<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 19 Least Resistance Anton stepped from a bus into the glaring sunlight, shielding his eyes with one hand. Pedestrians scurried across the concrete plaza, trying to avoid the heat waves rippling in the air around them. He moved slowly toward the granite steps of the Bruss Tower, which people in Denver called the Brass Shaft. Its skin of mirror-tinted windows cast a uniform, white-hot glare into the air. He adopted a walk that was at once coolly casual and insolently formal, which protected him a bit from the extreme heat. Not being an ant under a magnifying glass, he passed through the radioactive zone without getting burnt. He stepped into the shade of a columned arcade, and the contrast was immediate. Here everything was hushed and cool. A wide, flat waterfall slid over an angled surface which, the tiny plaque informed him, was made of pink marble from northern Italy. The walls of the lobby were sheathed in polished stone, and trees were installed as part of the architecture. He entered one of the brass-doored elevators. He was alone as he rode to the thirty-third floor, and he had the distinct impression of not moving. In the airy executive lobby of Bruss Telecom, he approached the reception desk. "Might Mr. Bruss have a moment to speak with me?" The receptionist frowned. "If you were the sort of person he'd let just walk in, you'd be calling him Sam." "It's my habit to call someone 'Mr.' until we've been introduced. I don't know Mr. Bruss, I'm a messenger." He placed Reinhold's card on her desk. He was immediately ushered in to see Sam Bruss, who was fleshy and brutal, making Anton feel frail in comparison. Bruss invited him to sit down, but he remained standing, facing the angular glass desk and the expansive view. He delivered the message he'd been sent to deliver. "The Colonel believes you know the Iranian foreign minister. In fact, the minister owes you a favor." Bruss folded his hands, his expression neutral and polite. "The Colonel needs some arrangements made. An Iranian associate of his is having some trouble with the authorities. Your friend the foreign minister has a cousin in the secret police, who is in a position to get the investigation dropped. The Colonel wants this to happen. In addition, he wants an end to the harassment of his associate during his frequent border crossings into Turkey. This inconvenience has cost the Colonel millions of dollars so far this year. He is hopeful that progress will be visible in two weeks. Otherwise, your building will be attacked by terrorists, or perhaps you will be kidnapped. The Colonel knows your vulnerabilities and is ready to exploit them." Bruss shook his head in disbelief. "Gotta love the guy. Why all the threats? Just once, couldn't he ask politely?" "I'm asking on his behalf, Mr. Bruss. Would you help us?" Bruss showed his teeth. "I'll definitely look into it. Tell him not to worry. If there's anything I can do, I'll be glad to help." "Intentions aren't good enough. The Colonel wants results." Sam Bruss, telecommunications billionaire, squirmed. "I understand that. Only we're dealing with the politics of a foreign country here." His tone grew belligerent. "Who are you to threaten me in my own office? Do you think I'm unprotected? My security people aren't amateurs. They're the best in the business." "We know that. Some of them are already in Reinhold's camp." Bruss bit his lip. That might well be true. Anton soothed him. "The Colonel wants you to think of the advantages of working together. The Iranian connection will benefit everyone involved. And there are other areas where you might cooperate. He said I should specifically mention the Luzhkin Contract." "He knows about the Luzhkin Contract?" Bruss was too dumbfounded to pretend otherwise. "The contract can be revived. The remaining signatories will be persuaded to get on board." "He's in a position to influence the Luzhkin Contract?" Anton smiled serenely. "The Colonel is in a position to influence everything." Bruss tapped his desk with one fingernail. "Wait outside while I make some calls." Half an hour later, Anton was back in the sun-drenched plaza, his mission a success. The left-over adrenalin made him feel restless, so he decided to see the sights. He'd been in Denver twice with the Psychic Rangers, but they'd spent all their time in the concert hall or on the bus. The first time they'd played in a bohemian cafe, and the second time in a major arena. He felt nostalgic for those days of hope and struggle, but he was glad they were behind him now. He walked along the river, and bought a painting from a gallery in a converted warehouse. He'd started collecting art as way of setting aside money for Timmins, but by now it had become a habit. He was asked for his autograph only once, when two girls with badly dyed hair came up to him in a cafe. Except for a strolling couple who called "Anton!" from across the street, people left him alone. Unsure what to do next, he ate dinner in a sports bar and checked into a hotel. Should he wait for instructions from the Citadel, or just head home? The next