<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 18 Destroyed Teen Anton had crossed a fatal threshold. He'd become the intimate confidant of Colonel Reinhold. He'd penetrated the Citadel and glimpsed its secrets. He knew better than to imagine that the Colonel would tell him everything there was to know about its operations, but he'd become too linked, too responsible to walk away fully. What impressed him about the Citadel was that it was immune to doubt. Its plans ran seamlessly to their conclusion. Unfortunately, in the real world it was more complicated. He wanted to be perfect, to negotiate pitfalls without error or hesitation, but even with Reinhold's backing, he had to deal with people who resisted his agenda. It occurred to him that the solution was to live in this world as if it were the Citadel. He would ignore obstacles and discard anyone who stood in his way. He would expect perfection and leave no room for doubt. Reality would have no choice but to fall in line. People called him a prick and he liked the image. His prick was smaller than average, easily multiplied, impulsively probing, always erect and just about to come—or to shoot, his favorite word for it. He liked to hold himself back, keep himself hard, all anticipation, no release. His goal was to be master of his prick, storing it up until the moment of the total orgasm, which is death. Only then would he shoot his soul into the void and travel far, far away. It gave him awesome little shivers thinking about it. His soul trembled and ached for death, but he wouldn't do it, not yet. His innocent good looks made him desirable no matter what he did. He wore jewelry and when he walked, his hair flashed in the breeze. Something in the pit of his stomach grew tight and warm at the thought of parading in the street in this way. He was master of his tastes, which made him master of everything. He was astonished at the open lust with which people approached him. "Like I was a jewel just sitting around in nature, waiting to be plucked. Like I was a maiden, for chrissake." Huddled in blankets, he sat in the back of a low, dark car as it prowled the streets of Zombieland, past tattoo parlors and head shops and falafel joints. Two young toughs sat up front, in streetfighter regalia. They treated him like a prince, attending to his every need. The car, an aging sedan, stopped in front of Club Omaha. "There is no tragedy in my life," he thought as he stepped from the car. In fact he was lifted out, blankets and all, and carried inside. They gave him a table by the stage and left him alone. Already at twenty-one, he was showing the brittle arrogance, the fussy behavior of the old. He'd come to audition musicians for his latest album, Destroyed Teen. As the musicians were led out one by one, he would decide their fate like a Roman emperor. A word from him would admit them to the glory of his presence, or banish them once again to oblivion. The first youth stood on stage blinking, his shiny blue bass set off by multicolored hair. His pale skin and soft features marked him as the product of suburban bedrooms. Worse yet, he had the bad taste to be wearing an Anton T-shirt. "Department store punk," Anton said. He jerked his head and the boy was led off. "Aren't you even gonna hear me plaay-y-y?" the boy cried as he fell into the shaft. "I've made up my mind to judge entirely from surfaces," he laughed. The next contestant was shown in. She was a farm girl with freckles and ponytails, a gingham dress, work boots, socks bunched around her ankles. She carried a flute. "Play a few notes," he said, and she tootled obligingly. She was like Becky only prettier, livelier, and therefore more ordinary. "Send her to the workshops for a makeover. I need someone with panache and style!" He clapped his hands and she was whisked away. This was such superb theatre that despite all the clichés about the hollowness of power, it was turning out to be great fun. When it was all over, a couple of musicians had managed to play a complete song, but none had inspired Anton's confidence or awakened his hopes. He was looking around for his handlers to take him home, when a scruffy young man approached his table, scratching his belly. The boy reminded him of Dario from the Citadel, only not as well cared for. His hair was matted and he had an unhealthy complexion. When he saw that he had Anton's attention, he shifted his stance provocatively and said, "What do you think?" "Turn around." Anton gestured with one finger as if stirring a drink. Taking his time, he looked the boy over. The boy lost his temper. "You think I'm some kind of monkey?" "Sit down, relax." He gestured to the chair beside him. The boy flopped onto the seat with legs spread wide. "Want a cigarette?" He offered one and lit it. "We could get to know each other, but I'm pretty demanding. I'm not sure you're into that." They went upstairs to a private room. It had been a dressing room for Club Omaha's mud-wrestling women, but now that Anton was famous, Zombieland was changing to suit his tastes. The mirrored makeup table was still there, but now there were cushions and hookahs, velvet wallpaper, a bed with scarlet sheets. The boy shucked off his clothes and dived onto the bed. Anton stood in the middle of the room, trying