The Sex Sphere (9 page)

The truck-cab is a nice medium blue, sort of ultramarine. There’s two flatbed trailers in back, each with a pyramid-stacked load under gray tarps. You can tell it’s really heavy stuff, from the stiff way the trailers ride.

It’s a long way to Rome. Past Bologna, past Firenze…they drive all night, stopping now and then for gas and coffee, delicious greasy sandwiches and a shot of
grappa
as the sun goes up. Somehow the badly organized police roadblocks are all too late, or in the wrong places.

By breakfast time, Green Death is safe in the cool concrete of the
Supercortemaggiore
. One of the snoids, Orali, watches the other unloading the fuel-assemblies. Rectelli’s using a forklift to get the six bulky concrete boxes off the trailers. Most of the weight is just padding and shielding, but no one’s quite ready to try pulling the fuel rods out.

“We’re gonna build an atomic bomb,” Beatrice tells the snoid.

“
Bene
.”

“Do you know how this is done?” Giulia asks Beatrice.

“Peter knows. Don’t you, Peter?”

“No.”

Beatrice starts to say something cutting, then stops herself. “It doesn’t matter really. They’ll
think
we can build one.”

Orali shakes his head. “We got build one bomb and set off good. Then is much more for threat of second one.” He rubs brisk thumb against fingers in the money gesture. He’s more criminal than terrorist.

“Look,” Beatrice says, sternly addressing Peter. “I saw a TV show where any bright twelve-year-old kid can build an A-bomb if he has the…the radioactive stuff. Read some books, man. I say we set off the first one in St. Peter’s Square on Easter.”

Giulia looks a little upset at this. “No, no. Those are simple people, good people. You must not bomb them.”

Beatrice shrugs indifferently. “We need the crowd. I’d like to see at
least
one thousand dead for the news.”

The last giant concrete shoebox of nuclear fuel is loaded onto the freight elevator down. Orali takes Giulia’s arm.

“
Vuolsi così colà dove si puote ciò che si vuole, e più non dimandare
.”

“
Bene
,” she says, flashing her sharp teeth.

CHAPTER SIX

The Anarchist Archimedes

Sybil was still in Vice-Consul Membrane’s office when the bad news came in.

“The bait worked…
almost
perfectly,” Membrane announced, setting down the phone. His eyes were focused somewhere past Sybil.

“He’s dead,” Sybil said flatly. “Go on and tell me.”

“No, no. He’s been kidnapped by a new group called Green Death. They’re the ones with the reactor fuel. We monitored the arrangements over a phone-tap. Only…”

The children had finished their comics now, and were feeling hyper from all the sweets Membrane had fed them.

“On’y
whut?
” shouted Ida, sticking her head out from behind Sybil’s chair.

Membrane looked genuinely embarrassed. “We…were too slow. They snatched him out from under us. And now…” He raised two trowel-like hands.

“Now my poor husband will be forced to assemble an atomic bomb for the Green Death,” Sybil spat out. “Just you wait till I tell this story to everyone. Here you’ve taken a simple kidnapping for money and turned it into nuclear terrorism. They’ll never…”

Never let him go
, she had meant to say. But thinking the words brought her tears back, hot and bitter. It was no use staying here, no use listening to this shitweasel blather on about secret agreements and delicate negotiations.

“Just shut up,” Sybil said, standing. “I’m leaving. I’m going to tell this to the
Herald Tribune
.”

Something hard flashed in Membrane’s eyes. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Sybil tugged the kids out of their chairs. “Why not?”

“If you go to the paper, then I will give them my version. I will tell them of my…suspicions.” Membrane scratched his face, goggled at her and continued. “Sybil. I think your husband went over to the terrorists of his own free will.”

“That is such BULL!” shouted Sybil. “Let’s get OUT of here, children!” She slammed the door behind her.

A minute later she was outside the Embassy. Buttwhumper gave her a friendly salute. She nodded weakly and walked off down the sidewalk. Where to now?

To the newspaper. To make a stink. Membrane shouldn’t get away with this. She bought a
Herald Tribune
at the next newsstand.

“I’m hungry for lunch,” Tom told her quietly.

“Me too!” quacked Ida. “Hungwy!”

“Is Daddy making bombs?” asked Tom.

“I think he might have to,” Sybil said with a shaky sigh. She too was hungry. “We can have lunch in this café, children.”

