The Brotherhood of the Rose (11 page)

He inserted a needle-tipped tube in - vein in Chris's arm, then opened a drawer, removing two full hypodermics next to the ampule in which the Amytal had been stored. Since it came as a powder, 500 milligrams of the drug had been mixed with 20 milliliters of sterile water. He inserted one hypodermic in the tube extending from Chris's arm. When he pressed the hypodermic's plunger, the flow of the solution could be controlled by a valve in the tube. He set the second hypodermic near him in case he needed it, though if the session took longer than thirty minutes he'd have to mix a new solution since Amytal decomposed quickly in liquid form.

Five minutes later, as Eliot expected, Chris's eyelids began to flutter. Eliot opened the valve in the tube, allowing a portion of the drug to enter the vein. When Chris's speech became garbled, Eliot would have to close the valve till Chris showed signs of becoming too awake, then open the valve again to subdue him. The procedure required care.

It was best to start simply. "Do you know who I am?" Receiving no answer, Eliot repeated the question. "Eliot," Chris whispered. "Very good. That's right. I'm Eliot." He studied Chris, for a moment reminded of the first time he'd seen him-thirty-one years ago. He recalled the boy clearly, five years old, dirty, thin, in rags, his father dead, his mother a prostitute who'd abandoned him. The row house in the slum in Philadelphia had been filled with tables. On each table, the boy had neatly arranged piles of flies he'd killed with a rubber band. "You remember," Eliot said. "I took care of you. I'm as close to you as a father. You're as close to me as a son. Repeat it."

"Father. Son," Chris murmured. "You love me."

"Love you," Chris said tonelessly. "You trust me. No one else has ever been as kind to you. You're safe. You've nothing to fear."

Chris sighed. "Do you want to make me happy?" Chris nodded. Eliot smiled. "Of course you do. You love me. Listen carefully. I want you to answer some questions. Tell me the truth." He was suddenly conscious of the smell of peppermint in the dentist's office. "Have you heard from Saul?"

Chris took so long to answer Eliot thought he wouldn't. He breathed when Chris said, "No."

"Do you know where he is?"

Chris whispered, "No."

"I'm going to give you a sentence. What does it mean?" Four days ago, the message had been cabled from Atlanta to Rome, in care of Chris at the Mediterranean Flower Shop, the agency's office there. Till his disappearance, Chris had been the assistant bureau chief, on probation while Eliot studied the possible bad effects of the monastery on Chris's work. The message had not been signed, but that was not unusual. All the same, its arrival coincided with Saul's disappearance. Assuming Saul would try to contact Chris, Eliot had learned that this message-in contrast with many others Chris had been sent-bore no relation to agency codes. ""There's an egg in the basket,"' Eliot said. "A message from Saul," Chris answered, eyes closed, -groggy. "Go on."

"He's in trouble. He needs my help."

"That's all it means?"

"A safety-deposit box."

Eliot leaned closer. "Where?"

"A bank."

"Where?"

"Sante Fe. We both have keys. We hid them. In the box, I'll find a message."

"Coded?" Eliot's bony fingers clutched the dentist's chair.

Chris nodded. "Would I recognize the code?"

"Private." "Teach it to me."

"Several." Eliot straightened, his chest tight from frustration. He could ask Chris to explain the several codes, but there was always the chance that, by failing to ask a crucial question, he might not learn all the information he required. No doubt Chris had taken precautions to stop an enemy from posing as himself and gaining access to the safety-deposit box. Where was the key, for example? Was there a password? Those questions were obvious. What troubled Eliot were the questions he couldn't imagine. Chris and Saul had been friends since they'd met in the orphanage thirty-one years ago. They must have hundreds of subtle private signals. All Eliot had to do was fail to learn one of them, and he'd miss this chance to trap Saul. Of course, the agency's computers could decipher the private code, but how long might the process take?

Eliot had to move now. He rubbed his wrinkled chin, abruptly thinking of another question. "Why did you want your teeth removed?"

