Mission (29 page)

I shrugged. ‘Come on McD, you know the score. It happens all the time. They feel threatened by this kind of thing. They like pat answers. Everything in neat little boxes.' My plan, as you can see, was to show sympathy and understanding.

‘Yeah…' She cocked her head to one side. ‘Tell me, have you seen the famous robe which is supposed to have triggered this whole thing off?'

‘Yes. But it didn't.' I dipped deep into my Third Year Psych seminar. ‘Don't let yourself get sucked in by Jung's theory of Synchronicity.'

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Which is …?'

‘The attempt to explain the apparently significant relationship between certain events which have no “causal link”.'

McD nodded, but I could see I had her temporarily baffled.

‘Let me explain,' I began. ‘Mrs Perez was pressing the robe when she had the vision of Christ on the cross. So there was a correspondence between the physical act and her mental process. But that's all. There was no – what the scientists call “causality”. The robe was just a robe. Something that my client picked up in an Arab bazaar while he was in the Middle East. It probably cost him less than twenty dollars.' I smiled and let go the big one. ‘If it really belonged to Jesus Christ, I imagine it would be worth a lot more than that.'

She nodded. ‘Ye-ess. Tell me – I couldn't help overhearing the conversation with your secretary. You mentioned TWA had lost his baggage. Had he just arrived from abroad?'

‘No, California,' I replied. Covering my tracks in case Linda had been shooting her mouth off. ‘He had his passport with him because he was going on to Israel.'

‘So he must have been wearing the robe when he arrived,' she concluded.

I looked at her blankly. ‘So?'

‘Well, don't you think that's rather strange?'

I smiled. ‘Come on, McD. I'm sure the news that there are a lot of strange people in California must have reached Montana by now. When he walked into my office, I didn't give it a second thought. A lot of people dress like that where he comes from.'

She eyed me sceptically. ‘Okay. Let's take another point. I checked with the bell captain at the Mayflower. He says he remembers seeing an Arab in a white head-dress and brown robe crossing the foyer at about the same time that Mrs Perez claims she saw the man who healed her hands exit from the hotel and cross over into the Park.'

‘Okay, where does that get us?' I asked, determined to make her do all the hard work.

‘I checked with the desk,' she said. ‘There were no Arabs staying at the hotel. The only person it could have been is your Mr Sheppard.'

The sly implication of complicity did not escape me. ‘It probably was,' I admitted. ‘But I can't see what you're getting at. Mrs Perez has a vision of the Crucifixion and a statue in her house starts to bleed. I believe it's happened before but I'd say that is news. Sheppard isn't. All that happened was that
my
secretary took
his
robe to the cleaners. That is the extent of his involvement. I can't really comment on Mrs Perez but, from what Jeff told me, she seems to be a very devout Catholic and – dare I add – somewhat simple-minded? In my experience, the two things usually go together.'

McD nodded. ‘Yes, I'll go along with that. But let's follow this through. Sheppard exits from the hotel. Mrs Perez follows him into the park. He sits down and eventually, she joins him. He speaks to her, cures her hands – and disappears.'

‘Hold on,' I said. ‘That's what she
thinks
happened. You and I know that human beings do not just vanish into thin air.'

‘Not ordinarily, no,' agreed McDonald. ‘But here's another curious coincidence. Although his bill was made out on the Wednesday morning – and billed to you by the way – none of the staff on duty in the foyer remember seeing him return to the hotel and his bed wasn't slept in on the Tuesday night.'

‘That's right,' I said. ‘He took a cab out to the airport to pick up his wallet and passport that the police had found then flew out to Israel.'

McD took off her blue shades and sucked one of the side bars reflectively. ‘I see …'

‘He called me from the airport,' I said, slipping easily into the lie.
‘But that doesn't invalidate Mrs Perez's encounter with Christ. Most people borrow physical prototypes for their fantasies. Take me, for instance. I've always imagined the Virgin Mary as looking like Deborah Kerr. When young, of course.'

McD gazed at me with her deep-set eyes. ‘What kind of fantasy would someone like you have about the Virgin Mary?'

