‘Right,’ Wilson said. ‘Get him into the bathroom. I don’t want him dripping on the carpet. Get him in there immediately.’
Fallaci slid his arms deeper under McKinley’s armpits and then, with the lifeless head against his chest, dragged him into the bathroom. The walls were a lurid pink, the toilet seat covered in fake fur. Fallaci slung the body over a bath that was made of white marble.
‘Christ, he’s heavy,’ he said.
Wilson didn’t respond, his gaze curious, academic, as Fallaci took a short rope from his pocket and tied it around the steel curtain rail. Then he made a short noose. ‘You’ll have to help me,’ he said. Wilson stepped in and tugged at the corpse, his arms under its armpits. Together they lifted the body up, its lifeless arms around their shoulders, raised it until its feet were off the floor, the head under the noose. ‘Hold him there,’ Fallaci said. He stepped back and turned around. He opened the noose and slipped it over the dead man’s head and then tightened the knot. ‘That’s it,’ he said. Wilson let go of the corpse. The dead man dropped down abruptly, then stopped, spinning slightly, his head jerked up by the rope, his neck stretched, the face bloating, slippered feet dangling just above the tiled floor, swinging gently from left to right. ‘Suicide,’ Fallaci said. ‘He reached the end of his tether.’ He picked up a small stool and set it on its side just in front of the dead man’s swinging feet. Then he straightened up, grinning. ‘Okay, sir?’
‘Okay.’
They left the bathroom and closed the door, went back into the main room, and stood there, glancing around in a casual manner, intrigued by the decor. The colors were garish, the furniture a bizarre mixture of styles, imitations of late-Renaissance and Victoriana and Art Nouveau, an elaborate chandelier fixed to the ceiling, intricate mouldings, bad paintings. Wilson sat in a chair, his azure gaze calm but remote, as if focused elsewhere. He looked up at Fallaci, saw him standing at the windows, framed by the rippling green of Biscayne Bay and the sky’s dazzling white haze.
‘I hope he’s punctual,’ Wilson said.
‘He should be here any minute.’
‘And you’re sure he’s never met that McKinley?’
‘It was all arranged by phone.’
Wilson checked his gold cuff links, crossed his legs the other way. ‘What about my voice?’ he asked coldly. ‘He might notice the difference.’
‘No, sir,’ Fallaci said. He started wandering about the room. ‘The arrangement was made through a third party. Your voice won’t mean a thing to him.’
Wilson glanced at his wristwatch. ‘We were informed that he was punctual.’
‘That checks,’ Fallaci said. ‘He’s a punctual man. That doorbell should ring any second now.’
The bell rang a minute later. Wilson got to his feet. Fallaci looked at him, nodded, went to the door, opened it and took a step back and said, ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Professor Vale,’ a man said. ‘Are you Mr McKinley?’ ‘No, sir. I’m his secretary.’
Fallaci stepped aside and Vale entered the room, a slim man, quite short, beard and hair flecked with gray, wearing white pants and a colorful flowered shirt, a tennis racquet held in his right hand. ‘McKinley?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Wilson said. ‘Hello.’ He stepped forward and shook Professor Vale’s hand. ‘I’m glad you could come.’
Professor Vale smiled frostily. He seemed young for his fifty years. ‘Your man was very persuasive,’ he said. ‘If a little oblique.’ Wilson returned the smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he was. But I’m also sure that you’ll understand our discretion when we finish our talk.’ He nodded at the bar. ‘Would you like a drink, Professor?’ Vale wiped sweat from his brow and said, ‘Yes, thanks. Rum and coke. Lots of ice.’
Wilson nodded at Fallaci. ‘A white wine for me,’ he said. Fallaci went to the bar as Wilson pointed to a chair and said, ‘Take a seat, Professor. Relax.’ He indicated the tennis racquet in Vale’s right hand. ‘Did you have a good game?’
‘Pretty good,’ Vale said.
