“The eagle shits monthly,” Missias said. “Don’t much like it that I can be tracked down, especially for that one.”
“Then he was a student?”
“You said you wanted to talk about Jeruby, but Bob’s dead. Which means your real interest is Frash. That about right?”
“Yes.”
Missias poured two coffees and sat down with an amused expression. “Why do you think he was my student?”
“You were headmaster at Brampton Academy.”
“I was chief administrator and chief of the medical staff.”
Now it was Venema who didn’t understand.
“Brampton wasn’t a school in the traditional sense. Our students had problems.”
“A military school.”
“You’re not picking up on this, son,” Missias grinned. “Brampton was that, but we also had an arm that was a psychiatric program for juveniles—an experiment, when you get down to the pulp. Back then people wanted to bury their mental and behavioral problems, but asylums were nothing more than holding tanks. Still are, I guess. The Brampton Foundation had an idea that a well-designed school setting might turn some kids around by showing them how to do right. If they follow the rules, reward ’em; if not, make them do it again. The principle was that we really couldn’t understand the source of their problems, but we could see their disorders manifested in certain behaviors. If you change their behavior, maybe you alter the state of the disease. The idea was to work upstream from the symptom rather than worrying about the cause, which was the standard approach. Back then we thought we had some successes, though nowadays I’m of the opinion that those were not true disease states. For all the progress medicine hoots about, we still don’t know squat about the brain, and Dr. Freud, bless his troubled soul, seems to me to be mostly hogwash. Severe mental disorders are most likely the result of chemical imbalances, but we don’t know enough about brain chemistry to intervene intelligently. We’ve got drugs to knock people on their asses and drugs to settle people down so they can have some semblance of normal life, but that’s all. Not much progress when you get down to it.”
Venema did not volunteer his own medical credentials. “Was Frash one of your successes?”
Missias shook his head and pursed his lips. “Quite the contrary, and why do you call the boy Frash? That was his parents’ name. He was Ali Frascetti, though his mother sometimes called him Albert. Never saw the father. Just his mom. Not that it mattered to him what anybody called him.”
“Tell me.”
“Fact you’re here at all amazes me. Really, it’s quite remarkable. He was schizophrenic in the extreme. Figured he’d be dead or locked away permanently by now.”
“Split personality?”
“More like two separate entities in one body. One of the worst cases I ever saw.”
“You couldn’t treat him?”
“Couldn’t communicate with the little bastard; then one day he woke up as normal as Jello.”
“Spontaneous remission?”
Missias shot a curious glance at Venema. “That was the opinion of my staff.”
Venema sensed something. “But not yours?”
Missias grinned. “Read people like a book, do you? No, it wasn’t my opinion. I think it was a charade.”
“An A-segment override of B.”
Missias was impressed. “You seem to know something about dual personality disorders.”
“Some. What happened to the boy?”
“He was twelve then, nearly thirteen. This would be in ’42. He’d been with us two years and completely dysfunctional; then one day he’s more normal than Ike and no apparent residue. That’s what was suspicious. That severe a case and suddenly a spontaneous remission; it just didn’t add up. Two plus two equaled five or three, but not four.”
“You’d never seen a spontaneous remission before?” Venema had.
Missias stretched his legs straight out. “Seen them, but not often and never in such an extreme case. He had classic symptoms. At six he was telling his mother that God and the Devil were inside him. Odd logic and associations all over the place, A to Z and back to M with no apparent sequence. Didn’t talk for long periods; thought others could read his mind, so he had no reason to converse. Nearly continuous masturbation while he shouted his mother’s name. The mother was a devout Catholic and devoted to the boy. Can’t say about the father. He never came around.”
“Paranoia?”
“You do know your stuff. No apparent psychosis, but he was young and that sort of symptomatology usually shows up later, though I’ve no doubt that’s where he was headed. Like I said, one day he turned up sane as a parson, if I can use that term, and while everybody else took the reversal at face value, I didn’t. Have you seen him?”
“No,” Venema lied. Actually he had spent considerable time with Frash, but had never seen any indication of mental illness. “They gave me a name, some facts and asked me to confirm. He listed Jeruby as a reference.”
“No subsequent episodes?”
Venema shook his head. “The record says he’s entirely normal.”
Missias stared for a while. “I would have sworn it was all an act.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, it was too perfect. No backsliding, no symptomatology, no baggage, so to speak. A whole year more and no sign. It told me that the cure was an act.”
“But there could have been an override, or assertion by one segment over another, a resolution between the personalities?”
“Well, yes, of course. That was my colleagues’ theory, but I sensed more of a standoff, some kind of truce made consciously between A and B. It’s my opinion that this sort of disorder is biochemical, so you just don’t will it away. Can’t run a Chevy on willpower alone.”
“Puberty could have altered his biochemistry.”
“Granted, and that’s what my colleagues focused on, but there were no signs of puberty until months after the transformation began.” Missias leaned forward. “Can I ask what sort of government job he’s after?”
