Weekend at Prism

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Weekend at Prism Page 34

by John Patrick Kavanagh


  “Yes, Mademoiselle. Very sad indeed. So the man decided he would take a chance, would wager the future of his casinos on a game of skill, a game of chance, a, how does Franklin describe it?” he asked, turning to his daughter.

  “A splendid diversion, father.”

  “Yes. A splendid diversion.” He paused, wringing his hands then massaging his cheeks. “A splendid diversion. But now the game is over and the man who was once so happy is now very unhappy. The man may now lose his casinos. The man may now lose his shops.”

  “Don’t you mean will?” Denny asked.

  “Were this game he chose to wager on the only, only variety, variety… ”

  “Variable, father.”

  “Oui. Variable in the situation then, yes, Mademoiselle Dittrich. The man in the story would certainly lose everything.”

  “What’s the other variable?”

  “The other variable in the story,” St. Honore smiled, “is that the man in the story looked out at his garden today and some flowers which he did not expect to see for a number of seasons are now in full bloom. It is one of those fortunate and unexpected situations in life.” He massaged his cheeks again. “I have this hobby, this pastime in which I like to engage. I base it on a famous play, a play called Pygmalion, by, uh, uh… ”

  “By George Bernard Shaw, father.”

  “By George Bernard Shaw. Do you all know this play?”

  “I don’t, Claude,” Blair said. “What’s it about?”

  “Billi, it is about a Greek king whose name is Pygmalion. The king has a beautiful statue of ivory made, a statue of the perfect woman. This statue, in turn, is brought to life by the goddess Aphrodite.” He paused. “It is a wonderful story.” He paused again. “So the man in the first story I was telling, that man has just discovered that his hobby may have become much more profitable. Much sooner than he ever could have imagined.”

  “How?”

  “I have changed many, many ordinary women, very ordinary women, such as yourself, Mademoiselle Dittrich,” he chuckled, “into works of art. Some of these works of art,” he continued, motioning back toward his daughter, “have in turn developed both close personal and professional relationships with me.” He paused. “And generous, kind man that I am, I have, in turn, shared these works of art with others. Especially others who might someday be generous to me. Comprendez-vous?”

  “Yeah, I already know about that part of your agenda. I’m more curious about which one of ’em you think is going to deliver such a big return on your investment?”

  “The one I am thinking of in particular, took nothing in return for being… ah… being a fantasy lover for a very powerful man.” He smiled. “But perhaps now, perhaps now I will call in that chit because I am very certain that this particular man at this particular point in his life would not want this particular relationship revealed. In return for my help in keeping this work of art in line, this particular one, and there are various ways of doing this, I am certain this particular man would do everything in his power to help the man in the story, the one with the problem with the spiders.”

  “Who?”

  “I am sorry, Mademoiselle,” St. Honore nervously replied, “you must be leaving now, because it is necessary for me to devote much of my attention to the matters at hand, to saving my, uh, the man’s casinos and the man’s shops.”

  “But the spa, father,” Claudette said, her voice still lazy and soft. “Chateau du Changeant. It will continue, no? So I can become myself again?”

  “Oui,” he agreed, reaching for his glass and taking another sip. “Le Chateau will remain untouched, even if the spiders are not discovered and made to return what they have stolen.”

  “Very sad story,” Denny said.

  “Yes. Very sad indeed. But, Mademoiselle, this brings me to the moral.”

  “The moral?”

  “Oui. The moral.”

  “The point he is trying to make,” Claudette said, looking toward the empty screen.

  “Oui. The point I am trying to make. After I found - after the man in the story found the damage done by the spiders - he decided to find one of them and make an example. The man never found the spiders, but he did find one who had helped them.”

  “And?”

  “And the man in the story decided to give le homme who had helped the spiders a vacation. To bring him to a beautiful place filled with beautiful people.” St. Honore laughed. “And when he left, he was a different person.”

  “How?”

