Forever (20 page)

He thrust his fists indecisively into the
side pockets of his scuffed brown leather jacket, completely
stymied.

Meanwhile, the windows of the apartment
across the street remained blank, gave no inkling of occupancy.
Only once had he seen - imagined? - a hand pull the end of one of
the heavy curtains aside, as though to peek out unobserved. It was
such a surreptitious movement he couldn't be sure he'd actually
really seen it. Perhaps it was his imagination playing tricks?
Responding to his need to conjure her up? But no hands drew aside
the closed draperies to let the sun shine in, no windows were
thrown open. It was as if the apartment itself were wearing the
bleak joyless shrouds of mourning.

Stephanie, he was thinking. Stephanie. What
he wouldn't give for just a fleeting glance of her - surely then he
would be momentarily content . . .

He could imagine her up there, wandering
around alone in the dim rooms, with only the screeching bird and
memories for company.

Irrationally, he felt a stab of jealousy
towards Waldo. The parrot was with her, but he couldn't be!

Oh, how badly he wanted, how desperately he
needed to be up there with her, his presence giving succour and
comfort! Merely envisioning her, moving about in those grand
high-ceilinged rooms and doing whatever one had to do with the
effects of the deceased engendered an immense pain of longing, a
feeling of futile helplessness. He ached to be at her side, and
help her see this nightmare through. She had no business being
alone. Not now, of all times . . .

He was so involved with staring at the
windows across the street that he missed Stephanie entirely -
breezing up Seventh Avenue amid a swirl of pedestrians and crossing
Fifty-seventh Street with the horde, earphones on and in a world of
her own. Heading for the awning that stretched from the grand
portals of the Osborne before being swallowed up by its opulent
lobby.

And so involved was Stephanie in listening
to the Schneider/de Veiga tape, that, although she had passed
within ten feet of Johnny, she hadn't noticed him, either, not even
when the ever-shifting crowd had created a momentary void,
displaying him clearly.

Thus, in the bright sunshine of that
brilliant afternoon, they might as well have been two blacked-out
ships passing blindly in the night.

In the spacious cool lobby, Stephanie found
Pham, index cards in hand, pressing the elevator call button.

'The Continental Congress adopted the
Declaration of Independence in 1776,' he murmured under his breath.
'The delegation which drafted it was headed by Thomas Jefferson . .
. '

Hearing the approach of briskly clicking
heels, he turned his slim face towards its source. Instantly his
studious visage underwent a miraculous transformation.

'Miss Stephanie!' He greeted her
delightedly. 'You said you were going to come up here, but I did
not think you really would.'

Then, remembering the hours he'd just spent
downtown at the triplex, Pham's voice brightened even further.

'Your apartment shine and polish now, just
like you. Neat as a pin. Now you can have visitors and entertain.
The house gods - happy.'

The elevator door sighed open. Pham waited
politely for Stephanie to precede him. Then he got in and punched
the buttons labelled 5 and CLOSE DOOR. 'Apartment here will be nice
and quiet,' he said, as the door slid shut. 'No bird screaming.
Nice change after downtown.'

Stephanie hid her smile as they rode up at a
stately pace. 'That's precisely why I left Waldo at home,' she said
with mock solemnity, 'so you wouldn't be tempted to cook him, like
you're always threatening.'

'Parrot great delicacy.'

The elevator doors slid open on the fifth
floor and they got out, turning immediately left.

'And what about you?' Stephanie asked,
digging in her bag for her keys. She looked at Pham questioningly
as she stuck a key in the first of several locks. 'You've been
working your fingers to the bone. And now you're back up here to
work some more! Really, Pham. There's no reason to keep cleaning
and straightening this place up now.' There was a catch in her
voice as she added huskily, it's not as if anybody lives here any
more.'

Pham drew himself up. 'Just because Mr
Merlin dead does not mean standards have to slip,' he declared, the
indignant toss of his head, which lifted his silky black hair,
intended to detract from the tears welling up in his eyes. 'Until
everything packed and empty, is going to be clean and tidy same as
when he was alive!'

