Kiss of the Sun (20 page)

“Sure, if you want to,” Eduardo said. “Why not?”

Martha gave Jarrell a look. It was an odd request, under the circumstances. What was he thinking? He met her eyes briefly, and she thought she read something in his face, some inkling of a purpose.

They went into the poolroom and selected cues from a rack on the wall. Eduardo racked the balls. “Any questions so far?” Eduardo said, lifting the polished wooden triangle from the set of balls.

“Yeah,” Jarrell said, chalking his cue. “First of all, what the hell is this Organization all about?” Jarrell sighted along his cue stick and broke the balls with an explosive crack. A striped ball rolled into a corner pocket.

“Mr. Erringer is going to fill you in on all that,” Eduardo said.

Jarrell took aim at the fourteen ball and smacked it hard into a corner pocket. The cue ball backed up with some spin, leaving a short straight shot on the nine. “Why are you here? What's in it for you?”

Martha edged over to the window and glimpsed out past heavy drapery. She could see the courtyard, with an illuminated stone fountain—a triumvirate of seated lions, their mouths spouting water into a circular pool. Beyond that, security lights cast a salmon glow along a tall chain-link fence.

“Like a lot of us here, I was discovered. The Organization uses talent scouts. I was recruited, you might say.”

“Why did you decide to join?” Jarrell sank several more stripes, then missed.

“It sounded a hell of a lot better than spending the rest of my life at Reidsville State Prison,” Eduardo said, lining up a shot. “Mr. Erringer, as you may realize, is one of the most powerful businessmen in the world. I was facing a manslaughter conviction, but he fixed it for me.” Eduardo made a gentle shot that kissed the orange five ball into the side pocket. He went around the table to line up his next shot.

“And what if you decided you wanted to leave the Organization, now that your record is all fixed up?”

Eduardo shook his head, aimed at the red seven. “Not really an option. You do right by the Organization, you're taken care of. You run rogue, you go down.”

“Why not just take him out? Then you're free.”

“It's set up too good. Mr. Erringer's got trip wires.”

“Trip wires?”

Eduardo walked around the table, assessing his next shot. “Yeah. He's got some kind of goods on all of us. Everybody knows that the moment Erringer goes down, all that data gets automatically released to the authorities.”

“So that's the source of his control over you, the background data?”

“The data is contained. As long as it's contained, I'm protected.”

“What if I told you there's a way to get access to that data?”

Eduardo paused, chalking his cue. “It wouldn't do any good. His trip wires would still be in place.”

“But let's just think about it. He's in power because he has the data. Whoever has the data has the power.”

“So what?”

“Let me show you something.” Jarrell leaned his cue stick against the table. Then he pulled the dry bag containing the USB stick out of his pocket. He opened it, took out the USB drive, and laid it on the red felt of the table's side rail.

“What's that?” Eduardo asked.

“Data. It's background information about you and a number of other people in the Organization.”

Eduardo put down his cue, picked up the USB, looked at it, smiled, and put it back down. Then he leaned over the table and sighted his next shot. “Bullshit.”

“Don't believe me?” Jarrell set the base of his cue stick on the floor. “Take a look. I think you'll find what's on there interesting.”

Eduardo took his shot, smacking the cue ball hard. It rocketed the length of the felt table and dropped number six cleanly into a corner pocket. The white ball kissed the eight ball on ricochet and sent it rolling toward the opposite corner, where it sank.

“Son of a bitch,” Eduardo said.

Briggs appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to break up the fun, kids, but it's time for the meeting.”

Briggs escorted them upstairs by elevator, then down an alabaster hallway with gilt moldings that ended at a shallow vestibule and a pair of large, ornately carved Gothic doors with ironwork hinges. Beyond the doors, Martha could hear a tinkle of smooth jazz and a ripple of voices. Cocktail party chatter.

“Where are you taking us?” Jarrell asked.

“This is a room called the Crystal Hall,” Briggs said. “We use it for meetings, receptions, graduations, things of that nature.” Along the wall of the vestibule stood a walnut credenza with a red velvet runner on top. Several guns lay on the velvet. Briggs took his Armatix from the holster and placed it alongside the others. “No one carries heat into Mr. Erringer's meetings. House rules.”

