The 4 Phase Man

by Richard Steinberg

  “I look worried to you, Goldman?”

  Xenos sighed deeply. “You look … dead.”

  Franco walked over to the Englishman, hatred and murder in his eyes, and dropped a bloodred scarf to the floor in front of him. “Burn in Hell, verme schifoso!”

  Canvas smiled. “See you there, darling.”

  Franco spit in the man’s face, then turned, stalking back to Xenos.

  The two men (Xenos and Canvas—once Jerry Goldman, talented young musician; and Colin Meadows, aspiring artist) looked at each other, into each other, then Canvas nodded.

  “Pas de mort?” he asked quietly. “I always appreciated the romantic in you. Most didn’t, I know. But I found it one of your most attractive qualities, old son.” He picked up an end of the long scarf and tied it tightly around his left wrist.

  Xenos walked forward slowly, picking up the other end of the scarf, tying it around his left wrist. “You won’t suffer. You have my word.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  Xenos nodded, then spoke in a loud, demanding voice; directed not at Canvas, but at the rest of the crowd.

  “Gentlemen, may we have this room.”

  They filed out quickly. Franco the last to go, flashing lightning stares at Canvas, whose eyes remained locked with the man tied to him, less than five feet away.

  And they were alone.

  In the silence of the never finished floor, they contemplated their lives, their sins, their gained and missed opportunities. And they deeply weighed the mirror in front of them.

  “Good-bye, Colin,” Xenos said as he pulled a ten-inch-blade Randall assault knife from his duster.

  Canvas abruptly reached out with both hands, grabbed Xenos’s head with his hands, and pulled it close for a long hard kiss on the lips.

  “The only way for legends to die!” he shouted. He stepped back, pulling out a fourteen-inch Bowie knife.

  Xenos stepped back until the scarf was stretched taut between them.

  And the dance began.

  Eighteen

  The snow was falling harder as the Lincoln stopped in front of the hamburger stand just long enough for the heavily bundled-up person to get in.

  “Do you need to come in?” the driver asked.

  “No,” the passenger replied. “I’m clean.”

  “Do you need to deliver anything?”

  “No.”

  “Are you intact?”

  “I’ve detected no changes in the flow across my desk, in my assignments. My phone was clean as of 1450, and I’ve detected no surveillance.”

  “Very well.” Buckley pulled onto the lightly trafficked service roads that ran for miles from the rural airport. “How are you, Michael?”

  “Good, sir.”

  “It’s been an interesting time.”

  The star witness at the Buckley Commission hearings on Apple Blossom nodded. “It has.”

  Buckley concentrated on the rearview mirror. “It’s hard not being able to talk.”

  Michael nodded his agreement. “After what’s happened, I wouldn’t feel comfortable with it anyway.”

  Buckley just studied the mirror. “Have you decided what you want to do?”

  “Well,” Michael said as he considered, “they’re pretty much leaving it up to me. But I think they want me to take the network commentator job with WIN for a couple of years, maybe the radio show too. Then run against Kingston for your old seat in 2002.” He paused thoughtfully. “They’ve done right by me so far.” He looked up at Buckley. “Been right for both of us.”

  “Agreed.” The recently sworn-in attorney general frowned. “I’ve received new instructions, he said after a long silence.”

  Michael was paying close attention. “I thought maybe that was it.”

  “Our friends,” the slightly older man said softly, “believe we might carve out the right identity by engaging in the morals debate.”

  “Gay bashing or church burning? Michael answered easily.”

  “Neither, actually. They suggested that—given the mood in the country after Apple’s fall—we focus on the lack of morality in our educational system. How Jeff was a product of the overliberalization of our schools and such.” He hesitated. “Any ideas?”

  Michael thought for a moment. “Teachers espousing the legalization of drugs, administrators allowing high school kids with babies to bring them to class, student athletes using steroids and such?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Maybe I can link it with administrators and teachers who went to college in Europe, make it a grand Chinese conspiracy to destroy the moral fabric of America,” Michael said as he warmed to the idea.

  Buckley held up a restraining hand. “Let’s not push that too hard.”He pulled up in front of the air terminal. “Your boss’s recklessness didn’t rub off on you, did it… Blossom?”

  Michael smiled. “Not a chance … Cactus.”

  “To the next few months, then.”

  “To the eight years beyond that,” Michael added soberly.

  “To the eight, then,” Buckley said as the man opened the door, letting some snow in, “and to your eight after that.”

  Cactus Blossom vanished, like a shadow on an X ray, into the snowy night.

  And the possibilities beyond.

  It was more atoll than island. A pacific paradise that mocked the winter that the rest of the world was shivering beneath. Warm gentle winds caressed pure white beaches, and crystalline blue water lapped at the few rocks, which added magnificent texture to the postcard scene.

