Shift. Part 33

Ruby's voice, when it comes, seems to leak from him like his breath, as if he is not speaking but expiring.

"There is nothing to hide," he whispers. "There was no one else."5

Camaguey Province, Cuba June 19, 1975

Over the course of the past twelve years her garden has grown remarkably. Her corn is the sweetest in the province, her tomatoes the largest, her beans more numerous. It helps that the local children come over after school to work with her, that women give her fish heads to sow and men give her a share of the manure the state has allocated them for their own plantings. No doubt the time and energy expended on this half acre of land are a profligate waste of resources in a managed economy. But they produce some gorgeous fruits and vegetables, a small portion of which she trades for rice, the rest of which she gives away. grown remarkably. Her corn is the sweetest in the province, her tomatoes the largest, her beans more numerous. It helps that the local children come over after school to work with her, that women give her fish heads to sow and men give her a share of the manure the state has allocated them for their own plantings. No doubt the time and energy expended on this half acre of land are a profligate waste of resources in a managed economy. But they produce some gorgeous fruits and vegetables, a small portion of which she trades for rice, the rest of which she gives away.

Her garden has matured, but she hasn't. For twelve years he's been watching her, and Louie Garza would swear she hasn't aged a day. Only sometimes, when he's standing across a field, say, or on the second floor of the house he shares with her, watching her toil away in her garden, he seems to see cracks in her facade-gray hairs among the black, wrinkles at the sides of her eyes and mouth, the beginning of a sag in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It makes no sense, of course. Even if these signs were were real, he wouldn't be able to see them from so far away. And when he approaches her, they always disappear, and she becomes ageless again, perfect. It is as if, in waiting for the day when Orpheus comes for her, she has decided to keep herself exactly as she was the last time he saw her. real, he wouldn't be able to see them from so far away. And when he approaches her, they always disappear, and she becomes ageless again, perfect. It is as if, in waiting for the day when Orpheus comes for her, she has decided to keep herself exactly as she was the last time he saw her.

But all that is changing now. The icy Russian stands on the porch of the house Naz and Louie have lived in for more than a decade, looking out at her as she weeds a patch of amaranth.

"Do you have to take her?" Louie does a poor job of keeping the pleading note out of his voice.

"Melchior's convinced she's the only thing that can wake Chandler up."

Louie has no idea who Chandler is. Which is to say, he knows that Chandler is the same person as the Orpheus Naz sometimes speaks of, and knows that for the past twelve years Melchior and the Russian have been trying to wake him from a coma, but what they expect him to say or do when he wakes up has never been specified. It seems a little unreal to him. As unbelievable as Naz's unchanging beauty must sound to anyone who doesn't live with her. But who is he to doubt? It isn't Chandler he cares for. It's only Naz.

As the Russian heads out into the garden, Louie hooks the tall man's arm with his cane.

"I've protected her for twelve years. I won't let you hurt her."

The Russian looks first at Louie's cane, then at Louie. His eyes are as cold as the land he comes from and wants to take Naz to.

"I don't think I could hurt her even if I wanted to. But just to put your mind at ease: I'm under strict orders to bring her back unharmed. Melchior's convinced himself that she's somehow the key to everything."

Louie nods, and releases the Russian. As Ivelitsch turns and heads into the garden, he glances at the syringe he's palming in his right hand.

"He didn't say I couldn't have a little fun, though," he says, and, baring his teeth in a smile that practically causes the plants to wilt, he strides toward Naz.6