They were standing under the awning of one of the nicer Via Veneto cafés, a big place called The Glacier. Inside was a huge room with marble columns, and out here under the awning were dozens of tables as well. The chairs were the good kind of lawn furniture, made of thick gray plastic cords stretched between black steel tubes. Sybil plopped down in a chair facing the street, and the children sat down across from her.

A slender, dignified waiter appeared and they placed their orders.
Spaghetti con sugo
for the kids, a
salade niçoise
for Sybil. Fanta, mineral water and a quarter liter of
vino bianco
. The victuals began arriving almost immediately. Soon they all felt a little better. The sun shone, casting living color-shadows from their drinks onto the clean linen tablecloth.

“Where is Daddy now?” Tom asked, sucking up a last strand of spaghetti. “I didn’t understand what the man said.”

Sybil washed down a forkful of flaky tuna and dark-purple anchovy with a gulp of wine. This was a good salad. She ate a leaf of lettuce before starting her answer.

“Apparently some gangsters stole Daddy last night. They thought he might be rich, and that we could pay a lot of money to get him back.”

“Aren’t we rich?”

In a way, this was a reasonable question. Here they were spending Easter in Rome. But, on the other hand, home right now was a two-room subsidized apartment in Heidelberg.

“Rich? Are you kidding? Those gangsters would have wanted more money than Daddy makes in ten years.”

“What will dey do if we can’t buy him back?” Ida asked anxiously. Her upper lip was bright orange from the soft drink.

“Well, now it’s different,” Sybil explained. “Some other people stole Daddy from the gangsters. Some bad people who want him to make an atomic bomb. It’s thanks to stupid Mr. Membrane that they got
that
idea.” She poured more wine and soda and sopped a piece of bread in the juices of her salad. Funny how she could go on eating like nothing had happened. She must be in shock.

“Bad silly men,” said Ida.

“What if they light off Daddy’s bomb? We should go far away!” Tom’s round forehead was asterisked with worry.

“Don’t worry, Tom. Daddy wouldn’t let a bomb go off with us still here. Let’s go to the newspaper office and see if they can help us.” She folded the
Herald Tribune
open to the editorial page and scanned the list of offices.
Rome: 73 Viale Giulio Cesare, Susan Spangle, Ed
.

“Susan Spangle,” Sybil said out loud.

“Who’s she?”

“Maybe she can help.”

She paid the check and hailed a cab. Julius Caesar Street was halfway across the city. They went through a park and across a huge square with an Egyptian obelisk. Sybil wished they had time to stop and look at the hieroglyphs. But no. She began to feel a certain irritation towards Alwin. If he hadn’t been out staggering around at two in the morning, none of this would have happened. Shit, shit, shit!

The
Herald Tribune
office was at a corner near the river, upstairs from a big dress shop. There were about fifteen people working there, and Sybil had to talk to most of them before getting to the boss.

Susan Spangle’s assistant was a fatherly fat Italian named Signor Atti. He even had suspenders and a mustache with waxed ends. He cheerfully agreed to keep an eye on the children while Sybil talked to the boss.

Susan Spangle turned out to be a smooth-voiced black woman with long straight hair and small features. She wore a black coral necklace with matching earrings. Her dress was a practical-looking pale blue, with buttons up the front and a little collar. Preppy, almost. Her eyes were yellow and older looking than her face. Forty-five, maybe. A tough career woman.

“Your husband was involved in the killing at the Colosseum this morning?”

“I hadn’t realized there was a killing.”

“Yes…are you
sure
your husband was kidnapped?”

Sybil told the story of her meeting with Vice-Consul Membrane. Spangle listened carefully, staring at the ceiling with calculating eyes.

“Is your husband able to build a bomb or not?” she asked finally.

Just then the kids came charging into the office, Signor Atti hot on their trail.

“His fat ate a pencil!” Tom shouted excitedly.

Signor Atti’s shirt was untucked. He’d been showing off his stomach.

“His fat gone eat ME!” squealed Ida, half believing it.

“Do we have anything on the Green Death group?” Spangle asked him.

Atti groaned in thought, tucking his shirt in. “Yeeees. They were in Mestre, and then I dunno. Let me go call Magnani.”

Tom and Ida came smearing up to Sybil, merry mouths open with excitement.

“Is the bomb done yet?” Tom wanted to know.

