by Barbara Paul
Three little conspirators sitting in a row. Li Xijuan in the center—small, poised, an almost-smile touching her lips. A Mona Lisa-Mata Hari whose face was the most familiar of the three. To her left, Mañuel Aguirrez—head lowered, body slumped in textbook posture of defeat. To Li Xijuan’s right, Heinrich Schlimmermann—unfocused eyes, unmoving lips: inscrutable Occidental.
P. J. Martel was questioning Aguirrez. Yes, Aguirrez said, he had authorized the illegal shipment of arms to Honduras. Yes, he knew the defective weapons would lead to the deaths of the rebels. Yes, he had known he would eventually be found out. Occasionally a light would flash on Shelby’s machine. Yes, Yes, Yes. Nothing but the truth.
Martel paused, looking more like a walrus than ever. “Ambassador Aguirrez,” said the walrus, “will you tell us why in the name of heaven you ordered faulty weapons supplied to the Honduran rebels?”
Aguirrez lost his dead, defeated look for the first time since he’d entered the hearing chamber. His head lifted. A shaky right hand began to raise itself. (He’s alive, Colin Clive, he’s alive!) Aguirrez used the hand to steady himself as he rose from his chair.
“For you,” said Aguirrez. “I do this thing for you!”
All the extraneous noise in the chamber died down. “Say again?” came a voice from somewhere.
“I do this thing for you!” Aguirrez shouted. “For you, for me, for all of us! For the United Nations! I help the United Nations!”
Holy frijoles. Shelby ignored her flashing machine momentarily while she studied the excited man carefully. No doubt about it. She pressed Yes.
A murmur ran all the way down the commissioners’ table. Shelby saw the walrus lean back and say something to an aide. The aide jumped up and hurried toward Shelby.
She anticipated the question. “The machine did not malfunction—I signaled Yes. As far as Aguirrez knows, he’s telling the truth. He’s sincerely convinced he was helping the UN.”
Scuttle back, tell the boss, pass the word. Mutter, mumble. Quiet, please: the show must go on.
“Ambassador, how does supplying rebels with faulty weapons help the UN?”
“If the weapons don’t work, they cannot hurt the Militia, yes? And if the Militia is strong, the UN is strong. The Hondurans had been agitating for over a year, and yet no one was doing anything about it!”
“Because they weren’t armed, Ambassador. They made a lot of noise, but they were a threat to no one. By putting weapons in their hands—weapons which the rebels didn’t know were useless—you provoked the very sort of incident the Militia is supposed to prevent.”
Aguirrez grew agitated. “They had to be stopped—someone had to do something!”
“No sir, someone did not have to do something.” The walrus pawed through some papers until he found what he wanted. “Ambassador, I have here a list of casualties provided by the Militia. According to our count, five hundred ninety Honduran rebels were killed and eighty wounded, two Militia dead and one wounded, twenty-three non-rebelling villagers dead—four of whom were children. That’s a total of six hundred fifteen people who are dead because you took unilateral action to, ah, correct a situation that was already under control.” Then, shrewdly: “Whose idea was this?”
Aguirrez closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “I am responsible for arming the Honduran rebels,” he maintained. “I alone. You may not understand, but history will judge me right! I do not regret what I have done, even if I die for it.”
The walrus looked pained at the other man’s melodramatics but merely said, “Did someone approach you with a plan for strengthening the Militia by providing its enemies with inoperative weapons?”
Aguirrez had already implicated Li Xijuan in the pre-inquiry questioning, so he said, “Yes, the Ambassador from the People’s Republic of China.” The woman’s face remained a mask.
Li Xijuan’s name was now in the record.
Aguirrez became confused and incoherent under further questioning. It was clear to Shelby that the man didn’t really understand that the arbitrary violence he’d made possible hadn’t helped anybody. But that didn’t make any difference to Aguirrez. Hero, martyr, defender of his fellow man! That was how he saw himself. Understanding was less important than wholehearted conviction.