San Francisco, CA March 30, 1981

It takes BC a moment to find the light switch in his bas.e.m.e.nt office-it's hiding under a piece of paper he must have taped up the last time he was down, and the room's two tiny windows, similarly covered, let in no light at all. He finds it finally, clicks it, and, one by one, the fluorescent rectangles flicker into life. The steady, measured brilliance of American industry illuminates the seven-hundred-square-foot s.p.a.ce, every inch of which is covered with newspaper clippings and photographs and Xeroxes and other bits of evidence and clues. Even the door, when it falls closed, is revealed to be covered with flowcharts and diagrams scribbled in marker, pen, pencil, something that looks like lipstick or blood. Red, blue, and green threads connect various faces and places with one another in a system not even he fully understands anymore. He is like a spider who has woven a web around his own body, trapping himself. At least there's Scotch. office-it's hiding under a piece of paper he must have taped up the last time he was down, and the room's two tiny windows, similarly covered, let in no light at all. He finds it finally, clicks it, and, one by one, the fluorescent rectangles flicker into life. The steady, measured brilliance of American industry illuminates the seven-hundred-square-foot s.p.a.ce, every inch of which is covered with newspaper clippings and photographs and Xeroxes and other bits of evidence and clues. Even the door, when it falls closed, is revealed to be covered with flowcharts and diagrams scribbled in marker, pen, pencil, something that looks like lipstick or blood. Red, blue, and green threads connect various faces and places with one another in a system not even he fully understands anymore. He is like a spider who has woven a web around his own body, trapping himself. At least there's Scotch.

He pulls a bottle and crystal tumbler from a cabinet, pours himself a finger of rich amber liquid, knocks it back, pours himself another. It's his birthday, after all. His forty-third. There's no mirror in the room but he knows what he looks like well enough. Knows that he looks good for his age-d.a.m.n good-but that, even so, he's not the twenty-five-year-old kid who got sucked into this wild-goose chase eighteen years ago. There's gray at his temples, even more in his beard when he doesn't shave, lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth that don't go away even when he's not squinting or frowning.

As he sips his second drink he remarks, not for the first time, the similarity between his office and Charles Jarrell's home, and thinks he will have to let Duncan down here to vacuum and dust and put things in piles. But he knows that sooner or later-a few days, a few weeks, the difference means little measured against eighteen years-a new inspiration will strike, a connection he missed before, a lead he failed to follow, and he will come down and tape things to the wall again, draw lines between them as, for the thousandth time, the ten thousandth, he tries to figure out where Melchior disappeared-and Chandler, and Naz, and Ivelitsch. Song, well. Song he found a long time ago. Her body had been dropped outside of Brownsville, Texas, just north of the Rio Grande. She was dressed in a peasant blouse bordered with a floral Mayan collar, a chain of Day of the Dead skulls draped around her neck. Her hair had been hacked into a crude bob, her face bludgeoned to conceal the more Asiatic of her features, but one look at her unlined hands should have told anyone that she wasn't another illegal immigrant hoping to toil her way out of Mexican fields and into the service of some middle-cla.s.s white American woman looking for a maid-even if, for some reason, Melchior had cut off a finger and taken it as a trophy. BC hadn't bothered to point any of this out to the local PD, however. It wasn't Song he was looking for.

He sips at his Scotch and tries to tell himself that his fervor is as strong as ever, but the fact is, it's been so long since the last time he was down here that everything is covered under a layer of dust. In his head, Naz's face s.h.i.+nes as brightly as it ever did, and Chandler's, and even Melchior's, but the truth is nearly two decades have gone by. G.o.d only knows what they look like now. More than likely at least one of them is dead, and it's a fair bet they all are. For, of them all, the only one he's gotten any leads on at all is Pavel Semyonovitch Ivelitsch, who, as far as BC can tell, still works for KGB. The most likely scenario is that he duped Melchior into turning Chandler over to him, probably as a way of recovering the bomb that had been stolen in Cuba, and then, when he got it back-Jack Ruby's death is proof that he got it back-he killed them all. Gunned them down like the Bolsheviks gunned down the Romanovs. The only thing that gives him any hope at all is the trips that Ivelitsch continued to take to Cuba, but the last one happened in 1975, and though BC has visited the island three times, he's never figured out what Ivelitsch was doing there. It's a beautiful country, after all. Not even Communism can sully the Caribbean or dim the tropical suns.h.i.+ne. Maybe he was just going on vacation.