He grinned and sat down, placing his tennis racquet on the table, stretching his legs and wiping the sweat from his forehead with a folded white handkerchief. ‘It kills me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I do it.’ He patted his stomach and said, ‘I’ve got to keep this down. An academic’s obsession.’ Wilson smiled at the self-mockery. Fallaci brought them their drinks. Wilson sat facing Vale while Fallaci retreated to stand behind the bar and sip at the drink he had made for himself. ‘You play often?’ Wilson asked.
‘Only on vacation,’ Vale said. ‘I don’t like vacations all that much, so it helps pass the time.’ He drank his rum and coke with relish, wiped his lips with the back of his free hand, then sighed and stared steadily at Wilson, sizing him up. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘What do you want, Mr McKinley? Your man said it was an offer of work, and right now that interests me.’
‘Just how much did my man tell you?’ Wilson asked.
‘He told me that you represented a European-based commercial company dealing in electronics, aerospace technology, communication satellites and assorted areas of high-energy research. He also said that you had produced components for ASAT warheads and European and American ICBMs. He said, further, that you were under contract to NASA for the production of various rocket components, but that you were intending to expand dramatically. Finally, he said that you were desperately in need of civilian scientists and technicians with experience in aerospace technology, and were willing to pay well for their talents. He said no more than that.’
Wilson smiled. ‘He was told to be brief.’
‘He was,’ Vale said. ‘Far too brief. But I’m interested.’ Wilson smiled again and put his chin in his hands, his elbows resting lightly on his knees, on his immaculate pants.
‘Well, Professor Vale, your information is essentially correct. I represent Air Communications and Satellite Systems, better known as ACASS, a Frankfurt-based, internationally financed company that specializes in the production of advanced electronic communications packages and spy satellite components under contract to European and US government defense establishments.’
‘I know about ACASS,’ Vale said. ‘I’ve often used your components.’
‘Yes,’ Wilson said, ‘that stands to reason. You’ve worked in the past for the USAF Space and Missiles System Organization in San Dierga, California; for the Linear Accelerator Center of Stanford University; and for the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory near San Francisco. You are, at the moment, an Advanced Space Programs Coordinator at the top secret Aerospace Defence Command Cheyenne Mountain Complex in Colorado Springs, Colorado. At these various posts you have specialized in research into advanced advanced ICBMs and anti-satellite weapons, and you’re presently engaged in research into high energy laser beams and particle beam weapons, with particular interest in the Semipalatinsk plant in Russia… Given this, you would have certainly used our components. Now we’d like to use you.’ Professor Vale could not help grinning. He glanced at Fallaci. The latter took his half-empty glass and topped up the rum and then handed it back to him.
‘You’ve certainly done your homework,’ Vale said.
‘Yes. We’re efficient.’
Vale smiled again at Wilson, his eyes glinting above his glass. He sipped his rum and then sat back in the chair, his boyish face thoughtful. ‘I’m under contract to USAF,’ he said.
‘That contract ends in two months.’
‘Okay,’ Vale said. ‘Talk.’
Wilson leaned forward, smiling, amused just a little, thinking first of Vale’s understandable human vanity, thinking next of the man hanging in the bathroom, his neck snapped where the rope would undoubtedly scar it. Another suicide. Naturally.
‘Professor Vale,’ he said, ‘we need men like you because we are, as you rightly said, expanding dramatically. Put simply, ACASS is planning to set up an overseas satellite launching base that will break the superpowers monopoly of space by launching spy satellites
for any Third World country will to pay what we ask. At the moment this capability is available only to America and the USSR, so there is, as we see it, an open market for the sale of such satellites to any smaller developing country that’s concerned with protecting its borders and wants a sophisticated early-warning system at a reasonable price. We can fill that need. We can construct simple, efficient rockets. We can launch those rockets for anyone who pays and there are plenty of customers.’
‘No doubt you’ll have plenty of customers, but where will your base be?’
