by Winona Kent
“Perhaps we should give Ian the benefit of the doubt,” Gwennie said. “He really is quite a sensible sort. It’s only Wednesday. If he isn’t back by Friday or hasn’t rung you, then we should start to be concerned.”
She smiled to herself: she was sounding suspiciously like Evan had when she’d phoned him about Robin.
“Let’s go into the living room, shall we? Perhaps we can persuade Anthony to be sociable.”
Anthony, however, was well into the exploits of the evil scientist. With a wicked chuckle, the man in the white lab coat stroked his thinning goatee. The world’s military might would soon be his, and his alone. The massed populations of the earth would be forced to watch, to listen: surrender peacefully, or I’ll blow you all to smithereens. It is I who control your destiny.
“Oh God,” Gwennie groaned. “Not this one again. The mad scientist in the lab coat that’s two sizes too large for him.” She sat down on the chesterfield behind her son and patted the cushion beside her, so that Jennifer would follow. “What was his name?”
“Christopher Robin,” Anthony replied. He was surprised the episode hadn’t come to mind before, because of that.
“Ah, yes,” Gwennie said to Jennifer. “The oft-maligned Harris family villains. Ian must have mentioned us to you somewhere along the way.”
It had been a private little joke with Evan, all through Spy Squad’s run. Every few weeks, he’d have a meeting with the show’s writers, and a character would pop up bearing the name of his wife or one of his children. Usually they had minor parts, with nothing much to say, but occasionally, a big deal was made out of it, as in the case of the shameful Dr. C.R. It got to be a kind of game, Anthony recalled, watching for those subtle, familiar hints; their father didn’t warn them they were coming. He wondered if other actors’ offspring suffered as much attention as he and his brothers had on the show.
Anthony looked at his mother. “I wasn’t a villain,” he said. “I was a huge black man who couldn’t get his gun assembled fast enough to suit Huff, so Mandy decked him.”
“Yes,” Gwennie added, “and I was a nasty old schoolmistress who caught Jarrod infiltrating my girls’ nuclear fission lab and had him soundly caned for being a Peeping Tom. I know where your father’s mind was when he put his two cents’ worth into those scripts, Anthony.”
Jennifer made a small noise that might have been a giggle.
Anthony was thinking about Evan’s telephone call, early the previous morning. “He couldn’t have hated you all that badly, Mom.”
“He didn’t.” Gwennie stopped. What good would it do anybody to dredge up the details now? She had made a promise to herself, many years earlier: no postmortems. “He loved the three of you very much,” she said, in the kind of voice that told Anthony that was all she was prepared to say on the subject.
He stretched out on the carpet, watching as Jarrod, Mandy, and Huff were trussed up and planted in between two gigantic microwave transmitters capable of zapping them into shish kebabs. The countdown began—only a matter of seconds now.
“Big brother disappear on us?” he queried over his shoulder, as Spy Squad cut to a commercial.
“He’s gone down to some sort of community near here to talk to their leader about advertising, and Jennifer thinks we should be calling in the deprogrammers.” Gwennie wasn’t intending to be cruel or mocking; it was simply that the thought of her eldest son being lured into any kind of cult struck her as ludicrous. He really wasn’t the type at all.
“I don’t think,” Jennifer said. “I know.”
Anthony refrained from comment. He fast-forwarded through the ads and the remaining quarter of the program; he knew how it ended.
They watched as Jarrod popped a capsule filled with some kind of acid out of his watchband at top speed and burned through the ropes that bound his hands—as well as a good portion of the skin surrounding his wrists. It was nothing: after momentarily portraying the appropriate expressions of pain and suffering, he leaped up to free Huff and Mandy, loosening their bonds only seconds before the microwaves hummed to life and reduced their chairs to charcoal.
“Your father cracked three ribs filming this particular episode,” Gwennie said. “He fell off that platform.”
Anthony glanced over his shoulder, smiling.
Gwennie spoke confidentially to Jennifer. “My first husband was a disaster waiting to happen on the Spy Squad set—he was always injuring himself.”