  “I hear they finally sell this place, but I no really believe it. They ask so much money!”

  But the big man who stood solemnly in the bow of the small boat ignored the captain.

  “You gonna build your house or maybe big hotel for all the rich fools pay to see this shit?” Again, no answer. “Hey! Mister! What are you, antisocial or something?”

  But the glare that burned its way through the sunglasses the man wore above a bruised and scarred face was enough to silence the captain for the remainder of the trip.

  In his life he had seen Pacific smugglers, Solomon Island pirates who would kill you for your fillings, and aboriginal islanders who still believed in cannibalism … and worse.

  But, the captain decided, he would rather spend a weekend with any of them than anger the man behind the glasses.

  They pulled up onto the beach, the captain was instructed to wait, and the man set off into the interior with only a backpack.

  He walked for twenty minutes, following an inlet to a breathtakingly beautiful lagoon filled with fish, and flowers, and entente. He inhaled deeply, took off his glasses to prevent any filtration of the natural wonders of this Heaven on earth.

  Here, the man believed, peace was a living thing. Still wild and untamed and undeterred by man’s stupidities and pettiness. Here peace was a force of such dominance and majesty that all who lie in its wake must be healed and renewed. Here was Heaven on earth!

  After ten minutes of taking it—inhaling it—in, the man shucked off his pack, reached inside, pulling out a simple aluminum box. He walked to the edge of the water, ignored the tears that were welling up in his eyes, and emptied the ashes and bone fragments into the water.

  “Rest,” Xenos said softly. “Find some peace, Colin. He watched the water and wind swirl the remains, drawing it off into the paradisiacal setting.” For both of us.

  Then he stretched out next to that pacific beauty, closed his eyes, quickly falling asleep.

  The dream came right away, before his breathing could shallow and even; before his body could settle and unwind. As always, it came with blinding speed.

  He stood in the sanctuary of the hundred-year-old temple. The men in their dark suits, gray beards, tallisim and kepas in place, swaying to their own rhythms as the ancient prayers were recited. An odd cacophony of English, Yiddish, Russian, and German mutterings rising out of them.

  Upstairs, the women sat. More still, more controlled
than the men; they prayed with equal fervor but less demonstrably, as was the tradition. The old women in black, the middle women in navy or pale blues, the young women and girls in a few bright colors. But all had their shawls over their heads, their hands cupped over their eyes, their mouths moving almost silently with their prayers.

  Xenos would move among them, looking into their eyes, tasting their breaths, inhaling the women’s soapy-clean fragrances, feeling the submerged power of the men.

  He stood for the longest time by his mother—who couldn’t have been there, since she had died years before—watching as she tried hard to suppress a grin of pride and, well, ownership, in her son below. It was one of the comforts in the dream. A mother that he had barely known approving, supporting, loving.

  He would move to his father, sitting proudly, stiffly, on the dais next to the president of the synagogue. His freshly altered suit—worn only for the most special occasions—paling in comparison to the other man’s. But he prayed with more fervor, with an extra something that had been reserved for this moment when he would sit in front of the congregation. A proud father’s one and only embracement of his son’s accomplishments.

  Xenos would reach out, try to touch the old man with the scar across his forehead from a soldier’s rifle butt. But he could never quite make it. Somehow, no matter how close the dream allowed him to move, it was never close enough. So his fingers would stretch and reach and beg; but never find the man whom he most wanted to please, whom he had most disappointed.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, the old man reached out to him.

  Embracing, nurturing him, tightly and warmly, for what seemed like centuries.

  And as the big man slept beneath the palms in the warm pacific breeze, for the first time in ravaged years and a sordid adulthood, Jerry Goldman began to heal.

  Acknowledgments

  The Four Phase Man would not have been possible without the generous assistance, support, and belief of many people; both now and in the past. Too many to thank individually. So I’ll take this opportunity to thank a special few; and through them, the rest.

  Among the many are: David Schumaker; Hu Xiaoming; Sun Daqing; Paddy Jackson; Howard Tomb; Dr. Anthony Storr; Michael Newton; Steve Strasemeier, Sports Information Director at Annapolis; the wishing-to-remain-nameless aides from the staffs of Congresswomen Nancy Pelosi of California and Carolyn McCarthy of New York; Elizam Escobar and Guillermo Gomez-Pen a for their inspiration; Stan Ridgley, who has what it takes; Dr. O. K. Burger; Lieutenant Samuel Posner, LAPD (ret.); Dwight Chapin, Ron Sima, and Jack Liebling, who taught me to question everything.

  Also, some special people who can’t bring themselves to sit on the sidelines, watching and bitching. The strong men and women of the former Two Dollar Bill’s in Hollywood; La Rotunda in Rio de Janeiro; Canary Wharf in London; and Brevin’s Hole in Las Vegas.

