by Tim Kring
“Nothing,” he said. “But I just spent a couple of years in Cuba, so I’m out of the loop. I assume he’s still in Russia.”
Song paused again, as if she was considering whether or not to tell Melchior what she knew. Then: “I saw him. In Japan, before he went to Moscow. The Wiz asked me to—”
“Check on him?” Melchior struggled to keep his voice level. “I never did like that part of the Wiz. I never liked that part of you, either.”
Song’s face went hard. For a moment Melchior thought he’d blown it. But then the condescending mask descended again, and Song’s lip curled slightly as she looked Melchior up and down. “Whatever you skimmed from your opium scheme certainly didn’t go on clothes. So? What do you offer me for delivering your guinea pig to the lab?”
Melchior looked at the Fleetwood, the furs, the expensively maintained cast of Song’s skin. Even the boy in the driver’s seat looked more like an objet d’art than a person.
“The, ah, continued goodwill of the Company?”
Song rolled her eyes. “Drew Everton, second and fourth Thursday of every month.”
“Why, that dirty little scoundrel! I wouldn’t’ve thought he had it in him.” Although, really, of course he would: the only thing a Wasp enjoys more than hoarding his money is wasting it on a whore. Melchior’s eyes flickered over Song’s stole to the breasts beneath it. “I guess we’ll have to call it a favor then.”
A cunning smile spread across Song’s face, though Melchior couldn’t tell if it was a reaction to his gaze or the idea of having him in her debt.
“I guess we will.”
Melchior nodded. “Dr. Keller will meet you at the airport.”
“Keller.” Song’s eyes narrowed. Melchior was surprised. He’d thought Keller was his secret. “This is part of Ultra?”
“Everton can’t keep his mouth shut, I see. But no, not Ultra. Orpheus.”
“I don’t know Orpheus.”
Melchior couldn’t tell if she was lying, but all he said was “Ultra’s bastard child. You’re about to meet him.”
“Do I open the door? Or the trunk?”
“The trunk’ll be fine.” Melchior pulled a small black case from the pocket of his suit, opened it to reveal a syringe and a couple of vials. “He’s sleeping. And if you want to get to Frisco in one piece, I suggest you keep him that way.”
Washington, DC
November 7, 1963
“In conclusion,” J. Edgar Hoover’s droning voice wound up, “the Review Committee, finding no evidence to support any of Special Agent Querrey’s claims save for the single wound to his head, and having had the entirety of his account denied by both public and private sources at CIA, Dr. Leary, and all the residents of ‘Castalia,’ and having further found no substantiation of his assertion of an extramarital liaison between the president of the United States and Mary Meyer or of the possibility that the latter-named woman supplied the president with hallucinogenic pharmaceutical compounds, can only conclude that Special Agent Querrey was the victim of a hoax perpetrated either by Dr. Leary or perhaps by CIA itself, with the intention of discrediting this Bureau. In light of the smear that would have accrued to this Bureau if such a lapse in judgment on the part of one of its agents had become public knowledge—”
BC sat patiently, his eyes focused on the portrait of Jack Kennedy that hung directly above and behind the director, its plain wooden frame outlined by a larger pale rectangle, as if to say that the new president had a long way to go before he filled the space Dwight Eisenhower had vacated three years ago. BC had looked at this picture, or copies of it, countless times before, but now he found himself zeroing in on the private twinkle in the eyes, the too-wide parting of the lips, the eager, almost hungry set of the mouth: this was a lover’s face, not a politician’s. Marilyn Monroe. Mary Meyer. Who knew who else? And who knew what they were slipping into his drinks?
“—have no choice but to remove Special Agent Querrey from active service while his continued career in law enforcement is reevaluated. He will be placed on extended leave, with pay, until such time as we can decide what, if any, his role at the Bureau should be.” Hoover looked up from his desk. “I want you to know I take no pleasure in this decision, Agent Querrey. You showed exceptional promise early in your career, but it takes more than intelligence to be an officer of this Bureau. But who knows? Perhaps, with time, and with a certain amount of soul-searching on your part, you can be rehabilitated.”
