Assignment - Quayle Question (6 page)

He put down the gun and untied her ankles and helped her upright. For a moment, her weight rested gratefully against him. She even managed a small smile.

“Were you worried about me, darling?”

“A little.”

“Just a little?”

“How did he happen to grab you?”

“There was a log across the road. I had to stop the van, and he came at me fast, out of the bushes. I couldn’t do anything about it. I was talking to you on the radio, remember, and he tore the mike out of my hand and ripped out the wires. Then he tied me up and said he’d be back for me soon. He—he was like an animal, Sam. So quick. Something ferocious about him. Is that Henley?” Durell picked up his gun and turned around. He was surprised to find his hand shaking a bit.

“Yes. We’re all right now. Can you walk?”

“Just give me a hand, Sam.”

“All right. We have to get out of here.”

Behind them, the woods were alight with the growing, leaping, hungry flames.

But Durell felt cold.

“Deborah?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Quayle?”

“I am not Miss Quayle.”

“Technically speaking, no. But your maiden name was Quayle?”

“Miss Deborah Quayle. I was, once. Not now.”

“You begin this by quibbling?”

“My name, legally and by preference, is Mrs. Martin Pentecost.”

“Ah, yes. But you are no longer married?”

“No.”

“You are a divorced woman?”

“Obviously.”

“Just so there is no error. We wish to be sure that no mistakes are made. Please do not think we are being deliberately tedious. If we state the obvious, or question what seems to be the obvious, you will respond accurately and with the whole truth. Do you understand?”

“No. You have no right to do this.”

“My dear young woman, we have every right. You are here with us—”

“Not of my own choice.”

“Do not interrupt again. You do not realize the enormity of your situation. This much is obvious. It is to be expected. We shall be lenient and patient with you. If you cooperate. We understand you are a stubborn, extraordi-

nary young woman. If you think your ordeal here is unjust, it may be so. But the exigencies of the situation demand it. There is no question of right or wrong here, you see. Morality is so relative, my dear. What is a sin in one culture may be a virtue in another. I speak to you plainly. We have no morality except our means must accomplish our end. In any case, I shall refer to you as Deborah Quayle. This is how we think of you. This is why you are here. This is how it shall be.”

“You’re not an American, are you?”

“Ah. Ah. You have a sharp ear, to catch the nuances of our inflection.”

“Have I been kidnapped? Is that it?”

“Let us say that you have been taken by us.”

“Why?”

“That will become evident enough, I trust. It is a simple matter. We are not really interested in you or your welfare. Or your personal life. It is of no consequence to us. But I assure you that we are in supreme earnest. Will you be cooperative?”

“I don’t know who you are—”

“You need not know that.”

“Or what you want from me.”

“Is your husband still alive?”

“As far as I know.”

“Living in Zurich, Switzerland?”

“As far as I know.”

“You have not been in communication with him lately?”

“I hate his guts.”

“Strong language. And a lie, of course. The first one. A small matter. Yet important. We will not tolerate obstructionism from you. You are still defiant. Perhaps in a state of minor shock. But you were treated gently? Without physical violence?”

“It depends on your definition of gentleness.”

“You were not harmed?”

“No.”

“And suffered no pain?” “I’m not sure what happened to me. Or where I am. Or who you are. Or why I am here. Wherever here is.”

“Not relevant. You do not hate your husband, whose name is Martin Pentecost, who nominally lives in Zurich, Switzerland. You still love him. You would like to remarry him, if possible. Am I correct?”

“There’s no easy answer to that.”

“But there is. You do or you don’t.”

“Life isn’t all black or white, right or wrong.”

“It is. We make it so. Good or evil. Yes or no. No middle ground. No shades of color in between.”

“Are you insane?”

“Do I sound insane?”

“Yes. Very articulate, overconfident, paranoiac.”

“Am I menacing to you, Deborah?”

“You sound evil.”

“Ah. Very fine. Yes. I am evil. An old-fashioned word, perhaps, in your culture. But to the point. Evil. Satanic. Maleficent. You are a sensitive young woman. You can smell death, eh?”

