Psychosphere (20 page)

“Yes,” Fong whispered. “But—”

“Yes?”

“There is something…strange.”

“Go on.”

“It is Garrison,” said Fong. “I know of course that it
is
Garrison, and yet—”

“He seems a different person?”

“Yes. It is…strange, Charon.”

There was a thoughtful pause before Gubwa answered. “Another of Mr. Garrison's more mysterious aspects, Johnnie. You are not the first to note his changeability, not by any means. I will wait for your call. One last thing: do not be seen to be interested. Don't get too close.”

“Of course not.”

“I trust you above all others, Johnnie. Your rewards will be great.”

“My reward is great, Charon. I love you.”

“Until later, then.” And the Chinaman waited for the metallic
click
from the other end before he replaced the phone in its cradle…

G
OOD AS HIS WORD
, G
UBWA WAS WATCHING THROUGH
F
ONG'S EYES
when Joe and Bert Black passed through customs and emerged from the arrivals gate. They were tanned, seemed healthy enough, but their minds were patently preoccupied. They had tried to carry out a Mafia-contracted hit and had failed; their presence had been “requested” at the Big Guy's place tonight; and that would be more than sufficient to occupy or preoccupy anyone.

They spoke to each other in lowered tones, found a trolley for their luggage and made for the down-passage to the trains. But suddenly, as they reached the center of the arrivals hall, their footsteps were arrested.

Garrison had moved from his seat and was standing with his back to a pillar, his magazine held up before his face. There was no way the Blacks could know it was him, no reason why they should suspect him or anyone else to be waiting for them—but they nevertheless turned through ninety degrees, until they faced in his direction, and went up to him. And Gubwa saw that their movements had grown automatic, zombielike.

Now Garrison lowered the magazine. Gubwa might have expected the brothers to flinch, attack, almost anything—but they merely stared, their faces strangely blank. Nothing was said, no movement was apparent. For thirty seconds, maybe even a full minute, the oddly frozen tableau held. Then—

As if they had not interrupted their exit from the hall, the brothers wheeled their trolley away and disappeared round a corner. Garrison watched them go, turned and began to follow the route indicated to the car park. He paused, leaned for a moment against a tiled wall, stood upright—but shakily—and finally continued walking.

GO AFTER HIM, said Gubwa in Fong's mind. FOLLOW WHEREVER HE GOES. REPORT WHEN YOU CAN, DAY OR NIGHT. BUT DON'T LOSE HIM.

“As you wish, Charon,” the Chinaman whispered to no one, walking quickly after Garrison but keeping a good distance between himself and the man's back.

AND JOHNNIE, YOU MAY HAVE TO PROTECT HIM. I WANT HIM TO STAY ALIVE—FOR THE MOMENT, ANYWAY.

“Yes, Charon.”

Gubwa withdrew and opened his eyes. He was seated at his desk in the Castle's Command Center, a Gatwick area Ordnance Survey map spread before him. He stared at the map thoughtfully, frowned, folded it carefully and turned in his seat to replace it in its rack.

His frown grew more severe as he tried to analyze what he had just seen. If it was what he suspected, then Garrison's strength was indeed incredible. He could of course check it out, could visit the minds of the Black brothers and discover what had been done to them, but that might be dangerous. Garrison could be maintaining a mind-link. That might account for his momentary weakness as he left the arrivals area: it could be the result of his continuing use of ESP following the initial surge when he had done to them whatever he had done.

No, Gubwa couldn't risk it. For one thing he did not wish to overtax his own powers, and anyway he had other things to do, other minds to monitor. Phillip Stone's, for instance…

S
TONE'S CAR WAS PARKED ON THE HARD-STANDING OF A LAY-BY
where the road climbed to a low hill half a mile to the west of Garrison's house. Stone sat in the driver's seat, a pair of binoculars hanging round his neck. He had seen Garrison drive away towards London, had seen a gray Jaguar pick up his tail as he approached the A27, but beyond that he had not been interested. He was simply following instructions. More than that was quite beyond him.

Oh, he could perform his normal functions, could talk, eat, drink, smoke and answer the calls of nature—anything, providing he did not stray from the mental course directed by Charon Gubwa. The awful thing about it was he knew what he was doing—or what he was not doing. For one thing, he was not protecting Garrison. No, he was waiting on Gubwa's command to snatch the man's wife, or mistress, whatever she was.