Chris answered. Eliot shivered. He'd thought nothing could shock him. But this?

Chris swelled with affection as he cradled the candy bar. "A Baby Ruth. You still remember."

"Always." Eliot's eyes looked sad. "But how did you find me?" Chris's tongue felt thick from the Amytal. "Trade secret." Eliot grinned, his lips taut as if on a shrunken skull.

Chris glanced out the jet's window, hearing the muffled roar of the engines as he squinted from the sun and studied the snowlike clouds spread out below him. "Tell me." He sounded hoarse, staring back at his foster father.

Eliot shrugged. "You know what I've always said. To guess an opponent's next move, we have to think as he would think. I trained you, remember. I know everything about you."

"Not quite."

"We'll discuss that in a moment. The point is I pretended I was you. Knowing everything about you, I became you."

"And?"

"Who owed you favors? Who could you depend on for your life? Who had you depended on? As soon as I knew what questions to ask, I calculated the answers. One of them was to have men watch the Special Forces bars in Honolulu."

"Clever. "So were you."

"Not enough-since I was spotted in the bar. And followed, I assume."

"You have to remember you were playing against your teacher. I doubt anyone else could have guessed what you intended."

"Why didn't you order me picked up in Honolulu? I violated the sanction, after all. The other networks are hunting me. you'd have earned some points with them, especially the Russians, if you brought me in."

"I wasn't sure you'd let us take you alive."

Chris stared at him. Eliot's assistant, wearing a Yale ring and tie, brought a tray of Perrier, ice, and glasses, setting it on the table between them in this lounge section of the plane.

Eliot didn't speak till the assistant left. "Besides--2' he seemed to choose his words, pouring Perrier in two glasses, "I was curious. I wondered why you wanted a dentist."

"Personal."

"Not anymore." Eliot handed him a glass. "While you were unconscious in the dentist's chair, I asked you some questions." He paused. "I know you intended to kill yourself."

"Past tense?"

"For my sake, I hope so. Why did you want to do it? You know your death would hurt me. Your suicide would hurt even worse. I "That's why I wanted my teeth removed. If my body was ever found, it couldn't be identified."

"But why ask the priest? Why go to the safe house?"

"I wanted a dentist who was used to working with operatives, who wouldn't ask questions."

Eliot shook his head. "What's wrong?" "That isn't true. With a little trouble you found a dentist on your own. You didn't need someone familiar with our profession. All you needed was sufficient money to bribe a man into silence. No, you had a different reason for asking the priest."

"Since you know all the answers..."

"You went to the priest because you knew he'd make inquiries before he gave you the information. I'd learn where you were. I'd be puzzled about your request and intercept you."

"What good would that have done? I didn't want to be stopped."

"No?" Eliot squinted at him. "Your request to the priest was the same as a cry for help. A suicide note before the fact. You wanted to tell me how much pain you were in."

Chris shook his head.

"Unconsciously? What is it?" Frowning, Eliot leaned forward. "What's wrong? I don't understand."

"I'm not sure I can explain it. Let's just say..." Chris debated in anguish. "I'm sick. Of everything."

"The monastery changed you."

"No. The sickness came before the monastery."

"Drink the Perrier. Your mouth will be dry from the Amytal." Automatically Chris obeyed. Eliot nodded. "What kind of sickness?"

"I'm ashamed." :"Because of what you do?"

"Because of what I feel. The guilt. I see faces, I hear voices. Dead men. I can't shut them out. You taught me discipline, but the lesson isn't working anymore. I can't stand the shame of-"

"Listen to me," Eliot said.

Chris rubbed his forehead. "You're a member of a high-risk profession. I don't mean just the physical danger. As you've discovered, there's also a spiritual danger. The things we have to do can sometimes force us to be inhuman."

"Then why do we have to do them?"

