Michael Walsh Bundle (29 page)

He said a silent prayer. The hamsters started spinning.

He was in luck.

The last call had been recent, fresh. The sequencing logarithms weren't that old, and he was high on Powers's priority list.

He didn't get a ring-through, but he got a punch-through. Good enough for government work.

As he waited for the response, he realized that he was biting his own tongue.

Come on, damn it…come on…

There—

HOW'S YOUR FRENCH?

UP TO SNUFF.

SOAR, CLARA VALLIS, SOAR.

He got it. NSDQ.

Danny turned to Hope. “We've got a plane to catch.”

That brought a smile to Rory's face. “Where are we going?” he cried.

“Van Nuys, for starters.” said Danny, shutting down the office and gathering up his stuff, as if that explained everything.

V
ADUZ

With stock and property markets around the world collapsing in fear, Emanuel Skorzeny doubled down on his bets, short-selling like mad, snapping up whole companies for ten cents on the dollar. Through a series of shells, he had already taken a majority position in General Electric, whose stock price was at a depression-era level. He worked the phones, ordering shipments of relief supplies to Illinois, Los Angeles, London. He even gave interviews to selected friendly media, by Internet video. Four days after Edwardsville, Skorzeny International was nearly ten billion dollars richer than it had been a week earlier. One more disaster and he would practically own the U.S. Treasury.

“What news of Miss Harrington?” Skorzeny inquired of Pilier. “I have not heard from her in several hours. I suspect alienation of affection.”

Inwardly, Pilier frowned. The old man was already besotted; now, he was bordering on obsession. The Harrington woman, while spectacular, was young enough to be his daughter.

“Busy, sir,” replied Pilier. “Making a fortune for us. For the Foundation. That is her brief, I believe.”

“A woman of many and variegated talents,” observed Skorzeny. He was standing by his desk, staring at the Alps in the fading light. “And no less than what I expect of her. Still, I am distressed that she hasn't called.”

Typical Skorzeny, thought Pilier: no matter what the situation, it was always about him. And yet that selfishness, often masked as selflessness, was what made him great. And richer every day. Not bad for a boy who started with nothing.

His back to Pilier, Skorzeny said, “What of the news?”

“Im Westen nichts neues,”
said Pilier, in German.
All Quiet on the Western Front
. It was, he knew, one of Skorzeny's favorite books and motion pictures.

Skorzeny looked at his watch and raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said. “I have found throughout my life that bad news begets more bad news. The panic of the mob. The extraordinary madness of crowds. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. And in times of mass hysteria—”

“If
sir,” Observed Pilier. “If you keep your head when all about—”

“You dare quote Kipling to me?” he said.

Pilier backtracked as fast as he could. “Purely for referential purposes, sir,” he said. “After all, Kipling is—”

“An imperialist and an Englishman,” said Skorzeny. “As the Americans say, that is two strikes against him.”

“Yes, sir,” admitted Pilier in defeat. Best not to try and trade literary witticisms with his superior.

“This woman…” mused Skorzeny.

Oh, no,
thought Pilier.

“She is remarkable, is she not?” inquired Skorzeny.

“Are you soliciting my opinion, sir, or merely stating a fact?”

“Both, I should say.”

“Then I absolutely agree.”

The Glare, for just a fleeting moment. Then, “When the American markets reopen,” said Skorzeny, blessedly changing the subject, “what will be our position?”

“Aggressive, sir. Stocks, commodities, real estate. We also snap up the ancillaries—tech stocks, defense industries, shipping, the lot.”

“Good. What about the public utilities? The banks?”

“The utilities can wait a bit, but we will be taking a very strong position in Bank of America and Citicorp and I expect we should be able to push that toward majority status should we wish to. In fact, with any luck, we can own them outright tomorrow.”

“What about Credit Suisse? J.P. Morgan Chase?”

