Chaos Theory

by Graham Masterton

  ‘I told these two guys. I talked to the police already. I talked to the FBI.’

  ‘I know. But you didn’t tell them the whole truth, did you?’

  ‘I told them what happened. This guy came running up and snatched Ms Davis, right in front of everybody. He was going to cut her throat. We had to let him take her. What else could anybody do?’

  ‘Let me correct you, Mr Hong Gildong. You told the police some of what happened, but not all of it. You didn’t exactly tell an untruth, but you lied by omission.’

  ‘What do you mean? I told them everything.’

  Hubert Tocsin said, ‘No, you didn’t. That demonstration against the development of nuclear weapons by the North Koreans, that was organized by the Korean Cycling Club of Los Angeles. A legitimate demonstration, in itself. Quite understandably, many people feel very threatened by North Korea’s nuclear missile programme, especially those with relatives in South Korea.

  ‘But one of my detective friends in the LAPD discovered yesterday afternoon that the demonstration was mainly organized by one of the cycling club’s coaches, a fellow called Kim Tong Sun, and would you believe it? Kim Tong Sun is married to a young lady who happens to be your younger sister, Cho.

  ‘My friend in the LAPD had a very fruitful discussion with this Kim Tong Sun. And Kim Tong Sun admitted that he had been asked to organize the demonstration by his brother-in-law. Who is you.’

  ‘So – what does that prove?’ asked Hong Gildong.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ said Hubert Tocsin. ‘But it does seem strange that since you were Adeola Davis’ own bodyguard, you should have set up a diversionary tactic which enabled a terrorist splinter group to abduct her in front of hundreds of people – well, what with the TV coverage – millions.’

  ‘I am against nuclear weapons in North Korea,’ said Hong Gildong.

  ‘And that’s all? You’re just a ban-the-bomber? A peacenik? The timing of your little demonstration had nothing whatever to do with Adeola Davis’ abduction?’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  Hubert Tocsin circled around Hong Gildong’s chair. ‘You know, Mr Hong Gildong, I have never believed in coincidence. Or the occult, for that matter. I believe that you were deeply involved in the abduction of Adeola Davis – although what your involvement with the Armed Front for the Freedom of Palestine could possibly be, I have no idea.

  ‘However, I need to find out. And the reason I need to find out is because the man who abducted Adeola Davis, and who subsequently murdered her – this man has approached an organization in which I have a very substantial financial commitment, and has asked whether he can join it.’

  Tocsin took a small, leather-bound notebook out of his pocket, opened it, and peered at it. ‘Abdel Al-Hadi. That name mean anything to you?’

  Hong Gildong gave an involuntary jerk. He was beginning to realize that he was never going to walk out of this basement alive.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why should it?’

  ‘You know which organization I’m talking about?’ asked Hubert Tocsin.

  ‘No idea. How could I?’

  ‘Don’t try to kid a kidder, Mr Hong Gildong. There’s a link between you and Abdel Al-Hadi and I want to know what it is. You arranged that kidnapping, fella, didn’t you? You arranged that kidnapping and I want to know why.’

  Hong Gildong said nothing. But Hubert Tocsin bent over his chair and said, in a very soft voice, ‘Tell me, Mr Hong Gildong – what is your connection to Abdel Al-Hadi?’

  ‘I don’t have any connection! OK, yes, I saw him on TV. That was all.’

  ‘You’re not telling me the truth, are you?’

  ‘You want me to make up some story of cocks and bulls?’

  ‘I don’t have limitless patience. In fact, my patience has almost run out already. If you don’t tell me voluntarily, I shall be obliged to make you tell me.’

  Hubert Tocsin snapped his fingers. Immediately, the man with the walrus moustache left the basement, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

  ‘Where did you first meet Abdel Al-Hadi?’ asked Hubert Tocsin. ‘Did he offer you money, to organize that demonstration?’

  ‘I told you. I am against nuclear proliferation.’

  ‘Crap – not to put too fine a point on it. How much did he pay you, Mr Hong Gildong? Presumably Ms Davis’ other bodyguards couldn’t be bribed, or else you could have spirited her away much less publicly. Or did you have another agenda?’