'But you must be exhausted! Between the
funeral and the reception and cleaning, you've been running
yourself ragged for the past few days! If anybody needs a rest
-'

'I had a week vacation,' Pham said with
implacable dignity. 'Was enough. I take good care of myself. Is you
I worried about, Miss Stephanie.'

Stephanie turned the key of the last lock
and pushed the front door open. 'Then I tell you what,' she said,
swiftly stepping into the doorway to block it. She turned around to
face Pham, putting one hand on each jamb. 'What do you say we make
a deal?'

'A deal?' he asked dubiously, tilting his
head and squinting, as though that would help him uncover whatever
guileful ruse he was certain Stephanie had up her sleeve.

'It's very simple. I'll just go fetch my
watch from my old room, and then I'll head on back home.' She
grinned. 'But I'll only go home if you call it a day and go on
home, too.'

Pham stood there, eyes narrowed. 'Maybe you
wait out here, Miss Stephanie, and I go in and fetch your watch.
Otherwise, perhaps you lock me out and stay here and start doing
things.'

'Gee, Pham,' Stephanie said wryly, 'thanks
for your vote of trust.'

'Is the only way I certain you do not stay.
Please, if you step aside -'

Stephanie stood her ground. 'Unh-unh.' She
shook her head. 'If / wait out here, then you're liable to lock me
out,' she said. 'I may be a little, well, contrary, every now and
then, but you're sly as a fox, Pham. So I'll get my watch,' she
said with finality, 'and you wait out here. Besides,' she added
with irrefutable logic, 'it's my watch.'

Pham threw up his hands, knowing better than
to argue, and shaking his head, watched from out in the elevator
vestibule as Stephanie turned around, hurried through the
high-ceilinged reception room and turned left to head down the long
hall on her way to her old bedroom at the very far end. Oblivious
to the fresh, long-stemmed red rose lying on the floor.

Johnny stood on the corner of Fifty-seventh
and Seventh. He'd stopped his pretence of moving along with the
crowd and was staring up at the three-windowed bay and the two
regular windows which made up the double parlour of the Merlin
apartment.

'Stephanie!' he breathed as one of the
parlour curtains in the bay was drawn aside. His heart thudded
inside his chest. Any moment now, she would throw up the windows
and then he would glimpse -

A horde of passers-by elbowed him, causing
him to half turn pliantly in the other direction. For a moment he
felt himself swept along with the crowd's momentum, before planting
his feet solidly and turning back around to face the building,
forcing the crush of pedestrians to surge around him like a shoal
of unruly fish.

He saw another of the parlour curtains being
drawn aside. His eyes were riveted as he waited for that precious
glimpse of her, his mind a constant tug-of-war.

Should I go up there?

Or should I heed Sammy's advice and give her
more time?

As he stood there, debating with himself, a
great flash suddenly lit up all the windows of the Merlin
apartment.

The explosion which followed was like a
sonic boom. All the windows blasted outwards in a shower of glass,
sending pedestrians screaming and running for cover. Orange
fireballs billowed out of the gaping holes where the windows had
been, and swelled into giant chrysanthemum blooms.

Even from across the street, Johnny could
feel the heat wave hit him, was aware of a sliver of flying glass
shooting into his forearm, piercing his leather sleeve to embed
itself deeply in his flesh.

He didn't hesitate. Oblivious to his own
safety, he tore across Fifty-seventh Street, squeezing around the
bumpers of angrily honking cars, and leaping onto the hoods of
those which barricaded his way completely.

Above the shrieks and cries of the
pedestrians, rose a single primal scream:

'S-t-e-e-e-p-h-a-a-a-n-i-i-i-e-e-e . .
.'

Sitto da Veiga, Brazil • New York City

The de Veiga Pharmaceutical and Genetic
Research Centre was located deep in the Amazon rain forest. A small
self-sustaining city unto itself, it even had a name, Sftto da
Veiga. The main building was a ten-storey pyramid sheathed with
solar mirrors, which, on clear days, and in the reflection of the
equatorial sun, sent a brilliant square shaft of light up into the
sky. Clustered around this central monument, like minor temples,
were various geometrically shaped, mirror-sheathed research
buildings, toxicology laboratories, storage and drug manufacturing
facilities, apartments for the small army of resident chemists,
biochemists, pathologists, and parasitologists, a power plant, a
hospital, a school, a gym, and even a mini-mall, all connected by
tentacles of enclosed, air-conditioned solar-glass walkways. There
was a single paved road, which ended a mile away at a private
airstrip with a runway long enough to accommodate jumbo jets.