He pushed open the doors and Martha's blood turned to ice. They stood at the end of a large, vaulted gallery lined with statues—life-sized animals rendered in clear glass. Each beast was poised on a polished black granite base, frozen in a moment of primordial power. Briggs led them through the gallery, past a glass Bengal tiger with etched stripes, all rippling muscle and deadly potential, baring crystal fangs. A golden eagle was portrayed in a moment of predation, wings lifted, sinking its talons into a rabbit. A wolf stood alert upon a stone outcrop, alert, ears perked, snarling. There was a glass spider, as large as a collie. Its legs were thin and sharp as ski poles, the face unnervingly real. A Kodiak bear towered at the end of the line, erect, with dinner-plate paws lofted and barbed. Martha took hold of Jarrell's arm with both hands and squeezed tightly. This was the crystal bestiary glimpsed in her vision.

The hall terminated in a parlor furnished with French-style chairs and settees arranged near an enormous hearth of black granite. Above the hearth, in gold relief, hung a now-familiar design that caused Martha to grip Jarrell's arm even tighter. A central disk of shiny black stone, as large as a tractor wheel, encircled by gold points that radiated outward from the edges. At the center, the pair of isosceles triangles, pointing inward. The eclipse.

A small group of men and women were mingling in this parlor. Some held wineglasses and small plates near a sideboard laid out with hors d'oeuvres—cheese cubes, fruit, a silver tureen full of caviar.

Martha saw the albino man, tall and bald, his pink eyes shielded again by aviator sunglasses. He stood apart from the others, near the wall, hands folded across his stomach. Martha spotted another familiar person standing near the sideboard, chatting. It was Consuela, the young Latina who had switched handbags with her at the fundraiser.

“Care for a midnight snack?” Briggs asked. “A lot of us here are night people, as you can see.”

An African American woman with silvered hair turned toward them. She wore a satin dress with brightly colored geometric shapes.

“Good to see you again, Martha,” the woman said. “Or should I say Miss Covington?” The woman looked unmistakably familiar, in a way that made Martha feel confused and queasy.

“Have we met?”

“Oh, you don't recognize me?” the woman said, putting down her wineglass. “Maybe this will help.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and put them on. Stooping slightly, she crumpled a cocktail napkin into a ball and dabbed at her eyes. “We don't mean to trouble you, Miss Covington, but we've come such a long way. And we tried everything to find our Peavy. The police, the FBI…”

Martha felt the blood drain out of her face. The woman looked so much younger now; she seemed almost unrecognizable in her modern attire.

The woman straightened up and burst out laughing. “My real name's Avis Leone. I'm an actress.”

“Oh God,” Martha said, feeling her knees weaken. “Oh God.”

“You may have seen her in some movies,” Briggs said. “Did you see
The Long Ride Home
? Like I said, we have members from all walks of life, almost every profession. We've got actors, doctors, corporate CEOs….”

“But the boy in the photo,” Martha asked. “You mean…”

“That was just an old picture of my nephew Reuben,” Avis said. “Alive and well. Never been kidnapped, as far as I know. And the baseball cards, marbles, all that other junk? Goodwill.” She chuckled and took a bite of a cracker topped by a dollop of caviar.

Jarrell put an arm around Martha to steady her. “Why?” Martha asked.

“Why, indeed?” said someone behind them.

Martha turned in the direction of the voice. A paneled pocket door had slid open and a man was striding toward them. This face was one she had no trouble recognizing—the crystalline blue eyes set into an oval face, the briar-like eyebrows, the unruly shock of white hair.

“An even better question to ask is: Who?” Conrad Erringer stood before them, placing both hands atop the crystal head of his cane. “Who are we? What is the Organization? What is our purpose? What is the meaning of the emblem you've encountered multiple times along the twisting path that has led you to our inner sanctum? Well, the fact that you are here, that you have survived the game, has earned you an explanation.”

The jazz music stopped, as did the conversations around the sideboard. Erringer gestured toward a pair of chairs at the front of the parlor. “Have a seat, please.”