  Still Hong Gildong said nothing. But now he heard lurching footsteps coming back down the metal staircase, and the frantic scrabbling of claws. A brindled pit bull terrier came barging through the half-open door, its eyes bulging, its claws skidding sideways on the concrete floor. It was almost strangling on its studded leash, and it was whining in the back of its throat like an asthmatic.

  The man with the walrus moustache had twisted the other end of the leash three or four times around his forearm, but it still took all of his strength to keep the dog from dragging him across the basement.

  Hubert Tocsin stood back. ‘If I can’t persuade you to be cooperative, Mr Hong Gildong, maybe Bill can.’

  ‘I told you,’ insisted Hong Gildong. ‘The timing of that demonstration, that was just coincidence. All I said to Kim Tong Sun was that the closing of the Peace Convention would be the best time for him to make maximum impact.’

  ‘Sorry. Your brother-in-law told my friend in the LAPD that the whole set-up was your idea. And I don’t believe that your brother-in-law was lying. After their little chat together, my friend in the LAPD is concerned that your brother-in-law might not walk again. Not straight, anyways.’

  The man with the walrus moustache pulled the pit bull into one of the wire-mesh cages, released its leash, and closed the door behind it. The dog barked and barked and crashed itself repeatedly against the wire. At one point, it managed to climb almost halfway up the mesh, clinging on by its pointed yellow teeth. Its eyes bulged out at them, and it snarled as if it were possessed by demons.

  ‘Why don’t you get acquainted?’ said Hubert Tocsin. ‘Bill’s a very sociable dog, once you get to know him.’

  The blond man and the man with the walrus moustache came around to the sides of Hong Gildong’s chair and between them they lifted him out of it. The spidery man pulled the chair across the basement until it was right up against the wire-mesh cage. The blond man unlocked Hong Gildong’s handcuffs, but kept a clamp-like grip on his upper arm.

  ‘Come on over,’ said Hubert Tocsin. ‘I always thought that Koreans loved dogs. Hey – they love them so much they even eat them, don’t they?’

  The man with the walrus moustache pushed Hong Gildong backwards, forcing him to sit back down on the chair. Immediately, the blond man looped a plastic-metal packing strap around his chest, pulled it very tight, and fastened it. Inside the cage, only inches away, the pit bull was barking and slavering and hurling itself against the wire in an ever-increasing frenzy. Hong Gildong felt its saliva spray against his cheek.

  Hubert Tocsin bent down and spoke very quietly in his ear. ‘I’m giving you one last opportunity to tell me the full story of Ms Davis’ abduction. Believe me, you could save yourself a great deal of pain.’

  Hong Gildong said nothing. He was very afraid; but his instinct told him that as long as he had information that Hubert Tocsin wanted, he wouldn’t be killed. It was a straightforward choice between pain and death.

  ‘OK,’ said Hubert Tocsin. ‘If that’s the way you want to play it.’

  The man with the walrus moustache poked a stick into the cage to keep the pit bull at bay. While he did so, the blond man unlatched a small hinged flap which must usually have been used for throwing in bones or dog biscuits. He took hold of Hong Gildong’s right hand and forced it through the opening. Then he pulled out a pair of nylon wrist-restraints, and fastened one of them to Hong Gildong’s wrist and the other to the wire-mesh.

  ‘Like I say, Koreans love dogs so much that they eat them,’ said Hubert
Tocsin. ‘Let’s see if that affection is mutual.’

  The man with the walrus moustache drew his stick out of the cage, and instantly the pit bull jumped up at Hong Gildong’s hand, biting at his knuckles. Hong Gildong let out a shout of pain, and tried to wave his hand up and down so that the dog couldn’t sink its teeth into it. But the pit bull had tasted blood now, and Hong Gildong’s shouting only seem to excite it more.

  With a sharp crunch, the pit bull buried its teeth deep into the heel of his hand, at its fleshiest part, and started to throw its head wildly from side to side, so that the muscle was torn away, a little more with every tug of its jaws.

  Hong Gildong might have been screaming, but if he was he couldn’t hear himself. All he could hear was a roaring in his brain, like the roaring of an open furnace.

  The roaring abruptly stopped, and everything went silent, and black.

