Then the last one, which may have been the worst of all: the gate open, strong hands pulling him forward while another hand grabbed him from behind, Dante caught in this tug-of-war, his brother on one side and his enemies on the other.
The baton swung, there was a grunt of pain, and Dante tumbled forward, the soldiers hauling him up before he could hit the ground.
Chapter 39
A long walk in the darkness. Shoulders nudging him when he strayed too far to one side or the other. It felt a little like a sobriety test, only in this case the officer was helping him along, correcting his mistakes whenever he left the line.
He imagined that line cutting straight ahead of him to the end of the platform, then taking a left turn into the tunnel. He couldn’t say for sure, though, because a sack that smelled very much like rotten potatoes had been draped over his head, superimposing a grid of blurry lines over his vision.
Each square was a tiny window. Through the windows, where the gray beams of the flashlights bled into the darkness, he glimpsed the bodies of the former resisters curled on the platform like the withered husks of autumn leaves. One of them whispered at the boots marching past his head. The others (Dead? Caught in that prison between life and death?) said nothing and did not move, and Dante and his escort passed on.
He was counting his footsteps. He had started too late to get a proper count, but he suspected they would soon reach the end of the platform. He still did not hear the rumble of an engine, but this did nothing to curb the certainty that he would, in the end, board that mysterious train. If he had hit his head before coming to this subterranean prison, he would wonder whether this was indeed a purgatory, a waiting half-life where souls were left to hang until the last drop of memory was bled from them.
Maybe they would reach the tracks and wait for the train. Maybe they would pass him a cigarette and tell him how awfully sorry they were to send him on like this, the real indignity of it all, and then shake their heads sadly and remind him that “Rules are rules.”
But instead of turning left into the tunnel (yes, he was sure it would be left; and besides that, they never stepped off the platform), they turned right, back toward the main station. Then it was up a flight of stairs, reaching the top and thinking there was another step and stomping forward, the soldiers enjoying a chuckle at his expense.
He knew he was outside because of the cold air tickling his skin. He pulled hard with his nostrils, siphoning the air through the mesh of the sack, but it was tainted with the rot of potatoes when it reached him. Why was the sack necessary anyway? Another scare tactic? Or were they leading him to a secret bunker whose location was known only by the President and his Chief of Staff?
Dante Gervasio, we’re so glad we were able to find you. The country is in terrible trouble and we need your help. Your mission, should you choose to accept it…
They must have walked for close to half an hour, never leaving the hard surface of asphalt. Dante’s feet were tired. His ankle felt leaden. There had been a time when he preferred walking to almost any other means of transportation, but now he decided walking was overrated. He would have given a lot of money, if he’d had any and if it had been worth anything, to ride a scooter just then.
The only sounds were the rustle of the soldiers’ clothing, the swish-swish of Dante’s own jeans, and a steady percussion like a distant heartbeat. The last one crept up on him. He didn’t notice it until it was unmistakable, a rhythmic thumping like railway workers pounding stakes to the beat of a song.
Up another flight of stairs, down a long hall, through a pair of doors. Closer to the beating heart. Music bursting outward as the doors opened, the sound of brass instruments and guitars, and now he felt the percussion through the floor, the room vibrating with it. Was it too much to hope everything had been a big misunderstanding, and that to repay him they had brought him to an AC/DC concert?
But he knew this was impossible, not least of all because the instruments were wrong. This sounded closer to classical music, or perhaps the swing music of the ‘40s. He was not an expert about either one.
The potato sack came free, and his first glimpse was the twinkle of lights like raindrops sparkling on a window. A sea of lights. He was on a stone balcony, and the sight below him in the courtyard elicited an old memory, one he’d forgotten he possessed:
“men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.”
It was a line from The Great Gatsby, a book he had skimmed in high school (reading books had been something of a chore for him). He could see all the pieces - the stage at the end with the musicians moving languidly to the music, the men and women swaying like grass on the African plains, the waiters lofting trays of drinks and smiling as they drifted through the throng - but the whole was more than the sum of its parts, the scene was alive, the feeling of the music swelled in Dante’s chest like an anthem, a borrowed memory of a time he had never lived.
He wanted nothing more than to find a pretty girl and dance beneath the prickling stars, letting the throng swallow his identity, his individualism.
His hands gripped the stone balcony. A movement pulled his attention from the courtyard, and he turned his head to see William Yates sitting less than ten feet away.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Yates asked, unsmiling. He waved at the soldiers behind Dante and they pushed back through the double doors, leaving Dante alone with Yates on the balcony.
