"But what you are asking is not simple espionage, is it?" Teng-chi asked. "What you are asking is not something I can so easily request. I do not even know if I can request it at all. If I do, it is likely I would be removed from my post, sent to China, and replaced. The senior Party members will believe the request to be for personal reasons. I follow their direction, I do not initiate."
A young, Chinese couple laden with bags of souvenirs from the museum’s gift shop sat down at a table next to theirs. They smiled brightly as they read their menus. The young couple did not so much as glance at their table, but Vincent noticed that Teng-chi’s expression suddenly changed.
"Teng-chi…" Vincent entreated.
"I do not think we should discuss this anymore, Mr. Waldrup," Teng-chi said with a smile. As if suddenly developing an appetite, he began to eat his fruit and cheese. After a moment he looked up at Vincent. "Have you seen the new Van Gogh exhibition? It really is something."
Chapter 29
Henry barely realized he was holding his gun in hand. It felt like a dream, yet somehow he knew it was really happening. The weight of the gun was there, the cool metal against his palm. Before him sat Samantha Rohde, watching him with those brown eyes wide from fear. He knew that all it would take was a twitch of his right index finger, which was even at that moment applying the slightest amount of pressure to the trigger. One twitch, and Samantha Rohde was dead.
Henry resisted. He fought his own urges even as he slowly became aware that these were not his urges. A constant whispering in his ear prodded him to shoot her, like a demon at his side, a devil tempting him. But there was no temptation. It felt like force…something had latched onto his will and was trying to force it, to bend it in the direction of shooting Sam. Shoot the girl. The incessant whispering buzzed through his mind. Shoot her! Squeeze the trigger! Do it! Shoot her!
It’s a dream, came a whisper from somewhere within. A
dream. Not real. Squeezing the trigger would not kill anyone,
not really. Do it.
His trigger finger tingled with electricity, but it did not move, as if the signals were being sent and received, but the muscles were disconnected and could not be activated. His entire hand felt lifeless, incapable of reacting to commands from his brain. Frozen. Perhaps it had melded with the metal of his gun, and they had become one, his gun and his hand.
He was trapped like that. He had become his own Hell. He was forever trapped in the act of not squeezing the trigger. Henry would never be able to move beyond that moment. He knew this while at the same time he knew it was impossible, but he didn’t know why it was impossible.
A new idea invaded his mind, inserted as if from elsewhere. If he squeezed the trigger and killed Samantha, he would feel better. The nightmare would end. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger and everything would be better, everything would be all right. Do it.
But his hand would not react to anything. His hand had become black steel. He could feel it, rigid and immovable. Slowly, molecule by molecule, cell by cell, he felt his flesh becoming steel. Eventually, he knew, it would happen to his entire body and he, Henry, his self, would disappear. There was nothing he could do about it.
While he watched, Sam seemed to blur, go out of focus, fluctuate in space…and suddenly his own daughter appeared in the chair. Her face was kind, calm, but distant. He wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her how much he missed her, how much he loved her. But he could not move. He could not reach her, not physically, not by reaching out. She was gone, she’d been gone for over five years. Now, she should be a girl of fourteen, going through the awkwardness of adolescence, just beginning to blossom in womanhood, asking permission to get her ears pierced. The thought calmed him. He knew he would not harm his own daughter.
The incessant whisper in his ear had become a buzz. It meant nothing. The noise invaded his senses and overwhelmed them until he could not decipher between the buzzing and his own thoughts. Then he was gone.
Bound to a chair, and gagged, Tina would only watch, helpless, as Angus tried fervently to turn Henry into a child killer. She watched Angus whisper into Henry’s ear, watched in horror as Henry lifted his gun and aimed it at Sam, who was also bound to a chair, also watching with eyes wide. Tina watched as Henry seemed to struggle against the drug he’d been given, and against Angus’ suggestive whispering.
