The Brotherhood of the Rose Page 33

  “But Saul won’t be that obvious. He’ll attack in a way we don’t expect.”

  “Unless he never gets the chance.”

  “I’m not sure what—”

  “If I kill him first,” Castor said.

  “And be killed yourself for breaking the rule?”

  “I’d have an escape prepared.”

  “They’d hunt you forever. What would it solve? They know you’re my escort. They’d assume I ordered you to kill him. I’d be blamed. And killed as well.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  Eliot shook his head, distraught. The problem seemed insoluble. Under the circumstances, given the rules, neither side could attack, yet both sides had to defend themselves. For a moment, he reluctantly admired Saul for being more clever than he’d expected. They were here as equals, caught in a stalemate, the pressure increasing.

  Who’d act first? Who’d make the first mistake?

  Despite his fear, Eliot surprised himself. He was fascinated. “Do? Why, nothing, of course.”

  Castor frowned.

  “We let the system do it for us.”

  10

  Don knocked twice, then twice again. A guard, having studied him through the peephole, opened the door. Don glanced both ways along the hall—it remained deserted, he hadn’t been noticed—and stepped into the crowded room. He faced two guards, three nurses, a doctor, and a maid. Squinting past them, he didn’t see what he’d come for.

  “In the bathroom,” the guard at the door said.

  Nodding with detachment, Don subdued an unprofessional groan, thinking, Jesus, another bleeder. As he walked to the bathroom, he heard the guard lock the door.

  But the body wasn’t in the tub. Instead it lay on turquoise tile, face up, grotesque, wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, both of which had been opened. A slipper had fallen off.

  Thank God I was wrong, Don thought. No blood.

  The top of the skull was angled in his direction, so he saw the face upside down and didn’t recognize it till he stepped into the bathroom and turned. Even so, he knew from the number outside the door, cross-checked with his files, which guest had been assigned this room.

  An Egyptian. The intelligence officer in charge of President Sadat’s security the day he was assassinated.

  But the face was so distorted that without the benefit of knowing who was supposed to be here Don wasn’t sure he could have identified the man the instant he saw him directly.

  The cheeks were twisted in an awful grimace. The skin was extremely pink.

  “His color,” Don said to the doctor. “Cyanide?”

  Lean and pasty, the doctor shrugged. “Likely. It stops oxygen from leaving the blood and reaching the cells. That would account for the pink. Hard to know for sure till the autopsy’s finished.”

  Don scowled in dismay. “But the pain on his face. Isn’t cyanide supposed to be—?”

  “Peaceful?”

  “Yeah.” Don sounded confused. “Like going to sleep.”

  “Maybe he had a nightmare,” a guard said at the door.

  Don turned, almost angry, uncertain if the guard was making a joke. But the guard seemed genuinely fascinated by the effects of poison.

  “Actually,” the doctor said, “it made him sick. He managed to reach the bowl, threw up, and fell on his face. We turned him over. He’s been dead for several hours. The pressure of his cheek against the floor accounts for the way it’s twisted. Maybe he didn’t die from the poison so much as cracking his head. Or maybe he choked on his vomit. Either way, you’re right—it wasn’t peaceful.”

  “Several hours ago?”

  “More or less. We obeyed the protocol and tried to revive him. Adrenaline. Electroshocks to his heart. You can see the circular marks the pads left on his chest.”

  “You pumped out his stomach?”

  “We went through the motions, but there wasn’t much point.” The doctor gestured toward the people in the living room. “You’ll have plenty of witnesses for the inquest. The only debatable issue is why didn’t I rush him downstairs to the clinic. My professional response is he was so far gone I couldn’t waste time moving him. Off the record, we couldn’t rush him down and still maintain secrecy. You know the effect this sort of thing has on the other guests. Believe me, it wouldn’t have mattered. He was dead.”

  “Who found him?”

  “I did.” The maid was trim, attractive, wearing an aproned uniform.

  Don checked his watch. “At eleven at night? Since when do rooms get cleaned—?”

  “We had no arrangement if that’s what you mean.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. There’s no rule against it. But they’ll ask at the inquest.”