For what must have been the fiftieth time, Stone looked at his car telephone. All he had to do was pick it up, get his chief on the other end, put him in the picture. Or he might try digging a tunnel to Australia. An impossibility. He could think about doing it, want desperately to do it, but actually
do
it? No way. Gubwa had seen to that. A pretty thorough laundering of Stone's mind (done with an efficiency and speed that would have left the KGB in tears), a mind-block, and just to polish things off nicely a rather comprehensive list of post-hypnotic commands. These things were Gubwa's legacy to Stone: forming a governor on his mind like the governor on a car's carburetor or accelerator, limiting his performance. And until Gubwa's ends were served—until the albino had Vicki Maler to use as he would in the Castle—Stone would simply have to obey.

QUITE CORRECT, MR. STONE, said a voice in his mind, so clear and close that he jerked his head round, fully expecting to see the hermaphrodite standing there, just outside the open door of the car. NO, NO, said the voice, amused, YOU CAN'T SEE ME, MERELY “HEAR” ME—AND OBEY ME, OF COURSE.

Stone swallowed hard, took a sip of coffee from the plastic lid of his thermos flask, thought:
What now, Gubwa?

JUST CHECKING. WHEN IT GETS DARK I WANT YOU TO GO TO THE HOUSE. THERE YOU WILL KEEP OUT OF SIGHT AND AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS. THERE IS A POSSIBILITY THAT YOU MIGHT HAVE TO PROTECT THE OCCUPANTS. THERE ARE OTHERS WHO SEEK TO BRING GARRISON DOWN. I CAN'T WATCH EVERYONE AND I DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING, BUT—

But it only seems that way?
Stone's thoughts were sarcastic.

YOU FLATTER ME—Gubwa ignored them—BUT I DON'T WANT THE MALER WOMAN HARMED IN ANY WAY. I'LL BE IN TOUCH. And he withdrew.

Left on his own, Stone was suddenly cold. The sun wasn't down yet, the evening was warm, and yet he was cold as…(he grinned mirthlessly) stone cold. It had finally dawned on him that Gubwa could do it. Mad he might or might not be, but he could actually do it. He
could
conquer the world. He
could
become Emperor of Earth. He
could
refashion men in his own image. And here was Phillip Stone—hard-man with fists of steel, secret agent with all the resources of MIs 5 and 6 to back him up—and helpless as a newborn babe.

He finished his coffee, smoked a cigarette, waited. As night began to fall, he locked the doors of his car and started off towards the house…

T
HE
L
ONDON
M
AFIA SAT IN EXTRAORDINARY MEETING
. The Big Guy's “usual offices” were in a city center office block, on the tenth and top floor. The largest room, overlooking a busy London street, was the venue. There, about a table similar to the one at which another group had recently discussed Richard Garrison, was gathered The Coven, the Cosa Nostra's thirteen foremost London-based men.

At the head of the table sat the Big Guy, Joseph Maestro—a bullnecked, scar-nosed, hulking thug whose ugly, swarthy features and blocky frame seemed hugely incongruous with the immaculate cut of his suit—and from there down to the foot of the table sat his lieutenants in descending order of importance. Towards the foot sat Carlo Vicenti, quite clearly showing signs of wear and tear. One sleeve of his jacket hung loose; his arm was bandaged across his chest. One hand was swathed in bandages. His face showed severe bruising.

The meeting had been in session for a little over half an hour and it was now just after 9:00
P.M.
Several minor items had already come up for discussion, clearing the way for the big one, but now it was Garrison's turn. The Big Guy had started it off and he was now almost through speaking.

“…So it really would seem that this guy has an unbeatable gambling system. Hey!—not just one system but a system for every game. Now I don't have to tell you guys what that means…but I will 'cos I know a lot of you can't see past your fucking noses. If Garrison's methods get loose—if he lets this big cat out of the bag—in no time at all ten thousand Garrisons will be hitting our tables and machines and clubs. And a high percentage of our backing comes out of those clubs…

“On the other hand, if he tells
us
how he does it…well, there's a lot of clubs still belong to other people, yeah? So, that's why we're bringing the guy in. Hey!—and anybody who doubts how good he is only has to ask Mr. Vicenti down there how he lost his personal share in the Ace of Clubs, and I'm sure Carlo will oblige. And not only money, Carlo lost a lot of face. We don't like that, none of us.

