The Dead Man's Brother (2 page)

"…And I have no way of proving it," I added.

"Did you make any other phone calls than the one to us, or talk to anybody afterwards?"

"No."

"I see. I am afraid we are going to have to hold you for a while."

He got to his feet.

"Wait a minute!" I said. "How long are you going to hold me and what are the charges?"

"Suspected homicide," he said, and he left the room.

I cursed silently. With all the things I had done, it would be rotten to take a fall for something I hadn’t.

A couple of guys came in and escorted me to a cell. They took away my matches and my belt and my shoestrings.

"I’m not suicidal," I said.

"Procedure," they answered.

*

I waited. For three days. I was strangely puzzled when I finally asked to be allowed to phone an attorney and they ignored me. They didn’t even question me during that time. It was as if I had been completely forgotten, except at mealtime.

Then the man showed up.

Black suit and plastic briefcase, the latter also black.

He asked me just one question.

"You’re Ovid Wiley?"

"Yes," I said.

"We can remove you from this place," he stated.

"Who’s ‘we’, and where to?" I asked.

"I was thinking of McLean, Virginia."

"Great," I said. "What’s there?"

"CIA," he said.

"Oh? What’s going on?"

"I don’t know," he told me. "My Section Chief will have to explain it to you."

"What effect does this have on this homicide business?"

"I couldn’t say."

"Could your boss?"

"I suppose."

"Then let’s go."

…And that is how the whole, mad vista began its very slow clearance before me.

I was released, and my still-nameless escort nodded to a larger version of himself who was standing beside a car smoking. This man opened the side door and nodded to me. I entered. We were never introduced.

After a time, I cleared my throat and inquired, "Mind my asking where we’re headed?"

"I already told you," said the first man, who had taken the wheel and was now studying traffic.

The other sat somewhere out of sight behind me. I guess he wanted it that way.

"I meant," I said, "our immediate destination."

"Exactly," he replied.

"Can’t I at least stop at home to clean up, change clothes?"

"No," he said, and he was right.

So I bummed a cigarette from the man in the rear seat, felt scroungy, and watched the taxi drivers pursue their daily duel with everybody. I needed a shave, my clothes were wrinkled, I smelled bad, my muscles ached. I was more puzzled than irritated, however. What could a government agency concerned with security want with a now respectable art dealer, want badly enough to take him away from local homicide people and bring him to their central office? My one connection with their sort of business had been in a small non-war contained by a damp jungle, some tiny farms, frightened villages, stinking swamps and slippery, rocky places sometimes called hills. But there, though, the intelligence people had pulled me back and given me a job filling out forms and yanking folders solely because of my performance in the field. I would get them the information they desired, but I lost so much in the way of aircraft on my reconnaissance runs that I began getting the impression that they would rather have the copters and light planes back than my reports. So I was considered a poor choice when in the field, and I did nothing of any interest when not. I did not feel that the CIA would have any special desire for my skills in the intelligence area.

What, then?

I pondered this all the way to Kennedy Airport, where the car was left with the rental service, where no one noticed the dented fender and cracked taillight from a small accident on the way over.

All along the line to the ticket counter, I pondered. Then I said the hell with it and told my escorts I wanted to go to the men’s room and wash up. They agreed, and on the way there I bought a small throwaway razor and a tube of shaving cream. When I was finished scraping my face I saw them watching to see that I did indeed dispose of the instrument.

I offered to spring for coffee or a beer, since a heavier than usual mixture of fog and air pollution had delayed the scheduled departure. They decided that coffee sounded like a good idea but they paid for their own.

I dislike crowded, busy places, and when a place’s busy crowds are laden with luggage, briefcases, parcels, cameras, bags, hat boxes, umbrellas and God knows what all, garbed for every clime, babbling, rushing, waiting, standing, sitting, harassed by children and looking lost, with half-comprehensible announcements crackling above their heads, with sonic booms and growling engines somewhere without—all enacted before backdrops of flashing numbers and symbols and words that most ignore, I seldom fail to think of Breughel. It disturbs me, too, as I am rather fond of the mad Dutchman.