  Nervous, she tried to order her thoughts. “The last few days he seemed depressed. I don’t know—something about a letter from his wife.” She frowned. “This morning he had the Do Not Disturb sign on his door. He wants to sleep late, I thought, so I came back after lunch, but the sign was still there. Then things got busy, and I forgot about him till a while ago. On impulse, I decided to check his door again, and when I still saw the sign, I got worried. I knocked several times. No answer. So I let myself in with the passkey.”

  “Found him and called security.”

  She nodded.

  “You could have called security before you went in.”

  “And embarrassed him if I was wrong.”

  Don thought about it. “You did fine. Tell the investigators just the way you told me. You won’t have any trouble.” He glanced at the others. “Any weak parts we ought to be clear on?”

  No one spoke.

  “Okay then. Wait. There is one thing. Where’d he get the poison?”

  The doctor sounded exasperated. “Where do any of them get it? These people are walking pharmacopeias. Never mind the drugs we supply. Most of them bring in their own. They know a thousand ways to kill themselves. If they don’t use one way, it’s another.”

  “You took photographs?”

  “Every angle.”

  “Swell.” Don shook his head. “A wonderful assignment, huh?”

  “Eleven months since I came. Thank God, my tour’s almost finished.”

  “Lucky.” Don pursed his lips. “Wait till after midnight to move him. The halls are usually quiet then. You two,” he told the guards. “Make sure the elevator’s empty before—” He glanced at the body. “You know how it’s done. I’ll handle the arrangements. Since you’re working late, you don’t need to report till noon. But I’ll want signed statements from you by then. Also—” he suddenly needed to get out of the bathroom “—this kind of job, you’ll get the bonus we agreed on. Use the customary explanation. He made an urgent choice to leave the rest home tonight. No one knows where he’s gone.” Speaking quickly, he passed the doctor. “I want the autopsy done tonight.”

  “The tests take longer.”

  “Noon tomorrow. The investigators’ll be here soon. We have to prove the sanction wasn’t violated. We have to be sure it was suicide.”

  11

  In his office, Don leaned against the door. His forehead broke out in sweat. He’d managed to stay in control all the way down here. He’d even been able to endure a conversation with several guests in the lobby, acting believably, as if nothing was wrong. Now, at last in private, his nerves collapsed.

  He poured two fingers of bourbon, drinking them in one swallow. Soaking a towel in the sink of his wet bar, he pressed it cold against his face.

  Eleven months? Is that what the doctor had said? Just one more month and the man’d be out of here? Don envied him. His own assignment had begun only six months ago. Another half-year, and sometimes he wondered if he’d make it.

  When he’d first drawn this duty, he’d been delighted. A year in paradise, his only regret it’d be only a year. Anything he wanted, free—in addition to his hundred-thousand-dollar salary. Sure, he’d suspected you don’t get benefits like that unless the job’s a bitch. But he’d worked in intelligence
for twenty years, organizing some of the biggest operations. System, that’s what he was good at. So a rest home was complicated, fine. It required delicacy, no problem. He was a specialist in public relations.

  But no one had told him about the mood here. No one had warned him there’d be so much death.

  Of course not. Only a handful of people knew what really happened here—former managers and the investigating board—and they were forbidden to talk. Because if word got out, who’d be crazy enough to want to come? Without the concept of a rest home, who’d want to come? Without the concept of a rest home, who’d want to dedicate his life to the profession? Everyone eventually made mistakes. Everyone needed a heaven.

  But this was hell.

  He wasn’t a field operative. He’d never belonged to the covert section, the dark side, the wet crew, whatever slang applied. He was front office, white collar. Before he’d come here, he’d seen only three bodies ever, and they’d been a friend and two relatives, dead from natural causes, lying in state at a mortuary. They’d given him the creeps.

  Before. But now? He shuddered.

  He should have guessed. A rest home was designed for ambitious people who were losers. Anything a person wanted. For a price. With guaranteed safety. That was the promise. A hundred acres of paradise. But no one guaranteed happiness. Don, who had to stay only a year, already coveted a trip to a burger joint where he’d stopped on his drive here from Vancouver. Late at night, he dreamed of walking through a crowded mall. A hundred acres. And sometimes he felt he knew every inch. The others—those who’d been here for years and had to stay forever—felt the claustrophobia even worse. To compensate, they indulged themselves. Drugs, alcohol, and sex. Gourmet meals. But how much could you shoot up or drink or screw or eat before it didn’t satisfy? A hundred acres, getting smaller every second. Every day like the one before. With subtle variations.