  “He was re… how do you say? Rearranged… then sent back to the village he was from. And now they sit him in the square, and the children come to mock him. He is very unhappy, but he will never help a spider again. A person without a face can be a very funny thing to see.”

  “So what’s the point?”

  “The point, Mademoiselle,” he growled, “is that Claude St. Honore does not like to be taunted or teased. By anyone. So please,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his index fingers. “Leave us now. Leave us and take with you your silly assumptions.”

  “You are an insult to humanity,” she hissed, standing and taking a few steps away.

  Christie and Spotswood also stood, as did Blair.

  “Let’s get out of here, Billi,” Christie said, taking her arm. “I have to talk to you.”

  “No,” St. Honore said. “We have plans, the three of us. Billi stays. The rest of you leave.”

  “Hey,” Denny replied, slipping her left hand under her jacket. “Where do you think you are? This is the United States. People go where they want to go.”

  St. Honore stood and took a few steps toward them. Shook his finger. “No, Mademoiselle Dittrich. This is Prism. You are in the suite of its creator, if not its owner. You are in the suite of Claude St. Honore. And when you are here, you do what you are told. Do not argue with me. I do not need a staff of experts to rearrange you. That I can do with my own hands.”

  “Try it.”

  “All right,” he sighed. “Perhaps a lesson is in order.” He stepped toward her.

  “Leave us alone.”

  He stepped again and her Glock snapped out of its hiding place.

  He stopped. “I see you have come prepared, Mademoiselle.” He looked to Spotswood. “You said that she works for Reynolds?”

  “That’s correct.”

  He returned his attention to her. “Your bearing… ah… how do I say this? Your bearing is not that of an under, an under… one who is subservient.”

  “An underling, father.”

  “Yes.” He crossed his arms. “Tell me your involvement, Mademoiselle Dittrich.”

  And she did, beginning more than a year earlier, when attached to the recently reorganized French Directorate of Territorial Security as an English language instructor of Psych Ops specialists. She’d been approached by the woman overseeing the multiple, continuing parallel investigations of St. Honore and his wide-ranging domestic interests with a fascinating proposal. Having learned that their target was soon to relocate to Nevada to help steer Prism into existence and developed intelligence that his conglomeration of businesses was all but bleeding money for unascertainable reasons, opportunities for serious defalcation were ripe. The Directorate, not certain where things might lead, had nonetheless determined that at the least it should start seeding deep-cover operatives into the Potcheck Enterprises Games workforce before suspicions were raised. She’d eagerly accepted the assignment without regard to the obvious complications and risks. The opportunity to take on high-level field work—at which she excelled—was too compelling to pass up.

  With the cooperation of a multitude of agencies and stringers, con artists and scammers, but especially the FBI and Homeland Security, an alternate identity was constructed for her. “My favorite bit was having had the Israeli PM personally request my services. Talk about the pure quill!” she laughed.

  When, via a circuitous path just rational enough to cover all of the tracks, her availability came
to Reynolds’ attention, she was soon planted into his team without further effort and placed in the queue of seasoned specialists who’d be assigned to high-value assets. Having barely missed out on being assigned to St. Honore’s detail, she’d settled for Spotswood.

  “Settled?” he asked.

  She nodded. “And thus far, performed pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

  “So… Is your name really… ”

  She held up an index finger. “That’s need to know info.”

  “You’re the best Pays des droits de l’homme could produce?” St. Honore snarled. “No wonder I achieved so much.”

  “Achieved? You achieved nothing, Monsieur.” She tapped at her ever-present earphone. “You’re through.” She glanced about. “We’ve got all the evidence we need to put you on ice for life.” She looked to Claudette. “The crimes you’ve committed against your daughter alone should… ”

  The man lunged at her but was pushed away by Spotswood. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” he barked. Even though he realized he was probably already in over his head, he was prepared to have a go at it, to protect Denny. Were it not for her...

