The Brotherhood of the Rose (48 page)

I The shell game. Remembering, Saul fumed. But now instead of three shells, there were six. Which cabin held the pea?

He had to reduce his choices. Would Eliot pick a cabin near the office and the road? Not likely. He'd prefer to hide where the cover was best-in the middle. But then again maybe not. What about the cabin on the opposite end over there the one closest to the forest?

Saul shook his head. Too far from the road if he had to get away from here fast.

Still its isolation would be an advantage in a fight; few people would hear the commotion.

Again he felt stymied. What about the cabin on each side of the one where the Ford was parked? They were obvious possibilities. Accordingly Saul discounted them.

But what if Eliot had chosen to hide behind the obvious? The complexity continued to baffle him.

A stalemate. Eliot wouldn't show himself till he felt safe. Saul in turn refused to act till he knew he wouldn't be facing a trap. But Eliot knew, just as Saul did, that the police would investigate the accident and come looking for the stolen van. The cops'd be here soon. And so would the rest home's guards. Something had to happen to break the stalemate. Someone had to move first. He made a decision. It was arbitrary. But deep in his soul, it felt right. Where would I hide if I were Eliot?

Away from Pollux in the cabin over there. I'd want to see what happened. Safely away from the Ford. I'd stay in a cabin over here.

The possibilities reduced, at 4east in theory, he shifted through the rain toward the supposedly empty cabins, both of them on his left. "So you guessed."

The ancient voice was startling. Saul twisted sharply, aiming at the space between two cabins.

And found himself staring in shock at Eliot. The old man had been standing out of sight in front of an empty cabin. Now he showed himself, drenched by the rain.

More exhausted and wizened than Saul had ever seen him, the old man shrugged. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go on and shoot."

Saul wanted to, with all his heart, amazed at himselfbecause no matter how much his rage compelled him, he couldn't force himself to pull the trigger. "What's the matter?" his father said. "Isn't this what you wanted? My compliments. You've won."

Saul wanted to scream, but his throat squeezed shut till he couldn't breathe. His chest contracted till he thought his lungs would be crushed. "You figured it out," his father said. "God damn, I taught you well. I always said, pretend you're the enemy you're hunting. And you guessed. You sensed I'd be in a cabin on this side."

The rain fell so hard Saul couldn't be sure if his cheeks were wet from raindrops or from tears. "You bastard."

"No more than yourself. Go on," his father said. "I've admitted you've beaten me. So pull the trigger."

Again Saul had trouble speaking. "Why?" he murmured hoarsely. "Isn't it obvious? I'm old. I'm tired."

"You still had a chance."

"For what? To die? Or see another of my children die? I'm sick of it. I've got too many ghosts. Furies. On the riverbanks, when you came to me while I was fishing, I tried to explain why I'd done the things you blame me for."

"I can't forgive you for killing Chris."

"I was wrong to ask you. Shoot me." Rain slicked Eliot's thin gray hair to his forehead. "Why hesitate? Your attitude's not professional." Eliot's black suit clung pathetically to him, utterly soaked. "Your father's telling you to kill him."

"No." Saul shook his head. "If you want it, then it's too damned easy."

"True. I understand. Revenge isn't satisfying if the man you hate won't resist. Very well. If that's the way it's to be, then by default you've made a choice."

Saul and Eliot stared at each other. "I don't suggest a reconciliation," Eliot said. "But I wonder if a grudging acceptance might be possible. I'm your father. No matter how much you hate me, we still share a bond. As a favor, in memory of when you loved me, let me live my last few years in peace."

Saul almost shot him then, tempted by the thought of denying Eliot what he wanted.

But he realized he'd been talking with Eliot long enough for Castor or Pollux to have killed him where he hesitated in the open., Eliot had truly surrendered.

No, not here, not now, he thought. He couldn't shoot. Not face to face if his father refused to fight back. "After everything you taught me, I failed."

His father raised his eyebrows sadly, quizzically. "Or you didn't teach me well enough," Saul continued. He lowered the Uzi. "And maybe that's all to the good. I'm finished. I'm resigning. Fuck the agency. Fuck you. There's a lady I know. Instead of playing games with you, I should have gone away with her."

