Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Borden finished translating for Kirst. There was only silence. Kirst seemed to make an effort to lift his head and fix his gaze on Loring. She waited. They all waited. But not a word came out of him.

  “What was in the crate?” Gilman asked.

  “Artifacts,” Loring replied, still watching Kirst.

  “What sort of artifacts? Would they be of any interest to a German? Particularly one who is trying to save himself from drowning?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  “You don’t know precisely what was in the crate?”

  “Yes. I do know.”

  “Well?”

  Kirst’s gaze had shifted. His eyes had dropped to Loring’s chest. She frowned. Her hand moved protectively to where he was looking, and she felt the reassuring warm flatness of Yazir’s pendant beneath her sweater and against her skin.

  He’s looking at it. He knows it’s there.

  “Miss Holloway,” Gilman said patiently, “it might help if you jog his memory.”

  “Yes...”

  She took her hand away and let his eyes rest on her bosom.

  Let him wonder why I have it. Let him wonder about me.

  “The, uh, the crate contained a selection of ancient artifacts from... from an archaeological dig in Iraq.... Among them, there was one item of vital importance... a flask.”

  Gilman frowned and glanced at Borden, who shrugged.

  “Kirst,” Borden said, following with a rapid patter in German. He stopped. Kirst was motionless, still staring at Loring. “I don’t know, Major,” Borden said. “Either he’s not quite with us, or he just won’t talk.”

  Gilman got up, came around the table, and squatted next to Loring, his back to Kirst. He spoke to her quietly.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you have to get a straight answer out of him, you may be out of luck. He’s a little strange. Been that way since he arrived.”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “If we could just press on, some things might become clear.”

  “To whom?”

  Loring looked at Gilman. He was staring at her now—almost as intently as Kirst. “Major, he’s not your run-of-the-mill prisoner.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Something happened while he was floating around in that crate.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gilman nodded, then touched her hand. “You’re as mysterious as he is.” Gilman rose and returned to his seat. Then he said quietly, “Borden, translate.”

  Gilman suddenly kicked Kirst’s chair. Kirst and the chair slid back a foot. Kirst looked up in shock. Gilman stuck a finger in his face. “I’m tired of jacking around with you, Kirst. Now, this lady has come all the way from Washington, and she’s not asking you about Hitler’s underwear or Doenitz’s battle plans, so there is no overriding reason for you not to answer. She just wants to know what you did with a load of ancient pottery or whatever when you climbed into that crate. I think that out of pure decency you could bring yourself to answer. It doesn’t sound to me as if the fate of the world hangs in the balance! So how about it?”

  Kirst said nothing. He stared at Gilman,

  “Don’t give me that stupid look. You’ve been playing games ever since you got here, and I’ve had enough. I’ve got one man dead and another round the bend, and there’s distinct suspicion in this camp that you are somehow involved. Now, it might be real smart of you at this time to open your mouth and let us hear a few words. Otherwise—”

  “Major.” Borden gave him a warning look, and Gilman realized he’d stopped translating. Gilman leaned back slowly and contemplated Kirst’s empty face.

  “Miss Holloway,” Gilman said finally, “I don’t think you’re going to get anything.”

  Loring thought for a moment. “Let me try another way.” She reached for the suitcase, stood up, and placed it on Oilman’s desk. She opened a corner and reached inside, felt what she was looking for, and gripped it tightly. Kirst was watching her.

  Now. If you can hear me, now let’s see what you are.

  She pulled it out and set it upright on the edge of the desk, directly in front of Kirst. He stared at the silver flask for an instant, then his eyelids dropped down, his lips spread, and out of him came a low chuckle.

  Loring froze.

  I can’t be wrong. I can’t be! It’s silver, you sonofabitch. Just like the flask in the crate! You know what it means! It means I know what you are! Stop laughing!

  The chuckling stopped.

  “What the hell is this... ?” Gilman started to say.

  Kirst sprang to his feet, eyes still closed. He snatched the flask off the desk and threw it with all his might at the window. It crashed through the glass and disappeared outside. They heard it bouncing off rocks then it rolled down the hill until it hit the compound fence and stopped.

  Loring was motionless, frightened, one hand at her throat. Kirst sat down and opened his eyes. The blank look was back. Gilman got up and looked out the broken window. He turned back to Loring. “Well, Miss Holloway, I don’t think he wants to answer your questions.”

  Loring caught her breath and said, “I think he did.”

  Gilman sighed. “Major Borden, get him out of here, and have someone retrieve that thing out there.”

  “Where are you taking him?” Loring’s voice was shrill.

  “Back to the camp. Any objections?”

  “No. No, that’s best.”

  “Good. I’m glad I consulted you.”

  Borden opened the door, motioned to the MPs and Sergeant Vinge. They escorted Kirst to the door. He stopped to look back and fix Loring with another empty stare. Again his eyes went to her bosom and she heard the chuckle as he went out

  Borden picked up Kirst’s untouched coffee and took it with him to the door. “We might have ourselves a pair of Section Eights, Major. Eckmann and Kirst.”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Gilman said.

