<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 12 Hidden Network Anton moved through the empty streets. The clouds were low and cumbersome, laden with cold mist. He imagined crocodiles in the sky, scudding over the low hills, seeping into closets and dresser drawers, turning everything moist. He felt blue, so he stoked the embers that lay in the deepest chambers of his heart. That kept him going, heating the whole house. In the end he stopped at the scene of his past or future crime, an old-fashioned garage made of whitewashed brick and wood. The sign that had attracted his attention a few weeks before was gone. He retraced his steps to make sure it was the same building. "I was with Kliff, walking past this long wall. I saw a sign on the door of that white garage. It said 'Community Project,' but now there's no trace." He went up closer to look around. "Could this be some kind of trap?" Paranoia had become instinctive to him in recent months. "Or maybe they've shut the place down. Should I have gone in while I had the chance?" He felt tense, as if he'd missed out on something important. As he was about to turn away, he heard feet crunching on gravel, and he spun toward the sound. A dapper young man stood near him, wearing a turtleneck sweater under a shock of reddish hair that curled up at the ends. At his arm was a dark, diminutive woman of about the same age. She had the skeleton of a bird, eyes like garden pools in moonlight, and the voluptuousness of an exotic river, the Nile or the Ganges. The young man nodded tersely, hand on her shoulder. Anton strode forward, gesturing to the garage. "Do you folks belong to this place?" The man's eyes narrowed, then he grinned. "Peter," he said, offering his hand. The grin split his face in an irregular line. The young woman, too, extended her hand. "Cybele." She smiled her moonlit smile. Impulsively, Anton touched her hand to his lips. She giggled, and Peter looked amused. "I was passing by one night. There was a sign over the door...." "So you're the one," said Peter. "We were expecting you sooner or later." The words triggered a memory. Someone had told him once, "We've been expecting you for some time. In fact, we were expecting you sooner." He was vague on the details. A man with hypnotic blue eyes, some kind of temple. Perhaps it had been a dream. Ever since he'd come to Portland, the line between the real and the unreal had grown blurry to him. He'd wandered into a hall of mirrors where everything had a double meaning. The impossible had become plausible, and the ordinary had acquired a transformative force. Because it was Kliff who had shown him the world behind the veil, he'd trusted Kliff to be his navigator in this new realm. But the Community Project was something Kliff had failed to see, even though he'd been standing right in front of it. He shook his head in irritation. "How could you expect me if we've never met?" "We saw you from the window. You were with a friend. You pointed to the building, but he didn't see it." "From that, you figured I'd be back?" Peter's lopsided grin returned. "Now that you're here, would you like to come in?" He gestured to a narrow passage at the side of the building. "Join us for some tea," put in silvery-toned Cybele. Her bracelets tinkled as she did a pirouette. Anton saw a Mediterranean island in her eyes. Graced by her, it would be a moonlit garden. Without her, it would be a torment of salt and sun. He followed them down the passage to a door at the back. They entered a large, smoky room like an old-fashioned meeting hall, with a long wooden bar, a piano, and a tiny stage. Behind the bar, a man who resembled Lenin was polishing glasses with the tail of his shirt. At a corner table, two young hoodlums were playing chess. None of this registered on Anton right away, however, because Sabrina Lee was reclining on the bar in a red velvet dress. As if cued by his entry, the Lenin clone went to a wooden bench along the wall and lay down, arm over his eyes, suddenly unconscious amid the smell of spilled beer. Sabrina swung to her feet and came forward, swaying seductively in high-heeled shoes. The line of her hips rolled gently, like a boat on the water. "What took you so long? Our clues were getting more and more obvious. I was beginning to think I'd have to send you a map." Anton wondered why she'd turned herself into a floozy. Did she think he would throw himself at her for the sake of a red dress? It upset him to see her cheapen herself in this way. He'd preferred the expressionless mask she'd worn while stalking him on his last tour. "Your clues weren't that obvious," he said. "Kliff didn't see them." "Darling, they weren't meant for anyone but you." If she could keep a talented scout like Kliff from noticing her clues, that must mean she had a higher place in Reinhold's pecking