"You're not naive. You know the answer as well as I. Because we're fighting to protect the way of life we believe in. We sacrifice ourselves so others can have normal lives. Don't blame yourself for what you've needed to do. Blame the other side. What about the monastery? If your need was spiritual, why couldn't the Cistercians help you? Why did they force you out? The vow of silence? After six years, was it too much for you?"

"It was wonderful. Six years of peace." Chris frowned. "Too much peace."

"Because of the strictness of the Order, a psychiatrist came to test us every six months. He checked for signs-tiny clues of unproductive behavior. The Cistercians believe in work, after We supported ourselves by farming. Anyone who couldn't do his share couldn't be allowed to live off the sweat of others." Eliot nodded, waiting.

"Catatonic schizophrenia." Chris breathed deeply. "That's what the psychiatrist tested us for. Preoccupations. Trances. He asked us questions. He watched for our reactions to various sounds and colors. He studied our daily behavior. One day when he found me sitting motionless in a garden, staring at a rock-for an hour-he reported to my superior. The rock was fascinating. I can still remember it." Chris narrowed his eyes. "But I'd failed the test. The next time somebody found me paralyzed like that-catatonic-I was out. Peace. My sin was I wanted too much peace."

On the tray, beside the Perrier bottles, a long-stemmed crimson rose stood in a vase. Eliot picked it up. "You had your rock. I have my roses. In our business, we need beauty." He sniffed the rose and handed it to Chris. "Did you ever wonder why I chose roses?"

Chris shrugged. "I assumed you liked flowers."

"Roses, though. Why roses?" Chris shook his head. "They're the emblem of our profession. I enjoy the double meaning. In Greek mythology, the god of love once offered a rose to the god of silence, as a bribe, to keep that god from disclosing the weaknesses of the other gods. In time, the rose became the symbol for silence and secrecy. In the Middle Ages, a rose was customarily suspended from the ceiling of a council chamber. The members of the council pledged themselves not to reveal what they discussed in the room, sub rosa, under the rose."

"You've always liked playing with words," Chris said, returning the rose. "My trouble is, I can't believe in them anymore."

"Let me finish. Part of my delight in roses comes from the different varieties. The various colors and shapes. I have my favorites-Lady X and Angel Face. I used those names as cryptonyms for two of my female operatives. My ladies."

Eliot smiled. "The names of other varieties appeal to me. The American Pillar. The Gloria Mundi. But the goal of every rose enthusiast is to create a new variety. We cut and layer and graft, or we cross-pollinate seed. The ripe seed is kept in sand till spring, when it's sown in pans. The first year produces only color. After that comes the full bloom and the merit. The new variety is a hybrid. Only a large, well-formed, singly grown blossom standing higher than the reipr will do. To enhance the quality of the bloom, the side growth must be removed by a process called disbudding. You and Saul -you're my hybrids. Raised without families, in the orphanage, you had no side growth-you didn't need to be disbudded. Nature had already done that. Your bloom was developed through rigorous training and discipline. To give your characters substance, certain feelings had to be cut from you. Patriotism was layered onto your character. Military experience and, of course, the war were grafted onto you. My hybrids-you stand higher than all the rest. If your conditioning failed and you now feel, it shouldn't be guilt you feel but pride. You're beautiful. I could have given you a new name for a new species. Instead I think of you in terms of the particular rose I'm holding, so dark crimson it's almost black. It's called the Black Prince. That's how I think of you and Saul. As my Black Princes."

"But Saul didn't fail. He..." Chris's eyes changed. "Wait a minute. You're not telling me this just for...

Eliot spread his hands. "So you guessed."

"What's wrong? What's happened to Saul?" Eliot studied him. "Because of your brother, I'm asking you not to try again to kill yourself."

"What is it?" Chris sat forward, tensing. "What about Saul?"

"Five days ago, he did a job for me. After, a member of the team tried to kill him. He got in touch with me. I arranged for him to go to a secure location. When he got there, he discovered the location had been compromised. Another team tried to kill him. He's on the run."

"Then, Jesus, bring him in!"