“I don’t see anything,” Zyzmchuk replied. “What’s she doing in the flutter room?”
“You must have heard of the senator’s polygraph bill.”
“I’ve heard of it. He wants to flutter every firstborn son and daughter in the land.”
Dahlin’s mouth made its laughing motions, revealing teeth full of metal and a tobacco-stained tongue. “It’s not that bad, Ivan. No more than a few hundred thousand people will be involved in all, mostly more State and Defense people, some independent contractors, a few agencies like NASA, that kind of thing.”
“And their families.”
“In some cases. The senator’s trying to help.”
“By testing his own wife?”
“He’s just trying to show that he’s not asking anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. All the networks picked it up last night.”
“Surely you’re not going to defend fluttering,” Zyzmchuk said.
“Not within these four walls,” said Dahlin, through a cloud of smoke.
“Except in terms of discouraging potential leakers,” Keith added.
“You mean intimidating the little guys.”
“Why not?”
“Because the machine can’t detect when someone’s lying. It can just write lines on paper. Its name describes it perfectly, no more, no less.” Zyzmchuk paused. He could see from their faces he’d gone too fast—it often happened when a man who spoke nine languages posed arguments based on word derivations to those with only one. “The point is that soon everyone’s going to know. And then it won’t even be scary anymore.” Out of the corner of his eye, Zyzmchuk saw Alice Frame, unaware of the camera in a light fixture or behind a ventilator, digging her nail into her palm and saying, “No, never.” “You can’t make a joke your first line of defense,” Zyzmchuk said. “The professionals are laughing already.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Ivan. The point is the senator has sat on the intelligence committee for twenty years; he’s one of our biggest supporters; and he’s very enthusiastic about this bill. That’s fact one. Fact two: his wife took the test. Call it a publicity stunt if you want, but if we had results like this from anybody else, we’d investigate. I’m not talking about the polygraph report—don’t waste your time reading it—but just look at her. Fact three: anything we do has to be discreet. We can’t have the senator finding out we’re investigating his wife.”
“Investigating her for what?”
“That’s the problem.”
“Not mine,” Zyzmchuk said, looking at Keith. “If there is a problem, it’s his.”
Keith flushed very slightly, but his voice was calm when he said, “It wasn’t my idea.”
“I know that. But you could have discouraged him.”
“You overestimate my powers. The senator only calls on me for technical advice, never on policy.”
“That’s crazy. You’ve written every word he’s ever uttered about intelligence.”
Keith flushed a little more. It made him look very young. “Not since I left his office. He’s got two staffers now working on nothing but intelligence. I haven’t even seen him for a year.”
Zyzmchuk opened his mouth to say something, but Dahlin interrupted. “Ivan, please. We need your help.”
“To do what?”
Dahlin looked surprised. “A follow-up. In case, you see, there really was anything … we couldn’t have it said we’d done …”
“Nothing,” Keith finished for him.
“So?” Zyzmchuk said.
“She’ll have to be watched,” Keith replied.
“Oh, come on. She’s not a spy. She’s probably worried they’re going to find out about some junket her husband took her on at the taxpayers’ expense. Why don’t we just drop it?”
“She’s in a position to know a lot of things.”
“Then give it to the FBI. It’s not our problem.”
“Not legally, perhaps, although I could make a case,” Dahlin said. “But as a practical matter, we have a close working relationship with the senator and we don’t want it jeopardized by some oaf from the Bureau.”
“But suppose we do find something,” Zyzmchuk said. “What happens to your close working relationship then?”
“We’ll tackle that when we have to.”
“Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it instead?”
The room went still. Alice Frame’s voice filled it. “Soviet nationals? Well, I met the ambassador at a reception once. And a few of his aides. I—I’m sorry, I can’t remember any of their names.” They all looked at the screen. Alice Frame was biting her lower lip; she might have been on the verge of tears. “But I never—”
“Wait for the question, please,” said Mr. Brent.