‘I'd have to know you a lot better before I could answer that,' I replied. ‘Next question.'

McD lit another of her fashionable cigarettes and blew the smoke over her shoulder. ‘When Mr Sheppard left for Israel on Tuesday afternoon, why did he leave some of his clothing in his room?'

‘You've really been nosing around,' I said, stalling for time. ‘What are you – gunning for the lead in a new series of
Policewoman?
'

She shrugged. ‘I like to cover all the angles.'

I swallowed a smile as it came to me. ‘The answer's very simple. The airline had found his baggage. He didn't need the extra clothes I'd paid for. I had someone collect them and take them over to my place.'

She accepted my reply with a nod.
I'm wasted,
I thought.
With this kind of talent, I should be working for the White House.

‘One last question.'

‘I hope it is the last,' I said, looking at my watch.

‘What? Oh, yeah…' She recovered swiftly. ‘When Jeff Fowler told you about all this, why did you delay telling him that you already knew Mr Sheppard and that it was your – '

I cut in again before it got too sticky. In the art of interrogation, the trick is to keep your opponent off-balance. ‘I said nothing to Jeff because my professional relationship with Mr Sheppard is none of his business. I'm involved in some very delicate negotiations on his behalf and I did not want to prejudice our position because of some uncontrolled media exposure. Mr Sheppard is a very important property and the last thing we want is for him to wind up with a walk-on part in a Six o'Clock News story.'

I picked up her tape-recorder and checked that it was off. ‘Here… put this away.' McD stowed it away in her bag along with her unopened note-book. I lit another cigarette, eyed her through the smoke and decided to play my ace in the hole. ‘Can you keep a secret?'

She shrugged. ‘It depends what kind …'

‘Don't fool around, McD,' I said. ‘What I have to say is strictly
entre nous.
'

‘Okay, shoot.'

I gnawed my lip to underline the gravity of the decision I was about to take. ‘You've heard of Uri Geller?'

‘Not recently,' she said. ‘But I know who you mean. Are you going to tell me that Sheppard is another spoon-bender?'

‘No,' I replied. ‘In any case, that was only one aspect of Geller's paranormal powers. Let me give you another name – Arrigo, the Brazilian psychic surgeon …?'

McD shook her head. ‘I'm not really into all that stuff.'

‘Never mind,' I said. ‘Arrigo cures people. So does Sheppard. But unlike Arrigo, he doesn't use a knife. Now for the moment, this is all under wraps. I am acting as Mr Sheppard's legal advisor.'

‘Who is he? Where does he come from?' asked McD.

‘He's not an American citizen, and Sheppard is not his real name. I'm not at liberty to tell you any more than that. We're just putting the final touches to a million-dollar TV, publishing and lecture tour deal with some very big people out on the Coast. And one of the key clauses is no pre-publicity.' I paused for dramatic effect. ‘You see, McD, the fact is my client
did
cure Mrs Perez. He was crazy to do it, but there it is. Arthritis, rheumatism, slipped discs … anything to do with bones, joints, bad circulation – ' I snapped my fingers. ‘He's an absolute wizz. Now perhaps you can understand why I didn't want to tell Jeff. I didn't want this thing to go off at half-cock. But when he told me he'd put you on the case …' I spread my palms.

McD gave me an understanding nod. ‘Yeah, got it.'

I had the feeling she was on the hook. ‘I'd like to make you a deal, McD. If you give me your assurance that you will forget this conversation, and drop my client right out of whatever you want to make out of the Perez story, I will guarantee you a first crack at the big one when it breaks, plus an exclusive interview. What do you say?'

McDonald's face puckered thoughtfully. She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Okay, it's a deal.' She stood up and shouldered her bag. ‘Thanks for talking to me.'