Martha turned toward Jarrell and met his eyes. The albino man took a step forward.

“Please,” Erringer said, his hand extended.

Jarrell gave Martha an almost imperceptible nod, and they went to the front of the parlor and took their seats. Martha looked around the room, taking stock of exit routes. Aside from the windows, which were at least one story above the ground, there were two exits—the vestibule, where the guns lay, and the pocket door. She noticed other glass furnishings in the parlor: mounted in a brass stand was a globe with etched continents, and a crystal chess set rested on a marble table.

“I'd like to begin by telling you a story,” Erringer said, nodding toward the symbol above the fireplace. “It's the story of this figure, the emblem of our organization, a symbol taken from a petroglyph found in a rock shelter in the Great Karoo desert. It refers to an ancient legend that has been passed down through the generations by the Swazi people. A story I first heard as a child in South Africa.” He placed an elbow on the marble mantle and leaned there. “Long ago, according to the legend, there was a tribe who lived in a sacred place called the Garden of Balu. It was a beautiful valley protected on all sides by steep canyon walls. The only access was through a narrow gap in the canyon wall, and the elders kept this opening concealed by a boulder. At one end of the valley was a beautiful waterfall, and a clear stream ran through the center, full of good fish. There were trees in the valley that bore plentiful fruit. It was a place so well concealed that it was unknown to outsiders, even to the predators of the veldt. The people of Balu lived peacefully untroubled in this tranquil land, their way of life informed by kindness and adherence to the golden rule.”

Martha stole a glimpse around the room. The others were scattered around the parlor, now seated or standing. The actress, Avis Leone, reclined on a settee, sipping her wine. The albino man remained positioned near the side wall. Something in his posture suggested watchfulness, guarding.

“One day there was born to this tribe a boy named Kibo,” Erringer went on in the bent vowels of his light South African accent. “He was different from all the others. Kibo did not coexist peacefully. He stole the food of his peers. He took whatever he wanted, when he wanted, and those who challenged him would face cunning vengeance. Kibo took pleasure in cruelty. Anyone who crossed Kibo might retire in the evening to pull back their bedding and find that a viper had been placed there. Or you might discover a scorpion hidden inside your sandal. As time went on and Kibo became a young man, he grew in his lusts as well as his boredom, living in this cloistered community. He seduced the wives of other men. He started rumors that ruined reputations. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. The elders could not intimidate him, for Kibo feared nothing.”

Erringer went and perched on the arm of a settee next to the hearth. He leaned toward the group. “The elders were at a loss to improve or reform Kibo. The tribe had no precedent for dealing with such an outlier. The council of elders held a meeting on the matter and came to the conclusion there was no choice but to banish him. Several of the strongest men rolled aside the boulder and cast the scoundrel out of Balu, after which the passage was resealed.

“Kibo wandered the outland for several days and several nights, living hand to mouth. Eventually he came upon another tribe, the Gurku, a savage, cannibalistic group that roamed the land, taking what they wanted from other tribes, wearing the skins of beasts and sometimes even other human beings. They would find villages and descend during the night, raping, murdering, and plundering.

“The men of this tribe seized Kibo and prepared to dine upon his flesh. But clever Kibo offered them a deal. ‘Spare my life,' he said, ‘and I will show you the location of a secret garden, an untouched and bountiful land the like of which you have never seen before. A place full of beautiful young women and bronzed young men who would make fine food.'

“The Gurku agreed to Kibo's proposition, and that night readied a war party that Kibo himself would lead into the hidden valley. Kibo donned the skin of a wolf, and in the predawn hours he led the Gurku across the veldt and down to the secret passage through the sheer rock walls. The Gurku pushed aside the great boulder and entered Balu. They stole upon the sleeping village. Kibo's tribe was wiped out in a great orgy of death and plunder. They murdered the adults, raped their daughters, and captured their sons for slavery and food. The village became a scorched wasteland, and the killing continued, they say, until the stream through the center of the valley ran red with blood. Then the Gurku held a great celebration of their conquest. Instead of devouring Kibo, the tribe honored him and invested him as a new tribesman. They surrounded Kibo and clapped and hit stones together as he danced and howled in his wolf skin. But as the sun rose to full height above that bloody and despoiled valley, a great event occurred in the heavens, a happening so fearful that it intimidated even the ruthless Gurku.”

