The God Hunter (5 page)

I, for one, did not.

 

CHAPTER 8

THE WAIT

T
he venue had a well-­stocked bar, much overpriced, much used by persons with expense accounts who didn't give a damn how much their port-­and-­lemon or their fizzy water cost them. For once, though, I was in their ranks. I settled down, found one of Shailer's aides, and passed the message through that I was waiting for him. I then decided I would work my way along the shelf of strangely flavored vodkas that the barman had so generously shown me. All around, ­people were saying things like “Well, I read about this years ago,” and “I've studied the projections for it all. They're very interesting,” and “You must know Charlie Wheeler, don't you? Everyone knows Charlie!”

Of course, a lot of them weren't speaking English. But the English seemed to blare out with an irritating timbre, as if they thought the words were extra-­specially important. I hit the raspberry-­chocolate vodka, thinking what a stupid drink it was, in such a stupid place, on a stupid job. I wore my Pollins-­Read ID badge so that anyone not in the swim would be oblivious to my real affiliations. Consequently, no one spoke to me. I saw a few look over, read the badge, and draw a blank. Fine by me.

I was trying to decide between the spearmint and the improbable avocado flavor when I spotted Shailer's aide again. I grabbed his sleeve as he went by.

The man was young—­younger than Shailer, even—­wearing an expensive suit and hundred-­dollar haircut, and he smiled and paused a second, as if shuffling through some mental Rolodex.

Eventually he matched me up. “There's a lot of interest from his speech. He'll be with you soon as humanly possible—­”

“Only humanly? Well, I was sent here by our lords and masters to meet up with him. I understand that he requested it. Horribly important, you know? So”—­I looked along the row of bottles—­“you better tell him that I'll give him to the walnut and Stilton. See that? Right there? After which, I'm gone.”

Actually, I didn't think I'd make it that far. I could feel the force of this stuff. The quaint, novelty flavors were misleading. I thought I'd maybe get to marzipan, or strawberry fudge sundae. So I persisted. But I didn't make it. One more drink, and then I tipped the barman, who by now seemed like an old and trusted friend, and staggered out onto the streets of Budapest.

 

CHAPTER 9

THE RESTAURANT

I
walked a fair way to a restaurant. The first ­couple I passed were full of conference minions, and the next two or three were too plush or bright or flashy, or at least it seemed to me that there was something wrong with them. So I started following the tram lines, out along the main road, till I found a bar. Lively, drunken. I had a pork steak with onions, garlic, and a truckload of boiled potatoes, with strips of smoky-­smelling fat for a side, which I left. I drank a lot of water.

No one bothered me. I watched a woman dressed in peasant clothes, as big around as she was tall, filling her pipe from a tobacco pouch, carefully tamping it, lighting it . . . Later, she quarreled with a dark, mustachioed man, probably not her husband. There were bold, theatrical gestures, dramatic head turnings and declamations, until they left together, arm in arm, still bickering. The whole bar was like that. Loud voices, rapid motion, glasses downed; quarrels, but no hint of violence. Nothing like you'd see at home. It felt warm to me. It felt human. The language kept it distant, and I liked that, the fact I couldn't really understand; that it was something I could sit outside of and enjoy.

I finished with a kevert to keep the vodka crash at bay. It was barely ten when I got back to the hotel—­not the Hollywood this year, and not the swanky place that Shailer had been booked into, either. It was a quiet little backstreet venue, run by a ­couple in their forties who offered me enormous smiles each time I came in sight and spoke no English whatsoever, which suited me just fine.

I sat around a while, then got undressed and went to bed. I read a few pages of Tolstoy because I thought I ought to, but I wasn't really getting into it. So I put the book down, looked up at the ceiling for a while, then put the light out. I don't remember getting sleepy. Just, I was asleep.

Then, suddenly, awake.

Alarm clock? No. The phone was ringing. I reached out, couldn't find it. I scrabbled at the wall for a light switch. Found it, blinked in the sudden glare. I didn't have a headache, but my throat was dry. I felt washed out, grubby. The phone was on the table near me, a big, old-­fashioned thing the size of a brick. I picked it up, convinced it was a wrong number and already irritated.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Copeland?”

No. Not a wrong number.

“Chris?” the voice said, sounding relieved. “Chris, it's Adam. Where were you? I had to get your number from, you know, your ­people. Where'd you go?”

“I went to my hotel. To sleep. What else?”

Hesitation, just a moment. Then, “Chris, I know it's been a while. But . . . look. You're awake now. How 'bout I come on over? We've matters to discuss. I'd say come here, but it's been pretty hectic, so best if I come there. More private, too. Open a bottle, huh? See you in—­oh, twenty minutes, OK? Twenty minutes.”

