The door opened and Henry Kissinger strode into the room, followed by Vince Milligrew. Ed sat and watched them, feeling guilty and exposed, until he remembered that he was sitting in the National Security Advisor’s chair. He moved very quickly to a less comfortable seat on the other side of the desk. Kissinger plopped himself down in his own chair and folded his hands on the desktop.
“Mr. Bismuth,” Kissinger said. “I have heard many things about you. You’ve met Mulberry?”
Ed glanced at Danny. “We’ve met.”
“These two are my helpers,” Kissinger explained. “You’ve met Mr. Milligrew. Everyone calls him Major, although he is not a major.”
The blond-haired soldier gazed stonily at Ed.
“He’s not happy with you,” Kissinger said.
Ed swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
“I don’t like being fooled,” said Milligrew. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you on the spot.”
“That would have raised some eyebrows, eh?” said the Doctor with a chuckle. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
Ed laughed awkwardly at the comment, while watching for some sign of black smoke coming from Kissinger’s head. Jonathan Mason had seemed so sure that the National Security Advisor was close to Urizen’s infection, yet Ed saw no smoke coming around him. Was it possible that Kissinger was not infected? And if he wasn’t, how could Mason be wrong about such an important thing?
“You were looking for the combination to my safe inside his head, weren’t you?” said Kissinger. He spoke without any hint of emotion; perfectly stoic, a German machine. “I’m sure this was not a fruitful exercise. Mr. Milligrew knows how to protect such sensitive information. There was never any chance of getting into my safe.”
Danny leaned forward and said, helpfully, “He got into the safe, sir.”
Kissinger, clearly caught off guard, regarded Ed with a startled expression. “How?”
Ed found himself squirming under that gaze. It seemed the man was not aware of the slip of paper taped to the wall, or had forgotten about it. “I found a document in your safe,” Ed said, hoping to redirect the conversation. “Something called Nov―”
“I’m not interested in discussing anything you found in my safe.”
“But if I could just ask you―”
“No,” said Kissinger. “I’ve heard enough. When Mulberry told me one of the Plumbers was planning to break into my office, my first thought was to notify the Secret Service. But that would have been rash.” He sat back in his chair, which creaked irritably, and folded his hands on the desk. “No, I want you to take a message to the Plumbers for me. Tell them they are out of their depth. They are not to bother me again, or the consequences will be severe. Can you remember that, or shall I write it down?”
“I’ll remember,” Ed mumbled.
“I trust you are finished going through my private papers?”
“I think so, yes,” Ed said. “Sir.”
The look Kissinger gave him was difficult to interpret. Ed thought he saw a hint of a smile, if that was possible. Milligrew nudged Ed firmly on the shoulder, implying that it was time for him to get up and go. Danny held the door open for him.
“You think so.” Kissinger sighed. “Milligrew, Mulberry… see him out.”
* * *
Milligrew and Danny guided Ed to the exit and walked him out to Pennsylvania Avenue. Milligrew held Ed’s arm tightly the whole time, as if he thought Ed was going to break away and run. Once they were outside the White House grounds, Milligrew said, “Hank. A word.” He took Danny aside and they had an animated conversation while Ed had a cigarette to settle his nerves. His tuxedo jacket was thoroughly damp with sweat, and he was starting to shiver in the cool night air.
They finished their discussion and Milligrew left, giving Ed a dark glare as he went. Danny came over, gave Ed one more cold stare for good measure, then wrapped him in a mighty hug that knocked the wind out of him.
“It’s good to see you, man,” Danny said. “You’re looking great. Look at that haircut!”
“Thank God you recognized me,” said Ed. “I thought you’d been brainwashed.” He took a long pull on his cigarette and tried to stop his hands from shaking.
“Bugs,” Danny explained.
“Bugs?”
“In his office. We’re not allowed to talk about anything we don’t want Nixon’s people to hear. Sensitive stuff has to be discussed outside, where they can’t put microphones.”
“Your mother will be glad to know you’re not dead.”