“Take a seat,” Yates added. His soft voice was nearly lost in the swell of music.
Dante sat in an immaculate upholstered chair. He was well aware how dirty his clothes must be, but Yates did not seem to mind.
Yates gazed down on the performance below, his face gentle but unrelenting, a surgeon who would patiently explain the necessity of the operation before he picked up the scalpel. Was that a trace of amusement on his face?
The Phantom of the Opera, Dante thought, the balcony lost in shadow, the courtyard bright and thoughtless and spinning toward morning.
“Panem et circenses,” Yates said. “The phrase is derogatory, referring to people who care about nothing more than food and entertainment. I prefer to think of it as a necessary evil.” He regarded Dante from the corner of his eye, a teacher gauging his pupil’s comprehension.
“Bread and circuses,” Dante guessed.
Yates’s expression was difficult to read. “I didn’t peg you for a student of Latin.”
“I’m not. I was always better at guessing the answer than learning it. When in doubt, pick letter C.”
Yates laughed politely. His voice did not quite carry the hoarseness of a lifelong smoker, but it was getting there. He cleared his throat with a strong effort.
“Is it true you rescued Scarlett from those religious zealots?” he asked.
“That was my brother.”
Yates studied him closely for a few long moments before surveying the crowd again. “Scarlett is one of the better ones,” he finally said. “I wouldn’t want to lose her. I owe the two of you for that. She came to me, asked for your release. That puts me in a difficult position.”
“My brother was sincere when he said we want to pay our dues here.”
Yates raised his eyebrows at him. “It must run in the family.”
“What?”
“Lying.”
Dante considered objecting, but decided to remain silent. He thought Yates could only know what Scarlett had told him, but what had Victor told Scarlett? That morning on the roof of her hideout, they’d both been up before Dante was. How much might Victor have shared? Victor was usually tight-lipped, but Dante had sensed something different in his behavior toward Scarlett.
“I used to think everyone hungered for a vision,” Yates said. “”The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” as Thoreau put it. I thought that, given the right cause, they would be willing to sacrifice their interests for something greater.” He shook his head. “But I was wrong. Terribly wrong. People ca
re more about the trivial things in life than the important ones.”
“Bread and circuses.”
“Exactly.”
“Is that what all this is for? Entertaining the masses?”
“You could call it that. I have given up on expecting everyone around me to be a visionary. The people do not need to understand the philosophy on which the state stands…” He paused. “But they must be faithful to it.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Should I have brought your brother?” Yates laughed softly. “He would have had me dangling over the balcony by now.”
Dante grinned. That was Victor, alright. It surprised him, though, to learn he was the one Yates wanted to speak with. He had thought he was being heroic by surrendering himself to the guards in Victor’s place. Now he realized they wouldn’t have taken Victor anyway.
Yates’s smile faded. “I can’t trust your brother. He’s not looking for a cause to believe in—he already has one. But you haven’t chosen a door yet. You still hold the key to your fate.”
Dante frowned. “What’s your question?” he asked carefully.
“Two questions. If you fail either one, you and your brother will be exiled from the Commune. You can thank Scarlett for that bit of mercy. You may survive, but your chances will not be good. You probably know this already.”
“And if I pass both questions?”
“We’ll have that conversation when, and if, we get there.”
Dante nodded slowly. Whatever questions Yates might ask, at least this gave him a chance of getting Victor out of that cage in the dark subway station. If the alternative was going back there and waiting to be driven like cattle into that unknown tunnel, he would happily answer anything Yates might wish to know.
“Will you answer my questions?” Yates asked.
Dante nodded. “Shoot.”
“Here is the first question. Are you a spy, Dante?”
Dante breathed a sigh of relief. “No. I swear I’m not.”
“Good. I did not believe you before, but Scarlett convinced me. I just needed to hear you confirm it. Now for the second question.” He rested his arms on his thighs and leaned toward Dante, staring earnestly into his eyes.
“How would you like to be a spy?”
Chapter 40
To tell the truth, he wanted to be convinced.
Even as he bent over his knees, his mouth slick with the sour slime of booze and pills, his mind was able to manufacture enough clarity for him to realize he had just avoided an enormous mistake. How else could he describe the decision to abandon his wife and daughters when their lives were in danger?
He had tried the coward’s way out, and very nearly succeeded. That was the way it was supposed to go, wasn’t it? A man at the end of his rope attempts suicide, then at the last moment, plagued by thoughts of his family, he experiences a revelation and discovers the piece he was missing all along?
