by Braun, Matt;
The terms of the will were publicized regularly, as Brokaw had directed, and with time, this extraordinary arrangement had become something of a legend. Over the years, thousands of men and women from every corner of the earth had come forward to take a shot at the prize. But to date no one had been able to outwit the cryptography machine. In the three decades since Brokaw's death, not one person had made it inside the vault itself.
The foundation's success in thwarting fraud, of course, was no mere happenstance. It was the result of constant vigilance and an elaborate screening process. Through trial and error, the director had slowly evolved a technique of interrogation that seldom failed to separate weirdos and thieves from seemingly legitimate claimants. As a further precaution, the foundation investigator conducted an extensive probe into the background of anyone who survived this initial grilling. The upshot was that fewer than one out of a hundred claimants ever reached the stage of challenging the cryptography machine. Nor had the Brokaw estate been slighted. In addition to a caretaker and housekeeper, there was an around-the-clock security force of watchmen and guard dogs. The mansion itself was virtually sealed off from the outside world, and as a practical matter, the subterranean crypt was no less impregnable than Fort Knox.
The director concluded his monologue with a modest disclaimer, crediting Stacey with several innovations that had improved the internal operation. Yet the remark was almost an afterthought, and in his mind, hardly germane to the discussion. The issue here today was security, and he meant to drive that point home as if spiking a tenpenny nail.
"Stated bluntly, Mr. Tanner, my personal goal is to discredit every claimant who walks into this office. Thus far, that's precisely what I've done . . . and the man I hire as investigator would be expected to adopt a similar attitude."
"I understand," Tanner replied. "It's an enviable record and you mean to keep it that way."
"To be more precise, it's an unblemished record. And that, Mr. Tanner, is the very marrow of this foundation!"
Knox leaned forward, gesturing with quick, choppy motions. "We live with the guillotine forever poised overhead. Why? Because our first mistake would be our last. Fatal, Mr. Tanner. Fatal! A single penetration of our security system—just one—and the foundation simply ceases to exist."
"I assume you're speaking of a fraudulent penetration?"
"Of course. Is there another kind?"
"How about Lucas Brokaw?"
Knox gave him a bland stare, silent a moment, then chuckled appreciatively. "Very clever, Mr. Tanner. Very clever indeed. However, as Miss Cameron will confirm," swiveling around in his chair, he smiled at Stacey, "my views on reincarnation are my own. And hardly relevant to the job. Isn't that so, my dear?"
"Totally irrelevant," Stacey acknowledged. "You see, Mr. Tanner, we aren't concerned with a man's beliefs, metaphysical or otherwise. Our obligation is to the foundation—nothing more. All we require of a staff member is that his list of priorities be adjusted accordingly."
"Duty before self. Zeal and commitment. Unstinting loyalty to the cause. Is that about the right order?"
Stacey held his gaze, not at all amused by the wry tone. "I might have phrased it differently, but . . . yes, as a matter of fact! That's exactly what I mean."
Tanner had an instinct for the truth, an uncanny gift for touching the sore spot. Just as he knew that the director was scornful of anything outside the realm of logic—particularly spiritual matters—so he understood that Stacey Cameron was dedicated not to the foundation but to herself. Or, rather, to an image of herself. An intelligent, highly talented woman who had found her niche in life: the executive suite. That she was fulfilled, immensely content with career and status, he never doubted for an instant. Whether or not she was happy was an altogether different matter, one he fully intended to explore at the first opportunity.
After a moment's reflection, he merely smiled at her and swung back to the director. "I've had considerable experience with Miss Cameron's philosophy. If the bureau has a credo, it would be duty before self."
Knox eyed him with a long, speculative look. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Tanner, but I seem to detect a note of discontent."
"Let's just say the rewards were never quite commensurate with the sacrifice."
"Ah, yes, filthy lucre! The root of all evil."
"Or deliverance, depending on your outlook."
"And what is your outlook . . . may I call you Warren? Excellent. Now, please speak freely. I do believe we've come at last to common meeting ground."