  When you used up all the variations, though?

  He wasn’t contemplative. Nonetheless, he’d noticed that only the losers who disdained the physical became satisfied here. Checking the library, he’d discovered their preference for spiritual topics. Saint Augustine. The teachings of Buddha. Boethius and the wheel of fortune. It intrigued him that the survivors of a life of action became meditative and monastic.

  And the rest, who couldn’t adjust? They poisoned themselves, O.D.ed, slit their wrists, or blew their brains out. Maybe they offered suggestions to each other, for lately several had sat in the sauna till they fainted and died from dehydration, or else they drank whiskey in their hot tub, a combination that raised their temperature to a dangerous level. When they lost consciousness, they sank and drowned.

  12

  Saul ignored his guards as he stepped from his room. There were two of them—the same as when he’d arrived last night. A different two, however. Don hadn’t been kidding. “You’ll be watched.” No doubt another two would take over shortly. Around the clock in shifts. Two hundred thousand bought a hell of a lot of protection.

  Followed, he went downstairs. It wouldn’t be difficult, he assumed, to learn the number of Eliot’s room. But what would be the point? He couldn’t go near it without alarming his guards. He could try to lose them, but that would cause a greater alarm. Besides, he still hadn’t solved the problem of how to escape. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if his goal was even possible. To avenge his brother, he had to kill his father, and yet—to keep himself alive—he couldn’t kill him. The contradiction squeezed his brain.

  There had to be a way. Deciding he didn’t know enough, he began the hunt, studying the rest home, wandering through the lobby, its stores and restaurants, the medical clinic, then outside, inspecting the exercise areas, the gardens, the grounds. The guards stayed close to him. But the guests, sensing trouble, kept their distance. Their wary glances made him wonder how he could use their nervousness to his advantage.

  He checked the swimming pool and the golf course. Eliot must have been told by now I’m here, he thought. So what’ll he do? The logical choice would be to stay in his room—he knows I’d never risk going there. How long could he bear confinement, though? He knows I’m not about to leave. He’ll refuse to hide forever. Instead of reacting to me, he’ll want to force me to react to him.

  But how?

  Whatever, it would happen soon. Since he has to show himself eventually, he won’t bother waiting. He’ll accept the inevitable and break the stalemate right away.

  But where? The old man’s too brittle for bowling and tennis. All the same, he still needs recreation. What would he—?

  It couldn’t be anything else. Nodding with satisfaction, Saul came to the greenhouse under construction near the jogging track at the rear of the lodge.

  He enjoyed imagining ways to use it.

  But where would the old man go till it was finished?

  13

  “I didn’t know you liked fishing.”

  Hearing the voice behind him, Eliot turned from the river, wide and swift, with trees and bushes crowding the banks, though here a grassy slope led down to an inlet, still and clear. The water smelled sweet, but now and then the wind brought the hint of rancid vegetation—death and decay.

  The man on top of the bank had the sun behind him. The glare stabbed Eliot’s eyes. He raised a hand to shield them, nodding in recognition. “You don’t remember our fishing trips? I like it. But I seldom had time to indulge myself. Now that I’ve retired, though…” He smiled, reeled in his line, and set the pole on the bank.

  “Oh, I remember those fishing trips, all right.” Saul’s voice was hoarse with rage. The sinews in his throat tightened, choking him. “Just you and me.” He stalked down the bank. “And Chris.” He glared at Eliot’s straw hat, red checked shirt, stiff new jeans, and rubber boots. He growled, “No black suit and vest?”

  “To go fishing?” Eliot laughed. “I don’t wear business clothes all the time. You’ve forgotten how I dressed when you and Chris and I took those camping trips.”

  “We keep coming back to Chris.” Livid, Saul clenched his fists, stepping closer.

  Bending, Eliot ignored him, reaching into his tackle box.

  Saul pointed as if he had a gun. “That better not be a fucking candy bar.”

  “No Baby Ruths, I’m afraid. Sorry. Though I wish I’d thought of one. For old times’ sake. I’m only changing bait.”

  A foot-long trout rose. Snatching a bug off the surface, it left a widening circle.