And Mañuel Aguirrez was just bursting with conviction.
CHAPTER 23
YES, SANTA CLAUS, THERE IS A VIRGINIA
Q. Over six hundred deaths resulted from the Honduras rebellion for which Mañuel Aguirrez authorized the shipment of arms, even though the rebels earlier posed no serious threat. And yet you signaled the commissioners that Aguirrez was telling the truth when he said he was helping the UN. Could you explain that to our viewing audience?
A. If you mean can I explain Aguirrez’s line of reasoning, no, I can’t. I’m not a mind reader, remember. What I can do is tell whether someone is lying or not. Aguirrez believed he was helping the UN. He believed the rebels were dangerous. Therefore, he was telling the truth.
Q. So all truth is relative?
A. Hardly. But one man’s “truth” depends upon the limits of his own understanding. All I can say is that Aguirrez was not deliberately lying.
Q. But six hundred people are dead because of him. To call this “helping” the UN is slightly ridiculous, wouldn’t you say?
A. I’d say it’s more than ridiculous. I’d call it ugly and horrible and insane. But my opinion doesn’t matter. It’s Aguirrez’s truth that’s being questioned.
Q. Is it true that your testimony is inadmissable in a court of law?
A. Yes. That’s why I never testify.
Q. Yet you influence the commissioners in their line of questioning?
A. I am here in an advisory capacity, to be consulted or ignored at the commissioners’ discretion.
Q. But they all depend on that little machine of yours, don’t they? I’ve noticed some of the commissioners never move their hands away from their signal button.
A. How very observant of you.
Q. Do you think it’s quite ethical that someone with no legal standing should control an inquiry of this magnitude?
A. I don’t control the inquiry! What an absurd idea.
Q. Is it? Isn’t it true that the questions would most likely take a different tack if you weren’t present?
A. You could say that of everyone who’s participating in these proceedings. I’m merely one part of a large organization. I don’t even know ahead of time what questions are going to be—
Q. Surely you don’t claim your part in all this is just like everyone else’s?
A. Oh, no. My part is quite different. Not more, or better—just different. That’s why you keep thrusting that microphone under my nose every time you see me. My differentness. It makes a story for you.
Q. More than that. We’re all deeply concerned about the legal and ethical implications of using your services.
A. You’re lying.
CHAPTER 24
LIKE NIOBE, ALL TEARS
“Kind of rough today, wasn’t it?” Eric said.
“Is that a chortle I hear in your voice?”
“Well, Shelby, when you push yourself into the public eye, you’ve got to expect things like that.”
When you push yourself. “I’ve not ‘got’ to expect anything.” Shelby dropped into a chair and kicked off her shoes. “What I’d like to expect is a little understanding and support from my loving husband.”
Eric smiled tightly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rub it in. Tee called—wants us to come to dinner. Feel up to it?”
“Did she sound nervous?”
“No, she was very cheerful.”
“Then let’s go. I could do with a spot of cheer.”
Tee Bradley, nee Martita Fleming, formerly pianiste extraordinaire, now would-be housewife, valiantly fought the battle of middle cuisine to, at best, a draw. If you can read, you can cook, the saying went. Tee believed that. She really did. And she tried.
“The ar
tichoke is delicious,” Max lied.
“You like it?” asked Tee.
“Yes, indeed. Let’s have ’em again soon.”
Shelby sipped at her wine to hide a smile. How Tee had managed to ruin four perfectly good artichokes was a mystery—they were so easy. Nice Max, with his kind lies.
“The steaks are even better,” Eric offered.
Tee smiled bravely. “Max did the steaks.”
Shelby laughed an easy laugh. “Tee, you know Eric is a meatatarian. Next time give him a plate of raw beef and save the artichokes for Max and me.”
Tee beamed.
“What happens next?” Max asked Shelby.
“Li Xijuan is up. I think they’ve decided Aguirrez is a dead end.”
“Li Xijuan? I’d have thought they’d go after Schlimmermann next. Li Xijuan has always struck me as being … inaccessible.”