to stimulate his desire. He offered excuses for his cold behavior downstairs. "We famous people have to keep to ourselves. Mingling with the rest of you is too dangerous. No matter which one of you we choose, we make everyone else jealous." The boy sneered, and was captivated by the sight of his sneering face in the mirror. This excited him further, and he began to squirm in the sheets on his belly, imitating a lizard. Anton shook his head in dismay and wandered off. What use was pleasure without desire? Back in his studio, he brooded over the cold and distant creature he'd become. He wanted the world to be obsessed with him, but he also wanted to disappear. He was using his fame as something to hide behind, a kind of veil. Trapped in a world that seems irredeemably altered by the misguided efforts of men, or the efforts of misguided men, the best I can do is live as if I wasn't here, and hope to become invisible. I'm looking for a kind of anonymity. I prefer diners, bus stations, public parks, old movie theaters to the close quarters of the family table, or the company of friends. I'm always pulling away from my friends and going off to places where I can be alone. I meet new people soon enough, and then I pull away again. Does that make me a sociopath, or what? Someday I'll run out of new places to go, and then I'll have to return home—another new place. • • • It was time to send Becky the money to buy Timmins' house. He wrote her a letter that brought them in contact for the first time since he'd left home. He thanked her for taking an interest in Timmins, and expressed regret at not being there to help. He asked her to help with the move, and check on Timmins every so often in the months to come. She replied with her usual politeness, avoiding any criticism of him for neglecting them until then. She sensed that he was anxious about Timmins' adjustment, so once Timmins had moved in, she continued to write to show him that all was going well. Timmins lived two hours away from her college campus, but she drove to see him every weekend. She brought him paints, groceries and supplies. Being a busybody, she always found some cooking or cleaning to do, but she could see he that was learning to take care of himself. For the first time since he was a child, Timmins had no problem relating to ordinary objects. They spoke to him and he responded. They stayed clean, didn't break, and let him know where to find them. Perhaps it was because he was alone, and he no longer had to explain himself to others. His space was airy and simple, with only a few jarring notes. There were his paintings of Crucified Superheroes, for example, and a series of Exploding Buildings in minutely detailed cameos along the stairs to the second floor. To Becky's surprise, Anton stayed in touch after that. He liked to talk about his plans in a way that sought her approval. He sent her press clippings to show that he was taken seriously as an artist. "Chaotic, frenzied, violent," they said. "Trippy, sonic." "Ominous drums and wailing." And her favorite, "His music is like being taken over by spirits. All those voices! Each one finds its special sweet spot in your brain. Sooner or later you act without thinking, as if the voice inside you was your own." He explained that he'd kept his silence all this time because he wasn't yet ready to show her what he'd accomplished. Now that he'd finally reached a level where he wasn't embarrassed, he invited her to Portland to see for herself. He was hard at work on a new album, but once it was finished, he would be honored to have her as a guest. He hoped that after her visit, she would no longer think of his years away from home as wasted ones. • • • Kliff had moved in with him just after their visit to the Citadel, and his presence in the studio changed it in many ways. Originally it had been a bare-bones work space that had the same brutal simplicity Anton had known at Trashtown. Later, as people had come over for parties, recording sessions and one-night stands, it had acquired a more lived-in feel. Each layer of activity had left its mark, and Kliff's involvement had changed it once again. Kliff had awakened his sense of luxury and now he indulged it fully. He'd acquired quite a few paintings lately, and they made a huge difference in the space. He'd developed a taste for exotic objects, such as inlaid wooden tables, vases with peacock feathers, and African masks. Tasseled and brocaded fabrics hung everywhere. He'd redone the kitchen because Kliff liked to cook. There was a fancy oven, a butcher block on wheels, copper pans on an overhead rack. He'd built a library in one corner with hundreds of books. There were volumes on alchemy and magic, mythology and pagan rites. In another corner was his media center, with a collection of rare music and films. In the center of the room was a claw-foot bathtub surrounded by a gauzy curtain. To show it all off to dramatic effect, he'd installed a remote-controlled lighting system. They still got lost in each other for days at a time, but they were young, and restlessness was part of the deal. If Anton wanted to be alone to work on his music, Kliff would take the hint and vanish for a few days. If a swirl of emotions sent Anton to the clubs in search of adventure, Kliff