  He became aware of the pain, first of all. His hand felt as if it were actually on fire, even though he no longer had a hand. This time he screamed out loud and he could hear it. He opened his eyes and Hubert Tocsin was standing very close to him, smiling.

  ‘Well, Mr Hong Gildong, one thing we can say for sure: Bill really, really likes you.’

  Hong Gildong let out two or three shuddery breaths, but couldn’t speak.

  Hubert Tocsin walked around him, still smiling. ‘In fact, Bill likes you so much that he wouldn’t mind seconds.’

  ‘No more,’ croaked Hong Gildong. ‘Please, no more.’

  ‘That’s very ungenerous of you, Mr Hong Gildong. You still have another hand.’

  ‘No more. Please. Why don’t you just shoot me?’

  ‘Because that would be homicide. And apart from that, it would be stupid. If I shot you, how could you tell me what I want to know?’

  Twenty-Eight

  Adeola was sitting on the veranda painting her nails a deep shade of bronze. She had twisted her hair up in an elaborate spiral, and fastened it with copper and silver pins. Rick was lying back on one of the basketwork sunloungers, reading a dog-eared copy of How To Save The Human Race From Itself, which he had found under the bed.

  ‘Do you know what it says here? It says that by the year 2750, there will be no distinct races left. We’ll all be the same colour and we’ll all eat the same food and we’ll all speak the same language. A khaki-collared world of tofu-eaters speaking Esperanto.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I don’t believe anything I read in books. Or newspapers. I don’t believe anything I see on TV, either, even the wildlife programmes.’

  ‘In any case,’ Adeola said, ‘I wouldn’t want you to be the same colour as me. I like white skin.’

  ‘And I like mocha skin.’

  ‘Mocha?’

  Rick tossed the book into the yard, so that it vanished into the rose bushes. Then he climbed off the sunlounger, came across the veranda and kissed Adeola on the forehead. She looked up at him with those dark, slanted eyes of hers, and then kissed him back, on the lips.

  ‘We have a saying in Nigeria,’ she told him. ‘“The thirsty fig waits patiently for the rains.”’

  ‘And we have a saying in the United States. “Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.”’

  At that moment, Noah and Silja and Leon came out.

  ‘God, I’d kill for a beer,’ said Noah.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rick. ‘You’re supposed to be a Muslim. If Halflight smells alcohol on your breath . . .’

  ‘What time are you going to see him?’ asked Adeola.

  ‘He said any time after eight. Mitch will be here by six thirty, so I’ll go as soon as he’s finished my make-up.’

  ‘You really think they’re going to let you join Nakasu?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Come on – they’re always on the lookout for nutjobs like Abdel Al-Hadi. Look at John Wilkes Booth. Or Sirhan Sirhan.’

  ‘I still don’t know how they’ve managed to keep Nakasu quiet for so many hundreds of years.’

  ‘Because they always make sure they clean up after themselves, that’s how. Meticulously. And if that means whacking anybody who even gets an inkling that they exist, then that’s what they do.’

  ‘Do you think they’re going to ask you to assassinate somebody?’

  ‘That’s what they want me for, yes. But I don’t know who. Maybe they haven’t decided yet.’

  Leon said, ‘I’ve been surfing the Net . . . drawing up a list of probable targets. Like, people who have been actively negotiating peace agreements, all around the world. I think the favourite so far is the UN Secretary General, Mahfoud Ould N’Diayane. But the British Foreign Secretary John Williams runs him a pretty close second, and I’d say that Alvin Metzler is third, because he’s trying to tie up that deal you started with the Ethiopians.’

  ‘OK,’ said Rick. ‘But whoever it is, we’ll have to try to hit Nakasu before Nakasu hits them.’

  ‘We still need to find out much more about them,’ put in Adeola. ‘It’s no good taking out just one or two of them. They’re worldwide, so we need to know how they operate, how they communicate, how many people they have working for them. I’d like to know how they’re financed, too. It can’t be cheap, running a worldwide network of assassins. Think of the money they need for bribes and pay-offs. How does a seedy old college professor like Julius Halflight pay for an organization like that?’

  Silja put her arm around Noah’s neck, and kissed him on the ear. ‘I am just looking forward to all of this being finished. I am tired of Abdel already, with his beard and his smelly breath.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Noah. ‘I’d better go chew some garlic.’

