Saboteur: A Novel (7 page)

“This final slide shows our own
Professor Charles Patterson, known affectionately as the man with the Midas
touch, pointing to the location of Caesar’s assassination at the foot of the
statue of Pompey the Great, his rival, one of the great archeological finds of
our century. Caesar himself had the statue erected to honor his slain
adversary. It was his style to be gracious in victory, overly so in fact. More
on that later. Let it be an inspiration that there are still many great
discoveries to be made by studying the past. I’m sorry,” he said, “that’s all we
have time for today.” An hour went by faster than he could believe sometimes.
Few moved in their seats though and he knew he would be staying around to
answer lots of questions.

He looked for Samara, but her seat
was now empty. He hoped he hadn’t upset her. He turned and standing in front of
him was the man in the hat.

“Hello, it’s Taro right?”

The man stepped closer, which was
unfortunate. The smell of body odor hit him like a wave. Downy tried to plug
his nose, but to no avail.

“Yes, yes professor. My name is Guy
actually, but friends call me Taro. I know what an incredibly busy man you must
be, but I wonder if you will accept this letter of recommendation? I know it is
somewhat an old custom, but where I come from such a thing is still highly
valued. I would like to schedule an appointment to speak with you, once you
have had a chance to read it of course.” He handed a rolled parchment to Downy.

“Thank you, thank you, please come
by my office any time though, really no letter is necessary.”

“How wonderful of you, still the
letter may help explain some things in advance. I will schedule an appointment
then.”

The man’s English was good enough,
but he could tell it took great effort for him to put his thoughts together in
what was clearly a foreign tongue for him. There was Italian in there, but
Italian from the country, rustic even. He tried to place the accent, but it too
was somehow indistinct.

The man bowed a half bow and turned
to go. Some of the other students waiting in line watched suspiciously,
snickering and laughing as he walked away, half at the smell and half at the
bow. There was something overly formal in the man’s demeanor, but he smiled as
he left, seeming unfazed. Downy felt bad sometimes for older students who faced
the wrath of the younger one’s sense of what was cool and what wasn’t. Downy
stared at the line of students and sighed. He needed a chair. It looked like he
wasn’t going to be leaving anytime soon.

Chapter
12

The moonlight made it possible
to see in both directions and most importantly up the hill to the carriage. The
horses would be spooked if anyone disturbed them, so the man felt free to taste
the first true air of relief. The water was very cold, but it didn’t matter. He
stripped off his clothing. In his state he needed something to slow down his
heart, the heat of his fevered mind. In the darkness he lay on his back and
floated toward the center of the stream. Stars darted in and out of clouds and
the night sky looked immeasurably vast. He suddenly remembered a story told to
him as a child about the boy Icarus. It was a very old story, Greek actually.
The boy Icarus had flown too close to the sun after his father had fashioned
for him wings made of wax. Icarus had flown higher and higher, in spite of his
father’s protestations, until the wax melted, then plummeted to his death. It
was a metaphor of course for the dangers of acquiring abilities that were meant
to be the sole province of the gods. The story had been useful to him all his
life. It was the difference in a man’s temperament that dictated how he would
view the moral of the tale. Romantic souls tended to focus on Icarus’s
achievement, which was beautiful, but tragic. He had flown closer to the sun
than anyone, had peaked into the realm of the gods. The pragmatist saw only
folly. The man swam toward the bank.
He
was no romantic.
He
would be the
divine punishment then.

The man fully submerged himself in the water, swimming down
as deeply as he could. The dark and the silence were peaceful, but as he
cleared his mind, he thought he heard the sound of muted voices from above.
Where had they come from? There had been no one only moments before. He held
his breath and waited. It was definitely voices. He wasn’t sure how long he
could stay under, but decided to test himself. He thought of the time in Egypt,
his only real disaster. He had swum many miles, too far really. Finally, after
what seemed like minutes had passed, the talking seemed to be getting further
away; then he gulped in his last breath, deciding to push himself to the
absolute limits of his endurance. In case his body grew too weak he dove down
to the deepest part of the river into the darkness, pumping his arms wildly
through the silence. All he had to do was not lose consciousness. If anyone had
seen him go under, they would never believe he could survive so long. He would
wait longer still. But suddenly his limbs stopped responding. His head felt
like it might explode. He felt himself rocketing rapidly to the surface. He
finally burst through the canopy, exhaling in a mighty gasp, then guffawed
inward. His rib cage was on fire. He commanded his arms to swim, to move, but
only his left arm meekly responded. Sideways now, he felt his knees scrape
against the rocky bottom and he knew that he had survived. He was in the
shallows. He crawled to the water’s edge and lay in the sand breathing heavily.
There seemed to be no one about. Had it all been his imagination? He turned his
head to look up the hill. The horses seemed undisturbed, which was a good sign;
their silhouettes he could see against the faint light of the moon. He crawled
to his cloak and wrapped himself in its warmth, moaning. He remembered the
teachers recounting of the story,
  

“Lying there on the cold floor all
alone,” the teacher had said, “wrapped only in the dignity of his cloak.” The
man cried out in agony. Wild night animals from far away howled back in
response.