wouldn't be there when he returned with his latest conquest. The same thing worked in reverse. There were nights when Kliff didn't come home because he was tending to his network of clients. In a few rare cases, he felt an emotional bond and would service the client himself, but his usual role was behind the scenes. He would recruit the talent, provide drugs and booze, and arrange for private rooms if required. None of this bothered Anton if it stayed within bounds. In fact, he admired Kliff's entrepreneurial spirit. What drew them together was a mix of pleasure and profit. They taught each other useful skills. Kliff showed Anton the language of gestures and glances, the value of presentation and timing, how to make people desire him without realizing it. Anton knew these things already, but Kliff felt he could use a little coaching to make the most of his potential. Meanwhile, Anton taught Kliff about the political control mechanism and how it worked. From Joseph McCarthy to the War on Terror, powerful forces were at work in the lives of ordinary people, manipulating them to serve a hidden purpose. Reinhold was just the latest link in a long chain. Kliff was rich in techniques learned from a life on the streets, but he lacked a critical analysis of his situation. It was a rivalry and a collaboration, a tug-of-war. Anton had been inside the Citadel, but a lot of things about it were still a mystery to him. He knew it was the control point for a global network of assassins, and an intelligence center with seemingly unlimited capabilities. It was also a pleasure palace, a harem where invited guests could realize their fantasies. But it seemed to exist outside of time and space, as if it were on another spiritual plane. So how had he gotten there? With a special combination of drugs? Or the mantra he'd recited with Kliff while making love? Could he get there again without Kliff's help? He decided to find out. He chose a night when he knew that Kliff was out making the rounds, and prepared himself as best he could. He used a combination of weed, speed and mescaline to disorder his senses, and repeated the phrases he'd memorized from the "Pathway to the Citadel." He took a flashlight down to the basement. The rooms and passages were the same, but the illuminated manuscripts, the clockwork model of the universe, the statues in onyx and porphyry were gone. He found only exposed pipes and the smell of mold, stacks of old magazines, broken tiles from a long-ago repair job. After a series of false turns, he came at last to the room that Kliff had called the "takeoff point." He switched on the red ceiling light. With a sense of relief, he saw that the stiff-backed wooden chair was still there. He sat down, closed his eyes, and centered his thoughts. He waited a minute or so, but nothing happened. He was expecting a hum and a flash of light, but the only sensation was from the drugs he'd taken. He got up, fished through the cassettes scattered on a nearby shelf, and popped one into the old tape player. Returning to the chair, he emptied his mind and focused on an imaginary point in space. The only result was growing boredom. As the minutes passed, his heart rate slowed to normal and his anxiety curdled into disgust. He wondered if Reinhold, who could see everything from the Citadel, was laughing now. • • • Destroyed Teen was the first album he'd made since the breakup of the Psychic Rangers, and he considered it a comeback of sorts. It was a dark album, and his most intimate yet. Its music was unsettled, its lyrics evasive. He didn't shy away from his doubts about the hollowness of fame, or the unreality of what was happening to him. He recorded his voice so it would feel uncomfortably close, as if it was coming from within the listener's own head. He played all the instruments himself, and recorded at his own pace, allowing the album to evolve as a whole rather than as a collection of songs. As work neared completion, he and Kliff planned a guerilla marketing campaign to build interest in the album's release. When a meet-and-greet session with his fans got out of hand, Anton made it onto the TV news. He didn't see the report, but Kliff and others told him about it. "What we need is a good martyr, and I'm not gonna be first in line." That's what local celebrity Anton Dupree said today during a visit to Partridge Towne Square. Portland's rock prodigy spent an hour and a half at the suburban shopping mall, passing out flyers and "taking volunteers" as he put it. Our cameraman was unable to get close to him due to resistance from his fans, who share his well-known dislike of television. However, one of our reporters did manage to approach him with a tape recorder hidden in her coat. Photos of him in gaudy poses, and footage from his concerts, flashed on the screen as accompaniment to his voice. "You know what I hate about the media? The way they report atrocities as if they were thinkable, as if a sane person could understand them. I'm not denying the power of these events, far from it. I'm as capable of torching a village or slashing a girl's throat as anyone, probably a lot more than most. But it's not my sanity, my detached reason that leads me to it, just the opposite! I have nothing but contempt for people who keep