He goes to take another drink and discovers that his gla.s.s is empty. He shrugs and pours himself another. It's his birthday after all. Forty-three. He never thought he could be a forty-three-year-old.

Sometimes on nights like this, after two or three Scotches, or four, or five, he asks himself what would have happened if the president hadn't died. If Chandler had managed to stop Melchior, if Caspar had missed? Or if Jack Ruby hadn't been able to walk up to Caspar in a crowded police station and shoot him dead and the president's killer had talked and told the bizarre story of his life that people have been piecing together ever since? Would things have turned out differently? The good things-Civil Rights and the War on Poverty and the s.e.xual revolution-and the bad: the Vietnam War and Watergate and the s.e.xual revolution. Would the country have turned out the same? The world? Would he?

The question makes him think of the book he was reading on the train the day it all started. The Man in the High Castle The Man in the High Castle. A novel that asks what would have happened if the U.S. lost World War II. He's kept the book with him all these years, but he's never tried to read it because, frankly, he doesn't think it ends well, and he doesn't want it to prejudice his investigation. A lot of things about him have changed over the years-or, more accurately, he now acknowledges things about himself he never would've admitted before all of this started, and one of them is that he's not the rationalist he thought he was. The believer in causality and consequence. The truth is, he's a bit superst.i.tious. More than a bit even, and a part of him believes it wasn't an accident that this of all books should have fallen into his hands when it did. A book that asks if the facts of history have any meaning at all, or if we're all on a oneway train to apocalypse.

But still. He hasn't read it and won't. Not till he's found Chandler and Naz. Not till Melchior is brought to justice.

Which brings him back to the original question: would things have turned out differently if Chandler had stopped Oswald? He can't help but think that Melchior was telling the truth in his parting words: that the s.h.i.+ft started a long time ago before Oswald pulled the trigger, that the change would have happened regardless of what played out in Dealey Plaza. Maybe so. But that still doesn't change the fact that an innocent man was killed, and a lot of innocent people were dragged into a crime that had nothing to do with them as the nation tried to find scapegoats for their own feelings of vulnerability, and culpability, and failure.

The whine of feedback from the small TV behind him cuts into his thoughts. Eighteen years disappear, and he's back in the chair in Dallas, watching the screen fade to black and hearing Walter Cronkite's voice flood out of the darkness. Somehow he knows even before he turns around.

"This is a CBS News Special Bulletin. In Was.h.i.+ngton, DC, shots have just been fired by an unknown gunman at President Reagan as he left the Was.h.i.+ngton Hilton Hotel. It is unclear whether the president was. .h.i.t or not. However, we do know that James Brady, the White House press secretary, was injured, as well as a Secret Service agent. The gunman fired at the president from approximately ten feet away and was immediately subdued by the Secret Service. Any details about his name or motivation have yet to be released. Stay tuned to CBS News for further details."

BC stares at the screen for a moment. He's not sure what he's waiting for until a commercial comes on. The inescapable theme song to Pac-Man. After eighteen years, history is still told courtesy of its commercial sponsors.

BC presses a b.u.t.ton on the intercom. Duncan answers almost before the buzzing stops.

"Yes, BC?"

"Get me on the first plane to DC."

A pause. "Under your name, or-"

"An alias," BC says, then releases the intercom. He looks at the half inch of Scotch in his gla.s.s, then sets it undrunk on the desk. "It's starting again," he says to no one but himself. "It's finally starting."7 1 Police officer J. D. Tippit fatally shot by Lee Harvey Oswald at approximately 1:12 p.m. Police officer J. D. Tippit fatally shot by Lee Harvey Oswald at approximately 1:12 p.m.

2 Lee Harvey Oswald killed by Jack Ruby at 11:21 a.m. as he is being transferred from Dallas Police Headquarters to the Dallas County Jail. Lee Harvey Oswald killed by Jack Ruby at 11:21 a.m. as he is being transferred from Dallas Police Headquarters to the Dallas County Jail.

