Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

cooker.”

  “Lascaux will have the first bid, having won contract six, after they return to the board after this ten minute break.”

  “Boy, I’ll tell you, Phil. The Russian will just not let up on Lascaux. He started in on the arrowhead again. He’s dozing him again, Phil.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Polata tapped at the pink strand stretched between a pair of mounted alligator clips and a soft, matching beat sounded through the monitors. Then after fiddling with a few dials on the sound board, a voice speaking in French surfaced over the background hum. “I think we’re in business, Charles,” he said. “So now what?”

  “Do you think all we’ve got is the incoming, or would it be possible to transmit?”

  “I could probably cobble something together. What did you have in mind?”

  “Perhaps a test of some kind.” He looked to Spotswood. “If you could, would you be willing to send a message to Billi? To tell her that she’s not crazy?”

  “Sure.”

  Bernardini glanced to the monitor then shifted his attention to Polata as he eased a goose-necked microphone into position over the control panel. “We don’t have much time.”

  “So now what?” Spotswood asked.

  Bernardini raised an eyebrow. “Do you think Blair would know it was you if she heard your voice through an implant?”

  “Implant? What do you mean?”

  Polata gestured to the pink thread. “She might have something like this connected to her mid or inner ear.” He eyed it. “I’d guess an early version that tunes in a broad range of signals of various kinds… some meant for her, some not.”

  “C’mon!”

  “That’s the theory we need to explore,” Bernardini said, gesturing to the microphone. “Would you be willing to give it a try?”

  “I… if you want me to, sure.”

  Bernardini stood and motioned to his seat. After taking it, Spotswood adjusted the mic closer then looked to Polata for a signal to begin. After a final adjustment, the engineer nodded.

  “Billi? Billi? I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope you can. This is Jip. This is really Jip. Now you have to listen to me, you have to listen to me. I don’t know who did it but they’ve done something to you. You’re not crazy,” he said, voice wavering. “You’re not crazy. They did this to you. They put something inside of you, something that makes you hear things. But they aren’t real,” he continued. “It’s all a trick. You’re not crazy. Believe me.” He paused. “You’ve got my transphone number. Give me a call so you can see that it’s really me talking to you, not the voices.”

  In less than a minute, the phone chirped and he answered. “This is me… yes… yes… don’t know… I suppose… Geno… yes… sure, put her on… I don’t know, Chris… yes… maybe… might be possible… ” He glanced at his watch. “Fast as I can.”

  Standing, he moved to the door to leave, but the handle wouldn’t budge. He turned and said, “I gotta leave, Geno.”

  Polata looked to Bernardini, who took a deep breath. “Off the record, Jon?”

  “Off the record,” he agreed.

  “I believe St. Honore is in the process of fixing the tournament. So do Franklin and Ben. I’m working for them. Somehow Blair got into the mix, but I doubt as a confederate of his. God only knows the evil that man might be involved in. Especially in light of what he’s done and continues to do to his daughter.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Bernardini didn’t respond, but the expression on his face seemed to say unimaginable. Spotswood cleared his throat. “I, uh… ”

  “So it is of the upmost importance that you make no mention of Claudette nor the tournament being tampered with to anyone at any time for any reason.”

  Polata smiled. “Sign on the dotted line and I’ll let’cha outta here, son.”

  “Deal.”

  The lock clicked the door opened and Spotswood left. Resuming his seat, Bernardini asked that views from the private areas off the Tournament Room be brought up on the largest monitor then bent the mic level to his lips. “Ah, yes,” he began in a fake French accent. “We are having les embarras pecunaires, technical difficulties with the apparatus. Someone is being sent to resolve the problem. If you can hear me, please look at the camera in your room, discreetly, to acknowledge my voice.”

  Polata gazed at the monitor. On the word Look, Lascaux glanced at the camera.

  “He would have been the last one I would have picked,” he groaned.

  “As would I,” Bernardini agreed.

  “But he looked up before you told him what to do,” Polata added. “It could be a coincidence. Try it again.”

  “If you can hear my voice, to test the system, please look at the camera in your room. We are having difficulties with transmission.”

  None of the players responded.

  “Attention. Your attention please. The system is malfunctioning and we are trying to locate the correct broadcast frequency. Please acknowledge by looking at your camera, the camera in your room. Please do so now.”

  Chang stared at his notes then added a notation. Lascaux buried his face in his hands. Kerensky took a sip of his drink, then another. Easton toyed with her necklace then raised her eyes, nodded once, then returned her attention to her necklace.

  “That’s more like it,” Polata grinned. “Tell her to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Tell her to rub her chin.”

  “If you can still hear me, please signify by rubbing your chin.” Easton glanced around her cubicle, then complied. Polata switched off the microphone.

  “So now what’re we gonna do, Charles?”

  Bernardini chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.” He hesitated. “Any recommendations?”

  “Well, the score’s almost even-up, so why don’t we just shut down Radio St. Honore and let them duke it out?”

  “Score’s almost even, but she probably knows what the other players are holding, what ten, or at least seven of their tiles are. That gives her an edge.” He paused. “Why don’t we stay on the air and feed her misinformation. That should take care of her.”