“You can’t tell her I’m here,” Danny said quickly. “Nobody’s supposed to know.”
Ed blew out a big cloud of smoke. “That’s not cool, Danny. She deserves to know the truth.”
“How is she?” Danny asked.
Ed looked up at the stars, thinking about how to answer. “I think it would help her if she knew you weren’t dead.”
This statement had a visible effect on Danny; his face tightened and he stood up a little straighter, as if he gained some strength from better posture. Ed noticed that his friend was considerably more muscular than when he had last seen him. But the difference went beyond physical changes. Something in his eyes had changed as well. Ed felt a pang of regret at sending Danny to do his work for him.
“What about Alice?” said Danny.
“She’s fine. Ching, too. They’re all staying at your mother’s house with Baxter and Mr. Fu.”
Danny inhaled sharply. “Baxter? What’s he doing there?”
“Fu called him in when the three-headed man was chasing me. He works for―”
“I know who he works for. He’s a scoundrel, same as his boss. I can’t believe Ma would even let him near the family.” He paused, frowning. “Did you say there’s a three-headed man?”
“Yeah. He blew up my apartment and sent firemen to kill me. I got away, though.”
Danny gave him an odd look. “What about Sarah? Was she hurt by the… by the firemen?”
Ed hesitated. “She… wasn’t home that night. I haven’t talked to Sarah in a while.”
“Oh.”
There was a long, difficult silence.
“When did you get back from Vietnam?” Ed asked, wanting to move on to a happier subject. “What happened over there? How did you get involved with… with these people? And did you find the green monkey?”
Danny’s face brightened at the mention of the monkey. “I am a green monkey!” he said. In answer to Ed’s bewildered expression, he said, “Here, get a load of this.” He took off his jacket and handed it to Ed, then unbuttoned the cuff of his right sleeve and rolled it up almost to his shoulder. On his upper arm was a tattoo: a stylized profile of a monkey inside a circular border. It looked black under the streetlights, but Ed thought he saw a hint of green. He stared at it for some time, trying to make sense of what it might mean.
“Dr. Kissinger saved me from a bad situation,” said Danny. “I owe him my life. That’s what the monkey tattoo means. He took care of me, and now I work for him. And you have to call me Hank.”
“Hank,” Ed repeated. “There’s a lot I need to know, Hank.”
“The Doctor likes to eat at a place called Old Hickory. Do you know it?”
Ed nodded. “Best potatoes au gratin in the District.”
Danny made a face. “I’ll never understand American food. Be there tomorrow evening at seven. The Doctor can tell you everything you need to know. And listen.” Danny lowered his voice and leaned closer. “These Plumbers you’re hanging around with… they’re no good. I can’t get a reading on any of them. No sparks at all. Whoever they’re working for, he’s protecting them somehow, blocking their thoughts so I can’t see them. You get what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Whatever tricks you know, they won’t work with these guys. Be careful.”
Ed took a deep, calming breath. “I will.”
Danny took out a pencil and an old business card from his pocket and wrote something on the back
of it. “In case you need to reach me,” he said, holding the card out to Ed.
“I don’t want to reach you,” said Ed. Danny looked hurt. “I mean, you’re better off if I don’t.”
“Just take the stupid card.”
Ed sighed and took it, putting it in his pocket.
“It’s good to see you, man,” Danny said. Then he walked quickly away across Lafayette Square, leaving Ed alone.
“Good to see you too, Hank,” Ed whispered, long after Danny was out of earshot.
28
Howard Johnson
On Tuesday morning, the day after Labor Day, Rayfield dropped Joy off at work in the blue Volkswagen bus before driving in to his own job downtown. He had landed an office job with a company that made electronic components for televisions. The job paid well, and it gave Rayfield a chance to tinker with electrical stuff. He was fascinated by gadgets. More importantly, he was pleased as punch to be a working professional. He looked quite handsome in the shirt and tie that he wore to work every day.