order than Kliff did. So why was she making herself vulnerable now? To catch him off guard? Or just because it amused her? "What's that getup?" he challenged. "It doesn't suit you." "Didn't you know? I'm a performance artist. The Blues Singer is the woman as victim, an object of desire. Men don't come to hear her sing, they come to press her flesh. They bruise her arms and legs with their stubby fingers. Her boyfriend beats her when he can't get it up. Her response is classically passive. She weeps silently, with the faucet running in the bathroom. She hides her bruises and weeps." She laughed at his confusion. "It's true, I really am a singer. I took lessons as a girl. Call it the romantic side of me. It helps me unwind from my profession as a cold-blooded killer. And it fits in with our mission here at the Community Project, which is to train front-line troops for the culture wars." Culture wars? He blinked. "So what's my part in this little drama?" "That's what we're here to find out. Have a drink with me, won't you?" She guided him to a corner where some ratty sofas were arranged. "Peter, be a dear and make us a cocktail." She turned to Anton. "Peter has a recipe he shares with no one. I've watched him do it, but I can't imitate it. Fortunately, he's gracious enough to make it on request." Peter went behind the bar and got to work. He heated a clear liquid and sprinkled some colored crystals into it, where they dissolved and became cloudy. Meanwhile he mixed two or three spirits together in a chilled glass, stirring slowly as he added pinches of blue-green. He worked methodically, without a pause or wasted motion. Sabrina took Anton's hand as they sat down. Startled, he simply looked at her. She let the hand go, placing it on his knee. "I'm sure you've noticed that your sponsor is a manipulator with his own agenda. I happen to be in a position to tell you more about it." "That's what I wanted to ask you about, the first time we met. But Reinhold—can I say his name now?" He remembered the scolding he'd gotten before. She smiled. "All of us here know the Colonel." "Reinhold isn't my sponsor any more. If you're still spying on me, you should know that. He helped me get started, and I'm grateful for that, but I'm independent now. I've got my own resources. I'm producing our latest album on my own." Peter arrived with the drinks, which were amber with shifting strands of blue, and a layer of pistachio-colored foam. In the middle of the floor, Cybele was practicing a series of pirouettes with fluid arm movements. Periodic tinkling came from bells on her skirt. "You can't deny that Reinhold's been grooming you," Sabrina said. "Grooming me? How? I've only met him two or three times." "He doesn't need to groom you in person. He has his liaison." "You mean Kliff? He's my manager and nothing more. When I need something done, he does it. But I'm the one who calls the shots." "Reinhold is grooming you. It's a nice little gig for your friend Kliff, too. He can make himself useful to both sides that way. Better than selling blowjobs on the street. Did you know that Kliff and I go way back?" "I can imagine. But he pretended not to know you." "An amazing talent, Kliff. I was his handler, I guess you could say." She sipped her drink as she reminisced. "We sent him into some tricky situations only he could manage. Once, at the age of thirteen, he penetrated an enemy cell disguised as a girl, and seduced the commander. Thanks to the information he brought out, the unit was liquidated a few days later." She crossed her legs, making her stockings hiss. She fixed him with her stare. "Reinhold recruited you. He knew about you from the moment you arrived in Portland. And he cultivated you thanks to Kliff. Do you realize he created Trashtown for you? It existed before you got there, of course. But it was set up for one reason, to serve as your incubator once you showed up. It's the only place where you could have developed so quickly." "You're saying it was put there just for me?" "Either you, or someone so much like you, it might as well be you." "There aren't many of me." "No, not many." "Then how did he know I existed at all? Why waste your time on possibilities?" "The way he saw it, you had to exist. You told me yourself that there's thousands of guys ready to wound themselves to win glory. It must be a symptom of the times we're in. With all those would-be martyrs, he made a calculated bet that one of them would be right for him. If you existed, the payoff would more than justify the investment. And frankly, the investment was minimal. What would he have lost if you never showed up?" "So what's the point? Why does he need a rebel hero?" "He needs a messenger to stir up the youth. It's part of his long-range plan. And you're a natural, you don't need coaching. The things you say and do