Erringer stood directly in front of the hearth, the round symbol looming above him.

“The Gurku watched in terror as a great black disk began to move across the face of the sun. It was a vast shadow, a veil of such power that it could blot out Le'ora, the sun god, giver of life and light. This shadow was E'ron, the ruler of darkness, and as Le'ora was gradually consumed, the stars came into view. The nocturnal beasts, thinking that night had fallen, emerged from their caves and dens. Smelling the blood that had been spilled, they found their way through the secret passage, past the great boulder, which the Gurku had pushed aside. The beasts streamed into the valley and fell upon the Gurku, who, staring at the sun for too long, had become blinded. They were easy prey, and the beasts tore them limb from limb and devoured them. All were slain except for Kibo, who was protected by E'ron, because he was unafraid. He went on dancing in that strange twilight, and while he danced, the wolf skin he wore began to merge with his own skin, the pointed ears fusing onto his head. Still dancing, he ascended toward the heavens to take his place alongside E'ron and the other immortals. A new deity—the god of war.

“And from that day forward, the Swazi say, the world was never the same. Under the influence of Kibo, human existence became a struggle for survival, an unceasing war between predator and prey. Life came down to one basic equation: Kill or be killed. Only the most ruthless, the cunning and the fearless, would survive.”

Erringer gestured toward the symbol above the fireplace. “And that, my colleagues, is the story of this emblem, an ancient memento of the day the sun was overpowered. It represents momentous transformation.”

Erringer walked over to the crystal globe and turned it. “When I first heard this story, I recognized myself in Kibo. I had known from an early age that I was somehow different. I knew that I'd somehow been born without the ball and chain that are dragged around by almost everyone else I knew. That ball and chain are what people call a conscience. I simply didn't have one. And as I grew older, I learned that I was not alone, that some four percent of the human population share my condition. I learned that I was a psychopath.”

“You sound proud,” Jarrell said.

“Indeed. What the psychological establishment has classified as a mental disorder I consider an evolutionary advantage. But unlike Kibo, I've always kept my status hidden. Like many of us in the Organization, I operate as a wolf in sheep's clothing.

“And so I went through my life with this knowledge, expanding my family's wealth, building an already successful diamond company into a global empire. Operating without empathy, without compassion, made everything easy for me. I always had an advantage over my competitors. And I began to wonder—what if there are not only others like me out there, but others who had the
potential
to become psychopaths? Those who, if placed in the right circumstances, or given just the right nudge, might evolve from mere deviants into full-blown psychopaths?” He placed the palm of his hand on the head of the glass statue of a Komodo dragon
.
“I wondered: What if compassion is simply a blind alley, an evolutionary detour? A flaw in our biology that could be deleted permanently? What if the creature known as
Homo sapiens
is susceptible to a software upgrade?

“Well, if you look at history, the answer is obvious. The compassion gene can indeed be suppressed. In many cases, though not all, this flawed code in our behavioral DNA can be not only suppressed but eradicated.

“And I've demonstrated this, achieved it many times, as countless others have done before me. I'm not the first, mind you. Military organizations know this; the Third Reich knew it. The genius of the Organization is that we have developed a step-by-step process, a method. My operatives go out in the field, monitor news reports. We discover potential talent. We look for the troubled youths, the Kibos of the modern era. They're everywhere. Every community has its delinquents, its troublemakers, those with a history of psychopathic tendencies. Not all can be converted, but many can be. We've even developed videogames and virtual-reality simulations that we use to desensitize our recruits. In the virtual world, they learn to gradually become unaffected by pleas for help or mercy. Step by step, small acts of cruelty, manipulation, and ruthlessness lead to greater dispassion. Then, when the time is right, there is a final exam, out in the real world. This event is recorded on video. It's like the bar exam—you either pass or you fail—except in our case, there is no opportunity for a retest.”