Brotherhood of the Rose Page 9

  Eliot had to move now. He rubbed his wrinkled chin, abruptly thinking of another question. "Why did you want your teeth removed?"

  Chris answered. Eliot shivered. He'd thought nothing could shock him. But this?

  Chris swelled with affection as he cradled the candy bar. "A Baby Ruth. You still remember."

  "Always." Eliot's eyes looked sad. "But how did you find me?" Chris's tongue felt thick from the Amytal. "Trade secret." Eliot grinned, his lips taut as if on a shrunken skull.

  Chris glanced out the jet's window, hearing the muffled roar of the engines as he squinted from the sun and studied the snowlike clouds spread out below him. "Tell me." He sounded hoarse, staring back at his foster father.

  Eliot shrugged. "You know what I've always said. To guess an opponent's next move, we have to think as he would think. I trained you, remember. I know everything about you."

  "Not quite."

  "We'll discuss that in a moment. The point is I pretended I was you. Knowing everything about you, I became you."

  "And?"

  "Who owed you favors? Who could you depend on for your life? Who had you depended on? As soon as I knew what questions to ask, I calculated the answers. One of them was to have men watch the Special Forces bars in Honolulu."

  "Clever. "So were you."

  "Not enough-since I was spotted in the bar. And followed, I assume."

  "You have to remember you were playing against your teacher. I doubt anyone else could have guessed what you intended."

  "Why didn't you order me picked up in Honolulu? I violated the sanction, after all. The other networks are hunting me. you'd have earned some points with them, especially the Russians, if you brought me in."

  "I wasn't sure you'd let us take you alive."

  Chris stared at him. Eliot's assistant, wearing a Yale ring and tie, brought a tray of Perrier, ice, and glasses, setting it on the table between them in this lounge section of the plane.

  Eliot didn't speak till the assistant left. "Besides--2' he seemed to choose his words, pouring Perrier in two glasses, "I was curious. I wondered why you wanted a dentist."

  "Personal."

  "Not anymore." Eliot handed him a glass. "While you were unconscious in the dentist's chair, I asked you some questions." He paused. "I know you intended to kill yourself."

  "Past tense?"

  "For my sake, I hope so. Why did you want to do it? You know your death would hurt me. Your suicide would hurt even worse. I "That's why I wanted my teeth removed. If my body was ever found, it couldn't be identified."

  "But why ask the priest? Why go to the safe house?"

  "I wanted a dentist who was used to working with operatives, who wouldn't ask questions."

  Eliot shook his head. "What's wrong?" "That isn't true. With a little trouble you found a dentist on your own. You didn't need someone familiar with our profession. All you needed was sufficient money to bribe a man into silence. No, you had a different reason for asking the priest."

  "Since you know all the answers..."

  "You went to the priest because you knew he'd make inquiries before he gave you the information. I'd learn where you were. I'd be puzzled about your request and intercept you."

  "What good would that have done? I didn't want to be stopped."

  "No?" Eliot squinted at him. "Your request to the priest was the same as a cry for help. A suicide note before the fact. You wanted to tell me how much pain you were in."

  Chris shook his head.

  "Unconsciously? What is it?" Frowning, Eliot leaned forward. "What's wrong? I don't understand."

  "I'm not sure I can explain it. Let's just say..." Chris debated in anguish. "I'm sick. Of everything."

  "The monastery changed you."

  "No. The sickness came before the monastery."

  "Drink the Perrier. Your mouth will be dry from the Amytal." Automatically Chris obeyed. Eliot nodded. "What kind of sickness?"

  "I'm ashamed." :"Because of what you do?"

  "Because of what I feel. The guilt. I see faces, I hear voices. Dead men. I can't shut them out. You taught me discipline, but the lesson isn't working anymore. I can't stand the shame of-"

  "Listen to me," Eliot said.

  Chris rubbed his forehead. "You're a member of a high-risk profession. I don't mean just the physical danger. As you've discovered, there's also a spiritual danger. The things we have to do can sometimes force us to be inhuman."

  "Then why do we have to do them?"

  "You're not naive. You know the answer as well as I. Because we're fighting to protect the way of life we believe in. We sacrifice ourselves so others can have normal lives. Don't blame yourself for what you've needed to do. Blame the other side. What about the monastery? If your need was spiritual, why couldn't the Cistercians help you? Why did they force you out? The vow of silence? After six years, was it too much for you?"

  "It was wonderful. Six years of peace." Chris frowned. "Too much peace."

  "Because of the strictness of the Order, a psychiatrist came to test us every six months. He checked for signs-tiny clues of unproductive behavior. The Cistercians believe in work, after We supported ourselves by farming. Anyone who couldn't do his share couldn't be allowed to live off the sweat of others." Eliot nodded, waiting.