"Perhaps we have." Tanner covered his surprise by lighting a cigarette. Oddly enough, the idea had been there all the time, and he was mildly astonished it hadn't occurred to him before. He examined it quickly, satisfied with the rationale, and clicked his lighter shut. "Reduced to fundamentals, I suppose it sounds a bit mercenary. But you asked for candor, so . . . five years with the bureau merely entitles me to another thirty before retirement. That's a long way off, and damn little to show for it when I'm through."
The director was no longer in doubt. Any lingering reservations had been erased by the younger man's thinly disguised note of bitterness. Far from a spontaneous impulse it was hunger—a quest for independence—that had brought Warren Tanner here today. And a taste for money was the one motive, not to say the one god, that Hamilton Knox accepted with blind faith.
"Warren, if I were to offer you these things"—Knox ticked off the points on his fingers—"an initial salary double what you're now earning, plus fringe benefits far exceeding what the government provides"—the third finger lifted with tantalizing slowness—"and $10,000,000 in the event you were to expose a successful imposter"—behind the glasses, his eyes grew wide and owlish—"what would be your response?"
Tanner blinked, dumbstruck. A moment passed, and then, as if an echo formed the words, he heard himself speak. "I'll need a month. To resign and obtain clearance from Washington."
The director rose to his feet. His mouth creased in a benign smile, and he extended his hand across the desk.
"Permit me to welcome you to the Brokaw Foundation."
IV
Nothing about the day seemed quite real.
A nave of redwoods crowning the road suddenly opened onto the estate. Beyond the stark symmetry of the cliffs, bathed in a brassy haze, the mansion loomed majestically against a honeycomb of forested hills. The air was drenched with the smell of the sea, and a long driveway swept onward across spacious lawns and verdant, rolling fields.
The overall effect, absorbed in a single glance, was breathtaking—far grander than anything Tanner had imagined. Unwittingly, he felt his pulse quicken.
At the front gate a uniformed guard armed with a service revolver and a suspicious scowl stopped the car. Stacey leaned out the window, identifying herself, and introduced Tanner as the new investigator. When she explained that it was his first day on the job and she'd been elected to give him the grand tour, the guard's manner thawed slightly. He returned to a small gatehouse, and a moment later the gates were electronically activated. As the car pulled away, Tanner glanced back and saw him speaking into a walkie-talkie. Someone else was being alerted to their presence, and it prompted him to inquire about the security setup.
Stacey briefed him in a crisp, businesslike fashion. Her tone was pleasant if somewhat neutral, as it had been all morning.
The entire estate, except for the steep cliffs along the coast, was bounded by a ten-foot electric fence. Not only would the fence shock an intruder insensible, but if touched it triggered an alarm system that could be heard miles away. Inside the fence the perimeter was patrolled night and day by two armed guards accompanied by attack dogs. The gatehouse served as a command post, and the guard there coordinated the overall operation. By pressing a single button he could automatically seal every door and window in the mansion, and at the same time alert the state police.
To date, however, that hadn't proved necessary.
Several raccoons and stray dogs had
been stunned senseless by the fence, but there was no evidence that an intruder had ever attempted to penetrate the estate. A high voltage fence, backed by a paramilitary security force, apparently acted as deterrent enough.
Tanner was impressed. Certain refinements occurred to him, but all in all, security was tighter than he'd expected. He began a remark, then suddenly broke off, his attention diverted as Stacey swung the car into a circular driveway. Before them, towering ominously in a glare of sunlight, was the mansion. He squinted and looked closer, unprepared for what he saw and left speechless by the very sight of it.
Viewed from the front, the mansion presented a dizzying array of pinnacles and turrets, climaxed by a three-story entrance pavilion that supported an immense pierced-stone parapet. Gables and flying buttresses shot off in all directions, and along the far end of the east wing there was a spectacular porte cochere leading to a courtyard beyond. It was as though parts had been selected at random from an assortment of jigsaw puzzles and flung together. The result was a structure that overwhelmed the mind even as it assaulted the eye.
"Grotesque, isn't it?"
