The Eight

by Katherine Neville

  I walked over to the slab and looked down at the white, pasty face shining in the spotlight. It was Saul all right. And he was very dead. I felt sick to my stomach and deathly afraid. I had never seen a dead person before, not even at a funeral. I started to choke up as if I were going to cry.

  But suddenly something else strangled the first sob before it left my throat: Saul hadn’t crawled up on that slab himself and just stopped breathing. Somebody had put him there, and that somebody had been in the room within the last five minutes.

  I bolted through the door to the lobby. The receptionist was still explaining things to a visitor. I briefly considered alerting someone, then decided against it. I might have trouble explaining how the chauffeur of a friend of mine just happened to get murdered there, how I just happened to stumble upon the body. How I’d coincidentally been present at the site of a mysterious death the day before. How my friend, the chauffeur’s employer, had been there, too. And how we’d failed to report the two bullet holes that had appeared in her car.

  I beat my retreat from the UN and literally plummeted down the steps again to the street. I knew I should go straight to the authorities, but I was terrified. Saul had been killed in that room only moments after I’d left it. Fiske had been killed only a few minutes after the chess recess. In both cases the victims were in public places with people very close by. And in both cases Solarin had been there. Solarin had a gun, didn’t he? And he’d been there. Both times.

  So we were playing a game. Well, if so, I was going to find out the rules on my own. It wasn’t only fear and confusion I felt as I beat it down the icy street to my safe, warm office. It was determination. I had to break through the shroud of mystery surrounding this game, identify the rules and the players. And soon. Because the moves were getting too close for comfort. Little did I know that thirty blocks away, a move was about to take place that would soon alter the course of my life.…

  “Brodski is furious,” said Gogol nervously. As soon as he’d seen Solarin come through the entrance, he had risen from the soft, comfortable chair where he’d been having tea in the lobby of the Algonquin. “Where have you been?” he asked, his pale skin as white as a pillowcase.

  “Out for a breath of air,” replied Solarin calmly. “This isn’t Soviet Russia, you know. People in New York go for walks all the time without first notifying the authorities of their intended movements. Did he think I was going to defect?”

  Gogol did not return Solarin’s smile. “He’s upset.” He looked about nervously, but there was no one else in the lobby except an elderly woman having tea at the far end. “Hermanold told us this morning that the tournament may be indefinitely postponed until they get to the bottom of Fiske’s death. His neck was broken.”

  “I know,” said Solarin, taking Gogol by the elbow and moving him over to the table where the tea sat cooling. He motioned for Gogol to sit down and finish his tea. “I saw the body, remember?”

  “That’s the problem,” said Gogol. “You were alone with him just before the accident. It looks bad. We weren’t to draw attention to ourselves. If there’s going to be an investigation, they’ll surely begin by questioning you.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that?” said Solarin.

  Gogol picked up a sugar cube and put it between his teeth. He sucked his tea through it meditatively and was silent.

  The old woman at the far end of the lobby was hobbling over to their table. She was dressed in black and moved painfully with a cane. Gogol glanced up at her.

  “Excuse me,” she said sweetly as she came up to the two men. “I’m afraid they didn’t give me any saccharin with my tea, and I can’t take sugar. Do you gentlemen have any packets of saccharin I could borrow?”

  “Certainly,” said Solarin. Reaching over to the sugar bowl on Gogol’s tray, he pulled out several pink packets and handed them to the old woman. She thanked him kindly and left.

  “Oh, no,” Gogol said, looking toward the elevators. Brodski was marching across the room, making his way through the maze of tea tables and flowered chairs. “I was to take you up at once when you returned,” he told Solarin under his breath. He stood up, nearly upsetting his tea tray. Solarin remained seated.

  Brodski was a tall, well-muscled man with a tanned face. He looked like a European businessman in his navy pin-striped suit and silk twill tie. He approached the table aggressively, as if arriving at a business meeting. He halted before Solarin and extended his hand. Solarin shook it without standing. Brodski took a seat.

