by Barbara Paul
Li Xijuan gave her almost-smile. “Then produce it.”
Shelby knew Martel well enough by now that she could see he was uncomfortable. He didn’t like being cast in the role of bullying inquisitor, hinting at evidence but never producing it. It was a sure-fire way of generating sympathy for this murderess who sat before them.
He backed off. “What made you choose Ambassador Aguirrez and Ambassador Schlimmermann as your partners?”
“They are both men of action. They are not afraid to run personal risks in order to achieve a greater good.”
Martel almost groaned; slogans again. “A greater good. Are you saying the only way to deal with malcontents is to kill them?”
“There are degrees of discontent. They can’t all be treated the same.”
“Ambassador Li, where did you get the idea that you had the right to pass judgment on those people? You are a member of a lawmaking body, but that does not make you the law.”
“I have already said it was a mistake.”
“And I don’t believe you. I believe you look upon the law as merely a tool to be used for your own purposes.”
“You are mistaken. It is only Herr Schlimmermann who assumes the laws of the universe are suspended just for him,” Li Xijuan said in a voice so bland that it took everyone a moment to understand exactly what she’d said.
Schlimmermann glanced at the Chinese woman condescendingly and then looked away again. Not worth answering.
Thieves fall out? Martel wondered. More likely a diversionary tactic, but one worth following up. “We know Herr Schlimmermann disagreed with you and Señor Aguirrez as to tactics. Is that what you’re referring to?”
“Yes,” Li Xijuan said shortly.
“And perhaps motivation as well?”
“That too—they are interrelated, cause and effect. I wish to emphasize it was not my purpose to see that members of the Militia were harmed in any way. The deaths of the Militiamen stationed in Greece were the work of the Ambassador from West Germany, who acted more out of personal motives than from any sense of political responsibility.”
Martel looked at Shelby’s machine and almost gloated out loud when he saw Li Xijuan was not lying. She had told them something after all: her own motivation was different from Schlimmermann’s. Whatever the reason was for what she’d done, it was political, not personal. As he’d suspected. Martel ignored the murmurings in the hearing chamber while he thought about it. Maybe he should take the bait Li Xijuan had dangled in front of him. The alternative was to keep pressing for the Chinese woman’s true motive, a line of inquiry that had already proved a dead end more than once. He decided: Li Xijuan was dismissed and Heinrich Schlimmermann recalled.
A wild idea: “Are you a neo-Nazi, Herr Schlimmermann?”
Schlimmermann laughed out loud. “Certainly not. Please do not associate me with those bumblers.”
“Neo-Nazis are bumblers?”
“I was referring to the original Nazi party. The neo-Nazis aren’t even a party—just groups of ineffectual men living on dreams of lost glory.” Contemptuously.
Truth, Shelby signaled.
“You called them bumblers,” Martel said. “So you disapprove of the Nazis because they were failures?”
“Yes,” said Schlimmermann.
Yes, echoed Shelby.
Martel dropped his voice to a near whisper. “But you have no moral objection to what they did?”
Even the sound of paper rustling stopped as everyone in the chamber waited for Schlimmermann’s answer. The German ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips. “I do not approve of their persecution of the Jews,” he said carefully.
Shelby signaled Yes.
“On moral grounds?” Martel persisted.
“On moral grounds, of course.”
No.
“You’re lying,” Martel said bluntly.
Schlimmermann shot a look of disgust at Shelby and said, “It was the biggest single mistake they made. They should never have tried to exterminate an entire race.”
“Oh?” Martel allowed his voice to rise. “So it’s efficiency again, is it? The only reason you object to the slaughter of six million people is that it was a mistake in strategy?!?”
“That is past history,” Schlimmermann said tightly. “It has nothing to do with the present inquiry.”
“It has everything to do with it—if it helps explain why you decided to play God. You killed three thousand people, Ambassador. Why? To prove that you could?”
“No!”
No!
Martel: “You’re lying again.”