on your own are perfect for him." "You're contradicting yourself. Is he grooming me or not?" "Let me put it this way. You're on a long leash. He doesn't interfere because he doesn't have to. But don't forget, he created the conditions for your success. And even today, he's using you for his own reasons." Anton had no idea why she was telling him this, when Reinhold himself had chosen not to. If she was Reinhold's loyal soldier, why was she so eager to spill his secrets? She responded as if she'd read his thoughts. "It's true that I'm a volunteer in Reinhold's army. In fact, I'm among the people who are closest to him, the ones we call the referees. So why talk to you? Perhaps I've learned a few lessons in my years of service that I'm eager to pass on. Or perhaps I have reasons of my own." "Does he know we're having this conversation?" She smiled serenely. "He will." "Will he approve?" "That's one of the perks of being in Reinhold's inner circle. The referees know his mind so well, we act for him even when we're acting in our own interest. It's in my interest to talk to you now, so I already have his permission." "How convenient." "Isn't it? I have a mission for you, and before I can enlist you, I need to explain a few things about the role that Reinhold is grooming you for. That's because my mission for you and Reinhold's are intertwined. They go together like hand and glove." She smiled. "Reinhold is the hand, and I'm the glove." "What if I don't want your mission?" "You can refuse it, but you'll still have Reinhold's mission whether you want it or not. Just keep doing what you're doing, that's Reinhold's mission for you. The only way out of it is to destroy your own fame." She paused to let that sink in. "As for my mission, there's a chance you might want it, once you hear what it is. Perhaps you'll see it as a way to compensate for the way Reinhold is using you. If you could learn to use him too, that would make it less one-sided." He still didn't understand why she was talking to him in this way. If she and the Colonel thought with one mind, why would she act behind Reinhold's back and encourage him to do the same? It occurred to him that it was a loyalty test. Everything he said would be reported back to the Colonel and he would be judged on that. If so, he would have to be careful. She launched into an overview of the Reinhold organization, its structure and methods. He'd gotten bits and pieces of this from Kliff, but it was worth hearing again because she filled in the gaps. She explained that the network was loosely structured and based on the volunteerism of the people involved, except that the roles of communication and coordination were performed by one man, Colonel Reinhold. Only the Colonel and his closest associates knew who was involved at each moment, what they were doing, and how their efforts contributed to the grand plan. His units functioned autonomously and with little intervention from their leader, whose presence behind the scenes might not even be known to them. The most important quality of the organization was its invisibility, and as a result, many of its own agents didn't even know it existed. Reinhold had become the leader because he knew many different sorts of people, and was adept at figuring out how their efforts might be useful to one another once their lack of common purpose was overcome. He could get people to work together who would normally despise each other, simply by shielding them from the burden of contact. No one knew who was at the other end of the thread, and they didn't need to know as long as the results were satisfying. As the middleman in every exchange, Reinhold took his percentage. He invested this in an endeavor he called scouting, in which agents were sent to faraway places to learn what was going on there, and new ways to use the local talent. The organization was always on the lookout for talent, because they needed it to exist. Their system depended on an expanding talent pool fed by new recruits. In the early years, when their survival as a cause and as individuals had been uncertain, scouts had been essential for building the organization, strengthening it so it could survive in predatory conditions. The strategy at the time had paid off, and scouting was still the foundation of their work. Even so, the majority of the agents weren't scouts, but people who stayed in one place living ordinary lives on the surface. These agents kept the same role they had when they were first recruited, because their cover story was what made them valuable. Their primary function was to keep their eyes open, and report what they knew to any scouts who came through town. Occasionally they might be asked to perform a specific task, such as detailed surveillance or a small act of sabotage. Reinhold had learned that almost anyone would