Rehabilitated, BC thought. As though he were a drug addict. As though he’d asked to be promoted from Behavioral Profiling to COINTELPRO. The Review Committee’s findings were hardly a surprise to him, and he felt no great desire to fight them. This case wasn’t the Bureau’s responsibility. It was his. Nevertheless, he thought he owed it to his career—and his conscience—to speak for the record.
“Three bodies left that cottage, Director Hoover.” BC didn’t bother mentioning his suspicion that Chandler and Naz were still alive, figuring that was the kind of circle-within-a-circle detail that would only make his account seem that much more far-fetched.
Hoover sighed. He closed the manila folder that contained the twenty or thirty sheets of paper that summed up BC’s career, and, for the first time, looked at his disgraced agent. Four decades in office had erased any vestige of an inner self from the director’s face, until only the public servant remained. The Bureau had replaced Hoover’s blood with paper and his imagination with indexes, engulfing his once-lean features in a gelatinous form that seemed held together by the buttons of his shirt and the knot of his tie. His pale, almost neckless face spilled over the collar of his gray suit like foam spewing from the tip of a science-project volcano. His eyes blinked out of two folds of skin like myopic camera shutters. His voice was as impersonal as clacking typewriter keys. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes tiredly, put his glasses back on. Then:
“Have I ever told you the story of Amenwah, Agent Querrey?”
“Three,” BC said insistently. “If you close the file on this case, who will bring their killer to justice?”
“Amenwah was an ancient Egyptian who lived during the time of the Ramesside dynasty, more than thirty centuries ago. He was accused of the most heinous of all crimes: stealing sacred artifacts from the tomb of Pharaoh himself. Because the objects in question couldn’t be located, however, he was acquitted. Three thousand years later, when his tomb was excavated by modern archaeologists, the objects he’d been accused of stealing were found inside his own burial chamber. No crime goes unsolved forever, Agent Querrey. It might not be you who figures out what happened at Millbrook, but justice always wins in the end.”
“Who will stop him from killing again?” BC said.
For a moment the director just sat there, not quite looking at him. Then, sighing slightly, he pushed his portly body out of his chair, buttoned his jacket, then turned and opened the curtains behind his desk. The view across Pennsylvania Avenue was of an old beaux arts theater, shuttered now, its sign removed, leaving it nameless and empty. It seemed to BC that the director gazed at the sight almost lovingly, his breath moving deeply in and out of his sagging belly, which strained at the button of his suit.
“The General Services Administration has just purchased this site for a dedicated FBI building. The initial plans call for nearly three million square feet of floor space to house over seven thousand employees. I’m sure one of them will be up to the challenge.”
BC stared at the smudged outline left by the theater’s sign. QUER—no. ORPH.
Orpheum.
He sat up with a start.
“They won’t name it after you, you know.”
“Pardon—”
“You have to die first,” BC said, and the viciousness in his voice shocked him. “They won’t name it after you while you’re alive. You’ll never see the fruits of your labor.”
Hoover’s cheek twitched. BC didn’t know what that meant, but he decided to take it as a victory.
�
��Associate Director Tolson will show you out of the building. I’d ask you to surrender your weapon to him before you leave.”
At first he pretended it was just another night. He took the Metro to Takoma Station, went first to his boxing gym, did a half hour of calisthenics and another half hour on the bag, then accepted an invitation to spar with a high school boy in training for the Golden Gloves. He showered at the gym as he normally did, but then, instead of wearing his flannels home, found himself changing back into his suit. Even as he buckled his belt and knotted his tie and adjusted his (empty) shoulder holster, he didn’t acknowledge what he was doing. Didn’t ask himself why he strode past his house to the end of the block, didn’t allow himself to wonder what the neighbors would think if they saw him walking up the sidewalk to the home of Gerry and Jenny Burton. Gerry Burton worked in the Department of Justice Building as an electrician, after all; there were any number of reasons why Special Agent Querrey might need to speak to him. He was a member of both the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers and the American Federation of Government Employees, and he worked third shift to boot; as a consequence he earned nearly 25 percent more than BC did, despite the fact that he went to work in a pair of greasy coveralls.