morning, Sabrina met him in a breakfast place downtown. They hadn't arranged this, but he wasn't surprised at all when she slipped into the booth across from him. It felt natural to him that their paths would cross. She laughed as she slid into her seat. "Being in public with a celebrity is the perfect cover. They don't see me at all. They're looking at you." He glowered, egg on his fork. "Are you stalking me again?" "There's no reason for that now. It's just a coincidence that we're in town at the same time." "So how did you know where to find me?" "My Denver people are competent. I heard you had some business with Bruss?" He was tempted to brag about that, but instead he said, "I guess I should thank you for getting me into the Citadel. Your strategy worked." "I didn't have much to do with that, to be honest. My intervention sped things up a bit, but it was bound to happen sooner or later." She spread jam on her toast and took a bite. "So now that you're a hardened field worker, how about doing a mission for me?" He fidgeted. "I should be getting back to Portland. My new album's coming out in a couple of weeks." "Then I guess I'll have to find someone else." He took a sip of coffee. "What does it involve?" She laughed. "I knew it. You're hooked. It's a drug shipment that needs to be brought here from Arkansas." "Why doesn't Reinhold tell me himself?" "It's not his mission. It's under my command." He frowned. "I thought this was all one seamless conspiracy." "I told you before. My operations parallel Reinhold's, but they're run independently. And there are a few key differences." She lowered her voice. "I've noticed you aren't too keen on the assassins' paradise, rewarding our agents with a realm of infinite bliss. You seem to think it's manipulative." "You bet I do! Only a fool would take a deal like that." "So you'd refuse the garden if you were offered it? Even if people said it was like riding the tiger, or flying into the sun on wings of steel, or knowing the mind of God?" "If the price is permanent addiction, no way. I won't trade my freedom for a few minutes of happiness." He didn't bother to tell her that he'd already been to the garden, without Reinhold's help. Exploring the border between the real and the unreal was a pastime of his. He'd seen the garden with its bright lights, its swirling music, its painted women. It was like a casino in the desert. At best it was a way station on the pilgrim's path, an oasis in the midst of harsh terrain. At worst it was a trap that robbed people of the will to go on. It filled them with delight, and their troubles vanished. The thought of heading back into the desert became unimaginable to them. He, however, had passed the test. The garden of delights didn't interest him. She fixed her eyes on his. "What if Reinhold told you he'd destroy you if you didn't do it?" He laughed. "Being threatened only makes me stubborn. You know that." She leaned closer. "All of my differences with Reinhold come down to this. He talks about an assassin's paradise that can only be reached through one door, his door. My people won't use that door. All of us were offered, and all of us refused." "You refused? You're Reinhold's lieutenant!" "It caused tension, of course. But there's plenty of room for dissent in the Reinhold organization. If you choose not to do something, he'll find someone who doesn't have a problem with it. If you destroy your usefulness to him, he'll drop you. If you get in his way, watch out. Otherwise, the choice is yours. That's Reinhold's genius. He's found a way to channel the energies of countless individuals into a project that multiplies his power, without forcing anyone to do anything against their will." Anton was tired of hearing about Reinhold's genius, but he was intrigued to learn that there was dissent within the organization. He had no way of knowing how important the paradise issue was as a test of loyalty within the ranks. He could imagine other differences as well. For example, some of the Colonel's agents might resent that he'd been chosen as Reinhold's messenger, and be working to sabotage him if they could. Perhaps Sabrina was one of them. He needed no reminder that he should be careful with her. She might be arming him against his enemies, or she might be an enemy herself. He wanted to learn more, so he accepted the mission. She gave him an outline of what to do. "We need a chameleon, someone who can switch roles on the spur of the moment. You'll start in Omaha with a man named Tyler. From there, you'll be moving from one situation to the next almost at random. How to do it will become clear step by step. The people you meet will see you as a drifter, a runaway. You won't be a celebrity as you are now, you'll be a forgettable person. You'll have a lot of downtime because of that. My advice to you is, follow the path of least resistance. The way people respond to you will be the best clue." When he left the restaurant, he noticed that the streets had changed. There were different buildings, and the cars had Nebraska plates. "Awesome," he said, although it was scary. When he got his bearings, he saw that