Shadow of a Broken Man (12 page)

"What kind of books?"

"Oh, they were mostly medical books with long titles. But there was one book he used a lot. It had a single-word title: Psychology-something, or something-Psychology. Yes. It had a P in front of it."

"Psychology has a P in front of it," I prompted.

"No, this was a longer word with a P in front of it." She strained to remember, then shook her head in resignation. "Anyway, Arthur spent hours on end with those books."

"He never said why?"

"No. But it was almost as if he were ...
studying.
I think he was trying to understand something."

I watched Mrs. Vahanian. The pain of memory moved back and forth across her green eyes in waves. "Tell me about the night he was murdered, if you will, Mrs. Vahanian."

She trembled slightly, then set her drink down beside mine. "I'm afraid there isn't much to tell," she said distantly. "Arthur was so disturbed by . . . all this. In the middle of the night he simply decided he wanted to go to his office."

"Could a meeting have been arranged for that hour?"

"I can't see how. Arthur hadn't set his alarm; he just woke up. It must have been around two thirty. I woke up and asked him what he was doing. He said he couldn't sleep and wanted to go down to his office. That was the last time I saw him alive."

She looked shaky. I took her elbow and guided her into one of the chairs. "We know he was killed in his office," I said gently. "Someone must have been there when he arrived. He surprised them, and he was killed. The police report said nothing was taken from the office. Is that true?"

"I really have no way of knowing. I was cooperating with the police, but they just seemed to lose interest at some point along the way. One day they simply stopped asking questions. I called them a few times, but all they would say was that they were working on it."

"Did anyone else come to see you besides the police?"

"Yes. A Mr.... I can't remember his name. A strange man. It was summer, but he was wearing a heavy overcoat. He was always shivering. He said he was from some government agency, but I don't remember which one."

I set my drink down and straightened up in the chair. "About when was this, Mrs. Vahanian?"

"It was August; the second or third week in August, but I can't be sure. That was 1969."

"What did this man want?"

She pursed her lips. "He said the government had an interest in the case and he wanted to ask me some questions about Arthur's work."

"Did he ask specifically about Victor Rafferty?"

"Only once. He seemed more interested in how much Arthur talked to me about his various patients. I told him what I told you: Arthur didn't discuss his work at home. Then he asked me about Victor."

Lippitt had been touching all the bases, I thought; he'd been retracing steps, determining who knew what about Victor Rafferty.

"The house was broken into a few days after the murder," Mrs. Vahanian added. "Did I mention that?"

"No, I don't think you did." And there'd been no mention of it in the police report.

"The only thing they took was a file Arthur had kept at home on Victor. I reported that to the police, but..."

Her voice trailed off. She sat in silence for a few minutes, then abruptly stood up, once again in control of herself. She looked at me hard. "It would give me a great deal of satisfaction to see Arthur's killers finally brought to justice,

Mr. Frederickson. I'm happily married now, and, frankly, I'm closer to Khalil—my husband—than I ever was to Arthur. But Arthur didn't deserve to die like that."

"I agree, Mrs. Vahanian."

"I don't know whether this has anything to do with the matter, but Victor was drinking a great deal after the accident. It wasn't like him. I saw him once or twice after the accident and he always smelled like a brewery. It was strange, though: he never seemed to be
drunk.
Even his eyes didn't show it. The only way you could tell he'd been drinking was by smelling his breath. I believe he took to carrying a flask with him." Her eyes went out of focus again and her voice became distant. "Poor Victor. He must have been in a great deal of pain."

"Did you know Mrs. Rafferty?"

"Yes. We weren't really friends, but we occasionally saw each other socially."

"What was her reaction to the first accident?"

Marianne Vahanian cleared her throat. "I'll be frank with you: Victor and Elizabeth didn't have a particularly happy marriage. Which is not to say that they didn't love each other; but it's difficult being married to a man of genius. I know. Their work is always their first love. Victor was like that. Anyway, it became even worse after the accident. Elizabeth became increasingly upset—and aloof. She gradually stopped seeing her friends. I tried to contact her a few times, but she didn't seem to want to talk to anyone. In fact, she didn't even come to Arthur's funeral. I haven't seen or talked to her since. I don't even know if she's still in the area."

"You've been very helpful, Mrs. Vahanian," I said. "Is there anything else? Anything at all, no matter how small?"

She gazed down into the depths of her glass, finally shook her head. "I don't think so," she said carefully. "It all seems so ...
long
ago."

"I understand."

"There are some books up in the attic," she said. "They were all packed in boxes when we moved, and we've never gotten around to unpacking them. Many of the books were Arthur's. I have no idea what's there, but you're welcome to rummage around if you don't mind getting sweaty and dirty."