The Burtons’ home had been a carriage house until the owners converted it into a rental property, and as such was the smallest building on the block. BC’s mother, who had engaged in the respectable practice of taking in boarders to make ends meet before BC started working, always said the conversion marked the beginning of the end of the neighborhood, although what she was really referring to was the fact that Gerry Burton—and his wife, Jenny, for that matter—were Negro.
BC didn’t let himself think about that either.
Jenny Burton answered the door, a baby on her hip, two others screaming in the room behind her.
“Oh, hi, Mr., um, Query?”
“Please,” BC said, then added something that would have made his mother turn over in her grave. “Call me Beau—”
“Gerry!” Jenny pffted a wisp of hair off her forehead. “Sit wherever’s safe,” she tossed over her shoulder—she hadn’t actually invited him in—then disappeared into the kitchen.
A small square of parquet inside the front door gave way to a marginally larger rectangle of carpet whose color was indiscernible beneath a layer of children’s toys. A boy and a second child of indeterminate gender, both around three years old, were playing a private version of Monopoly that involved acting out the characteristics of their various pieces.
“No, horse jumps over hat, you moron!” the one who was definitely a boy screamed.
There was a heavy footstep on the stairs. BC knew little of Gerry Burton save that he was a big man and, apparently, virile. In addition to the three children present, BC was aware of at least two more.
“Mom! Jack called me a moron!”
Burton’s progress down the stairs was a series of groans, creaks, whines, and wheezes, though it was impossible to tell which came from him, which from the complaining treads. He appeared in the doorway, a dark robe pulled over his white T-shirt, and stepped with exaggerated care around the toys scattered on the floor.
“Evening, Mr. Query.” Burton had a cautious, curious look on his face. Everyone in the neighborhood knew BC worked for the FBI. “Pardon the mess. Five kids, you know. Tiny house. Jenny does the best she can.”
“Dad! Jack called me a moron!”
“Hush up, Lane. Can’t you see we got company?”
BC steeled himself.
“I’m sorry to have to come to you in your home, Mr. Burton.”
Burton squinted, his small eyes disappearing into his plump cheeks, as though he were reading BC’s words rather than listening to him speak. After a moment he nodded, as if he’d reached the end of the sentence. “What can I do for you?”
BC took a deep breath. “As you know, an enormous amount of sensitive material passes through the Department of Justice Building, and it’s vital that none of it be seen by the wrong eyes. I’m sorry to say that it’s come to our attention that there have been several breaches in areas where you have been assigned.”
In the silence after BC finished, one of the children screamed, “Car parks inside hat! Inside hat! In-SIDE hat!”
“Jack.”
Apparently Jack knew this voice. He grabbed Lane and hightailed it into the kitchen.
“Agent Query?” Burton said when his kids were gone. “No one called me. This the first I heard about it.”
BC smiled and nodded. “In light of your excellent record, the director felt you deserved the courtesy of a personal visit.” As soon as he spoke, BC almost kicked himself. What was he doing, mentioning the director? As if J. Edgar Hoover would take notice of something this trivial.
“But I got Level 3 clearance, Agent Query. It was renewed less’n six months ago.”
“My mother spoke very highly of you,” BC said, though he had no idea why he was mentioning her either. “I’m sure you’ve done nothing wrong. Nevertheless, there have been breaches—minor breaches, but breaches nevertheless—” He broke off, tripping over the fact that he’d used the word “nevertheless” twice in one sentence.
“Is this about that thing with Ashley? Because, you know, me and the wife’ve already—”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. Look, Mr. Burton, I’m sure you’ve done nothing wrong, but until we can find out exactly what happened, I’m afraid I’ll need to collect your ID badge.”