Schlimmermann jumped to his feet and glared at Shelby over the tables separating them. “Get her out of here!” he shouted. “Get that bitch out! Get her out!”
“So you can lie to us with impunity?” Martel shouted back. “Sit down, Ambassador! Sit down, or I’ll have the guards restrain you!” Already two uniformed men had moved away from their stations by one of the doors. Radiating hatred, Schlimmermann slowly lowered himself back into his chair.
Shelby sat open-mouthed with shock. The lawyer to her left edged as far away as he could.
Martel waited for the room to settle down. Then he said, “I want a straight answer, Herr Schlimmermann. Are you in sympathy with the purposes of the original Nazi party?”
Schlimmermann sneered. “The Nazis were fools. They let themselves be led by the nose by a demented leader who didn’t know how to use the power he had. They became ingrown, corrupt. They had a chance to pull all Europe together into one powerful state and they failed. Am I in sympathy with their purpose of uniting Europe? Of course I am. So are hundreds of thousands of Europeans. It will happen eventually. Soon, I think.”
“Their purpose of uniting Europe, Ambassador? Or of conquering it?”
“That is a matter of strategy. Of which you spoke earlier with such contempt.”
“Don’t fence with me, Herr Schlimmermann. Do you approve of the Nazi attempt to conquer Europe?”
“I do not. Subsequent events proved them unworthy to rule their neighbors. They couldn’t even rule themselves. The Nazis have become everybody’s favorite whipping boy—a fate they well deserve. Very few people are qualified to rule others. Leadership requires strength of will, determination, self-reliance. The flabby philosophical insistence that every man is equal to every other man has only elevated mediocrities to positions of importance, men afraid to act on their own. Such as you, Ambassador Martel. You can’t even ask me a question without first checking with that female freak and her little machine. A true leader would be dependent upon no one but himself. Out of every generation only a very few men are fully qualified to lead. Such leaders do not emerge through the democratic process.”
“And would one of those men,” Martel asked softly, “happen to be named Heinrich Schlimmermann?”
“Not at all. I told you earlier I consider myself a physician practicing preventive medicine. I am simply trying to clear the way for the emergence of the world’s rightful rulers.”
Schlimmermann’s red aura had never throbbed so strongly as it did then. Shelby pressed the No button—but it was wasted. None of the commissioners had signaled her. She looked at them anxiously: every member of the commission was watching Schlimmermann with a mixture of revulsion and fascination, so spellbound by what he was saying that they forgot to check on whether he was lying or not. What to do? This was important—they ought to know about it. But Schlimmermann had his audience at last.
Shelby Kent screwed her courage to the sticking place, stood up, and said in a clear voice that carried across the chamber and through every television set in the world turned on at the time, “Ambassador Schlimmermann is lying. He does consider himself one of the world’s rightful rulers.”
Every head in the chamber swiveled toward her. But Shelby saw only one face, an Aryan face with the mouth drawn back almost in parody of the death rictus, a face with eyes that moved from her to Martel, back to her, back to Martel. Schlimmermann suddenl
y screamed: a high soprano cry more startling in its pitch than its unexpectedness. Then the German was climbing over the table in front of him, heading for a point somewhere between Shelby and Martel. Which one of us is he after? she thought woodenly, unable to move. Move, she told herself, and stood rooted where she was.
Schlimmermann didn’t get far. Guards swarmed among the tables, over the tables, over Schlimmermann. His outburst ended abruptly, as if someone had flipped an off switch. The German managed to carry himself with dignity and even pride as the guards led him from the hearing chamber. The room buzzed with excitement. Martel was on his feet, ashen-faced. He and Shelby stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them speaking. Then Shelby heard a sound that made her turn her head, a sound incongruous to the other sounds in the room.
It was Li Xijuan. She was laughing.
CHAPTER 37
A HIT, A PALPABLE HIT!
“He’s not here,” the stage doorkeeper glowed redly.
Shelby cleared her throat.
Max caught it. “Ah, but he is,” he told the doorkeeper. “He’s inside right now, waiting for me. Check your list again.”