work on behalf of a higher power because it gave their lives meaning. The problem was that they needed clear and regular evidence that such a power existed. Isolation was a creeping cancer, and pretending to be ordinary could lead to doubt. A man might begin to think that he was, after all, nothing but a shopkeeper with delusions. Part of the scouts' job as they traveled from town to town was to contact each agent, renewing his faith in the organization and in his own effectiveness. Through his vast network of operatives, Reinhold was able to act in a grassroots way, individual to individual. A few carefully coordinated actions could produce a ripple effect, such as a regional power failure or a swing in the stock market. Most of this activity was peaceful and above board. The heavy connections with the Mafia and the State he handled himself. In general he didn't like to kill people, but sometimes it was necessary. For this he had his referees, or invisible champions. "That's where I come in," Sabrina said with a smile. The referees were the big guns who appeared only in times of crisis. They were the warlords of the empire. They effectively policed each other, and each policed his own domain. They checked each others' ambitions, because each wanted more power for himself. Whoever was most powerful when the time came would inherit the earth. "Is that what you want to do, inherit the earth?" Anton said. She laughed. "Everything here on earth seems somehow remote and beside the point, don't you agree? Like you, I'm impatient to leave." Did that make them soulmates? He felt drawn to her by a sort of magnetism, a dark seductive spell. She gestured to the room around them. "What you see here is a recruiting center for new volunteers. Outsiders know us as the Community Project, but we like to call ourselves the Salon des Assassins." One of the chess-playing waifs looked up and scowled. "We're setting up a network of safehouses like this one, for people with special skills like counterfeiting or explosives. At the same time, we encourage them to try their hand at being artists. 'Art is the best cover,' as Reinhold likes to say." "What does that mean?" "It means that if they catch you doing something you shouldn't be doing, just tell them it's art. That way, it's protected by the First Amendment." "So if a teenager shoots up his school, he should say it's an art project? 'I'm interpreting the ills of society. My bullets represent the pain and rage of America's youth.'" "Exactly. Only we never act out of rage. We think things through." She took a sip from her drink. "As you can see, we have a dual purpose here. On the one hand, we're the Community Project, a neighborhood art space. We do performance art, guerrilla theatre, freestyle rap. We sponsor graffiti artists, and we have a youth magazine, By Any Means Necessary. On the other hand, we're the Salon des Assassins. If any of our members needs legal help, a place to hide out, or even a new identity, we're here for them. We're a mutual protection society, a place for the volunteers to relax among their own." He was starting to feel glad that she'd given him this opportunity. Unlike Trashtown, where the squatters had known nothing about Reinhold, the Salon des Assassins was made up of Reinhold agents. By interacting with them, he would be able to learn more about the organization. He would no longer have to rely on Kliff for information. "You said that Reinhold is putting together a network of places like this?" "It already exists. Buffalo, Minneapolis, Tucson, we're adding them at the rate of two or three a month. I run the operation with Big Joe here, our barman and piano player." She pointed to the Lenin lookalike who lay snoring fitfully, arm over his eyes. "He just got back from a long trucking run," she apologized. "He won't be awake for a while yet." Her red lacquered nails fished through a pack of cigarettes and withdrew one. She lit it dreamily, and expelled the smoke with a soulful look. She returned to being the Blues Singer for a moment, but as soon as Anton noticed, she snapped out of it. "Let's get back to the reason I brought you here. Why is Reinhold grooming you, and how do you fit into our plans? He sees you as a messenger, a missionary to the nation's youth. Your role is to go out and stir the pot. Each time the Psychic Rangers show up in a town, you disrupt its rhythms for a day or two. Once you're gone, the kids who got carried away end up as outcasts, avoided and whispered about by old friends. A life among strangers starts to look good in comparison. If they're impulsive enough, they'll hit the road and never look back. "Most of our agents are drifters by nature. What we offer them is a reason to do it. Our safehouses give them what they're looking for, community and a sense of purpose. They learn to think