Henry’s body was rigid, his arm outstretched. His whole body looked tense. He was sweating. He had to be fighting the drug, fighting Angus’ insidious suggestions. Tina knew he was telling Henry to shoot Sam. He’d been sent to kill her, had not done it, and for some reason Angus had decided that Henry needed to finish the job. Why didn’t Angus just do it himself? Tina hated herself for that thought, but she couldn’t help but wonder. Why was it so important that Henry be the one to do it? It didn’t make sense.
He was absolutely soaked with sweat. Tina wondered what he was going through. He was obviously aware, fighting, knowing what Angus was trying to make him do. Then, amazingly, his entire body, his face, seemed to relax, and a perfect calm came over him. He closed his eyes, nodded his head forward, and slowly lowered his arm until the gun was pointed at the floor.
"Bloody hell," Angus said acidly, capitulating.
Tina closed her eyes and sighed with relief. Henry had won, this battle at least.
"A magnificent effort," came another voice, from behind Tina. This one was crisp and clear, sounding very British and upper-class to Tina’s untrained ear. A chill went through her. She could hear murder in it, too. She did not know the man’s name, but she did know that when he arrived at Alonso’s house the game had suddenly changed.
Game. She could not believe she’d even allowed herself to think that way. Nightmare was more like it. Tina couldn’t help but think it was partially her fault.
After killing the woman assassin and putting her body in the van with the other bodies, Henry and Angus both had looked worn out. Angus suggested someone make coffee. They needed to be alert, he said. They needed to be vigilant. So Tina made coffee. She used what she found in Juan Alonso’s kitchen, unsuspectingly, never imagining that it had been drugged. Obviously Angus had known Henry would drink the coffee. And he did. Tina had some, too. She did not remember Angus having any, although she had filled a mug for him.
She remembered feeling drowsy, then fighting to stay awake…and then waking to find herself bound to the chair in a room with Christie and Cardinal Roscoe, who were also bound to chairs with duct tape and the same plastic hand-ties the police used on TV. They had also been gagged. The well-mannered British man, a stark contrast to Angus’ boorish presence, had arrived sometime during her unconsciousness. Although it seemed like it should be the other way around, the British man was taking orders from Angus. He appeared to be doing so with an amused air about him, patronizing Angus.
Tina had not had much time to process what was happening when she and the others awakened to see Henry being injected with the drug that had then made him pliant to Angus’s suggestions. Following Angus’ orders, Henry had taken his gun out and aimed it first at Christie Seifert, then Cardinal Roscoe, and then Tina. As a test to see if Henry were indeed under Angus’ control, Angus had ordered Henry to shoot Tina.
She had watched as he aimed the gun her. Did he hesitate? It was hard to tell. He had squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Bloody hell, looks like I forgot to put a bullet in the chamber." Angus winked at Tina. "Give me that gun," he told Henry, who complied. Angus pulled back the slide, then let it snap forward. "Right, then, here we go."
Had a bullet been in the chamber, Henry would have shot Tina. Yet, with a bullet in the chamber, he resisted squeezing the trigger when the gun was aimed at Sam. She knew he was drugged, she knew he did not have control of himself, but still…he had squeezed the trigger when it the gun was aimed at her, and had successfully resisted doing so when it was aimed at Sam.
When it became apparent that Henry was not going to sq
ueeze the trigger and shoot Sam, Angus let out a long sigh.
"It looks like me ol’ mate’s made of stronger material than we thought, eh?" Angus said to the British man. He sounded almost proud.
"Indeed. Then we shall have to move forward with the alternative plan," the Brit replied.
"As expected."
"Quite." The British man maneuvered around and into Tina’s view. He was tall, thin, and wore a navy-blue suit. He reminded Tina of a less savory looking James Bond, with a thin nose and cool, blue eyes, clean-shaven with perfect teeth, a square jaw, crow’s feet around his eyes and a wrinkled forehead whenever his expression reflected deep thought. "We shall have to move the girl to the other location."
"Right. What about clean-up?"
The Brit sighed heavily. "How many bodies?"
"Five," Angus told him.
"Good Christ," the Brit exclaimed. His forehead wrinkled. "It shall take all night to dispose of them properly."
"You can’t do it here," Angus told him. "They’re expecting visitors, the reporter and the priest are."