And the phone went dead.

 

CHAPTER 10

A LATE-­NIGHT GUEST

I
stumbled out of bed. I dressed. It was a little after 2:00 a.m. I made coffee with the room's electric kettle and the traveler's pack of Nescafé I'd brought with me. My job's never been regular hours, but this, I thought, was taking the piss. I put the TV on, flipped channels, caught part of a twenty-­year-­old cop show dubbed into Hungarian. Then the knock came at the door.

Shailer looked—­well,
rumpled
is a nice way to describe it. Same suit, same tie, but he was not the cheery, optimistic speaker of the afternoon's address. He glanced around with brief suspicion, grimaced, smiled, then took my hand, which I hadn't offered.

“Chris. Good to see you. It's been, what? Five years? Something like that. You haven't changed a bit. We're alone here, aren't we? I mean, we won't be interrupted? Will we?”

“Doubt it.”

“Good. That's good.” He retraced his steps, turned the key in the door. He threw his coat and shoulder bag onto the floor. “Mind if I sit? It's been a hell of a day. Thanks, thanks. Hell. Of. A. Day.”

He slumped down on the bed, wrists on his knees, hands dangling.

It was an act, I saw that straightaway. A little bid for sympathy.

The Shailer I remembered hadn't been so much aware of others, nor of how they saw him. He'd learned, these last few years. He'd learned a lot.

“I tell you. I was fighting to get out and see you. Literally fighting. But it wasn't possible. I couldn't do it! I'd known there'd be an interest, obviously, but this was—­it was crazy. It was
insane
. They're all so hung up on the oil crisis right now, I swear, I could have told them we made gas from navel fluff, and they'd believe me. These guys are desperate! Jeee-­sus.

“And—­well. Thing is, we can deliver. Not yet, but in a year, maybe two. We've got the patents. Collection, containment—­ ours. We're going places, Chris. You, me, the Registry. Big, big places. You won't believe some of the ­people who were there today. That's the level that we're moving on. That's the game. And, well, I'm dealing with it, I'm dealing with it, and then—­well. This thing happened. This thing, it's kind of what I planned to talk to you about. Or part of it. It's why I wanted you to come. I just—­didn't expect . . . you know. Tonight of all nights.”

He waved a hand. “Bottle in the bag there. Get it out, will you? Good stuff. I need it, too, the night I've had. Pour a ­couple of glasses, huh? Drink with your old buddy, talk over old times. That's good, yeah? 'Cause old times have a way of . . . reaching out. Catching you. You know?”

I said, “We've all got Stone Age bodies.”

“Huh? Dunno 'bout that.”

I poured the drinks, just as he'd asked.

He said, “There's things we need to talk about, Chris. Get them straight between us. And this shit tonight . . . Jeez. This I did not need.” He shook his head, then looked up suddenly. “Oh yeah.” He reached into his pockets. “You field ops—­I
know
you know how to relax, yeah? I got the stuff right here. This'll lift the mood, all right.”

He took a small enamel pillbox from his inside pocket and set it on the tabletop in front of me.

“Take a look. Go on.”

I did. It was a very beautiful, exquisite little item, with a kind of leaf-­and-­petal motif on the top and a striking sky-­blue background.

“Very nice,” I said.

“French. Two hundred years old, not a dent, not a ding. See that? Not so much as a hairline. And this shade blue—­
celeste,
it's called—­that's a real find in itself.”

He let me contemplate this. Then he unscrewed the lid. I wasn't much surprised by what I saw inside.

“Now then—­a mirror and a dollar bill. Or whatever they call them here. You can take first toot.”

“Forints. They're called forints.”

I'd done coke before and liked it; I won't pretend I wasn't tempted. But I didn't care to be off my face with Adam Shailer. So I shook my head and watched while, in lieu of a mirror, he chopped a ­couple of lines on the tabletop using his credit card and noisily inhaled the first one through a rolled-­up note, which I supplied. He told me that he never carried cash.

Then he sat there.

“You're very welcome,” he invited, “if you change your mind . . . ?”

Nothing happened for a minute or two. Then, where he'd been slouching, he began to sit up straight. It was a subtle thing. He went on telling me about his day. He cleared his throat. He tapped a finger on the table, dabbed up the crumbs of white, and licked them from his fingertips.

“The chemical life. Can't say it hasn't got its uses, huh?” He grinned at me. “Goes without saying—­you mention this to anyone, I'll have you on the street so fast you'll think you're flying. Hey!”

