Did she intend him to make the connection? Something rotten in . . . ‘The Great Dane?’
‘I’m being carefully unspecific. It may not be him, but it’s one of us. So I may need you to fabricate a ghost.’
‘In here?’
She nodded. ‘Full alert. Be ready to take someone out.’
NUDE WITH MIRROR
The cramped cabin they gave him had a fold-down desk, wardrobe and bunk. On the bunk was a towel. He needed a shower, then sleep.
The washroom, four cabins down, vibrated with the ship. When he entered, a naked black woman was facing the mirrored wall, foot on a bench, paring her nails. The mirror reflected her small, high breasts. She looked around and smiled.
It had been a while since he’d been in an EXIT bathroom. In the interests of emancipation, they had been unisex since Wolf’s time. Wolf himself had appeared naked among his lowliest cadets and his successor, Rhonda, followed his example — risking comments about her weight and inclinations with majestic unconcern. Vanqua, the closet narcissist, welcomed self-display. His ripped muscles were the talk of the base. But for cadets schooled in traditional cultures, the policy was disconcerting.
Cain smiled back. After spending years in a country where even a bared ankle on a billboard was considered outrageous, he found female flesh refreshing.
He said, ‘Hi.’
‘Wish I was.’
He slid the towel from his waist, stepped into a booth, ran the shower. The next shower was occupied. Below the half-partition he saw a scrawny female foot.
Its owner must have seen his foot as well, and known about the missing toes. Then she was in beside him — lank bleached hair, gaunt body, drooping shoulders, sagging breasts, and the slim hips he knew well. Her hips and butt were her glory. ‘Ray,’ she shrieked. ‘When did you blow in?’
‘An hour ago.’
‘About time.’
He kissed her lined face, cradled her wet bottom. ‘You don’t look a day older.’
‘Bulsh.’
If a man’s as old as the woman he feels, Cain thought, I’m now fifty. But the pressure of her job had made Pat Newsome look years older. He said, ‘What are you doing here? I thought they never let you out of Tassie.’
‘We’re delegates. I’ve got to do my number.’ She clamped a hand on his penis. ‘I suppose a root’d be out of the question?’
He cradled her breasts. ‘Still got a soft spot for me?’
The cadet passed them, said dryly, ‘Acquainted?’
They went back to his cabin. He was too tired to be much good but it was bliss to be with her again — in a familiar tense body that bucked, jerked, demanded its due. He relished the scrawny feel of her, the swinging breasts, lank thighs. He found her as pleasurable as the gorgeous Rehana. It proved to him that each woman was the dearest, the only person you wished to be with.
At last they lay content, jammed together on the bunk, lulled by the movement of the ship. She said in her Aussie accent, ‘Lucky I got in first. You’ll be beating them off with sticks.’
‘I’m too old for sex-crazed cadets.’ He was fading with tiredness. ‘How’s John? Still down with you at Beta?’
‘Yup. In the pink. Always asking about you.’
EXIT had replaced everyone from resistance leaders to presidents but John Paul I was the first pope.
He yawned. ‘What’s he up to?’
‘He writes. Walks a lot. Has a bliss-session at dawn with some of the staff.’
‘You talk to him much?’
‘No. He’s sweet but I find him scary. Makes me feel like an ankle-biter. So — change of subject — getting pensioned-off worry you?’
‘Should it?’
‘Some take it hard.’ A level look from kindly eyes with dark crescents of skin beneath. ‘Steponoski’s still there — working in the storeroom.’
Steponoski had done the job on Tito. ‘Why? She must be worth millions.’
‘We’re her family, that’s why. Poor old bat’ll do anything to stay.’
‘Perhaps she wants to be near John.’
‘Hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Anyway, I won’t hang around.’
She stroked his face. ‘What’ll you do?’
‘Might shoot the odd commercial.’
‘Pull the other one. Whatever for? Directing’s your cover job. Why fart-arse around selling tampons?’