  Now St. Honore glanced about. “Were there someone here meeting this de, description, I would take great pleasure in doing so. In my youth, I was somewhat of a boxer.”

  “Jip, no heroics,” Denny cautioned.

  Spotswood looked at her, the twinkling of her eyes perhaps indicating otherwise.

  “No heroics,” he agreed. “This is emotion talking.” He raised his fists. “Come on, Claude.”

  She smiled as she reached to his hands, pushing them down slowly.

  “We’ll be leaving now, Claude,” Christie said, taking Billi’s arm and pulling her toward the entrance to the penthouse. “I’m sorry we disturbed you.”

  “As you should be.”

  The four of them walked purposefully to the door, stopping when St. Honore shouted, “Billi stays here!”

  “Do you really want me to stay?” Blair asked.

  “Of course I do, cheri.”

  “Then I probably should.” she said to Christie. “It is a nice place. And I did get dressed up for the occasion.”

  “Billi! You know what he did to you!”

  “I think that speaks for itself,” St. Honore laughed. “A genuine masterpiece. Come to me, Billi,” he said, opening his arms. “Come to Claude.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” she cried gleefully. “I brought a present for you, just as I promised.” Halfway to the sitting room, she turned. “Claude? Let my friends stay a moment to see it, what I have for you? Then I promise they’ll be on their way.”

  “Just for a moment, cheri. Then they must leave. You and Claudette and I have an, uh, appointment. You recall?”

  “Yes, an appointment.”

  “You see, Mademoiselle Dietrich,” he smiled as Blair left the room. “In this hotel, I get what I want, if not what I deserve. Someday you may be as fortunate as I.”

  “But you’ve lost. You’re through.”

  “No,” he cautioned, shaking his finger again. “If my instincts are correct, and they usually are, as I told you before, one of my Auroras has increased greatly in value. If that value is great enough, then all shall be saved. And besides,” he continued, “I still have Chateau du Vis, where I am as close to God as a man can hope to be. I have Claudette,” he smiled, motioning to her, “and I have Billi until I grow bored with our, uh, soon to be household of three.”

  Blair stepped back into the room with a long sports bag. She set it on a high table and rummaged through it, tossing out a few pieces of clothing. “It’s in here some place.” And then she removed it. Spotswood wasn’t certain what it was, but whatever it was, it was evil: black metal, perhaps two feet long. She held it by the grip at one end, dropped it to her side, then swung it up, letting the other end drop into her free hand.

  “What is this you have brought for me, cheri?” St. Honore asked, a nervous tone in his voice. “Is that a gun?”

  “Yes, Claude. A Mossberg Model 500. Also known as a Mossberg 500 Riot Gun.” She looked lovingly at the weapon as if it were a treasured childhood toy. “SWAT teams use these to remove doors that refuse to open. At close range, it can slice a man in two.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Billi,” he replied, voice constricting. “But I do not like guns. They are dangerous. They are for brutal people, not for me.”

  “Oh, the gun isn’t for you, Claude.”

  “Tres bien.”

  “In the magazine is a single, twelve gauge, super magnum shell.”

  “Oui, and?”

  “And that is what I have brought for you.”

  St. Honore took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should call Security and have it removed,” he said, reaching for a telephone on the coffee table. Blair pulled on the forearm of the weapon, cocking it. Pointed the barrel. “If you touch that phone, you will receive your gift.”

  He froze. Backed to the wall of glass behind him.

  “Have a seat,” she ordered, motioning to a small chair in front of a writing table. He complied, pulling it away and resting it in front of the window.

  “Billi,” Christie pleaded. “Don’t do this. You don’t know what you’re doing.” She paused as Blair stared back at her. “Come with us. We can get you help. We’ll get you the best. You deserve it. We can make you better.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Chris,” she smiled, walking a few feet to grasp another side chair with one hand, the weapon still pointed at her prisoner. She pulled it back and sat herself five yards from him. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  “There is but a single shell in your gift?” St. Honore asked, relaxing in his seat as if he were chairing a board meeting, seeming confident in his assessment. Confident he would receive the correct response.

