THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  He could see the unhinged glint in the chemist's eye. He'd always known Goldman was something of a bad apple, but never thought it would have come to anything like this. The man looked positively rattled. Jesus, why now? Reid knew he had little choice but to confront Goldman before he stormed from the building. Conscious of the approaching generals, he swallowed hard and pulled his semiautomatic handgun from out of its holster. He moved forward to block the chemist's path. 'Excuse me, Mr Goldman, but I insist you– '

  Reid was cut off in mid-sentence from an upright palm driven into his chest. The corporal reeled back and banged his head on the edge of the Formica-top table, before falling backward and hitting his head on the floor.

  He was down for the count.

  'Goldman!' General Kaplan's booming voice drifted through the woolly clouds of Reid's concussed mind ...

  Goldman spun round at the sound of his name; not knowing until then that the men were behind him. The group moved toward him with General Kaplan in the lead. Goldman didn't recognize two men, then a fourth older man sidestepped his colleagues to get a better view of the action. An aura of importance radiated from this silver-haired man, and Goldman sensed he occupied a summital position in the military hierarchy.

  In any case, Goldman was still unbalanced from the raw emotion that had erupted in him upstairs. His temples throbbed, his eyes verged with tears and his fingers clenched like the talons of a predatory bird. He turned back to Reid who lay sprawled on the floor, seemingly unconscious. His handgun rested near the curled fingers of his right hand. Goldman blinked in disbelief as if coming to his senses. What had he done? His mind swirled and he couldn't get his bearings. He was stranded in a tidal moment he could easily drown in. He hadn't come to terms with what he'd learned on the Milnet system upstairs. It didn't seem right that a man's life could be snuffed out like an unwanted pawn on a board. Having discovered the political reason behind his father's murder, Goldman wanted to lay blame, direct and scathing, at someone's feet.

  And he'd found that someone: General Alexander Turner.

  The cassette-tape hidden on Goldman spelled out everything plainly enough. He would listen to the tape over and again, he knew. His life had been torn into a thousand pieces since his father's death, and his wife's death shortly thereafter. All he'd wanted was to raise a family, to be a husband and father. Why had his promising new life in America been reduced to this hellish moment? His former life seemed so long ago as he stood with bunched fists in the cold light of the corridor. A time when his father had squinted from the morning sun, a time when Rachel was enlivened with the promise of a child ...

  He ground his teeth as the uniformed men advanced toward him. Pinwheels of light danced before his eyes and his stomach tightened.

  'It was a hit, a professional hit!' The cathartic outcry shot out of him and reverberated in the quiet passageway, surprising himself as much as the others. 'A coldblooded execution,' he finished off in a wavering voice.

  A group of base personnel appeared at the far end of the corridor. Some of them streamed into locker rooms while others made their way to the front doors, boisterously keen for the coming weekend.

  'Goldman!' General Kaplan moved with bunched fists towards his downed son-in-law, his face flush with anger. Goldman tensed as the brigadier general approached, his own fists primed for combat. But he realized Kaplan and these men were hardly to blame for his father's murder. That special honour was reserved for General Turner alone.

  The chemist did an about-turn. He glanced at an immobile Reid mumbling on the floor, and regretted knocking him down. Again everything seemed so wrong, so terribly awry, like a dream he would wake from once his alarm clock announced the start of another working day. He shoved open the plate glass door and headed for his car outside.

  Reid stirred and regained his senses. He snatched up his 92FS Beretta handgun and scrambled to his feet. General Kaplan knew Reid wasn't one to back down from an aggressor. He wouldn't allow the likes of Goldman to get the better of him. The corporal had had a wild man reputation during his Advanced Individual Training days at Fort Jackson. Stories of bar brawling, no less. Kaplan could see his son-in-law was up for a fight; indeed the general would have been disappointed if Reid hadn't been.

  Kaplan knew there were legal and disciplinary issues at stake. Civilians couldn't attack military personnel with impunity, especially on a military base. Goldman wasn't going to walk away scot free from the likes of this. No way.

  A headstrong Kaplan shouldered open one of the plate-glass doors.

  'Wait, general,' Turner ordered.

  Kaplan stopped against the half-open door. 'Excuse me, sir. But this is my business and I intend to – '

  'No, wait!'

