Death Wave (26 page)

 

BEACON HILL

As he had expected, the roses Castiglione had sent to Vera Griffin had bowled her over.

“It was so sweet of you!” she gushed when he called her later in the morning. “Everybody in the office wants to know who my boyfriend is.”

Wincing slightly at the word “boyfriend,” Castiglione said, “Then you'll come to dinner with me this evening?”

Her face radiating happiness in the tiny screen of his wrist communicator, Griffin replied, “Sure! Where?”

“You pick the place. I'll find it.”

Now, while the setting sun cast long shadows along Beacon Hill's narrow streets, Castiglione located the restaurant that she had picked for dinner. It was on a corner only a few blocks from the Massachusetts State House. He knew he was early for their date, so he walked up the sloping street to take a look at the golden-domed redbrick building.

Even with the marble columns adorning its front it looked small, pedestrian, to his eyes. It's no Castel Gandolfo, he thought with an amused shrug.

He noticed a statue on the front lawn: a seated woman, wearing what appeared to be a very plain dress. Then he saw that she was a Quaker. The inscription on the statue's base read:
Mary Dyer, Witness for Religious Freedom. Hanged June 1, 1660
.

Castiglione blinked at the inscription. Americans, he thought. Strange people. Strange sense of humor.

He got back to the restaurant just in time to see Griffin hurrying up the street to meet him. He smiled his full wattage at her and offered his arm to lead her into the pathetically unsophisticated eatery.

Castiglione suffered through what passed for seafood and listened to Griffin chatter about her arduous day. She did not mention Jordan Kell and he did not ask about him. He smiled and nodded in the right places, biding his time.

After dinner they took a taxicab to Castiglione's waterfront hotel. At the quiet little piano bar back of the lobby they had a drink, then went to the elevator bank and up to Castiglione's room.

“What a beautiful view!” she exclaimed, crossing the carpeted floor to look out at the harbor and, across the water, the aerospaceport.

He came up behind her and slid his arms around her. “A beautiful view, indeed,” he said as he turned her around and kissed her deeply.

Later, in bed, the only light coming from the window, Castiglione said very softly, “Vera, I need you to set up a meeting for me with Jordan Kell.”

She tried to evade the idea, tried to convince him that she didn't know where Kell was, but he persevered—gently, but firmly—and in the end she said, “I'll try, Rudy. For you.”

“That's wonderful,” he breathed.

“But I'll be taking a big risk. I could lose my job.”

He understood where she was going. “Perhaps I could help you to get a job with the World Council's broadcasting department.”

“Really?”

“In Barcelona,” he said. “It's a much livelier city than Boston.”

“Barcelona! Wow!”

Castiglione smiled in the darkness. Once I meet with Kell I can get rid of this woman. But in the meantime …

He pulled her naked body next to his.

*   *   *

Just as she had done every morning since arriving at the communications complex, Aditi walked alongside her security escort toward Frankenheimer's laboratory. They never sent the same person twice to walk her through the underground corridors. She knew the layout well enough to go alone, but every morning a young man or woman was waiting for her when she opened her apartment door, always dressed in a gray or darker jacket, a white turtleneck shirt, and navy blue slacks.

As she walked, Aditi thought, Frankenheimer wants a communicator for himself, wants it badly. It's time for me to make a demand for something in return.

She knew precisely what she would ask for.

Frankenheimer was waiting for her in his lab, all boyish enthusiasm.

“What did your people on New Earth say about producing a communicator for me?” he asked eagerly.

Aditi looked into his soft brown eyes and responded truthfully, “They don't like the idea of implanting a device in your brain.”

“Oh?”

“It would require major surgery. That could be risky.”

Frankenheimer nodded. “Yours was implanted in your brain in infancy.”

“In utero,” Aditi corrected. “It's a bit late for that, in your case.”

The physiologist looked crestfallen. But he quickly asked, “Does the device have to be in my brain? Maybe it could be implanted somewhere else in my body.”

