Another is the Life Beyond gambit: Paradise promised to the afflicted and downtrodden. A third strategy, called the Placebo Effect, woos potential recruits by convincing them that worldly cares and anxieties can be overcome by the single demand of faith. Duty eclipses and eliminates all earthly concerns.
But probably the most successful operational technique used in the field is based on the human need to love and be loved in return. The Corporation views love as a most powerful motivating force. A separate training manual is concerned with the varieties and complexities of affection for another.
The manual begins by terming love an “instinct” which, though it exists in every human newborn, nevertheless needs nurturing if it is to survive and thrive. The Corporation refuses to admit there may be individuals, young or old, who lack the hunger and capacity to love.
Based on this premise, field agents are instructed to lead potential recruits “up the ladder of love.” At first the subject may evince no more than a gentle kindness to a pet—dog, cat, horse, etc. Or ardor may be felt for a home, a city, a nation. Even the arts—painting, music, literature—are considered fit objects of emotional attachment.
It is the agent’s task to nourish this craving. To increase it by leading the target to a loving human relationship. This step is frequently accomplished by a process of transference in which the agent becomes the object of the subject’s fervor.
The final step, in an ideally conducted conversion, brings the pilgrim to the glory of sacred love. God becomes the love object. And in return for devotion, reveals benevolent concern for His lovers.
This “ladder of love” technique is far from infallible. But it has achieved a higher conversion rate than any other Corporation strategy. Computer studies show the most difficult step in the process is that final rung from human to sacred love. Many potential recruits cannot make an emotional commitment to a Supreme Being with no corporeal existence.
The Love Ladder plan was selected for use in the Harry Dancer campaign. The Chief of Operations reasoned that the subject had already, in his marriage, displayed a well-developed capacity to love. With the death of Dancer’s wife, the Chief supposed the subject would be eager to find another outlet for emotional attachment. Bringing him up that final degree should not have been difficult.
But the Chief has been in the business too long to assume success in any action. Like the Department’s Chairman, he is aware of the quirky and inexplicable nature of human beings. About whom nothing is predictable. Except that nothing is predictable.
61
Reason tells him their life could not have been that airy and free of strife. But memory insists. It was an existence unplagued by rancor. Aggravations were laughed away. Arguments defused with groans and kisses.
Harry Dancer remembers it as a sunny time. Did it never rain? All he can recall are shimmering tennis courts, shining beach, a light-drenched racetrack with sharp shouts and the flash of colors.
“God, are we lucky,” Sylvia kept saying.
And they’d both cross their fingers or knock on wood.
Is it true that everyone, eventually, must pay for happiness in this world? What a dour view! And yet…And yet…Give to charities. Attend church on Easter and Christmas. Try to avoid unkindness to others. Slide quietly through life, sideways, and hope the powers that be don’t take note of your bliss and mark you for doom.
It didn’t work.
Once again he is thrown back to awe of chance and accident. Events unforeseen. Then life becomes a crapshoot—does it not? Roll of a die or flick of a card. Leaving you with no control over your own destiny. We are all born in Las Vegas.
Feeling that way, immured by doubt, raddled by desperation, he snorts memory like a drug. Hungry for the rush and the high. No longer caring if he is dreaming or recalling actual events. Does it matter?
They are at an amusement park. Somewhere. Whirring rides. Cries of barkers at take-a-chance stands. Screams of children. Cotton candy. Smells of frying foods. Clicking of wheels of fortune. Surging crowd seeking the painted promise: Fun! Fun! Fun!
Sylvia is wearing a picture hat. Summery frock of yards and yards of chiffon. Sashays through the throng. Wants to try everything. Do everything.
They throw baseballs at wooden milk bottles. Crash Dodgems. Look over the entire carnival from the top of a Ferris wheel. Eat taffy. Frozen custard. Pork sausages. Drink warm beer. They giggle their way through a House of Mirrors. Gawk at the Fat Lady, Siamese Twins, Skeleton Man, a dead lamb with two heads, a strange object called Moby’s Dick.