His father brooded. "I never told you. Back in '5 1. Perhaps you wondered why I never married. See, I had to make a choice. The agency or... Well, I'm not sure my choice was the right one." Thunder rumbled. The old man peered at black rolling clouds. "I always wondered what became of her." His eyes narrowed, nostalgic. Then his mood broke, and he tugged at his suit "You and 1, we're ridiculous." He sounded amused. Standing in the rain. A young man like you, you don't seem to mind getting wet. But these old bones..." He chuckled in "self-derision. "Thank God, this is over." He held out his handit shook. "I've got some Wild Turkey in my suitcase. A farewell drink might be in order. To chase the cold away."

"You told us never to drink. You said it dulls the mind and the senses."

"I didn't expect you to share it with me. But now that you've retired, what difference does it make?"

"Old habits die hard."

"I know. Forgive me. No matter how hard you try, you'll never be normal. That's something else to haunt me."

Eliot turned wearily, stepping up on the cabin's porch, shielded from the rain by an awning. He gestured across to the cabin behind the Ford. Pollux stood nervously in the open doorway over there, but seeing the signal from Eliot, he relaxed his shoulders. In a moment, he went back in the cabin, shutting the door.

Saul approached his father. "Inasmuch as we'll probably never see each other again," Eliot said, "I want to share a secret with you."

"What?"

"About Chris and the monastery. Something that happened to him there. It helps, I think, if you know about it." The old man went in his cabin, rummaging through a suitcase, finally raising a fifth of Wild Turkey. "There ought to be a glass around here. Good." He poured a small amount of whiskey into it. "Sure you won't join me?"

Saul neared him impatiently. "What about Chris? What happened in the monastery?"

Behind him, the slight creak of the open door was his only warning. He automatically leaned ahead, stooping to protect his renal artery. It happened swiftly, the brush of cloth, the rush of air. But not a knife, instead a glint of piano wire flashing from above him, streaking past his eyes toward his throat.

A garotte. The weapon was usually hidden under a collar. Two wooden handles, pulled from a shirt pocket, snapped into hooks on each end of the wire, prevented an assassin from cutting his fingers while he controlled the strangulation.

Saul jerked up his hands to protect his throat, the gesture instinctive, also a mistake.

Andre Rothberg: Use only one hand to protect your throat. Keep your other hand free so you can fight. If the wire traps both hands, you're dead.

Saul corrected his impulse, wrenching his left hand free. His right hand, shielding his larynx, was caught by the wire. Behind him, Castor, who'd been hiding behind the open door, applied more pressure.

Saul dimly heard Eliot say, "I'm sorry. But you know I can't trust you. What if you woke up tomorrow and decided you wanted to kill me anyhow?"

He shut the door. "This way's better. There'll be no shooting. No frightened tourists. No calls to the police. We'll have time to get away. I regret having tricked you, though. If it makes any difference, I love you."

A garotte kills in two ways: by strangling the victim, by cutting his throat. In its simplest form, it's nothing more than a strand of piano wire. But the better type uses several strands, twisted under pressure, with industrial diamonds imbedded among them. As a consequence, if a victim manages to raise a hand to stop the garotte from touching his throat, the assailant can use the edge of the diamonds to cut through the victim's fingers.

That began to happen now. Saul struggled, feeling the diamond-studded wires saw back and forth across the fingers he gripped protectively over his voice box. The diamonds gnawed his flesh and ground his bones. Blood streamed down his arm. Even with his hand as a buffer, he felt the pressure on the garotte squeezing off his air. He gagged.

The door came open. Pollux stepped in, briefly distracting Castor.

It gave Saul time. Though his mind swirled from lack of oxygen, he drew his free arm forward, making a fist, bending the elbow, ramming it back as hard as he could. The blow struck Castor's chest. Andre Rothberg had taught Saul well. The elbow smashed Castor's rib cage. Bones cracked, impaling a lung.