their distance from these things as if they were happening on some other planet. They say, 'Oh, no, not me!' like it was some other species that acts this way." Even on tape, the frenzy of the crowd was obvious. Anton was caught in a dangerous swirl of protection and possession, and it was all he could do to master the situation, to channel his fans' longing without being torn apart by it. "I think sex is mainly for making babies, and making babies can be cool, but it's not for every day, and it's not for everyone. We have plenty of ways to express our erotic impulse without going so far as sex. I love the sun, it gets me off, but I don't have sex with it. The same goes for trees, clouds, the river. Instead I sing, I beat on metal with a stick, I dance. I think the importance of sex in our society is exaggerated, the product of media hype. I'm sure that you've heard, sex sells. Well, I've had sex and it was fine, but I'm celibate now and if I'm celibate until I die, I think I'll die fulfilled!" The anchorwoman came on screen to chat with a psychiatrist. After bantering for a few minutes about the American culture of violence, young people's search for meaning, and the possibility that strong families might be the answer, she summed up. "Anton Dupree's views may be controversial, but they seem to be striking a chord with young people. For better or worse, he's putting Portland on the map." Anton hated it when the media tried to flatter him, because he knew it wasn't sincere. Why take the trouble to say what he really felt in such conditions? He had the right to take any position he chose, no matter how wrongheaded it was, or whether he actually believed it. If an interviewer complained about this, he would shoot back, "Sort it out for yourself. You should be doing that anyway. It's not my job to tell you what to think." He'd been catapulted into a position no one would envy, that of mascot or spokesdog for his generation, and he resolved to make the most of it. Music was no longer all he lived for, but simply a means to an end. What mattered was making himself an object of controversy, so he would be in everyone's thoughts. One morning as he lay in bed, Kliff told him that he had an interview in one hour. Spark, an alternative weekly, was sending a reporter to the studio. They wanted something colorful to write about, the eccentric home life of the young rock star. "You might want to get out of bed and put on some clothes." "What if I go to the door naked? It might add to the legend." "Do what you like, I'm going shopping." Kliff left for the farmers' market, his mind on yellow peppers and Japanese eggplants. When Anton opened the door, the reporter found herself face to face with her idol. She froze for a moment before putting out her hand to introduce herself. Anton took it nonchalantly. "You were expecting an entourage? Well, I'm here all alone." Her eyes grew wide as they took in the space. "You live here? This is so cool!" He let her look around for a while, going up to things without daring to touch them. It occurred to him that unless he kept an eye on her, she might not be able to resist pocketing some memento, a postcard, an earring, a polished stone. He beckoned her to a couch and poured coffee for both of them. She set her tape recorder on the table between them and turned it on. "This place is amazing. It must be so full of memories. I'm not sure if you realize how lucky you are, to see the world, to be the person who's done what you've done." "I wouldn't call it luck. To be honest, I wouldn't wish it on anyone." Her eyes grew wide. "How can you say that? Your music has a huge following, and your ideas too. You're a hero to a lot of people. When you didn't have money, they said you couldn't be bought because you were one of us. Now that you have money, they say you're too rich to be bought, and you're still one of us. With money and such loyal fans, don't you think of yourself as successful?" "I wish it was that simple. You say I'm not a sellout, but I am. I used to tell myself it would never happen, but it did. Ask the people who knew me before. Ask Blake or Vince. Why do you think the Psychic Rangers broke up?" He decided once again to try to disillusion someone, in this case a hero-worshipping young journalist. "When I was just getting started, I offered myself for grooming to the closest thing I could find to the universal mentor I was looking for. I joined the only movement pathetic enough to have me as its figurehead and mascot. People started to think of me as going places, and I began to feel the magnetism, the inflationary gloat and buzz of ego that happen when other people think you're cool. They think you're the guardian of some kind of hipster wisdom, and they come swarming to you knowing nothing about you really, except that there's this tidal pull, this whirlpool drawing them, trancelike and infatuated, into your fucked-up hole." "Exactly! With all that energy, all that power to change lives, don't you feel like a god?" "I'm not a god, I'm a person. Don't put your burdens on me. Walk your own road." Intimidated, she changed the subject. "We're all wondering how you always manage to keep one step ahead of fashion. How do you stay on the cutting edge?" "I'm already at the edge. I was born