Stacey's comment snapped him out of his daze, and he realized the car had halted before the entrance. He grunted and shook his head. "It looks deformed . . . only worse! Like a hunchback with warts."
She smiled. "I've always thought Brokaw must have done the outside and left the interior to his wife. At least I hope that's how it happened." She opened the door and slid out of the car. "Come on, I think you'll be surprised."
Tanner was indeed surprised and even a bit awed. In the next hour, Stacey led him through room after room, all with an aura of some bygone age. A world apart, with the elegance and graciousness of a less hectic way of life.
The furnishings were eclectic, a mélange of ornately upholstered Victorian, mixed with Norman medieval and Spanish leather, yet harmoniously composed. Timbered ceilings lofted gracefully over stained-glass windows, and intricately parqueted floors were awash with thick Oriental rugs. Bronzes and porcelains were scattered about in profusion, and on one wall of the drawing room hung a group of Flemish tapestries that Stacey identified as once having belonged to Henry VIII. On surrounding walls hung a gallery that included Renoir and Titian, Vermeer and Goya, Raphael, Whistler, Sargent, Degas and Monet, and so many others that Tanner simply lost track as the tour progressed.
At last, his head buzzing with regal splendor of all he'd seen, Stacey led him to the solarium. The room looked out across a garden filled with marble statuary, shrubs, and a huge fountain of Italian tile. In a golden ring, dancing naked around the fountain, fat little cherubs gushed water as they offered one another bunches of grapes. It was a frivolous display, suitably dissimilar to the rest of the house, and for a moment he almost forgot the magnitude of what he'd gazed upon in the past hour.
Then a flicker of movement caught his eye, where the garden sloped upward to a cathedral of redwoods. Alert, suddenly watchful, he saw a man in uniform ghosting through the trees. Slung over the guard's shoulder was a pump shotgun, and pacing along at his side was a German shepherd only slightly smaller than a timber wolf. An instant later, as if never there, man and dog simply melted into the woods and vanished from sight.
Tanner forgot about the fountain and the cherubs. His thoughts drifted instead to the mansion, and he was reminded that he'd seen nothing of the servants during their tour. It had struck him as unusual at the time, and now, his curiosity aroused, he turned back to Stacey. She was staring at the spot where the guard had disappeared, and it crossed his mind that she was a very quick lady. Probably hell on a chess board and sudden death at backgammon.
"I was wondering"—she seemed reluctant to leave the window, but he waited, and finally she looked around—"about the housekeeper and caretaker. Aren't they here today?"
"Oh, I'm sure they are. But we haven't rung, so they're probably down in the kitchen waiting for us to leave. As you may have noticed, everyone around here is very, very discreet. Like the guard . . . the one in the woods."
"What I've noticed is that they're very well trained." Tanner paused, thoughtful a moment, then glanced back along the hallway. "I meant to ask before. That art collection—have you any idea what it's worth?"
Stacey smiled. "We could both retire on the insurance premiums alone. It's been appraised at $18,300,000."
There was a sudden spontaneity about her, a look he hadn't seen before, vivacious and not so businesslike. "You know, that's funny. In spite of what you said, I get the impression you like this house."
"Not the house so much, but you're right. I love beautiful things, being surrounded by . . . well, what it represents. I suppose luxury would be the proper word. Whenever I come here, I fantasize a lot. Do you find that strange?"
"Not at all. Everyone does a bit of stargazing now and then." His smile was genuine, without guile. "It sounds like your thing just happens to be art."
"Yes, it is. Art, and of course antiques."
"And perhaps music?"
"All kinds. But how did you know that?"
"And I suspect you're a theater buff, too."
"And I have a strong suspicion you're a mind reader. Or else I'm a good deal more obvious than I thought."
Her expression was piquant, and for a moment he felt mesmerized by her eyes. They were the color of wild honey, dark brown and flecked with gold. The look jolted him. There was an air about her, the way she tilted her head, a certain poise. She had an unusual beauty, exotic, almost doll-like, but darkly luscious, with high jutting breasts and magnificent legs. It required an effort of will to look away, yet he was conscious of her very acute stare. Finally, collecting his wits, he shrugged it off with a laugh.