  Borden went out and shut the door. Before Loring could stop him, Gilman flopped open her suitcase and looked inside. He noted, among the queer old books, a carton of salt, an iron magnet, a battery flashlight, a steel rod, a worn pocket edition of the Koran, a hunk of tar, a bag of herbs...

  “This doesn’t look like regulation Girl Scout equipment, Miss Holloway. What are you equipped for?”

  She closed the suitcase. “I’d like to hear your interpretation of what just happened,” she countered.

  “He doesn’t like you,” Gilman said simply.

  “When I showed him that flask, he exploded.”

  “Explain the significance.”

  Loring hesitated. “Look, Major, among the things in the crate was a flask, very much like that one, made of pure silver, but a great deal older.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-five hundred years.”

  “I see. And of course this rather old bottle has some remarkable connection to the current hostilities between our countries. Correct?”

  Loring searched for a reply. She wasn’t quick enough.

  “Just which hole in the State Department have you emerged from, Miss Holloway?”

  “I don’t think losing your temper will help—”

  “I haven’t lost my temper. I’ve lost my window. I’d like to know why. Obviously, you and Herr Kirst know a great deal more than I do, and yet you’re asking me to cooperate. So what else do I have to put up with? What’s he going to break next, and why?”

  “Major, I’m trying to demonstrate something here—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think you’re ready to listen.”

  Gilman laughed. “It must be a whopper.” He picked up Loring’s papers. “I don’t think you’re with State at all. I think you’ve pulled some hefty strings, but you’re not what you claim to be. Right?”

  “I’m a
n archaeologist, Major. I work for the Metropolitan Museum in New York.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. What’s it all about?”

  “That crate was consigned to me. Its contents have disappeared. I’m trying to find out what happened to them.”

  “Lady, there’s a war on.”

  “That shipment contained something... very dangerous.”

  “Explain dangerous.”

  Loring frowned. “I can’t.”

  “You won’t.”

  “No, I can’t. I need time to find out some things, to study Kirst...”

  Gilman turned to the window and peered through the jagged glass. His eyes scanned the fence line below and he located the silver flask resting against the wire, gleaming in the meager sunlight. “What did you expect would happen when you showed him that thing, Miss Holloway?”

  “I don’t know, really. I expected some reaction, but—”

  “But you were looking for something a little stranger?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think he did with the flask—the one in the crate?”

  “That’s what I have to know.”

  “But you don’t want to tell me any theories because you’re afraid of looking foolish. You’d rather handle this your own way, and you hope I’ll cooperate.”

  “Yes.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with the war, does it?”

  “No.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gilman snapped the suitcase latches shut, stood it upright on his desk, and pushed it toward Loring. “Okay, let’s do it by the book. The purpose of your mission is to find out where your artifact is. You thought Kirst had it, so you followed him here. You’ve found out he doesn’t have it. I can personally assure you he arrived in this camp empty-handed. No flask. It’s not here. All done. Got it? Go home.”

  Loring stared at him, then at the suitcase. She didn’t budge.

  “Kirst is traumatized,” Gilman went on. “Lost all his shipmates, his rescue was a miracle. He can’t talk, he won’t talk, he chooses not to—it doesn’t matter. He’s a prisoner of war. He doesn’t have to cooperate. He can lie in order to confuse and confound the enemy, which is us.”

  “So can the thing that I’m after,” Loring interrupted, “which is what’s making this so difficult.”

  Gilman stared at her. Thing. What did she mean by that? He shook his head. “I suggest you pack up your bogus credentials and hightail it out of here, before I change my mind and hold you for investigation.”

  Loring grabbed everything, bristling. “Major Gilman, I am not obliged to reveal at what level these papers were generated. What you have to decide is not whether you’re going to permit me to stay, but whether you want to risk official displeasure by booting me out!”

  Gilman stared at her, then laughed.

  Official displeasure. France. Window Hill. General Malkin bloated with rage. Oilman’s fist—

  His laughter diminished. He saw panic in her eyes. He thought about that for a moment, then he turned to the broken window again and looked down at the camp. He thought about Eckmann and Schliebert, the mirror in the shower hut, the other little things, and Kirst...

  You want to get to the bottom of this, don’t you? Don’t you?

  “Okay,” he said. “You can stick around overnight. One day.”

  The djinn knew exactly what was happening, precisely how it would go. Because of the fear. Fear dictated the woman’s actions. Fear motivated her. The djinn had sensed the fear, smelled it and tasted it in that moment when it had made Kirst pick up the silver flask and throw it through the window. It had been exactly the right thing to do to increase the fear. Fear had exploded from the woman, and the djinn had devoured it.

  And there was fear in Major Gilman. Deep inside his soul, where all men hide their worst fears, it lurked and waited, and only the djinn knew how to coax it out.

  Window Hill. France. Second battalion.

  Through the entire meeting, not a word of Major Gilman’s deepest fear had been spoken, but by the time Kirst had left the room, the djinn had known it all.

  It didn’t matter that at this moment Kirst stood before the gate, a near-somnambulist waiting for the fool to key off the lock and loosen the chains. It didn’t matter that the djinn would be going back inside. Because now it had the measure of its enemies. It had two potential new hosts. And it knew they would bring Kirst out again. The game was starting. The woman would use anything she could to lure out the djinn....

