The Discrete Charm of Charlie Monk

by David Ambrose

  She tried to rest, but she couldn’t sleep. When dawn came she looked out and saw that they were still over the sea. A while later there was a knock at her door. She called, “Come in,” and a young man entered. He was one of the crew she had observed when she boarded the plane.

  “Dr. West would like to talk with you before we land, Dr. Flemyng. If that’s convenient, would you follow me, please?”

  They went through to a conference room. West sat in a deep leather armchair with a swivel base. He didn’t get up, but gestured to a similar chair opposite him. She sat. Between them was a low table, a pot of coffee, and a tray of croissants and preserves.

  “We will be landing in California in about an hour,” he said. “Please, have some breakfast.”

  She accepted a cup of coffee, but nothing to eat. Before they boarded the plane she had told him everything there was to know about the two copies of Samples’s file that she had been planning to get back to America. Two because, like Samples himself, she had spent several hours laboring over the hotel’s ancient photocopier. Then she had paid the night manager extravagantly to make sure that one copy was posted first thing in the morning—addressed not to her father, in case West’s people should be watching the mail, but to an old college friend who lived in New York. Inside the envelope was a second envelope with a note asking her to deliver it by hand to Amery Hyde. The other copy she had hidden in the lining of her suitcase, but that had already been handed over to West.

  “You’re undoubtedly wondering, Dr. Flemyng, where we all go from here,” West began. “You’re an intelligent woman, highly intelligent. You must have thought through all the possible scenarios.”

  The look in her eyes was as flat as her voice. “There’s only one,” she said. “You have to kill me. If you harm my son you’ll have to kill me, because nothing else will stop me. And if you don’t harm him, even if I make promises, you’ll never trust me. You know I’d figure out a way to get you. So you can’t take that risk. Which means I have no more life. I know that. So it’s my son’s life we’re talking about, not mine. All I want is to know he gets out of this unharmed.”

  West looked at her for a moment, as though weighing and measuring the suppressed anger in her voice. “Dr. Flemyng, I didn’t ask you or your husband to involve yourselves in any of this. Your own choices have brought you here, not mine. Neither I nor anyone connected with this project would have attempted to involve you against your will. All we required was that you mind your own business. But apparently that was too much to ask. You have forced your way into things, and that’s where we find ourselves now. We must try to live with that fact. We will all live with it far more comfortably from now on if you give us your full cooperation.”

  Susan frowned, not quite sure that she had heard him cor-rectly, and quite sure that he couldn’t have meant seriously what he seemed to have just said.

  “Are you suggesting that I take part in this program?”

  “Exactly that.”

  She almost laughed, but instead a gust of scorn blew from her lips when she opened them to speak.

  “It’s monstrous! I’ll have nothing to do with it!”

  He nodded slowly several times, as though this was the answer he had expected.

  “Dr. Flemying, your father has already called the person in New York to whom you sent the file. When it arrives it will be collected, ostensibly on his behalf, by one of our people. It may be several days before the package arrives. If you wish to delay your decision until it does, so you will finally know you’ve lost the game, be my guest.”

  A silence hung in the air between them. She wondered if all evil was the same—this casual disposal of other people’s lives: deal-making to let them live, but no qualms about killing, or at least ordering the kill when necessary.

  “You must see that your participation in the program is the only way we’ll ever be able to trust you at all from now on.”

  “You think I wouldn’t still blow the whistle the first chance I got? Forcing me under duress to take part isn’t going to keep me quiet.”

  He smiled faintly, as though everything she said merely confirmed his expectation of the way their conversation would go.

  “Of course I don’t imagine anything so naive. But I think you’d like your life, and your son’s life, to return to normal, or something as close to normal as can be arranged. Isn’t that right?”

  She didn’t reply at once. As her silence continued, she realized she had confirmed his supposition. Again he nodded, just once this time, acknowledging the deal she had unwittingly shown herself willing to make. She did not contradict him.

  “To all intents and purposes,” he went on, “you would be free. Of course there would be nothing to stop you from telling what you know to the press or anyone you chose, but you would be under a considerable disincentive to do so, knowing that your son’s life would be immediately forfeit. You wouldn’t be able to hide or protect him from us. His whereabouts and yours would be monitored at all times. Even in the event of your death, his safety would depend on whether you had left anything unfortunate behind, in the form of a document or memo in some lawyer’s office or bank vault.”

  “Dear God,” she whispered softly, almost in awe of the ruthlessness she found herself facing and the terrible power that seemed to be behind it.

  “Come on, Dr. Flemyng, even if you can’t entirely trust me, you know that going along with what I’m saying is your best bet. Yours and your son’s.”

  She remained silent for a moment, absolutely and unnaturally still, hardly breathing, her eyes fixed on his. But there was no contact in the gaze. She was looking at him not as at a living thing, but rather as she might regard some compound in her lab, wondering how best to break it up into its parts and find out how it was assembled, how it worked.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked after a while, her voice cold and sterilized of all emotion.