“Are you going to kill me? Or hold me for ransom?” “Yes, perhaps, to both your questions.”

“Nobody would pay you a red cent for me.”

“Is your life so loveless, then, Deborah?”

“To hell with you. Stop mincing around. What do you want of me?”

“Only a few simple answers to certain questions.” “About my ex-husband, Martin?”

“And other matters.”

“Ask them.”

“You will cooperate with us?”

“It depends.”

“Very sensible. I shall bring you some tea.”

“I don’t want any tea.”

“I suggest you develop a taste for tea. It is my favorite drink. You will receive no other.”

“All right.”

“All right, what?”

“I’ll drink your goddamned tea.”

“You are thirsty, then?”

“You know it.”

“Perhaps we will have the tea later.”

                             
****************************************

Her mind was like a rich, fruitful field of grain, bearing an infinite number of seeds, each individual, each a part of the field as a whole. It was a blessing and a curse. Something she had always lived with from the time she was aware of her own identity as a child, knowing she existed. Martin had said, when they told each other goodbye, “It’s more than I can take, Deborah. ’’{Deborah was his formal address. When making love, it was “Debbie, Deb, oh Deb!”) “You’re not a woman,” Martin had said. “Very good in bed, but like a damned computer, Deborah. I can’t tolerate it any longer. It’s like living with a machine.”

“I’m sorry, Martin,” she had said.

“I still love you, you understand,” Martin had said. “And it’s tearing me apart. But you’re too cold, your mind is a calculating machine, you’re too absorbed in the work, in the complex, too slavish to Quayle—”

“Leave my father out of it,” she had said.

“Yes, you’re Rufus Quayle’s living office files. Living and breathing it. Growing, buying, selling, watching the world’s money markets, calculating day and night, hour upon hour, with no life for ourselves.”

“We could have children,” she had said.

“That’s a lie. You don’t want any.”

“I didn’t, at first.”

“And now you do?”

“Yes. Now I do.”

“Now is too late,” Martin had said. “Goodbye, Deborah.”

A mind like a rich field of wheat, each kernel containing the seeds of data, infinite and convoluted, endless.

A curse.

                             
****************************************

“Miss Deborah?”

“Yes. I’m still here. Obviously. These ropes are hurting me."

“Not so. I checked them myself. We were speaking of your husband, Martin Pentecost.”

“Not I. You were. My former husband.”

“Quibbling. Obstructive. You still do not grasp the situation you are in.”

“I know I’ve been kidnapped. Taken on a private plane. A jet. Three hours in the air. Where am I?”

“You are in our hands.”

“And who are you?”

“It is I who ask the questions. Your friendly interlocutor. It is a joke, eh?”

“A poor one.”

“About Martin. Is he in Zurich now?”

“I’m not going to answer any questions about Martin.” “It is a painful subject?”

“An unpleasant one.”

“Life is full of unpleasantness. When did you see him last?”

“You know when.”

“Please tell me. I refer, of course, to a lengthy and private time spent with him.”

“Oh, well. Two months ago.”

“On September the eleventh, to be exact.”

“So why do you ask?”

“Was it in Zurich?”

“Zermatt. You know that, too, obviously.”

“Why did you meet him at Zermatt?”

“We went skiing.”

“Not so. You were friendly enemies? He was exercising. Mountain-climbing. You do not ski very well.”

“I do everything well. But skiing is not my thing.”

“Yes, you sail, you hunt, you fish. Very strenuously. Too strenuously. Considering your life-style, Deborah, you do everything to the fullest extent of your capacities. Which are enormous.”

“I’m afraid of heights.”

“Which you have set out to conquer, intolerant of the congenital weaknesses of your body. You did not go skiing with your ex-husband. Or mountain-climbing. You met him only briefly, really, in the Gerberhaus Inn. In his hotel room. You were locked in there for two hours.” “We made love. Why not?”

“And you lie again.”

“We went to bed and he gave it to me.”

“Crudeness does not become you.”

“I was sex starved.”