A quick hop and step over to the headquarters of the misguided Christopher R., some fast-motion kicking and karate chopping on Mandy’s part, a shot or two fired from the special Spy Squad gun—the one that Anthony, the black fellow, had had so much trouble piecing together—and the world was once again made safe for all mankind.
Anthony—the Son of Spencer—slowed the tape down as the credits flashed over scenes from the show, along with the catchy but totally unhummable Spy Squad theme. This was the part he was really interested in. He leaned forward as the story credits appeared: “The Christopher Robin Caper.” Story by Larry G. Hamelin.
The fan club people in New Hampshire had very carefully documented the lives and careers of every person who’d ever had anything remotely to do with the series, from the prop designers to Mandy’s ex-husband. Larry G. Hamelin was listed in issue #109: Hollywood scriptwriter, responsible for forty-two episodes of Spy Squad. Last regular series: Take Flight, the exploits of three flight attendants working for a large American airline who spend their off hours employed as special undercover agents for the U.S. government.
Jennifer was leaving. She put her teacup in its saucer on the floor by the chesterfield and stubbed out her cigarette. Gwennie walked with her to the front hallway.
“Let’s give him till Friday,” she said, reassuringly. “I’m sure he’ll phone.”
Jennifer made no comment. Gwennie went outside with her and walked up the driveway to Creekdene, where she’d left her car.
Where was Larry G. Hamelin now? Anthony wondered. That was the crucial question. The fan club people had no idea. He seemed to have vanished entirely from the West Coast writing community. Anthony reached for Tuesday’s Sun, spreading the pages out over the carpet until he found the story Jennifer had mentioned.
It was only a small article, but significant nonetheless. Twelve miles south of the Canada/U.S. border, just off 1-5, on the way into Bellingham, the little town of Oak Corners, Wash. (pop. 450) was undergoing a somewhat sinister transformation. It seemed that people from other places had descended upon the area in droves, drawn by the magnetism of a highly mystic leader from the East.
Happily ensconced in a commune he had built for precisely that purpose, the charismatic leader of this band of refugees was busy collecting Cessnas (one a month) while growing outrageously wealthy on the donations of his followers—many of whom were Hollywood burnouts with names that could stud a small rural sidewalk with stars.
His name was Shirda Neeshla, and he had proclaimed himself the High Bagraj of New Dehra Dun. But of greater interest to Anthony than the Shirda’s amassed fortune, and even the rather odd fact that his older brother seemed to be drawn by the holy man’s persuasive powers, was the Shirda’s nonmystical identity, from the days when he’d been slouching around Marina del Rey in his sandals and cutoffs. The High Bagraj, with his collection of planes, his airstrip, his dormitories and community meeting hall, was none other than Larry G. Hamelin.
There was a picture with the article in the Sun. Bearded and gowned, the Shirda smiled beatifically at the camera. His commune and the methods he employed to keep it stocked had recently attracted the attention of Washington State officials, who were beginning to express deep concern. Hardly less outraged were the good citizens of Oak Corners, who had seen the name of their town changed to something out of the back pages of Rand McNally, and whose political process was now peopled almost exclusively by yellow-robed Dehra Dunners.
Anthony rewound the videotape. Satellites and earth stations, world domination
—and Larry G. Hamelin. What on earth was Ian doing messing around with this guy?
“Absolutely not,” his father said.
Anthony had decided to consult Evan, on the set of Blockbuster. Gaining access to the motor home with his father’s name tagged to its front window had involved some slight subterfuge. The Vancouver chapter of the Spy Squad fan club had staked out the area, and Anthony wasn’t keen on being recognized. As it was, he’d already wandered up and introduced himself as Tony Raymond, curious because he’d never before had the opportunity to meet the other Squaddies face to face. Clambering into their hero’s trailer for lunch would, he thought, be a trifle obvious.
Evan was eating sushi. He put down a rubbery slice of octopus long enough to say, “Absolutely not,” to his son, then attacked the slab of tentacle again, following it with a shaving of pickled ginger.
