadn’t invited her to sit. Meacham said nothing, stood with eyes forward and waited for the rhetorical questions to end. Smug little bastard, she thought. You weren’t there, and aren’t you happy? Korda was a fat, balding bureaucrat who snuggled securely in his corner of the political game. He wasn’t an intelligence officer. He was a game-player. He was a lousy administrator, but he played the game like everybody else was blind and stupid. Meacham could almost admire him for that skill. He was playing even now. The situation should have been an easy read. Meacham was here to have her career sliced up and handed to her in a paper bag. But she couldn’t tell if Korda’s anger was genuine. She could sense angles being played. She risked a glance at Korda’s face. His expression was doom and damnation, but his eyes were twinkling. Something was making him happy. Figure it out, she told herself. Then work it. She waited for Korda to speak again.
He opened the report’s cover and pretended to read. “Tell me what you know,” he told her.
What was he doing? Giving her the rope with which to hang herself? “About what?”
Mistake. He glared. “Don’t be coy. Tell me what you knew before the media went berserk.”
“The Deputy Director of Operations was running what I thought was an investigation into terrorist incidents at anti-globalization protests.” Incidents was an understatement. A cluster of dirty bombs had gone off at Davos while it was hosting the World Economic Forum. Right in the middle of the protests. Explosions, bodies torn apart, panic, good times. Most of the resort town was now uninhabitable.
“You didn’t know he was working with the people who actually were responsible for the bombs?” Joe Chapel, the DDO, had been cooperating with a Russian mob king. The story was that the damage had been part of a plan to cause a backlash of support for the World Trade Organization, beef up the WTO’s powers, and bring the organization to heel. Craziness. Might even have worked, though: in the early aftermath, the words “protester” and “terrorist” had become synonyms. Then everything had gone south, and the partners had started killing each other. Chapel was in the hospital, the Russian was dead, and his Geneva corporate headquarters had become a slaughterhouse. Better yet, informed sources were claiming the collusion went all the way to the Oval Office. Unbelievable. So insanely stupid, it was probably all true.
“I didn’t know,” Meacham said. “Not until everything started exploding.”
“Convince me.”
“I walked away.”
“From the damage? Of course you did.”
“No, from Chapel. He wanted loose ends tied up.”
“You mean cleaned.”
“Yes.”
“He was ordering black bag jobs how recently?”
“Up to the day I left.”
“And you disobeyed a director’s order?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because it was stupid.”
Korda smiled. His face broke out in sunshine, and this, Meacham could see, was genuine. He wasn’t pissed at all about Chapel’s fiasco. He was overjoyed. Had he and Chapel been on the outs? If so, the rumours hadn’t reached Meacham in Geneva. But Korda’s pleasure had the kind of purity that only came with the defeat of an enemy. The right moves became clear.
Korda said, “That doesn’t say much about your loyalty to a superior officer.”
You testing me? Meacham thought. Screw you. “I’m not loyal to nonsense.”
“Some might say you’re lacking a certain quality of patriotism.”
Meacham shrugged. “Then I hope they enjoy singing ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ when the ship goes down.”
Korda was beaming bright. He was responding to a kindred spirit. Nailed you, Meacham thought. “Sit down, Lou,” he said. When she did, he said, “I’ll be honest. It was good that you walked away, but you didn’t walk away soon enough. You’re tainted. We’ve even had to field a couple of media calls about you. Those are really bad optics, because, as station chief, you shouldn’t have any optics at all.”
“Can we skip to the end?” she asked. “Do I still have a career?”
“Still want one?”
“It would be nice to come home.”
Korda nodded. “I think you’re someone I can work with. But don’t get me wrong. If you’re any kind of liability, or even just a perceptual one, you’re toast. That’s the kind of sweetheart I am. Capisce?” He leaned forward. “Two things, then. We need you out of the wrong spotlight. And you have to earn your redemption.”
“Meaning what?”
“Did you know Pete Adams?” Now the twinkle in Korda’s eye promised nothing good.
“Never heard of the man. Should I have?”
“Not really. Just curious. He was small fry in the Directorate of Science and Technology.”
“Was?”
“Was. He was also, in his spare time, a ghost hunter. I ask you. That had better have been an interest that developed after he was recruited. Anyway, he was on vacation while Geneva was melting down, and what do you suppose he did for his holiday? I’ll tell you what he did. He rented himself a haunted mansion in England, is what he did. Set up a whack of equipment, is what he did. Threw himself off the roof, is what he did. Generated a shitload of bad publicity and paperwork nightm
ares for me, is what he did.”
