Borderless Deceit (18 page)

And now, once more, he resorted to self-counsel. Each rapid pulse of breath brought more advice.
Irv! Irv! Irv! Do nothing rash, Irv! Turn feelings off, Irv! Mobilize determination, Irv! Elevate yourself, Irv! Above all, Irv, observe the challenge from up high, not from the bottom up. Irv!…Irv!…

Try breathing slower, Irv.

It worked. It always did. He really was quite proud of it.

He began again, this time resorting to analysis. What were the possibilities? What roles were available to Carson? Was he a Brutus, a monstrous betrayer? Or had he really simply missed an obnoxious play
by the Yanks? Carson
could
be past his prime; he
could
be losing his edge. It happened sometimes – Heywood had seen the shift, even with the gifted – the slow drift to ineptness, the inner fire going out, vigour draining away, brain activity slowing, voices once strong in the heat of confrontation now sounding weak. Had that happened to Carson? Had there been signs of such a change? Was he on his way to joining the other have-been watchers? Not really. Carson remained ramrod, arrogant and insolent as always. There was no softening, no mellowing, no neo-Samaritan charity for his associates. No, Carson hadn't changed. He was the same pus-filled boil as always. But if he was on top of things, he should – he
must
– have known what was going on. Why hide the information? Why silence on the pipeline? Why a zero contribution to figuring out the plague? How twisted was his game?

Suspicion upon suspicion. It made the Czar recall other files chronicling the fallen, the Service members gone astray. He could rhyme off the quiet mutinies, the cases of information being ingeniously supplied to enemies, the hidden paths of perfidy – in short, the Judas factor. The world is big and there is much temptation. One learns to expect a certain quota. The process of combing them out of the Service's global whirl had its rhythms. A close study of the files, the Czar concluded long ago, allowed a trained eye to spot the signs early on. So dwell on Carson for a minute. Did Carson possess the Judas factor? He had always behaved so weirdly distant. Yes, if you thought about it, Carson wasn't beyond sucking blood out of his colleagues, sucking when they least suspected it, then hammering them when their guard was down. It had to be this way. Sly Carson was a traitor.

Heywood, with a new wave of fury, rushed out of the High Council chamber. Fellow occupants in the descending elevator noted the Czar's jaw behind soft folds of skin was set rock hard. In the foyer, beneath the flags, others saw a great wave of flesh rushing forward and Alphonse, guarding Operations Tower, sensed from a seismic tremor in the earth that the Czar was approaching. Bracing himself, he yanked the door open. By the time Heywood arrived at Jaime's lab he was out of breath and panting.

“Irv!” she said, opening her door. “Hey, man, what a long tongue you've got.”

Truth in the Service has a quaint definition. Truth requires contest. Truth is what's left standing when a round of blood sport has run its course.

The sight of Heywood so obviously out of temper speeding back to Operations Tower was taken as proof by the rank and file that once again the High Council meeting had been a slugfest. When an hour later the American report –
SECRET
stamped on every page – escaped into the open, no one denied that especially heavy blows must have landed. And once the report was read no one had any doubt about who was the loser. Obviously, the Czar got pummelled. He likely got hit so hard he'd gone down to the canvas, out for the count. Service truth thus established, word of it spread like wildfire.

Heard the latest about Heywood?

Man, yeah. That must have been some beating
.

He was ordered, you know, to go to Vienna to chase phantoms
.

That's right. And after that I hear he's off to Zurich – to desecrate the body of a dead man
.

What shape would truth have taken had Claire Desmarais at the end of the High Council session given the report directly to Heywood as he asked? Suppose she hadn't decided that a copy was to be made for delivery to Service Operations. Because, predictably, once that copy left her office, somewhere along the way a second one was quickly taken.
And by the time the text arrived in Heywood's pit of stacked and aging papers, the Service complex was teeming with copies – copies of copies of copies. The rabble stood in line to run them off. There were jokes and there was glee, as if a public ritual killing had been staged.