3 Mary Meyer murdered on a towpath along the Chesapeake and Ohio Ca.n.a.l in Georgetown. Henry Wiggins, the only witness, reported seeing "a black man in a light jacket, dark slacks, and a dark cap" standing over Meyer's body. Meyer's diary, in which she is alleged to have recorded the details of her affair with the murdered president, was first given to CIA a.s.sociate deputy director of operations for counterintelligence James Jesus Angleton, and later destroyed by her sister. Mary Meyer murdered on a towpath along the Chesapeake and Ohio Ca.n.a.l in Georgetown. Henry Wiggins, the only witness, reported seeing "a black man in a light jacket, dark slacks, and a dark cap" standing over Meyer's body. Meyer's diary, in which she is alleged to have recorded the details of her affair with the murdered president, was first given to CIA a.s.sociate deputy director of operations for counterintelligence James Jesus Angleton, and later destroyed by her sister.

4 Frank Wisdom found dead in his home October 29, 1965, of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot to the face. The shotgun in question belonged to his son. Frank Wisdom found dead in his home October 29, 1965, of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot to the face. The shotgun in question belonged to his son.

5 Jack Ruby dies of cancer in Parkland Memorial Hospital, the same hospital where John F. Kennedy had been p.r.o.nounced dead just over three years earlier. Jack Ruby dies of cancer in Parkland Memorial Hospital, the same hospital where John F. Kennedy had been p.r.o.nounced dead just over three years earlier.

6 Sam Giancana executed in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his home in Chicago, shot once in the back of the head, then six more times in the face. At the time of his death he was scheduled to testify before a Senate Committee investigating the possibility of collusion between CIA and the Mafia in the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination. Sam Giancana executed in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his home in Chicago, shot once in the back of the head, then six more times in the face. At the time of his death he was scheduled to testify before a Senate Committee investigating the possibility of collusion between CIA and the Mafia in the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination.

7 John Warnock Hinckley Jr. attempts to a.s.sa.s.sinate Ronald Reagan as the president leaves the Was.h.i.+ngton Hilton Hotel. Hinkley claimed to have shot the president in order to make himself as famous as Jodie Foster, with whom he was obsessed. At his trial, he was found not guilty by reason of insanity. John Warnock Hinckley Jr. attempts to a.s.sa.s.sinate Ronald Reagan as the president leaves the Was.h.i.+ngton Hilton Hotel. Hinkley claimed to have shot the president in order to make himself as famous as Jodie Foster, with whom he was obsessed. At his trial, he was found not guilty by reason of insanity.

Operation Mongoose

There were six people in the hold of the C-47 idling on the runway of the Retalhuleu base in Guatemala: Robertson, Sturgis, and he himself, plus two Cuban exiles who'd originally trained to be part of the Bay of Pigs, as well as a more recent defector with the unwieldy name of Don Gutierrez Rave de Mendez y Sotomayor.

Six people and one box of cigars.

Melchior-not his real name, but the most convenient one available to us-looked down at the box of cigars. He held it in his lap like a sleeping infant, delicately and firmly at the same time. Not wanting to disturb it, yet not wanting to drop it, either. He knew the cigars had something to do with the plan, but only Don Gutierrez Rave de Mendez y Sotomayor understood their exact purpose, which he refused to divulge until the team was on the ground. If that didn't tell you what kind of a.s.shole he was-not to mention how badly this mission had been planned-then there was his unbearable cologne, which filled up the cabin with the stink of chemical roses, or the fact that Gutierrez Rave de Mendez y Sotomayor was just his surname and that he insisted it be used in full whenever someone spoke to him. In Melchior's experience, no one in the Spanish-speaking world could match the effete sn.o.bbery of a Cuban hacendado hacendado. The castellanos castellanos of Mexico came close, and high-born Argentinos were about as palatable as pig s.h.i.+t. But the sugar of Mexico came close, and high-born Argentinos were about as palatable as pig s.h.i.+t. But the sugar patrons patrons of Cuba were the last people in the Western hemisphere to profess an unabashed belief in the inst.i.tution of slavery-which belief had only become that much more entrenched since the slaves had driven them from their country. of Cuba were the last people in the Western hemisphere to profess an unabashed belief in the inst.i.tution of slavery-which belief had only become that much more entrenched since the slaves had driven them from their country.