Meacham was having difficulty processing. “Sounds like a fruitcake.”
“But a public one. The British press is all over him. They love this stuff.”
“How did they find out he was Agency?”
“His mother.”
“His mother?”
Korda nodded, rolled his eyes. “She’s blaming us. Cover-up, murder, secret ops, the usual thing.”
“So?”
“So we defuse by going public. An investigation will be made into his death.”
“By me.”
“By you.”
She shook her head. “How exactly is becoming tabloid fodder going to reduce my visibility? Spook Hunts Spooks. You know that’s what will happen.”
Korda was all happy Buddha. “Pretty much. Lots of entertainment, and if the investigation gets his mother to shut up, it will be harmless and the right kind of distraction. Try to keep the profile down, if you can. But even if you can’t, you being mixed up with ghosts makes for a much sexier story than a tangential connection to Chapel. See where this is going?”
“An inoculation.”
“Good for you.” Korda lost his smile and turned serious. “I do want to know why he died. There have been enough bad scandals to last us a decade or three. If this wasn’t just suicide, I want to know what kind of a missile is heading our way before it hits. Am I clear? Do this right, Lou. Screw up, and I feed you to the hounds.”
Patrick Hudson watched Gray’s face. He looked for a crack in the stone. Right now, he’d take just about any kind of animation, but he didn’t want to see the anger again. It frightened him, because in it he saw more than the common rage of bereavement — he saw a core of hatred. That rattled him. It looked like a turning away. “This is the worst time for you to be alone,” he insisted. “I’m going to deny your request.”
Gray turned to him, his lips pressed into a razor line, the edged cousin to a smile. “I thought you said God was with me.” Sarcasm. Anger. Hatred. “So I guess I’m not alone.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh? You mean I am alone?”
Hudson took a step back. There had been plenty of nights in refugee camps, when they were exhausted from physical labour and the mental anguish, when he and Gray had played theological games. Gray, always more tentative in his faith, always needing reassurance, especially when surrounded by darkness and war, would try to catch Hudson out in contradictions and paradoxes. Hudson enjoyed the game. He knew Gray wasn’t really trying to blast a hole through his beliefs. He was instead looking for answers, waiting for his objections to be shot down, hoping that Hudson would buttress his own convictions. Now, though, Gray’s tone was different. Now, he was playing for keeps.
Hudson tried to come at him from the side. “Richard,” he said, “we have just spent months and months and months with people who have lost every last one of their relatives, who have seen their wives and husbands and sons and daughters and parents raped and tortured and murdered. And do you know what was probably the single biggest thing that sustained me during that time?” He waited, but Gray didn’t answer. He simply stared, and Hudson felt his words lose their strength, turn brittle and shallow. He forged on. “It was their faith,” he said. “If anyone in the world had a right to give up, to be angry with God, or to give up even on the mere idea that there is a God, it was them. And they didn’t. They kept going, thanks to that belief.” He waited again.
Gray continued to stare back. He barely blinked. Gradually, the focus of his gaze shifted from Hudson to a point past his shoulder and a universe away. “Did I say I didn’t believe anymore? I don’t think I did.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. I may believe in a cruel God. That would make sense, wouldn’t you say?”
Hudson wouldn’t. The cold implacability of Gray’s logic washed over him and sucked colour from the world.
Gray shrugged. He began to leave but then frowned. He looked back down the drive to the Hall. Hudson saw him concentrate, saw his face clear of grief for the first time since the news of his loss. In its place were puzzlement and something that looked like fascinated disgust. Then Gray shook his head. The grief and the resentment returned. He walked off. Hudson hesitated before following. He knew his duty was to stay with his friend. But now he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hear what Gray might say. Along his fortifications that held doubt at bay, he had found a hairline crack.
“Stop it,” he muttered and began to follow.
Then he felt it, too. Barely more than a thread, but beckoning as a dry finger, he felt the need to turn back towards the Hall. He stared, waiting for a revelation. None came, but the tickle, the pull remained. He couldn’t see the Hall, but he felt its eyes on him. He snorted at the fancy. Ridiculous, he thought.
Ridiculous, the idea of an invisible entity watching him.