I told her I didn't mind getting sweaty and dirty.

Mrs. Vahanian guided me through the cathedral-like house to the second floor, then up a drop ladder to the attic. She pointed to a section filled with packing crates and cardboard boxes, then returned to the cool, air-conditioned world below while I waded through the sea of heat surrounding the boxes.

I wasn't at all sure exactly what I was looking for, and there was always the risk that I'd miss something important just because it had a fifteen-word title. After opening two boxes I estimated that there were more than two thousand books to examine—everything from gothic romances to barely decipherable tomes on brain surgery. Still, I knew I had to make the effort.

Mrs. Vahanian appeared a half hour later with a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade and a towel. I needed both. She looked at the books a little sadly, then left. I wrapped the towel around my neck to absorb the dripping perspiration and went back to work. After an hour I'd worked myself into such a rhythm that I almost missed what I'd been looking for. A large book, bound in black leather, carried the title
Parapsychology: An Inquiry and Overview.
It filled the bill for a book on psychology with a P in front of it.

I opened the volume and scanned the title page. The first thing that struck me was that this book was qualitatively different from the other medical texts, since it seemed written for the sophisticated layman. It was also massively comprehensive, covering a wide range of topics under the general heading of Extrasensory Perception. There were sections on everything from mental telepathy to occult spirit guides, with additional sections on tarot cards and the use of hallucinogens to alter perception.

It was hard to tell what part of the book Morton had been interested in, as I could see by leafing through the volume that, regrettably, he hadn't been in the habit of underlining.

I toweled off, finished the lemonade, then leaned back against one of the packing crates and began to go through the book more slowly. There was a chapter on psychic healers, from Joshua to Oral Roberts to a man known only as Esteban who could affect the growth of enzymes in glass tubes merely by holding the tubes in his hands. In a long section on Research, the Institute for Parapsychology in Durham, North Carolina, was prominently mentioned. It seemed that the Institute had been carrying on research experiments for many years and enjoyed a good reputation.

There was a chapter on dreams, and another one on telekinesis—the ability to move objects simply by willing it. The book mentioned a Russian woman who could supposedly move small objects simply by passing her hands over them, and another Russian woman reportedly able to tell the color of objects by feeling alone.

And still more: the intelligence of plants, and Kirlian photography—a process for photographing the "aura" of life energy around living things. The book ended with a section on witchcraft.

It all seemed like an odd grab bag of fact, speculation, and pure fantasia: curious reading for a neurosurgeon; perhaps not so curious for a psychologist—which could tie in with Mary Llewellyn.

Halfway through the book on my second run-through, a five-by-seven manila envelope fell out. I'd missed the envelope on the first scan because it had been compressed tightly and wedged into the binding, as though whoever put it there had wanted to make sure it wouldn't fall out. I opened the envelope and carefully spread the contents on the floor. There were a half-dozen newspaper clippings which seemed to indicate that Arthur Morton had been interested in rather specific areas of parapsychology—namely, mental telepathy and its ramifications.

I was mildly surprised to find from the clippings that a sizable number of scientists took things like Kirlian photography and telepathy seriously. It seemed the Russians were considered pioneers in the field. The Pentagon, not to be outdone, had ordered up a series of experiments of its own; most of the testing had been done at the Institute for Parapsychology in Durham.

There was also a piece of paper that was not a newspaper clipping. The paper seemed to have been folded and refolded a number of times, as if by someone who had been very nervous; the creases were worn thin.

I carefully unfolded the sheet and studied it. There were four symbols printed at the top of the paper: a square, a circle, a triangle, and a parallelogram; and beneath each symbol was a column of boxes. There were checks in some of the boxes, distributed among the four columns in what appeared to be random order. The checks in the boxes toward the bottom of the page were darker, shakier, heavier, as though the writer had been growing increasingly nervous and had been pressing harder. None of it made any sense to me.

I refolded the paper and slipped it into my pocket, then repacked the books and went downstairs, taking the book on parapsychology with me. I found Mrs. Vahanian in the kitchen, staring out a window. I thought she'd been crying, but her eyes were dry when she turned to me.

"Was your search fruitful, Mr. Frederickson?"

I showed her the book. "Is this the book you mentioned?"

She nodded. "I remember because Arthur spent so much time reading it at home. He didn't usually do that."

"Does this mean anything to you?" I asked, taking the paper out of my pocket and pressing it across the counter top.

She looked at the paper and shook her head. "Where did you find it?"