"Isn’t that wonderful? Right then, anyway, I’ll find you tomorrow when I’m finished cleaning up."
"What will you do with them?" Angus asked.
"Curious, are you?"
"That’s why I asked the bloody question, isn’t it?"
"I don’t know," the Brit answered, rubbing his chin. "I expect I’ll find some low-income neighborhood and take over someone’s house there, kill whomever lives there, clean up the bodies and then burn the place to the ground. The police will automatically assume it was a drug-related crime."
"Brilliant," Angus said. "Bloody brilliant."
"It’s what I do best," the Brit responded ruefully. "Mind you, I take no pleasure in it."
"Oh, come on. None at all?"
"So sorry to disappoint, but there you have it. I’d much rather operate a bookstore. The peace and quiet, surrounded by the great literary minds who have illuminated us throughout history…"
Tina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was surreal. A bookstore? Did the man not realize he was the antithesis of someone who actually owned a bookstore? Finding a low-income household and burning it to the ground after murdering the people who lived there, that was his world. It had nothing to do with the peace and quiet of a bookstore.
They moved out of view for a moment, then Angus came back. He went over to Sam. In his hands he held Sam’s brightly colored computer.
"Look here girlie," he said pointedly. "You and me, we have to go somewhere else. But don’t you worry, you’ll be able to talk to your little froggy friend here on the computer. Oi, that’s all right, isn’t it?" He waited for a response from Sam, who only slowly nodded as if figuring out it would be best to just agree. Angus seemed satisfied. He looked at Tina. "We’ll be seeing you again, don’t you worry. Just make sure me mate Henry here comes through all right, okay?" He then went over to where Tina figured Cardinal Roscoe and Christie Seifert were also bound. "Listen up, you two," he said. "Your friends’ll be here soon. Bet you didn’t think I knew, did you? Of course I bloody knew. When they get here, you just tell ‘em to sit tight until I call. You got that? They have their parts to play, just as you have yours, and I have mine…and he has his." Somehow, Tina knew that last one referred to Henry. "If we all play our parts like we’re supposed to, everything will be bloody grand. Please remember, that’s why you’re alive today. You’ve played your parts well so far, and if you wish to remain alive you will continue to do so."
Then, Angus released Sam from her chair but held onto her with one hand while holding onto her computer with the other.
"Ow!" Sam yelled. He was hurting her. There was nothing Tina could do except strain against the plastic ties that held her fast to the chair. Sam tried to pull away from Angus, but he was far too strong. It was a futile effort as he almost nonchalantly dragged her behind him towards the front door, and away from Tina.
After a moment she heard could hear Angus’ and the Brit’s voices, but she could not make out what they were saying. Then she heard the front door open and close, and the motors of two vehicles start, one deep and the other softer; the distant hum of the motors as the vehicles pulled out of the driveway, and then there was nothing. Nothing. Sam was gone, but at least she was alive. Did Angus somehow believe that Henry would still fulfill his mission, to assassinate Sam? That was insane. So Tina guessed they’d find Sam because it was what Angus, and Oracle, wanted. The drugs had not worked on Henry, he had successfully resisted them although he probably didn’t even realize it. What next? What else could they do?
More immediately, who were the people whom Christie and Cardinal Roscoe had summoned to Alonso’s house? Were they friend, or foe?
Martin Avery knew where to go to find just the right household for his purposes. Generally speaking, neighborhoods that were near airports and warehouse districts tended to be poor, and in America they also tended to be black. Perfect, given the perception that most American law enforcement had about such areas as being crack- and crime-ridden jungles. Anything could happen, and often did, in such neighborhoods, as far as they were concerned. Martin felt no pangs of sorrow or guilt towards the innocent people who were about to die. He regarded them as necessary collateral damage, unavoidable casualties, acceptable in light of the scope of his mission. Not that he ever knew what the grand design was beyond the narrow scope of his mission. He didn’t care. If they were sending Martin Avery, knowing Martin Avery, it meant the big picture was undoubtedly more important than a few innocent lives.
