by Dan Simmons
Saul rolled out of bed and stood swaying in the center of the small, steel cell. He was wearing gray coveralls. They had taken his glasses and the metal surfaces only a few feet away seemed blurred and faintly insubstantial. His left arm had been in a sling, but now it hung loose. He moved it tentatively and the pain shot up through shoulder and neck— a searing, cauterizing, brain-clearing pain. He moved it again. Again.
Saul staggered to the steel bench and sat down heavily.
Gentry, Natalie, Aaron and his family— all were in danger. From whom? Saul lowered his head to his knees as dizziness washed over him. Why had he been so stupid as to assume that Willi and the old ladies were the only ones with such a terrible power? How many others shared the Oberst’s abilities and addiction? Saul laughed raggedly. He had enlisted Gentry, Natalie, and Aaron without even considering a serious plan of dealing even with just the Oberst. He had vaguely imagined some entrapment— the Oberst unaware, Saul’s friends safe in their anonymity. And then what? The sound of the Mossad’s little .22 caliber Berettas?
Saul leaned back against the cold metal wall, set his cheek against the steel. How many people had he sacrificed because of his cowardice and inaction? Stefa. Josef. His parents. Now, almost certainly, the sheriff and Natalie. Francis Harrington. Saul let out a low moan as he remembered the guttural Auf Wiedersehen in Trask’s office and the following explosion. For a second before that, the Oberst had somehow given him a glimpse through Francis’s eyes and Saul had sensed the terrified presence of the boy’s consciousness, prisoner in his own body, waiting for the inevitable sacrifice. Saul had sent the boy to California. His friends, Selby White and Dennis Leland. Two more victims on the altar of Saul Laski’s timidity.
Saul did not know why they were allowing the drugs to wear off this time. Perhaps they were finished with him; the next visit could be to take him out for execution. He did not care. Rage coursed through his bruised body like an electric current. He would act before the inevitable, long-delayed bullet slammed into his skull. He would hurt someone in retaliation. At that second, Saul Laski would gladly have given his life to warn Aaron or the other two but he would have given all of their lives to strike back at the Oberst, at any of the arrogant bastards who ran the world and sneered at the pain of human beings they used as pawns.
The door slammed up. Three large men in white coveralls entered. Saul stood up, staggered toward them, swung a heavy fist at the first one’s face.
“Hey,” laughed the big man as he easily caught Saul’s arm and pinned it behind him, “this old Jew wants to play games.”
Saul struggled, but the big man held him as if he were a child. Saul tried not to weep as the second man rolled up his sleeve.
“You’re going bye-bye,” said the third man as he stabbed the needle of the syringe into Saul’s thin, bruised arm. “Enjoy your trip, old man.”
They waited thirty seconds, released him, and turned to go. Saul staggered after them, fists clenched. He was unconscious before the door slammed down.
He dreamed of walking, being led. There was the sound of jet engines and the smell of stale cigar smoke. He walked again, strong hands on his upper arms. Lights were very bright. When he closed his eyes he could hear the click-click-click of metal wheels on rails as the train carried them all to Chelmno.
Saul came to in the comfortable seat of some sort of conveyance. He could hear a steady, rhythmic thwop, but it took him several minutes to place it as the sound of a he li cop ter. His eyes were closed. A pillow was under his head, but his face touched glass or Plexiglas. He could feel that he was dressed and wearing glasses once again. Men were speaking softly and occasionally there came the rasp of radio communications. Saul kept his eyes closed, gathered his thoughts, and hoped that his captors would not notice that the drugs were wearing off.
“We know you’re awake,” said a man from very close by. The voice was strangely familiar.
Saul opened his eyes, moved his neck painfully, adjusted his glasses. It was night. He and three other men rode in the passenger seats of a well-appointed he li cop ter. A pilot and copilot sat bathed in red light from the instruments. Saul could see nothing out the window to his right. In the seat to his left, Special Agent Richard Haines sat with his briefcase on his lap, reading papers by the light of a tiny overhead spot. Saul cleared his throat and licked dry lips, but before he could speak Haines said, “We’ll be landing in a minute. Get ready.” The FBI man had the remnant of a bruise under his chin.