Finally, surfeited, ready to leave, Sylvia begs for a final ride on the carousel. Harry can’t resist; the calliope is playing “Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis.” They buy tickets. Merry-go-round stops. Hop aboard. Sylvia swings onto a rampant lion. Harry mounts a haughty llama.
They begin to whirl. Now the music is “June is Bustin’ Out all Over.” Round and round they go. Grabbing for the brass ring on every turn. And missing. Sylvia has taken off her wide-brimmed hat. Beating the flanks of her lion. Like a rodeo cowboy on a bronco. Whooping and hollering. Filmy skirts billowing in the breeze.
Harry Dancer, upright on his llama, holding the leather reins tightly, feet in steel stirrups, cannot take his eyes from the image of his flying wife. She races ahead of him. Laughing. He might reach, but could never catch her.
On she speeds in mad circles. Head thrown back. Kicking her heels into the wooden beast she rides. Delighted with the swift movement. Elated with the moment. Yelping with enjoyment. Dancer finds himself leaning forward. Yearning toward her. He wants to capture that free spirit. Hold it for his own. And knows he cannot.
They drive home singing bits of carousel tunes. At one of the games of chance—tossing rings onto spikes—Harry has won, at great expense, a little teddy bear. Unaccountably, the button eyes are crossed. Sylvia cuddles the stuffed toy in her arms. Insists on calling it “Irving.”
They arrive home late. Harry mixes their first decent drink of the day: gin gimlets with wedges of lime. Kick off their shoes, slump, talk about the sensations and adventures of the day.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Sylvia says.
“Yes, it was. I’m learning.”
“Learning what?”
“How to have fun.”
Looks at him. “You have to learn that?”
“Oh yes. A lot of people—me included—don’t know how to have fun. We’ve got to be taught.”
“You’re putting me on, professor.”
“I swear I’m not. You were born with the art or skill or ability—whatever you want to call it. I was not. You’re teaching me how to do it.”
“You like it?”
“Love it. But it depresses me when I think of all the time I’ve wasted.”
“That’s part of having fun—wasting time.”
“You’re very clever,” he tells her.
“I’ve got a brain, buster. I know you married me for my 44-C cup boobs and glorious tresses so long I can sit on them—but I do think occasionally.”
“Have I ever denied it?”
“No,” she says. Smiling fondly. “You never treat me like a simp.”
“Because you’re not a simp,” he says. “A nut maybe, but not a simp.”
“Hungry?”
“You kidding? After all that junk food we had today?”
“I’m worn out. I’ll take a refill, go upstairs, shower, and turn in. Join me?”
“In a while. You go ahead. I’ll lock up.”
“See you later, pappy,” she says. Flipping a hand. Winking at him.
“I hope so.”
But after she’s gone, he doesn’t move. Sits thinking about the day’s events. It was fun. And he hadn’t lied to her about his inability to feel joy. Until he met her. But she is teaching him, and he is learning. Whole new scary world. He wouldn’t dare venture without her. Like a blood transfusion. Hot. Steamy. Same type.
He has one more gimlet. Crunching ice between his teeth. T
hen rises, wanders about, locking up and turning off downstairs lights. But the upstairs is bright. He hears Sylvia singing. He is not alone.
She is already in bed. Sheet pulled to her chin. Wearing half-moon reading glasses. Flipping through a paperback romance at her usual speed. Devours a dozen a week. Hands them on to their Cuban cleaning lady who comes in on Tuesdays and Fridays.
Harry goes into the bathroom to shower. Washes his hair. Brushes his teeth. Pulls on a tissue-thin seersucker robe. Comes back to sit on the edge of the bed. Takes the book gently from his wife’s hands. Puts it aside.
“One of these days,” he vows, “I’m going to get you to read Trollope.”
“Trollope?” she says. “Is that a kind of fish?”
“Sure it is. Caught off the Keys. Great eating.”
“Broiled or fried?”