Just before they took off, JM/WAVE radioed from Miami with the news that the plan had been code-named Operation Mongoose. The fact that Ted Shackley was willing to break air silence for such a trivial piece of information-the fact that Shackley had been made a station chief at all-was one more indication of the Company's sad state of affairs under the new president, who had recently let slip, in the G.o.dd.a.m.ned New York Times New York Times, of all places, that he wanted to "to scatter the CIA to the four winds-to break it into a thousand pieces," The ironic thing was, Melchior thought as he looked around the ragtag crew gathered in the C-47, the Company seemed to be doing a pretty good job of scattering itself.

Take Robertson for example. A plump pink specimen of American manhood with a ziggurat of Spam cans squeezed between his thick thighs. Here was a guy for whom eighth-grade arithmetic had clearly been an issue, let alone the implications of the Monroe Doctrine in the second half of the twentieth century. Now he was part of a team tasked with killing the most paranoid leader this side of the Atlantic-which fact he wasn't going to find out until after he'd parachuted onto Cuban soil. Even before the plane rattled down the runway and heaved its belly into the air, Robertson had popped the top on the first can of Spam, and for a long time the only sound in the hold was the rumble of the engines and the softer smack of his cud. Then: "So, uh, who's the mongoose?"

On the opposite bench, Sturgis started at the sound of Robertson's drawly voice. He was one of those twitchy fellows. Not scared. Just eager for the killing to start. He took a pull from the mysteriously full pint of whiskey he'd been nursing since Melchior had arrived that morning, then said, "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

Robertson spooned a gelatinous pink mound into his mouth. "I mean"-he pushed half-chewed meat into the pockets of his jowly cheeks-"is the mongoose Castro, or is the mongoose the Company?"

"Rip, you're a f.u.c.king idiot." Sturgis took another pull. "Of course course the Company is the mongoose. The mongoose always kills the cobra. That's the only reason you've ever the Company is the mongoose. The mongoose always kills the cobra. That's the only reason you've ever heard heard of mongeese." of mongeese."

Mongeese, Melchior thought. Meat you can eat with a spoon. If Castro needed any propaganda to support his revolution, all he had to do was broadcast footage of these two paragons of capitalism.

"Cobra?" Robertson was apparently confused by the addition of a second animal. "Who's that?"

"Oh my f.u.c.king G.o.d G.o.d. Castro Castro is the cobra. Now shut your f.u.c.king mouth before I shove that can of Spam down your throat." is the cobra. Now shut your f.u.c.king mouth before I shove that can of Spam down your throat."

Robertson looked at Sturgis like, Isn't that what I'm doing?

"Without opening it, you dips.h.i.+t." opening it, you dips.h.i.+t."

Sturgis took another pull from his pint, then offered it to Melchior. The gesture was diffident, as if he was more interested in whether the newcomer would take it than in trying to make an ally. The label on the pint said Johnny Walker Black, which Melchior doubted matched the contents. Still, it was bound to be better than the backyard rum that lay in their immediate future. Melchior ignored it anyway. Robertson might've been an idiot, but Sturgis had fought with Fidel Castro against Fulgencio Batista before he seemed to realized the capitalists paid better. If there was one thing Melchior hated, it was a traitor. He'd've sooner imbibed the p.i.s.s of the wh.o.r.es who worked the comfort stations outside the Retalhuleu base, and G.o.d knows what was swimming around their their guts. guts.