  Their professions and life choices preclude my using their names, but their contributions to The Four Phase Man—both now and in the past—are very real and I thank them deeply.

  Thanks are also owed to: the United States Department of Justice, Bureau of Prisons; Communication Control Services (CCS); Tishman-Speyer Properties; Colt Firearms; Heckler & Koch Manufacturing; L’Direzione Soccorso di Corsicanos Internazionale; the Chinese American Foundation (San Francisco Annex); Dell Computers; Microsoft Encarta; Division of Geography & Environmental Management, University of Northumbria; the archives of the Central Intelligence Agency; Modern Military Branch of the National Archives of the United States; the New York Times; Le Monde; the Times (London); and the New York Public Library, Harriman Collection.

  Also, far from least—the able men and women of the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland, and the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York.

  Less technically, and more personally, this novel would not have been possible if not for the kindness, support, friendship, and unwavering belief of a select few.

  Particularly all of “Team Steinberg”—Jack and Marge Kratsas; Rolf and Detta Egelandsdal; Pat Glynn; Fred and Susan Boyce; Don Backer; Bill Gresham; Pat Nohrden, along with Roberta and Vivian; David Emry, and Peggy, of course; Chad Bean, as well as Stan and Cynthia; Gary Smith; and, as always, my Angels on Earth … the Aguila family—Alex, Suzanne, Tani, Ama, and Adrian.

  Bernard Kurman—along with Betty Anne Crawford—remains my most trusted face to the world. I don’t say it often enough, but Bernie, trust me, what you do is deeply appreciated and valued.

  If between the lines of The Four Phase Man you hear a distant voice lending passion, commitment, and calenture to my sometimes awkward prose, it is the voice of the magnificent Betty Buckley. I wrote every word of this book to her music, and without it the demons in the night might have won and Xenos Filotimo never found his way.

  My mother—Gloria Steinberg—is a remarkable woman. Sacrificing, nurturing, leveling when I get too full of myself, praising when I get down; she has gone well above and beyond the call in all ways. What success I have or will obtain is due to the strength and freedom she has always given me. Now, Mom, sit back and enjoy. These are your winnings.

  To the brilliant folks at the Brilliance Corporation—Eileen Hutton, Max Bloomquist, Laura Grafton, Jeremy Spanos, and my “voice,” as well as friend and partner in crime, Dick Hill—a heartfelt thanks! You bring my words to life and that is an incredible gift.

  To the best, Jane Wesman Public Relations, especially Lori Ames Stuart, thank you for your class act.

  And to Steve Rubin, Irwyn Applebaum, Erik Engstrom, Michael Palgon, Nita Taublib, Kate Miciak, as well as all the other stone pros at Bantam Doubleday Dell, my undiluted thanks. You make it easy, comfortable, and deeply satisfying and rewarding to be a part of the best publishing organization in the world!

  Shawn Coyne—to whom this novel is dedicated—said to me in our first conversation, years ago, “All you have to worry about is the writing. Let me take care of all the rest.”

  A man of his word, through three novels together he has been a painfully thorough editor, an insightful counselor, and a deeply patient advocate on those LOUD (few) times when we butted heads. All my work—and there’s damned little I care about beyond my work—has been significantly improved by his nudges, sense of humor, and insight. As I said in The Gemini Man … the editor of any writer’s dreams!

  The Four Phase Man had a troubled early life. Too troubled to detail here. It came about during one of the most hectic, chaotic periods of my life; a time of moving, injury, and pain—emotional and physical. That it did come about is a credit not only to the tolerance and caring of many of the people named above but to a special group of people at my Fifty-third Street fallout shelter in New York.

  THE PINDER LANE ALL-STARS: Nancy Coffey, Roger Hayes, Jean Free, Dick Duane, and most especially Robert Thixton are far more than literary agents, they are my extended family, my quiet refuge in a cacophonous world, and the people who have given me my life.

  They, along with you gentle readers, have—through kindness and patience—fulfilled my dreams and made my reality more glorious than any fantasy I ever had.

  Thank you all.

  Success!

  Richard Steinberg

  Somewhere in America

  Spring 1999

  About the Author

  Richard Steinberg lectures on issues that include, international security, and the history of assassinations in America. A former consultant and founder of an international high-risk security firm, Steinberg began writing full-time after recovering from a gunshot wound incurred in the line of duty. His first novel, The Gemini Man, is currently being developed for a feature film adaptation by producer Steven Hart. His most recent novel is The 4 Phase Man.

  This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  THE 4 PHASE MAN

  A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.
/>   PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Doubleday hardcover edition published May 2000

  Bantam mass market edition / March 2001

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2000 by Richard Steinberg.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-26632.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-57183-0

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its tradmark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

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