They both laugh. He leans forward to kiss her cheek.
“You smell nice,” he says. “Soap and cologne and you.”
“No pork sausage, taffy, or cotton candy?”
“Not a whiff. Where’s Irving?”
She gestures. The stuffed teddy bear is propped up in an armchair. Watching them with crossed eyes.
“I was going to bring him to bed,” Sylvia says.
“Put his head on your pillow. But I thought you might be jealous.”
“I would have been. I want to be the only man in your life.”
“You are,” she assures him. “That’s the trut’, the whole trut’, and nothing but the trut’.”
“I believe you. Feel like another drink?”
“No, I’ve had enough. You?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll sleep without it.”
He takes up her hand. Kisses fingertips. Palm.
She takes off her glasses. “And what, pray, is the reason for this unbridled passion?”
“You’re beginning to talk like those schlocky novels you read. No reason. I just feel very affectionate tonight.”
“Did you take a cold shower or a hot shower?”
“Lukewarm.”
“That,” she says, “I can handle. Come under the sheet with me.”
“Lights on or off?”
“On.”
He goes over to the armchair. Turns Irving so the bear’s face is pressed into the upholstery. “I don’t want anyone watching.”
“Very wise. What he’d see might stunt his growth.”
Harry takes off his robe. Slides into bed alongside her. She comes into his arms. Feeling cool. Satiny. “It was a good day, Harry,” she says. “Wasn’t it?”
“A grand day. We must do it again.”
“Not the same thing,” she says. “You can never repeat. If you want to have fun.”
“I’ll remember,” he says. “I told you I was learning.”
In no hurry. Languid lovemaking. Slow and thoughtful. All the sweeter.
“Husband,” she says.
“Wife,” he says. “Did you ever believe anything legal could be so marvelous?”
“That marriage license was the best investment you ever made.”
“Don’t think I don’t know it. Saved me a lot of money.”
“Swine!” she says. Punching his arm.
Her skin is cream. Warm, eager parts of her. Tiny folds. Corners. Secret places. All scented. Tingling.
“I’ll never get to the end of you,” he tells her. “Never in a million years.”
“If you did,” she says, “you’d lose interest.”
She senses his need to love her. Usually she is the lover. So bouncy he can scarcely keep her on the bed. But tonight she looks at him with widened eyes. Stroking his hair. And lets him.
She is the only woman in his life who is able to get him out. Not by anything she does, but just by being her. Gets him out of himself. Makes him forget his doubts and torments. He is transfigured and transformed by love. New being. Born again. By her.
So supple. Softly hard. Hotly responsive. He tells her she is a musician. Playing him. She laughs, but it is true. She draws music from him. Before there had just been tunes. But she knows his chords and sonorities.
He surrenders to her. As simple as that. Casting off all reason and restraint. Her power terrifies, but he cannot resist. Love so intense. He weeps with happiness and fear. It is no small thing to give yourself over to another. Death of will. Voluntarily.
Sees the world in her throat’s hollow. Glimpses eternity in swoop of back. Her body solves cosmic mysteries. Kissing a silken thigh becomes an affirmation of faith.
He is aware of all this. But is she? It doesn’t matter. It cannot be explained to her. To anyone. And a sneaking part of him holds back. Not wanting to try. To reveal his weakness. Dependence. On a shoulder’s sheen or ear’s velvet. On an elfin woman who spurs a flying lion.
Their coupling is a minuet. Eyes open in a lighted room. All the more zesty for its deliberateness. Time expands. Love can do that: magnify a minute to an hour. Live a lifetime in a single day.
“It’s possible,” he says. Aloud.
But she is beyond hearing. Eyes swollen with wonder. Clutching him. Mouth opened in a silent shout. They both grin ferociously. Sharing their triumph. Their pas de deux circles down. Nothing left but the music’s end. The bows.
Much later, she says, “Sweet dreams.”