“Proxies will take care of both of them. Also Barclay's. And, of course, Société Générale we already own. Last but not least, we've taken a very bearish stance against both the dollar and the euro, and I believe events are bearing out our wisdom of the plan adopted by the board at your suggestion.”

“Sell our holdings in Universal and Paramount. Parent companies too. Might as well make a clean divestiture. Clear out the rot and start over.”

“What ‘rot' might that be, sir?” wondered Pilier. “The company has done very well with its Hollywood investments. Not to mention by its friends in the industry.”

Skorzeny shot him an irritated glance, a warning that he was overstepping his servile boundary. “I am bored with movies about comic books,” he said. “What is this world coming to? Jejune juvenilia, elevated to the level of art. What would Shakespeare say? Goethe? Rimbaud? Tolstoy?
Ne kulturny
. Given the demographics, we will first run out of children and then run out of comic books…Now, what of our ship?”

Pilier wondered whether the old man was going senile. “Sir, you know that the
Stella Maris
sank two days ago under mysterious circumstances in Long Beach Harbor. And despite our protestations, the United States government has not yet seen fit to—”

“I am not interested in old news, Monsieur Pilier,” said Skorzeny coolly. “I am referring to the
Clara Vallis
. How is she making?”

“On schedule.”

“And our experiments?”

“Ready to launch.”

“Good.” Skorzeny glanced over at the eternal television screen. “Shut that infernal thing off and sit down so we can have a proper talk.”

Pilier clicked the remote and the TV winked off. He took the nearest chair and sat. It wasn't very comfortable, but that was the way the boss liked it. The only congenial chair in the room was Skorzeny's; everybody else had to suffer. It was like being at Bayreuth without Wagner's music. Death without Transfiguration. Skorzeny stared at Pilier for an uncomfortably long time before he spoke.

“There is a mighty wind coming, Monsieur Pilier. Perhaps you have not noticed it, but rest assured that I have. For years, decades, I have felt its approach, smelt its dragon breath. And when it blows through, when it has wrought what it was sent to wreak, who will be left to mourn what it leaves in its wake?”

Pilier had no idea what the old man was talking about. He almost wished he was still on the subject of the lovely Amanda Harrington—a woman, he had to confess to his inner chaplain, who had often figured in his erotic fantasies, some of them quite exotic. She embodied, he supposed, what the late Roman Catholic Church meant by “an occasion of sin.”

“I'm sure I don't know, sir.”

“I will. I and those closest to me.”

Skorzeny fell silent for a while, contemplating the art on the walls, from time to time humming some small snatch of music to himself. To Pilier, he seemed in the grip of a great agitation, which even his iron will could not quite control.

“I have not been able to reach her by telephone or text.”

So it was back to Amanda again. “Sir, you saw her last night, in London.”

Skorzeny seemed to struggle back to his senses. “Yes,” he said. “London. The last piece of our little puzzle. What of our representative there?”

Pilier checked the time. “He is due to report in to you by teleconference shortly. I am led to believe that you will be very happy with his report, sir.”

Skorzeny folded his hands together. “Then everything is in order. And now it is in the hands of God, if He has any interest in us left…One last thing. Please make ready our holiday home for occupancy.”

That caught Pilier by surprise. Although he had multiple residences in many of the world's garden spots, Skorzeny only ever used that phrase, “holiday home” to refer to one place in particular. “Yes, sir.”

Skorzeny reached for one of the remotes and switched on some music. Usually, he waited until he had retired for the evening's concert, but on this night it was as if he wanted to share it with Pilier, with the world.

The music sounded. A soft, mournful, cello line above a contemplative piano accompaniment, slow, very slow, but steady, like the beating of a broken heart. Pilier was about to ask what it was, but Skorzeny anticipated his question and held up his hand peremptorily for silence. Pilier obeyed.

For more than eight and a half eternal minutes, the music continued, unchanging on its infinitely slow, ecstatic course.

“Do you know what that was, Monsieur Pilier?” asked Skorzeny, when the last, dying note could no longer be heard.

