Masquerade (36 page)

He was growing more flamboyant, and Sarah watched with an icy chill. He kept referring to the people he'd experimented on as “subjects” and “patients” and “the species.” She'd read about the MK-U
LTRA
trials in Canada. His so-called patients were
victims
. He, a medical doctor who'd taken an oath to heal, damaged innocent people permanently in the name of science! She shivered. He could do it to her, too.

She said, “I've got my memory. What do you plan to do now? Are you going to make me believe I'm Liz Sansborough again?”

He seemed to be struggling to think. Then he smiled broadly. “Actually, no. Something quite different.”

“No more drugs?”

“Chemicals will be involved, but—” The doctor stopped. He seemed confused, as if he couldn't remember what he'd been going to say. Then his gaunt face cleared. “Henrik Ibsen once wrote: ‘To wish and to will. Our worst faults are the consequence of confusing the two things.' The will is our mightiest attribute—our mental and emotional steel. Full cooperation requires one's will, and the will is, as far as the electrochemical charges of neurotransmitters are concerned, vital to maximum functioning. It is your
will
I'll use this time, your cooperation!
Your
will
. . . my genius . . . and Hughes will have all he needs to end the Carnivore and have millions to give my work!”

“If you think I'm going to cooperate, you'd better go take some of your own damn drugs, because you're crazy, Levine.”

The doctor leaned back, spread his arms wide, and beamed euphorically at her. “Ah, it's not an expectation, it's a necessity. And I promise you, Sarah, you will do exactly what we want.”

Chapter 40

In Christine Robitaille's shop, Asher Flores leaned back in his chair and threw his arms above his head. He stretched, groaned, and glared at the glowing computer screen in front of him. God, what crappy luck. He'd tried all his tricks to find a link in ten different databases between Gold Star Rent-a-Car and Langley, Hughes Bremner, or Gordon Taite. All he'd come up with so far was a crummy backache and black dots dancing before his eyes.

He grumbled under his breath. Which gave him another idea—the Carnivore's dossier. Maybe the old bastard himself had some connection to Gold Star that Asher had missed.

He called up the assassin's file, but he found nothing new . . . until the end. What a bombshell: The President of the United States had canceled the assassin's ticket! The Carnivore had been told to take his business to some other country, because the United States refused to dirty its hands playing with him!

Asher turned the situation over in his mind and decided it didn't improve his and Walker's situation. Nope. In fact, if she wasn't necessary to Hughes Bremner anymore, they were decidedly worse off. As in “terminated.”

The thought of losing Sarah disturbed Asher. She'd been on his mind ever since they'd parted that evening. It made him a little queasy to admit he actually missed her. He sighed. Neither would be alive to miss anyone if they didn't discover what that SOB Bremner was up to.

He signed off from Langley and accessed an international business data bank. There he found a profile of Gold Star. It appeared to be a huge, reputable international company, the biggest car-rental agency in the United States, with branches all over Europe and Asia. It was owned by Sterling-O'Keefe Enterprises, a colossal corporation of which even Asher had heard. He studied the screen and the long list of companies under the Sterling-O'Keefe umbrella. As he printed out the list, he rubbed his eyes. The name Sterling-O'Keefe kept clanging around in his brain, and he was wondering why.

Hughes Bremner settled back sleepily in his first-class seat, the
Washington Post
open on his chest. The gentle vibration of the great jet flying over the Atlantic was restful, lulling. Then the telephone jarred him awake.

It was his private Langley computer operator. “Sir, we've been accessed by Gordon Taite's old code. The access point's Paris, the Left Bank—”

Mentally Bremner rubbed his hands. Asher Flores!

With no show of emotion he told the operator, “Fine work, Ryan. Send the location to the Languedoc immediately.” His people in Paris already had their instructions. “And Ryan, keep watching for anything more from over there.”

He'd barely hung up and settled back to savor the news when his phone rang again. It was a patch-through from Paris—one of Allan Levine's assistants on a scrambled line: “Sir! The doctor wanted you to know we've got Sarah Walker. He expects to get her cooperation and begin her new program immediately!”