“Classified,” Venema said quickly. Missias got up, poured a tumbler of brandy and held it out to Venema, who shook his head. “Too early.”
“When you’re a retired gentleman, artificial standards no longer apply. Drink when I want, fish when I want. Fact is trout are illegal right now, but that sort of law doesn’t apply to locals. Game warden fished with me last week. Caught some beauts. You ought to give it a try.”
“Someday.”
“Someday could be too late, son. You ought to try listening when an old fart rambles.”
“I’ll do that. If Frash is still behaving normally, does that mean you were wrong?”
The old man downed his brandy and grimaced. “Doubt it. Felt I was right then, and that I’m right now. He’s controlling the balance but one of these days—” Missias snapped his fingers. “Then the game will be on again, and this time for real.”
“What sort of situation would cause it?” Venema already had a pretty good idea.
“Impossible to say. Like flies and trout. Never know for sure what sets them off. A bright color, a sunset, a word association, a dog’s bark—no way to predict. Something emotional, probably, something to fuel the paranoia. Stress could do it. What’s he doing nowadays?”
Venema grinned. “I really can’t say,” he apologized. “I don’t make the rules.”
“That’s the problem in this world. Nobody makes the damned rules but everybody cites them. That’s always struck me as a couple of degrees the other side of peculiar.” Missias stared out the window again. “Curious, I guess. He wanted to be a priest. Tried to pray his troubles away. Jacking off and screaming his mama’s name between Hail Marys. Pathetic little creature, I’m here to say. Never saw another like him before or since, and got no doubt I’ll still remember him on my deathbed.”
“When did you leave Brampton?”
“Resigned right after they released the kid. It was a matter of principl
e for me. I figured we’d cut loose a problem and I didn’t want it on my conscience.”
“Did you keep track of your colleagues?”
“Didn’t bother. I was pretty ticked off when I left. I heard Bob Jeruby was killed in a car wreck, but I don’t know about the others. If you talk to them I’m sure they’ll tell you they were glad to be shed of me. I tended to ask questions they didn’t want to hear. Organizations can’t handle that. I moved a lot after that, decided to settle here after the wife died. Miss her, but that aside it’s a great way to live.” Missias suddenly stared hard at his visitor. “Want some advice from an old man?”
Venema didn’t respond.
“No need to say anything. My guess is that you’re a doctor, probably a shrink. If you have this boy on the payroll, get him off. If you’re thinkin’ about puttin’ him on, don’t. I don’t care if he’s been the world champion in deportment. Frascetti is a time bomb.”
Venema felt a chill. Suddenly their problem with Frash had taken on a new complexion. If Missias was right, their experiment was a bomb waiting to detonate, and maybe already had.
The old man followed Venema down the trail. “Sure you won’t stay a spell and try your luck?”
“No, thanks,” Venema said. He had another kind of fish to catch.
“Too bad,” Missias hollered. “They bite right in the middle of the day. Like they can’t wait to get caught.”
Venema doubted that Frash would be as accommodating.
58 WEDNESDAY, MARCH 22, 1961, 10:40 A.M.Paris
They came to Paris by train, arriving at the Gare de Lyon on a sleeper that smelled of wine, perfume and suntan oil because the station was the arrival point for trains from the Alps and the Riviera. They had been thrown in with an odd assortment of passengers, some carrying skis, others toting beach baskets, snorkels and swim fins, it being a season on the cusp, between windburn on the white slopes and sunburn on the white sand. They had taken a cab from the station to the area called the Marais in the third arrondissement and gotten out at place de la Bastille.
Sylvia looked briefly at the monument, mumbled “Phallic,” and walked briskly north. Before the Revolution the Marais had been home to French nobles and rich merchants; now it was distinctly blue-collar, dilapidated and tacky, which in Paris gave it an illogical romantic luster. The streets were crowded with jaywalkers and horn-honking drivers switching lanes like Grand Prix hopefuls. There was a queue in front of a shop that specialized in horsemeat and the east-west streets in the area were narrow and dark, set between solid rows of five-story buildings with sloping roofs and red tiles. Fresh water coursed along the gutters, washing away yesterday’s debris.
“A lot of traffic,” Valentine complained to Sylvia as they walked north into the Marais.
“Around the clock,” she answered. “Which makes it ideal. We’ll be within walking distance of three major metro stations. Easy in, easy out, and plenty of people to mingle with.”
She led him to the Hôtel Agneau, a thirty-four-room mausoleum on a quiet street lined with storefronts. The lobby was tiny and badly worn, everything covered with dust. There were threadbare Oriental carpets on the floor and flocked velvet wallpaper peeling off the walls. When they arrived, Sylvia asked to see the patron, who turned out to be a hunchbacked Chinese dressed in black tie, tails and a red cummerbund. He looked eighty or more, had gold fillings, a face spackled with black moles, yellowed eyes, thin lips and long, bony hands shaped like talons. He supported himself by a blackthorn cane with a silver dragon’s head as a knob. When he saw Sylvia, he bowed, not in the herky-jerky Oriental way but elegantly, and stepped forward, took her hand in his withered claws and touched the tip of his nose to the back of her hand.