We finished our coffee, made our way to our gate and waited through another delay. Four sleepy sailors, a family group, perhaps a dozen students and a number of men with briefcases waited with us. I returned to pondering.

I tuned and focused on the big question again, the one that had occupied most of my thinking while I was in custody. Why did Carl Bernini die in my gallery? He might have gone there to steal something. He was a trifle too far along in years to be learning a new profession. On the other hand, he might have learned that the place was my home and have wanted to see me in a hurry. That didn’t wash, though, as there are plenty of other ways of getting in touch with someone. Whatever, though, he had apparently picked the lock neatly, entered, looked about a bit, gotten knifed, died where he fell.

I reviewed my knowledge of the man: Carl was, or had been, somewhere in his middle fifties; height, about five feet, eight inches; his weight varied within the hundred-fifties; he wore glasses when he read or worked on locks; he seldom indulged in other forms of criminal activity than art theft; he did not drink much other than an occasional glass of wine; he was a heavy smoker; he never spoke of any relatives, though he had had a pretty steady girlfriend named Maria Borsini when I had known him; he was wearing a dark, somewhat shabby suit when I found him. Simple, basic facts, representing nearly everything I knew concerning him. And none of it seemed of use to me now. I felt as if I were trying to seize a fistful of water.

At about this point we were allowed to board. As we did so, I reflected that I had not thought to ask either of my escorts for identification. That way, I might at least have learned their names. I had no doubts as to their authenticity, but it is nice to know who, specifically, is spiriting you away.

They gave me the window seat, the larger fellow depositing himself beside me, the smaller man on the aisle. So I fastened my seatbelt, folded my hands and sighed. Above me, the air jets hissed sympathetically.

May you burn in hell, Carl Bernini! I thought. Then I chuckled as I recalled how much he had loved Dante.

After a time we taxied, turned, waited, then raced through fogs along the runway, were airborne, flew.

II.

I tried to take a nap and was just about to succeed when we landed at Dulles. Smothering a yawn, I stood with the others and bumped my head on the overhead storage compartment as I always do. I followed my escorts out, and while I dislike Dulles less than many airports I was pleased when we had passed through it and were headed toward a parking lot.

Same seating arrangement, private car, sticker on the windshield.

We drove beneath clear skies, and the air through the open window felt clean and cool. The countryside was not unattractive and traffic was light. There was a pleasant smell to the air and I counted a few squirrels. I wished for a while that I had found something in the country rather than settling in New York. Wishes are always fun for condemned people, old people and accident victims.

I hoped fervently, though, that word of what had occurred in New York had not gotten back to my sister Susan, now a happily married mother of three, who still sends me greeting cards and occasional notes. She would worry. Or my father. He would be mad as hell. Possibly even somewhat concerned. After all, he likes to spend all of his waking hours retranslating Classics, except when he is teaching other people how to do it, and my situation could be distracting. My mother never told me whether he talked in his sleep, but if he did I’ll bet it was Greek or Latin. As for my brother Jim, that smug academic, I couldn’t care less.

The green persisted, even into Langley township, and we passed several signs directing us toward our destination. Having never seen the place before, I must admit that the sight was only partly what I had anticipated. The place was surrounded by trees and situated on a large piece of real estate. It did not look especially sinister. The architectural style was Mid-Twentieth Century Government, and massive. The first two floors formed a base from which rose five towers that appeared to be connected. They reached five stories higher to attain a circlet of dull glass. The finish was of that white quartz aggregate stuff which is supposed to look spiffy. Would have made a nice hospital.

We passed through the gates and drove to a parking lot, where a reserved place waited. As we walked away from it, heading toward that gleaming pile of concrete and secrets, I wondered idly to which portion of it I was being taken. I never did learn, either. Perhaps if I’d had along a pretty girl and a ball of string…Well.