“The commissioners probably think so too. I got the impression they’re saving Schlimmermann for last in case they strike out with Li Xijuan.”
“Aiming for a strong finish?”
“I guess.”
“That’s politics for you.” Max laughed. “Just like show biz.”
“The whole thing’s show biz,” said Eric. “Far too public.”
Shelby groaned.
Tee said: “I think you were too polite to that creep who interviewed you today. You should have just brushed him off once he started on that ethics business.”
Oh, Tee, you’re not the one to tell me how to stand up to people! “I’ve been instructed to co-operate with the news media at all times,” Shelby said aloud. “To help compensate for the bungled attempt at keeping my function secret at first.”
“Co-operate, yes. But that doesn’t mean you have to put up with abuse.”
“He wasn’t abusive—just impertinent. Straw in the wind, though. It’ll probably get worse.”
“Oh?” said Eric, slowly putting down his fork.
“That’s what I’m told.” When Eric didn’t say anything, she went on: “Better be prepared for it, Eric.”
Hands on the table, chair back, Eric gone.
The Bradleys stared at Shelby and then at each other, not knowing what to say. Shelby broke the silence. “I think Eric’s just about reached his breaking point.”
Tee’s eyes filled with tears. “What are you going to do?”
“Not much I can do, now. Eric’s plan of starting over fresh in San Diego—well, that’s shot to hell. All this publicity. He’ll go out to California preceded by his reputation as the husband of a freak.”
“Oh, Shelby, I’m sure Eric doesn’t think you’re a freak,” Max said, concerned.
“You’re glowing, Max.”
“Aw, Shelby.” Tee sniffled.
“Maybe it’s my fault,” Shelby said. “Maybe I just expected too much of him, wanted him to be bigger than I had any right to expect. Everybody lies. Everybody. Stop crying, Tee. Ironic, isn’t it? Eric earns a good living by spreading the word, but when he tries to keep something quiet—well, it turns around and works against him.”
Max looked glum. “You can’t keep your talent secret.”
“Maybe it really is just too much to live with,” Shelby said. “Would you two be so blissfully happy if one of you knew every time the other was lying?”
“We don’t lie to each other,” Tee objected.
“You might not think so, but you do. You can’t help it. But where’s the dividing line between white lies and the nasty kind? Why should truth be so … so harmful?”
“Ibsen had a few things to say about that.” Max smiled. “He didn’t have any hard-and-fast answers either. Shelby, it’s out of your hands now. You’re going to have to leave it up to Eric.”
“That’s what worries me,” said Shelby.
CHAPTER 25
TERENCE, IT’S ALL STUPID STUFF
Once there was a king of a tribe in Africa who was greatly loved by his people. To show their respect and admiration, the people built him a magnificent throne of solid gold. The king sat on his solid gold throne beneath the jungle trees, and his fame spread throughout the world.
People came from everywhere to see this magnificent throne and the man for whom it was built. National Geographic printed a two-part article. WNET sent in a camera crew, accompanied by two bearded young men asking for pledges. The people of the tribe were happy, seeing the importance of their beloved king.
But at last the long African summer came to an end, and the rainy season began. When the king’s throne was moved into his hut, there was very little room left for the king and his family. So the king’s people built a huge shelf in the hut, a sort of second ceiling. The throne was placed on the shelf and everyone was happy. But that night the shelf collapsed—the throne fell upon the king and his family and killed them all.
Moral: People who live in grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.
The primate sitting opposite Shelby had been assigned to do an in-depth interview of the world’s only living lie detector.
“Do you have any pet peeves?” asked the primate.
“‘The world is so full of lamentable things,’” Shelby misquoted, “‘I’m sure we should all be as miserable as kings.’”
“Whazzat?”
“Nothing. Yes, I have some pet peeves. Magazine inserts. The cheap glue the postal service puts on stamps. People who say different than.”
“Different than what?”
Shelby just looked at him.
The primate made a gesture that might have been a shrug and asked, “Who does your hair?”