"It was wedged into the binding of this book. Did you ever see Dr. Morton writing on this kind of paper?"

"No, I can't say that I did."

"Do you mind if I keep these things for a few days?"

She shrugged. "Not if you think they'll help. Do you really think the book and paper mean anything?"

"It's hard to say, Mrs. Vahanian."

After the sodden heat of the attic, the chill of the air conditioning was threatening me with a terminal case of pneumonia. I thanked Mrs. Vahanian again and left her staring out the window.

Outside, I wedged the paper back into the binding of the book, which I put in the trunk of my car. Then I made a U-turn and headed toward the gate. I was anxious to get back to New York and begin the task of finding Mary Llewellyn.

Slowing down for the S-curve, I honked, then began to accelerate. I was halfway around the second bend of the S when the green Caddy loomed in front of me.

Somewhere along the line I'd missed a move. Or the men in the car had known where I was going all along. There was no one in the car, which meant that the two men were hiding in the bushes somewhere, probably lining me up in their gunsights at that very moment.

There was no way of getting by the car without wrapping myself around a tree, so I jammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the left; the car's rear end fish- tailed and slammed into the Cadillac, but I was turned around. I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and started back up the road.

A short, dark man in a shiny gabardine suit calmly stepped out into the road a hundred feet in front of me. He had a pipe clenched tightly between his teeth and a Sten gun braced on his hip, pointed at the windshield of the car.

There were three choices: try to run the man over and get killed; try to swerve around him and get killed; or stop and maybe live a while longer. If the man wanted to kill me, he could have done it already. I braked to a halt a few feet from where he was standing. His face was calm, almost smiling; I found his air of total self-assurance annoying as hell. Something about him struck me as being distinctly European.

He motioned with his gun for me to get out of the car. I did so slowly, tensing, waiting for some kind of opening while I looked around for his red-haired partner. But the two of them were fast and professional; I never saw or heard the second man move up behind me. There was just a sharp blow to the base of my skull, and then nothing.

    13

When I regained consciousness, I was giggling uncontrollably. I found the idea of being ambushed by two men in a green Cadillac outrageously funny. My head felt twice its normal size, pumped full of helium that was carrying me off to a Land of Oz peopled with smiling, gun-toting Europeans who lived in the glove compartments of green Cadillacs. I giggled some more.

In between my flights of hysteria, the two men—who spoke with British accents—took turns asking me what I thought were the most absurd questions about Victor Rafferty. I'd answer, then howl at the thought that anybody should be asking me questions on a subject about which I knew so little.

A few times I thought I heard my own voice talking back to me. That would be my tapes. I tried to get angry at the Englishmen for breaking into my apartment, but everything was just too funny.

I told them about the book and the piece of paper. One of the men left the room while the other went through my pockets. It tickled, and I laughed. The man with the red hair asked me about the Fosters, and I told him what I knew. I thought it was funny that they should know about the Fosters. I laughed and laughed, and finally fell asleep.

I woke up with a wicked drug hangover. My mouth was dry, raw, puckered. My head still felt twice its normal size, but now it was filled with tacks. I lay still and surveyed the room in front of me through half-closed eyes. I wanted to get some idea of the order of this particular universe before I welcomed company.

It seemed to be a moderate-sized room, rugless, with peeling yellow paper on the walls. I was lying on a convertible sofa that smelled of age and mildew. Overhead was a large chandelier that looked as if it had been imported by someone with a droll sense of humor. To my left was a rickety card table on which had been placed two tape recorders. A few feet in front of me, just above eye level, was a dirty window; I could see the tops of trees through it, which would put me on the second or third story of the building.

There were voices coming from behind me. The two men were discussing European- politics in their clipped British accents. I continued to lie motionless.

Someone mentioned tea. There was the sound of a chair scuffing against a hardwood floor, then footsteps. I peered through my lids as the darker man paused beside me, then walked out into the adjoining kitchen to my right. I waited until I heard him rummaging around with the pots and pans, then moaned softly. Again there was the sound of a chair being pushed back, heavy footsteps. The red-haired man loomed over me. He was the man who'd hit me; I opened my eyes and smiled dreamily up at him.

"Hey, Georgie!" the man yelled. "The little bloke's awake!"

The little bloke grunted and kept grinning.

"All right, Peter," the answering reply came from the kitchen, "get him up."

"I don't know. He still looks pretty dopey."

"Well, walk him around. I want to ask him a few more questions."

Peter reached down to shake me. I waited until he had both hands on my shoulders before I gave him another big grin, whispered that he was a son-of-a-bitch, and hit him in the jugular with the side of my hand. His eyes bulged and his hands flew to his throat as his face turned purple. He made a series of staccato choking noises that could barely be heard. My head immediately began to feel better.