he was a few blocks from the diner where he was supposed to meet Tyler. "He's always there," Sabrina had told him. "Just walk in." There was country music on the jukebox, and apple pie beneath a plastic dome. The waitress was busy behind the counter. Tyler sat in a corner booth, watching everything without seeming to notice. He spotted Anton as he stood in the doorway, taking in the sounds and smells. He gave a nod that brought Anton to his table. "Folks call me Tyler," he said as they shook hands. "Hamburg and fries for the boy," he told the waitress as she scurried past. "You take coffee?" Anton had just eaten, but he didn't object. Follow the path of least resistance, he told himself. Be whatever people want you to be. "What I got is an assignment for you, boy," Tyler said. "You'll be used to assignments from school, but this is a whole different thing." He paused to drink from the cup he cradled in both hands. "Elson Darby is an enemy of the people. I think I got a picture of him here somewheres." He dug through an overstuffed valise. "Nope. Well, take my word for it, he's one mean dude. And this Darby is a homosexual, which is where you come in." "Hey, wait a minute." The waitress brought Anton his food. "What do you want me to do?" Tyler dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Eat your hamburger, boy. Best in the state." Following Tyler's instructions, he took a bus to St. Louis. He arrived an hour or so before dark. There was a thin snowfall that didn't quite reach the ground, and he was shivering from the cold. He walked through a neighborhood of working-class bungalows until he found the one he was looking for. It had painted gravel where a lawn should be, and shrubs in old tires on either side of the porch. He mounted the steps and rang the bell. A man of about fifty appeared, with a lean, ravaged face. He wore a button-up shirt that hung loose on his thin frame. A TV blared in the background. He looked like he wanted to punch someone in the face. "Tyler told me to come here," Anton said. "Tyler who?" "Tyler in Omaha." "A little black guy, about my age, with squinty eyes?" "That's right." "I can't help you." "I'm not from the FBI or the Mafia, if that's what's worrying you." "Worried? With a punk like you?" He gave a sharp laugh. "The thing is, Tyler's not a good judge of character. If you need a place to stay, go to Hotel Franco, corner of Tenth and Olive. Max'll fix you up. Aside from that, you're own your own. Here in St. Louis, we've got better things to do than give our time to strangers." "Sorry to bother you, then." Anton backed off down the sidewalk. "And get a haircut! There's a barber a block from the hotel. Ken still cuts hair the old-fashioned way, with a razor." He walked downtown and checked into the hotel. He went to look for the barber shop, because he was tired of his flashy hairstyle anyway. The barber scowled when he saw it, and snipped it down to almost nothing. When he looked in the mirror, he was surprised to find the innocent-looking Midwestern kid he'd once been. He got something to eat, and wandered around a bit. Passing an Army-Navy store, he bought a wool coat and a knit cap to ward off the cold. He hadn't shaved in two days, and the stubble was showing on his lip and chin. With his collar up and his hat down, he resembled the nondescript drifter he was supposed to be. When he got back to the hotel, the clerk handed him a note. "A guy came looking for you a few minutes ago." He read the note. "Lemon Drop 8:00 p.m. Brown Chevy Impala. E. Darby." He looked at the clock on the wall. He had twenty minutes. He asked for directions and went out. A beaten-up brown sedan was parked by the curb at the Lemon Drop. As he approached, Darby leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. "Let's go for a ride," he said once Anton was inside. When he turned the ignition, the car filled with a blast of heat and music. Anton thought it was Merle Haggard. They left the city, following a two-lane highway west into the mountains. The wipers moved sporadically to clear away the snowflakes. He wondered where they were headed, but he didn't ask. Darby pulled a bottle of Southern Comfort from under the seat and took a swig, then passed it to him. He didn't feel like drinking, but he took it anyway to get his mind off things. The car was too hot, so he unbuttoned his coat and removed his cap. Darby reached over with one hand to rub the back of his neck. "You got a haircut like I told you. That's nice. Ken's a good barber, cuts the traditional way. You're a good-looking kid." They drove through a piney region where every so often, a house set back from the road sent a shaft of light through the trees. After he'd drunk enough that he was past caring, he let Darby unbuckle his jeans and slip a hand inside his pants. Darby's hands were all knuckle and bone, and the way they handled him made lights go off inside his head. It was a desperate pleasure. He twisted in the man's lean arms, unsure whether to press himself closer or pull away. By now they'd pulled off the road into a spot hidden by trees, and Darby's face was buried in his