Forever (14 page)

Chesterfield looked at him. 'Actually,' he
said, 'the waiting list isn't such a problem. Not, that is,' he
added softly, 'if the right member sponsors you.'

There. The tantalising bait was left
dangling.

'That so?' Hallingby said, lifting his
balloon to the light, ostensibly to study the amber liquid.

Chesterfield nodded. 'If you're interested
in taking a look around, I can give you a tour of the
premises.'

'Mmmm,' Hallingby said noncommittally, not
wanting to appear too anxious. He took another sip and exhaled as
the fragrant brandy filled him with a sense of well-being. 'Might
take you up on that offer sometime. Might just do that.'

Neither of the men needed to elaborate any
further. Both of them understood perfectly; it was the classic quid
pro quo. Chesterfield would sponsor Hallingby for membership, and
Hallingby would throw his network's business Chesterfield's
way.

A steward approached the table and
discreetly cleared his throat. 'Mr Chesterfield, sir?'

Chesterfield looked up.

'There's a telephone call for you. The
caller says it's urgent.'

Damn! Chesterfield thought. I would be
interrupted just as the most important account I've ever snagged is
nearly in the bag. But he kept his face devoid of expression.
'Fine,' he said. 'I'll take it here.'

'Very well, sir.' The steward went off and
returned with a telephone.

Chesterfield waited until the man had gone
before he punched the PHONE button on the receiver. 'Chesterfield
here,' he said neutrally.

There was a pause, and then that genderless,
sibilant whisper which filled him with such dread.

7 was just watching your son's snuff film
once again, Mr Chesterfield,' the voice began. 7 must say the video
quality really is quite superb.'

Chesterfield flinched and went stone cold
inside. For one long, terrifying moment he was almost certain that
his heart had stopped. Then, when it resumed its rapid beating, he
fought the urge to mop his suddenly sweating brow. Only the sight
of Hallingby frowning at him stilled his hand.

Chesterfield gestured that the call was of
no consequence, and smiled weakly. But along with shock, he felt
fury - and violation, as if he were being raped.

Damn! he swore silently to himself. How did
they know where to find me? And why did the call have to come right
now, just when Hallingby can see my every reaction, hear my every
word? Of all the bad timing for this to -

'Mr Chesterfield!' the voice hissed. 'Are
you still there?'

'Y-yes,' Chesterfield managed. Then he
cleared the frog out of his throat and said it again, more
assertively: 'Yes.'

'Good. I hope I'm not intruding?' There was
the sound of laughter in the whisper.

'As a matter of fact - ' Chesterfield
began.

But the whisperer cut him off, the laughter
now gone. 'AH you have to do is listen, Mr Chesterfield. And I
suggest you listen well. It appears that we once more require the
services of our friend, The Ghost.'

Chesterfield felt his sphincter contract,
and a sharp pain shooting through his bowels.

'Now then,' the caller hissed, 'the services
we need rendered this time are immediate. Do you understand, Mr
Chesterfield? Time - time! - is of the essence!'

Chesterfield sat there numbly, hunched over
to conceal his voice and expression. Aware of Hallingby watching
him with increasing wariness.

'Mr Chesterfield! I asked you a question! Do
. . . you . . . un . . . der. . . stand?'

'Yes!' Chesterfield whispered hoarsely.

'Then, I suggest you don't even finish your
drink. Go! Contact The Ghost. Now!'

Now!

Involuntarily, Chesterfield looked over at
Hallingby his lips stupidly repeating the word into the telephone:
'Now?'

'Now, Mr Chesterfield.' The whisper was
remorseless. 'At once!' The caller seemed to sense his indecision.
'Wouldn't it be a pity, Mr Chesterfield, if that video should fall
into the wrong hands?'

Chesterfield's face went white. He was
barely conscious of Hallingby's deepening frown. All he could see
with a terrible clarity were snatches of that accursed video
whirling through his mind.

The memory was so loathsomely real that
without realising it, Chesterfield's fingers tightened around the
brandy balloon with vicelike force. There was a sharp crack as the
glass suddenly shattered in his hand. Shards flew; Armagnac leapt
into midair. Hallingby drew back to avoid getting splattered, but
Chesterfield seemed unaware of what he had done. He didn't even
notice the blood pouring from his hand.