He drove south on the Interstate, then took the I-85 fork towards Hartsfield International Airport. A few exits before the airport itself, Martin directed the van onto the off ramp. As expected, the area was run down with mostly vacant strip malls, pawn shops, liquor stores (called ‘package stores’ here, which confounded Martin), check cashing stores, and run-down grocers, all facades fronted by steel mesh cages to protect them from the very clientele they served. Twice Martin passed red and white Atlanta police cruisers, and several times he drove by obvious streetwalkers who apparently plied their trade with impunity. Perfect for his purposes. For all he knew he might very well wind up ridding Atlanta of some crack dealers as a byproduct of his mission.
Black faces turned to watch him as he went off the main artery and into a residential neighborhood. Young black men and women stood in the street and made no effort to get out of his way. Martin was amazed by their intensity and their defiance. It occurred to him that a white man driving a van slowly through such a neighborhood at such an hour might attract a little more attention than he wanted. But he was counting on human nature to hide him from prying eyes. People were normally curious, but in a neighborhood like this they tended to not want to know what was going on around them.
He finally found the house he was looking for, in a cul-de-sac behind what appeared to be an abandoned, red brick warehouse overgrown with weeds. The house looked like it might have been nice at one time. It was large, wooden, faded yellow paint, with a wide screened in front porch and a dirt driveway. The yard needed mowing, the screen needed mending, and the black Lincoln Town Car, circa nineteen eighty-five, had a flat. Next to it, parked in the front yard, was a nineteen-seventies era BMW, also black.
He backed the van in behind the inert Lincoln, watching through the side view mirror. There was no movement in the house, as far as he could tell. He twisted the silencer onto his gun, then pushed open the door of the van. A quick look around the cul-de-sac confirmed that there was no one about, so he walked up to screen door of the porch, and opened it. A low growl answered the metallic squeal of the door as he pulled it open. Blast, he thought. A dog. Of course there would be a dog in a place like this.
Sure enough, lying on the porch floor was a German shepherd, bearing its fangs at Martin. It was an old dog, its coat mangy and greying, with one eye missing. Martin ignored the Shepherd and, without pausing, kicked the front door open. The living room was
anchored by a brown sofa with vinyl-covered cushions and a large flat-screen TV, the hardwood floors were rotting in the center of the room, the walls covered in yellow stained, candy striped wallpaper. No one there, so Martin quickly moved through and towards the kitchen. A quick glance at the lime green, gas stove told him someone was indeed home, there was water boiling in a tea kettle atop a burner turned on high, steam jetting up from the kettle snout. Martin thought it odd that the kettle didn’t have a whistle.
He quickly made his way down a long barren hallway from the kitchen to a partially open door. Again, without pausing he pushed the door open. Inside, directly across from him, was an old woman, eyes closed and head tilted down so her chin rest on her hands which were folded across her chest, knitting needles resting on her lap. She was partially sitting upright in a large bed with massive dark wood, ornately carved headboard. She started to stir, and Martin took aim with his silenced nine-millimeter and squeezed the trigger, blowing a hole through the old woman’s head. He fired another round through her heart. He was glad to have gotten to her while she still slept. A small kindness.
He went through the rest of the house, but there was no one else. Not exactly a crack house, he realized, but it would have to do. It would serve, for his purposes, at any rate.
While the ancient German Shepherd growled ineffectually, Martin pulled the bodies from the van and dragged them up the onto the porch and then into the house, one by one. By the third body he was sweating profusely and his muscles burned. Hopefully the bodies would all be burned so badly it would take weeks for forensics to figure out who any of them were.
A few bottles of liquor provided fuel for the fire, which he started in the bedroom, not emptying the bottles completely and replacing them where they belonged. That would confuse the authorities a little. As the fire quickly spread through the bedroom and began to devour the bed, he went back outside. The growling Shepherd remained on the porch. Martin considered shooting the dog because he suspected it would probably remain on the porch and allow itself to perish in the flames, a particularly horrific death. But then he decided enough was enough. Shooting the dog was an unnecessary action. It was time to check in with Peter Cornwall and let him know what was going on, and to find out what to do next.
The Oracle Paradox Page 22