  “But what about the other players?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’ve got a big chunk of their lives invested in this. If you tamper with her, it’ll cross over to them.”

  “My assignment is to stop the game from being fixed.” He thought a moment. “But I see your point. Once again, the law of unintended consequences seems to have raised her ugly head.” He scratched at an ear. “But there must be a workaround we could employ. Anything come to mind?”

  “How about telling Easton to cash all her tiles in, invoke the special rule. That’ll put her back to square one. Then see what happens.”

  “Maybe if she does it, the others will, too,” Bernardini agreed. “And if they do, then everyone plays with a clean slate. Instead of a ten contract match for a hundred million, you get a four contract match for a hundred million.”

  Polata thought it through. “If Easton wins, you turn her in. If she doesn’t, it’s like the whole thing never happened.”

  They discussed it another minute, agreeing to neutralize the current match as best they could. Then Bernardini switched on the microphone.

  “Player, if you can hear me, please rub your chin.” She did. “We have discovered there may be an alternate transmission. When I complete this one, we will go off the air.” A look of shock swept across her face. “When I finish, ignore all further communications. If you understand, rub your… rub your arm.” She looked at the camera and obeyed. “When the game resumes, you are to exchange all of your tiles under the special rule. You are to exchange all ten of your tiles. If you understand, touch both of your ears.”

  Easton didn’t respond.

  “Touch both of your ears.” Easton stared at the camera. “Touch both of your ears.” She turned away, picking up her drink. “Touch both of your ears.” She
set the glass down then adjusted her earrings. “Thank you. Good luck.”

  Easton looked like she was about to detonate. The other players looked like they were ready to play as they simultaneously stood to return to the Tournament Room.

  “Now, just in case they’re also using low frequencies, Charles, on your signal I think I can disrupt the grid enough to block any signals, but I’ll only be able to do it once. So choose carefully.”

  “I shall.”

  ***

  “Wait a second, Phil. We’ve got a wrinkle here! Sarah Easton just announced that she wants to hand them all in, she’s going to exchange all ten. Holy cow! Look at that reaction from Kerensky! I’m glad we don’t have that audio up yet. The censors would be earning double time and a half if they had to edit out the words that just came out of that boy’s mouth. He is enraged!”

  “And now Chang is getting into the fray. He wants to exchange all of his tiles. Is that going to fly, Richie?”

  “As I understand the rules, Phil: a player can change the placement of the tiles he wants to use - or the actual tiles he wants to use - any time before the other players turn over their Standoff! cards, the markers they use to eliminate certain colors from the bidding. If that’s the case, and they haven’t even picked those cards out of their packs yet, I see no reason Chang can’t back off. Give the lot back for the ten fresh ones he’s allowed under the special. It makes sense to me.”

  “And apparently it makes sense to the referee, because there go Chang’s. He’s going to turn them in.”

  “I think you’re going to see Lascaux and Kerensky follow suit. They’ve got pretty weak hands. I’m sure Lascaux would like to start fresh.”

  “Right on the money, Richie. First Kerensky, then Boo Lascaux. Again, we’re very sorry for our lack of audio, but just as well. because those tiles are going to have to be mixed thoroughly before they begin play. We’ve got a whole new game coming up. This is amazing, isn’t it, Richie?”

  “It’s amazing, Phil.”

  “I’ve been advised that play is going to be halted to get everything sorted out, so we’re going to cut away to a couple commercials right now. But stay in your seats. Don’t move an inch. We’ll be back shortly for the final four contracts in this tremendous, $100,000,000 World Standoff! Tournament, live from Prism here in Las Vegas, Nevada. It’s all coming up live, to 4.9 billion viewers, in just a few moments, here, exclusively, on Fox. Stay tuned.”

  ***

  When they reached the door of Christie’s suite, Spotswood told Denny to wait in the hall then knocked twice. Billi opened it quickly. Her hair was parted down the center, two diamond barrettes pushing it back behind her ears. Her long, black gown was open to the waist, revealing a blood-red corset. Black stockings and high red pumps with two thin straps circling her ankles completed the ensemble. “Welcome to Billiland,” she teased. “A bit too severe for me, but I don’t want Claude to think anything’s wrong with his scheme. I don’t want him to see the new finale approaching.”

  “Finale of what?”

  “Why don’t you come along with me and Chris to see for yourself. Ought’a make for a great article.”

  ***

  “Our audio is back up, the referee has presented a reading of the special all-tiles-in rule, the contestants seemed satisfied with his explanation, so they’re going to choose their fresh tiles, take a deep breath, and launch into part two of this passion play, the final four contracts of this one hundred million dollar, winner-take-all, World Standoff! Tournament, coming up in just a few minutes. Stay tuned.”

  ***

  There wasn’t a guard on thirty-three when the four exited the elevator then made their way to St. Honore’s suite. After waiting a few seconds at the door while the locks were unlatched, Ellie ushered them in.

  The first thing that caught Spotswood’s attention was Claudette, leaning against a couch in the great room, a champagne glass in one hand, a bottle in the other. Her hair was parted down the center, two diamond barrettes pushing it back behind her ears. Her long, black gown was open to the waist, revealing a blood-red corset. Black stockings and high red pumps, two thin straps circling her ankles, completed her ensemble.