“Turn that fucking thing off,” Zyzmchuk said. Keith touched a button. Zyzmchuk rose and walked across the room. He was giving physical expression to a mad vision of taking Keith and Dahlin by their necks and cracking their well-barbered skulls. For a moment he studied the Gorbachev photo. The resolution wasn’t sharp enough to actually see urine, but there was enough supporting evidence to infer its presence.
“Why me?” Zyzmchuk asked at last.
“I think I can answer that,” Keith said. “Because it has to be flawless.”
Zyzmchuk smiled. “That’s nice,” he said. He kept smiling. “I wonder,” he added, “since the senator is such a good friend, why our budget is getting so tight?”
There was a silence. Keith stood by the window, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Dahlin sat on the men’s club couch with his legs crossed and his executive-length socks showing. They didn’t look at each other, but signals passed between them. They were intercepted by Zyzmchuk, but not decoded.
“Specifically,” asked Dahlin, “do you mean why our budget is getting so tight that we’ve had to let you go?”
Zyzmchuk nodded.
Keith looked hurt. “But that’s not why we’re letting him go. Zyz. We’ve been through this. You’re way over the age limit for a field man. You were a great field man. The kiosk operation was a classic—the trainees study it every year. But—”
Turning to Dahlin, Zyzmchuk interrupted. “That’s what I mean, all right. Specifically.”
Dahlin folded his hands together. Zyzmchuk saw him consider and reject cracking the knuckles. “Perhaps,” Dahlin said, “something might be arranged, if you made a nice discreet job of this Alice Frame business.”
“I’m not talking about office work,” Zyzmchuk said. “It would have to be in the field.”
“Ivan, you know that’s impossible.”
Zyzmchuk rose. “Then I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
Dahlin cracked his knuckles. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “Why can’t you just go quietly?”
“Do you want to just go quietly?” Zyzmchuk asked. He was already at the door.
“When the time comes, yes.”
“Me too. But the time hasn’t come yet.”
Dahlin sighed. “I may be able to work something with Langley. If you don’t mind being seconded temporarily to them.”
“Tell them I want Prague. Second choice Budapest.”
Keith cleared his throat. “We could simply order you to do it.” He turned to Dahlin. “Couldn’t we?”
Dahlin said nothing. Zyzmchuk answered for him. “I’d refuse. And then what would you do? I’m already fired.” Zyzmchuk expected some laughter at the irony of it all, but none came. Dahlin and Keith were no longer in a laughing mood. He opened the door and went out.
But he hadn’t reached the end of the corridor before Keith caught up. He straightened his tie with the high-class ducks on it, cleared his throat again and said, “I hope we weren’t too obscure.”
“Not at all.”
“I mean, I hope you didn’t get the idea he wants you to move heaven and earth. It’s not that kind of thing at all.” From behind his glasses, Keith was watching Zyzmchuk for some sign that he was following along. Zyzmchuk gave none. Keith sig
hed. “What he really wants, what the department really wants, is something more …”
“Pro forma?”
Keith smiled. “Exactly, Zyz. Exactly.”
10
Everything was fine.
Zorro did the driving. Zorro, the fox, so something and free; Zorro, who makes the sign of a P.
Zorro’s little girl sat at one end of the backseat. Bao Dai sat at the other.
“Call me Uncle Bao,” he told her. But she didn’t. She didn’t call him anything. She’d been put off by the episode with the whalebone knife. A brief episode, nothing really, just waving it around. Bao Dai regretted it—he just wanted to go for a nice long drive—but Zorro had needed persuading—not to go on a nice drive, but to go on a nice long one. Now the knife was tucked away and everything was fine.
The dark countryside, the Doors—Bao Dai still couldn’t believe the sound in the car—the black sky: all fine. Even the glare wasn’t so bad.