“Who—? Oh, for crying out loud. I do my own hair.”
“What’s your favorite recipe?”
Shelby gnashed her teeth. “Boiled water.”
“Boiled water?”
“It helps stimulate the circulation of the blood.” Shelby looked on with amazement as the primate dutifully wrote this down.
“How do you solve your sexual problems?”
“By consulting The Aeneid for advice.”
“How d’you spell that?”
Shelby spelled it for him. “Look, aren’t you going to ask me anything about my ability to detect lies?”
The primate looked bored. “If you like.”
“Well, for the past four years I’ve been participating in a testing program at Rutgers—”
“What’s your favorite television program?”
“Screw the Press,” said Shelby.
“Mrs. Kent,” coughed the walrus, “since I’m in charge of this circus, I must ask you to treat the communications media with a little more caution.” Hack, hack. “Stick to neutral, noncommittal answers. It’s safer.”
“Have a cough drop,” said Shelby.
P. J. Martel accepted a medicinal candy but refused to be sidetracked. “We need their good will, you know. They do a lot of our investigating for us. Always have done.”
“What’s the P.J. stand for?” Shelby asked idly.
“Pajamas,” the walrus deadpanned. “Now pay attention. Neither you nor I nor any of us can afford the luxury of telling the communications media where to get off. We need those people—this inquiry is just too delicate for us to risk alienating the press.”
“Have you ever been asked what your favorite recipe is?”
“I didn’t say it was easy. But you must show respect for the press, Mrs. Kent.”
“But I do,” Shelby deadpanned in her turn. “I show them every bit as much respect as they show me.”
The walrus hack-laughed. “Now I’m not asking you, Mrs. Kent, I’m telling you—watch what you say in future.”
“Oh, all right,” Shelby sighed. “I’ll watch it.”
“Good.” Hackety-hack.
CHAPTER 26
SIMONE SIMON SAYS
… a riddle wrapped up in an enigma inside a mystery.
—Spoken of Russia by Winston Churchill, who never met Li Xijuan
Li Xijuan turned her almost-smile toward the walrus. “Yes,
I support the United Nations. I do not advocate its overthrow.”
Yes, signaled Shelby.
The walrus thought for a moment. “Do you support the United Nations as it is presently constituted?”
Was that a smile? “But naturally.”
Again, Yes. Li Xijuan was telling the truth.
The commission had spent seven days questioning the Chinese Ambassador’s subordinates and associates, various bankers, shipping clerks, and truck drivers, and a few Burmese religious leaders. Proved beyond doubt was Li Xijuan’s involvement in the useless weapons industry. She’d made it possible for the Burmese fanatics to create the circumstances of their own destruction. She’d later tried to purchase defective antitank missiles in Hong Kong. And UN Intelligence had just turned up evidence that Li Xijuan had been planning a raid on an arms factory in her own homeland—a factory with a low production record owing to the large number of weapons that had to be discarded because of some flaw in their manufacture.
The woman was guilty, all right. Guilty as hell.
“May I remind my fellow delegates,” the Oriental woman was saying, “that I was one of the architects of the UN Militia? It has been my purpose to support the UN and all its branches—to help, not to hurt.” She came even closer to smiling. “And I intend to do everything in my power to see that the Militia works.”
“How does arming hostile people accomplish that?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why—?”
“A mistake, sir.”
Shelby stared incredulously. As clear as anything: an unmistakable red aura around Li Xijuan’s body. She hit the No button, hard.
Smoothie the Walrus didn’t miss a beat. “In what way, a mistake? Is the charge against you a mistaken one, or—?”
“Not at all. The charge is quite true.” (No point in her denying it: the evidence was overwhelming.) “I mean to say I was mistaken in my evaluation of a localized political situation. I was wrong about what was going on in Burma. And in Honduras as well—I was the one who drew Ambassador Aguirrez’s attention to the rebel activity in San Pedro. I was also mistaken in presuming to take unilateral action in an attempt to correct the Burmese situation.”