“No, sir,” he replied, truthfully.

“And yet you are a graduate of the Sorbonne. Amazing. You might as well have attended Harvard and emerged no less an ignorant, though perhaps more ideologically blinkered, savage.”

Skorzeny signaled for the ablution bowl.
“‘I saw a mighty Angel descending from heaven…and the Angel swore by Him who lives forever and ever, saying: there will be no more Time…the mystery of God will be completed.'
The Book of Revelation, written by John the Evangelist on Patmos, as the Christians believe. Now can you tell me what that music was?”

Inwardly, Pilier seethed. Outwardly, he remained as placid as the music had been. “No, sir,” he said.

“‘Praise Eternity.' The fifth movement of Messiaen's
Quatour pour le fin du temps.
‘The Quartet for the End of Time.' Written in seven movements and an interlude, and premiered by its composer in a Nazi prison camp at Görlitz during the winter of 1940–41, for the instruments he had on hand: piano, violin, cello, and clarinet. Do you know what Messiaen said about it?”

The shame of ignorance was burning Pilier's cheeks. He couldn't compete with Skorzeny's all-embracing, omniscient
Weltanschauung
.

“Of course you don't. He said, ‘Never have I been heard with as much attention and understanding.' In a concentration camp. Thus focusing the mind and concentration wonderfully. As I know from bitter experience.”

“It's beautiful, sir,” mustered Pilier.

“It's not beautiful,” barked Skorzeny. “It's
radiant
. ‘Seven is the perfect number.' But he wrote one extra movement, the interlude, so as not to compete with Creation.
Le 7 de ce repos se prolonge dans l'éternité de devient le 8 de la lu-mière indéfectible, de l'inaltérable paix
. ‘The seventh of his day of repose prolongs itself into eternity and becomes the eighth, of unfailing light, of immutable peace.' Do you understand that?
Unfailing light. Immutable peace.”

“Yes, sir. No, sir.” Pilier had no idea which the correct answer was, so he tried them both. How he wished the old man would just go to bed one night, and never wake up. All this blather about useless culture gave him a migraine.

“Messiaen believed it was his faith that got him safely through the camps, and made him one of the greatest composers of the benighted twentieth century. Do you agree, Monsieur Pilier?”

That was no way to answer that question, except honestly. “No, sir. I don't. Religion is superstition, dressed up in vestments and perfumed with incense.”

Skorzeny contemplated him for a long time before he spoke. “We are, all of us, in need of salvation, Monsieur Pilier,” he said at last.

The huge video screen suddenly flickered to life; despite his fashionable atheism, Pilier breathed a silent prayer of relief, for having spared him whatever was to have followed. “That would be our London member, sir,” he said, switching on the private video feed.

The face of Charles Augustus Milverton filled the screen. Skorzeny contemplated it with equanimity; this was no time to give voice to his suspicions, nor let them color the business they needed to transact. There would be plenty of time for that later, after the great event. “Report,” he said.

“Our Washington friend has been most helpful—I got the final confirmation yesterday. Not in so many words, of course, but in actions. Hidden signals. Emanations of penumbras. He's the one you've been looking for. And, sir—

“What's his name?” Skorzeny could hardly contain his excitement.

“And may I say that he's the one I've been looking for as well. Ever since that night in Paris—”

“What's his name?”

“He doesn't have a name, sir.”

“Then how do you know it's him?”

“I know.”

This was the moment Emanuel Skorzeny had been waiting for nearly a quarter of a century. The one thing, the one man, that could interrupt his plans, the one person who could link him to that unholy triangle, to the days when he learned firsthand how deadly the female of the species could be, how the weakness of men would always be their undoing, how the passions of the moment always trumped reason. As Blake had foretold.

The thing that had first put fear into him.

Love.

He had vowed then that he would not become what he had beheld. He had failed.

But perhaps it was not too late. A moment of vengeance, and t'were best done, especially t'were it done quickly.