  “I’ve had to notify the Secretary of your disappearance,” Brodski began.

  “I hardly disappeared. I went for a walk.”

  “To do a little shopping, eh?” said Brodski. “That’s a nice briefcase. Where did you buy it?” He fingered the briefcase sitting on the floor beside Solarin, which Gogol had not even noticed. “Italian leather. Just the thing for a Soviet chess player,” he added ironically. “Do you mind if I look inside?”

  Solarin shrugged, and Brodski pulled the case onto his lap and opened it. He started going through the things inside.

  “By the way, who was that woman who was leaving your table as I arrived?”

  “Just an old lady,” Gogol said. “She wanted some sweetener for her tea.”

  “She must not have needed it very badly,” mused Brodski as he flipped through the papers. “She left as soon as I arrived.” Gogol glanced at the table where the old woman had been seated. She was gone, but her tea things were still there.

  Brodski put the papers back into the briefcase and returned it to Solarin. Then he looked at Gogol with a sigh.

  “Gogol, you are a fool,” he said casually as if discussing the weather. “Our precious grand master has given you the slip three times now. Once when he interrogated Fiske just before the murder. Once when he went out to pick up this briefcase, which now contains nothing but a clipboard, some pads of blank paper, and two books on the petroleum industry. Obviously anything of value has already been removed from it. And now, under your very nose, he has passed a note to an agent right here in this lounge.” Gogol flushed beet red and put down his teacup.

  “But I assure you—”

  “Spare me your assurances,” said Brodski curtly. He turned to Solarin. “The Secretary says that we must have a contact within twenty-four hours or we’ll be recalled to Russia. He cannot risk breaking our cover if this tournament is canceled. It would make a bad appearance to say that we were merely remaining in New York to shop for used Italian briefcases,” he sneered. “You have twenty-four hours to reach your sources, Grand Master.”

  Solarin looked Brodski in the eye. Then he smiled coldly. “You may inform the Secretary that we have already made contact, my dear Brodski,” he said.

  Brodski said nothing, waiting for Solarin to proceed. When Solarin remained silent, he said in a purring voice, “Well? Do not keep us in suspense.”

  Solarin looked at the briefcase on his lap. At last he looked back up at Brodski, his face a mask.

  “The pieces are in Algeria,” he said.

  By noon I was a complete basket case. I’d tried frantically to reach Nim, to no avail. I kept seeing Saul’s horrible body floating on that slab and trying to think what it all meant, how it fit together.

  I was locked in my office at Con Ed overlooking the entrance to the UN, listening to every radio bulletin and watching for the police cars to pull up in front of the plaza when the body was found. But nothing like that had happened.

  I’d tried to reach Lily, but she was out. Harry’s office told me he had driven to Buffalo to look at shipments of damaged furs and wouldn’t be back until late that night. I considered calling the police to leave an anonymous message about Saul’s body, but they’d find out soon enough. A dead body couldn’t lie around the UN long without someone noticing.

  A little after noon I sent my secretary out for sandwiches. When the phone rang I answered it. It was my boss Lisle. He sounded unpleasantly cheerful.

&nb
sp; “We have your tickets and itinerary, Velis,” he said. “The office is expecting you in Paris next Monday. You’ll spend the night there and go on to Algiers in the morning. I’ll have the tickets and papers delivered to your apartment this afternoon, if that’s all right?” I told him it was fine.

  “You don’t sound very chipper, Velis. Having second thoughts about your trip to the Dark Continent?”

  “Not at all,” I said as confidently as I could. “I could use a break. New York is beginning to get on my nerves.”

  “Very well, then. Bon voyage, Velis. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  We rang off. A few minutes later the secretary came in with the sandwiches and some milk. I closed my door and tried to eat, but I couldn’t put down more than a few bites. I couldn’t get interested in my books about the history of the oil business, either. I just sat and stared at my desk.

  Around three o’clock the secretary knocked at my door and entered, carrying a briefcase.