Just then the phone rang and Spangle picked it up.

“Hello.
Herald Tribune
. Spangle speaking.”

“Yes,” affirmative.

“Yes,” neutral.

“Yes,” questioning.

“Yes,” confirming.

“Yes,” inquiring.

“Yes,” listening.

“Yes,” thinking.

“Yes,” transitional.

“Yes,” challenging.

“Yes,” demanding.

“Yes,” capitulating.

“Yes,” concluding.

“Good-bye, Mr. Membrane.”

“That was your Vice-Consul Membrane,” she explained, making a notation on a piece of paper.

“What did he say?” Sybil asked, her heart sinking.

Spangle looked at Sybil coolly. “Is it true that your husband was quite active in the anti-war movement? That he helped organize a demonstration against US involvement in Latin America?”

“I don’t see what that has to…”

“And is it true that he was unable to get the necessary security clearance to work on the Streamford Project? Could this have embittered him so much that…?”

“You can’t be serious! Don’t you see that Membrane just wants to cover up his blunder?”

Spangle made a sour little face. “The facts speak for themselves, Mrs. Bitter. Your husband left a note at the Colosseum, a radical manifesto in which he calls himself ‘The Anarchist Archimedes.’ A weapon with his fingerprints was found near the murdered man’s body. Mr. Membrane tells me that…”

Just then Atti came back in, big and friendly as a beer barrel. “I have talked with Officer Magnani. Green Death exploded a refinery in Mestre and may have stolen a truck with reactor fuel. They are involved in the shooting of former University of Rome physicist Lafcadio Caron, which took place at the Colosseum this morning. The officer would like very much to talk with Signora Bitter. He is on his way here.”

“Are the Italian papers breaking the story?” Spangle wanted to know.

“If Magnani’s coming, they’ll be here, too. You know how he loves publicity.”

Spangle made some quick notes, and gave Sybil an insincere smile. “I do aim to be fair, Mrs. Bitter. Why don’t we organize a little press conference right here?”

Sybil felt trapped and desperate. She hadn’t yet met anyone who cared what happened to poor Alwin. He was becoming an abstraction, a news item, a jaded world’s daily
frisson
.

“I’m going,” she announced. “I’m going back to our hotel. The children need a rest.”

“But what about Officer Magnani?” Spangle protested. “And our press conference?”

“I’ll be at my hotel. Hotel Caprice.”

Before anyone could stop her, Sybil had dragged the kiddies out of the
Herald Trib
office and down onto the street. She walked a block or two to calm down, and then paused to look around.

It was a nontourist street parallel to the Tiber. In the mid-distance the hill of the Vatican rose up from behind cheap department stores and dress shops. There was a big
Supercortemaggiore
parking garage across the street.

A street-corner vendor was selling green olives and some kind of white beans. Tom and Ida clamored, so she bought them a triangular wet paper bag full of the fresh olives. The vendor was a very old man with piercing eyes. Sybil wished that her father were there, and decided to call him from the hotel.

The children nibbled at the olives, spitting most of the meat out with the pits. A taxi stopped. They got in, and the lovely buildings slid past, emptily promising romance and adventure. Sybil felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life.

There was a traffic blockage on the Via Veneto, so they had to get out a block before the hotel. All sorts of cars and trucks were squeezing in. Some men were carrying lights and heavy TV cameras.

It wasn’t until she stepped into the lobby that Sybil realized that all the people were waiting for her. The manager rushed up to her, oily and excited.

“Mrs. a-Bitter! Everyone is a-wait for you to make television interview. Come on in a-breakfast room, they got a-lights and action.” He leaned a bit closer and raised his eyebrows. Five neatly parallel corrugations sprang into life on his forehead. “You mention a-hotel, say is a-nice, I tear up bill.” Two quick, vertical tearing motions.

“Mrs. Bitter!”

“A-Mrs. a-Bitter!”

“Sybil, honey!”

“Hey, Mrs. Bitter!”

Half a dozen reporters came crowding up. Sybil recognized one of them from the
Herald Tribune
office. They hadn’t wasted any time getting over here. Tom and Ida squeezed against her legs, scared of getting stepped on. Sybil let the manager pull her into the breakfast room and seat her behind a table with the kids. Tom pointed at a TV camera. Ida stared, dazzled, into one of the lights.