“My heart swells,” he said. His accent was not Chinese. German? “You do me great honor.”
“Father,” Sylvia said, “this is Mr. Valentine. Beau, this is Mr. Li.”
The word knocked Valentine off balance. Her father?
Li took Valentine’s hand and held it. “Are you her husband?”
“No,” Sylvia said, smiling.
“Her lover?”
“No,” she answered just as quickly. “He’s a colleague and you should stop prying.”
The patron stared at Valentine for a long time before releasing his hand. “She is a woman of substance,” he said, and though the words were spoken softly Valentine interpreted them as a warning. “How long will you stay?” he asked Sylvia.
“We’re not sure.”
“It’s an unpredictable business,” he said and she nodded. Mr. Li looked at Valentine, then turned back to Sylvia. “His eyes show past strength.” Then “You shall have my very best, dear girl, my very best.” He went behind the reception desk and fetched a massive brass key attached to a long black velvet cord and gave it to her. “Left at the top,” he said, looking up. “Take the lift.” Leaning close, his voice low, he added, “Two sets of stairs, front and back. Also a fire escape and a buzzer.”
Sylvia hugged him affectionately, kissed his forehead and pushed the button for the lift.
They ascended in jerks and fits, the pulleys wheezing and squeaking, the cage finally stopping three inches below the floor line. There was a door at each end of the short hallway and Sylvia turned left.
When Valentine stepped into the room he was amazed to see that they had a suite consisting of several rooms, a long balcony and a bank of skylights facing south. The carpets were rich, the furnishings antique and exquisite, and there wasn’t a speck of dust. “Shangri-la?” he asked.
“Li was my father’s business partner in Jakarta. He fought against the Japanese, and after the war was a deputy chief of intelligence for Sukarno in the struggle against the Dutch. In 1950 there was a new constitution and Sukarno offered him the government’s top intelligence position, but Li turned it down because the man was politically unreliable. People like Sukarno are good at bringing people together against a common enemy, but once they’ve achieved victory they can’t govern the peace. Such people become paranoid, see enemies everywhere, and eventually it all falls apart.” Valentine followed her onto the balcony. “Li worked for a while as a translator for the UN in New York, then came to Paris in 1956. He’s the most reliable man I’ve ever known. He’s my godfather, and now that my parents are gone, he’s my only family.”
It was the first time since they had met that Sylvia had revealed anything of her past. He wanted to know more, but she had made it clear that the Company owned her, and that was that.
“Get that wounded-calf look off your face,” she said coolly. “You asked about Li, so I told you. It’s information, nothing more.”
God, she was beautiful. “He knows what you do?”
“Of course. He’s godfather and mentor, which is the Chinese way. You don’t keep secrets from your mentor.”
“And now he runs a hotel. That’s all?”
“For now,” she said. “Nothing is forever in this world. Life is transient.”
“An existentialist.”
“A realist,” she said. “We’ll be secure here. If Li detects trouble, he’ll buzz a warning.”
“He can’t be on duty all the time.”
“His sons can,” Sylvia said with a smile. “He has beaucoup sons; think of this as Fortress Li.”
“You’ve used it before?”
“I’ve kept it in reserve. I alerted him before we left the States. Forewarned is forearmed.”
To what end? he wondered. Did they have a chance? Would she even consider a different sort of life? Would the Company allow it? He decided to banish such thoughts. The train ride from Yugoslavia to France had left him on edge and given him time to start sorting things out. He had intended to give up the foolish chase and go home, but Harry’s death had changed that. If it hadn’t been for him, Harry would still be alive. He had wanted to talk to Sylvia about his feelings but found he couldn’t.
While she took a bath Valentine poured a brandy and opened the door onto the balcony.
Frash and Lumbas were connected; the photograph proved that. Frash had disappeared, Lumbas was dead, and Inspector Peresic had intimated that Albania and the U.S.S.R. were common denominators. Harry had also pointed them at Albania, but Valentine had decided he would bet the ranch that there was another connection and that Lumbas was the asset passing Russian secrets; yet the Albanian connection was too persistent to ignore.
Valentine pushed the bathroom door open and walked in without announcing himself. Sylvia let out a gasp and slid deeper into the tub. “I knew it,” she said with obvious irritation.
He furrowed his brow. “Knew what?”
“This,” she said.
“What?” he repeated, enjoying her predicament. “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“I’m serious. For argument’s sake let’s say that Frash was tied to Albania. Let’s also say that he was probably initially connected to the Russian here in Paris. How do these two things fit?”
“Why assume the connection began here?”
“Because Frash left the station chief job here, then shifted divisions with a loss in rank. There had to be a good reason for this, and if he recruited the Russian here, then moving to Belgrade to run him just might be the reason.”
The Domino Conspiracy Page 25