Joy loved the blue bus. Perla had handed the keys back to Joy—who was its rightful owner—when she’d moved back to Denver. Joy loved all the colorful stickers and the big, happy tinfoil genitals mounted on the front.
“You have a fun day, now,” Rayfield said after giving her a kiss. He always said that, and it always made her smile. Then he drove away, stickers fluttering in the breeze, and Joy smiled to herself as she watched him go. The silver phallus on the front of the microbus glittered proudly in the early-morning sun.
On an ordinary day, Joy would unlock the office door, get some coffee going, and work on her screenplay until the doctor arrived. Today, however, turned out to be out of the ordinary.
Sharon, the girl from the cardiologist’s office downstairs, was standing in front of the building looking rather upset. “Oh, Joy!” she said. “Can you believe it?”
Joy didn’t know what Sharon was talking about, so she just smiled. “I can’t believe it,” she said.
“I can’t believe it either,” said Sharon. “It’s just so unbelievable.” She turned and went into the cardiologist’s office, shaking her head.
Joy was shaking her head, too, as she went up the steps to let herself into Dr. Fielding’s office. Sharon had a reputation for being a bit flighty, and Joy (being a very practical, down-to-earth sort of person) just could not figure her out.
But by the time she got to the office door, she had changed her mind about Sharon. Somebody had broken into the office. The door had been forced open; there were wood splinters all over the carpet and the doorframe was bent. “Unbelievable!” she whispered.
Joy had seen a few crime scenes in her days at the newspaper back home. She knew not to touch anything. Taking a handkerchief out of her purse, she pushed the door open. The office was an absolute mess. Papers were scattered everywhere, and the drawers had been pulled out of her desk and emptied upside-down on the floor. Even her potted plant had not been left unmolested: someone had pulled the plant out of its soil and smashed the pot against the wall, leaving the poor plant to die on the floor. Joy, who had talked to that plant every day since she had bought it, was horrified. She was even more horrified when she saw several pages of her screenplay, wrinkled and torn and discarded on the floor. She looked at these for a moment, fighting the impulse to pick them up. She knew she shouldn’t touch anything, but she couldn’t stand to see her precious manuscript scattered all over the floor. Deciding that the pages were her own property and she could do with them as she pleased, she picked them up, un-crumpled them, and placed them in a loose stack on her desk to be sorted out later.
The doctor’s inner office was in even worse condition. Every breakable object in the room had been smashed, and some white pills had been scattered across the floor. The doctor had two cabinets, one made of wood and one of metal, and both had been quite thoroughly wrecked. The metal filing cabinet was bent out of shape and the doors no longer fit properly in the frame. Papers were scattered all over the floor.
There was a ringing in Joy’s ears that made it difficult to think. After a moment she realized this was not her ears after all, but the sound of her desk phone ringing. She let it ring several times until it went silent.
“Do you think the burglar is still in here?” Sharon asked from the doorway behind her. Apparently she had followed Joy up the stairs. She poked her head into the room and looked around, uttering little gasps every so often as if just seeing it all for the first time.
“I think,” said Joy, “we would already have seen him if he was still here.” There was no place to hide in the tiny office. “Have you called the police?”
Sharon nodded. “They’re on the way. What’s that? Drugs? Is that why they broke in, do you think?” She was pointing at the pills on the floor. But Joy was looking at a folder and a pile of papers that had been left on top of the desk. The folder had been stepped on—there was a big muddy footprint on it—but it had been picked up and left on the desk. That made it seem important. The tab on the edge of the folder had a name printed in large capital letters: DANIEL ELLSBERG.
“I don’t know,” Joy sighed. “Leave it for the police.”
It took her several minutes to convince Sharon that she would be better off waiting downstairs in the cardiologist’s office. Once alone, Joy set her chair upright, flopped down in it, and began to sort through her screenplay pages. They were not numbered, so putting them back in order would be a significant project. “Stupid burglar,” she muttered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Why would anyone break into a doctor’s office? There wasn’t any cash around. Looking for drugs, maybe, as Sharon had suggested. Or they want everyone to think they were looking for drugs, she thought.