The doorkeeper picked up a clipboard. “Bradford?”
“Bradley. Max Bradley.”
“I got a Mac Bradford.”
“That’s me,” Max sighed. “Where is he?”
“Out front. Don’t cross the stage—they’re rehearsing.”
“Right.” Max led Tee and Shelby past the usual backstage safety hazards to a side door that opened into the auditorium. The man whom Max had come to see was the producer of the last show Max had designed. The show had turned into a surprise hit, and now plans were afoot to send out a tour company. Meaning a traveling version of the original set was needed. Tee had come along just to give her piano a rest, and Shelby had come along because Tee had come along.
The play currently in rehearsal was another of the producer’s projects, one Max had nothing to do with. Shelby and Tee slid quietly into seats on the side aisle as Max made his way over to where the producer was sitting, glaring at the stage like some disapproving Zeus thinking of coming down from Mount Olympus. A fidgety man was pacing the aisles—the director, no doubt. The sisters watched the rehearsal while Max and the producer talked business.
After a while Tee whispered, “What’s this play about?”
“I’m not sure,” Shelby whispered back. “I think the tall woman is trying to talk the short woman into marrying her husband.”
“Whose husband?”
“The tall woman’s.”
“Bigamy?”
“It’s a bit confusing,” Shelby admitted.
“Who’s the man? The husband?”
“No, he’s her brother.”
“The tall woman’s?”
“The short one’s.”
“DON’T WHISPER!” a voice boomed at them from the stage. “Whispers carry in a theater. If you have to talk, just talk low.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tee whispered.
Not too long after that a break was called and everyone could speak in normal tones again. “By the way, I forgot to ask,” said Shelby. “What happened in Philadelphia? The show with the two hundred lawn mowers?”
“A bust,” Tee sighed. “By the time Max got there the producer had decided to turn the whole thing into a parody of My Fair Lady. So Max just got on the next plane and came back home.”
Shelby was speechless.
Tee laughed. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? From lawn mowers to Cecil Beaton in one easy jump. But it was the word parody that did it. Max hates parody. He says anybody can mock—it’s what people fall back on when they have no ideas of their own.”
By now Max and the producer were standing up, facing each other, nodding their heads vigorously, both talking at the same time. “That means they’re almost finished, when they reach that stage,” Tee told Shelby.
Sure enough, Max turned up the aisle and gestured to them to follow. On the street, he said only one word—“Food”—and headed for the nearest eatery. Only when they were seated and had ordered did Max explain to Shelby. “It’s that man. I’m always hungry after I’ve talked to him. He doesn’t exactly leave you feeling warm and loved.”
Tee was nodding. “He feeds off other people. An awful man.”
Max agreed. “A successful producer, but an awful man. Loves his power. Like your buddy Schlimmermann.”
“Don’t mention him,” Shelby shuddered. “I’ve had enough of that man to last me the rest of my life.”
“Haven’t we all,” Max said.
“Weren’t you afraid, Shelby?” Tee asked. “When he started climbing up on the table like that?”
“Damned right I was. I didn’t know what he was going to do.”
“Did you see any kind of aura around him?” Max asked.
“Nope. Not a thing. Could be he was giving off something—maybe that yellow aura Dr. Wedner thinks will come next. But I couldn’t see it.”
The food arrived and they were all quiet awhile, taking the edge off their hunger. Then Max asked, “What’s Kevin Gilbert doing? We haven’t seen him lately.”
“He’s out of town,” Shelby said. “On some ultrasecret mission he couldn’t tell me about. I don’t even know where he’s gone.”
“Do you miss him?” Tee asked.
“I don’t even shoot at him,” Shelby said flippantly, and then understood what her sister was really asking her. “Tee, you aren’t cooking up some sort of romantic notion about Kevin and me, are you?”
Tee grinned sheepishly. “Is that so awful?”
“Well, not awful maybe. But way off base.”
“Why? Now that Eric’s gone—”
“Now that Eric’s gone, I’m supposed to rebound into the arms of the nearest passing male? Yeah, I saw those movies. I know what’s supposed to happen.”
