Dante's Equation Part 57

Genesis 32:31, Everett Fox,The Five Books of Moses,1995 Calder was crawling across the face of the globe. That's the way it felt. In his mind he was crawling, grasping fistful of earth by fistful of earth, moving one bloodied knee at a time. It was like crawling into his own cerebellum. Every hour, every moment, brought new memories. Few of them were pleasant.

Once, asleep sitting upright in the airplane, he'd had a memory-dream. He remembered himself- Calder Farris-screaming at hisfather . Calder remembered growing up with the hard man, and that he'd been beaten often. In this particular instance he had had enough, and in an unspeakable rage he'd shoved his father against the wall and pounded his face with his fist again and again. Then he had put back his head and howled. He awoke with the woman shaking him, a murmured whine still on his lips.

It occurred to him that the boy in the dream, Calder Farris, himself, had lived with that howl inside him for a long time. That was what had enabled him to do certain things, like almost kill his father and slaughter that Silver male and then cut him up like an animal. Perhaps it was the damage that had happened to his mind, but somewhere along the way he had lost the howl.

He didn't want that rage, but losing it made him weak.

The woman was weakening him, her presence alone. Bringing her had been a mistake. It was hard enough just trying to cope, trying to hold it together against a flood of memories that were as sharp and painful as the pins and needles of an awakening limb.

What did she want from him? Why couldn't she just leave him alone? It felt like his old job, his old life, was being foisted upon him before he was ready. He wa.s.sick ; couldn't she see that? She had tried to talk to him, early on, while they were in an airport restaurant in Poland. She had been talking about some weapons and her words had so disturbed him, had caused such black ripples to burn in his mind, that he had allowed a gla.s.s to tumble from his hand and shatter on the floor. She had shut up then.

After they left Poland, he had so much to deal with that he had stopped pretending she was his prisoner. He had even tried to ditch her, but she had stuck to him like glue. She looked at him with suchconcern , asked about his head, gave him pills that eased the pain. He had no idea why she was doing any of it, but he was too confused to resist.

All he could do was try to hold on as information flew at him. Planes, for example. At first they had seemed exotic, almost spooky, even though he had known what they were. But traveling on them, sitting in the cramped seats, feeling annoyed at the quality of the food, even the feeling he got in his ears on landing-these sensations were very familiar.

And the sun-thesun ! It had been cloudy in Poland, and he hadn't even remembered about the sun until it came out at sunrise on their flight to Paris. He'd stared out the window at it, felt its heat on his face, and known real joy.

It was not that he'd everliked Centalia. He had survived there, nothing more. But once he saw the sun he felt a sense of possessiveness, of happiness, of pride forthis world. He felt that he was home.

The hardest thing to reconcile was the people. How many people there were in this world, of every shape and size! There was no uniformity at all. And everyone moved without pa.s.ses, with no one caring where they went, no one taking down their name on a logsheet or asking questions. There was basic security at the airports, but otherwise no one monitored their progress. The disorderliness of it scared him. How could society function with such liberties, with no one in control? How did things keep from simply flying apart?

Hewas not like them. Watching them, he felt hard and rigid where all around him was turmoil. He was like a stiff log in a churning river. Just as the sun had made him feel that he was home, the people made him doubt he had ever belonged on this world.

By the time they arrived in Paris, he had fallen back in love with chocolate chip cookies. And he was starting to feel that there could be a kind of fascination in the chaos. People-watching in the airport on their long layover, he could almost appreciate the flagrantwillfulness of the disorder, was enchanted by the magic trick, that all the comings and goings and pairings and teeming could work without any visible means of structure. It was like a toy he remembered-a kaleidoscope. The thing always made amazing patterns no matter which way the random pieces fell.

When they boarded the flight to Washington, D.C., the idea of it, that he would soon behome , produced tremendous anxiety. He knew there would be many answers there-and that stepping back into his old life meant he had to be 100 percent. On the plane, the woman sat beside him, as she always did. But she had not tried to speak to him again.