  'But general,' Kaplan implored. He heard Goldman's car come to life on the lot outside. Reid brushed past his father-in-law and glared in the direction of Goldman's revving car, his handgun's safety disengaged. He was fired up, ready to give chase to his attacker, even as he cringed from a bolt of lower back pain.

  'Stay where you are,' Turner ordered both men. Reid spun around with a defiant glint in his eye.

  'Trust me, gentlemen,' Turner said through pursed lips. 'I know what I'm doing.' Of course his underlying message wasn't lost on Kaplan: You better do it my way or else.

  Kaplan stared mutinously at the three-star general. But Turner's steely look locked Kaplan in place, as surely as the sound of Goldman's car filled Kaplan's ears. Kaplan looked through the glass door: the absconding chemist's brake lights flashed red as his car neared the front gate. Kaplan winced at the chance slipping through his fingers. God, he wanted to kick butt. Anyone's. Hell, he didn't even like Turner. A part of him wanted to set upon the visiting general there and then. Push the uppity bastard about. Who did the old coot think he was? Throwing his weight around like he owned the damned place.

  Kaplan thought back to the meeting in his office. Turner had talked about the worsening situation in the Middle East and the need for increased security at Silverwood Chemical Centre. Apparently Iraq wanted to get its hands on more chemical weapons for its war with Iran. Turner had learned that certain Iraq-friendly hawks in the government were planning to use Silverwood Centre's stores surreptitiously for the venture. Turner didn't want this to happen.

  Turner also mentioned Goldman. Apparently the chemist had been put under surveillance on suspicion of smuggling classified drugs from his workplace (which didn't surprise Kaplan; though he suspected a lack of concrete evidence had stymied any early move on the chemist).

  The upshot of the meeting had been that Silverwood's Centre's security was to be upgraded, especially in stock accountability terms, and the reason behind this upgrade wasn't to be shared with other personnel. Turner then dropped the bomb Kaplan would be transferred to Nevada sometime in the forseeable future; though he stressed the transfer wasn't related to any of the aforementioned issues, or to any lack on Kaplan's part. Basically Turner had been tight-lipped about everything, preferring to keep the meeting on a formal footing. However his physical presence in Kaplan's office only underscored how seriously he wanted security upgraded at Silverwood Centre.

  Now, Kaplan uncurled his fists as Reid reluctantly re-holstered his handgun. A chatty group of personnel stopped at the doors and plopped their bags on the Formica-top table. One of them asked what the commotion had been about. Reid didn't answer but waved the group on after saying there was no bag inspection today. Kaplan nodded approvingly, as did many of the leaving men and women.

  'Listen up, men,' Turner said, 'there's another way to find out what's got into our ill-mannered friend.' He scratched the underside of his chin and pointed at the stairs Goldman had stormed down. 'Those stairs lead up to the computer room, don't they, general?'

  Kaplan nodded, his barrel chest tight with tension. A peppering of heartburn only added to his churlish mood. “It was a professional hit!” played uncomfortably in Kaplan's mind. What on earth had Goldman meant by it? No doubt the outburst
hadn't escaped General Turner's attention, either. Whatever the hell was going on Kaplan couldn't make any sense of it.

  Reid stepped aside and said goodnight to a trio of chirpy servicewomen. The two DIA inspectors who'd witnessed everything scoffed discreetly over a shared remark.

  'Excuse me, gentlemen,' Turner said with a seasoned delivery born from decades of command. Kaplan and the others turned towards him, though more from dutiful obligation than anything else.

  'By now Goldman probably thinks the worse that'll come of this incident is he'll be charged with assault and sacked ... as well as blacklisted from any future military employment.' General Turner shook his head and chuckled. 'I'm sure our wild and woolly friend would be only too happy not to work for us again. And he knows any half-baked lawyer will get him off doing time over a minor-assault charge. In any case, I'm sure our man ...'

  Turner nodded toward Reid.

  'Corporal Reid,' Kaplan said.

  'I'm sure our man Reid here wouldn't want to press charges over a minor incident like this.'

