<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 19 Least Resistance Anton stepped from a bus into the glaring sunlight, shielding his eyes with his hand. He felt like he was going to evaporate. Pedestrians scurried across the concrete plaza, trying to avoid the heat waves rippling around them. With a walk that was at once coolly casual and insolently formal, he moved toward the granite steps of the Bruss Tower. Its skin of mirror-tinted windows cast a uniform, white-hot glare into the air. Because he wasn't an ant under a magnifying glass, he was able to pass through the radioactive zone without being burnt. He ducked into the shade of a columned arcade, and from there into the lobby. The contrast was immediate. Everything here was hushed and cool. Greenery spilled from planters. A wide, flat waterfall slid over an angled surface which, a tiny plaque informed him, was marble from northern Italy. He entered one of the brass-doored elevators, and rode alone to the thirty-third floor. He had the distinct impression of not moving. In the 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 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 is aware that you know the Iranian foreign minister. In fact, he believes the minister owes you a favor." Bruss folded his hands, his expression neutral and polite. "The Colonel needs some arrangements made. One of his Iranian associates is having some trouble with the authorities. Your friend the foreign minister has a cousin high up in the secret police, who is in a position to get the investigation dropped. The Colonel wants that to happen. In addition, he wants an end to the harassment of his associate during his frequent border crossings into Turkey. That inconvenience has cost the Colonel millions of dollars so far this year. He hopes 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." "Gotta love the Colonel." Bruss shook his head in disbelief. "Why all the threats? Just once, couldn't he ask politely?" "Then allow me to ask on his behalf. Mr. Bruss, would you help us?" Bruss showed his teeth. "I'll definitely look into it. Tell him not to worry. I'll do all I can." "Intentions aren't good enough. Mr. Bruss. The Colonel wants results." The telecommunications billionaire squirmed. "I understand that, but 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. He had no way to refute that. It 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 specifically said I should 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, please, while I make some calls." Half an hour later, Anton was back in the sun-drenched plaza, feeling giddy at his success. The left-over adrenalin made him restless. 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. As a result, the city still felt new to him. He felt nostalgia 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 he found in a converted warehouse nearby. Even though he'd started collecting as way of setting aside money for Timmins, 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. Otherwise, except for a strolling couple who called to him from across the street, people left him alone. That made him happy. Unsure what to do next, he checked into a hotel and spent the night. Should he wait for instructions from the Citadel, or just head home? The next morning, Sabrina walked into the diner where he was eating breakfast. He wasn't surprised when she slipped into the booth across from him. It felt natural that their paths would cross. It was a mutual, voluntary suspension of identity. Shielded from knowing one another, they met in neutral space. 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 watching you." He glowered, egg on his fork. "Are you stalking me again?" "There's no reason for that now. It's a coincidence that we're here at the same time." "Then how did you know where to find me?" "My Denver people are competent. I heard you had some business with Bruss?" He wanted to brag about that, but decided it would be unprofessional. 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 it, to be honest. My intervention sped things up a bit, but it was going to happen sooner or later, even without me." "If you'd put it that way before, I might not have been nice to you." "I thought you were attracted to my natural charms." Anton sputtered and looked down. "Speaking of being nice, now that the old man's got you doing missions, how about doing one for me?" "I just finished a mission. Don't you guys ever rest?" He spread jam on his toast and took a bite. "I should be getting back to Portland to work on my album. Besides, if he's got a new mission, why doesn't he tell me about it himself?" He was beginning to think of himself as too important to be dabbling in Sabrina's schemes. "He's not involved directly. It's not under his command." "I thought it was all one seamless conspiracy." "My operations parallel Reinhold's, but there are a few differences." She lowered her voice. "I've noticed you aren't too keen on the assassins' paradise. The idea that Reinhold rewards his agents by transferring their souls to a realm of absolute bliss—you seem to think that's manipulative." "You bet I do! Only a fool would take a deal like that." "Are you saying you'd refuse the garden if you were offered it?" "Of course." "No matter how often you hear people going on about how it's 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'm not gonna trade my freedom for a few moments of bliss." He didn't bother to mention that he'd been to the garden many times already, without Reinhold's help. Exploring the border zone 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 wasn't the goal of his quest. 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 further. 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 pleasures of the garden didn't interest him. She fixed her eyes on his. "What if Reinhold forced you to do it? What if he told you he'd destroy you if you didn't?" 