there. The edge is wherever I am." He massaged his forehead with his fingertips, then pulled them away as if they'd just come unstuck. "What you need to know is, I represent a different reality from yours. Every day I'm thrust into your world, confronted with it, forced to acknowledge it. But your values are not my values. I'm not from here." He could guess what she was thinking. Didn't he know she worked for Spark? Weren't they on the same team? But Spark was part of the Reinhold network, along with Impulse, Crave and Excite. How ironic that the cool kids working to overthrow America had no idea who was using them, or to what ends. He tried to spell it out. "Ever since I was a kid, I've understood that I was an alien being, a prisoner in this world. If that strikes you as an egoistic stance, an attitude I project to add to my own glamor—and I'm sure it does look that way, doesn't it? in your heart you think I'm just like you—well, that only serves to illustrate the narrow, cheap complacency that saturates this world, from which I feel excluded by my very nature. If you had a poet in front of you right now, and you understood what it meant to be a poet, you'd kill him in self-defense, despite all your talk about art and alternative living. Even Reinhold, the closest thing we have to a modern monarch, God of This World, would do the same. But he knows the value of a poet. He'd only do it as a last resort." No doubt it was risky to mention Reinhold in an interview, but he'd been feeling brave lately, so he decided to toss her a bone and see what she would do with it. Unfortunately she ignored it completely, checking her notes for what to say next. "Tell me about your efforts to help Portland's homeless children." "We're partnering with the Clean Kids Initiative to get them into loving homes." Tired of fighting, he decided to stick to the script from now on. She grew enthusiastic as they returned to familiar terrain. "I heard you did a peace concert in the West Bank. That must have been quite an adventure!" "The Palestinian people are fabulous, really warm and genuine." Only there hadn't been a concert. It was just a rumor they'd invented to polish his image. It went on like this for half an hour. She'd been commissioned to write a puff piece, and she was eager to do a good job. Finally she stood up and smoothed her slacks. She took another tour of the space before leaving, asking questions about whatever objects caught her eye. Despite his best efforts, he could see that her awe of him was undiminished. He was still brooding about this when Kliff returned. "How did it go?" "I couldn't convince her I'm a fake." "Is that a bad thing?" "She wasn't trying to understand me, she just wanted my image. Next time, I think it would be easier to hire someone to pose as me." A few weeks later, seeing himself on the cover of Spark, he bought a copy and read the interview. There was no mention of Reinhold in six pages of chatter about Bengali temples, Yoruba drummers and fabulous hats. • • • He found himself transported back to the Citadel without any warning. Reinhold sat in a high-backed leather chair in a wood-paneled office, with a curved console at his back and an array of video screens. He rose partway from his seat, extending his hand, and invited Anton to pull up one of the chairs scattered nearby. Anton realized he'd seen this room in a long-ago dream, the same dream that had made him leave Iowa. It came back to him now in every detail. He'd been working for Reinhold in a strange city, planning a riot. Once the riot was underway, he'd been smuggled out of town. He'd arrived in Portland late at night, and had visited the House of Mysticism where he'd met its charismatic guru, Harry Mellow. The guru had asked about Reinhold, and he'd been unable to reply. Under the guru's questioning, he'd had flashbacks to this very room. Remembering the dream caused him to tell Reinhold, "I'm not sure I believe you exist." Reinhold laughed. "Lots of people don't believe I exist. They don't know I exist." "That's not what I mean." "What do you mean? Are you doubting that we're here, having this conversation?" "That's right." "So I'm in your head? I'm something you invented to give logic to your hallucinations?" "Something like that." "What's wrong with the more obvious explanation? Does a global conspiracy to micromanage historic events seem impossible to you?" "I know what you do, what you're about. I just don't know if you're real." "I'm here, Anton. If you threw a drink in my face, it would make me wet. I'd wipe it off with my handkerchief, and later I'd take a shower. I have nerves and flesh just like any other person you've ever met. Surely that's not what you mean." "Maybe I'm still back in Iowa. Maybe I never left high school." "It's been a long, elaborate dream, don't you think?" "So much of it is impossible!" "Impossible is a strong word." "You think so? Then explain this. The first time I came here, Kliff strapped me in a chair and slit my throat. Then I heard voices and I was running. The next thing I knew, I was in a high-tech fortress that seemed to be monitoring everything from Senator Kaley's bowel movements to the squash crop in central China. Kliff was here too, and Sabrina, only she wasn't Sabrina, and I wasn't the 'hottest