Saul thought of pertinent questions, discarded them. He looked down and realized for the first time that his left wrist was handcuffed to Haines’s right wrist. “What time is it?” he asked, his voice little better than a croak.
“About ten.”
Saul glanced back at the darkness and assumed it was night. “What day?”
“Saturday,” grunted Haines with a slight smile. “Date?”
The FBI man hesitated, shrugged slightly. “The twenty-seventh, December.”
Saul closed his eyes at a sudden dizziness. He had lost a week. It seemed much longer. His left arm and shoulder ached abominably. He looked down and realized that he was dressed in a dark suit and tie, white shirt. Not his own. He removed his glasses. The prescription was correct, but the frame was new. He looked carefully at the five men. He recognized only Haines. “You work for Colben,” Saul said. When the agent did not respond, Saul said, “You went down to Charleston to make sure the local police didn’t find out what really happened. You took Nina Drayton’s scrapbook from the morgue.”
“Tighten your seat belt,” said Haines. “We’re going to land.”
It was one of the most beautiful sights Saul had ever seen. At first he thought it was a commercial ocean liner, ablaze with lights, white against the night, leaving a phosphorescent wake in black-green waters, but as the helicopter descended toward the illuminated orange cross on the aft deck, Saul realized that it was a privately owned ship, a yacht, sleek and white and as long as an American football field. Crewmen with hand-held, glowing batons waved them down and the helicopter touched the deck gently in the glare of spotlights. The four of them were out and moving away from the helicopter before the rotors began to slow.
Several crewmen in white joined them. When they could stand upright, Haines unlocked the handcuffs and dropped them in his coat pocket. Saul rubbed at his wrist just below where the blue numbers were tattooed.
“This way.” The pro cession went up stairways, forward along wide walkways. Saul’s legs were unsteady even though there was no motion to the ship. Twice Haines reached out to steady him. Saul breathed in warm, moist, tropical air— rich with the distant scent of vegetation— and stared through open doors at the sleek opulence of the cabins, staterooms, and bars they passed. Everything was tweaked and carpeted, interior-designed and plated with brass or gold. The ship was a floating five-star hotel. They passed near the bridge and Saul caught a glimpse of uniformed men on watch, the green glow of electronic equipment. An elevator took them to a private stateroom with a balcony— perhaps flying bridge was the proper term here. A man in an expensive white jacket sat there with a tall drink. Saul stared beyond him at an island perhaps a mile away across dark waters. Palm trees and a riot of tropical vegetation were festooned with hundreds of Japanese lanterns, walkways were outlined by white lights, a long beach lay illuminated by a score of torches, while rising above everything else, ablaze in the beams of vertical searchlights that reminded Saul of films of Nuremburg rallies in the thirties, a wooden-walled and red-tiled castle seemed to float above a cliff of white stone.
“Do you know me?” asked the man in the canvas chair.
Saul squinted at him. “Is this a credit card commercial?”
Haines kicked Saul behind the knees, dropping him to the deck. “You can leave us, Richard.”
Haines and the others left. Saul rose painfully to his feet. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re C. Arnold Barent,” said Saul. He had bitten the inside
of his cheek. The taste of his own blood mingled with the scent of tropical vegetation in Saul’s mind. “No one seems to know what the C stands for.”
“Christian,” said Barent. “My father was a very devout man. Also something of an ironist.” He gestured toward a nearby deck chair. “Please sit down, Dr. Laski.”
“No.” Saul moved to the railing of the balcony, bridge, what ever the hell it was. Water moved by in a white bow wake thirty feet below. Saul grasped the railing tightly and looked back at Barent. “Aren’t you taking a risk being alone with me?”
“No, Dr. Laski, I am not,” said Barent. “I do not take risks.”
Saul nodded toward the distant castle blazing in the night. “Yours?”