“You had two brief affairs since your divorce on the previous March twenty-first. First, to a Swiss army-reserve officer twenty years your senior, a man with a remarkable reputation with the ladies. With remarkable sexual prowess. He satisfied you. But he was married, and left you. The next was with a wandering young hippie, a boy of only nineteen, eight years your junior. At that age, he should have fulfilled any physical needs you may have had. Were those the first times you were unfaithful to Martin?”

“I wasn’t unfaithful. We were not married then.” “Morally. Ethically. Aesthetically. You have never accepted the divorce. What did you do in that locked room in the Gerberhaus Inn at Zermatt on September eleventh?” “We talked.”

“Ah. About what?”

“How did you know the room was locked?”

“It was tested, too late. Infallibility is not a common human trait. We had planned to put listening devices in the room. Our aides came too late. You were already there. Which is why we wish to know why you had this extraordinary meeting with your ex-husband.”

“We talked.”

“Again. About what?”

“Business.”

“The Quayle business?”

“Of course. Martin still works for Q.P.I.”

“And so do you?”

“Yes.”

“And the subject of your two-hour conversation?” “Buying and selling.”

“Tht Nikitashi Shimbun newspaper chain?”

“Among other things. Is it important?”

“What other things?”

“My father.”

“Rufus Quayle?”

“You have an irritating habit of redundancy, whoever you are.”

“We wish to be sure of the facts. The precise data. Why did you discuss Rufus Quayle?”

“Everyone discusses Rufus Quayle in Q.P.I.”

“He is the gray presence, I’eminence gris, everywhere?”

“You can call him that.”

“What specifically did you discuss with Martin about Rufus Quayle?”

“All sorts of things.”

“Did Martin want to know where Quayle was?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know then, at that time?”

“No.”

“Did anyone know?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Do you know where your father is now?”

“No.”

“You lie.”

“No. It’s common knowledge. He lives a strange and secretive life. Read any newspaper item about him. The stories are world-wide. He’s become a legend.”

“Does he really exist?”

“I often wonder, myself.”

“When did you see your father last?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Come, come. A mind like yours—”

“I hate it.”

“Your mind? You hate your mind?”

“Yes.”

“But it is an extraordinary phenomenon.”

“Yes. I hate it.”

“You hate yourself, Deborah?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to die?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“Such an attitude may make it difficult for us.”

“Hard cheese for you.”

                             
****************************************

She had stripped herself naked for him. Literally. Let her clothing slide off her long, proud body, flowing down in silken ripples around her feet. She could see herself in the pier glass of the overheated room in the Swiss hotel, with the white-clad Alpine peaks reflected in the mirror behind her. She had let her hair down, in long, black, lustrous waves, one long tendril touching the sensitive nipple of her left breast. Awareness of glandular function, of rich juices and electrical nerve impulses, flowed through her. She told herself she was beautiful and desirable. Any man would want her like this. She did not dare look directly at Martin. She turned in front of the mirror, so that he could see all of her, the proud breasts, the narrow waist, the swelling curve of hip, the firm buttocks, full but not fat, the tight thighs, the long legs, the shaven secret parts of her. The air in the hotel room was warm, languorous. She knew he had been continent since their divorce, unlike her own activities.

“Don’t do that, Deborah,” he said.

“I’m just as beautiful as ever,” she said. “Am I not?”

“More so.”

“Then what’s the harm?”

“It’s a matter of principle, Deborah.”

“Oh, hell.”

She did not understand it. He was not all that handsome or glamorous. Tall, yes. With an active, muscular, normally demanding body. Pale brown hair, brushed side-wise, cut short, a nose a bit too long, a mouth with lips a bit too thin. Tanned, outdoorsy, smelling of Alpine air, snow, ski wax. The heavy class ring on his finger. The wedding ring was gone. She still wore hers. A silly little thing, not too expensive for the daughter of one of the richest—perhaps the richest—man in the world. She wore her little emerald friendship ring, too, that he had first given her. The heart-shaped stone was a lambent green flame on her finger. It seemed to burn her.