‘It’s what I do. You make duplicates of world leaders. I grind out Lollywood mush. Would you rather I teach Punjabi?’ He closed his eyes, his body begging for sleep. ‘Making movies for illiterate Pakis is hardly creative. Coy sex, violence, daffy heroics, asinine love scenes, mindless songs. I could use a reasonable budget and script.’ He was drifting off, pulled his mind back. ‘Ron says someone’s knocking us off.’
‘Yeah. Just dentists. Lovely, tell your ma. Surgeons, strangely enough, don’t have probs — still getting smeared in the course of duty, but . . .’
He ran his hand along her flank. The skin had seen too much sun. She was head of Duplications and Rhonda’s 2IC, so had to know the plot. ‘How long is it since you corrupted me?’
‘Nineteen years, give or take a century.’
‘I’m not much of a security risk. And if you want help with this, you’d better fill me in. Don’t need details. Just high concept. The elevator pitch.’
‘Can’t, love. Classified.’ She put a finger on his nose, smiled sadly. ‘It’s over, Ray. You’re yesterday’s hero now. Take the loot and give us the flick.’
‘I will,’ he yawned, out of it.
‘Won’t miss not being around?’
‘Am I getting a whiff of subtext here?’
‘It’s just that . . . if Ron found you another job . . .’
‘What’ve you two cooked up? Did she send you into the shower on assignment?’
‘Just a small short-term job. Grab you?’
‘Women!’ But he nodded.
‘Good-oh.’ She patted his bottom. ‘I’ll slip Ronnie the word. Next question: what’s your opinion on psychic phenomena?’
His mind was drifting out of phase. He was in Antarctica again. The dazzling sunlight. The profound silence, peace. His first snore jerked him back.
‘Ray? Are you receiving me? Psychic phenomena? True or false?’
‘What? It’s . . . bullshit.’
She held out her hand. ‘How much?’
‘A thousand bucks if you can prove it.’
She shook the hand. ‘Done. And you have been.’ She kissed him and left.
THETA
The conference room was cramped but equipped with everything from a rear projector to sound and lighting consoles. He’d been told that the audience, young people of all races, were mostly Department D.
As he walked down the aisle, a murmur started and heads turned. He found a front-row chair beside Pat who winked. As he bent to sit, the breast-cannon harness dug into him. He hadn’t worn it on a base before.
The department heads sat on the podium like politicians granted equal time. Vanqua, elegant in expensive casual clothes. Rhonda, enduring a dress uncharacteristically clean. Was she on her best behaviour? He doubted it.
Vanqua moved to the lectern first. ‘Welcome to Theta. First, I’ll introduce our visitors. Commander Spencer many of you know . . .’ He motioned the man to stand — which he did, smiling around the room. ‘He’s attached to the Strategy and Tactics Group of the Naval Special Warfare Center, Coronado, and is our liaison with the CVN. Remember we are guests on this vessel. Unwanted guests.’
Cain noted the ‘N’ which meant the carrier was nuclear-powered. He suspected the ‘Theta of the Absurd’ had been positioned as additional reactor shielding.
‘Also observing this session are the heads of five intelligence services. And for them, we’ll briefly outline what we do.’
He pressed a remote. The lights dimmed and a slide of the EXIT hierarchy appeared. Gone were the prior EXIT directors: Tigon and Wolf. Now it merely showed participating nation
s: UK — FRANCE — USA — GERMANY — JAPAN.
‘EXIT,’ Vanqua continued, ‘stands for EXTRACTION INTERNATIONAL TASKFORCE. We’re funded by a consortium of nations. But funding is all we get. No nation can help us directly or even admit to our existence because it’s too politically dangerous.’ A bleak stare at the audience. ‘So we are not just orphans but outcasts.
‘EXIT has two departments,’ he continued, ‘D and S — who we call dentists and surgeons. Surgeons kill difficult people. Dentists replace difficult people. Sometimes it’s better to kill. Sometimes to replace. I am Vanqua. My colleague is Rhonda. Not our real names.’ He pointed to the slide. ‘I command Department S. And Rhonda commands Department D.’
He switched to a slide of the departmental structure. ‘My department’s main function is to kill. Its secondary function is to aid Department D operations and protect their agents. My field staff are taught practical and scientific skills and fatal techniques. Training is long, and assignments difficult because many targets are well protected.’