“The Foundation’s,” said Barent. He took a long sip of his cold drink. “Do you know why you are here, Dr. Laski?”
Saul adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Barent, I don’t even know where ‘here’ is. Or why I am still alive.”
Barent nodded. “Your second statement is the more pertinent,” he said. “I presume the . . . ah . . . medication is out of your system sufficiently for you to think through to some conclusions on that.”
Saul chewed at his lower lip. He realized how shaky he actually was . . . half starved, partially dehydrated. It would probably take weeks to get the drugs completely out of his system. “I imagine you think that I’m your avenue to the Oberst,” he said.
Barent laughed. “The Oberst. How quaint. I imagine that would be the way you think of him, given your . . . ah . . . unusual relationship. Tell me, Dr. Laski, were the camps as bad as the media portrays them? I have always suspected that there has been some attempt— perhaps subliminal— to overstate the case a trifle. Expiate subconscious guilt by exaggeration perhaps?”
Saul stared at the man. He took in every detail of the flawless tan, the silk sports coat, soft Gucci loafers, the amethyst ring on Barent’s little finger. He said nothing.
“It does not matter,” said Barent. “You’re right, of course. You are still alive because you are Mr. Borden’s messenger and we want very much to talk to the gentleman.”
“I am not his messenger,” Saul said dully.
Barent moved a manicured hand. “His message then,” he said. “There is little difference.”
A series of chimes sounded and the yacht picked up speed, turned to port as if it planned to circle the island. Saul saw a long dock lit with mercury vapor lamps.
“We would like you to convey a message to Mr. Borden,” continued Barent.
“There isn’t much chance of that while you keep me doped up in a steel cell,” said Saul. He felt a stirring of hope for the first time since the explosion.
“This is very true,” said Barent. “We will see to it that you have the best possible opportunity to meet him again . . . ah . . . at a place of his own choosing.”
“You know where the Oberst is?”
“We know where . . . ah . . . he has chosen to operate.”
“If I see him,” said Saul, “I will kill him.”
Barent laughed gently. He had perfect teeth. “This is very unlikely, Dr. Laski. We would, nonetheless, appreciate it if you would convey our message to him.”
Saul took a deep breath of sea air. He could think of no reason why Barent and his group would require him to carry messages, could see no reason for him to be allowed to use his own free will to do so, and could imagine no way that it would profit them to keep him alive once he had done what they required. He felt dizzy and slightly drunk. “What’s your message?”
“You will tell Willi Borden that the club would be most pleased if he would agree to fill the vacancy on the steering committee.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes,” said Barent. “Would you like something to eat or drink before you leave?”
Saul closed his eyes a minute. He could feel the surge of the ship up his legs, through his pelvis. He gripped the railing very tightly and opened his eyes. “You’re no different than they were,” he said to Barent.
“Who is that?”
“The bureaucrats,” said Saul, “the commandants, the civil servants turned Einsatzgruppen commandos, the railway engineers, the I. G. Fabens industrialists, and the fat, beer-breathed sergeants dangling their fat legs in the Pit.”
Barent mused a moment. “No,” he said at last, “I suppose none of us is different in the end. Richard! See Dr. Laski to his destination, will you please?”
They flew by helicopter to the large island’s airstrip, then north and west by private jet as the sky paled behind them. Saul dozed for an hour before they landed. It was his first unrigged sleep in a week. Haines shook him awake. “Look at this,” he said.
Saul stared at the photograph. Aaron, Deborah, and the children were bound tightly but obviously alive. The white background gave no clue to their location. The flash caught the children’s wide eyes and panicked expressions. Haines lifted a small cassette recorder. “Uncle Saul,” came Aaron’s voice, “please do what they ask. They will not harm us if you do what they ask. Carry out their instructions and we will be freed. Please, Uncle Saul . . .” The recording ended abruptly.