There was nothing else but impenetrable
jungle for hundreds of miles around.

Yet despite Sitto da Veiga's remote location
and inaccessibility, the security precautions were reminiscent of a
top-secret military base. Nothing had been left to chance. Two
electrified chain-link fences, the insides of which were constantly
patrolled by armed guards with attack dogs, surrounded the
hundred-odd acres tamed from the jungle.

These guards and dogs were housed in the
outermost of the complex of buildings. Here, Colonel Valerio
presided over a permanent garrison composed of forty-eight security
personnel. His position as Vice President, Security for the entire
multibillion-dollar de Veiga empire notwithstanding, his office
here, like his office on Ilha da Borboleta, was by choice spartan.
It gleamed, however, with the spit-and-polish befitting a former
military officer, just as his quasi-uniform of starched khakis, web
belt, and jungle boots suited his cropped military haircut and
ramrod straight posture. The sole luxury he allowed himself -
air-conditioning - was turned all the way up, giving the cell-like
office a walk-in freezer chill.

Colonel Valerio, hands clasped behind his
back, was staring out through the wall of windows at the giant
mirrored pyramid that rose from among the sprawl of lower
buildings. Behind it, in the distance, he could see a big
four-engined jet descending to the airfield. He knew it was one of
the thrice-daily supply flights, and paid it no heed.

Other, more urgent matters, occupied his
attention.

One Aaron Kleinfelder, vice president. Data
Division, of Children's Relief Year-Round, was becoming a pain in
the ass - not to mention a serious liability.

'Damn!' he half whispered aloud. 'Damn that
man!'

For, unbelievably, Kleinfelder was at it
again! Persistent as a fly, and just as irritating. Still trying to
break the OPUS file!

Colonel Valerio asked himself now: should he
report Kleinfelder's persistence to Ernesto de Veiga at once? Or
could it wait?

Unclasping his hands, he cocked his arm to
glance at his wristwatch.

It would have to wait. It was nearly three
o'clock, and he couldn't bother the boss for a little over half an
hour yet. Only an earthshaking emergency was allowed to intrude
upon the daily hour of medical therapy Dr Vassiltchikov prescribed
for Ernesto de Veiga and Zarah Bohm - and on the de Veiga scale,
this emergency rated no more than a 4.5. Alarming, but definitely
not a life-or-death crisis. In the meantime, any additional tremors
could easily be contained by arranging for the CRY computer to go
down. That should stymie our Mr Kleinfelder and his busy little
fingers for a while, he thought.

For an instant, Colonel Valerio's eyes
became curiously focused. Aaron Kleinfelder. The man had all the
makings of a worthy foe. How unfortunate that this was no game in
which worthy foes were prized or respected. On the contrary. Far
too much was at stake. It was imperative that foes, especially the
worthiest ones, were rendered powerless -- and dispatched --
post-haste.

Colonel Valerio did a smart about-face,
marched briskly to his grey metal desk, and picked up his remote
telephone. It was time to activate The Ghost. Again.

At CRY headquarters in New York, Lisa
Osborne hung up the phone and went into her boss's office. 'Boss,'
she said, 'you're not going to believe this.'

Aaron grunted and looked up from his
keyboard. 'Believe what?'

Lisa shut the door.

'The police just called.' She paused and
held his gaze. 'They want me to come in.'

'You?' Aaron sat up straight. 'What would
the police want to talk to you about?' He stared at her. 'You
haven't done anything, have you?'

'No, but I checked Vinette Jones into the
hotel last night,' she said softly. 'Remember?'

'Ah, yes, Ms Jones. Have you got hold of her
yet?'

Lisa, hugging herself, walked slowly over to
the desk. 'She's dead, Aaron.' Her voice was hushed.'Dead/' she
repeated.

He inhaled a sharp breath and let the air
out slowly. 'What happened?'

She shrugged. 'The cops say she ODed.'