He put his head on one side, chuckling, looking at me like I ought to join in.

“Come on—­do a little. It'll buck you up.”

Instead, I sipped my drink.

“Are you threatening me?” I said.

“Threat . . . ? Shit, no. Why would I threaten? You're good ­people, Chris, you don't rat on a friend. You're one of the best.”

“Because I didn't ‘rat' when you nearly killed me? That what you think?”

Shailer paused a moment, watching me, then bent and snootered up the next line with a sound like someone clearing drains.

He sat back, unfurled the bill, licking the edge of the paper with a small, pink tongue. I thought he'd lick the tabletop, too, but he restrained himself.

“You're good ­people,” he said again, and this time I could almost see the wave of well-­being rise up in him, just like filling up a glass.

I'd have liked to puncture that—­his silly, druggy smugness. Though by now, I doubted anything that I could say would touch him anyway. He'd feel too confident and generous to quibble.

“Let's say I was tipped off, shall we? That business we had, all that time ago.”

He barely reacted to this; a dreamy smile caressed his face.

I said, “Advised I might be better keeping quiet. If I wanted a career. And everything I've heard since, up to and including your little promise earlier, has suggested this was good advice. So I made up a report, cited a fault, claimed I'd repaired it, and got top marks all around for damage limitation. Everybody happy. See?”

He didn't move at first. Then his shoulders lifted and he went, “Hnf!” through coked-­up nostrils, and I realized it was actually some sort of laugh.

Then he said, “Accident.”

“That doesn't happen by accident. And you don't have ‘accidents' on jobs like that. Not if you want to stay alive, you don't.”

He seemed to consider this a while.

“Sure you don't want . . . ?” he said, producing the little inlaid box again. I got the sense he'd have been happier if I'd been as blitzed as he was; I'd have been a softer target.

“Very sure,” I said.

He stood up and began to walk around the room. His arms made twitchy little gestures, flexing and straightening. His face screwed up.

“It was a long time back. A long, long time. Christ, I was a kid! I can hardly remember it, if I'm honest. It's like—­stuff a kid does, do you blame the grown-­up? You do not! How'd I know, how'd I even think . . . I didn't want to hurt you, Chris. Gotta believe me. It was just part of some massive
sulk
that I was on, you know? I didn't even stop to think. What happened . . . See—­the thing is this. The thing is this. You dealt with it. You fixed it up. And—­OK, I didn't like you much back then, I'll say that straight. But right away, I thought,
This is the guy that I want working for me someday
. I was in
awe
of you, Chris. Totally in awe.”

I sipped my drink. Despite my intentions, I was downing it.

Shailer's hands moved rapidly, like a conjuror's misdirection.

“So. So. Even before—­this thing came up—­I was gonna call you. I
did
call you, in fact, and then, tonight—­same night as my fucking speech, Christ sake—­it all went off again.” He shook his head. “I've got contacts here in law enforcement. I've seen pictures. God, they're horrible. Horrible. I can't, I can't describe . . .”

“Look,” I said. “Thanks for the booze. Nice meeting you again. But it's three a.m., I'm tired, I need to sleep. If you could get to the point, I'd appreciate it. Assuming there's a point to get to, that is.”

“Yeah.” He rounded on me, rapid anger flaring in his face. “There's a point, all right. ­People are dying! ­People are getting killed! And if this gets out, you and me—­maybe the Registry itself—­we are fucking fucked, that's my fucking point!”

He stood up quickly, took three sharp steps towards the window, then stopped. He turned back, calmer suddenly, almost contrite.

“I'm under pressure here. I'm under real pressure. We've got projects, plans—­plans that'll change the way we live, change everything. And if this gets out, even a hint of it, any bad publicity, just any kind of shit at all . . . What happened, all those years ago. You talk to anyone? Or did you just write the report? Does anybody know?”

I was glad I wasn't coked. Because something in me woke up at this point; some soft, inaudible alarm, and it put me right on guard. I didn't show it. But I told him, “Yeah. Spoke to some of the guys. That's what happens, you know, something goes wrong. You talk it over. Share it. Like I said, I was advised.”

“By whom?”

By whom
. I wouldn't have got that grammar a few years back, I'm sure.

“Some of the guys.”

“Some? Like . . . ?”

“A few of them.”

“Right. Right.” He put a knuckle to his lips. He knew I'd sussed him; knew it was a standoff.

“Chris,” he said, “I'm going to tell the truth here, OK? I'm going to tell it all.”

First, though, he had to have another line.

And I poured out another drink.