62
The Director of the Southeast Region, a compleat bureaucrat, specializes in survival. Knows all the management tricks of claiming credit and shifting blame. Tempers boldness with caution. Smiles at superiors, frowns at inferiors. Never says Yes, never says No.
“Let me think about that,” he says. Thoughtfully.
Not so much intelligent as shrewd. Dresses like a bank president and thinks like a rug dealer. In another age he might have brewed potions for the Borgias.
Sits grandly at the polished desk in his private office. Scans the latest flimsies from Cleveland. Including an ill-tempered diatribe from the Chairman demanding to know when he can expect results on the Harry Dancer action. The Director puts it aside. Initials a few memos, signs a few letters. Thinks suddenly of a new computer operator on the floor below. She is young. Very young.
The Director is a womanizer. Hopelessly addicted. He believes he conceals it from his staff and the Department hierarchy. But beneath his bishop’s robes is a randy stud. The Department allows excess, of course. But not at the expense of efficiency. The Director thinks himself efficient. And discreet.
Norma Gravesend knocks, enters to gather up signed memos and letters. He looks upon her benignly. What a loyal employee! Eager to give her all. Which she does—when ordered. Strange woman. As unobtrusive as wallpaper. But not without a certain attraction. Different. Perverse.
“Is Shelby Yama still around, Director?” she says.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that I haven’t seen him lately. I wondered if he had been transferred. Would you like to do the budget estimates now?”
“Later,” he says. Watches her leave the office.
Her casual question about Yama disturbs him. Why did she ask? She has never before exhibited any special interest in the case officer. Yet now she inquires about him. Curious. The Director is an old hand at this business; he doesn’t believe in happenstance or coincidence.
Shelby Yama is slated for sanction. But how could Norma Gravesend possibly be aware of that? She was not shown the authorization from Cleveland. She was excluded from his meeting with Ted Charon and Briscoe during which Yama’s fate was discussed. So why should Norma suddenly be interested in the man?
The Director considers the possibilities. Believing, as he does, that everyone, including himself, is capable of treachery—if the price is right. He subscribes wholeheartedly to the Department’s creed. Which is simply to disevangelize the entire world. But that belief requires the total elimination of faith. Trust no one. Person or god.
Norma Gravesend could have obtained the Chairman’s sanction to cancel Shelby Yama if she wished. She knows
the regional office. How records are shuffled. The route and storage of top secret documents. It would be easy for her to read and copy the decoded message from Cleveland.
The Director’s glance falls on his desk intercom. He runs his fingers lightly over the buttons. What if, during his locked-door conference with Charon and Briscoe, the switch connecting him to Nor-ma’s desk had been depressed? Could he swear it had not been? No. Was it possible she had heard what was said? Yes.
It is, he assures himself, very thin stuff. Paranoiac suspicions. But the bureaucrat’s instinct for survival cannot be denied. He saunters out of his office. Smiles at Norma.
“I’ll be downstairs, dear,” he says. “Watching the wheels go ‘round.”
She nods brightly. Turns back to her typewriter.
The Director goes immediately to the Internal Security Section. Enters Ted Charon’s office without knocking.
“I want you to put your people on Norma Gravesend,” he tells a startled Charon. “At once. Twenty-four hours a day.”
“If you say so, Director.”
“I do say so. When you have anything to report, call me, and I’ll come here. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Director then strolls down the staircase to the lower floor. Exchanges nods with supervisors and station chiefs. He looks about. Finally locates the new computer operator seated before her console.
Comes up behind her. Puts a stroking hand lightly on her warm shoulder.
“How are you getting along, my dear?” he says. In the kindliest way imaginable.
63
The easy way, Briscoe knows, is to use Special Powers. Zap both Shelby Yama and Willoughby. But that would be stupid. After the inexplicable deaths of Jeremy Blaine and Herman K. Tischman, the cops might start wondering. Asking questions. Investigating links between the victims.
Briscoe likes problems like this. Solved by action. He gives it a lot of heavy thought.
The Loves of Harry Dancer Page 19
