Echo House (38 page)

They had picked their way down the path, the woody ravine on their right. The descent was steeper than they thought, but they had made it all the way down and now were rising again, resting every few moments next to a gravestone. The sun burned through the crowns of the trees, hot as the tropics. Both women were sweating, unsightly half-moons on their dresses under their arms and on the bands of their sun hats. At last they reached the top of the hill, more or less where they had begun, and sank gratefully onto the wooden bench under the great elm. They were both breathing hard, disoriented in the heat. High overhead a helicopter chugged by.

Oh, Sylvia, Mrs. Pfister said. It's so good to see you. I knew we would meet again sometime.

I've thought of you often, Sylvia said, wondering where you were and what you were doing. Someone told me you had moved away.

Mrs. Pfister nodded slowly. She had moved back to Holland, where she was born, a small market town in the Ardennes with Roman ruins and two medieval churches, overrun at one time or another by all the tribes of Europe, even the French. The mercenary d'Artagnan was killed there. It was agreeable, speaking Dutch again, surrounded by familiar faces and of course the medieval churches. She was in Washington now visiting one of her sons. She had been in America for two weeks and that was long enough. She was eager to return to Maastricht.

Why did I think you were Romanian? Sylvia asked.

You didn't, Mrs. Pfister said with a grim smile.
They
did. On the days when they didn't think I was Romanian, they thought I was a Gypsy. Or Czech. Or Bulgarian or Russian or Polish. From anywhere but reliable bourgeois Holland, land of tulips, windmills, and Vermeer.

Sylvia smiled and looked away, past the gravestones to the street. Behind the trees she could see the soaring rooftop of Echo House. She wondered if she should tell Mrs. Pfister what Ed Peralta had said so long ago and decided against it. Everyone she knew lived in the past, and what was the point? She noticed the helicopter again, lower this time, circling as if it were patrolling.

Mrs. Pfister said, They spied on me, you know. And on you, too, and all my clients. They were worried about what happened inside my little bungalow, the cards falling the way they did and people talking as they do. They were afraid of private thoughts, what people think about when no one is looking. People are naturally interested in what precedes them and what lies ahead also. Your husband and his confederates thought I was a communist agent controlled by Moscow. They thought I was interested in their secrets, as if I didn't have enough secrets of my own. I set traps for them and they set traps for me. Some of their traps were clever and one day they had enough and came to me and said I would have to leave Falls Church. My status was "irregular." My papers were not in order. A complaint had been filed, though who filed it and why they never said. My gift was no help to me in this situation, so I packed up and went home to Holland. This was not what I wanted but I had no choice. They followed me to the an port and followed me after I arrived in Amsterdam. I would see them periodically in the market or at church, and then I spoke to someone and the Dutch authorities told them to leave me alone and they did and I haven't seen one for some time now. I could have saved them the trouble. But why bother? I have my gift from my mother and when she died my gift died, too. I think they have forgotten about me now. Perhaps they lost my file. I had no difficulty with the visa. It is the first time I have been to America since they expelled me.

They didn't forget about you, Sylvia said. They were embarrassed.

I embarrassed them?

They would never want it known that they were interested in a psychic. The publicity would have been dreadful. So they destroyed the file.

Mrs. Pfister allowed herself a small smile and then she said, They never knew about my husband. They seemed to think they knew everything but they knew nothing of him. It's easy to fall between the cracks in America if you know how. My Nick had more names than the devil. So they did not know of his existence.

Would it have made a difference if they had? Sylvia had heard a strange chill in Mrs. Pfister's voice. But when next she spoke, Sylvia realized the tone was one of triumph.

Perhaps it would have. My husband worked for them at one time.

Worked for American intelligence?

Not here, Mrs. Pfister said. Abroad. He was the Bulgarian. Not I.

Strange, Sylvia said, because she did not know what else to say. Mrs. Pfister was sitting straight as a schoolmarm, with her eyes fixed on the middle distance.

She said, Are you quite certain they destroyed my file?

As certain as I can be, Sylvia said.

Because I think that's one of them now, Mrs. Pfister said bitterly.