rock poet of the slacker generation' like they said in Extreme, but some kind of pawn in a vast scheme run by you. When I finally got out of here, I woke up in own my bed like nothing had happened. Later, when I tried to get back again, the pathway I'd used before was gone. I went through the same motions, the same series of steps, but nothing happened. What's up with that?" "I think you're upset." "You bet I'm upset! A few minutes ago I was at home minding my own business, and now here I am again. I must be losing my fucking mind." "They're drugs, Anton, just drugs. Surely you've used mind-altering drugs before?" "You're saying this is some kind of hallucination, some sick trip?" "No, what's happening now is one hundred percent real." "So it's my other life that's the delusion. I'm really a recruit in your private army, who dreams about being a rock star in a world that doesn't exist, because the global holocaust has already happened and we all live here underground, at the Citadel." "Wrong again. You're getting warm, though." "What is it then?" "They're both real. Only they're mutually exclusive, and we aim to keep it that way. The Citadel is a real place, but it's hidden away in a different reality than the one you live in every day. To keep it hidden, whoever comes here has to put himself under the influence of a mind-altering drug. We trigger that drug here at the Citadel, using a signal your senses can't perceive. You need the drug to come across, and you also need the signal. Either on its own isn't enough. You don't need to take the drug each time, though, because its effects are long lasting. When you receive the signal, a pathway opens that lasts just as long as the journey itself. Each time you come here, you come by a different path, and without the signal, there's no path at all. As you've probably figured out by now, it isn't a physical journey. Both ends of the line are real, it's the journey itself that fools the senses. Are you getting the picture?" "You sound like some kind of hip priest." Reinhold chuckled. "So why did you bring me here in the first place?" "Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that what you kept pestering Kliff about? 'Who is this guy Reinhold? What's he up to? Where does he get his power? What are his goals?'" Anton grew agitated. "I should have known you'd spy on my intimate conversations." Reinhold laughed. "Spies are just one more weapon in the arsenal. From the point of view of the spymaster, there's nothing immoral about spies." "It's a betrayal of trust!" "Spies don't betray anyone. They're just doing their job. The victim is betrayed, but there is no betrayer. The spy remains loyal to his master." "So it's our fault if we're spied on?" "Exactly. People's gullibility is what makes spying work." He brought out a bottle of scotch and poured them both a drink. Their conversation turned to the media and how it could be manipulated. "I've noticed that you like to be a magnet of controversy, and that's good. My advice to you in dealing with the media is, use them before they can use you. For them you're a story, a way to expand their audience. For you they're a way to communicate with your base. When you create controversy, they can't help but take an interest. But they'll try to twist your message to fit their agenda. The answer to that is to speak in code. That way, even if they try to manipulate what you're saying, they won't know how." He tossed back a shot and went on. "There are media moguls out there who say, 'Let's sell sex through the spokespeople of youth. That way, we'll destroy their youthful idealism and undermine their revolution.' But here at the Citadel, we've got another angle. We like to make revolution itself sexy. Luckily for us, that's easy to do. Nothing is sexier to a young person than setting things on fire, manning the barricades, a hero's death. Television reflects the menace of our society, but the Citadel creates it. We tap into the destabilizing forces around us and give them a focus, a goal. We help them accomplish what they were meant to accomplish, but would never have managed without our help. We're the actualizers of chaos. We're people of conscience in a world of disorder." Anton felt a thrill run through him. He was convinced that anyone who would say these things must be righteous and just. As he was about to reply, a light flashed on the console, and the Colonel switched on the intercom. "Reinhold," he barked. "What is it?" "You have an appointment. Trainees from Group Seven." "Send them in." He looked at Anton and winked. "Everyone wants their time with the Colonel." Three young recruits entered the room. They had a video they wanted Reinhold to see, a documentary by a French couple on the life of a Cambodian tribe. It was an homage to the simple ways of people living in solidarity with the land. The tribe lived in a remote valley where Reinhold was experimenting with biotoxins. The recruits had come to warn him of a potential humanitarian disaster. After a sequence that showed a young father teaching his boy how to fish with a pointed stick, Reinhold ordered them to switch it off. "I want those journalists to meet a gruesome death. Something appropriate, like being eaten by crocodiles. When you're done with them, get rid