If she was completely stupid she might just follow him right into his superior's office and give herself up. In fact, when they landed in Washington he thought he just might be well enough to grab her arm and makesure that was what happened. She had dogged the wounded hunter. Big fun. It was time she learned that he still had teeth.

He was staring at a couple across the aisle and one row up. They were young and attractive, whole and undeformed. Both had pale skin and dark hair. The male had his arm around the female and they were looking into each other's eyes. Some emotion swirled around them that Farris did not quite get. He didn't get it, but he still felt envious.

"Lieutenant Farris?" The woman spoke his name. He turned his eyes to give her a cold look. "Sometimes it helps to talk about things. Would you like to tell me about it? About what happened to you when you went . . . somewhere else?"

He sneered. "I'm not tellingyou anything."

"I understand. You don't trust me. In that case, would you like to hear what happened to me?"

He didn't. He didn't want to talk. But then, she was as good as offering a full confession. And then he recalled that this woman might hold the answers to his own experiences. With all he'd had to deal with on the journey, he'd forgotten why he'd wanted her along in the first place.

"Speak then."

She talked to him with simple words. She explained how they had been in the woods that night and how five of them had gone through a type of black hole. She began to tell a story about the world she had seen. He tried to stay with her, to hear everything without emotion, but it was hard. There was so much to think about, so many directions the mind could turn off, like a freeway with slippery exits, dark eddies pulling him down.Black hole. And then the battlefield.

She got to a place in her story that she must have thought important, for she put her hand on his sleeve to focus his attention. He stared down at her hand.

"Lieutenant Farris, did you hear what I said? I was talking about the weapon we learned about on Difa-Gor-Das." She repeated the information about a machine carefully, her eyes locked to his to keep him with her.

He took it in. He was still trying to get his mind around the black hole, but he took this new information in. She carefully explained wave technology and what would result if you tried to manipulate the wave. Fragments of old learning came back to him, enough for him to grasp what she was saying. He even seemed to recall that this,this, was what he had wanted from her all that long while ago. She wasrevealing secrets , but she didn't seem disturbed by the fact. She described everything deliberately.

"Don't you see?" she said, her green eyes alight. "The technology I was working on-the technologyyou were looking for-it has to be buried, Lieutenant. Because if it isn't, there is a very real possibility that someone in the governmentwill use it, benignly, ignorantly, or otherwise. We can't risk it."

She seemed to want some kind of response from him. She squeezed his arm.

"We don'thave to be on opposite sides. We've both seen things that have made us realize how precious this world is and how . . ." she sighed, "how responsible we are for our choices. It's not too late, Lieutenant Farris."

It finally dawned on him then what she was doing, why she had come with him, why she had been so concerned about him, so helpful! She was trying to turn him, turnhim , like some green recruit!

An ugly laugh pa.s.sed his lips. She had no idea how little he cared about any of it. He felt only numb about what she had told him; he felt nothing at all. He didn't believe her, number one. Number two, he was a soldier, even here, and he would never betray his oaths of loyalty. And, number three, it wasn't even his responsibility to make the kinds of decisions she was talking about. Didn't she understand that? She was trying to manipulate the wrong link in the chain of command.

In fact, he was amazed how little he cared about what she had just told him. He wasn't even angry at the idea that she might be lying or trying to manipulate him. And even as he was thinking so he felt sweat trickle down his face and a hot, burning pain in his abdomen.

"Excuse me," he said, rising quickly.

He barely made it to the bathroom. There was a roaring in his ears and a thickening veil descending across his vision. He locked the door and sank down the wall, his knees jammed up against the sink, and the blackness in his mind swept over him like a blanket.

Ed Hinkle stared out at the dark. It wasn't snowing, but the bare soil outside was crisp as ice and the air hurt when you drew it into your lungs. He was sick to death of Poland.

Still no word today. He'd sent in his report this morning, as usual, and heard nothing back, as usual. He couldn't resist taking a walk in the woods this morning, just to see with his own two eyes that nothing had changed. Nothing had changed.