' . . . Who?' he whispered wretchedly into
the phone. 'Who is it to be this time?'

'Her name is Vinette Jones, and she's
staying at the Grand Hyatt,' the whisperer informed him. 'A black
woman. Don't worry, no one will miss her.'

Chesterfield felt like he was spiralling
helplessly through a nightmare and thought: I've gone to hell. I've
made a deal with the devil and I'm his for eternity.

'The name is Jones, Mr Chesterfield,' the
caller reiterated. 'Vinette Jones. Now go and contact The Ghost. My
people want this taken care of at once.'

Chesterfield slammed the phone down on raspy
laughter, as yet unaware of his bleeding hand. His breathing was
coming in great shuddering gasps. Then the steward, alerted by
Hallingby's raised hand, came scurrying with a linen napkin and a
towel. 'I'll get a bandage at once, Mr Chesterfield,' the man said
solicitously, but Chesterfield shook his head.

'No, no. I'll be fine.' He raised his
bleeding hand and stared at it in dreamy puzzlement, and then he
suddenly snapped out of it. 'Christ!' he exclaimed, repulsed by the
sight of his hand. He snatched the linen napkin the steward
proffered and wound it around his palm. 'I'd better go and get this
taken care of.' He forced a smile. The lies flowed glibly now. 'So
sorry, old chap. A little family problem's come up, that's all.
Have to run. Hate to leave you in the lurch -'

'I'll drive you,' Hallingby offered.

'No, no,' Chesterfield assured him. 'Stay
and finish your drink. I'm fine. Just fine.'

Then he rushed out. He wasn't fine. And the
worst part of it was, he knew that by contacting The Ghost again,
all he was doing was buying time.

I'm trapped in this nightmare for ever, he
thought bleakly. It'll never end. They've got me for good, God help
me!

New York City • Walnut Creek, California •

Si'tto da Veiga, Brazil

Aaron Kleinfelder was a man in his element.
He had his Walkman tuned to his favourite jazz station, his beloved
computer to tinker around with, two desk drawers full of junk-food,
and access to the soda vending machine out in the hall - for him,
the equivalent of all the comforts of home. Except for the cleaning
people, the office building was quiet, and he could concentrate
fully on his work without being interrupted. To make certain of
that, he'd hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door - a little
souvenir he'd lifted from Caesar's Palace during last year's
computer convention in Las Vegas.

Munching on a pretzel stick, he eyed his
computer screen thoughtfully and then typed:

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA = CRY-ORPH PROG

MENU

He hit the SEARCH button and scanned the
green, cathode-ray letters filling his computer screen. Then he
typed in the code he wanted and reached for another pretzel stick,
munching it as he watched his screen change to:

1.010 PARENTS OF CRY-ORPH PERSONS

001MOTHER

002FATHER

SELECT ONE:

'Mama, here we come,' he said softly, and
keyed it in. He glanced at the new information glowing on his
screen, and decided to give Vinette's social security number a try.
Referring to the information she'd left him, he typed it in. And
once again, Aaron watched his screen print:

REFER FILE CRY ORPH TS 10

NA CD 748300099440001

So he entered:

CRY ORPH TS 10 NA CD 748300099440001

And then, lo and behold! Once again, the
screen began to flash:

ACCESS DENIED ENTER OPUS NUMBER

There it was again! That damned 'OPUS
NUMBER' - whatever the hell it was! Scowling, Aaron racked his
brains. Now what?

'Holy cow!' Bobby, the computer operator in
Walnut Creek, exclaimed. 'Look at that! Someone's at it againl
Wonder if it's the same dude!'

'We'll see soon enough,' his superior said
crisply. His screen was twitching with rapid-fire readout. Then
suddenly one flashing number remained in place while all the rest
of the numbers and letters kept changing.

'Aha!' Bobby said unnecessarily. 'We're
closing in on him. Another minute or so, and then we'll have him.'
A second flashing digit fell into place even as he talked.