of themselves as the advance teams of the revolution, seeds scattered to the wind so that something may grow. The end times are coming, and that calls for dramatic gestures. Besides, they want to taste the assassins' paradise. It's our reward for exceptional performance in the field. Most of them have heard about it only through rumor. They say it brings indescribable bliss, like hundreds of consecutive orgasms while tripping. What they don't know is that once they've tasted it, they'll be addicted forever. They'll endure anything for a return to the Garden, however brief. "Reinhold knows how to take advantage of these hallucinated young people. They're shy and solitary by nature. They suffer from hyperlucidity and are injured by everything. They compensate with a cover personality that likes attention, and in most cases has been reduced to rags. Such damaged prodigies love Reinhold because he flatters their weirdness. What they don't realize is that he's ready to toss them away at a moment's notice. He's brought a sense of possibility into their squalid vagrants' lives, but he can annihilate them with the flip of a switch, a few words of command." "Let me get this straight," Anton said. "These damaged kids come to my shows. They get all worked up and head for Reinhold's recruitment centers, conveniently located in malls all across America. He gives them a mission, a goal in life. He promises them the ultimate reward, the assassins' paradise. Before long they're addicted, and he's got an army of willing slaves, all hoping for their next fix. I'm leading them into that?" "It's all true but the malls. There's no Reinhold recruitment centers in malls." "Then how do they know you exist? It's not like you're handing out flyers at my shows." "Don't be so sure." "Reinhold is invisible. And this place, the Community Project—if all of your safehouses keep such a low profile, how do you recruit?" "A lot of the volunteers recruit their friends. We know the type we're looking for, because we are that type. And it's true that we go to your shows and pick out people in the crowd." "You're stealing my fans?" "Darling, we are your fans. Some of your biggest fans are Reinhold agents." He tapped the floor several times with his boot. "You're making me very paranoid." She raised her cigarette to her lips and blew him a smoky kiss. "We're not invisible, we're all around you. You just need to learn to see past the surface. From the inside we can see you, but you can't see us unless you penetrate a little deeper. We may keep a low profile, but we're not hidden from those who want to find us. Here at the Community Project, we have people coming and going all the time. They come to hang their photos, or pick up cans of spray paint. If we want them to know more, we give them a glimpse of who we really are. They find us the same way you did, because we're here." "So why do you need me? It seems to be working fine without me." "You make it easy for us to find each other. You're a magnet for the kind of people we want to attract. Thanks to you, our recruiting is years ahead of schedule. We wouldn't be opening safehouses across the country if we weren't growing at such a high rate." He realized that what she'd said earlier was true. He was helping Reinhold whether he wanted to or not. It was easy for the Colonel to use him, because they were reaching out to the same people. If he wanted to keep Reinhold away from his fans, he would have to ruin his own career. Was he willing to do that? He wished he could say yes. It would be the right thing to do. But even if he wanted to, he doubted that he could persuade his fans that he was a phony. Nothing short of that would embarrass the Colonel, so what choices did he have? He could go into denial and pretend it wasn't happening, or he could actively collaborate and become a player. Becoming a player was the only way to avoid being a victim, even if it meant getting more deeply involved in Reinhold's schemes. Until now, he'd imagined that he was free of Reinhold. There had been no contact between them since the party where he'd kissed the Colonel's ring, a gesture he hoped hadn't been taken too seriously. His new album, which he expected would do better than the first in every way, was entirely self-produced, so all the profits would go to his new record label. Reinhold was still a powerful force on the Portland music scene, but he no longer needed Reinhold's permission to play in clubs. If Sabrina hadn't revealed the Salon des Assassins to him, he would have gone on believing in his independence, never noticing the recruitment being done in his name. "Is there a reason you're telling me all this?" he demanded. "Isn't it better if I don't know?" "In theory, yes. And that's how it's been until now. Even without coaching, you've done everything we wanted you to