  A few days ago, it might have worked. But the djinn was stronger now. And there was no trick in the world she could think of that could defeat him.

  He made Kirst walk through the open gate. Then he made Kirst tramp down the hill toward the little knots of curious Germans.

  Gebhard’s skin prickled. He felt as if he were being enveloped by a cloud of seething hatred. Then Kirst went by, and the feeling passed.

  When Kirst was out of earshot, some of the Germans turned to others and began to whisper. Traitors, spies, suspicions. By now, there was hardly a man left in the compound who trusted Kirst.

  Bruckner stood apart, Churchill’s leash looped three times around his wrist. Churchill was taking a pee. A little river of it ran down a furrow in the earth directly in Kirst’s path. Bruckner watched Kirst stop and eye the steaming piss curiously.

  Bruckner felt a tug on the leash and looked down. Churchill was edging backward, whining and eyeing Kirst mistrustfully. Bruckner snorted to himself. Poor bastard. Even the dog hates him. Bruckner glanced at his brother officers smugly. He watched them with their hands shoved in their pockets, kicking up little clods of dirt, talking about Kirst. Spy. Traitor. They don’t know the half of it. Bruckner smirked. Wait till they find out just what’s really going on. Images of his secret knowledge danced before his eyes and, when they faded, he saw Kirst’s gaze fixed on him.

  He knows. He knows, too.

  Chapter 18

  An orderly knocked on Loring’s door and informed her that the commandant would escort her to evening mess at 1800 hours. Loring thanked him, promised to be ready, and shut the door. A minute later she had selected an outfit for dinner. She laid it out on the bed, then snatched up her toilet bag and went down the hall to the “Commandant’s Closet.”

  She entered and locked it. Discovering there was an inner door that opened into Gilman’s quarters, she was about to lock that, too, but curiosity got the better of her. She eased the door open and peered into Gilman’s room. There was no one inside. She opened the bathroom door wider and stepped in, looking around.

  The room was almost the same as hers—twice the size yet still tiny—like a sparse hotel suite in a New York fleabag. And it was neat; nothing was out of place. The desk was surprisingly bare, only a pair of pencils and a blotter. She resisted a temptation to open the drawers. She opened his dresser caddy instead—a handsome leather box with little compartments and slots. She picked up Gilman’s high school ring.

  What are you looking for? A wedding band? He’d be wearing that, wouldn’t he?

  She pictured his hands. No wedding band. No, he wasn’t married, not even engaged. He was between. She knew the type: hurt by someone in his past, no longer sure he would ever marry, no longer sure what he felt about women in general. Loring smiled and wondered if she was guessing even close.

  She picked up a tie clasp: silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl, an odd thing for a man to choose for himself. She held it up to the light. There was an inscription on the back: Tiffany.

  Loring shook her head. Soldiers didn’t shop at Tiffany. Neither did mothers. Girlfriends did. Rich girlfriends.

  She tossed it back and shut the box, then she hurried back into the bathroom and locked the connecting door. In a moment she had the shower running and her clothes off. She stepped under the needle spray and reached for the soap.

  He does have a girl. Rich, probably beautiful They’re engaged, planning to marry. After the war a big church wedding in Manhattan. She will beco
me Mrs. David Gilman. He will become wealthy and lose his soul....

  But why was there no picture?

  Loring stopped soaping, threw the white cake back on the ledge, and stepped under the spray again.

  No picture at all. No smiling rich face perched over his cot inside a silver frame. Maybe the rich lady wasn’t his girlfriend anymore. Maybe it was over. Just like her “romance” with Warren Clark was over. She laughed and rinsed out her hair.

  When Gilman picked her up, Loring had changed into a dress, combed out her hair, and doused herself with perfume. She looked radiant and smelled wonderful. She could see that Gilman was impressed.

  Gilman told her she looked great, but they walked the rest of the way to the officers’ mess in silence. They made a place for her at headquarters table. Hopkins was out on duty; she found herself sitting with Gilman, Cosco, Blish, and Borden. There were five more at two other tables and throughout dinner they all had a hard time keeping their eyes off her. Her dress was burgundy taffeta, off the shoulder, fringed with a pink border at the bodice, cinched at the waist with a bow. She displayed creamy White shoulders and rested her arms demurely on the table. In short order, she was accepted into their company—one of the boys.

  Gilman announced she was an archaeologist. Immediately, Borden opened up. “At last we can have some intelligent conversation around here.” For the rest of the evening, he monopolized her, and she found out that he was an amateur archaeologist himself, that they knew some of the same people, that he even knew of Mahmud Yazir. After a while Loring realized she was very skillfully being pumped. Borden got her talking about Iraq and, since she saw no reason why Gilman shouldn’t have the information, she explained about her dig at Ur-Tawaq, about Moulin and Bayar and the things they had found. She said nothing about Korbazrah or the flask or what had brought her to Blackbone.

  “That was a rather cheap way to get information,” Loring said, pulling the coat tighter about her shoulders.