Did the report's style contribute to the carnival atmosphere?
It can be deduced that fixed into the meta-instructional layers of the target communications network were pathways…
Or was there happiness because the report proved that our friends to the south had finally accorded us some sustained attention? Or was it delight at the Service techies – Heywood's cast of leviathans – having finally been confronted with an endgame to the years of their comeuppance?

A vague answer emerged in the cafeteria. Someone there had taken a fork and spoon, attached one to the other as a cross, and laid it by the windows. A cardboard sign beside it read:
Radu Corioanu – In Memoriam Gratuitam
. The sun's spring rays illuminated it. Judging from the many empty white styrofoam cups, hastily covered with pen drawings of flowers, spreading around it like wreaths, the best explanation for all the Service joy was this:
St. Radu – Czar slayer
.

Anne-Marie and I were having lunch that day. Carrying our food trays we walked past the make-shift cross and the irreverent epitaph. “Do you know what that's about?” she asked when we settled at a quiet table. I answered it was my guess it had to do with the leaked report.

Weeks had passed since I made my contribution to it and a distance had set in, as if the report had nothing to do with me, that I'd had no hand in framing it. It being out of mind, I said no more to Anne-Marie. Instead I asked how her family was. She told me stories of children tumbling down stairways, babysitters cancelling out at the last moment, and her own hilarious
faux pas
at community meetings to which she liked to accompany her politically ambitious husband.

Anne-Marie's return from parental leave had changed the texture of my weeks. I looked forward to the days when we nibbled on sandwiches and chatted freely. There was one unspoken rule – no talking shop – so for me it was mostly being carried off into the world of Anne-Marie's normality. What a boisterous household she had! Four children, a dog, two cats, many babysitters, a husband running for city
council. With all that you'd think she would be brutalized by a lack of rest and have nerves steadily unravelling. But no. Anne-Marie absorbed the cacophony around her, dampened it and created tranquility. She also had a knack for unshackling people, drawing them out and letting them be themselves – at least, that's how it was for me. Time spent with her was time spent being less ingrown and whenever the hour was up, in saying
Thanks for the company, Anne-Marie. I enjoyed it
. I was superficially stating that, for a while, I had experienced real bliss.

This time too she had deadpan stories of domesticity out of control. I laughed. I could feel the chaos. She inquired into my weekends, wanting to know if I was still out on the cross-country ski trails. Oh yes. The spring conditions were the best in years. As I described perfect, blue skies merging with brilliant white snow, and while she sipped her tea, I sensed she was looking past me towards the area where the styrofoam flowers were gathering. The impromptu cross was having an impact on her, because her expression darkened. “Can I ask you something, Carson?” Anne-Marie put down her tea cup. “This report on the virus which everyone thinks is so funny, it says the guy who did it was Romanian.”

“I read that too.”

“Do you know anything more? I mean, behind the scenes, has this plague stuff come up?”

I squeezed my lips and shook my head. Denial. Always denial. A reflex. Another day and one more reason for self-contempt. Anne-Marie was a friend; she had a right to honesty from me, yet I was incapable of it.

She read something. “The spook world, right? Sworn to secrecy.” I stared blankly. “The reason I ask, Carson, is that this virus – coming from Romania – it made me think of Rachel.”

“It happened in Vienna,” I said quickly. “It's in the report. That's where the immigration visa was denied. That was the cause. Bucharest isn't mentioned”

“Are you sure? The last thing she needs is the inquisition creeps crawling all over her embassy.”

“They'll concentrate on Vienna. No place else makes sense. Where the virus was sent from isn't important. It could have been done
anywhere. Why it was done, that's what they'll concentrate on, and the cause of the grudge is in Vienna. Anyway, the guy who did it is dead now, so there isn't much to go after in Vienna either. Nowhere really. They'll probably soon drop the whole thing.”

“I hope they leave Rachel alone. She's not well. I can sense it. I don't think she could cope with an investigation. Even with ambassadors those guys get ugly.”

When I insisted that she needn't worry, she shrugged. I then asked, “How do you mean Rachel isn't well?”

Anne-Marie's eyes locked on mine, searching for something. What might she be seeing? Hypocrisy? Mendacity? She took her time, then she said softly, “Rachel is not herself. She hasn't been for a long time. Something's hanging over her. I called her a few days ago. She sounded moody, but wouldn't say why.”