do. So why mess with that? I'm doing it now for three reasons. First, I respect you and think you deserve to know. Second, you're too sharp to keep in the dark easily, and in my opinion, the cost of keeping you there has become greater than the cost of informing you. Third, you're more effective this way, both to Reinhold and to me. My guess is that even now, you're thinking that your best option is to stay engaged." "I don't see an easy way out of it. Not without hurting myself." "You see? You're making the mature choice." "Besides, you've made me curious." "Then let me give you an opportunity to learn more. You may know that Reinhold got his start in porn, but things have grown more complicated over time. We have connections in the military who distribute our films. In exchange they give us grenades, rocket launchers and the like. We sell those to drug lords who use them to protect their turf. They pay us with their product, which we distribute through people like Kliff. To bring it all full circle, we use the drugs to recruit new talent for our films. Ingenious, isn't it?" "Or really evil." "The point is, it works." She leaned back, sipping her multicolored cocktail. Anton looked around for Peter, but he was gone. Cybele was gone, too. Even the chess players were gone. The only one left was Big Joe, still snoring on the bench. "Here at the Salon des Assassins, we specialize in interstate transport. Without us the trade in weapons, drugs and porn would fall apart. I run a small, tightly knit group who know what's expected of them. They don't need much supervision, but I like to go out in the field every now and then to make sure things are being done right. I'm a perfectionist, you know." She plucked another cigarette from the pack with a lacquered fingernail. She offered the pack to Anton, but he refused. "You'll be touring again soon?" "I don't know the itinerary, but Kliff says we'll be on the road for three or four months." "It would be useful to me if I tagged along as your road manager. No one is better qualified for the job, so I won't be dead weight. Meanwhile, it'll give me a chance to check in with my people. I could do it without you, of course, but the tour is great cover. I'll even take you under my wing if you like, and give you a taste of how I do things." "Are you sure it's it all right with Reinhold?" He didn't like to think of himself as needing Reinhold's permission, but he wasn't eager to make the Colonel mad. "He'll see the wisdom in it soon enough. That's how it works between him and his referees." "If I were him, I'd be afraid you've already told me too much." "What harm can it do? Let's say you went to the media and told them, 'The Community Project is a front for drug and weapons smuggling.' That would destroy your credibility, not ours. Think of it a test of your ability to keep a secret. Reinhold won't hold it against you if you handle the information discreetly, like we do. He might even try to win you over with more information, more access. If you're tired of being kept in the dark and want an inside view, this is your chance. By playing us off against each other, you can learn a lot." "I appreciate that, but I still can't bring you along on the tour. We're like a family. We're used to each other." "You're making excuses." "Maybe Kliff has picked a road manager already. Maybe he wants the job for himself, like before." "Tell him you want me. He won't overrule that." Anton looked pained. "He can still come on tour with us. He can still manage the band and make the arrangements. He can still be your valet and errand boy. Meanwhile, I'll run the crew and handle the equipment. I'll make sure everything happens the way you want it to. You won't have to worry about last-minute fuckups or technical meltdowns on the set." "Are you promising perfection?" "Exactly." "Then you're hired. What else do you want?" "Why not get involved here at the Community Project? It would be healthy for you, because we won't treat you like a celebrity. It would be inspiring for us, too, to have one of our heroes roll up his sleeves and work alongside us." "What can I contribute that I don't already give people in my music?" "You could set up a recording studio for young musicians in the community. Or you could run a series of workshops on how to produce an independent album. But we're volunteers, remember? The main thing is to get involved. Your contribution will flow from that. Once you get to know people, it'll all seem obvious." "Is there anything I can do that's less complicated? I've got enough projects for now." "Just show up then. Are you a poet?" "Of course I'm a poet!" It bothered him that she had to ask. "It's the core of what I do." "Don't get me wrong. Your message comes across in your songs, and we thank you for it. You met Cybele, the dancer. She's here in Portland because of a line in one of your songs. How does it go? 