‘A certain Third World despot in Africa has leased us approximately one hundred thousand square kilometers of his country in return from a rent of fifty million dollars a year to be paid in local currency after our first commercial launch, which will be five years from now. Given that this country’s inflation is running at about eightyfive percent a year, the payment will be relatively negligible by the time it is due. We have also offered to launch a satellite free of charge, but on the condition that the so-called President pays for the actual production of the rocket. In short, what we’ve been given by this black lunatic, virtually for free, is one hundred thousand square kilometers of territory, total autonomy over that territory, full immunity from any prosecution by the state, full control over who is allowed to remain in the territory, and absolute disciplinary control over all natives within our designated area.’
‘That’s insane,’ Professor Vale said.
‘That’s a fact,’ Wilson said. ‘That’s the deal that was worked out between ACASS and the so-called President in Africa, and the contract has been signed, sealed and delivered. Photocopies of the contract are on my boat and await your inspection.’
Vale studied Wilson carefully, tapping his teeth with his glass, obviously startled by what he had heard, just as clearly intrigued. ‘You can’t build a rocket that cheap,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Wilson responded promptly, ‘we can. The basic idea for the rocket came from some German scientists who originally worked on the V-2 rocket for the Nazis. After the war, one of those scientists went to Egypt to design rockets for President Nasser, retired to Austria, and then came to ACASS. Another came to the United States with Wernher von Braun, became an American citizen and leading light of the Kennedy Space Center, retired three years ago and has since worked for ACASS. The ACASS rocket is very much like a model the Nazis were perfecting when the war ended: easy to build, cheap, but efficient. Its basic unit consists of a tube filled with an oxidizing agent and another filled with diesel fuel; when these liquids combine they ignite and the rocket takes off. Also, instead of mounting rocket stages on top of one another, the ACASS rocket is simply a large bundle of standard units: the greater the load, the more units you include. It is, in short, a massproduced rocket, fully functional and operative.’
‘I want to see the plans.’
‘You can see them. They, also, are on my boat.’
Vale sat back in his chair, tapping his glass against his teeth, studying Wilson and then gazing around the room, taking it all in. Wilson sat there, saying nothing, thinking of the dead man in the bathroom, thinking also of what would happen to the world if ACASS had their way. Would the idiocy never cease? Could the fantastical be controlled? Wilson thought of the dead man, of the commercial company he had represented, of the many scientists who would take on any kind of work so long as the price was right. Professor Vale would not be one of them. Professor Vale would not be paid. The good professor, with his vanity and greed, would be put to use elsewhere. ‘I’m interested,’ Vale said, ‘but I want to see some documentation. I want to see all your contracts, I want to study the rocket designs, and after that, if I’m satisfied that you’re legit, I might discuss my own terms.’
‘Excellent,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m sure you’ll find them impressive. They’re all in the safe in my boat. Could you go there right now?’ ‘Now?’
‘Why not?’ Wilson said. ‘You’re only here on vacation, you said yourself that you were bored, so let’s go to my boat, take a trip, some food and wine, and you can study the documentation at your leisure, then go home and decide.’
‘I don’t know…’ Vale began, hesitating.
‘Is your wife here with you?’ Wilson asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then why don’t we collect her and take her along with you? I’m sure she’ll enjoy being on the boat.’
That was enough for the good professor. ‘I think I’ll go on my own,’ he said. ‘I mean, I don’t want her hanging around when we’re discussing business. What the hell, let’s just go.’ He finished his drink and stood up, licked his lips and nodded affirmatively, then want to the bar, passing Fallaci, and set his glass down. ‘Where’s your boat docked?’ he asked.
‘Another drink?’ Fallaci said.
‘No, thanks,’ Vale replied.
‘Pompano Beach Marina,’ Wilson said. ‘We can be there in less than an hour.’
‘You have a john?’ Professor Vale asked. Fallaci touched his elbow lightly. ‘Yes, sir,’ Fallaci said. ‘That door there. At the far end of the room. The first door on your left.’ Vale thanked him and walked away, turning into the second bathroom. Fallaci then looked at Wilson, grinning nervously. ‘That was close,’ Wilson said.
They all left shortly after, left the dead McKinley dangling, closed the door and went down in the elevator and walked out through the lobby. The sudden brightness was dazzling, beating off the white walls, off tall buildings and sidewalks and streets, the sea beyond the palm trees. Fallaci walked on ahead. He led them into a parking lot. Wilson sat in the rear of the car, talking casually to Professor Vale, as Fallaci drove into Collins Avenue, his eyes fixed on the busy road.