  "Catatonic schizophrenia." Chris breathed deeply. "That's what the psychiatrist tested us for. Preoccupations. Trances. He asked us questions. He watched for our reactions to various sounds and colors. He studied our daily behavior. One day when he found me sitting motionless in a garden, staring at a rock-for an hour-he reported to my superior. The rock was fascinating. I can still remember it." Chris narrowed his eyes. "But I'd failed the test. The next time somebody found me paralyzed like that-catatonic-I was out. Peace. My sin was I wanted too much peace."

  On the tray, beside the Perrier bottles, a long-stemmed crimson rose stood in a vase. Eliot picked it up. "You had your rock. I have my roses. In our business, we need beauty." He sniffed the rose and handed it to Chris. "Did you ever wonder why I chose roses?"

  Chris shrugged. "I assumed you liked flowers."

  "Roses, though. Why roses?" Chris shook his head. "They're the emblem of our profession. I enjoy the double meaning. In Greek mythology, the god of love once offered a rose to the god of silence, as a bribe, to keep that god from disclosing the weaknesses of the other gods. In time, the rose became the symbol for silence and secrecy. In the Middle Ages, a rose was customarily suspended from the ceiling of a council chamber. The members of the council pledged themselves not to reveal what they discussed in the room, sub rosa, under the rose."

  "You've always liked playing with words," Chris said, returning the rose. "My trouble is, I can't believe in them anymore."

  "Let me finish. Part of my delight in roses comes from the different varieties. The various colors and shapes. I have my favorites-Lady X and Angel Face. I used those names as cryptonyms for two of my female operatives. My ladies."

  Eliot smiled. "The names of other varieties appeal to me. The American Pillar. The Gloria Mundi. But the goal of every rose enthusiast is to create a new variety. We cut and layer and graft, or we cross-pollinate seed. The ripe seed is kept in sand till spring, when it's sown in pans. The first year produces only color. After that comes the full bloom and the merit. The new variety is a hybrid. Only a large, well-formed, singly grown blossom standing higher than the reipr will do. To enhance the quality of the bloom, the side growth must be removed by a process called disbudding. You and Saul -you're my hybrids. Raised without families, in the orphanage, you had no side growth-you didn't need to be disbudded. Nature had already done that. Your bloom was developed through rigorous training and discipline. To give your characters substance, certain feelings had to be cut from you. Patriotism was layered onto your character. Military experience and, of course, the war were grafted onto you. My hybrids-you stand higher than all the rest. If your conditioning failed and you now feel, it shouldn't be guilt you feel but pride. You're b
eautiful. I could have given you a new name for a new species. Instead I think of you in terms of the particular rose I'm holding, so dark crimson it's almost black. It's called the Black Prince. That's how I think of you and Saul. As my Black Princes."

  "But Saul didn't fail. He..." Chris's eyes changed. "Wait a minute. You're not telling me this just for...

  Eliot spread his hands. "So you guessed."

  "What's wrong? What's happened to Saul?" Eliot studied him. "Because of your brother, I'm asking you not to try again to kill yourself."

  "What is it?" Chris sat forward, tensing. "What about Saul?"

  "Five days ago, he did a job for me. After, a member of the team tried to kill him. He got in touch with me. I arranged for him to go to a secure location. When he got there, he discovered the location had been compromised. Another team tried to kill him. He's on the run."

  "Then, Jesus, bring him in!"

  "I can't. He's afraid to get in touch with me."

  "With you?"

  "The mole. I've always said there was one. From the agency's beginning. Someone who infiltrated us at the start, who's been compromising us ever since. Someone close to me is using what Saul tells me, using it to try to get at Saul."

  "But why?"

  "I don't know why he's so important he has to be killed. What he's discovered, or whom he threatens. I won't know till I catch the mole. It isn't easy. I've been looking since 1947.

  I have to find Saul, though. I have to insure his safety."

  "How? If he won't get in touch with you, if he's afraid the mole will intercept his message."

  Eliot set the rose down. -There's an egg in the basket."' Chris felt the jet lurch. Eliot said, "That message arrived in Rome four days ago. Addressed to you. I think from Saul."

  Chris nodded. "I don't know what it means," Eliot said. "For God's sake, don't tell me. Even this rose might have ears. But if it's from Saul and it tells you where to find him, use it. Go. Be careful. Bring him in."

  "One Black Prince to rescue another?"

  "Exactly. Your surrogate father is asking you to save your surrogate brother. If you're looking for a reason not to kill yourself, you've found it."

  Chris turned to the window, eyes narrowed, more than just from the sun. He brooded-all thoughts of suicide canceled by concern for his brother. His heart quickened. Saul needed help. Beside that, nothing else mattered. His brother needed him. He'd found the only reason that could make him want to live.

  He turned to Eliot, his voice grim. "Count on it."

  "Ironic," Eliot said. "A hit team's chasing Saul, and everyone else is chasing you."

  "You'll appreciate the complexity."

  "I'll appreciate it more when Saul is safe. What country should I tell the pilot to fly to?"

  "Home."

  "What city?"