There were armed guards on the inside, and my escorts presented identification, spoke rapidly and quietly to a guard, then filled out a form. I presume the form concerned me, because they exchanged it for a huge plastic pass they handed to me and told me not to lose. They picked up a couple for themselves and led me away, pausing long enough for me to buy some cigarettes at a concession stand.

As we walked through long, depressing halls, rode higher and walked through more long, depressing halls, occasionally having our passes scrutinized, I noticed signs explaining how to prepare classified wastepaper for destruction and schedules explaining when it would be picked up. I heard the sounds of typewriters and telephones. I felt more and more uneasy, in direct ratio to my escorts’ apparent relaxation. They smiled, nodded, even exchanged a few words with some of the people we passed. I was glanced at and dismissed. I felt alien.

We had to pass through several locked doors in order to reach the one opened one, our destination. They gestured me into what proved to be an empty office and I entered.

The room was about forty feet by thirty, its floor completely covered by pale yellow carpeting. Its brown walls were buttressed by five glass-doored bookcases, and several simple etchings were tastefully hung. There was a small conference table, numerous chairs and a wide, shiny desk sporting two telephones, a dictaphone, an intercom unit, an unblotted blotter and a neat arrangement of pens, pads, calendar and bronze baby shoes. The only five windows in the room filled the wall behind it. In the corner to my right were two filing cabinets and a secretarial desk.

I crossed the room partway and seated myself at the end of the conference table closest to the big desk. After a small hesitation, my guides approached and seated themselves, also—the small one directly across from me, the larger to my left.

I drew up an ashtray, opened my cigarettes, offered them around. They shook their heads, so I smoked alone.

Finally, "How long?" I asked.

The man across from me started to shrug, then, "We’re a little early," he said. "It shouldn’t be too long a wait."

He did not meet my eyes as he spoke, but neither of them had been so inclined for our entire acquaintanceship. They always looked away when I looked directly at them, though I had felt their gazes upon me often and caught them scrutinizing me on several occasions.

I heard footsteps and voices, glanced out the door at two men who were approaching. When they entered the room my companions stood. I didn’t.

Both men appeared to be in their fifties. The one who headed toward the desk had gray hair about a shiny bald spot, wore very thick glasses, had a heavily lined face and was smiling. His companion was quite obese and very ruddy. He wore a dark suit complete with vest, chain and Phi Beta Kappa key. He gave me a fishy stare.

The other man—as if it were an afterthought—turned toward me suddenly, stuck out his hand and said, "My name is Paul Collins. This is Doctor Berwick."

So I rose and shook hands. Then Collins turned toward my escorts and said, "Thank you. You may go."

They closed the door behind themselves and Collins told me to sit down. We all did, and then proceeded to scrutinize one another for several moments. While I did not recognize either man, the name "Berwick" served to mesh rusty gear-teeth somewhere in the back of my mind. Still, the memory machine failed to turn over and crank out an answer. I only knew that I had once known something concerning the man.

"You seem to have left some trouble behind you in New York," said Collins, still smiling.

I shrugged slightly.

"I’m innocent," I said, "for whatever that’s worth. Anyway, the thing is out of my hands now."

"…and into mine, perhaps," he replied.

"Please explain."

In apparent answer, he leaned to one side and unlocked a drawer or door in his desk—using several keys, it seemed. When he straightened, he brought up a fat manila folder. He proceeded to turn several of its pages.

"It appears," he said, "that you speak German, Italian and French quite fluently, and various other languages with some degree of proficiency…And a solid grounding in classical languages, too. That’s always nice."

"I attended school in Europe," I said. "I’m sure your organization doesn’t need another interp—"

"Yes," he cut me off. "Tugingen, wasn’t it? But it was in Rome that you met Carl Bernini."

When I did not reply, he continued, "On your return to the States you enlisted in the Army, attended OCS and received advanced training in intelligence work after receipt of your commission."