“What it boils down to is this guy Garrison's a menace, but when we've finished with him and picked his brains a little he'll be a very thirsty menace—which is fine 'cos we figure to fix him up with a great big drink. Hey!—you think he can drink the river dry? Ha!”

“When?” Vicenti asked, his tone surly. “When are we bringing him in, Joe?” (Nobody called the Big Guy Joseph.) “See, I have a big interest in this bastard!”

“Yeah, yeah, we know. Stay cool, Carlo. Like I said before, he's yours when we're through with him. But being a democratic organization—and technically this being a hit, which it will be eventually—we need a vote. Ain't that why we're all here tonight? Sure! So, let's see a show of hands that we bring in this Garrison, that we get him to tell us his story, and then that we fit him up with concrete boots.”

Along with Maestro's hand, eleven others were swiftly raised, Vicenti's more slowly and with a deal more effort. They were still in the air when the doors crashed open to admit Joe and Bert Black. Joe carried a levelled automatic, Bert's arm's cradled a folded-down Sterling sub-machine-gun.

“Now get the other arms up!” Joe's voice was cold.

“Up!” ordered Bert, the snout of his machine-gun moving to cover the entire meeting. All eyes were on that weapon, and all present knew Bert's reputation. The muzzle of the Sterling seemed to flare like some single obscene nostril in the face of a mythical beast. Before that beast could snarl they raised their other arms.

All except Carlo Vicenti. He pushed his chair back, made to stand. “You guys nuts?” he yelled. He mistakenly thought that they were here to pre-empt reprisals. “You come busting in here like…shit, you were
invited!
So you missed your hit, so what? It works out right. We want Garrison alive. We have no grudge with you guys.”

While he talked Joe and Bert had moved to flank him; they pushed him down in his chair as he struggled to rise. Then, without another word—even as Vicenti continued to rage—Joe Black put away his pistol, took out a cut-throat razor, yanked back the suddenly shrieking man's head and slit his throat ear to ear.

Vicenti coughed, choked, made noises. The sounds issued from his gaping wound, not his gaping mouth; and a moment later, along with the sounds, blood in a crimson gush. Bert and Joe stepped back from him. He floundered in his chair, rose, sat, sprayed blood, clawed at his throat. He was drenched scarlet. He flopped facedown on the table, arms flailing. He slid off the table, leaving a spreading pool of blood.

While Vicenti died the Black brothers moved to the large casement windows. Now every living bulging eye in the room turned from Vicenti's body to them. The Big Guy and his colleagues were on their feet, arms raised high. Maestro tried to speak but choked on the words.

“Compliments of Richard Garrison,” said Joe, and for the first time the remaining occupants of the room noticed how vacant the faces of the assassins seemed. “And a warning, in case anyone else wants to try it on. This is to show you what he can do…” And the brothers turned on their heels and hurled themselves headlong through the closed windows, taking weapons, shattered glass and their spent lives with them.

For a moment no one moved, then there was a concerted rush for the door.

“
Hold it!
” Maestro found his voice as cries of horror began to float up from the street below. “Hold it right there. This place will be thick with filth in less time than it takes us to get out. And why should we run, eh? We're innocent bystanders, ain't we? If the Blacks want to cool Carlo and then jump, that's their business. As for us, we all tell the same story, okay?”

They all began to babble at once but Maestro held up his arms. Quick thinking was his forte. “
Listen
, for fuck's sake! We ain't carrying heaters, are we? The only prints on those guns down there are theirs, the Blacks! All we do is leave Garrison's name out. The rest of it we tell like we saw it. Shit, how should we know what was going down between Carlo and the brothers, eh?”

The rest of them looked at each other, nodded, began to relax. “Okay,” Maestro continued, “so get your minds tidied up. Hell, we've seen worse than this.”

As they began to gather into small groups and mull over what they had seen, the Big Guy called over Ramon de Medici and quickly took him to one side. “Ramon,” he kept his voice low, “what you told me earlier—about Carlo being sure it was Garrison beat him up—that was straight-up stuff?”