Anthony looked out the window at the Burnaby warehouse where some of Blockbuster’s interiors were being shot. Raw octopus was disgusting. “Ian’s there,” he said.
“Be that as it may, I don’t want you following him.”
“Why?”
Evan related what Robin had told him about Mara and the Shirda. “Do you want to end up in the same sort of trouble as your younger brother?”
Anthony glowered at his father. “Maybe Ian’s in trouble, too. Did you think of that?”
“Yes,” Evan replied. “I have considered that possibility. And some people from the department have already been sent down to keep an eye on the Shirda’s community. I’ll mention to them that Ian’s there as well. All right?”
Anthony didn’t say anything.
“Have you met my loyal squadron of followers?” Evan asked, changing the subject.
“Briefly. They think I’m somebody else.”
“Ah,” Evan said. “Yes. There’s nothing like having half a dozen women, total strangers all, launch themselves at you, demanding to have their upper thighs signed in black Magic Marker. Hang onto your anonymity, Anthony—it’s precious.”
“I will.”
Evan looked at his middle son. “About the Bagraj,” he said. “I’m only acting in your best interests.”
“I know,” his son said. But he knew, too, that he had already made his mind up about going.
As part of a stepped-up surveillance plan for shadowing the Berringer character and his partner, Helmut Grosch, Randy Lundberg had been pulled off nights and assigned to the afternoon and evening shift. He was now one of three agents keeping track of Berringer’s movements around the city of Vancouver; the other two were, at this moment, respectively, one block to the south of the blue Buick and one block north. They kept in constant contact with one another by scrambled cellular telephone. Lundberg himself was some twenty yards to the rear of Berringer, adjusting his speed every now and then to make it appear as though he was looking for a place to park. Another couple of streets and he’d swing over and let one of the other guys pick up the trail.
Before he could do this, Berringer flashed a turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of a Safeway store. Lundberg relayed this information to his fellow agents and stopped across the road from the Safeway, waiting. Grocery time? Berringer got out of the Buick and walked down Fourth Avenue, disappearing inside a Greek restaurant with a white stucco facade and red brick archways over the door and windows. Obviously not.
Lundberg switched off his engine. He knew this restaurant quite well, having once ended a disastrous evening with a woman there. The decor inside was lacquered wood and artifacts from the Greek Isles; folk music played relentlessly on an overmodulated sound system; they served tzatziki, humus, calamari, and pizza, and were fairly generous with their retsina and medium dry B.C. cider.
Diligently, Randy noted down the time—14:55, the date—February 10th, and the location—Pappadopoulos, West Fourth, Kitsilano. He’d give the guy a couple of minutes, and then go inside to use the washroom.
Jacking back the seat of the Prelude, he slipped Eliminator into the cassette player and stretched his arms behind his head. What the hell. Give the guy half an hour: the service in the place was the pits.
He was being followed. He walked along the paved alley between the two-story buildings, glancing nervously over his shoulder, seeing no one, but certain somebody was there. He put his head down as he passed by a small coven of low-life city-dwellers—squatters, drug addicts, hookers—who had congregated in the shelter of a padlocked garage doorway. Their makeshift oil-drum heater blazed orange against the stark gray of the alley; it was starting to rain.
He broke into a run. Behind him, two wool-hatted men in checkered lumberjack shirts appeared, stepping out from a concealed passageway. They were carrying guns.
Standing beside a shivering reporter from BCTV, and just ahead of the Vancouver contingent of Spy Squad fan club members, Anthony watched as a couple of production people dollied the camera down the pavement on a track in front of Evan. The two thugs took aim at his father and fired.
At the sound of the popping blanks, Evan dived sideways into a pile of foam rubber that had been disguised as a heap of dirty newspapers and assorted soft garbage. He rolled and, as the camera whirred and the news crew videotaped, tumbled head over heels down a sooty black basement stairwell.
“Cut! Cut! Oh my God! Somebody see if he’s OK!”