Aaron Kleinfelder was becoming increasingly
bemused. Since Vinette's social security number came up with a dead
end, he'd punched in her name. And got - what else?:

REFER FILE CRY ORPH TS 10

NA CD 748300099440001

Next, he'd tried Jowanda's father, Vernon
Merrill West. But with the same result:

ACCESS DENIED ENTER OPUS NUMBER

'There is,' he murmured darkly to himself,
'something definitely fishy going on in the State of Denmark.'

The only trouble was, he didn't know what -
or even how to begin looking for it. Not without that damn OPUS
number. What the hell kind of code was that, anyway?

In the computer room of Scientifique
Cosmeceuticals in Walnut Creek, Bobby let out a cry. 'Gotcha!' he
crowed. Then he whistled softly. 'Well, I'll be damned!' he near
whispered. 'Same dude.'

His superior leaned down over his shoulder
and frowned as she read the printout on his screen. 'Children's
Relief Year-Round? I just don't get it. Aren't they -'

' - the nonprofit group with the godparents
programme,' Bobby completed for her, nodding his head. He swivelled
around in his chair and stared up at her in puzzlement. 'What I
don't understand is, why would somebody there be trying to access
our files hereV

'I don't know,' his boss replied, 'but print
out the data and bring it into my office.' Her face was
expressionless, in the meantime, I've got to report this.'

Low heels clicking on the white
ceramic-tiled floor, she hurried back into her glassed-in office,
picked up her telephone, and punched the button of one of the
pre-programmed numbers. There was a series of clicks, a wait, and
another series of clicks, giving her the impression the call was
being routed from line to line. Finally after a series of yet more
clicks and short waits, she heard soft, faraway rings. Then a male
voice answered tersely, 'Security.'

'Yes,' she said. 'This is Sharon Walker in
the Walnut Creek facility. Someone is attempting to access the OPUS
files for the second time.'

'Did we do a trace?'

'Yes, we did.'

'And?'

She glanced out of her glassed-in office.
Bobby was letting out a whoop; fisting the air in triumph. Quickly
she punched some keys on her own computer.

'Trace complete,' she said. 'Subject is at
terminal 132 at the New York headquarters of Children's Relief
Year-Round. It just doesn't make sense. They're not connected with
us in any way.'

'Forget it,' she was told, it was probably
some sort of foul-up, or a hacker. But you did right in calling. If
it happens again, follow the prescribed protocol, just as you have
done now.'

'I will,' she said.

'Who, besides you,' the terse voice asked,
'is aware of the attempted intrusion?'

'Robert Lubbock,' she said, glancing through
the glass wall at Bobby, who was in the process of printing out the
information.

'I commend you both. Your vigilance will
certainly not go unnoticed. In order to ensure mention of it in
your personnel files, could you please spell both of your
names?'

She did so.

'You did well,' he told her again.

'We were only doing our jobs,' she said,
trying not to sound pleased.

But she was speaking into a deaf receiver;
the man at the other end of the line had already hung up.

Deep in the Brazilian rainforest at Si'tto
da Veiga, Colonel Valerio booted up his own computer. The screen
glowed:

CRY TERM132

KLEINFELDER, AARON M.

That was followed by the man's entire
history. Professional as well as personal. Home address, unlisted
telephone number, bank balances, the works.

I'm Big Brother, he thought with
satisfaction, and I'm watching . . .

New York City

'What you come around for this time,
huh-neeeey!

Shanel took a long, deliberate drag on her
cigarette. Blew the car full of smoke.

Thomas Andrew Chesterfield III stared
straight ahead. Through the windshield. Watching a car crawl along
Thirty- eighth Street. Another flesh shopper on the prowl.

'I need to contact The Ghost again,' he said
quietly.

Unexpectedly, Shanel burst into laughter.
'Man,' she said, slapping a bare thigh, 'you sure must have a lot
of enemies. The rate you going, The Ghost gonna be one rich ass
dude.' She drew on the last of her cigarette.

Chesterfield was still staring through the
windshield. 'This time I need his services right away,' he
said.

She fiddled with the door panel until she
found the window button. With a soft whirr, the glass slid down and
she flicked the glowing cigarette butt out into the night, watching
the sparks scatter. 'What you mean, "right away"?' She turned to
look at him again.