  “A man dropped this off with the guard downstairs,” she told me. “He left a note with it.” I took the note with trembling hand and waited until she’d left. I rifled through my desk for a paper knife, slit the envelope, and yanked out the paper.

  “I have removed some of your papers,” it said. “Please do not go to your apartment alone.” It wasn’t signed, but I recognized the cheery tone. I put the paper in my pocket and opened the briefcase. Everything was intact. Except, of course, my notes on Solarin.

  At six-thirty I was still in my office. The secretary was sitting out in front typing, though nearly everyone else had left the building. I’d given her reams of work so I wouldn’t be alone, but I was wondering how I would get to my apartment. It was only a block away; it seemed foolish to call a cab.

  The janitor came in to clean up. He was dumping an ashtray into my wastebasket when my phone rang. I practically knocked it off the desk in my haste to grab the receiver.

  “Working rather late, aren’t you?” said the old familiar voice. I almost wept in relief.

  “If it isn’t Sister Nim,” I said, trying to get my voice under control. “I’m afraid you’ve called too late, I was just packing my things to leave for retreat. I’m a card-carrying member of the Nuns for Jesus now.”

  “That would surely be both a pity and a waste,” said Nim cheerfully.

  “How did you know to find me here so late?” I asked.

  “Where else would someone with your unbounded dedication be on a winter’s evening?” he said. “You must by now have burned up the world’s supply of midnight oil.… How are you, my dear? I understand you’ve been trying to reach me.” I waited until the janitor left before replying.

  “I’m afraid I’m in serious trouble,” I began.

  “Naturally. You are always in trouble,” Nim said coolly. “That’s one of the things I find so enchanting about you. A mind like mine grows weary through continual encounter with the expected.”

  I glanced at the secretary’s back through the glass wall of my office.

  “I’m in terrible trouble,” I hissed into the phone. “Two people have been killed practically under my nose in the last two days! I’ve been warned it had something to do with my presence at chess games—”

  “Whoa,” said Nim. “What are you doing, speaking through a cheesecloth? I can barely hear you. You’ve been warned about what? Speak up.”

  “A fortune-teller predicted that I would be in danger,” I told him. “And now I am. These murders—”

  “My dear Cat,” said Nim, laughing. “A fortune-teller?”

  “She wasn’t the only one,” I said, grinding my fingernails into my palms. “Have you heard of Alexander Solarin?” Nim was silent for a moment.

  “The chess player?” he said at last.

  “He’s the one who told me …” I started in a weak voice, realizing that this all sounded too fantastic to be believed.

  “How do you know Alexander Solarin?” said Nim.

  “I was at a chess tournament yesterday. He came up and told me I was in danger. He was quite insistent about it.”

  “Perhaps he mistook you for someone else,” Nim said. But his voice still sounded remote, as if he were lost in thought.

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But then this morning at the United Nations, he made it clear—”

  “One moment,” Nim interrupted. “I believe I see the problem. Fortunetellers and Russian chess players are following you about, whispering mysterious warnings in your ear. Dead bodies are dropping out of the air. What have you had to eat today?”

  “Um. I had a sandwich and some milk.”

  “Paranoia induced by a clear case of food deprivation,” said Nim cheerfully. “Get your things together. I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes with my car. We’re going to have a decent meal, and these fantasies will rapidly disappear.”

  “They aren’t fantasies,” I said. Though I was relieved that Nim was coming to fetch me. At least I’d be able to get home safely.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he replied. “From where I stand you look entirely too thin. But that red suit you are wearing is quite attractive.”

  I glanced around my office, then looked out into the darkened street in front of the UN. The street lamps had just come on, but most of the sidewalk was deep in shadow. I saw a dark figure standing at the pay phone near the bus stop. It raised its arm.

  “Incidentally, my dear,” said Nim’s voice through the phone, “if you’re concerned about danger, I’d suggest you stop frolicking about in lighted windows after dark. Just a suggestion, of course.” And he hung up.