of the tribe. You don't have to kill them, just make them go away. Capture every last one of them and ship them to the Middle East." The trainees stared at him in shock. One of them finally spoke up. "They haven't done anything to us. They don't even know about our experiments." "I know, but I'm a contrarian. I hate being told what to think. Don't let anyone tweak your emotions! That's the lesson for today." Eyes downcast, they left the room. The Colonel turned to Anton. "Idealism. The shoots we cut back to make the tree stronger." He got up. "Let's go for a walk, get some air." At the end of a short passage they came to a balcony. It was the first time Anton had seen the Citadel from the outside. For the moment at least, it resembled a medieval chateau, nestled high a valley that was sheltered on all sides by mountains. Above them, a rocky outcrop rose to a small waterfall. The stream was narrow and thick with pines, but the land opened out below them to form a lake, along whose margins fruit trees grew. "Idealism may feel good to some people," Reinhold told him, "but results are what matter. Che Guevara died for his beliefs, and what did he get for it? Does he earn a percentage each time someone sells a T-shirt with his face? Or take Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain. What use is marketing to a dead superstar? You want to get a piece of the action while you're still alive. You want to be paid cash for the work you've done, so you can get a nice little compound on the water. One with an airplane or a speedboat that lets you make a quick getaway, in case it all comes crashing down on you." His arm swept the valley. "This isn't my only estate. I like to visit them each in turn. We've got some really good weed growing here, some of the best in the world. My little empire has every possible climate, so it was inevitable that we'd find one ideal for growing weed. It's the kind of labor-intensive agriculture that seems to do well here. We have pecans, apricots, organic rice, all specialized crops like marijuana. The seeds for which, you know, were originally brought back from the Far East by our boys in Vietnam." He went off on a tangent about the role of the CIA in drug and weapons smuggling, a subject he seemed to know from personal experience. He reminisced about past missions involving the Russian mafia, Israeli intelligence, and the toppling of an uncooperative dictator. He ended with the remark, "and that man is now President of the United States." Anton felt the thrill of being part of a vast conspiracy. Reinhold was involved with mercenary groups, currency speculation and strategic intelligence. He'd infiltrated the media, religious organizations and political parties worldwide. He had major corporations in his pocket. The scale of it all made Anton's head spin. He realized that he wanted a more active role, not just as a symbol of rebellion, but as an actual agent performing missions. He felt special, provided for, and he wanted to give something back. No doubt that was why the Colonel had brought him to the Citadel for a fatherly chat. He told Reinhold this, and was rewarded with a friendly pat on the back. "An agent's life is noble, but it's hardly glamorous. It's made up of tiny, discreet actions that build slowly to a common purpose. A few words exchanged here or there, a package picked up and delivered, can make all the difference. What matters are the details, connecting the dots. If you understand this and it appeals to you, then of course we can use you. No doubt you'll find it refreshing to get out of the spotlight for a change. You can be anonymous, slip through the cracks like ordinary people do." After a moment he added, "I should warn you that not everyone is cut out for this line of work. Subtlety is required, and special skill. The Citadel isn't a mass movement. Your music is an example of what I mean. For the crowd, it's an invitation to passion and mayhem, but some in the crowd feel the calling in a special way. Those are the ones we want as volunteers. When they respond, they'll find leaders, and those leaders work for me. We don't need the world to come to our door, we need the self-selected few." He told Anton there was a mission ready for him if he wanted it. Out of the nearly infinite number of potential missions, he'd picked one that would make the best use of Anton's skills. It wasn't likely to be physically dangerous, but it required poise, tact, and a refusal to be intimidated by power. It required clarity of purpose, because there was only one acceptable outcome. "You'll be negotiating with a man who I want to say yes." After explaining the mission in detail, he gave Anton a parting gift. From now on, he would be able to visit the Citadel without waiting for the signal. Only the referees and special favorites like Kliff had this privilege. "But don't get cocky, because I can revoke it at any time." This had the added advantage of letting Anton travel from place to place instantly, using the Citadel as a transfer point. "Airplanes are so tiresome. Can you imagine me sitting in one for eight hours just to get from New York to Paris?" After wishing him luck, he clapped Anton on the back and sent him on his way. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>