Bremner grinned a cold, wolfish grin. He had her. The key to M
ASQUERADE
. Now the success of both M
ASQUERADE
and G
RANDEUR
was assured. He kept his voice low, cool. “Tell the doctor to hold her in tight confinement. We can't be too careful.”

“Yessir,” the assistant said happily, “but, ah, there's been a slight problem.”

Bremner frowned. The doctor had learned something from their years together. He'd no doubt told the assistant to relay
the good news first, soften him up, so he wouldn't be as angry about the bad. “What's happened?”

“We found two of the masseuses going through the MK-U
LTRA
files. We could see no other solution than to eliminate them.”

That irritated Bremner. He'd told Levine to hire only those who'd proved their curiosity could be bought. Instead the stupid idealist had gone his own way and hired for expertise. As soon as he arrived in Paris, Bremner would get rid of all the non-pros on Levine's staff.

He hung up and sat for a time, his anger smoldering. He hated incompetence. Then he forced himself to relax. He looked out the window as twilight spread lavender and black across the darkening ocean. Success was his. Triumph warmed him. He had Sarah Walker, and soon he'd have Asher Flores, too. Smiling broadly, he picked up his private phone once more. This time he dialed G
RANDEUR'S
financial coordinator, Kit Crowther.

Asher Flores's joints ached. He stood and stretched. He picked up the
Herald Tribune
and strolled through the computer shop. Christine Robitaille was nowhere in sight. Her sales assistant was involved with a group of teen clients.

Outside, Asher looked up and down the dark Paris street. Then he leaned back against the shop and, under the overhead lights, opened his newspaper. At the back of the news section he came across a little two-paragraph story:

Former U.S. intelligence official Lucas Maynard was killed yesterday by federal agents outside the U.S. State department. According to authorities, Maynard had been trying to escape with a kilo of cocaine hidden in a shopping bag. . . .

Asher couldn't believe it. Maynard had been many things, but a drug pusher? He was a true-blue, dedicated member of the old cold warriors. One of Hughes Bremner's deputies and
closest associates. Maynard was the kind of gung-ho guy who'd work until he dropped or some retirement administrator had to kick his ass out the door. A pusher? No way.

Unless Maynard had been on an operation and the “federal agents” had made a terrible mistake.

Asher didn't believe that either. If Lucas Maynard was dead, who'd
really
killed him? And why?

Asher returned to the computer store and knocked on the door labeled
OFFICE
.

Christine Robitaille called,
“Entrez!”

He stepped inside. “You remember Lucas Maynard?”

She stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “I saw the item. Killed. He was a bad man to deal in drugs.” She studied his face. “You do not believe it, eh? Listen to me, Asher,
mon cher
. The ‘good' do evil for all the best reasons. Most often, so they can think they are still good.” She shrugged and lit another cigarette.

He wanted to ask what she knew about Hughes Bremner. It would be a relief to tell her what had happened because he had helped Sarah Walker and because Bremner now was out to get them. But he didn't. It was unnecessary. He said good-bye. Her steely face was philosophical as she smoked like a diesel over her piles of papers and wished him
bon voyage
.

In the remote Virginia cabin Bunny Bremner refused to look again at the old iron bed where poor Marilyn lay. Because Marilyn was unconscious and unable to move, the two men hadn't bothered to tie her again, although bloodstained clothesline waited at each of the iron posters. The journalist was seminude, shivering in the night. Cuts and bruises covered her. Bunny decided Marilyn must have been lying in her own vomit and excrement. If she had no fever yet, she soon would. If she got no medical attention, she could die.

In her mind, Bunny could still see Marilyn's lovely heart-shaped face. Now it had swollen almost beyond recognition. For a beautiful woman, there was no worse punishment. Except growing old with a man who despised her.

Bunny sat tied to a straight-backed kitchen chair. The ropes cut into her wrists and ankles. She gritted her teeth and willed herself, the descendant of John Howland of the
Mayflower
, to not shame him and all her other illustrious forebears. She remembered the last time she'd felt physical pain. That was when she'd still ridden. A high-spirited Arabian of impeccable bloodlines had thrown her, breaking her arm. She'd driven to the village hospital, had the arm set, driven home, remounted the stallion, and finished the ride.