crotch. From time to time, Darby muttered terms of endearment. "You like it, don't you, you little whore." Anton let out a scream and shot his load down the other man's throat. Darby took a swig of whiskey and started the car again. They came to a rustic motel with shingles and eaves. Darby pulled up to the office, and told Anton to get out. "I'm heading on to Little Rock, and Texarkana. I'm a preacher, you know. I fight the Devil." He showed Anton the well-thumbed Bible he kept in the back seat. He thrust a wad of bills into Anton's hand. "Be a good boy and get a cabin in back. There's a restaurant here, so treat yourself. I'll be back in a couple of days. Sit tight until then." He drove off, leaving Anton in the driveway. When Anton woke the next day, it was impossible to know the hour because the sky was a dull gray. It could have been morning, or late afternoon. There was the sound of water everywhere, dripping from branches, spattering the windows, forming rivulets and washing away. There was nothing to see except cabins and piney woods, so he closed the curtains and got back into bed. He wished he had a book to read, or a pen and paper. He thought of looking for a Bible in the bedside table, but he didn't bother. He sat with his back against the headboard, legs tucked under him, staring into space. "To exist and wait," he said out loud, "not knowing why, or even if there is a why, until the moment you're called, if it comes." He sat in the darkened cabin, listening to the sound of rain on the eaves. "To sit in a room, exist and wait, not knowing why, waiting for something, the moment that calls you to action, a phone call, a knock on the door, a car driving by in the rain...." He heard a car driving by in the rain. There was a knock on the door and it opened. Someone switched on the light. New arrivals spilled in with happy noises. "Guess what, we got the stuff!" They acted like they knew him, as if they were the ones who had left him there in the first place. "Are you ready?" they said. "Sure, I'm ready." He put on his shoes. "Then let's go. We've got a long drive ahead of us." A blue sports car waited outside with its engine running. He got in back with two others. They sped along the mountain road in a way that made him nervous, because the curves were slick with rain. They sampled the "stuff" as they drove, and after a while, he could care less if they skidded and turned over, ending as a bloody mess at the bottom of a ravine. They got on the Interstate going west. He gathered from their conversation that they were on their way back to Denver, where a party would be happening the following night. The "stuff" was the frosting on the cake, the star on the Christmas tree, the final ingredient that would ensure the party's success. They were concerned about getting home at a reasonable hour, because they had jobs to report to the next morning. It was already evening, and they still had Kansas and Colorado to cross. With the late hour of their arrival and the drugs they were consuming, they worried about the shape they would be in the following day. From their chatter, he understood that he had an office job like theirs. He wondered what it was like. Would he be able to fake it? He hadn't held a job since his first weeks in Portland, when he'd worked at Deb's Diner. The whole concept of work was strange to him, but he was on the path of least resistance. He told himself to be patient. The mission would end soon. After dark the conversation became fitful, or lapsed entirely as people slept. They changed drivers each time they stopped for gas, and he got his turn at the wheel. Finally the lights of Denver appeared on the horizon, and they found their way to a neighborhood on the west side. He followed them into the house, where they were greeted with backslaps and hugs. As far as he could tell, it was a sort of commune. Its members worked to support the group, and they did business on the side like their latest drug run. Motivational booklets and videos lay around the house, giving him a sense of the commune's purpose. These were the sort of young people the Salon des Assassins was designed to attract, but they seemed unaware they were working for Reinhold. In their eyes he was a recruit from another city, and they were helping him to get on his feet in Denver. In the morning he would go downtown to work in a bank, and one of their members, Cindy, would accompany him. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be his first day on the job. They handed him a blanket, and told him to sleep on the couch. In the morning, someone shook him gently to wake him up. People were moving in and out of the bathroom and kitchen, brushing their teeth and eating breakfast. They gave him a jacket and tie, and Cindy rode downtown with him on the bus. Leaving him at the front door of the bank, she told him to report to Mrs. Baumgarten on the second floor. She would be back at the end of the day to pick him up. Meanwhile, a messenger would be coming in the afternoon. He would give Anton an envelope, which he was to keep. He would recognize the messenger by certain details in his clothing and body language. He should invite the messenger to their party. Mrs. Baumgarten gave him a desk on the balcony above the concourse, among brass railings and potted plants. Under his feet was a thick carpet in subdued shades. She stopped by every so often with folders to sort, or address labels to stick on envelopes. He answered the phone and wrote messages in a book with pink tear-out slips. There was something zenlike in this kind of work, because it left his mind empty. He watched women crisscross the lobby below him in spiked heels. Their shoes echoed on the marble, stiletto their shape, staccato their sound. He kept looking at the clock on the wall, counting the minutes until he would be free again. A young man in a wine-colored jacket and mustard-colored shirt, with sideburns and slick hair, came up to him with a large envelope. The boy leaned insolently against a marble column, a bicycle helmet under one arm. His fingers drummed against the helmet, and he wore a brightly colored fish tie, loosely knotted. "You're the only one that could possibly look good on," Anton told him. The boy handed him the envelope. The flap wasn't sealed, so he looked inside. It contained photos. He slipped one partway out. It showed the same mountain inn where he'd spent the night, and Elson Darby in a compromising position with a young man. He put the photo quickly away, and slipped the envelope into a drawer of his desk. "Do you take tips?" He reached into his jacket for some of the "stuff," but the messenger waved it away. "I don't mess with that on the job." "Then come to our party tonight. Here's the address. Bring some friends if you want." When he walked outside at the end of the day, he was relieved to be back in the open air. He waited on the sidewalk for Cindy, the envelope tucked under his arm. He tried to make sense of the connections that had brought him here, but it was futile. In Reinhold's world, people went about their business without ever realizing they fit into a larger scheme. Only Reinhold knew the whole story. Without him, events would be meaningless and random. There was no escaping him, because he'd mastered all technologies, and his agents were everywhere. Reinhold was the Citadel, and the Citadel was the world. A horn sounded nearby, and he saw the blue sports car he'd been in the day before. Cindy waved to him from the driver's seat. He got in and tossed the envelope in her lap. She flipped through the photos with a whistle of appreciation. "Nice job." "Don't thank me. I'm not the photographer." "You made the connection, and that's what counts. You invited him to our party, right? We've still got to hand over the payment." Back at the house, the mood grew exuberant as the "stuff" began to circulate. The group's leader, known as the Coach, had promised them a special reward that night. The Coach managed one of Denver's professional sports teams, and he was a well-known motivational speaker. His picture was on most of the self-help materials scattered around the house. The only thing spoiling their mood was that Anton was too new to share the reward with them. They assured him that if he was patient, his time would come. The party was at the Coach's house in a wealthy suburb. They piled into the car and headed off. They passed through a gate and parked at the end of a long driveway. Music throbbed from inside the house. The Coach greeted them at the door with a firm handshake. He wore a blazer and open-necked shirt, jeans and expensive boots. Still following the path of least resistance, Anton tried to mingle, but his true nature was beginning to reassert itself. He wanted the mission to end so he could go home. To get away from everyone for a few minutes, he wandered off down a hallway. He found himself staring at a piece of art, which fascinated him because it had no meaning. Its only purpose was to decorate its surroundings. The people around him tonight were like that too, he decided. Their laughter and chatter provoked a wave of rising nausea. He wished a holocaust would come to sweep it all away. "What's he doing?" said a girl behind him. "He's been standing like that for a long time." "He's tripping," came the reply. "Because of the stuff." "Oh, that's so sad!" "Really? Why?" "I don't know, it just is! We're here to have fun, and he's stuck in his own world." He wanted to spin around and confront her. Instead he went in the bathroom and closed the door. When he came out, everyone had gathered in the living room for an announcement by the Coach. They were sitting on couches or standing around the walls. The Coach was in the center of the room, in front of a massive fireplace. "It's time to show our appreciation for all your hard work. So let's call out our winners one by one. If you're not on the list, don't worry, your time will come. Greatness always wins in the end, and you're all destined for greatness. Those who don't get the mystery treatment tonight will be considered again in the next round. Until then, we're sorry, but you may not enter the garden." The winners could barely contain their delight as they crossed the room to greet the