  “See what I missed. I’ve been using a lure when it ought to be a fly.”

  “Bait.” Saul’s nostrils flared. “I asked around. You’ve got two bodyguards.”

  “Companions. That’s right. Castor and Pollux.”

  “McElroy and Conlin, you mean.”

  “Very good.” Eliot nodded. “I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t done your homework.”

  “Other orphans you lied to.” Furious, Saul glanced around. “So where the hell are they?”

  “Playing tennis, I believe.” Eliot picked up a second pole. “They don’t go everywhere with me.”

  “That doesn’t make you nervous—being out here alone?”

  “In a rest home? Why should I feel nervous? I’m protected.”

  Saul stepped even closer. “Wrong.”

  “No, you are.” Eliot angrily threw down the pole. “You’ve lost. Admit it. If you kill me here, you die as well. After all these years, I know how you think. You wouldn’t be satisfied unless you got away with it. You can’t, though.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s not good enough. You’d want to be certain.” Eliot’s chest heaved. “That’s why I’m out here alone today. I could have hidden in my room, but I’m too old to waste my time. This place is bad enough as it is. You must have sensed the mood. The guests are dead already. They just don’t know enough to lie down.”

  “You made your grave.”

  “Not me.” Eliot raised his chin, proud. “I’ll soon have my roses again. I’ve got
this.” He gestured fiercely at the pole. “So here I am, the best chance you’ll get. Kill me now, and escape across the river. Who knows? You might even get away. Otherwise, either make peace with me, or dammit, leave me alone.” He stared at the river, swallowing, his outburst having weakened him. “I’d rather, though, we got along.”

  “It won’t be that easy.” Saul tasted something bitter. “One thing you owe me.”

  “What?”

  “An explanation.”

  “Why? Would it make a difference? If you know about Castor and Pollux, you must have learned about—”

  “There were five of you.” Saul spoke rapidly, spitting his words. “The descendants of the original Abelard group. Each of you had orphans, sons, fanatically loyal. Just like Chris and me. You used us to sabotage operations you thought were wrong.” He gestured, impatient. “Get on with it.”

  “You learned all that?” Eliot blinked, astonished.

  “You taught me.”

  Studying Saul with new awareness, Eliot slowly sat on the bank. His wrinkles deepened. His skin turned a darker gray. “An explanation?” He struggled with his thoughts. For a moment, he didn’t move or even seem to breathe.

  He sighed. “All right, I guess you deserve…” He squinted at Saul. “When I was young—” he shook his head as if he couldn’t remember ever being young “—just getting started in the profession… I used to wonder why so many foolish decisions were made. Not merely foolish—disastrous. Cruel. At a cost of so many lives. I asked my foster father.”

  “Auton.”

  “You know that too?”

  Saul only glared.

  “He said in his day he’d wondered the same. He’d been told the decisions only seemed disastrous. Underlings like himself didn’t have the big picture. There was a room with maps and strategy boards. High-level politicians went there to get the big picture, and sometimes they had to make decisions that might look stupid from a narrow point of view but actually were smart if every factor was considered. He said he believed this for many years till he rose so high he was one of the men in that room, and what he discovered was that the decisions were exactly as stupid as they appeared. Those men had no big picture. They were as confused, as petty as anyone else. Eventually my promotions allowed me in that room, and I discovered what he meant. I’ve seen the secretary of state refuse to talk to the secretary of defense—I mean he literally turned his back on the group and sat in his chair facing a corner. I’ve seen men arguing about who was allowed to sit next to whom—like school kids—all the while they committed billions of dollars to interfere with foreign governments in the name of our national security, but actually because big business felt threatened by socialist factions in those countries. They endorsed dictatorships or fascist coups or—” Eliot jerked in disgust. “What we did in Ecuador, Brazil, Zaire, Indonesia, and Somalia alone makes me sick. All told, millions of people have been killed because of our interference. And the rank deception. Skilled operatives dismissed when they send in accurate reports that aren’t in line with current political thinking. Then someone in the front office rewrites those reports to make them what the administration wants to read. We don’t gather truth. We disseminate lies. When Auton asked me to take over for him as a descendant of the Abelard group, I grabbed the chance. Someone had to act responsibly, to try for balance and sanity.”