  West pushed himself up from his seat and went to look out one of the cabin windows. She could feel that the aircraft was beginning its descent.

  “We’ve taken certain aspects of your work further than you ever envisaged—you already know that.” He turned back from the window but didn’t resume his seat. Instead he stood there, hands thrust casually in trouser pockets, looking down at her. “The whole psychological architecture we’ve created is working almost better than we could have hoped. But there is a problem, just one, that so far we haven’t been able to get over.”

  He looked at her, as though waiting for her to ask what it was. But she wasn’t going to do that. He folded his arms and continued.

  “Visual memory,” he said. “We’ve had some problems with his visual memory.”

  PART TWO

  Chapter 18

  CONTROL SAT BACK in the hospital chair by Charlie’s bed. “It went well,” he said. “We’re lucky you weren’t more seriously hurt.”

  Charlie noted the “we.” Control seemed genuinely pleased that Charlie had come out of that embassy affair alive.

  “Another inch and that bullet would have severed your brain from the top of your spine. You got another in your shoulder—nicked the bone, you’ll have to go easy for a while. But your rib will feel better in a few days. Have you any idea how you broke it?”

  “I hit a tree when I came down. It could have been then.”

  They chatted awhile more, going over some of the details of the job, but without a formal debriefing. Maybe that would come later, if at all. Control seemed happy with the outcome. Everything, aside from Charlie’s injuries, had gone to plan.

  When Control left, Charlie reached for the remote and switched on the TV. He surfed a few channels, then found CNN doing a piece on the end of the embassy siege. It led with the tributes still pouring in after the tragic loss of the young senator’s life. There was more about international cooperation against terrorism, about coordination and training, about the resolve of governments to stand firm, and so on. The military action was rehash
ed in detail, minus any reference, naturally,to Charlie. He was used to that. If he’d been mentioned, it would have meant something had gone badly wrong.

  Bored with the news coverage on TV, and feeling suddenly tired, he flipped off the set and settled back to rest. He closed his eyes. An image filled his mind. A woman’s face. At first he couldn’t put a name to her. Then he realized, with a shock, who she was. He was looking at the face of Kathy Ryan.

  The image was so startling in its clarity that he opened his eyes and tried to sit up, forgetting the restrictions imposed by his injuries. But even the brutal stab of pain that shot through him didn’t dislodge the picture from his mind’s eye. He stared at the blank wall opposite; but he saw, as clearly as if she had been standing there, the face of Kathy Ryan. The memory that had been lost for so many years was suddenly—magically—restored to him.

  He wondered how this could have happened. How could he have forgotten that familiar young face that he had loved so deeply? Why did he suddenly remember it now? Was it somehow connected with the injuries he had suffered? That blow to his head from the bullet that so nearly killed him? There was no way of telling.

  Maybe a shrink could make sense of it. But he didn’t know any shrinks. He couldn’t offhand think of anyone who might help him with this. But almost as quickly he decided he didn’t want any help. This was his affair, his memory, his life, and it would stay that way.

  There was no living soul he would choose to discuss it with.

  Chapter 19

  SUSAN HAD DONE what they had asked of her, but it wasn’t over yet. She paced her comfortable and spacious quarters, unable to leave, unable to relax. The procedure to improve the subject’s visual memory had been successful, yet she was expected to remain on standby in case anything else important or urgent came up. The carrot of a return to “normal life” for herself and Christopher, not to mention her father, still dangled out there, but whoever controlled it was not yet ready to bring it within her grasp.

  Not that she had any guarantee they ever would. She knew she had accepted a gamble, the only alternative to which was probably too dangerous to risk. For the moment, however, there was nothing she could do except wait and let the game play out.

  Her phone rang. It was West. “Would you like to talk to your son?” he asked.

  “Of course I’d like to talk to him,” she snapped. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in good hands,” West said. “I assure you he’s quite safe and perfectly happy. Hold on, I’ll patch him in.”

  She heard various connections being made. Then suddenly, down the line, came Christopher’s voice.

  “Mom?”

  “Christopher?”

  “Mommy? Where are you? When can I come home?”

  “Soon, darling, I promise. How are you? Are you all right?”

  “Okay, I guess.” His tone was grudging. “They said you sent me here. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, of course you didn’t, darling. Nothing at all.”

  “So why’d you send me here?”

  She thought fast. There was sure to be someone listening on the line, maybe even West himself.

  “It’s just that I have to be away for a while. I’ll make it as short a time as I can.”

  “Why do you have to be away? What are you doing?”

  “Later, darling. I’ll tell you all about it when I’m back.”

  “Why can’t I stay at Ben’s house?”

  “Well, a couple of nights is okay, but… you know, you can’t stay too long with people, not even your friends. You’d start to get in each other’s way.”