He wished he knew the test results on the samples from the woods, if the DoD had found any trace of a weapon or not. But he already knew by the way they were treating him that he was eyes and ears and muscle on this case and nothing more. Most of the time he was happy enough to just do his job and be done with it. But in this case he was d.a.m.ned curious. He had been in the woods that night, and he had seen that flash.

He didn't know how much longer he could stay here with that filthy old man without killing him. He was their only witness and he was too mental to tell them jack.

The bottle of Russian vodka on the counter kept drawing Hinkle's eye.

He'd told the broad he didn't want it. He was on a.s.signment, which meant he was on duty twenty-four seven. He wouldn't drink. But the Russian bimbo had insisted on leaving it here, as a gift. He told her he'd just pour it down the drain. She'd laughed and left it anyway.

She hadn't been bad-looking. If it had been any other time . . .

He picked up the bottle. It had the original factory seal-looked just like other bottles of the same or a similar brand he'd seen in the windows in town. Too bad. He had a brief fantasy-wouldn't it be fun if the bimbo had actually been a Russian spy and had put poison in the bottle? Or better yet, Spanish fly, so she could slip in later and ride him raw while her partner stole the goods. He put down the bottle with a laugh.

No such luck. The Russians weren't even on the map these days. Besides, who'd want a bed-wetting old man?

He felt Davis's presence before he saw him. Well, h.e.l.l, where else would he be? It was a small house.

"Want to play some cards?"

Ed sighed. "h.e.l.l, yeah."

They were deep into five card stud, using a huge jar of the old man's pennies for stake, when the distinct noise of slamming car doors caught their attention.

Hinkle and Davis looked at each other and got up to investigate. Hinkle wasn't alarmed at first, but he was on alert. Maybe someone had finally stopped by to see the old fart, maybe someone with an actual dreg or two of information. But he hadn't heard the sound of a motor.

Before they reached the front door hedid hear a motor-a car starting up. It sounded familiar. He and Davis rushed out the front door to see the faces of two startled youthsin their rental car . The car backed up, lurching into reverse, and began gunning madly down the driveway.

For a moment, Hinkle was completely dumbfounded.Some dumb-a.s.s local s.h.i.ts were actually stealing their car. Stealing the car of the DoD-how unlucky could you get?

Then he and Davis began running after the car-on foot.

From the cover of the woods north of Anatoli's place Nate, Denton, Aharon, and Hannah watched the car lurch down the road and the two men running behind it, guns drawn. The car died and restarted and lurched again just enough to keep Hinkle and his pal from giving up.

"Well, I'd say that's the distraction," Denton commented. He rubbed his hands together as if against the cold, but the truth was, he was far too tense to feel anything as insignificant as weather. His three companions looked a little anxious themselves.

Aharon and Hannah hadn't been able to learn everything about the Mossad's plan, but they had heard bits and pieces and, between the four of them, they'd worked out a basic scenario that made sense. Whether it was the scenario the Mossad had in mind was another matter.

"There they go," Hannah whispered.

From the dark of the woods directly behind Anatoli's house two figures in black emerged and ran for the back door. Hannah and Aharon gave Denton and Nate one last look of support and took off along the edge of the woods. Denton and Nate slipped away for a rendezvous of their own.

The man who sometimes called himself Mr. Smith and his partner, Hadar, quietly let themselves into the house. The back door was locked, but Mr. Smith had a hook that opened it in five seconds. He didn't even have to put the corpse down. Door open, he slipped inside, Hadar behind him.

It was not ideal. The men who had arrived this morning from Czechoslovakia, the ones who were right now out playing cat and mouse with the U.S. agents, could have been in here helping him. And they could have had all the time in the world instead of being rushed-ifthe Americans had consumed the sleeping drugenhanced vodka. But they hadn't; they were too well trained.

The corpse on his shoulders had not felt heavy when he'd picked it up back at the car, but it was heavy after carrying it a quarter mile through the woods. He let Hadar brush past him and open the door to the old man's room. The lights were out and they left the hall door open in lieu of turning on their torches.

The old man was awake and he sat up, his face, even in the shadows, a grimacing mask of fear. Hadar was fast. She stuffed the gag in his mouth before he could scream and had him up and out of bed in an instant. He didn't even fight the restraints that pinned his arms to his side and his calves together. From the look of the old man, it would be a miracle he'd survive the ordeal.