  It was dark by the time he arrived at Professor Halflight’s house, but the only light showing was a single lantern by the front door. He paid off the taxi, climbed the steps, and rang the bell. As he waited, a cloud of bats flew overhead, softly whirring their wings. He disliked bats. When he was at Eagle Scout camp, a bat had got caught in his hair, and he had never forgotten the terror of it, or the humiliation of screaming in front of all his fellow scouts.

  Berta, the maid, answered the door. She said nothing, but stood back so that Abdel Al-Hadi could step into the hallway. As he passed her, he looked down at her, and she looked up at him, and he was convinced that she knew he was wearing a disguise.

  She led him into the living room. Professor Halflight was standing on the opposite side of the room, with Fariah sitting in her wheelchair beside him, and they were talking to two men. One of them was a black man in a yellow-and-orange shirt with zigzag patterns on it. The other was the blond man in the grey suit who had cut Jenna’s throat right in front of him.

  Abdel Al-Hadi nearly turned around and walked back out again. He could barely breathe, as if his chest cavity had been stuffed with kapok, like a quilt. He had never felt such a surge of anger and hatred in his life. It took so much self-control for him not to rush across the room and smash the blond man’s head against the wall that he was trembling.

  ‘Ah!’ said Professor Halflight, turning around to greet him. ‘The redoubtable Abdel Al-Hadi!’

  The blond man turned around, too, and he was grinning.

  ‘So pleased to see you,’ said Professor Halflight. ‘Can I ask Berta to bring you something to drink?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. No thank you.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Al-Hadi? You look a little shivery. Not pining for the grippe, are you?’

  ‘I am well, thank you. A little tired, that is all.’

  ‘Are you not sleeping well? Where are you staying at the moment?’

  ‘My mind is turning over, Professor. There has been much for me to think about.’

  ‘Of course. And if your accommodation isn’t comfortable, that doesn’t help, does it?’

  ‘My accommodation is very comfortable, thank you.’

  Professor Halflight gave a slanting smile, but didn’t pursue the subject. When Abdel Al-Hadi had left here yesterday, Professor Halflight had called a taxi for him. Ab
del Al-Hadi had told the driver to take him to the lower end of Alta Loma Road, and then he had climbed out and run down the alleyways between Holloway and Santa Monica, where Steve had been waiting for him in his car.

  Steve had been taught evasive driving in the Secret Service, and he had taken them back to Scholl Canyon by a maze-like route which had involved driving through the Hollywood Cemetery, followed by a circuit of Paramount Studios, and backing up, at speed, along two one-way streets.

  Professor Halflight said, ‘This is Captain Madoowbe, of the Ethiopian security services. Captain Madoowbe, this is Mr Abdel Al-Hadi. I expect you recognize him from the television news.’

  Captain Madoowbe didn’t stand up, but looked up at Abdel Al-Hadi with eyes as yellow as poison. ‘You are a dangerous fellow, Mr Al-Hadi. I like a dangerous fellow.’

  Abdel Al-Hadi nodded to Fariah, but he couldn’t tell from Fariah’s celluloid mask if she had acknowledged him or not. Professor Halflight didn’t introduce him to the blond man, who took one or two paces back, but kept on smiling.

  ‘The reason Captain Madoowbe is here is because of our next target,’ said Professor Halflight. He limped over to a side table crowded with decanters and bottles and poured himself a generous glass of Maker’s Mark whisky.

  ‘The day after tomorrow, before he is scheduled to return to Ethiopia, the Ethiopian Foreign Minister His Excellency Ato Ketona Aklilu will be meeting with Mr Alvin Metzler, the political director of mission of the DOVE organization. They expect to be signing an agreement whereby the Ethiopian government will be making certain assurances about the Anuak people in Gambella, in particular that government forces will stop persecuting them and that they will be allowed to return to their farms without harassment.

  Captain Madoowbe grinned. His teeth were almost as yellow as his eyes. ‘The Anuak people. They are all rebels and malcontents. But His Excellency is very humane.’

  ‘The meeting will be very short,’ said Professor Halflight. ‘It will take place in the presidential suite at the Century Plaza Hotel. The agreement is more of a gesture of mutual goodwill than a binding political commitment.’