“If you try to contact them or the embassy, we will kill them,” Haines whispered. Two of the agents were asleep. “Do what you are told and they’ll be all right. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Saul. He set his face against the cool plastic of the window. They were descending over the downtown of a major American city. By the glow of streetlights, Saul glimpsed brick buildings and white spires between office towers. He knew at that second that there was no hope for any of them.
TWENTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, Dec. 28, 1980
Sheriff Bobby Joe Gentry was angry. The rented Ford Pinto had an automatic transmission, but Gentry slammed the shift selector from second to third gear as if he were driving a sportscar with a six-speed transmission. As soon as he exited the Beltway to I-95 he kicked the protesting Pinto up to seventy-two, defying the green Chrysler that was following him to keep up and daring the Mary land Highway Patrol to pull him over. Gentry tugged his suitcase into the front seat, fumbled in the outer pocket a minute, set the loaded Ruger in the center console, and tossed the suitcase into the backseat. Gentry was angry.
The Israelis had kept him until dawn, interrogating him first in their damned limousine, then in a safe house somewhere near Rockville, then in the damned car again. He had stayed with his original story— Saul Laski hunting for a Nazi war criminal to settle an old score, Gentry trying to tie it all into the Charleston Murders. The Israelis never resorted to violence— or, after Cohen’s first remarks— the threat of violence, but they worked in teams to wear him down through sheer repetition. If they were Israelis. Gentry felt that they were . . . believed Jack Cohen to be exactly who he said he was . . . accepted the fact that Aaron Eshkol and his entire family had been murdered, but Gentry knew nothing for sure anymore. He knew only that a huge and dangerous game was being played by people who must view him as little more than a minor nuisance. Gentry whipped the Pinto up to seventy-five, glanced at the Ruger, and slowed to a steady sixty-two. The green Chrysler stayed two cars behind.
After the long night, Gentry had wanted to crawl into the huge bed in his hotel room and sleep until New Year’s Eve. Instead he used a lobby pay phone to call Charleston. Nothing on the tape. He called his own office. Lester told him that there had been no messages and how was his vacation? Gentry said great, seeing all the sights. He called Natalie’s St. Louis number. A man answered. Gentry asked for Natalie.
“Who the hell is this?” rasped an angry voice. “Sheriff Gentry. Who is this?”
“Goddammit, Nat told me about you last week. Sounds like your basic Southern asshole cop to me. What the fuck do you want with Natalie?”
“I want to talk to her. Is she there?”
“No, goddammit, she’s not here. And I don’t have time to waste on you, Cracker Cop.”
“Frederick,” said Gentry. “What?”
“You’re Frederick. Natalie told me about you.”
“Cut the crap, man.”
“You didn’t wear a tie for two years after you got back from Nam,” said Gentry. “You think mathematics is the closest thing to eternal truth there is. You work in the computer center from eight P.M. to three A.M. every night but Saturday.”
There was a silence on the line. “Where’s Natalie?” pressed Gentry. “This is police business. It concerns the murder of her father. Her own safety may be in jeopardy.”
“What the hell do you mean her . . .”
“Where is she?” snapped Gentry. “Germantown,” came the angry voice. “Pennsylvania.”
“Has she called you since she arrived there?”
“Yeah. Friday night. I wasn’t home, but Stan took the message. Said she was staying at a place called the Chelten Arms. I’ve called six times, but she’s never in. She hasn’t returned my calls yet.”
“Give me the number.” Gentry wrote it in the little notebook he always carried.
“What kind of trouble is Nat in?”
“Look, Mr. Noble,” said Gentry, “Miss Preston is searching for the person or persons who killed her father. I don’t want her to find those people or those people to find her. When she comes back to St. Louis, you need to make sure that— a) she doesn’t leave again and b) she isn’t left alone for the next couple of weeks. Clear?”
“Yeah.” Gentry heard enough solid anger in the voice to know that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of it.
He had wanted to go up to bed then, get a fresh start that evening. Instead he had called the Chelten Arms, left his own message for the absent Miss Preston, arranged for a rental car— no easy trick early on a Sunday morning— paid his bill, packed his bag, and driven north.