“Or it could be completely external, like a wristwatch or a pocket computer.”

“You can do that?”

“They can, I believe.”

“Okay! Great!”

“But first there's something I'd like you to do for me,” Aditi said.

“Sure! What is it?”

“I want to be reunited with my husband. We've been kept apart long enough.”

Spreading his arms in a gesture of helplessness, Frankenheimer bleated, “That's out of my area. I don't have anything to do with that.”

“Then kindly find someone who does,” Aditi said, her voice low but iron hard. “I'm not going on with the work you want done until Jordan and I are reunited.”

 

OTERO STUDIO SIX

“And this is where your interview with Mr. Otero will take place,” Vera Griffin was saying.

Jordan stood in the doorway of the studio. Even empty and barely lit, it looked enormous. They could produce
War and Peace
in here, he thought.

The cavernous room looked more like an empty airplane hangar than anything else. Vast and echoing. Several three-dimensional cameras stood clustered in a far corner. Strips of lights ran along the ceiling, high above. Most of them were off. The huge studio was deep in shadows, with only pools of light here and there. Jordan spotted a bare metal stairway along one wall and, looking up, saw that it led to what must be a control booth. It was dark now, unoccupied.

Griffin walked him across the nearly empty floor, toward a corner that was lit from overhead. A pair of comfortable armchairs faced each other, with a small round table between them.

“Mr. Otero will sit there,” Griffin pointed, “and you here. You'll chat together without interruption. We'll edit your conversation before it goes out on the air, of course.”

“No,” said Jordan.

“No?”

“I'd rather do the interview live, with no editing, no cuts.”

“Mr. Otero wants—”

“I'm sure that Mr. Otero will see the benefits of a live broadcast,” Jordan insisted.

Looking very uncertain, Griffin said, “I … I can ask him about it.”

“I'll speak to him about it this evening, over dinner.”

Griffin said nothing for a couple of heartbeats, then at last asked, “You and Mr. Otero are getting along well together, aren't you?”

“Reasonably well, thank you,” said Jordan. “He's a very intelligent man—and a gracious host.”

Biting her lip, Griffin nodded. Then she said, all in a rush, “I've taken the liberty of inviting a man from the World Council to talk with you this morning.”

“The World Council?”

“He'll be here in a minute or so.” Seeing the apprehension on Jordan's face, she added, “It's all very unofficial, very private.”

Jordan's mind was racing. A man from the World Council. A security agent? Are they going to try to put me back under their custody? Of course they are! Has Otero sold me out? I've got to get out of here!

The same door from which they had entered the studio opened once again, and a trim figure of a man strode across the wide emptiness toward them. Jordan heard the click of his boots on the bare concrete of the floor, approaching him, coming nearer.

As the man finally stepped into the fully lighted area where Jordan stood, he recognized Rudolfo Castiglione, smiling and handsome as ever, but his sea-green eyes were cold, mirthless.

“Ah, Mr. Kell,” said Castiglione, “we meet again, at last.”

Ignoring his proffered hand, Jordan said, “To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”

Castiglione glanced at the two comfortable-looking chairs, then turned to Griffin. “Vera, my lovely, could you please give us a few minutes of privacy? I must speak to Mr. Kell alone.”

Griffin's eyes went wide with surprise, but she quickly recovered and said, “Certainly, Rudy.”

As she hurried back toward the stairway that led up to the control booth, Castiglione said to Jordan, “An interesting woman.”

“I suppose you find all women interesting,” said Jordan.

Chuckling, Castiglione agreed. “Women are like wine. No matter how much you know, there is still so much to be learned.”

Jordan said nothing. He heard Griffin clattering up the metal steps, in the shadowy distance. If that's really the control booth up there, he thought, she'll probably be able to eavesdrop on every word we say.

Castiglione gestured to the armchairs. “Let's be comfortable, shall we?”

“By all means,” said Jordan. He saw one window of the control booth light up. She'll be listening to us, all right.

They sat, facing each other.