Bao Dai rested his head against the rear speaker. There were six speakers in the rear. Fat bass notes pulsed in his ear. The singer sang about the scream of the butterfly. Bao Dai heard the scream. Dark night rolled by outside. He could almost forget everything. Then the music ended. Bao Dai sat up. He glanced at the girl. She was asleep.
“Where are we?” he asked.
The car slowed down. “Missouri,” Zorro said.
The car pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. “Why are we stopping?” Bao Dai said.
“I’m tired.” Zorro turned around to face him. He looked so fucking young.
“Tired?” Bao Dai had forgotten the feeling.
“I think we should head back.”
“Back?”
“Home.”
“Home?”
Zorro took a deep breath. “Please don’t take this the wrong way.”
“Take what the wrong way?”
“I think maybe you need some … professional help.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone to talk to.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“I’m not a professional.”
“Sure you are,” said Bao Dai. “You’re a professional, all right. When it comes to me. A real pro.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No?”
There was a long silence. A car whizzed by, then another. Zorro’s face paled and darkened as the headlights swept past.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said at last.
“Why do you want to talk about me all of a sudden?” Bao Dai said. No answer. “I don’t want to talk about me,” he said. “Let’s talk about you.”
“Me?”
“You have a nice life. You know that?”
“It’s not so—”
“A nice car. A nice house. Nice sounds. Nice axes. Nice little girl. Where’s your nice wife?”
“I told you. We’re div—”
“You told me a lot of things. What does she look like?”
“Who?”
“Your wife.”
“I told you, we’re not—”
“What does she look like?”
“Well, not bad-looking, I guess.”
“Nice tits?”
No answer.
“I said, ‘Nice tits?’”
“I suppose. It’s been five or six years now.”
But Bao Dai knew she had nice tits. He’d seen from the garage. “How’d you ever give up tits like that?”
Zorro laughed, man to man. “Shit, they’re not that good. And anyway, there’re lots of girls around, you know. Women, I mean.” Zorro turned his head, and tried a man-to-man smile.
“I don’t know,” Bao Dai said.
Silence.
“Your little girl have tits yet?” Bao Dai asked. He looked at her. Fast asleep.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about her like that. She’s just a little girl.”
“That’s what I said. A little girl. She’s the same age …”
“Same age as who?”
“As my little girl.”
“But you don’t have a little girl.” Pause. “Do you?”
“As my little girl would have been, asshole. If I’d had a little girl. And a wife with nice tits. You know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You have a nice life—that’s what I mean,” Bao Dai said. “Let’s go.”
“Back?”
“Don’t look back,” said Bao Dai. “Not you. Not while I’m around.”
“I meant where do you want to go?”
“You know.”
“It’s far.”
“Far?” That was very funny. Bao Dai almost laughed. “You don’t know what far is,” he said. “Drive.”
Zorro drove. The little girl slept. Bao Dai watched night turn to day.
“You’re passing all the cars,” he said after a while.
“I am?”
“Slow down.”
“Sure.”
“You’re still passing them.”
“I am?”
But it was too late. Red lights flashed in the mirrors. “You shit,” Bao Dai said.
“He wants us to pull over.”
Bao Dai took out the whalebone knife. He held it in his hand, covered with the tan suit jacket. “Then do it,” he said. “But if anything happens, it happens to her first. Understand?”
“Yes.”
They pulled over. A cop approached, bent over, looked in the open window. “Clocked you goin’ seventy-five.”
“Sorry, officer.”
The cop peered inside the car, saw Bao Dai and the sleeping girl. “Nice car,” he said. “We don’t get many of these hereabouts.”
The cop looked a lot like a platoon sergeant Bao Dai had known long ago. Maybe that’s why he said, “You should hear the sound he’s got.” The words just popped out.
The cop gave Bao Dai another glance. “Yeah?”
“Show him,” Bao Dai said.
Zorro switched on the music. It filled the car.