Although I was quietly pleased she had swallowed my glib explanation, I hadn't expected her to give up so easily. The girl was a lot sharper than I'd bargained for. I could only hope that I had stopped her dead in her tracks. In fact, I was pretty sure I had. It was rather sad to see the light die in her no-nonsense slate-blue eyes. The crass commercialism of TV network deals and publishing tie-ups was something she could accept and understand only too well but it lacked the noble white-knight enchantment of the impenetrable
mysteries of the spirit, the miraculous laying on of hands, and ecstatic visions. But then, it was a cruel world. It was no longer the bravest and the strongest that survived but the sharp-witted and the nimble-tongued. I got Linda to take down McDonald's office number and sent her on her way.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?' asked Linda.

‘Strong and black,' I said.

She brought it into my office a few minutes later. ‘I can't bear the suspense. Are you going to be on TV?'

‘Not yet,' I said. ‘She was more interested in Mr Sheppard. The lady that followed you from the dry cleaning store has been going around telling people he's Jesus Christ.'

She took the news with a straight face. ‘I see … I guess it must be the beard.'

‘And the robe,' I said. ‘She must have spotted the two of you when you went out shopping.'

Linda thought it over. ‘Yes … So what did you say?'

‘To McDonald? I told her that I'd known Mr Sheppard for some time and was confident that this lady, whoever she was, was making a big mistake and probably needed her head examining.'

‘And did she believe you?' said Linda.

Looking back, that was a curious question but at the time, I took it in my stride. ‘If she didn't, I've been wasting my time, and she's about to waste more of hers. How long was she here before I called you?'

Linda raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, uh, about ten, fifteen minutes.'

‘What did you talk about?' I sipped my coffee and watched her mouth. She always loses control of it when she's telling less than the whole truth.

‘Oh, gee …' Linda tried to remember. ‘She asked me where I lived, how much the rent was on my apartment, how big it was – that kind of thing. She's sharing a place at the moment and wants to move out on her own. I gave her the name of a couple of good rental agencies and, er – asked her how she liked working in television.' She shrugged. ‘And that was about it.'

Did you tell her you'd worked for Universal?'

Her mouth held firm. ‘Yes, I mentioned it in passing.'

‘Okay, thanks.' I raised my cup. ‘I needed this.'

Linda started for the door then turned to face me. ‘You needn't worry. I didn't say anything about Mr Sheppard.'

‘Did she ask?'

‘No,' said Linda. ‘Do you think she might?'

I shrugged. ‘You know what reporters are like.'

She nodded. ‘What should I say if she does?'

‘Whatever you like,' I said. ‘Just remember that Mr Sheppard is now one of our clients.'

The news surprised her. ‘Since when?'

‘This afternoon,' I replied. ‘He asked me to act as his attorney just before he left for Israel.'

‘Ah, that's good,' she smiled. ‘I'll open a file. Do you have an address for him?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I'll get him to give you one next time round.' I slumped back in my chair with an audible sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. How long, I wondered, was I going to be able to keep this up? I could not remember lying with such agility since, at the age of fourteen, I began hanging out on street-corners with
shiksas
instead of going to
schule.
I felt like one of those jugglers with thirteen plates spinning on top of long thin poles. It only needed one thing to go wrong to bring everything crashing down around me.

Now that The Man had back-tracked to first-century Jerusalem, life took on, outwardly at least, some semblance of normality. I managed to coax Miriam out of her white coat and into a little restaurant within bleeping distance of the hospital. She listened to my account of McD's visit, told me I'd done a good job, turned down my offer of a country weekend and was called away before the dessert. Undeterred, I drove up to Sleepy Hollow, made myself comfortable and read the books I'd bought from cover to cover. It was an amazing experience. Page after page confirmed The Man's story of the struggle between the Empire and ‘Brax. Consider, for example, the ideas developed in the sixteenth century by Isaac ben Solomon Luria from the Zoharistic Kabbala.

Luria's theosophical vision centred on the idea that during the withdrawal of the Divine Light from the physical universe, a catastrophic event occurred during which luminous particles became trapped in shells of matter
(qelippot)
– a kaballic term that was also used to designate evil powers. The ‘withdrawal' could be interpreted as the Empire's retreat during the Second War of Secession and Luria's ‘luminous particles' could be an off-the-target description of the trapped Ain-folk; the twelve Celestial entities that had shaped the Earth colony during the Second Age.