Crossing his legs, looking completely relaxed, Castiglione said, “The World Council wants you back in protective custody, Mr. Kell.”

“I don't need your protective custody and I don't want it. I'm quite satisfied with where I am.”

“There's already been an attempt on your life.”

“Which was staged. I wouldn't be surprised if you arranged it yourself.”

Castiglione laughed, a trifle nervously, Jordan thought.

Then he said, “Your wife is quite happy in our custody.”

Jordan suppressed an urge to bash his face in. “I want to be with her. You have no right to keep her imprisoned.”

“Imprisoned?” Castiglione looked shocked. “She's not in a prison. She's very comfortable and she's working quite willingly with our scientists.”

Jordan realized that Castiglione didn't know that Aditi talked with him every night. He decided not to reveal that information to him.

“She can work voluntarily with your scientists while we live together. In a reasonable hotel, not some guarded government facility, no matter how comfortable it might be.”

“And the danger to your life? And hers?”

Leaning forward slightly to tap Castiglione on the knee, Jordan replied, “The only danger you're worried about is my talking to the general public about the death wave.”

Castiglione admitted, “Anita Halleck is quite concerned about that, it's true.”

“Well, you can tell her that I will be speaking to the largest audience the Otero Network can reach. Within the next few days. And there's nothing she can do about it.”

“Nothing? You underestimate her.”

“I'm not a criminal. There is no legitimate reason for the World Council to put me in custody. I have my rights as a citizen of Great Britain and of Earth.”

“What if I told you that you could make your broadcast while in protective custody? You could speak to the public, we have no objection to that.”

“Speak freely? Live? Without editing?”

Castiglione waved a hand in the air. “I believe that could be arranged.”

Smiling thinly, Jordan said, “Well, I have that arrangement here, with Carlos Otero himself. I don't have to accept your … eh,
hospitality
for it.”

“Our hospitality,” Castiglione said, his expression hardening, “seems quite acceptable to your wife.”

“I want her back with me. There's no reason for Halleck to hold her.”

“Ah, there we have the crux of the situation. The only way you can be reunited with her is to accept our protective custody. It's for your own good, after all.”

“No, it's for
your
good. For Anita Halleck's good. Not mine. Not Aditi's. If you don't release her, I'll tell the world that you're holding her prisoner.”

“That would be a mistake, Mr. Kell. Don't force Anita Halleck's hand. She can be quite ruthless, you know.”

“You're threatening me?”

“No. Not at all. But I'm warning you that your actions could put your wife in danger. Grave danger.”

Jordan felt the icy cold that always gripped him when he became truly angry. Through gritted teeth he told Castiglione, “If anything happens to Aditi I'll hold you and Halleck responsible. Both of you.”

“Very noble, I'm sure,” Castiglione said, with a pitying little smile. “But quite useless. There's nothing you can do—”

Jordan sprang out of his chair and gripped Castiglione's throat with one hand.

“Never drive an enemy to desperation,” he hissed, squeezing hard, slowly lifting Castiglione off his chair. Gasping for breath, Castiglione fluttered his arms at Jordan's iron-hard grip, in vain.

“If anything happens to my wife, I'll kill you,” Jordan promised. “Both of you.”

He released Castiglione, who dropped, coughing and sputtering, to his knees.

“You go back to Barcelona and tell Halleck that,” Jordan fairly snarled. “And tell her to watch me on Otero Network.”

With that, Jordan turned and marched out of the studio, heading for Carlos Otero's office.

 

BARCELONA

“Are those finger marks on your throat?” Anita Halleck asked as she stared at Castiglione's image in her desktop phone screen.

“Yes,” Castiglione replied, his voice harsh, rasping. “The bastard nearly strangled me.”

Halleck slumped back in her desk chair. “What happened?”

“He got upset … about his wife.”

“Upset?”

“Homicidal, almost,” Castiglione croaked. “He caught me by surprise.”

Halleck listened to Castiglione's telling of his meeting with Jordan Kell.