Cain listened without interest, feeling the slight roll of the ship. Pat’s fingers brushed his thigh and he closed his hand over hers. They’d seamlessly come together as if they’d never been apart and after the long, dreamless sleep he felt good. His attention drifted back to Vanqua’s drone. ‘. . . a last point. Field staff of both departments above Grade Two level have Blue Cards — which signify international kill exemptions. These are unique to EXIT.’ He made standing gestures to someone in the front row. ‘Jan.’
Zuiden rose.
‘And Mr Cain, would you stand?’
Pat withdrew her hand as he reluctantly got up. At least it eased the constriction of the harness.
‘These men are senior operatives, one from each department. If they maim or kill they cannot be charged under international agreement, a great advantage for us but also a great responsibility. For EXIT and for them. However you’d be wise not to offend them. Thank you, gentlemen.’
They sat again.
‘Next Rhonda will explain her department.’ Vanqua resumed his chair.
Rhonda ponderously skipped to the podium. She enjoyed her nonsense. The audience relaxed, settled back, prepared to be beguiled.
‘Now that Vanqua has explained things in his vague and equivocal way . . .’ She paused to milk the mood. ‘. . . I’ll confuse you more. The distinguished observers here today are obliged to lie for their countries. But at EXIT we don’t have a country or even a political allegiance as our charter vetoes bias. We’re funded to attack excess wherever it appears, independently of factions or national aims.’ She smiled broadly at Vanqua.
He shuffled. It wasn’t a tack he enjoyed.
She turned back to the half-darkened room. ‘You may argue that all action is bias, and impartiality a fiction. EXIT ethics are labyrinthine but to summarise — our foes are avarice, folly, pride and the intoxication of bloodshed.’
Cain spotted the borrowing from Camus but doubted others did.
‘Of course, for every problem, there’s a solution that’s simple, neat and wrong. And our assignments are as easy as picking up mercury with tweezers. Hinc illae lacrimae.’ She dabbed an imaginary tear.
Energy was building in the room from cadets fighting not to laugh. He wondered how the guests were coping.
‘We’re called [he was thankful she abstained from ‘yclept’, one of her absurdities] dentists because a dentist removes decay and fills the hole with something that looks the same but is less harmful. That’s what we do with people.’
A question from one of the guests. ‘Why not just kill them?’
‘I’m glad you asked that. What if a tyrant has henchmen to carry his policies on? He’s a hydra — so killing him solves nothing. But replace him with a look-alike who diverts what he’s doing and you can steer it in a less harmful way.’
She beamed over the lectern strip-light. ‘To make it more complex, our targets can be innocents. There may be, for instance, a scientist with a world-threatening discovery that others in his team could duplicate. So killing him won’t fix things. Better to replace him with someone who can subvert his research, cover tracks, lay red herrings. In short — although killing people is generally best practice, sometimes it’s too dangerous. Hence, Department D.’
She gazed around the room. ‘Perhaps another guest has a question.’
A rumbling voice. The man could have been a cantor. ‘What happens to the originals? If you replace someone innocent . . .’
‘An excellent observation.’ She was instantly serious. ‘The removed person is held at a secure base in perpetuum or until the five nations sign a death warrant. Which often never happens.’
‘So it becomes a holding pattern?’
The man was the head of Mossad, Cain decided.
‘Worse. The original is tremendously dangerous because he’s alive. It’s a problem similar to the storing and disposal of nuclear waste. And no — we don’t have a solution.’
A drawling voice from the rear of the room and south of Tennessee. ‘Like have your fillings ever come loose?’
‘Not since God dreamed the universe.’
A muffled female titter.
She completed the answer sensibly. ‘We’ve never been sprung . . . Yes sir? You over there.’
A mid-continental accent. ‘You say dentist operative is trained different to surgeon, is it?’
‘Very differently indeed. It’s arts and farts. Or humanities and profanities.’ A senior cadet choked trying not to laugh, which set the rest of the room off. The young ones loved it when Ronnie was in form. ‘For instance, this very fine fellow . . .’ She motioned to Cain to stand again. He made gargoyle faces at her but got them back. Once again, he stood. ‘. . . is a dentist mark four. You’ve no idea what he’s been through to get to this level.’