Jerry Canfield raced over to the staircase, his peaked black-and-orange Vancouver Canucks cap flying off the back of his head. He was followed, in rapid succession, by Anthony, the BCTV reporter, her cameraman (still shooting) and sound girl, the Squaddies, most of the movie crew, and all of the extras. They crowded around the narrow, brick-walled hole where they had last seen Evan’s legs, and peered in.
Down in the depths, Evan pried his arms away from his head and made a quick assessment of the damage. His first instinct had been to protect his face, and he felt he had been fairly successful on that count. Elsewhere, nothing appeared to be broken. Everything worked—ribs a little painful—ow, a lot painful. Old injury.
He sat up. His hand was scraped rather badly from the bumpy ride down the stairs, and bleeding profusely.
He unkinked his legs, got to his feet, and limped up the stone steps, blinking as the TV strobe caught his eyes. A gray-foam-socked mike on a pole dangled over his head. Faces came into focus, studies in anxiety. Nobody said anything.
“Are you all right?” the reporter ventured, in something close to a shocked whisper.
“Mostly,” Evan replied. He proffered his bloodied right hand for the benefit of the color camera, then turned to his director, who had collapsed with relief against the wall. “You’d better have caught all of that, Jerry,” he quipped, somewhat painfully. “I’m not doing it again.”
“Mara,” Wade Berringer said, as she returned from the washroom and slid in behind the acrylic-gloss table. “I must say, you’re looking delightful. As usual.”
The woman flashed him a disdainful glare. She was wearing yellow—the Shirda’s preferred color. Yellow knit tam, yellow sweater, shiny yellow rubber boots. The effect was quite dazzling.
She had ordered lemon-chicken soup and tea, and Berringer had asked the dark-haired waiter with his curly moustache and embroidered velvet vest for a Brown Cow and shrimps baked in tomato and feta cheese. All of these items were taking an outrageously long time to arrive. Over the cafe’s loudspeaker system, a Greek fishing ballad began to play.
“What have you to tell me?” Mara was hungry, and in a profoundly bad mood.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” Berringer said.
Mara drank her water. When she had finished, she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin.
“You got the boy? Christopher Robin?”
“He wouldn’t talk.”
Mara raised a well-defined eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I understood your techniques to be fairly effective.”
“If Grosch had been given another few hours to work on him, he’d have broken. As it was, somebody discovered his whereabouts and s
pirited him away while we were otherwise occupied. I’m afraid we no longer have Mr. Harris in our care.”
The velvet-vested waiter at last brought the soup and tea, and returned once more with Berringer’s shrimp and Brown Cow. Deftly, he refilled the water tumblers, then slipped away. Mara stirred her soup slowly, swirling the broth around the bowl.
“You saw who took the boy?”
Berringer let out a sarcastic laugh. “If I had, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Give us more time.”
Mara smiled. “That, unfortunately, is something we have precious little of to spare. Have you looked for him?”
Berringer picked up his water glass. The woman tried his patience. “Grosch is telephoning the hospitals. It’s a long shot—but we don’t have any alternative. If we are able to find him, we’ll have him back in our custody before tomorrow.”
“And then?” said Mara, sipping her tea, cradling the cup between her hands.
“And then…you can expect your results shortly there-after. He was close to telling us before he was taken.” Berringer attacked his shrimp with a particularly nasty jab of his fork. “Grosch isn’t likely to be as patient this time around.”
There was a truck roaring through the room. A semi. With two trailers. And a load of scrap iron. And engine trouble. Robin raised his head. They’d moved a guy into the second bed and he was dying of asphyxiation. Things were growing in his throat. Things were creeping through his nasal passages. He put his head down again, and the phlegmatic wheezing stopped. For an awfully long time.
Was he dead?
He listened carefully. There was no noise coming from the other side of the curtain, nothing. Where was the nurse? The call cord dangled down the wall behind him, knotted to the string on the reading lamp; Robin reached up and gave it an urgent tug. Nothing—nothing.