  “Only one.”

  “Tres bien,” he grinned, turning to his daughter. “Claudette? Do you believe Billi is telling the truth?”

  “Yes, father.”

  “You do not believe Billi would harm you, do you?”

  “No, father.”

  “Tres bien. Then do something, if she will not harm you.”

  “Yes, father.” She nonchalantly picked up the champagne bottle

  resting on the arm of the couch, filled her glass, then leisurely seated herself, toasting the flute to St. Honore, then Blair.

  “Il est tres serious, Claudette.”

  “I know, father,” she said, raising it to her lips. “I know.”

  “Claudette? I am ordering you to do something. I am your pere. I have the right to tell you what to do. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, father,” she said, taking a sip. “I understand. But I am sorry, I do not agree.” A slight smile. “For many years I have prayed to Our Lady, prayed to be delivered from you. Prayed for a miracle. Prayed for a respite from the purgatory, the hell my existence has been for so long.” She looked at Blair. “And now it would appear my prayers have been answered.”

  The man shifted his attention to Blair. “You are mad, Billi.”

  “I know, Claude. Now tell me why I’m mad.”

  “Because, because you are! Is that so difficult for you to understand?”

  She stood, shaking her gown off one shoulder, then the other, exchanging the weapon between her hands, letting the robe drop to the floor. “Why did you do this to me, Claude!”

  “Because you asked me to do it.”

  “But why did I ask you to do it?”

  “Because you were bored with your life, because you were not satisfied with your state of affairs, because you were greedy, because… because you thought a different Billi would lead a different life. A more rewarding life. Because you knew the old Billy could not be perfect, but perhaps a new Billi could be perfect.”

  Blair looked to Claudette. “The way you made your daughter perfect?”

  “She chose to be what she is, didn’t you, cheri?”

  Claudette to
ok another sip of her champagne but didn’t respond.

  “The radio waves made me do it,” Blair said. “And you put them in my mind.”

  “Ah, yes. The radio waves. The voices. Is that your excuse?”

  “You put them there!”

  “Perhaps. But the radio waves did not make you do anything, cheri,” he smiled. “You cannot blame them. They did not make you do anything.”

  “Yes - they - did!” she screamed.

  “Non. Perhaps they suggested things to you, suggested alternatives in your life. But you are the one who chose your course, Billi.” He stood. “What is it Shakespeare said? The fault is not in our stars, it is in ourselves.”

  “Why did you do it!”

  St. Honore sighed, looking to his daughter, then to Christie, settling on Blair. “It was an experiment. An experiment to see if I could change your life, change your unhappiness. That is all. An experiment. Nothing more.” He clasped his hands together. “You needed to be manipulated and I needed to manipulate. It is as simple as that.”

  Blair sat down, the tip of the barrel touching the floor. “Sit down and shut the fuck up.”

  “Quel?”

  “I said, sit down and shut-the-fuck-up!

  He obeyed.

  “Let me tell you a little story,” Blair began, raising the Mossberg and resting the barrel on her right shoulder. “Once upon a time, there was a very wonderful singer who led a very wonderful life with a very wonderful band. Early one morning, the singer went to play golf with his two keyboard players and his drummer. The drummer had only played golf once before, and was a real hacker.”

  “A hacker? What is this?”

  “He was not very good, father.”

  “So they got to the third tee and the drummer hit a line drive, a real screamer, that sailed off a few inches above the ground, stopping fifty yards away when it hit some geese who were walking across the fairway.”

  “Fairway?”

  “The golf course, father.”

  “So the singer got into a cart with the drummer and the two of them drove toward his ball so that he could take his next shot.” Blair lowered the gun, the barrel resting in her hand. “As they approached his ball, they noticed there was a baby goose on the ground, twitching.”

 

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