Professor Vale was loquacious. The two rums had affected him. He kept looking out the window, at the hotels and condominiums, at the surfers and well-dressed passers-by, at the bored wives and gaudilydressed whores and the packed, noisy sands. Miami Beach glided past them.
‘You know Miami, Mr McKinley?’
‘Not really,’ Wilson replied. ‘I used to have my boat docked in Norfolk; I only came here this year.’
‘You picked the wrong year,’ Vale said. ‘This is the year of the pig. I’ve been coming to this place for fifteen years, but it’s not what it used to be. Cubans and blacks, homosexuals and hookers; you get these kids from the University of Miami and they’re wrecking the place. I mean, I’ve had it up to here. You wouldn’t believe what goes on. I’m a white, Anglo-Saxon American and I don’t mind admitting it. But take a good look around you. What do you see? Drive through 79th Street or Biscayne Boulevard or Kennedy Park; you’ll get a blowjob in the front seat of your car before you know where your billfold’s gone. I mean, these hookers are everywhere. They own Lincolns and Cadillacs. You just go into the Boom-Boom Room or the Poodle Lounge in the Fontainebleau and you’ll see them shaking their tails for all they’re worth, picking up on the tourists. Either that or it’s the fags, from Coconut Grove to Fort Lauderdale: they have it organized so well that the 21st Street sea wall is no longer the place to go for a broad – the fags have cleared out the area. The future America is in Miami; the Brave New World is around the corner: prostitution, male and female, a lot of porno movie houses, filthy habits and VD and drugs and organized crime. That’s Miami, Mr McKinley. It’s the world delivered by science. I look around me and I wonder what it means and then I look to the future. Fuck America, I say. What’s America given me? It’s given me radicals and communists and anarchists and degenerates, and it’s offering me Miami and Las Vegas and cesspits like New York. Fuck America. Who needs it?’
Vale shook his and chuckled, short and slim, almost boyish, his bearded face now showing his fifty years, the lines good-humoured and youthful. Wilson glanced at him, sardonically amused, and just then the car came to a halt.
‘Here we are,’ Wilson said.
They left the cool of the car for the blinding light of the marina, squinting and then stretching themselves, adjusting to t
he tropical heat. Fallaci led them to the boat, a neat Italian, moving fluidly, his eyes darting left and right, their soft brown hiding ice, double-checking everyone in sight, every movement that could indicate trouble. Bronzed girls in bikinis, blond youths in tight shorts, gawking tourists and surfers and lifeguards: Fallaci watched them all carefully. The sky was a dazzling haze, the water went from blue to green, and the boats in the harbour, all shapes and sizes, reflected sunlight from chrome and polished wood, their colored sails flapping rhythmically.
Professor Vale was impressed. He was particularly impressed by the boat they stopped at. A high-powered luxury cruiser, about sixty feet long, it had the look of a floating penthouse and was clearly a rich man’s toy. Fallaci led them up the gangplank, onto the polished, gleaming deck, and a servant wearing an immaculate starched white jacket stepped forward and bowed to them. Wilson followed them aboard, his gelid gaze scanning everything, then he waved to the door directly facing them and said, ‘In there, Professor.’
Vale glanced around him, at the blue sky and green-blue sea, and said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to remain outdoors and pretend that I’m healthy.’
Wilson smiled understandingly. ‘That’s fine with me,’ he said. ‘We’ll just take the boat out a few miles before commencing our business. We can talk over lunch.’
The waiter stepped forward again, bowing slightly to Vale. He had dark skin and Oriental eyes, his face curiously smooth and unlined. ‘A drink, sir?’
‘Rum and coke.’
‘White rum?’
‘No, dark.’
The waiter bowed again and then retreated, back in through the nearest cabin door.
‘Where does he come from?’ Vale asked.
‘Hawaii,’ Wilson lied.
GENESIS (Projekt Saucer) Page 10