I swung my legs over the side of the sofa, stood up, and relieved him of the automatic he had in his belt. I hit him in the gut with it, bringing him down to my level, then rapped him on the back of the head. He hit the floor hard with his face and stayed there.

The commotion brought George, pipe still clenched between his teeth, rushing into the room. He braked, skidded on one foot, and finally came to a halt when he saw me and the gun pointed at him. His swarthy face grew still darker as it mottled with blood. His eyes flashed as he did a double take between me and his fallen partner. He hunched his shoulders and started forward.

"Stay," I said quietly, punctuating the sentence with a loud lead exclamation point just over the top of his head. A chunk of plaster fell from the wall.

George stayed, but he bit through the stem of his meerschaum. The pipe, minus half its mouthpiece, clattered to the floor, and George spat out the rest. "He'll kill you," he stammered, pointing to the gasping redhead. "If he doesn't, I will."

"Oh, shut up, George, and sit down," I said, pointing with the gun toward a chair.

George thought about it for a few seconds. I helped him toward a decision by pointing the gun at his stomach. He sat down. I said something witty about clearing his sinuses permanently if he did anything I didn't like, then went across the room and took the sash cord from the broken Venetian blind hanging beside the window. The landscape outside looked like farmland, and I wondered where I was. It was dusk. Assuming it was the same day, I hadn't been out more than a few hours.

I used the sash cord to tie Peter and George. George moved once, but froze when I snatched up the gun from the floor and pressed the barrel against his spine. Now it was my turn to ask questions. I walked over to the tape recorders and turned one on. It was my own tape. I turned that one off and the other one on. The first question surprised me.

"Who is Victor Rafferty?"

I pressed the pause control and looked over at George. "What the hell kind of stupid question is that?" I said. "Don't you know?"

George glared at me and said nothing. I took my finger off the pause control and listened as the two men took turns asking me questions. Occasionally they played sections of the tape I'd made and asked me questions about statements I'd made. My own voice sounded blurred and indistinct, like a drunk's. There were about ten basic questions, repeated over and over in different variations. The Englishmen didn't seem to know any more than I did, a fact which I found depressing. Still, they'd known about me.

I pressed the gun squarely to George's forehead, directly between his eyes. "Is Victor Rafferty alive?"

"You tell me, you little bastard."

"Maybe I'll just shoot you."

"Go ahead."

"Take some time to think about that answer, George; use the time to try to remember all you know about Victor Rafferty. You can start off by telling me why everybody is so interested in him."

He spat at me. I sidestepped the wet missile and tapped lightly on the top of his head with the gun. He cursed. "We've been working blind, you bloody dwarf! We just do what we're told to do! We don't know any more about Rafferty now than we did last time!"

"Last time?"

"Fuck you!"

Peter was beginning to look fairly normal, although he kept swallowing and wincing in pain. Spittle had dried and caked on his lips. His eyes never left me; they were bloodshot, bright with hate.

"How did you know about the Fosters?" I asked George, not really expecting an answer.

"You're going to be killed for this," George hissed. "This thing is a lot bigger than any of us."

"Are you making fun of my size, George?"

"You bloody-------! Untie us!"

"First I want you to tell me all about that 'last time.' I also want to know who did the job on the Pakistani."

George's face became a stony mask. "I'll tell you nothing. You're wasting your time."

He was probably right. I decided to look around the house, and the first thing I found was my gun on a counter in the kitchen. Next to it were the book on parapsychology and the mysterious sheet of paper; I hoped that meant they'd brought my car along with them.

I left everything where it was and searched through the other rooms on the floor. They were barren for the most part, except for a few ratty pieces of furniture that jutted out like bits of flotsam floating in a moldy sea of ratty carpet. Outside, a full moon was rising, bathing the surrounding countryside in a soft, cold glow. I assumed the farmhouse was some kind of meeting place, or intelligence drop point. Or perhaps it was no more than what it seemed: an abandoned farmhouse that George and Peter had commandeered for the purpose at hand.

The lights obligingly came on when I flipped a switch, and I hit the jackpot when I looked in a closet off the main sitting room: there was a large black medical kit. Inside the kit was a pharmacist's delight, with drugs ranging from what I suspected was L.S.D. to the familiar and effective sodium pentothal. I picked up the bag and went back into the big room. George was obviously unhappy with my discovery; his eyes bulged and sweat broke out on his forehead.

"What the hell are you going to do with that stuff?" he asked warily.

"Time for your vitamins, George."