Groaning, Castor released his grip and staggered back. Saul didn't waste time removing the garotte. As Castor sagged, Saul swung, feeling a sharp pain in his elbow, realizing he'd fractured it, but that didn't matter. Rothberg's training was based on the theory that a few parts of the body could still function as weapons, even though injured. The elbow was one.,of those parts.

Saul straightened his arm, ignoring the pain, continuing to swing. The side of his rigid hand caught Castor's brother,.Pollux, in the throat. The damage was lethal. Pollux dropped uncontrollably, convulsing.

Incredibly, despite the massive trauma to his chest, Castor had still not fallen. A palm thrust to his shattered ribs jerked him back. He trembled in death throes, collapsing.

Saul tore the garotte from his throat and whirled toward Eliot. "I meant it. At the last, I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have killed you."

Eliot blanched. "No. Please." Saul picked up the Uzi he'd dropped in the scuffle. "Now," he demanded fiercely. Stepping ahead, he embraced his father. Clutching him with his injured arm, he used the other to raise the Uzi to almost point-blank range.

Eliot squirmed. Hugging him, Saul pulled the trigger. He kept it pressed back. The Uzi rattled, ejecting empty casings, making a noise like a sewing machine.

And stitched out his father's heart. "You never had one anyhow."

Saul dripped with blood as his father's shuddering body slid from his grasp. "For Chris," Saul moaned.

And realized he'd begun to cry. He wrapped a handkerchief around his bleeding fingers. The bones, though gnawed by the garotte, would heal. The pain was intense, but he ignored it, hurriedly taking off his bloody wet clothes, putting on Pollux's dry jeans and denim shirt.

There was much to do. The guards and the police would soon be here. He didn't dare return to the stolen van, so he'd have to take the Ford, though tourists alarmed by the shots would see him drive away in it. He'd found its keys on Pollux. To be safe, he'd soon abandon it. If he could reach Vancouver, he'd be able to disappear.

And then? The police would have no leads. But what about the profession? Would he still be hunted? Till he knew he was free, he couldn't join Erika.

Rain gusted in as he opened the cabin's door. He glanced back at Eliot's body. For Chris, he'd said. Now his voice cracked. "And for me."

Epilogue

SANCTION'S AFTERMATH

ABELARD AND HELOISE France, 1138. Peter Abelard, onetime canon of the church of Notre Dame, formerly revered as the greatest teacher of his day, had fallen from eminence for love of his beautiful student, Heloise. Castrated by her angry uncle because of her pregnancy, pursued by jealous enemies eager to take advantage of his disgrace, he founded a safe house, the Paraclete, and invited Heloise, now a nun, to be in charge of a convent there. His emasculation prevented them from joining in love, but profoundly devoted to one another as brother and sister, they composed the documents -Abe lard's history of his calamities, Heloise's letters-that became the basis for the legend of their tragic passion. After repeated attempts to regain his former glory, Abelard died, dejected, weary, some say of a broken heart. Disinterred from the priory of Saint Marcel, his body was secretly delivered to Heloise at the Paraclete, where after more than twenty years of mourning she died and lay in the ground beside him. Their remains were moved several times during centuries to come but were finally put to rest in the tomb that bears their name in the cemetery of P@re-Lachaise in Paris.

Where they found eternal sanctuary.

UNDER THE ROSE FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA (AP)-A powerful explosion last night destroyed a greenhouse behind the home of Edward Franciscus Eliot, former Chief of Counterespionage for the Central Intelligence Agency. Eliot, a rose enthusiast, was murdered six days ago while on vacation in British Columbia, Canada. His funeral in Washington, Tuesday, showed a rare accord between Democrat and Republican legislators, who as one mourned the loss of a great American. "He served his country selflessly for more than forty years," the president said. "He'll be sorely missed."

Last night's explosion, investigators said, was caused by a massive thermite bomb. "The heat was incredible," a Fire Department official announced at a press conference. "What it didn't burn to ashes, it melted. We couldn't get near the greenhouse for several hours. I can't imagine why anybody would want to destroy it. I'm told those roses were gorgeous, some of them extremely rare, one of a kind. It's senseless."