She tried to grasp what was happening. All her life she'd lived in the safety of family and name. Only deviant freaks could have done such evil as she saw here. She had no training to deal with depravity.

The one named Sid opened her wallet. “Jesus Christ. Mrs. Bremner, what's your husband's name?” Fear radiated from him like heat from an open fire.

She saw his fear and made her voice severe. “Hughes Bremner. He'll see you go to prison for the way you've mistreated Ms. Michaels and me. It would be wise to release us. Ms. Michaels needs medical treatment. If she dies, you'll be convicted of murder.”

Sid and his partner went outside, and through the kitchen window she watched them. She could hear enough to know they were arguing about whether to call Hughes. They knew Hughes?

She couldn't follow the logic farther. A connection among these two heinous creatures, Hughes, and the CIA was unthinkable. She wanted a drink. Scotch straight up. A double. But she fought the terrible desire. She had to find a way to help Marilyn . . . and herself.

As Hughes Bremner ate his dinner in the luxurious first-class lounge, Sid Williams called to give him the news that not only did they have Leslee Pousho, they also had his wife, Bunny Bremner.

He was actually speechless. What in hell did Bunny think she was doing? The stupid, drunken bitch! He had no choice
but to get rid of her, he knew that instantly, and yet he still felt that old invisible bond. She'd been the future of his youthful fantasies. He'd been different then, an idealist who'd fawned over his wife. But reality intervened when Bunny had betrayed him, and his government had betrayed him. For an odd instant he had the feeling he'd always known both would.

He'd expected never to see her again. After Monday, with the fulfillment of his Faustian aspirations, he would disappear, and he'd relished the image of Bunny left abandoned in the Virginia manor that was far more important to her than he'd ever been. He'd planned for her to grow decrepit alone, knowing she'd been discarded, no longer wanted even for her money.

But not now. Now she'd have to die.

He asked Sid, “Do you have any Scotch?”

“Not here, boss.”

“Go buy a couple of bottles. Give Bunny all she wants. Then get ready to burn down the cabin with the two women in it. Make it look like an accident. Old wiring, whatever you can find. Do it tomorrow morning. If the Xeroxes of Lucas's papers haven't appeared by then, Pousho never made any.”

“It's fire season, boss. The mountains are real dry.”

“I know.” A gaudy sendoff for the alcoholic old shrew. She was a useless artifact from a dead dream.

In the cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Bunny Bremner remained gagged and tied to the kitchen chair. She'd offered the men a million dollars if they'd release her and Marilyn. The tall one, Fess, had been tempted, but Sid had gagged her.

The men went outside, and she heard one of them talking on what had to be a cellular phone. Then the Volvo drove away. The leader, Sid, came back in, and Bunny watched him play solitaire, drink coffee, and fiddle with the radio. Marilyn moaned from the bed. He'd thrown a blanket over her, but now she was running a fever. Her battered, swollen face was crimson and twisted with pain.

The Volvo returned, and Fess carried in three bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

Bunny couldn't help staring. They noticed and exchanged cold smiles.

“Take off her gag.” At the kitchen table, Sid opened a bottle. “Drag her chair over here and untie her hands.”

The sweet smell of Scotch was intoxicating. Automatically she reached for the bottle. Then she stopped. She looked up at the two men. “How did you know?”

“A little bird told us. Come on, drink up.”

She remembered the telephone call. “You talked to Hughes. You work for Hughes.”

Sid considered the question. “Yeah, he's my boss.”

“You're going to kill us, aren't you?”

Fess said, “I guess he don't like you anymore.”

“He's never liked me,” she snapped. “He likes my money. But why kill me now? And Marilyn?”

Sid sat at the kitchen table and pushed the open bottle to her. “I don't know, Mrs. Bremner. We've just got our orders, that's all. He's been my boss a long time, and he's taken real good care of me.”

Bunny studied their expressionless faces. Two public employees who, on her husband's orders, planned to kill her. Her husband, the man she'd slept with and wept over for decades, had ordered these degenerates to murder her.