Coach. As each new winner stepped forward, their friends cheered wildly in the hope that their whole clique would be called together. With all the excitement, Anton didn't realize at first that his own name had been called. Yet the words were still echoing, and all eyes were on him. The Coach opened his arms to give him a bear hug before he entered the treatment chamber. He shifted his stance without moving from where he stood. "Look," he said finally. "Why don't you give my spot to someone else." He went out on the patio for a smoke. There was a silence behind him as people got over their shock. "Brenda Paulson!" called the Coach. "Mike Watkins!" Little by little, the cheers returned to a fever pitch. He cursed Sabrina for setting him up in this way, but he felt grateful to her for warning him about the garden. She'd told him that one day he would have to make a choice, and it should be an informed choice. Evidently this was it. He felt sad for the young recruits who were trapping themselves in a life of addiction, without even realizing it. The messenger he'd met at the bank came out onto the patio. The boy's sideburns and slicked-down hair made him seem shady. He didn't fit the clean-cut vibe of the party, and Anton felt drawn to him because of that. They exchanged nods and the boy came over. "Did you get what you came here for?" Anton said. He figured the boy was here to pick up the "stuff." "It's all good." The boy nodded back towards the gathering. "Weird vibe, huh? Like a Christian summer camp." "You mean the mystery treatment?" "What a bunch of sheep. I saw you didn't go for it." Anton shuffled his feet. "I did the same thing, you know. They asked me once, and I said no." "For real?" He regarded the boy with new respect. "They're getting played, but it's not my problem. I'm doing fine on another channel." Anton raised an eyebrow. "What channel is that?" "I'm a DJ. If you want to see a real party, I'm spinning later tonight." Anton's professional instinct was aroused. "Do you know Tornell?" Tornell was a British DJ who'd caught his attention lately, because he made dance music from everyday sounds, like torn paper or air blown into plastic bottles. "I've heard of him, I guess. Paco Nimoyo mentioned him at a concert once, and I heard he was working with Money Flavored Gelatin, which is my favorite group right now." Anton wanted to ask him about the photos. How had he gotten them, and why did the Coach want them? But he couldn't expect a straight answer, and he decided it didn't matter. They continued talking about music until they finished their cigarettes. The boy went inside to find his friends, and Anton followed after a while. By now the recruits were leaving the garden, dazed and delirious. Cindy came up to him and grabbed his arm. She opened her mouth, but was suddenly speechless. "What was it like?" he said, laughing. "Wow. Wow. All I can say is...." "Wow?" "Exactly. It was amazing. It was so.... Wow." Remembering that he'd turned it down, she was suddenly embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry. But really, wow!" Caught in the afterglow of the garden, the recruits gathered in a circle to sing inspirational songs. Anton drifted off down the driveway, and onto the street. The mission was over, so there was nothing left for him to do here. He was a long way from town, but he didn't want to wait for a ride. In fact, he didn't want to wait a moment longer. It was time to head home. He woke up on a couch in his Portland studio. The room was dark except for a circle of light where he lay. There was a book on his lap, which apparently he'd been reading. He snapped it shut and set it on the floor. He brooded for a while over what had happened. He'd refused the garden, and he'd passed Sabrina's test. No doubt the test was her reason for proposing a mission in the first place. He'd followed the path of least resistance until the last minute, and then he'd drawn the line. He wondered what the long-range effects of that decision would be. Would Reinhold be angry with him now? Sabrina had assured him that rejecting the garden wasn't a betrayal. So why had she tested him? Why had she put him in a position to choose revolt? Was she recruiting a group of dissidents loyal to herself? Could she get away with that without Reinhold taking revenge? For someone at her level, he felt that she could. Like him, the DJ had refused the garden, and he'd spoken of "another channel." That made him Sabrina's messenger in the story. She'd given him a glimpse of her independent power center, her conspiracy within a conspiracy. Now he had a choice. He could be loyal to Reinhold, or to her. Reinhold had protected him and taken him into his confidence. Sabrina had shown him a greater mystery, division within the ranks. But was it a choice? He hadn't rejected Reinhold, because Reinhold wasn't the one who had offered him the garden. The Colonel might even be proud of him for refusing. Even so, the idea of revolt intrigued him. If there were people in Reinhold's network who didn't share its goals, he wanted to know more. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>