  Nim’s dark green Morgan pulled up in front of Con Edison. I ran out and jumped in the passenger side, which was on the left. The car had running boards on the side, and the floorboards were made of wood. You could see the pavement go by between the gaps.

  Nim was wearing faded jeans, an expensive Italian leather bomber jacket, and a white silk scarf with fringes. His coppery hair tossed in the wind as we pulled away from the curb. I wondered why I had so many friends who preferred to drive with the top down in winter. He swung the car around, the warm glow of the street lamps catching his curls with flickers of gold.

  “We’ll stop by your place so you can change into something warm,” said Nim. “If you like, I’ll go in first with a mine sweeper.” Nim’s eyes, due to a strange genetic twist, were of two different colors, one brown and one blue. I always had the feeling that he was looking at me and through me at the same time. A feeling I was not especially fond of.

  We pulled up before my building. Nim stepped out and greeted Boswell, pressing a twenty-dollar bill into his palm.

  “We’ll only be a few moments, my good fellow,” said Nim. “Could you possibly watch the car for me while we’re inside? It’s something of a family heirloom.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Boswell said politely. Damned if he didn’t come around and help me out of the car as well. It was amazing what money would buy.

  I picked up my mail at the desk. The envelope from Fulbright Cone containing my tickets was there. Nim and I got into the elevator and went upstairs.

  Nim looked at my door and said that no mine sweepers were necessary. If anyone had entered my apartment, he’d done it with a key. Like most apartments in New York, mine had a door of two-inch steel with double dead bolts.

  Nim preceded me down the entrance hall into the living room.

  “I might suggest that a maid one day per month would do wonders here,” he commented. “While useful as a tool in crime detection, I can think of no other purpose for you to maintain so large a collection of dust and memorabilia.” He blew a cloud off a pile of books and picked one up, leafing through it.

  I fumbled in my closet and pulled out some khaki corduroy trousers and an Irish fisherman’s sweater of undyed wool. When I left for the bathroom to change, Nim was sitting at the piano idly tinkling at the keys.

  “Do you play this thing?” he called down the hall to me. “I notice th
e keys are clean.”

  “I was a music major,” I called back from the bathroom. “Musicians make the best computer experts. Better than engineers and physicists combined.” Nim had done his degrees in engineering and physics, as I knew. There was silence from the living room as I changed clothes. When I came back down the hall in stocking feet, Nim was standing in the center of the room staring at my painting of the man on the bicycle, which I’d left turned to the wall.

  “Careful of that,” I told him. “It’s wet.”

  “You did this?” he said, still staring at the painting.

  “That’s what got me into all the trouble,” I explained. “I painted this, then I saw a man who looked exactly like the painting. So I followed him.…”

  “You did what?” Nim looked up at me abruptly.

  I sat on the piano bench and started telling him the story, beginning with Lily’s arrival with Carioca. Was it only yesterday? This time Nim did not interrupt me. From time to time he glanced down at the painting as I spoke, then looked back at me. I finished by telling him about the fortune-teller and my trip to the Fifth Avenue Hotel last night, when I’d discovered she had never existed. When I was through, Nim stood there thinking. I stood up and went over to the closet, dug out some old riding boots and a pea jacket, and started tugging the boots on over my cords.

  “If you don’t mind,” Nim said thoughtfully, “I’d like to borrow this painting of yours for a few days.” He’d picked up the painting and was holding it gingerly by the back stretcher brace. “And do you still have that poem from the fortune-teller?”

  “It’s somewhere around here,” I said, motioning to the general chaos.

  “Let’s have a look,” he said.

  I sighed and started rummaging through the pockets of my coats in the closet. It took about ten minutes, but I finally found the cocktail napkin where Llewellyn had written the prophecy, deep in a lining.

  Nim took the paper from my hand and stuffed it into his own pocket. Lifting the wet painting, he draped his free arm over my shoulder and we headed for the door.