  Reid nodded and stared with bottled emotion at the floor. Kaplan could see his displeasure at being slotted as “our man Reid”. Undoubtedly his head still hurt from when he'd banged it. Undoubtedly he wanted to hit Goldman and exact a fitting revenge. But of course General Turner had stopped him from equaling the score. Reid could barely mask his dislike of the visiting general; and the moment proved one of those rare times when Kaplan experienced a bonding affinity with his son-in-law.

  'Goldman,' Turner said, 'will realize he's legally obligated to turn up here Monday morning. He'll also realize that due to his violent outburst tonight we'll probably take him to court for breach of his employment contract should he decide not to grace our doorstep again. No, he won't run on us, general. I'll wager he's decided to go home, reasonably confident there won't be an official knock on his door tonight. Very likely he's pegged Reid as a man who wouldn't press charges over being roughed up a little. No, I'm sure Goldman will take one day at a time until Monday morning rolls around, uncomfortable as it will be for him.'

  General Kaplan let the glass door slip shut, uncertain of his superior's estimation, particularly about a hothead like Goldman. The civilian chemist seemed to have lost his mind altogether. Over what Kaplan intended to find out. Thank God Goldman's employment contract had nearly expired. Kaplan would make sure the chemist never set foot in a military establishment again.

  General Turner locked eyes with Kaplan. 'As you should know, general, the DIA has monitored Goldman's apartment and telephone.'

  A dark smirk spread across Corporal Reid's face. Kaplan could see him visualizing all kinds of messy endings for Goldman.

  General Turner glanced outside, then turned his eagle eye on Kaplan. 'It won't take long until Goldman tells someone why he's upset. And when he does you can be sure everything he says will be recorded on evidence-admissible tape. So lighten up, general, there's no cause for alarm. Goldman's well and truly in our web. He's boxed himself into a tight corner.' Turner fixed his commanding gaze on the men. 'Of course, it goes without saying, gentlemen, that what I've told you now is highly confidential.'

  'Yes, of course, sir.' Kaplan's stony face and folded arms spoke of his dislike for the meddlesome general.

  As if sensing his underlying mood, Turner asked forthrightly, 'You have access to the computer room upstairs, general?'

  Kaplan nodded.

  'Good. Could you take me up there?'

  Kaplan nodded again and the two generals headed for the stairs. General Kaplan glanced back at Reid, who was dusting himself down, and thought, You didn't even get a chance to point that pistol, did you, son?

  FIFTEEN

  Belize Cheraz keyed the ignition and pumped the gas pedal of her sun-faded Impala. Its tired motor sputtered to life. She switched on the headlights and reversed back until tapping the front bumper of the car behind. After checking her side mirror she pulled on to a quiet side street in Highlandtown, East Baltimore. She and her sister had recently moved into one of the street's brick row-houses after a lengthy stay with their uncle in Parkville.

  'God, I hate it here,' Manuela said, as they drove past the dim display window of a Mediterranean bakery. 'It's so ethnic, so cramped.' Though plump and matronly, her sparkling brown eyes and unblemished skin belied her advancing years. Belize and her sister were part of the 100,000-plus Cubans ferried on countless boats from Mariel Harbour to Miami earlier that year. With the intention of letting certain Cubans join their relatives in the United States, Fidel Castro's government had crowded the boats with many political and criminal undesirables.

  Belize and Manuela couldn't have differed more in makeup and background. Manuela had helped publish El Ricardo, an underground anti-Castro newsletter which she and fellow activists published bi-monthly on the campus of Havana University. She and a colleague were arrested after spraying EL MARXISMO ES MIERDA on the outside wall of Havana Coliseum late at night. After confessing her role in the production of El Ricardo, she was promptly sent to jail. After serving a small part of her sentence, she and several activist friends were placed on one of the America-bound boats.

  Belize in turn had been a popular singer at Tropicana, a ritzy Havana nightclub favoured by Cuban and Russian officials. Her husky voice and fiery looks soon captivated a handsome and entrepreneurial Cuban finance minister. Having misappropriated sizable chunks of Soviet aid money, the gallivanting minister had kept his mistress from Tropicana in a lavish apartment, spoiling her with expensive furs, dresses, jewellry and shoes. However the minister's misuse of funds was eventually uncovered.

  Unwilling to testify against her lover in court, and accused of hiding many of the fine things given her, Belize was sent to jail over the scandalous affair that made headlines across her island country. And like her older sister she too was placed on one of the Miami-bound boats.