Chapter
13

“Come on,” Tackett said, “let me take you to your new digs.”

He was slightly buzzed from their drinking
and didn’t realize Tackett wanted him to actually get out of the car.

“Goddamn Southerners can’t hold
your liquor,” he shouted as he finally staggered out of the car. Tackett
jangled with the keys on his belt as they walked toward a small, old house at
the end of the driveway. It looked almost abandoned, but it was neatly kept.

“When the budget was better we had
this as a safe house for the narcos. Then when the budget was cut we stopped
paying, but the owner has never said a word. He’s older than Cootie Brown. The
city records don’t even list the place as existing at all.”

Tackett pointed toward the couch. “There’s a bed in there,
just pull it out. The ice-box is full of beer, but don’t touch the cheese. It’s
mine. Or the Ritz crackers. Also mine. There is a stack of playboys and
penthouse in the drawer, though watch out
cause
Rodriguez keeps them in a particular order. If they get moved she gets
furious.”

“Oh,” he said, “she lik--”

“She likes the articles. Don’t
mention you’re staying here, ok? Tierney has forgotten this place even exists.
You’ll be safe. Look, tell me if anything unusual comes up on this case, ok?
Tell me who you speak to, just so I can watch your back and keep an eye on
you.”

“Ok, Dad.” he said saluting
awkwardly.

Tackett raised his head squinting
at him. “Man you are sure one goofy bastard for a supposed genius. Then again
maybe you’re just a country genius. You better get some sleep.” Tackett said
opening the door. “The train comes by here at about 7 am, so don’t worry about
setting an alarm. Drink a bunch of water before you pass out. See you bright
and early sunshine.”

 
He was all alone
at last on the couch. It wasn’t bad actually. There were candles placed
randomly around the room. It smelled of a woman’s touch, even if it looked like
a complete flop-house. He opened the refrigerator. It was full of beer, and
good beer at that. There was a piece of moldy cheese wrapped in plastic in the
corner, which smelled mightily bad. On top, a pack of Ritz crackers, only
slightly stale, which he opened and proceeded to eat with reckless abandon. He
finished all but two, trying to remember where Tackett had said the playboys
were, before passing out on the couch covered in crumbs.

***

The blast of the train’s horn caused him to think he was in
Richmond and for a few strange seconds he thought he could smell the fall
leaves. He heard a football game band playing to cheers off in the distance,
but then the sound all seemed to roll together into the breaking of waves, and
he realized where he actually was. California. He had slept at least. His head
felt tender though, and if he moved too fast he knew he might cause a real
headache. Suddenly the coffee maker kicked on with a beep, but there was no
water, so it only hissed. He was too tired to bother. He sat up running his
hands through his hair. He wasn’t a Richmond cop anymore; he had to remember
that. San Diego had certainly been eventful so far. It technically wasn’t
illegal for Tierney to lie to him, but it sure was a helluva way to start a
job. He walked to the window and peered out across the street. It was empty. A
child rode by on a bicycle and waived across at someone he could not see. He
looked on the table and saw the folder for case 1032. He sat down and opened
it. It was not much to go on. He had already called and left messages with
anyone even remotely connected to the case. It was a short list of names. It
was a long way from the crime. Probably no one remembered anything accurately
after so much time. He stared at the pictures of the scene of the break in and
of course the apparent struggle, blood literally splashed all over. Whose blood
was it? No body was ever found and it hadn’t matched anyone in the database.
During the follow up investigation by Detective Jensen they hadn’t even
considered there was any connection between the two events---the disappearance
of Fleming and the apparent murder without a body. Why would they? Sullivan
wanted a look at the scene, even if it had changed completely. Maybe there was
something about
where
the crime took
place that was important. Maybe the homeowner could remember something
valuable. Sullivan remembered that his car was still at impound.
Shit.
He was going to be late for sure.
Just then the front door flew open.

“Rise and shine, Valentine!” It was
Rodriguez. “Time to get your hung ass up, homey,” she said handing him a coffee
and donut.

He realized he wasn’t wearing
pants, only his shamrock covered underwear. Rodriguez looked down.

“Those are cute, but the chief
hates the Irish, so put on some pants.” He looked down and laughed.

“Not that you care.” he said
without thinking.

“No, no I appreciate good
equipment,” she said walking around the room, apparently unfazed by the remark.
“This place needs a cleaning. Beer?” she said opening the fridge.

“Isn’t it a little early?”

“Suit yourself,” she said cracking
the lid off the countertop. “I gotta get into character. Wanna hear a joke?”
she said after downing some of the beer.