When Mr. Nikiel was subdued, Hadar lifted him out of the way, arms around his waist, taking him into the hall. The old man was whimpering in his throat.

Alone, Mr. Smith dumped his load on the bed and stripped off the black covering. Inside was one very dead old man of approximately the same age and size as Anatoli Nikiel. The corpse was awkward and the smell and feel unpleasant, but Mr. Smith had done worse things. He tossed the blanket over the corpse. Then he removed a bottle from his pocket and squirted a harsh-smelling liquid on the blanket, the corpse's face and hands, the floor, the bedside table. The highly flammable liquid would dissipate within minutes, so there was no time to linger. He struck a match.

The bed, table, floor, and corpse burst into flame. He went into the hall and took Nikiel from Hadar, wrapped him loosely in the black covering, and hoisted the living weight over his right shoulder. Hadar was already down the hall.

In the kitchen, she had the attache case in hand, moving it to the table. He gave her a quick hand signal to meet at the rendezvous point-unnecessary but rea.s.suring-and slipped with his burden out the door and toward the woods.

Hadar was alone in the house. She had very little time. She opened the case and grabbed everything inside-not much, as it turned out, just a folder of papers-and stuck it into her black backpack. Then she took a plastic bag from her pocket and deposited into the case an amount of paper ashes that approximated the size and contents of the folder.

The case was shut and put back against the wall where she'd found it. She had a bottle of liquid in her pocket similar to the one Mr. Smith had and she distributed it around the kitchen, particularly on the case and the wall behind it.

The house was already filling with smoke from the fire down the hall when she lit this one. As the flames licked the cabinets she picked up the bottle of vodka from the counter and smashed it on the floor to make sure its contents could not be retrieved and tested. It only fueled the fire. Then, with one last look at the case-it was burning nicely-she went out the back door, careful to lock it.

Aharon was crouched on the far side of the house and he watched the second figure in black dart into the trees. He looked over his shoulder at Hannah. She was at the far end of the wall watching the road. She signaled him, then ran at a crouch to join him. He heard the engine at the same instant- the U.S. agents had recovered the car and were returning.

"Let's go!" she said as she reached him, pushing his back to get him moving. His heart was pumping so hard he had no breath to speak, but his legs obeyed her command. He wasway too old for this craziness.

As they went around the back of the house, Aharon heard the crackle of fire and saw the flames leap up. He patted the papers inside his coat to rea.s.sure himself that they were still there-the papers that he had taken from the attache case while the Mossad agents were in Anatoli's room. Then Hannah grabbed his hand and they ran.

He felt a surge of victory as they entered the woods, despite all the huffing and puffing. Hannah's trick with the gla.s.s had worked after all. And what would the Mossad think, he wondered, when they found that what the U.S. agents had kept in that attache was a folder filled with old Polish folk tunes?

Mr. Smith had left his car on a deserted maintenance road through the woods that was more of a dirt rut than anything else. When he stepped out of the woods with Anatoli over his shoulder, Denton and Nate were waiting for him.

Denton's breath was visible coming in puffs through the woolen ski mask. He felt a rush of fear and antic.i.p.ation. Calder Farris's gun was steady in his hand. Smith froze at the sight of them.

"Don't move," Denton said.

Nate slipped around the car and relieved Mr. Smith of his burden, cradling the black sack carefully and setting it on the ground.

"Now hands up." Denton motioned with the gun.

Mr. Smith slowly, almost sarcastically, raised his hands. His eyes glittered pure murder.

Nate fought with the black covering for a few minutes before finding the opening and pushing it down, away from Anatoli's face. Mr. Smith only had eyes for Denton, waiting for him to be distracted by the fumbling. Denton stared straight at him, not distracted at all.

Nate got the black shroud down to Anatoli's feet. The old man looked wild. Denton could hear Nate murmuring to him rea.s.suringly. He loosened the gag, trying to ease the bloated pain on the old man's face.