  After spending long and hellish months in Tent City, a makeshift refugee camp under a concrete overpass, Belize and her sister were finally granted US Permanent Immigrant status. They took the first available bus to Baltimore. Ousted by Castro in '59, Roberto Renaldo took his nieces into his Parkville home, and before long had them working as checkout operators in his Towson supermarket.

  Belize turned on the wipers as drizzle made distorted little flower patterns on the windshield. The sparse rain looked like early sleet in the light of the sodium lamps lining Amity Street.

  'My God.' Manuela peered through her lightly misted window. 'No wonder Edgar Allen Poe wrote so many stories here. All the row-houses with their old marble steps. It's damn gloomy.'

  'Madre del diablo!' Belize gunned her rattly Chevrolet through an amber light. 'You're the one who's gloomy, with your head in books all the time. But tonight, for once, you're going to have a good time.' She cocked a thumb toward her breast. 'Courtesy of your little sister here.'

  Haslow turned up the car radio as The Eagles broke into the chorus of Lyin' Eyes. He sang along to the song acutely aware he hadn't felt this good for a long time (of course several shots of scotch before leaving home had complemented his mood perfectly). He stopped at a red light and checked the rear-view mirror. Amazingly no one was behind him except a scraggly teenage kid in a beat-up Mazda sedan. He looked ahead. Congested lanes of headlights shone at him from across the intersection.

  Friday evening.

  The hordes were out for a slice of the night's action, impatient for the restaurants, bars and clubs in the crowded heart of the city. Haslow powered his BMW through the green light, grateful to be bound for the outer suburbs.

  He still wanted to leave his job. He wasn't sure what procedures and legalities were involved, but come Monday he would find out. He no longer had a binding contract to speak of and, well, that was that. All that mattered now was he have a good time at Goldman's dinner party. He glanced at the unopened bottle of scotch on the passenger seat beside him: ample fuel for the hours ahead.

  Along with the usual bills, he'd found a tra
vel brochure in his letterbox. A special holiday saver to Thailand with a stopover in Hawaii had grabbed his attention. He thought about an old university friend now living in Bangkok. The same friend had invited Haslow more than once to visit him. Dropping in on Chuan Suttarom seemed a good start for his around-the-world holiday. For past hours agreeable imaginings had played in his mind. The last had him drinking cocktails at the Hilton Hawaiian Village. A rich divorcee snuggled against him, he and his lovely companion whiling away the hours as if truly fated for the good life. Yes, anything was possible now he'd decided to up and leave his old life. His only problem lay in getting too ahead of himself. He would have to take one day at a time until he found himself on a 747 heading for another part of the globe.

  He continued along the street, pleasured by the hum of his precision German motor. A nervy excitement prickled his scalp. Things were looking up. It wasn't everyday he had a blind date. And come what may he would make a night of it.

  Without indicating, Belize Cheraz swerved into the poorly lit cul-de-sac. Her sun-faded Impala idled past a parked van with SEA VIEW PLANT HIRE painted decoratively along its sides. She parked at a careless angle across the back end of the cul-de-sac. The sisters climbed from the Impala, straightening clothes and fixing hair.

  'How do I look?' Belize flicked a smoked cigarette onto the rain-spattered asphalt and jutted her body at a proud angle.

  'Like when you worked that seedy joint back home,' Manuela said evenly.

  Belize cussed and made to spit at her sister. 'Listen, cabron. We're here to have a good time. I don't want you and your attitude screwing things up. Relax, be sociable. You never know, you just might get laid.' She spun on her heel and headed for the steps leading to Goldman's apartment.

  'Listen,' Manuela said. 'Getting laid isn't everyone's idea of – '

  'Come, come.' Belize beckoned with an impatient wave of her hand. 'You're always behind.'

  The sandy-haired man in the back of the black surveillance van, a Quadra loop receiving antenna concealed along one side of its roof, reached for the microphone attached to the instrument panel in front of him. A blinking red light announced an incoming transmission. He unclipped the microphone and a recessed speaker on the panel came to life: “Sea View One, this is Base One. Control has issued two back-up units. Expect General Turner's arrival. Over.”