Sylvia looked up to see a young black man approach them. He had been in their vicinity for some time, watching. He was dressed in a black suit like a clergyman and moved most gracefully, like an athlete. Sylvia put her handbag behind her and told Mrs. Pfister to do the same. The black man was tall and broad, with the looks of a street-corner tough, except for the black suit. He walked with his ha ids behind his back as if to emphasize his innocent intentions He smiled politely and dipped his head in greeting.

Ladies, he said. Isn't it a warm day?

What do you want" Mrs. Pfister demanded, so coldly that the black man recoiled as if struck.

Your identification, le said curtly, uncoiling the chain around his neck and showing them a plastic card that stated he was William Block, an agent of the U.S. Secret Service.

We have every right to be here, Mrs. Pfister said.

And I have every right to ask for your identification. Give it to me now.

Mrs. Pfister handed him her passport. Sylvia fumbled in her purse for her driver's license and by the time she had extracted it William Block had returned the passport with a nod and a murmured thank you, ma'am. He looked at the driver's license and then at Sylvia and back again, twice.

He frowned and said, Sylvia Behl Borowy. Are you related to Mr. Axel Behl?

Sylvia said, I was married to him.

So you know the house? he said, gesturing across the street.

I lived there, Sylvia said. Many, many years ago, she added.

What a strange coincidence, the agent said.

Sylvia shrugged, finding her situation neither strange nor coincidental.

It's Mr. Behl's birthday, the agent said. His son is giving a party for him, and the President and the First Lady are expected later in the evening, along with many other notables. The agent explained that he was checking the neighborhood, routine when the President was out and about. He nodded and moved off, apologizing for disturbing them, wishing them a pleasant evening.

Then it was quiet once more. Mrs. Pfister looked at her wristwatch and rose slowly, looking around for other intruders. She said she was expected at her son's. She seemed to sway a little in the heat and admitted that she was tired. The two women embraced and agreed that it was a pity that neither of them had time for lunch, as Sylvia was leaving for Nantucket in the morning and Mrs. Pfister for Holland two days later. So it is unlikely we shall meet again, Mrs. Pfister said. Enjoy the rest of your stay, she said with a thin smile. I'm sure you will.

Mrs. Pfister walked off unsteadily. Sylvia watched her until she disappeared among the trees and gravestones, headed in the direction of Echo House; perhaps she would lay a curse on the old mansion, except it would be ineffective, because her gift had vanished; they were only two old women who had met in a dress shop and would never meet again. Sylvia was alone now in the cemetery. The failing light cast long shadows, and then a little breeze came up and she lifted her face to meet it. Dusk was always her favorite time, the day's work done and the long evening to look forward to. Something always turned up in the evening hours, an unexpected telephone call or a novel that beckoned from the bookshelf or an old movie on television. On the island she liked to drink a glass of wine and watch the lights of the ships at sea; and imagine Willy finishing up, one last cast before he trudged up the beach to join her on the terrace. She sat on the bench and thought about Willy's last days, aware suddenly of a commotion behind her. She turned to see a bright light and a tall young woman with a microphone; she was beautifully dressed in a cream-colored pants suit, Armani from the look of it. They were filming the old senator's grave, the rose and the inscription beneath; she could not remember the words now, only that Charles Rath had said them in German at graveside. The young woman struck a pose, pronounced a solemn sentence into the microphone, and then the lights went out. No doubt she was part of the media retinue surrounding the President at Axel's birthday, Axel kept alive by a formidable combination of state-of-the-art pharmaceuticals, round-the-clock nursing care, and Behl family genes, durable as walnuts. She wondered if she should crash the party, give them a taste of what life had been like in the old days, when Echo House was an inner sanctum, with as many secrets as a tomb. Sylvia rose slowly, losing her balance for a moment; and then she abruptly sat down again, savoring the gathering dusk.

Television crews were assembled in the street, each arriving sedan illuminated by lights that, if not brighter than a thousand suns, were not much dimmer, either. The pavement reporters, of course, were of the junior group; their senior colleagues, including the young woman in the Armani suit, were inside as guests. The usual blank-faced sentinels were in place here and there on the grounds, wires running from their ears, Goethe's gazebo their command post. The stun grenades and tear gas canisters were stacked beside the great poet's bust. A communications van was parked up the street. A small group of neighbors had assembled on the sidewalk to watch the show, the evening news live.