"That's not going to do you any good!" He swallowed, pumped up the volume of his voice. "I'm trained to resist drugs!"

I groped around inside the bag, took out a handful of bottles and three hypodermics. "Well, I think I'll give you a little of this and a little of that, and see what happens."

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he said as I picked three vials at random and filled a hypodermic.

"With drugs? Well, I've found I prefer aspirin for the common headache. What about yourself, George?"

"Jesus, you're going to
kill
me with that stuff! Or turn me into a raving loony! I'm telling you I don't
know
anything!"

I held the tip of the needle poised over his arm. "It would be a shame for you to get turned into a pumpkin for nothing, wouldn't it? Who pays you?"

He took some time to answer as his eyes stayed riveted to the tip of the needle. Finally he heaved a deep sigh. "Christ, dwarf, use your imagination. M.I.-5."

He visibly relaxed as I took a step backward. "How did you get on my trail?"

"Contacts at the U.N.," George said sullenly. "The Pakistani was asking questions about Rafferty and your name was mentioned. The Home Office put us on the job."

"How did you find me in Tuxedo Park?"

"We had a beeper on your car; planted it while you were in the rental agency."

"Did you or your friend here kill the Pakistani?"

"No."

I stepped forward again and raised the hypodermic. "I don't think I believe you."

"It's
true"
George squeaked as a few drops of clear fluid dripped onto his arm. "We didn't kill him. That had to be Kaznakov. The Pakistani was tortured; that's Kaznakov's trademark."

"Who's Kaznakov?" I whispered. I suddenly felt choked, short of breath.

George looked at me a long time. "You don't want anything to do with Kaznakov, believe me."

"Come
on
, George. Who's Kaznakov?" I squirted fluid between his eyes.

"Russian. A bloody freak."

"Where can I find this Kaznakov?"

"Soviet U.N. Mission. He's supposed to be a minor aide, but that's only his cover. He's an agent; a specialist. He's a crazy, bloody freak. One of the worst, from what I hear, although you Americans are supposed to have—"

"Tell me about the 'last time,' George. Did you work on the Rafferty case before?" He turned his face away and didn't say anything. I thought of Abu and had a sudden, almost uncontrollable surge of rage. I grabbed his ear, twisted his head to one side, and held the hypodermic like a dagger over his exposed neck. "I'm not shitting you, George!" I shouted into his ear. "I have to find out these things! If you don't tell me, I'm going to drop this load in your neck and go to work on your friend!"

Something in my voice must have convinced him. When I released his ear, he slumped in his chair. "Five years ago," he said, seemingly resigned. "But we thought Rafferty was dead; killed by an American named Lippitt. Now a lot of people aren't so sure Rafferty's dead after all."

"Why does everyone want Rafferty, George?"

"I don't know. We were just told to find him, kill him if he is alive. Didn't much like it, but orders are orders.

There wasn't much chance Rafferty would work for us, so I'm told, so we had to make sure he didn't end up working for anybody else. It was the same five years ago."

"He wouldn't work for the British, so you were told to
kill
him?"

"That's right.
Everyone
had those orders. We were in a big hurry because we knew the Frenchies had a good line on him."

"The
French
knew about Rafferty?" It had obviously been, obviously was, a crowded track.

"Hell, yes. The French have a good man working for them. Been feeding them top-grade information for years."

"What's this agent's name, and where can I find him?"

George shrugged. "Nobody—except some controller— knows. He—or she, for all I know—has a deep cover; you find out, let
us
know.
There's
someone who can tell you what you want to know about Victor Rafferty. Shit, Peter and I are just cannon fodder compared with the Frenchie. You know, you hurt my fucking ear."

"But you don't know
why
all these people had orders to capture or kill?"

"Top Secret. We were just following our orders. Now, that's all I know. I swear it."

I pressed the point of the needle against the thick blue vein on the inside of his forearm. He squirmed, the color draining from his face as. a droplet of blood formed on his arm. "You'll
kill
me if you stick me with that! What the hell are you
doing?"

"George," I replied, "I feel I'm losing your cooperation."

"Then
ask
me something, for Christ's sake! Or go find the Frenchie!"

I kept the tip of the needle just inside his vein. "Five years ago a doctor by the name of Arthur Morton was murdered. Do you know anything about that? Think carefully, George; my thumb is beginning to twitch."

"We killed him," George croaked, his eyes bulging as he stared down at the hypodermic and the trail of blood running down his forearm.

"Why?"

"It was an accident! The goddamn bloody fool had no business coming to his office in the middle of the
night.
We weren't expecting him. He surprised us. He had a gun. We just didn't have any choice!"