“The Doors, huh?” said the cop, cocking an ear. “Not bad. What’d it set you back?”
“The sound system?” said Zorro. “It came with the car.”
“And how much was that?” asked Bao Dai.
“Well, fairly expensive I guess.”
“Like what?” pressed Bao Dai. “Don’t go all bashful.”
The cop and Bao Dai exchanged a quick smile.
“A little over thirty,” said Zorro.
The cop whistled. Zorro was looking at the cop. Bao Dai could see his eyes were full of pleading. The cop took mercy on him, but misread the plea. He tapped the roof of the car. “Okay, buddy. I’ll let you off with a warning. But take it easy next time.” He walked to the patrol car and drove away.
When he was out of sight, Bao Dai said, “I don’t like this car anymore. It’s too … open.”
Zorro, holding his head in his hands, wasn’t listening. “What do you want from me?” he said. “We can’t undo the past.”
“We can give it the old college try,” Bao Dai replied. “Drive.”
They drove. The tape ended. The radio came on. A commercial for jeans.
“That’s Daddy,” said the little girl. Bao Dai looked at her. She was wide awake. “Playing on the radio,” she added. She looked at him in a funny way and said, “Didn’t you know he was a professional musician?”
Bao Dao couldn’t say a word. It had never occurred to him that Zorro was anything, except rich. He listened to the guitar, and his whole body stiffened as the notes went by. He could have played them, every one, and just that way. And no other way—that was how he played. Exactly. That was his style.
“It’s nothing really,” came the voice from the front seat. “Just a job.”
“You’re too modest, Daddy,” the little girl said.
Bao Dai said nothing. Under the suit jacket he squeezed the handle of the knife, very hard, and kept squeezing it long after the commercial was over.
Kate was crying. The sound came from below. Jessie ran down the stairs. The basement was flooded. Kate’s cries were louder, but still came from somewhere below. Jessie stepped off the last step onto the wet floor. There was no floor. She plunged into water over her head.
Jessie dove down through the blackness. Kate’s cries grew louder and louder. Jessie kept swimming, down, down. Her lungs were bursting. She fought to hold her breath, groped with her hands, reaching for the bottom, reaching for Kate. The cries were all around her now, but her hands felt nothing. Then, when she could hold her breath no longer, her fingers brushed something. She grabbed it and kicked toward the surface. The crying stopped. She broke through into air, gulped it in. In her arms she held the cracked painting of Orpheus and Eurydice.
Jessie sat up. She was soaked, but with her own sweat instead of water. Daylight filled her bedroom, not the fresh light of dawn, but light already a little used. “Shit.” She was late.
Jessie hurried into the bathroom and fixed herself up, trying not to see the hollow-eyed image in the mirror. Then she went to the closet and pulled on the blackest thing she owned.
Outside, nature wasn’t imitating the moods of man, at least not hers. It was a beautiful day, bright, sunny, almost hot. The smug man on the car radio told her it was cold and rainy right across the country, everywhere except the Southland, amigos. He seeemed just as proud to report that freeway traffic was heavy, the way Chicagoans secretly enjoy corruption scandals and New Yorkers get a kick out of muggings in Central Park.
Jessie didn’t need the radio man to tell her about the traffic; she was stuck in it. She changed the station. The Levi’s commercial came on. Pat played his ringing line. Jessie could see him turning his hips into the guitar body as he ran up the scale. Sure. Levi’s. Hips. They knew what they were doing. She switched him off.
Jessie ran out of gas just before the Seal Beach exit. For a minute or two, sitting in the breakdown lane, she didn’t even know what had gone wrong. Then she saw the gauge. “Shit, shit, shit.” She pounded the steering wheel, once, twice, but didn’t cry. She was all cried out.
By the time she reached the cemetery, they were sliding the coffin out of the hearse. Everyone wore sunglasses. Everyone but her. She ran up and took one of the brass handles. No one objected.
Hard Rain Page 8