'Beautiful chaos spread its wings, over my restless wandering.'" Anton's eyelashes fluttered and he looked down. Too often his fans seemed to believe he was as pure as the flashes of insight in his songs. But compared to his lyrics, he was vain, uncaring and vulgar. Why did they flock to him? They were in love with a mirage. "So you're a poet," Sabrina said. "Are you a painter?" The word "painter" caused him to see Timmins here in this room, sipping cocktails with Sabrina. The image made him uneasy, and he chased it away. "I don't paint much. Sometimes sketches." "Are you an actor? Do you act?" He laughed. "I had a part in an experimental film. I played a glam rocker! It's something I'd like to do more of." "And we know you're a musician. So you have a few skills you can offer. We have an open stage every Thursday. Come see what poetry is like in its pure form. Check out our freestylists, our high-wire artists of the word. Jam with them, give them a bass line to rap to. Bring a few rhymes of your own. For you, the door is always open." "I appreciate that." "There's one final thing I want to ask of you, which is that you let me help you continue your education. No doubt you've learned a lot from Kliff. He's loyal to you because you're his discovery. Before he met you, he was a catamite, a temple prostitute. You've given him entry into a whole new arena. You're something of a savior to him, and he'd never stab you in the back for his advantage. I even think he'd even lay down his life for you." "To think I never quite trusted him...." He shifted uncomfotably. "Oh, you shouldn't trust him! He still sees your interests from his perspective, which in the end is Reinhold's perspective. Even protecting you, he makes mistakes. I imagine there's been a few times when you would have liked to know sooner what was going on." "Absolutely!" "It's his job to look after you, keep you out of trouble. He doesn't like you to go wandering off on your own. He's your manager, so that's understandable. But there's something selfish in it as well. You're better off getting the information you need up front, so you can make your own judgments." "I couldn't agree more." "I can help you in two ways, with background analysis and hands-on experience. I've given you enough analysis for one day. The experience will come in time, as you get to know our operation from the inside. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open. Don't forget, you're part of the operation already. Look around for clues. Because of Reinhold's plans for you, you'll have unprecedented access to the inner workings of his domain. Take advantage of that opportunity to inform yourself. If you know how to ask, you'll find that people are more than willing to help you. Those who know Reinhold will try to please him by pleasing you. Even those who've never met the Colonel will do all they can for you. The environment they're swimming in makes them that way." "They do it without thinking? That sounds a little scary." "Person-to-person influence is how it works." He got up and stretched. "I need to get back to the studio." He wanted to polish one of the tracks on the new album. It started with cymbals and the murmur of Buddhist chant, before swelling into great gusts of revolutionary anthems sung by barefoot peasants with pitchforks and rakes. A collision of the "Internationale" with "Deutschland †ber Alles" resolved in gunfire and explosions, out of which came the slashing chords of his own anthem. He had to perfect these transitions, and was eager to get back to work. Sabrina asked him for a final favor. "When you tell Kliff you hired me, don't mention the Community Project or the Salon des Assassins. He hasn't discovered us yet, but he will eventually. When he does, let him think of it as any old Reinhold outpost, rather than one I'm involved in directly. I want to preserve our cover so you can come here freely." "I don't need his permission to see you." "Of course not, but think of his feelings. He might get jealous if we spend too much time together." She saw him to the door. As he moved past her to leave, she gave him a peck on the cheek, in the spot where his jaw met his neck. She remained in the doorway, sultry and curving, as he headed down the passage to the street. She was a bright patch of red in the gloom, like a campfire fading from view as his boat left shore. On his way home, he found himself brooding over the possibility that the whole thing had been a setup. If Sabrina's real purpose had been to test him for disloyalty, what had she learned? He'd given nothing away. She'd framed the discussion so as to never call her own loyalty into question, so how could she blame him for playing along? <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>