  Chris considered. The safety-deposit box was in Sante Fe, but he couldn't go there directly. He had to land close to it, yet far enough away to lose a tail. He had to be evasive in case this conversation was being monitored. "Albuquerque."

  Eliot straightened, his ancient eyes bright, signaling he recognized deception and approved. "Has it occurred to you?" Chris said.

  Eliot frowned. "I don't understand."

  "That hybrids are usually sterile." The jet descended through the clouds.

  The Sangre de Cristo mountains loomed in the distance. Snow still capped the peaks, the slopes dark with oak and fir. Despite the blazing sun, the air felt dry.

  Chris walked along the narrow street, passing flat-roofed, adobe houses with red slate trim and walls around gardens. Through a gate, he saw a bubbling fountain. Pifion trees provided shade, the green oil their needles contrasting with thel_ earth tones of the houses.

  Pausing at the end of the block, he glanced back down the street. He'd chosen this expensive residential section of Sante Fe because he knew it would be quiet-little traffic, few pedestrians. The isolation made it easy for him to check on anyone following him. He took for granted that, if the KGB or MI-6 or any of the other networks hunting him had spotted him, they'd never have let him wander the streets this long. They'd simply have killed him right away. He had to conclude, then, that they weren't close.

  For Saul, though, he'd been willing to take the risk. His eyes gleamed. For his brother, he'd take any risk. He'd gladly make himself a target to draw out someone besides his hunters.

  The mole. Whoever was intercepting Eliot's messages to Saul. Whoever wanted Saul dead. The questions nagged him. What had Saul done, or what did he know? This much was clear. Since Chris was not supposed to report to Eliot for fear of a leak, the only way the mole could get his hands on-Saul was by following Chris. But so far Chris had seen no evidence of surveillance.

  Glancing behind him again, he passed a house with a courtyard and veranda partly concealed by junipers. He peered toward the mountains, crossed a street, and approached a Spanish cathedral. Climbing the high stone steps, pulling the iron ring on a huge oak door, he entered a dark cool vestibule. The last time he'd been here was in 1973. In honor of its hundredth anniversary, the church had been extensively restored that year. Since then, as he'd hoped, it hadn't changed. The vaulted ceiling, the stained glass windows, the Spanish design around the stations of the cross remained as they had been. He walked to the marble holy water fountain, dipping his hand in, genuflecting toward the distant golden tabernacle on the altar. Crossing himself, he went to the row of confessionals on his left, beneath the choir loft, at the back of the church, his footsteps echoing on the smooth stone floor.

  The confessional in the corner drew him. Nobody sat in the nearby pews. He heard no muffled voices from inside, so he opened the ornate door, stepped in, and closed it behind him.

  The church had been shadowy, but the narrow penitent's cubicle was totally dark, its musty smell stifling. Out of habit, he silently recited, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was..." He recalled the monastery, his sins, his plan to kill himself, and stopped. His jaw hardened. He couldn't be distracted. Saul alone mattered. Instead of kneeling to face the screen behind which a priest would normally be hidden, he quickly turned and reached toward the top right corner. In the dark, his fingers searched. All these years. He sweated, wondering if he'd been foolish. What if a carpenter, repairing the confessional, had discovered... ? He pulled the loose molding from the seam where the wall met the ceiling and grinned as he touched the key he'd wedged into the niche years before.

  The bank had been designed to look like a pueblo: flatroofed, square, with support beams projecting from the top of the imitation-sandstone walls. Two yucca plants flanked the entrance. Traffic blared. In a restaurant across the street, a businessman sat at a middle table, facing the window and the bank. He paid for his lunch and left, ignoring another businessman who came in and sat at the same middle table, facing the window and the bank. All along the street, other members of the surveillance team seemed a part of the normal pattern. A young man handed out advertisements. A truck driver carried boxes into a building. A woman browsed through a record store, close to a window. Lingering as long as seemed normal, they left the area, replaced by others.

  In the restaurant, the businessman lit a cigarette. He heard a short muffled beep from the two-way radio in his pocket, no more obtrusive than a doctor's paging device, the signal that Remus had been sighted along the street. Peering through the heat haze toward the entrance to the bank, he saw a woman come out, her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. A man wearing tan clothes passed her, going in. As a waitress brought a menu, the businessman reachld in his pocket, pressing the radio's transmitter button twice.

  Remus was in the bank.

  Chris passed the security guard and a row of cages with signs for Deposits and Mortgages, descending the stairs at the back. Indian sand paintings hung on the walls. He reached a counter, gave his key to a clerk, and wrote John Higgins on a bank-form. He and Saul had opened an account here in 1973, depositing a thousand dollars, leaving in
structions that the rent for the safety-deposit box should be deducted from the account. Chris hadn't been back here since, though he knew Saul contacted the bank each year to make sure the account and the box hadn't been put on inactive status. The clerk stamped the date on the bank form, initialed it, and pulled out a list of renters, comparing signatures. "Mr. Higgins, I'm supposed to ask for a password."