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!" "I won't deny it caused tension. 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 the genius of Reinhold. 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." He was tired of hearing about Reinhold's genius, but he was intrigued to learn there was dissent in the organization, even at the highest levels. He had no way of telling how important the "paradise question" was as a gauge of loyalty within the ranks. No doubt there were other fault lines as well. Perhaps some of Reinhold's officers resented the way he'd been picked as Reinhold's messenger, and were working to sabotage him if they could. Perhaps Sabrina was one of them. He needed no reminder to be careful with her. She might be arming him against his enemies, or she might be an enemy herself. He told her he would take the mission, because he wanted to learn more. She gave him an outline of what he was expected to do. "We're bringing a drug shipment here from Arkansas. We need a chameleon, someone who can switch roles depending on the needs 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'll meet will see you as a drifter, 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. The air was colder, there were different buildings, the cars had Nebraska plates. "Awesome," he said, though 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." The waitress was busy behind the counter. There was country music on the jukebox, and apple pie beneath a plastic dome. 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, and they shook on it. "Hamburg and fries for the boy," he told the waitress as she scurried past. "You take coffee?" Anton had already eaten, but he didn't say so. Follow the path of least resistance, he told himself. Be whatever people want you to be. "What we got here is an assignment for you, boy. You'll be used to assignments from school, but this is a whole different thing." Tyler 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. What do you want me to do?" The waitress brought him his food. Tyler dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Eat your hamburger, boy. Best in the state." After their briefing, he thanked Tyler for the hamburger and went outside. Once again he was somewhere else, this time St. Louis. It was an hour or two before dark. There was a thin snowfall that didn't quite reach the ground, and he was shivering. He walked through a neighborhood of working-class bungalows until he found the one he was looking for. It had colored gravel where a lawn should be, and shrubs in painted tires on each side of the porch. He mounted the steps and rang the bell. A man of about fifty appeared, with a lean, ravaged face and yellow-gray hair. He wore a short-sleeved 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." "Tyler who?" "Tyler in Omaha." "A little black guy, about my age, with squinty eyes?" "That's right." "Sorry, I can't help you." "I'm not from the FBI or the Mafia, if that's what's worrying you." The man laughed sharply. "Worried? With a punk like you?" "You've got a point." "The thing is, Tyler's not a good judge of character. So 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. In St. Louis we've got better things to do than be nice to strangers." "Sorry to bother you." "And get a haircut! There's a barber a block from the hotel. Ken still cuts hair the old fashioned way, with a razor." Anton walked downtown and checked into the hotel. Still following the path of least resistance, he went to look for the barber shop, and let Ken chop away his designer hairstyle. 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 walked around a bit. Passing an Army-Navy store, he bought himself a wool coat and knit cap because he was 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 pulled down, he resembled the 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." Anton read the note. "Meet me outside the Lemon Drop at 8:00 p.m. I've got a brown Chevy Impala. E. Darby." He looked at the clock on the wall. He had twenty minutes. He asked for directions and went back out. A brown sedan was parked by the curb at the Lemon Drop. As Anton approached, Elson Darby leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. Tyler had warned him to watch out for this man, but then, why should he trust Tyler either? "Let's go for a ride," Darby said once he was inside. He turned the ignition, and 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. The wipers moved sporadically to clear away the snowflakes. He wondered where they were headed, but 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 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 were driving through a piney region where every so often, a house set back from the road sent a shaft of light through the trees. After Anton had drunk enough that he was past caring, he let Darby unbuckle his jeans and get inside his pants. The man'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 Darby'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 he muttered terms of endearment. "I know you like it, 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 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. Just sit tight until then." He drove off, leaving Anton in the driveway. The next day when Anton woke, it was impossible to know the hour because the sky was a muddy 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 the piney woods, so he closed the curtains again 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, 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 already knew him, as if they were the ones who'd left him there in the first place. "Are you ready?" "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 the engine running. He got in back with two