"You're hardly transparent. Quite the contrary, in fact. I've been trying to figure you out all day, and I still haven't moved off square one."
"I'm not sure I understand." Her gaze became insistent. "Why the sudden interest in me?"
"Nothing sudden about it, not really. It just occurred to me I might pick up a couple of theater tickets and we could have dinner one evening . . . or maybe a late supper."
A change came over her. "Mr. Tanner, I don't—"
"Please . . . call me Warren."
"Yes, of course. But as I started to say, Warren, I don't want to sound rude or . . . oh, damn! That's exactly how I sound."
She faltered, searching for words, then her face turned very earnest. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that I never mix business with pleasure. I know it's the world's oldest cliché, but we'll be working closely together and . . . well, things like that have a way of getting sticky. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you, so please don't take it personally."
"Not at all. As you said, we'll be seeing a lot of each other, and who knows . . . once we're better acquainted you might change your mind."
"No, really, I won't. It's one rule I never break."
Tanner smiled. "Never is a long time."
They stood there a moment, sparring without words, each imagining the thoughts of the other. At last, flushed and unable to hold his gaze, Stacey turned away.
"Shall we have a look at the crypt? It's a long drive back, and I've got several appointments this afternoon."
Tanner became aware of it slowly. An impression at first, vague and disjointed, but gradually taking shape. A pattern of illusion.
The mansion of Lucas Brokaw was a place where paradox dwelled. Nothing was as it appeared on the surface. As in a mirage or the distorted image in a fun-house mirror, everything had about it a refracted quality—as though the eye had been misdirected, and having seen only the illusion, was lulled into accepting it as reality.
A less observant man would have detected none of this, but observation alone might easily have led him astray. Tanner had been trained to look beyond the obvious, and there was yet a higher level of awareness he trusted even more implicitly. It dealt in abstraction rather than substance, and because it had never failed him, he'd always believed in his hunche
s.
The crypt reinforced Tanner's hunch.
Perhaps that was what bothered him the most as they descended the stairs. It was too subterranean, too deep. An excavation feat of such magnitude that it overshadowed its supposed purpose. It was so far beneath the earth, in fact, that it became something of another world, eerie and apart, almost as though Lucas Brokaw had very deliberately constructed a set that was meant to upstage the play and spellbind the players.
Tanner's reaction to the crypt was totally visceral. A sense of foreboding and menace struck him the moment he stepped through the entranceway. It was palpable, almost a presence, some nameless thing that . . . waited.
Deep down in his guts he felt a cold knot of disquiet, and he knew it was there. Unseen, nothing he could articulate or identify, but nonetheless real. A part of this place. Infinitely patient and watchful, lurking just beyond ken or touch or reason. Somehow there . . . alert . . . on guard. A netherworld sentinel of Lucas Brokaw's crypt.
Yet he felt no personal sense of threat. Nor was he apprehensive for Stacey. Despite his gut reaction—the feeling that they weren't alone—there was a curious lack of fear. Oddly enough, he felt welcome. Suddenly . . . somehow . . . but that was crazy! There for a moment . . . unless his mind was playing tricks on him. . . .
It was as though he'd been expected.
Crazy or not, the thought persisted. Baffled by it, but thoroughly intrigued now, Tanner spent several minutes prowling around the outer chamber. Stacey watched, standing just inside the entranceway, while he methodically inspected the cryptography machine, the vault door, and all four walls. She thought his interest a bit excessive, but she was herself again, poised and businesslike, and as he poked about she filled him in on the controversy surrounding Lucas Brokaw's death.
A servant had discovered the old man's body on the night of his birthday, seated in a chair beside the study window. Everyone knew he was dying of cancer, and over the years speculation had persisted that he might have committed suicide. Yet there was no hard evidence that he'd taken his own life—or at least none had been made public—and the coroner had ruled it death by natural causes. In fact, the affair had been treated with considerable dispatch, with a quick inquest and an even quicker burial. In accordance with his wishes, Brokaw had been laid to rest beside his wife in the family plot, a small gravesite overlooking the cliffs.