Rachel was running her embassy competently. The finances were in order. Her management of the programs was exemplary. And she was busy with diplomacy: calls on important Romanians, lectures at universities, formal openings of cultural events, lunches and receptions, big dinners in her residence for high-ranking visitors. Why would she be dispirited? I doubted it was her assignment in Romania. I thought of her photo in the papers. The change came before she was named ambassador. What could have happened? I wasn't sure. But Anne-Marie was Rachel's confidante. She would have insights from which I was barred. “How long do you think it's been this way?” I inquired.

“I'd say it began after you went to see her in Berlin.” A sadness tinged Anne-Marie's voice. “I wondered at the time, I still do, whether something happened there that neither of you wants to recognize.”

“Anne-Marie!” My thoughts began spinning. “Nothing happened in Berlin. It was no different there than ten years ago here. Rachel and I had wonderful conversations. She told me about her work. We talked about you and your lovely family. We did sightseeing together.”

“Maybe that was the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Carson.”

What could she be alluding to? The three days with Rachel in Berlin came not long after she ended her affair with Nikko Krause. The liaison with Abou-Ghazi began some months later. An in-between time
for her. A unique experience for me. Long walks through a city more fascinating than I had thought possible. Under her direction my senses zeroed in on special places. She pointed out where the history of our times swept through Berlin and remains on view today, suspended from the façades of buildings. I felt stimulated there. Was it Berlin? Was it Rachel? Or both together, one enlivening the other? Whatever the reason, the experience was precious. Afterwards, whenever I thought back, those three days lived on in me and left me longing. In the evenings, alone in my apartment, needing reassurance that Berlin really did happen, I often opened the envelope containing the photo – a tourist snapshot of Rachel and me on the gangplank of a cruise ship on one of Berlin's waterways. Rachel had been radiant and even I had managed some form of a smile. In Berlin we had dedicated unstructured time to each other. But nothing happened, not between us. It had to be that way. How else could the future with Rachel remain open?

“No,” I said firmly to Anne-Marie. “There wasn't a problem. Rachel was kind to me in Berlin. She was generous with her time. She was understanding. But she has other interests. I'm sure of it.”

“Maybe you misjudge her.”

“I don't believe so. Rachel needs space. She needs freedom. She needs nothing from me. There's nothing I can give her.”

“Rachel is like all of us, Carson. She's changing. She's no longer the young recruit arranging to run into you in the hallways by chance to tease you.”

“I…Sorry, Anne-Marie…what are you driving at?”

“When we talk she always asks how you are.”

“She's being kind,” I countered. Since Rachel was assigned abroad I had seen her three times in ten years – once for a half day of skiing, once for dinner at Anne-Marie's house, and not too long ago for the three days in Berlin. I'd been through this with Anne-Marie before. Rachel and I were cordial there, as colleagues are. “If her mood has swung, if something is bothering her,” I concluded, “there's another reason. Maybe her family. An illness. Something like that.”

Anne-Marie shook her head. “If it was about Oak Lake, she'd say so. She's long past that anyway.”

Again I was puzzled. “Past what?”

Anne-Marie didn't answer. Her pose of disbelief seemed to be saying that it couldn't be true that I had never asked Rachel to tell me about herself, not even during three days of non-stop talking in Berlin.

“Maybe I should know,” I said, “but I don't. Past what? What do you mean?”

Anne-Marie studied her tea mug. Slowly she lifted it to her lips and sipped. “All right,” she said and for the next ten minutes I listened.

It wasn't such an unusual story, but it was special because it was Rachel's. I couldn't count the hours I had spent over the years tracking Rachel's movements, yet I had no understanding of obvious things, of her upbringing, for example, and how she triumphed over it. During the few times I was with Rachel I found it impossible to ask her about herself. I feared she would look upon it as an attempt at intrusion and, as when others did this, I would promptly be consigned to her bygone days. I had come to believe that by staying distant I had a chance to remain constant. And so I knew nothing about her passive father, overbearing mother and three much-older brothers.