City of Iron

by Williamson, Chet

  Her opera orgy was suspended the next day, however, when a Federal Express delivery from Blair Exporting arrived. In it was a next-day ticket to Glasgow (tourist class, of course) and a sealed dossier that was to be opened an hour before the plane descended into Scotland.

  She shook her head at the directive. That was Richard Skye, all right. Her superior loved the cloak-and-dagger stuff, even at times like this, when it wasn't necessary. What difference did it make whether she read the dossier now or tomorrow? But she would follow directions implicitly. She always had.

  So she had packed, had called her mother to tell her she would be away for a time, and the next day had taken a cab to JFK. Now, five hours later, here she was, the dossier in her lap, her seatmate still asleep.

  Time, she thought, slitting open the seal with a short but sharp fingernail. Let's see how I can help to preserve America's national security in Scotland.

  Her assignment was the last thing she'd have expected. The directive was typically terse, though the supplemental briefing papers told her more than she would ever want to know about Helmut Kristal, the subject of her mission.

  She had heard of Kristal, read about him several months before in a copy of People she had picked up out of boredom on another plane. Though he had not yet visited America, the self-proclaimed psychic was all the rage in Europe. Laika hadn't paid much attention to the article. She had no time for psychics or any of what she considered New Age mumbo jumbo. Most of it was so transparent as to be laughable.

  The goal of the assignment was to expose Helmut Kristal as a hoax. There was no reason given, only the information that in three days Kristal would be demonstrating what he claimed to be the greatest accomplishment of his career in the small town of Drumnadrochit, Scotland. There he intended, for one time and one time only, to show conclusively to believers and debunkers alike that he was beyond any doubt capable of receiving images through mind waves alone.

  "Sure," Laika whispered. "And I'm the Queen of Ruritania." Her seatmate stirred in her sleep, and Laika turned her attention back to the directive.

  She and her two associates, whom she would meet when she landed, were to prove to all present that Kristal was a fake—and furthermore they were to do this without calling any attention to themselves. Gravy, Laika thought, as she read through the rest of the material. And maybe, after we're done, Skye would like us to disprove astrology, tarot cards, and palm reading too. .

  She would learn that she was a lot closer to the truth than she thought.

  Chapter 5

  The Glasgow airport was relatively small, and her identity cards and papers got her through British customs with no delay. In her dossier were six hundred Scottish pounds, so there was no need to exchange money at the booths.

  The waiting shuttle took her to the car rental office near the airport, where she picked up the small blue Peugeot diesel that had been reserved for her. Stick shift, too, she noted with dismay. More savings for the taxpayers, and an additional traffic headache for her. Driving on the left was tricky enough without adding a left-hand shift to the equation.

  She headed east on the M8 toward Glasgow, dreading the traffic circles to come, but remembering that after a day or two she always got used to the driving. Hell, she had once torn through the streets of London shooting a riot gun through her shattered back window at the car chasing her and lived to tell about it.

  Using the map from the dossier, she made her way easily enough to St. Vincent Crescent, a dead-end street with a picturesque block of townhouses on one side and a lawn bowling club on the other. She parked in front of number 153, the address of the safe house in which she would be staying that night. The Company often used bed-and-breakfasts to house agents rather than hotels. They left no paper trails, and an entire house could be taken for the necessary nights, ensuring no other curious tenants.

  That was probably what had occurred here at Kenley House, as the brass plaque mounted by the front door proclaimed it. Laika suspected she would meet at least one of her new colleagues here, and no one else except the hostess, who opened the door to her knock.

  "Miss Jackson?" the woman said, using Laika's cover name. Laika nodded and smiled, and the round-faced and middle-aged woman went on cheerily, "I'm Mrs. Danvers. Your room's all ready, and Mr. Anderson has already arrived." Anderson was Stein's cover name.

  "Anyone else?" Laika inquired.

  "Oh no, you're my only two guests tonight," Mrs. Danvers replied, taking one of Laika's bags and leading her up the wide stairs.