  “Why can’t Grandpa come to the house and look after me again?”

  “He’s…I’m afraid he’s busy. He’d like to, but he can’t. Don’t worry, darling, it won’t be for long.”

  There was a silence, but she knew it wasn’t the kind of silence that meant he’d finished. There was still something he wanted to say, but didn’t know how.

  “What is it, Chris? What’s on your mind?”

  There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke. “Mom, I thought maybe you were dead.”

  She felt her throat tighten and tears come to her eyes.

  “I’m perfectly all right, darling. You mustn’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right. We’ll soon be together again.”

  “Will you call me again?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “There are horses here. They say I can learn to ride.”

  The remark took her by surprise. Or perhaps it was the change of tone and the sudden enthusiasm behind it, like a child phoning home from summer camp, unhappy and homesick at first, then wanting to stay longer than planned.

  “That’s good, darling. Where are you? On a ranch somewhere?”

  “Yeah. They said you arranged it.”

  Again she had to think quickly. It was a lie she realized she couldn’t afford to deny.

  “Of course I did, darling. I just didn’t know…what kind of ranch. I haven’t been there.”

  “It’s kind of neat. And there’s a helicopter.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Chris!”

  She heard a door bang and a dog barking in the background. The sound was oddly familiar.

  “Is that Buzz?”

  “Sure. They said I should bring him with me. He’s having a great time.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Oddly, it was the news that Christopher had his dog with him that reassured her more than anything else. There was a click on the line and West’s voice cut in.

  “Time to wind up, Susan. Christopher can’t hear me—just do it naturally.”

  Another click.

  “Darling, I’ve got to go now. I’ll call again soon. I love you.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  Chapter 20

  THEY SENT CHARLIK home after a week. He was driven in a private car, not an ambulance. Control had visited him once more and said he was to have as much time off as he needed to get well. They could arrange a vacation if he wanted, but he chose to stay home. Why spoil what he knew would be a good time by adding elements of the unpredictable? He got enough unpredictability in his work.

  He painted, swam, and worked out at the gym as he got better. Every night he’d have a date with one or another of the girls—sometimes two, if it was Savannah and Jane, who always worked as a team. The girls would come over around six-thirty and they’d go to bed for an hour or so. Then they’d go out, eat something, maybe dance a little sometimes, then they’d come back and screw themselves to sleep. In the morning the girls left after breakfast and maybe a little fun in the shower, leaving him on his own again and looking forward to a bright new day.

  Virgil Fry came by to pick up the latest batch of Charlie’s paintings. He showed no interest in how Charlie had received the injuries from which he was recovering. It was as though the little man had somehow known what to expect: as though, Charlie reflected later, he had been fully briefed before arriving. He wondered whether that could be the case, and made a mental note to question him the next time he saw him.

  He glanced at his watch. It was time to go down to the gym, work out, take a swim, then back home to prepare himself for the evening’s amusement. The girl he was seeing tonight was Lila, pronounced “Lie-la.” At least, she said that was her name. Charlie had a feeling it was a made-up name. He’d once known a girl called Eileen, although she spelled it “I-lean,” as in, on a gate or against a wall. She had ambitions to be an actress and thought a novelty name might be a useful gimmick. Charlie had seen her in a movie-of-the-week on television and decided that talent would have been more useful.

  He and Lila had met soon after he’d come out of the hospital. He’d been passing this little perfume store in the lobby of his apartment building at the marina when he’d seen this statuesque and lavishly proportioned woman with a shock of red-gold hair. He’d gone right in there, pretending he had to buy a gift for his sister. He’d asked for her advice, but she’d se
en through the ploy at once and laughed—a friendly laugh that told him she was flattered by his attentions. He’d suggested they go somewhere for a drink. The place they went was his apartment, and it was a while before they got around to the drink.

  Since then they’d been going out a couple of times a week. She was older than most of the girls in his life. At a guess, he’d have put her a year or two older than himself, but she was great-looking and loved sex. Plus she was easy to have around.

  They went to a new restaurant. It was her idea; she’d read about the place and wanted to try it. The cooking was part Chinese, part French. Charlie said that sounded great.

  At some point in his special training, in between an advanced course on how to kill with his bare hands and another on survival in subzero terrain, he’d done a course called “Social Etiquette.” They’d done classes in everything from polite conversation to which knife to use with the cheese. Wine tastings had been arranged, and Charlie learned how to steer his way between a California Cabernet and a decent Bordeaux. He would never be an expert, but he knew enough not to make a fool of himself. Wine waiters accorded him a proper respect and did not take on airs when he asked their advice about some out-of-the-way label or lesser-known vintage. In fact the role of man-about-town was one he enjoyed and had taken to with surprising ease. It amused him that even very limited knowledge, if presented with authority and just the right degree of understatement, could be passed off as sophistication.