Ellsberg. That name sounded familiar to her. She knew she had read it not long ago, perhaps in the newspaper. Joy had a good memory for names. She recalled that there had been a patient named Daniel who had come to the office for treatment. He hadn’t been around in a while. Daniel had always been very nice to Joy.
The police were taking their time, so she went back to the doctor’s office to survey the damage. Most of the mess consisted of papers; it seemed that every file in the cabinets had been emptied and discarded, as if the burglar had been looking for something in the doctor’s files.
Returning to her desk, she noticed a blue piece of paper among the pages of her screenplay. Somehow she had not seen it before. There were words scribbled on it, as though written in extreme haste.
yellow hair girl
i am a slav
please help m—
The last letter ended in a line that continued to the edge of the paper, as though the person had been pulled away while still writing. She stared at the paper for some time. Yellow hair girl. It was addressed directly to her. How had the burglar known about her?
Then her thoughts returned to the two strange men who had been sneaking around a few days before. Neither of them had appeared Slavic, as the note indicated. One of them had said something about being Cuban. But they had seemed quite suspicious to Joy, and they had been taking all those pictures.
The police arrived a few minutes later. Joy considered showing them the blue paper, but it had been addressed to her, not them. She slipped it into her purse just as an LAPD officer entered the office. He didn’t seem too concerned about fingerprints; he grabbed the doorknob with his bare hand and thought nothing of it.
“Looks like a break-in,” he said as he examined the splintered wood around the doorframe.
Another officer joined him; he knelt down and picked up a piece of wood from the carpet. “Somebody forced their way in through here,” he observed.
Soon there were seven policemen in the small office, chatting and taking photographs. The first one to arrive—his name was Harris—asked Joy several questions about how she had found things. He had an abrupt manner and she didn’t like the way he spoke to her, so she did not go out of her way to be helpful. She was still thinking about that note, now safe
ly tucked away. Please help m.
The psychiatrist came in a short time later. He looked absolutely stricken when he saw the scene in the office. His face fell and he had tears in his eyes. Joy felt bad for him. The police evidently didn’t feel bad for him at all. They took him to his office and asked him questions for a while. Then, just as they seemed to be on a roll, one of them got a call on his radio. He went out to the hallway, where Joy heard him talking quietly for several minutes. “We’ll call it off, then,” she heard him say. “I’ll report it as likely drug-related, no investigation needed.” Then he came back in to round up the others, and they began packing up to leave.
“Wait,” Joy said, following the last policeman out into the corridor. “Who do you think did this?”
The officer shrugged. “We’ve got another call. Someone will be in touch.”
“Why won’t you be investigating it? Who were you talking to on the radio?”
The policeman looked quite irritated with her. Joy wasn’t afraid of ticking people off. When she’d worked on her one major story for the newspaper, the one that had gotten her fired, she had taken it as a positive sign when people became agitated by her questions. “HQ,” he said. “Someone will be in touch.”
You already said that, Joy thought, and she was pretty sure that no one would be in touch. The investigation had been shut down before it had even begun. But by whom?
* * *
“They were extremely rude,” Joy said. Her sweet little black pug, Buns, hopped up into her lap and gave her a kiss. Buns could always tell when Joy needed a smooch.
She was home in her little apartment with Rayfield and his friend Terry. Terry Melcher had known Rayfield during his days with the Guru, and was one of the few people they could talk to about some of the strange things they had experienced since meeting Ed Terwilliger.
“Wish I’d been there,” Rayfield said. He always became agitated when people weren’t nice to Joy. Buns, still sitting on her lap, added his own low growl of disapproval. Joy scratched him behind the ears—Buns, not Rayfield—and he wagged his tail and sniffed at the BLAKE PEACE button she wore pinned to her shirt. She had found the button in a novelty shop on Melrose, and had been quite startled to see Ed’s face on it. The shop owner had told her the box of assorted buttons had come in from New York, but didn’t know anything else about it.
The Music of the Machine (The Book of Terwilliger 2) Page 40