Inside, agents of the Secret Service were intentionally conspicuous, dressed in dark suits and basic black dresses, whereas everyone else was in full fig. The word was out that the President and his wife and the White House chief of staff would arrive together, so there was an excited buzz in the foyer. Nearly a hundred people had gathered in that room and in the living room, where a pianist from the National Symphony played selections of American music. White-coated waiters circulated with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. The back lawn, in partial light, looked inviting, but the doors leading outside were locked on orders of the Secret Service, for what exact reason no one knew, but assassination threats were constant and the President's bodyguards hated large gatherings preceded by publicity, necessitating vettings of guests and staff, an inherently unstable environment, though just at that moment the only unpredictable element was a rabbit bouncing on the croquet court.

Alec was talking to a French diplomat while occasionally glancing at the staircase that swept away in the great curve to the second floor. At the summit the landing was empty and the double doors shut. The old man was in his dressing room, awaiting the proper moment to make his entrance. That would not be until the President arrived. Meantime, Alec acted as official greeter, shaking hands with the men and kissing the women and sending them in the direction of food and drink. The French embassy had sent Champagne and a giant truffle in a satin-lined box and the Russians a tub of caviar. There were cases of vodka and Bernkastler, Havana cigars, a jeroboam of slivovitz, nuoc mam, Swiss chocolate, and bundles of flowers. In a rare display of double-edged wit, the President and his wife had sent a doormat with the presidential seal woven by prisoners at the federal penitentiary, Atlanta.

Alec always enjoyed his encounters with Avril Raye. She had been a friend of Sandrine's, and her apartment a refuge after he returned from his vigil in Southern Europe. They spent long evenings at her table drinking Bordeaux and talking about France; and when she was puzzled about this or that event in Washington, he did his best to unravel it for her. But mostly they drank wine and talked about France and only later did it occur to him how subtle she was, and how kind. She was a big woman and liked to say that she was successful in her work because she looked like a concierge; and was unsuccessful in her romantic life for the same reason. He knew what interested her this evening, the administration's nominee for ambassador to Paris. She pointed out that her government was pleased; Bud Weinberg was a known Francophile and spoke the language beautifully. But there had been no hearings and he was not seen "around." So obviously a problem had developed and Avril wanted to know what it was.

"Bud Weinberg's a good man," Alec said. "Everyone likes Bud. But he has a son who associates with people he shouldn't associate with and he's supposedly seeing a woman who is not his wife. And there's a twist that you'll appreciate. The stories about the woman may be false. Probably are false."

Avril Raye rolled her eyes.

"But he can't kill the rumors. He knows the source but he can't kill them. The more he tries, the more he's accused of cover-up. The more he's accused of cover-up, the deeper the swamp gets. Bud's finished. They're casting around for someone else. Keep your ears open tonight; you'll hear chatter about Bud. Bud's been out of the loop too long. Bud doesn't understand the modern world. Bud stepped on his dick and then shot himself in the foot. Why won't Bud get out of the way so we can get on with it?"

Avril began to laugh. "Who's the source?"

"A gentleman who has his own nominee. A gentleman with important business in France who'd like his own man living on the Faubourg Ste. Honoré when it comes time to mount the take-over."

"I know who that is," Avril said slowly.

"Sure you do. That's why I told you."

"The Hollywood thug."

"None other."

"And there are no women?"

"That's what Bud says. I believe him. And there he is now. He's gone to the Venerables for advice. Bad idea."

Bud Weinberg was standing in the archway to the living room with Harold Grendall, Lloyd Fisher, and a much younger man whom Alec recognized as a lawyer from one of the small K Street firms. Alec couldn't remember his name but he had grown up in Wesley Heights and his grandfather had been a great friend of President Kennedy Alec reckoned the combined ages of the four men at more than two hundred and fifty years. Harold and Lloyd at ninety-plus, Bud at sixty, and the boy lawyer at thirty. They spanned living memory but they all remembered different things and drew different lessons. Bud was talking and Harold and Lloyd were leaning close, avid to collect each detail. They were seldom in on things now and when given the opportunity devoted their full and undivided attention. The lawyer, too, was listening hard.