“Sure.”

“What do you call a hooker with
fresh breath?”

“I don’t know.”

“An undercover cop.”

She threw his pants at him. “Get
dressed. You’re gonna make us both late. The only thing I hate more than being
late is fucking late people.”

“Me too,” he said, but Rodriguez was
finishing her beer all in one drink, ignoring him. She slammed it on the table
and pulled out a tube of fire engine red lipstick and started to apply. Then
she let out a giant burp. Sullivan put his hand over his face in protest.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “sorry you’re
a southern boy right? I suppose I must ufh forgotten my mannahs, Rhett. Please
do forgive a silly little peach like me for upsettin your delicate
sensibilities.”

He laughed in spite of himself and
finally pulled on his pants. It was their fifth consecutive day in the
rotation. Eventually, he realized he would have to unpack all his stuff.
Eventually.

Chapter 14

Downy awoke to the caress of his wife Naomi’s hand against
his forehead.

“Who won last night you or the
bar?”

He suddenly remembered that he had
lied to her about where he was. He hated the feeling. Butterflies filled his
stomach and he decided pretending a bit of a hangover wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Ahhhhhh!” he said rolling over.
“It was a tie I think--”

Naomi stretched herself and got out
of the bed. He loved the view and the kiss from the night before had him
especially charged. As Naomi tried to walk away he grabbed her by the boxer
shorts, pulling them down before she could escape. She always slept in his
boxers. He loved how she looked in them.

“Ah ah ah,” she said pointing her
finger at him, “I have the luncheon with Max and Cynthia today, no time for
shenanigans.” Downy could never keep up with her schedule. It was too bad.

“Your loss,” he said.

Naomi laughed reaching down between
his legs giving him a squeeze. “Save it,” she said with a kiss. “Rain check.”

“Damn right,” he said.

He stared at the ceiling fan as it
twirled and he could hear the birds chirping away outside the window. He
thought of Samara’s conversation about Nazim. He also thought of how easily he
had let her kiss him. And what had she meant about the principles of a man and
a woman exactly? He wasn’t too self-righteous to recognize the truth when he
heard it. He needed to let Naomi know about Samara as soon as possible. There
was simply no way he could keep meeting with her alone without arousing
suspicion.

“Hey!” he yelled, “you won’t
believe who showed up to my class yesterday.”

“Who’s that?”

“Charlie’s daughter, Samara.”

Naomi suddenly appeared back in the
doorway.

“You’re kidding?”

“No, I’m not,” he said, “she’s been
overseas and just
came
back to town. She wanted to
surprise me, I guess. Remember, I told you her mom called and said she might be
headed back to the states for school? I’d forgotten almost.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, “poor girl,
how is she doing?” Questions like this he hated. Naomi would see her soon
enough and it was dumb not to tell the truth. It would seem suspicious after
the fact.

“She’s grown up now that’s for sure.
You know the last time I saw her she was about twelve, I think. She’s really
beautiful,” he said. “Reminds me of both Charlie in the eyes and her mom, of
course.”

“Ohh, another beautiful girl in
your life, eh, Professor?” she said half mockingly.

“Yeah, but--”

“I know, I know. I was just
kidding.”

Even though she was in a hurry he
now had her attention to a different degree. He shouldn’t have used the word
beautiful.

“She actually wants to meet about
something. I told her to come over whenever she wants.”

“What’s it about, any idea?”

“Not really, I get the sense it’s
not school related though. You know she missed the funeral and maybe it’s
something to do with that.”

Naomi pulled her straight black hair up into her headband
and twisted it into a perfect knot.

“Maybe you two should meet alone
then, I don’t want her to feel awkward and it’ll give you time to catch up.”

He marveled silently at his wife’s
confidence, her willingness to accommodate and her perfect profile.

“Grab a coffee with her and then we
can have her over for dinner or something.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

He thought of Samara’s lips against
his and the pressing of her body, the way she had almost collapsed into him.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

“I know you do, I’m so late,” she
said, rushing to collect her things.

At thirty-four she was an absolute
picture of beauty and confidence. He leaned over the edge of the bed like a boy
and rolled off into the standing position, whispering into her ear.

“I still can’t believe your own sister
had you whacked,” he said, thinking back to her time on set as Cleopatra’s
unfortunate sister.

“Then again, stealing the throne of
Egypt wouldn’t be hard with an ass like that.”

Naomi laughed chasing him back to
bed. “Go back to sleep, you’re still drunk.”

He lunged for her again, but she
was gone.

He took her advice and dozed off
again, but his first dream was of Nazim. The family had seemingly turned their
backs on Samara. Why? In his dream there was black smoke off in the distance
and Nazim was whispering something to him, something terrible, frightening. He
was weeping. He woke up with a start and threw on his pants. He would call
immediately. It was evening already in Cairo and he wanted some answers.