  Laika's room was airy and spacious, with a large double bed against one wall, and she was glad to see that the toilet facilities were en suite. "If you need anything, dear, just let me know," Mrs. Danvers said. "I'll bring up a continental breakfast in the morning. What time would you like it?"

  Laika told her and found out where Stein/Anderson's room was. When the woman had gone back downstairs, Laika knocked on his door.

  "Who's there?" said a voice from inside. It sounded soft and tentative.

  "Miss Jackson. Do you have any extra sugar?"

  The door opened, and Laika saw a man in his mid-forties dressed in a pullover sweater and khakis. His blond hair was brushed straight back and was thinning slightly on top. Pale blue eyes looked down at her through aviator-style glasses. Despite his height, he seemed stooped, as though he were tired or depressed, laden with years.

  Still, his face was unlined, save for crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. They deepened as he attempted a smile. "No," he said, "but I have some saccharin." Then he cocked his head at her. "Okay? I'm who you think I am, you're who I think you are, right? Come on in, Ms. Harris."

  She entered his room, which was slightly smaller than hers. He gestured her to a high-backed, cane chair by the window, and, when she was seated, sat on the bed near her. "Call me Laika," she said.

  "All right. And I'm Joseph Stein."

  "Joe?"

  "I prefer Joseph." He looked at her with a hint of curiosity. "Laika . . . how did you get into the Company with a Russian name?"

  "My father wasn't a fellow traveler," she said smiling. "He was a would-be space traveler. My brother was named Alan Shepard Harris, but since Dad couldn't name me after any astronauts, he used the name of the only female in space he knew of."

  "The space dog," Stein said. "Still, it's a nice name."

  The compliment did not flow easily, and Laika heard no sincerity in it. Stein seemed to be lacking in the warmth department. "Thanks," she said.

  "It could have been worse. He could have named you Thea von Harbou Harris." Her look told him she didn't get the allusion. "The woman who wrote Frau im Monde? The Girl in the Moon. It was an early German science fiction film."

  "Ah." She nodded. Wonderful. A sci-fi geek. "So. You've read the dossier?"

  "I have."

  "Your thoughts?"

  "Well, I don't know what exposing a fraud has to do with preserving our national security, but ours is not to reason why." He fixed her with a piercing gaze. "Are you hungry?"

  The question took her by surprise. "Well . . . yes, actually."

  "Let's get something to eat then. This jet lag's been playing havoc with my appetite, and we can talk over dinner."

  They ran into Mrs. Danvers on the stairs, and she directed them to a restaurant several blocks away. "It's in a hotel," she told them, "but the food's quite good anyway."

  If it was so good, Laika thought twenty minutes later, why weren't there more people there? Still, with so few diners about, they could talk freely. She ordered venison, Stein ordered salmon. He also had a dram of a local single malt, but she stuck with mineral water, feeling too jet-lagged for alcohol.

  Although Laika knew something about Stein from his dossier, she tried to break the ice by asking him about his particular area of expertise in the Company. The shadow of a smile touched his long face. "Sitting at desks. It's what I've been doing for the past twelve years."

  "Interpretation?"

  He no
dded and sipped his drink. "The folks in the field gather it, and I try and figure out how it all fits together and makes sense." Then it hit her. Stein. She had heard of him before. When gathered intelligence seemed contradictory, she had overheard her superiors say, "Let's run it past Stein." She hadn't known who Stein was, but now she assumed that this was the puzzle man himself.

  "I haven't been in the field in years," Stein said, his gaze on the sporting print behind Laika's head. "Tried to stay in shape, though. Never know what the Company is going to want next."

  "Why did they bring you out on this one?"

  "Because of my hobby . . . well, one of them. I follow debunking, you see . . . exposing fakes. I've often said my only bible is The Skeptical Inquirer, and my only god is James Randi. You've heard of him?"

  Laika nodded. She had seen Randi on TV several times, and had admired the way he had exposed fake psychics. "Have you ever seen this Kristal work?"