He itched to sit but she left him dangling.
‘Each potential Department D cadet is adopted at birth. They’re assessed for eight years and the selected children are streamed for one location, one assignment. The comparisons with The Pirates of Penzance and Fagin are obvious, ludicrous and I hope you’ll ignore them. We’ve all found it painful enough to have no parents without adding ridicule to the mix.’
A murmur of assent through the hall.
‘Inducted children are trained for a minimum of twenty years before attaining what we call Protectorships. Mr Cain has been taught in London and Karachi Universities for good reasons. But academic subjects are only a little of what he learned which included diplomacy, comparative religion, English lit and languages. He was also short-course cross-trained by Department S, as are all D cadets, in survival techniques and armed combat.’
Christ, Ron, he thought. Give it a rest.
‘Half a lifetime preparing for a future assignment in a specific country. An assignment which may never come — but generally does. And like an astronaut or athlete, he can only do one thing. Why? If you spend your youth training to be a weightlifter, you can’t then switch to the high jump. You’re too old to retrain — too specialised. Fortunately, Mr Cain’s immensely difficult assignment was a success, as you’ll hear when he gives his presentation. Would you care to add anything, Ray?’
He glowered at her mischievous smile. ‘If I’d known this was all-singing, all-dancing I would have worn taps.’ The ripple of laughter that followed was tinged with admiration. He sat down thankfully. Lord, he thought, I’m some kind of hero here.
The introduction was followed by Pat’s astonishing presentation. She had the videos, the before and afters, the secret films of the targets. Each time he’d seen her segment, it was better and more effective. It went into plastic surgery of the face, the body. The radical implants. Hair, diet, iris, fingerprint and dental difficulties. Prime subjects, selection, attitude. Physical and mental re-education. Voice production and acting. The memory factor. Specialists and staffing. Simulation testing. Lead time. And, finally, the grim matter of end-point relief.
At the f
inish, the stunned audience filed from the room as if retreating from an open coffin.
On tables in the foyer outside were coffee and canapes. Cain waited his turn to get coffee, reading the crowd. Two impressive-looking men he’d identified as observers stood together shaking their heads, barely able to credit what they’d seen.
Pat came over. ‘How’d I go?’
‘You know damn well.’
Spencer appeared briefly in front of her, jaw flapping for words. ‘Oh my gosh,’ he finally got out. ‘You people. I’ve never . . .’
She said brightly, ‘Thorough, aren’t we?’
‘And I thought naval aviation was tough!’ He pumped her hand, drifted away.
She turned to Cain. ‘You got quite an intro.’
‘Bigger razz than the Thieving Magpie overture.’
Rhonda barged up to the table, edging them aside like a runaway refrigerator, ‘Having fun?’
‘Did you have to do the potted bio?’
She sang, ‘And noble lords will scrape and bow, and double them in two. And open their eyes in blank surprise at whatever she likes to do.’
‘I saw nothing in the job description about hosannas for superannuated icons.’
‘If you could trust job descriptions, there wouldn’t be chaos theory.’
A madonna-faced woman entered the room. She had a supermodel’s figure. He’d noticed her when she’d stayed behind to cue up the next videos. Rhonda called to her, ‘All set up?’
She came over. ‘I think so.’ Her cutaway top displayed the high lift of her breasts.
‘Karen Hunt. Meet John Cain — our great Grade Four.’
‘Hello,’ Cain said, longing to look at the cleft of exposed smooth skin. With effort he kept his eyes on her face. Smooth brow, beautiful jawline. She made Pat look like her mother.
Rhonda said, ‘Karen’s one of my best Grade Ones. She’s handling The Square.’
He’d heard of it — a pervasive cult already a concern to several governments. ‘Must be a blast.’
‘She’ll be telling you about it next session.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Ron’s told me a lot about you,’ the woman said. Her voice sounded like a recorded message. He wondered what kind of training had produced her inner deadness. Pat watched his reactions but needn’t have worried. Hunt was as sexually approachable as a waxwork.
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