  “Hello, Christie. Hello, Billi,” she said, face expressionless. “Please excuse me, but I don’t know your friends.”

  “This is and Jonathan and Denny.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Spotswood. I watched you last night,” she nodded, her voice soft and lazy. “I’m charmed.” The two guests nodded back. “Perhaps Ellie could get you something to drink?”

  “No. Thank you” Denny replied. “Nothing for me,”

  Spotswood looked to the far end of the room. It was dominated by a huge monitor, St. Honore sitting in the lone chair in front of it. Pointing a control unit at the television, the picture flashed off. He sat a moment staring at the black screen, then slowly stood and looked to the rear of the room.

  “What are you doing here?” he seemed to say to Christie.

  “Billi invited them up, father,” Claudette announced, taking a sip from her glass.

  “I would appreciate it if you left us alone, Christie,” he said. “Along with your companions. This has been an extremely trying day for me. I was expecting to be celebrating at this moment, but things have, uh, taken an unfortunate turn. I am not in the mood to entertain. Please,” he said, motioning to the door. “If you would be so kind.”

  “Lose a few euros on the tournament, Monsieur?” Denny chuckled.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I asked,” she replied, taking a step toward him and smirking. “Did you lose a few euros on the tournament?”

  Spotswood eyed her a moment, now realizing that perhaps his instincts had been correct—that her resume, if it had been portrayed accurately by Reynolds—was a bit too accomplished for her to be working basic physical protection duties… that there must have been another reason for her presence.

  St. Honore coughed. “Who are you?”

  “This is Denny,” Blair interrupted. “A good friend of mine, Claude.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am certain. This does not change the fact that I am not in the mood for visitors. Again,” he finished, deliberately pointing to the door this time. “If you would be so kind.”

  “How many million did you drop, Monsieur?”

  “Ah, persistence,” St. Honore sighed as he stepped to join them. “Ellie? Fetch me a glass of champagne, cheri,” he said, perching himself on the arm of a couch. “Then you can excuse yourself for the day.”

  “Yes, Monsieur. Right away. And thank you.”

  “I’ll get it for you, father,” Claudette said, turning toward the bar. “You may leave, El.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle. Merci.”

  Looking to Denny, he continued, “And what is your interest in my financial affairs?”

  “My interests are what my superiors tell me they are.”

  “She works for Director Reynolds,” Spotswood put in, almost apologetically.

  She glanced at her assignment, grinned, then added, “Among others.”

  “Your name again?” St. Honore asked.

  “Denise. Dittrich.”

  “And I also have the pleasure of meeting Jip Spotswood?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered as Claudette handed her father the flute.

  “I see,” he replied, setting his champagne down after taking a long sip, crossing his arms and returning his attention to Denny. “Now, Mademoiselle Dittrich. Let me share a small story with you, a fable from which you may possibly take a lesson. Please. All of you,” he smiled, opening his arms. “Be seated and votre oncle Claude will tell you a sad story.”

  They all did except Claudette, who leaned on the couch behind her father.

  “Il etais une fois, there was a very wonderful man with a very wonderful

  daughter who lived a very wonderful life. He owned spas and casinos and shops and restaurants and jet planes and… not to mention an extremely lucrative… how do you say thi
s in des Etats-Unis? A dating service?”

  “An escort service, father.”

  “The Auroras?” Denny asked.

  “Yes. Yes. It was both of these things. And the man enjoyed his life very much, despite the fact his wife… ” he continued, but then stopped and shook his head as if unable to recall the rest of the thought. “And then adding to his sadness, one day he found that his casinos had been invaded by some spiders.”

  Spotswood guessed what he meant: Spiders as in the mythical criminal organization that had been talked about for years but had never been objectively shown to exist. Word had it occasionally that someone was caught, typically an underling, an agent for one of the unknown but thought to exist thirteen individuals who allegedly inhabited the web. It was said they worked for their own accounts, or could be retained for a fee. They were said to be guided by a shadow known as Sphinxax - a faceless enigma Interpol once listed as the most dangerous criminal in the world.

  The destruction of the Eiffel Tower was rumored to be the work of Spiders, as was the sinking of the cruise ship Anniversary and the five billion pound theft from the British banking system. The assassinations of a score of famous and infamous persons. But most objective observers reasoned that Spiders was an excuse invented by the law enforcement community to explain events it couldn’t. And as all of the major events attributed to the group had taken place in Europe, the FBI and Homeland Security paid the organization little mind. Despite recent threats to bring a “vicious, conclusive defeat” to America’s shores, including an attack on Prism, Spiders seemed satisfied wreaking havoc on the other side of the Atlantic.

  “These spiders were very clever in their work, very, how do I say this? Tres efficace.”

  “Very effective, father.”

  “Oui. That is it, cheri. The spiders were very effective in their work. And one day the man who owned the casinos woke up to find the spiders had taken much money from his casinos and then had disappeared into their dens, leurs cabinets de travail.”

  “Sad story,” Denny offered.