“I’ll call the office,” Burton said, stepping toward the phone. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Ashley and me was just—”
“Mr. Burton!” BC tried to make his voice forceful, but it just sounded desperate in his ears. “There’s no one to call. I’m in charge of the matter.” He held out his hand and prayed it wouldn’t shake. “Your ID badge, please.”
Burton’s feet shuffled back and forth until something squeaked beneath them and he started. He walked dazedly to a side table and retreived his badge, then gave it to BC with a fatalistic air, as if he’d always known his time would come. BC couldn’t help but think of the conductor on the train to New York. Mr. Handy. Did every black man in America feel this way? As though his existence continued on sufferance only? But that in turn made him think of Melchior. No, he thought, at least one black man in America was unwilling to live on handouts anymore. Two, if you counted Dr. King. Oh, and Malcolm—
“Do you want to search the house or something?” Burton’s somber voice broke into BC’s reverie. “Cuz you’ll see, we ain’t got nothing to hide. We’re honest people, Agent Query. We love this country. We wouldn’t never breach security.”
BC stuffed the badge in his pocket. “As I said, it’s just an investigation, and, because of your close relationship to my mother, I’m going to handle it personally. In fact, I plan on returning to the office and clearing it up tonight. And I’ve made sure you’ll be paid for the day. Think of it as a little vacation.”
Burton sighed heavily and handed over the badge.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind that. Be nice to sleep when it’s dark out for a change.” He stepped backward, and whatever had squeaked beneath him squeaked again. “God damn—I mean, gosh. Gosh darn. We’re crammed in this place like the old woman in the shoe.”
“Indeed,” BC said. He lingered on the parquet.
“Is there something else, Agent Query?”
“It’s pronounced Querrey,” BC said. “And I need your uniform, too.”
San Francisco, CA
November 7, 1963
Melchior stared at Chandler Forrestal’s body through the window of Chandler’s makeshift hospital room like a father looking at his first child in the neonatal ward. Asleep, Orpheus looked like nothing so much as what he was: a twenty-eight-year-old white man with a face that was a little old Hollywood, a little new: Gary Cooper circa The Virginian crossed with the young star of Splendor in the Grass, Warren Beatty. Even in a hospital robe there was something abou
t him that could only be described as dashing, however fruity that sounded. He had that combination of hard muscles and soft hands that the children of privilege possess; the only lines on his body were faint wrinkles around his mouth from a lifetime of nervous frowning (although on Chandler they looked less like wrinkles than dimples). Melchior had read the files in BC’s briefcase, so he knew about the money Chandler’s family had had and lost, the Wall Street and Beltway connections that still leant a sheen to his name even if they’d long since evaporated. He’d also read everything the Bureau’s spies inside CIA had managed to ferret out about Project Orpheus, which pretty much confirmed what Everton had said. Either they weren’t telling him much, or there wasn’t much to tell. Whores. LSD. Unwitting test subjects and one-way mirrors. Putting aside the scandal that would erupt if the Mary Meyer-Jack Kennedy connection came to light, it sounded like Ultra all over again, and ten years of Ultra had produced nothing besides a couple of Company Christmas parties that got out of hand. Certainly no one seemed to have expected what Melchior had experienced at Millbrook three days ago (although the thought of a telepathic president was enough to make him chuckle). If he were the kind of man prone to self-doubt, he might’ve tried to convince himself he’d dreamed the whole thing up, rather than attempt to figure out how Chandler had managed to project hallucinations into Melchior’s head. But Melchior had never been wrong in his life.
“So, Doctor?” he said, turning to the other man in the room. “You’ve had seventy-two hours with Orpheus, not to mention ten thousand dollars to kit yourself out with all manner of toys. What have you learned?”
Heinrich Keller was almost the definition of nondescript: of medium height, medium coloring, medium age, he seemed to fade away if you looked at him directly. But if you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, half listened to the things he said, you caught a glimmer of something. A hunger. His nickname in the SS had been der Anästhesiologe, “the Anesthesiologist.” Some people said it was because he put his interlocutors to sleep, but others said it was because he never, ever provided the same mercy to his subjects, no matter how much they begged or how loud they screamed.