"I'm gonna catch some Z's." He tapped the box of cigars on his lap. "Anyone wakes me before Matanzas gets one of these up his a.s.s."

He wasn't wearing a cap, so he draped the day-old copy of the Was.h.i.+ngton Was.h.i.+ngton Post Post over his face like a veil. over his face like a veil. ALLEN WELSH DULLES RESIGNS AS HEAD OF CIA IN WAKE OF BAY OF PIGS DEBACLE ALLEN WELSH DULLES RESIGNS AS HEAD OF CIA IN WAKE OF BAY OF PIGS DEBACLE, screamed the headline. CHOICE OF FORMER HEAD OF ATOMIC ENERGY COMMISSION AS NEW DCI SUGGESTS KENNEDY SOFTENING POSITION ON CUBA CHOICE OF FORMER HEAD OF ATOMIC ENERGY COMMISSION AS NEW DCI SUGGESTS KENNEDY SOFTENING POSITION ON CUBA. A moment later he heard Sturgis chuckle, presumably after he'd finished subvocalizing the words of the headline.

"The plural of 'mongoose' is 'mongooses,'" Melchior growled beneath the paper. "f.u.c.king dips.h.i.+t."

About twenty minutes after they cleared the East Coast, the sky began to wring itself out in one of those up-and-down squalls that plague the Caribbean at the tail end of hurricane season. For the next hour and a half the six pa.s.sengers in the C-47 were bounced around like loose socks in a was.h.i.+ng machine. Melchior had snored through hurricanes, cyclones, monsoons, and every other synonym for a tropical storm you could think of, but at the first sign of turbulence, Don Gutierrez Rave de Mendez y Sotomayor pulled an ornate silver crucifix out of his s.h.i.+rt and pressed it to his lips. A sibilant stream of Spanish pa.s.sed from his mouth to the little crucified Jesus, interrupted by sharp groans whenever the plane hit a particularly big b.u.mp. Melchior'd been in bordellos with less moaning, and, what with the rattling of the ever multiplying empty Spam cans bouncing over the floor like Mexican jumping beans, it was impossible to get any sleep.

"Jesus, that's starting to get on my nerves," Robertson said, working his way to the bottom of his eighth or ninth can of Spam as he glared at the defector. "What the f.u.c.k's he saying anyway?"

One of the Cuban exiles glared at him, but the other said, "He is praying for his safety, for our safety, for the safety and success of this mission, and for the peace and prosperity of the glorious Cuban nation and its friend and protector, the United States of America, especially its new leader, the Catholic President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, may G.o.d bless and guide him in His wisdom, you redneck motherf.u.c.ker."

He said this in Spanish, and Robertson just stared at him blankly.

"Jesus, that's starting to get on my nerves." He scooped up another s.c.r.o.t.u.m-sized mound of Spam, licked it off his spoon as though it were ice cream. "Hey, Donny, keep it down, will ya?"

Don Gutierrez Rave de Mendez y Sotomayor gave no sign that he heard. "En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espiritu Santo," he finished up, then kissed the crucifix, took a breath, and started in on another round. "Padre nuestro, que estas en los cielos ...,"

Across from Robertson, Sturgis was shaking his head in disbelief.

"You don't speak Spanish?"

Melchior bit back a laugh. The guy barely spoke English English.

Robertson's lower jaw hung open, exposing a mouthful of pink pulp, which, on second glance, might've actually been his tongue. "Why do I need to speak Spanish? We got the three-a them." He added more meat to his mouth. "D'you speak Spanish?" speak Spanish?"

"Of course I speak Spanish, n.u.m.b.n.u.t.s. We're going to Cuba Cuba, fer Chrissakes."

"No one told me I needed to speak Spanish. No one told me s.h.i.+t." He glanced significantly at Melchior. "Hey you. Domenico. Do you you speak Spanish?" speak Spanish?"