The thought was sour, the irony unwanted. He wrenched himself away from the gate and hurried to catch up with Gray.
chapter three
a scientific investigation
“What is it?” Anna Pertwee asked. She knew there was something as soon as she descended from the van. Edgar Corderman, parked behind her, had his cowering puppy look. Don’t hit me, his face pleaded. She’d never hit him. She couldn’t imagine anyone getting physical with his baby face and angel-thin frame. But he drove her crazy when he went into pre-emptive grovelling. Those were the moments when she thought even Mother Theresa might have considered raising a hand or a sandal.
“Sorry, Anna.” Corderman winced at imaginary blows.
“Sorry for what? What did you do?”
“I forgot the film.”
Don’t close your eyes. Don’t roll them. Take that breath. Hold it. One, two, three ... Ten. Let it out. When she spoke, her voice was calm, quiet, unthreatening, and she had her blood pressure under control. But the reprimand slipped out anyway. “I specifically asked you before we left —”
“I know, I know. I thought I had it, and what with packing all the equipment, I forgot to check, and ...”
Pertwee held up a hand. “It’s all right. Better we realized this now than later. I’ll go in and start setting up. You go down to the chemist’s and pick up a dozen rolls. Do you have enough money?”
Hesitation. “It didn’t even occur to me to —”
Breath. One, two, three ... Ten. Exhale. She fished her wallet out of her purse. “Here,” she said. “And what speed are we buying?”
No hesitation. “Eight hundred. Or four hundred, if that’s the best they have.” Bright, quick answer, front-row student with the hand high in the air. And this was a man in the twilight of his twenties. Well. You worked with what you had. Corderman meant well and tried harder.
Pertwee gave him a smile. All is forgiven. “Off you go, then.” She watched his Volvo drive down the hill toward central Bexley. Was I that young once? she wondered. She hoped not. But there were fewer than ten years between them.
She opened the van’s side door and began to load up. Camcorder, tripod, and Electromagnetic Field Detector to start with. She adjusted the shoulder straps and looked at the house across the street. She didn’t feel as hopeful as she had when speaking to the woman yesterday over the phone. Whenham Avenue was pleasant, well-tended, quiet, the ideal London commuter satellite. The house was semi-detached and modern. The atmosphere was comfortable, not numinous. Doubts crowded in, but she tried to banish them. Keep the mind open, she reminded herself. Negativity would kill whatever chance there might be for contact. The spirits would run from her. Chin up, she thought and crossed the street.
Winnifred Tillingate opened the door before Pertwee could ring. She was tiny, in her late sixties, and had the bounce of a lifelong sportswoman. Her hair was cumulus-white, fine as air, and held down under a paisley scarf. Her smile was enormous and genuine. Pertwee saw no trace of charlatan. She began to feel better.
“I’m so glad you’ve come.” Winnifred beamed as s
he led Pertwee to the living room. “It is so nice to be taken seriously for once, especially by a member of the scientific community.”
Scientific community. Yes, well, er. Pertwee had her dreams, but she could tell Winnifred a thing or two about not being taken seriously. There was a time when she might have been a member of the community. She had her bachelor’s degree in astronomy. She’d begun her master’s. Then things had changed. She’d deviated, her former professors and classmates would say. Epiphany was her version. “Is there a room where the manifestations are strongest?” she asked.
Winnifred nodded like a bird. “Right here,” she said. “This very room.”
“Oh, good.” Pertwee looked around. Pictures of grandchildren in triptych frames. Old console TV. Lots of china collectibles. It was her mother’s home from five years ago, before the cancer had taken her for the last six months to the palliative care clinic. Then Winnifred sat down, and the flashback was complete. She was sitting in a high-backed wooden chair with padded arms. Before her was a round table in the form of a Norman shield. Victoria Pertwee’s table had been engraved with astrological signs, but it had been circular, and the chair was identical. It was what the elder Pertwee had always called a Medium Chair, and Anna felt a mix of melancholy and skepticism. Winnifred put her hands on the chair’s arms and closed her eyes. “They’re close,” she murmured. “I can tell.”
So could Mother, thought Pertwee. But she began to set up her equipment anyway. Victoria had been a fake. A real throwback to the spiritualism craze, knocking sounds, tinkling bells, rising table and all. Pertwee’s father, Charles, had been the technician behind his wife’s huckster. The act was old, but it drew in the nostalgic and the gullible, along with their money, by the boatload. The twist was that Victoria had actually believed. Not in her shows, but in her ability. As far as she was concerned, she really did speak with the dead, and Pertwee could remember real, private séances with her mother as far back as her toddler years.
Gethsemane Hall Page 2