“But—”
“Marriage kaput, woman suffers deeply, man simply turns his back and walks away. Woman’s only possible release from suffering comes through Meaningful Relationship with new man. Only then can she Find Herself. Get it all together. Get her head on straight. Learn to feel good about herself. Be the real me, her, she, choose one.” Shelby sighed. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Whoa, Shelby, you aren’t following the script at all,” Max teased. “You didn’t even bother with the suffering part. Come on, you can suffer a little, can’t you? Just to make the story work?”
“Maybe later. Kevin’s an attractive man and I enjoy his company—but to burden him with Making Her Life Worthwhile? Not only shallow but presumptuous. No, thanks.”
“Aw, Shelby. Everyone should have a partner,” Tee said bluely.
“Tee, you’re glowing,” said Shelby. “And there’s no need for it. Really. If I decide I want another partner, I’ll go looking for one. But not right now. So stop worrying, please.”
Tee sighed deeply. “I like Kevin too—but to tell you the truth, all along I’ve kinda been hoping you and Eric would get back together.”
“Forget about that—it won’t happen. The problem between us will always be there. And this new aura I can see now wouldn’t help matters any. No, it’s best that Eric and I stay on opposite coastlines.”
“Pastels are cheaper,” Tee muttered.
“Tee, don’t worry! Please. There’s no need. I prefer it this way.” Under Shelby’s repeated assurances, Tee’s blue aura gradually began to fade.
By the time they were ready to leave and Max was resorting to all sorts of stratagems to attract the waiter’s attention, Tee was back to her usual cheerful self. “You don’t know how good it is,” she told Shelby, “not to have to take that cab ride downtown every day. No more tinkle, tinkle, plonk, plonk. What a relief.” Tee had quit her job with Metropolitan Ballet, now devoting all her time to preparing for her upcoming appearance with the Boston Symphony. “I feel good about it, Shel. Better than I’ve felt about anything I’ve done in the past three or four years, except marrying Max. I’m goi
ng to be ready. I know it.”
“Oh, Tee,” Shelby smiled, “I’ve waited a long time to hear that! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me. I’m proud of you.”
The waiter finally deigned to notice Max and gestured he’d bring their bill sometime in the near future. “Where now?” Max asked.
“Home for me,” Tee said, flexing her fingers. “Prokofieff calls.”
“Same here,” said Shelby. “Did I tell you I’m driving down to New Brunswick later this afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Tee.
“No,” said Max. “Tests for the blue aura?”
“Pre-testing tests. Tests to help determine the best kind of testing procedures to use. Dr. Wedner wants to start out by investigating the possibility that this blue aura is caused by an excess of beta endorphin in the brain.”
“Whazzat?”
“Some kind of drug the brain manufactures. A morphine-like peptide, comes from the pituitary gland. It was Ambassador Aguirrez who made Dr. Wedner think of it—his going into a catatonic state, I mean. Laboratory animals turn catatonic when they’re injected with beta endorphin. So maybe the blue aura is caused by a surge in the production of the drug.”
“What would cause the surge?” Tee asked.
Shelby lifted her shoulders. “Anxiety, guilt—I don’t know, I’m just guessing. That’s a whole different ball game, one that requires its own separate testing procedures. What Dr. Wedner wants to do now is establish that the blue aura is caused by a drug in the brain, not why. Why will come later.”
“I have a feeling,” Max said, “that hospitals are going to take the place of police stations in your life.”
“That’s another thing,” Shelby said. “If these tests do prove out, maybe that means the red aura is caused by a peptide too, a different one. You know, up to now Dr. Wedner has been concentrating on me, on trying to find out what there is in my physiological makeup that makes me a receptor to these auras. Now he’s going to go at it from the other direction—trying to find out why people glow in the first place.”
The waiter slapped their bill on the table. “Where,” Max asked as they got up to go, “is Dr. Wedner going to get his catatonics for this new testing?”