Melchior had learned Spanish from the housekeepers when he was a little boy, along with Latin from the Wednesday-night and Sunday-morning ma.s.ses they'd dragged him to, and French from the Cajun aunt who raised him until he was seven years old, when she came home and found her dog impaled on stakes in a pitfall in the middle of the front path.

He told none of this to Rip Robertson.

"Don't you know who he is?" Sturgis asked.

"Howard said his name was Domenico. Alvin ... "

But Sturgis was shaking his head.

"That's just a cipher. Hunt don't know his real name. Neither does Bissell, Helms, not even Allen f.u.c.king Dulles. Only one who knows is Frank Wisdom. This guy"-Sturgis nodded at Melchior, in case Robertson had forgotten who he was talking about in the litany of names-"is one of the Wise Men."

"No s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t." Robertson's whistle elicited a sharp groan from Donny, who seemed to think it emanated from the plane. "I thought they was all gone now." He studied Melchior a moment. "I'd've figured you to be older. What are you, thirty, thirty-one?"

Melchior had to give him that one. Not out loud of course, but still. He got it on the nose.

"They say the Wiz recruited them when they was kids," Sturgis explained. "Orphans, runaways, juvenile delinquents. Whatever gutter trash he could round up."

Melchior wondered what Sturgis was getting at. Or rather, he wondered if Sturgis was getting at what he thought Sturgis was getting at.

"No s.h.i.+t," Robertson said again, too busy sc.r.a.ping the bottom of his can to hear the edge in Sturgis's voice. "Well, I guess that means this mission is serious. Either that, or we're being thrown to the wolves."

Another one, right on the kisser. Melchior wondered if maybe Robertson wasn't as dumb as his eating habits. The Spam did smell curiously good after three hours of sitting around.

"So, Mr. Wise Man," Robertson said as he popped the top on his ninth or tenth can of Spam, "what's the deal with the cigars?"

Before Melchior could give the standard answer-"Need-to-know only," which is what d.i.c.k Bissell had said to him when he asked the same question thirty hours earlier-Sturgis said, "s.h.i.+t, Rip, you don't think Alvin f.u.c.king Domenico's gonna tell a couple-a ex-grunts like you and me what's going on, do you? He's a f.u.c.king Wise Man Wise Man, for Christ's sake." He took a pull off his bottle. "I mean, he was practically bred bred to be an agent." to be an agent."

Melchior noted the word. "Bred" rather than "raised." Sturgis was almost there now.

"Of course, I guess the days of the Wise Men are over." Sturgis had dropped the pretense of talking to Robertson, was looking directly at Melchior now. "I mean, what with the Wiz being out of the game and all."

"Flank Wis ..." Robertson swallowed, tried again. "Frank Wisdom retired?"

"I wouldn't say retired retired." Sturgis put his fingers on his temples, made a bzzt bzzt sound. sound.

"No s.h.i.+t." Robertson's eyes went wide, then narrowed. "Wait. You are saying he went crazy, right? Bzzt Bzzt? Shock treatments?"

Melchior heard a loud staccato, realized it was his fingers tapping dangerously hard on the box of cigars.

"The whole DDP is on the outs now," Sturgis was saying, a smirk flicking at the corner of his mouth. "It's all about Technical Services these days. Knockout drops and truth serums and every other kind of magic potion you can think of. Before you know it, the Company's gonna be able to program sleepers like Big Blue punch cards, and then I guess DDP won't need to train no garden-variety pickaninnies ..."

Melchior was just about to jump out of his seat when the plane banked sharply to the left and he had to clutch at his harness to keep from falling instead. Don Gutierrez Rave de Mendez y Sotomayor wasn't so lucky. He tumbled across the hold and smashed face-first into the far wall. His crucifix punctured his lip, and a stream of blood poured from his mouth. His murmurs, barely tolerable before, turned to wails.

"Jesus Christ, will someone shut that b.i.t.c.h up," Sturgis said. "Pablo's trying to talk."