Only there was no startling revelation here, no burst of inspiration through the alcohol-soaked cells of his brain. And he hadn’t exactly decided to step back from the cliff, had he? No, he’d been forced back, hauled by a bug-eyed man who was now watching him intently, almost greedily, like a feral dog.
Khan had the distinct impression this man wanted something.
“What do you mean?” Khan asked when he managed to catch his breath. The words came out on a sigh: Waddaya mean?
The stranger thrust his hands into his pockets and thought about it. It seemed to take a great deal of effort.
“The way I see it,” he said, “we’re both after the same person. See, I heard you talking in the tent.”
“You heard me?”
He nodded. “Yep. The Baron sent you to fetch Victor, is that right?”
“You know him?”
The man nodded again.
“How?” Khan asked.
“That’s not important. What is important is getting you off your sorry ass. We’ll have to hurry if we want to catch Victor before he gets to Kassel.” He fidgeted and glanced away.
“Something the matter?”
“There’s something I have to do before we leave. I’ll come find you when it’s time to go.”
Before Khan could begin to protest this idea, the man with the too-large eyes disappeared into the darkness.
Deus ex machina, Khan thought.
He sat down in the rubble. The picture of his family was still in his hand, smiling at him. They might as well have been on Mars. But what did such a thing as distance matter? Was there any bond greater than love, any cause more worthy of sacrifice?
He considered this for a while, his mind drifting in and out of conscious thought, and when he had his land legs again he stood and drifted toward the sounds of music.
___
There was a time when her mother used to read to her before bed. This was before the arguments, the litany of grievances gathered like ammunition by her parents, tucked away in case they were needed later. At this time in Jenny’s young life, her parents were happy to have a child in their life, even if they could not quite convince themselves she had not been a mistake.
Jenny’s favorite books had always been the fantastic ones full of talking animals, magic portals, whispered words that could break spells and unlock doors. Twice her mother had read through The Chronicles of Narnia. Jenny had loved the series, except for two parts: the sacrifice of Aslan in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and the death of the horses in The Last Battle.
In the former book, when Aslan surrendered himself to the power of the White Witch and her evil minions, Jenny had envisioned the scene all too well: the glee on the faces of the monsters, the lowly resignation of the magnificent lion, the cackling of the frightful mob as their enemy was humiliated and finally killed.
The sounds Jenny now heard outside her tent reminded her of that wicked cackling.
How had her life come to this?
She should have been tucked safely in bed, unafraid of what might creak on the stairs or creep through her window. The most difficult decision she should have been facing was how much water was too much before going to sleep.
The laughter came again. She pulled her knees against her chest, hugging herself and whispering a prayer for help. But what kind of help did she want? An angel with a flaming sword coming down to kill all these scary people? No, she didn’t want them to die. She just wanted them to go away, which was just how she had felt about her parents.
Was this her life now? The life of a child fortune-teller?
Shadow groaned and came over to her, setting his chin on her knee, his eyes inches from hers. She rubbed his face (it was clean now; she had washed that sticky substance from his muzzle earlier), feeling the whiskers above his eyebrows and then tracing the arc of his ears.
There were worse people in the world than Meatloaf, weren’t there? Calhoun, for instance. He frightened her. Besides, as strange as Meatloaf might be, how had he ever wronged her? Hadn’t he saved her in the first place when she was wandering around in the woods?
She didn’t want to need people at all, but unless her sight miraculously returned, that was going to be the way of things. You just had to buck up and accept it. Maybe years down the road things would be different, but for now she had little choice.
She heard the telltale whisper of canvas, sending her heart fluttering like a frightened bird.
“Meatloaf?” she said tentatively.
But the voice that answered was not Meatloaf’s. It was deep and strong and familiar.
“Are you okay?” the voice asked. “Has anyone hurt you?”
Shadow lifted his head and growled. Jenny rubbed his back, but she did not try to calm him.
“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “I won’t hurt you.” He sighed. She could still smell the alcohol coming off him, but he sounded sober now—closer to being sober, anyway.
“Listen, Jenny, we have to go now. I don’t know how much time we have.”
Outside, i
n the dark world that was always dark (or, at best, red) to Jenny’s eyes, a girlish scream tore the night, then dissolved into giggling.
“Go where?” Jenny asked. Had he really come back for her? To help her get away?
“Does it matter?” he answered. “I know you don’t know me, much less trust me, but it’s too dangerous for you to stay. That man is a lunatic.”
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