  "Not in person, no, but on videotapes. He does pretty much the same old tricks that most of them do. But he's fooled a lot of scientists, and he couches everything in so much esoteric bullshit that he's attracted more followers than Geller in his prime. I've got to admit, though, he's got style. He does the compass trick nearly nude."

  "Compass trick?"

  "Yeah. It's ancient. You use your so-called powers to make the compass needle deflect from the north."

  "All you'd need would be a hidden magnet or some magnetic metal."

  "Right you are. Mentalists used to hide it in their clothes. The skillful ones could palm it. But Kristal does the trick in a pair of gym shorts—after several male audience members examine him naked and check out the shorts."

  "Something in his mouth?"

  "No, they look in there, too. Even up his . . . between his buttocks."

  Laika smiled. "How does he do it, then?"

  Stein smiled, too. She could see he was warming to the subject. "You tell me."

  She thought for a moment, picturing the nearly naked psychic making arcane gestures over the compass, the needle moving with his hands. "False fingernails with magnets beneath?"

  "No, I know what you're thinking, but he doesn't gesture. At least, not so you'd notice. He does it by sheer 'mind power.' You're very close, though."

  She shrugged. "So how?"

  "Implants. The man's got more metal in him than the Terminator. I used the freeze frame on the video and augmented the images with the computer. Kristal has very small, very pale, almost invisible scars on his forearms, right above the flexor muscles. I also found one on the fascia lata, by the kneecap on his left leg. Unfortunately, I didn't have any footage showing the right." Stein took another sip of whisky, swallowed, and grinned. "I did, however, have several good shots of those washboard abs and found another pale scar right above the navel."

  "Wait a minute," Laika said. "Are you saying he's had metal placed in his body surgically?"

  "Yep. Both positive and negative charges, too. Like I said, he doesn't gesture, but he moves the way anyone would when they're concentrating—touches his forehead, rubs his temples, stretches his legs, shifts in his chair. He probably practiced for days to get the combination just right, but by performing these subtle, barely noticeable moves, he can make the compass do the tango if he wants it to."

  "You mean he had at least five incisions to do a lousy trick?"

  "Ah, true artists must suffer for their art. No wonder he never flies—one time through a metal detector, and he's done."

  "What's he planning for his big climax?"

  They paused for a moment while the waiter set their appetizers before them. Stein took an appreciative spoonful of his steaming cullen skink before he replied. "I don't know, but whatever it is, he's saying that he may do it one time and one time only. The psychic energy he has to expend could make him old before his time, you see."

  "So we have to discover what he's going to do before he does it so that we can expose it . . . whatever it is."

  "In a nutshell."

  "Have you thought about why yet?"

  "No idea. Except that if Cloudy initiated it, it means bad news for somebody."

  "Cloudy?"

  Stein looked mildly discomfited. "Cloudy Skye."

  She laughed. "I've never heard that one before."

  "Pretty common, I'm afraid. I suppose I should show more respect, but I always see storm clouds on the horizon when Richard Skye draws near."

  The taste of the smoked haddock soup was almost obliterated by the bitter taste that crept into Joseph Stein's mouth at the thought of Richard Skye. Skye was a field operations man all the way, and Joseph Stein had long ago had his fill of field ops. He had never wanted to travel under an assumed name again, never wanted to stay in a safe house or give code words to other agents, never wanted to see anybody die, or to have to kill.

  He liked being Joseph Stein, the one the smart boys came to when they couldn't figure things out, the one who could take the round puzzle piece and figure out how to fit it into the square corner. Deskbound Joseph Stein, who had his own tiny office in Langley, even if it didn't have a window. Joseph Stein, who, under his own name, had actually had a letter published in The Skeptical Inquirer, and who wrote a quarterly column for Fantasy Corners, a slickly produced semi-prozine dealing with fantasy and science fiction in film and literature.