"Get him into the car and then search Santa Claus here for a weapon," Denton said, trying to disguise his voice. He wanted Nate to hurry. He could see from the tension in Mr. Smith's body that he was going to try something. Smith's eyes said no way was he going to let them get away with this. They said death before capitulation.

Not that Denton was all that worried, but the suspense was killing him.

Nate tried to move Anatoli to the car, unsuccessfully. He kept trying before figuring out that the old man's ankles were bound.

The philosophy-slash-physics student was not very proficient at this, Denton surmised. Nate's movements were nervous and unwise. He should have moved Anatoli farther from Mr. Smith before doing anything more, picking him up and carrying him if necessary. Instead, Nate seemed fixated on getting Anatoli to walk. He crouched down, trying to undo the binding at Anatoli's feet.

"Nate!" Denton called in warning.

Too late. Mr. Smith's foot came out, kicking Nate squarely in the chin with furious force. Denton let off a shot, a shot that came not from panic but from anger. It might even have hit Mr. Smith, except that the man tucked and rolled, disappearing around the front of the car.

The situation, at that instant, was very bad. Nate was sprawled on his back on the ground, out cold. Anatoli was standing bound, black sack at his feet, his mouth open and screeching. And Mr. Smith was out of sight on the other side of the car, no doubtwith a gun . They hadn't disarmed him. That had been a mistake.

Denton chuckled.

He felt a bizarre sense of ease. It was as if he could see all of the possibilities laid out before him, stretching away from this moment like shining cords of light. He might overcome Mr. Smith, and if he did one band of light would brighten, the rest flickering out, and life would proceed in a certain direction. And if he did not, another path would quicken and spread. He might, within minutes, be lying dead on the ground. Or . . . not. Life, unstoppable, immutable life, would go on either way. It was not concerned with how the pattern turned out any more than it had to deliberate on the design of an individual snowflake.

Denton, however, wanted very much to win.

He did not hear so much as sense Smith approaching, crouching around the right side of the car. Denton shifted, down and to his left, moving around from the trunk to the left side of the car. He was alert, calm but electrified as a live wire. He thought quickly. He could continue to circle the car, risking his life on his power of stealth, hoping that he might be able to sneak up behind Smith even as Smith was trying to sneak up on him.

Or he could do as he was doing now-slip off his shoes and climb up onto the hood.

It was crazy. From his position on top of the car he would be vulnerable. If his feet made a noise, if the metal of the car gave a little, making a tinny denting sound, Smith would know where he was and Denton would be an open, visible target. But if not . . .

Luck was with him. He seemed light as a feather as he mounted the hood. The car took his weight without a sound. As he bellied onto the roof, he got a clear view of Mr. Smith. The man who had beaten him in LA so coldly was crouched near the trunk, gun raised high in his hand, his attention focused as he peered, cautiously, around the end of the car.

Denton's breath misted in front of his eyes, causing the image of the Mossad agent to take on a foggy quality. He aimed his gun.

In a Western, shooting a man in the back was dishonorable. Denton, however, knew he was by far the underdog in this match and had to take his shots where he found them. He also knew he didn't have the skill to wound the man or, like they did in movies, dislodge the gun from his hand with a single shot, leaving him with burning fingers but no permanent damage.

No. That was not real life. The reality was that he was incompetent with a gun and probably should have been dead already. Denton aimed as best he could at the center of Smith's back and fired.

When they landed in Washington, Dr. Talcott was quiet. She had talked herself out, whispering mysteries in his ear like some Lilith for the past several hours. And he had not acknowledged any of them.

As they got off the plane, she looked discouraged and tired. Farris kept tight hold of her arm, pulling her through the terminal and outside. He got them a taxi to his apartment. He'd remembered many things by now, and he was able to give the address to the taxi driver. He even sounded normal when he said it.

When they got there, when they were standing right outside his door, he suddenly couldn't bear to have her see this. He didn't know how he was going to react to what was inside, but he had to do it alone. He thought about tying her up or stashing her somewhere, but he just . . . the truth was, he didn't want to f.u.c.k with it. He told her to wait down the hall.