others. They sped along the mountain road in a way that made him nervous, because its curves were slick with rain. They sampled the stuff as they drove, and after a while, he too could care less if they skidded, turned over, and ended as a bloody mess at the bottom of a ravine. After a while, 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 guarantee the party's success. They were concerned about getting home at a reasonable hour, because they had jobs to report to in the morning. It was already late afternoon, and they still had all of Kansas and Colorado to cross. With the late hour of their arrival and the drugs they were consuming, they worried what shape they would be in the following day. From their chatter, Anton understood he had a 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. As night fell, the conversation became fitful, or lapsed entirely as people slept. They changed drivers each time they stopped for gas, and Anton got his turn at the wheel. Finally the lights of Denver appeared on the horizon, and soon they were driving on city streets. They parked in a neighborhood on the west side, and Anton followed them into the house. 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 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 the 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 dull green. 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, he thought, 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 the 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. Not on the job." "Then come to our party tonight. Here's the address. Bring 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 to this point, but it was futile. In Reinhold's world, people went about their business, never realizing they fit into a larger scheme. Only the Colonel knew the whole story. Without him, events would be meaningless and random. There was no escaping him, because he had mastered all technologies. 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. Their leader, known as the Coach, had promised them a special reward that night. The Coach managed one of Denver's professional sports teams, and 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 was throbbing 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. It fascinated him because it had no meaning. Its only purpose was to blend in with its surroundings. The people around him tonight were like that too, he decided. Their laughter and chatter was like 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." "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. We'll call out the names of our winners one by one. If you're not on the list, don't worry, we still love you. Greatness always wins in the end, and you're all great. 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 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 the Coach opened his arms to give him a bear hug before he entered the treatment chamber. He shifted his stance a few times without moving from where he stood. "Look, I don't know. Why don't you give my spot to someone else." He went out on the patio for a smoke. There was silence behind him as people got over their shock. "Brenda Paulson!" called the Coach finally. "Mike Watkins!" Little by little, the cheers returned to a fever pitch. Anton felt a range of emotions. He cursed Sabrina for setting him up, 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, so it should be an informed choice. He felt sad for these young recruits who were trapping themselves in a life of addiction, without even knowing it. He was joined by the messenger he'd met at the bank. The boy's sideburns and slicked-down hair made him seem shady. He didn't fit the clean-cut vibe of the party. 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 asked. He figured the boy was here to pick up the stuff. "It's all good." He nodded back towards the gathering. "Weird vibe, huh? Like a Christian summer camp." "You mean the mystery treatment?" "What a bunch of sheep. I guess 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 owned, 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 blowing across the mouths of bottles. "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 he'd gotten hold of them, and why the Coach wanted them, but he couldn't expect a straight answer, and decided it didn't matter. They continued talking about music until they finished their cigarettes. The boy went into the house to find his friends, and Anton followed after a while. By now the lucky 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. He laughed. "What was it like?" "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, they didn't want it to end, so they gathered in a circle to sing inspirational songs. Anton drifted off down the long 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 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 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 wondered if Kliff was upstairs in the loft, or if he'd gone out. Had he been away for several days, as it seemed, or had the entire series of events, from the moment Reinhold summoned him to the Citadel until now, happened in a few minutes of real-world time? He'd refused the garden, and passed Sabrina's test. In fact, 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, but then he'd drawn the line. He wondered what the long-range effects of that decision would be. Would Reinhold be mad at him now? Sabrina had assured him that rejecting the garden wasn't a betrayal. So why had she tested him? Why had she exposed him to the possibility of revolt? Was she recruiting a group of dissidents loyal to herself? Could she get away with that without Reinhold finding out about it? 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. He might even be proud of Anton 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 >>>