  Joseph Stein, whose weapons and pleasures were thoughts and words. That was the Joseph Stein he liked being, not Joseph Stein/Donald Anderson/Thomas Feldman/whatever the hell the Company decided he should be called in the field that month.

  He had had five hard years in the field, five years of blood and thunder, when the Cold War was still fought with warriors and he had no choice but to be one if he wanted to survive. But then the ones who counted started to discover his other talents, saw that he was more valuable behind a desk than in the field.

  The field: he had always thought that was a perfect name for it. A battlefield. A field that was sown with blood and grew death. And now here he was, back in the field again, because Richard Skye had wanted him there and because his boss in Analytic Support didn't have the balls to tell Skye no.

  This assignment was probably because of the mole that Joseph had ferreted out several months before. Joseph knew that his mind was fluid, that it could flow in directions other people wouldn't even consider. When they brought him all the information that they had on the mole, he began, quite simply, to think like the mole. After all, he had all the mole's thoughts as defined by his actions. It was a process that Joseph felt could not be taught, that was incomprehensible to anyone who couldn't do it. But Joseph could, and it came so naturally to him that it was impossible to explain.

  It went beyond profiling, which was fast becoming a science these days. In retrospect, he supposed what he did was a combination of logic, deduction, acting, and self-deception, but while the first three could be taught, the ability to bury one's own consciousness and become another person transcended all three—even acting, which came the closest.

  When he tried to verbalize it, it sounded as much like gobbledygook as did the beliefs, New Age and old alike, that he scoffed at. Still, it was real. His successes were the evidence of that.

  When he had come up with the mole's identity, it had been so unexpected that he had been questioned for several days at Langley by those who suspected that only someone in partnership with the mole could have known so much. Fortunately, Joseph was able to prove his innocence, and his genius. Unfortunately, his success brought the attention of Skye. And if Skye had had this mission of exposing a phony psychic in mind, he would have seen instantly that Joseph Stein was his man.

  Hell, Joseph thought, maybe it wouldn't be all that bad. After all, he didn't have to kill this goddamned phony. All he had to do was expose him. It might, after all, be fun. A little old-fashioned cloak-and-dagger stuff, and no one would end up dead. Just a psychic with a lot of egg on his artificially earnest face.

  Joseph eyed the woman across from h
im, her attention temporarily on her langostino cocktail. Fine looking woman, he thought. Fine enough for him to consider his own appearance.

  He had been starting to grow soft, but had hardened up over the past year. When he had first seen signs of his midsection drifting toward a middle-aged paunch, he'd begun to spend at least an hour a day in the gym at Langley after his work was over for the day. It kept him from the things that he would rather have been doing, like watching movies and reading books, but it was necessary. He had seen too many of his colleagues get old and fat before their time, and he swore it would not happen to him.

  As chance would have it, it had worked out well. It was his first field op in a dozen years, but he felt physically ready for it. He wondered how he looked to Laika Harris, but only out of curiosity. He had been in the Company long enough to realize that you didn't get involved with another agent.

  That was bad news for everybody, even if she'd be interested in an old, balding desk jockey.

  "So when do we meet our third?" Joseph asked, patting his lips with his napkin.

  "Tomorrow evening at Drumnadrochit." Laika Harris looked puzzled. "There wasn't anything in the dossier about the town. Why on earth would Kristal pick a remote Scottish village to put on his show?"

  "Well, though it's remote, it's far from unknown. It's considered the official Loch Ness Monster center—where all the tourists start their monster hunts. Never been there, but I understand it's very tacky."

  "I assume you don't believe in the Loch Ness Monster?"

  "As a wise man once said, I don't believe in nuthin' I can't see. The whole Loch Ness legend began over a thousand years ago as a religious fable, so that makes it dubious right off the bat. And that famous photograph taken back in the thirties was proved to be a hoax, but that doesn't stop people from believing." Joseph shook his head, feeling a mixture of pity and superiority. "The human capacity for self-deception," he added, "may be our strongest trait."