Salamanders
by Pete Murphy
Chapter
7
Pilot
Two minutes passed:
The peacock screamed again somewhere in the darkness beyond the sliding
glass. The fire crackled and heaved, rolled its hot swell through the little
man's thin white hair, shoved its cedar smell into the baked leather of his
chair and singed the hair on his chest. The mixing scents sent tiny ripples of
awareness into his brain and he awoke knowing he needed to scream, but cut it
off and gritted his teeth. He felt the heat on his legs, the fire in his knees,
the searing at his chest and the smell of burning hair.
He searched his head for relief and endured a long five seconds more,
then rose smoothly, slowly, stretched his naked body toward the flame. He
opened his eyes, aware of his pain. The fire heaved. He stared at it, into it,
gritting his teeth, smiling, needing to move away.
But he didn't.
He wanted to move into the fire, but didn't.
He was with the fire, had almost become it.
Almost.
He wanted the pain to continue, wanted to endure it, but couldn't. He
strode painfully and with elegance to the sliding glass and opened it. The cold
air rushed in with a sudden blast across his leathered arms and hands and onto
his face. It had rained earlier, somewhere toward the south. He could smell it.
But the skin of his chest and stomach, callused long ago and all but dead, felt
nothing. Come to the brain, he thought, come. It took longer than usual. He
held the underside of his arms out to the crisp breeze. The pain eased a
little. He released the tension at his jaw and opened his mouth. His eyes began
to water. He lifted his arms higher, felt the coldness rush into the pores of
his armpits, bounce against the cracked leather of his chest and crawl into his
nose, jogging his brain. Steam rose from the uncallused parts of his flesh.
Two minutes had gone.
The peacock screamed again, once, and was silent. He touched his
stomach, the belly of a lizard, felt its burnt hardness. His brain spun, dizzy
for the moment, and soared as he opened his fiery eyes toward the stars, aware,
awareness rising into recognition, then passion, and finally into peace.
He shivered, relaxed, and moved back into the firelight, leaving the
door open. He pulled the heavy black chair further from the hearth, sat and
resumed his thinking precisely, as if he'd never dozed.
He thought of the rain, and of the missing suitcase.
It had been, from the start, an easy solution, sending them out,
telling them to kill all the suppliers, be done with it. The pushers could fend
for themselves. With the suppliers gone, there'd be no one to connect him with
it.
Now they were dead. Bags had done his job. No matter what the Noriega
investigation uncovered, he'd be clean. Nothing Manuel might say would ever
lead to him. He no longer had to think about that. He'd covered his tracks.
Killing his wholesalers was good insurance.
But now, after Brody had stupidly chosen Duncan to deliver the
suitcase, and with the thing at the icehouse, Billy screaming his name like
that and Duncan getting away, it wasn't over. Brody had been careless, choosing
Duncan. He'd deal with Brody later. For now, Bags will find Duncan and kill
him, fast, and any others, just to get his money.
They were connected, all of them. He knew their names. He'd had all
twelve names stuck in his head too long. He'd been wondering and afraid about
this moment, knowing it would come, dreading it for years. Now it had come. He
had no time for anxiety or dread or torture about it, all that superfluous,
inadvertent thinking. The time had come. To remain hidden, he had to kill them
all. Especially this man who now called himself Reynard.
He'd do that himself. What a surprise: Hello old friend, you've been
summoned here so I can see your face again and kill you.
Noriega's downfall was bad for him, but watching it happen, move by
move, not able to control it, was horrifying. Pilot had never been powerless
until Reynard slipped into it, got himself involved with Panama.
Reynard was very good at what he did. He'd known what plays to make and
made them. He'd been clever about it, this man Reynard, telling people only
what they'd hoped to hear, mostly lies. Reynard knew what he was doing and made
it happen, and stayed outside it all. No one seemed to know him, or his value,
or how much a part he'd played. But Pilot knew.
Reynard was slippery, hard to keep track of. No one seemed to know his
face, his true identity. He'd been molding people and shaping history for over
twenty years. At one time he'd been CIA, then went on his own, internationally,
searching out his own wars, deciding his own causes. Many wished he'd pick a
side, any side, just to pin him down. Anyone could hire him, few knew how to
find him. He'd become a man with many names, no identity, a voice in a phone
booth, a face in a suitcase. No one knew him.
But Pilot did. He'd known him for years. And now knew Reynard would die
within the week.
He'd show Brody how to find this man Reynard, recruit him, have him
walk right up to Pilot, knowing he cannot stop himself. Reynard will cause his
own defeat. He'll come to save the kids.
Hello, old friend, you've come so I can see your face again and kill
you.
But killers cannot be trusted, he thought. A handful of killers was
like a handful of sound: Secrecy was jeopardized. A year, two years down the
line, someone would drift, a tongue would run. The weakest part of a man, the
tongue. Pilot would be secure, his identity protected, when only one tongue ‑
Reynard's ‑ remained. He'd cut that one out when it's over, remove all
pointing fingers.
He pulled himself onto the edge of the chair, held his hands closer to
the firelight, studied them. His solid forearms tapered to lean muscular wrists
that spread into the callused heels of his hands and fanned into overlong agile
fingers of sinew and bone, the tips bulbous gristle, hard and lifeless. He'd
not needed to use them in years, and now the muscles of his arms and fingers no
longer worked the way they used to. He'd often wondered if the fire thirty
years ago had hurt him, if his body was only now feeling it, getting older too
soon. It'd been stupid and careless, getting himself caught in his own fire.
But no matter: His teeth worked. His brain had kept him alive, gave
comfort, lent control, bestowed fear, though fear was not his way. Respect had
always been the most powerful tool. Always. Respect, and... purpose.
Pilot smiled, thinking about that. Evangelists used it all the time.
Charismatics, they called themselves. Show them you deserve ‑ command ‑
respect.
To get respect you need believers. And the believers were intelligent.
Necessarily. They'd become bored, wanting more and more power and control.
Understandably. They'd try to shove their way toward the perfection at the top.
Undeniably. So: The earliest believers had to be the last to die. Completely.
Erase history. Erase those who'd helped at its beginning, anyone who still
believed.
There is no veneer. Man is only what he will do. Scratch a man and you
see another man underneath? Pap. You'll see only his dreams, and dreams are not
functional, useless to power and control. Ultimate man is only what he will do
to achieve more power.
There's no need to control the world. It has always policed itself.
Presidents and kings are subject to beliefs powered by people with dreams.
Convince the people and they'll convince the kings.
Pluralism can defeat itself. Patriotism breeds wars. Education is the
greatest arsenal in the history of man. It can defeat hunger and prejudice. We
use the soldier and the teacher, the hit man and the guru. They become one.
They no longer know who they're fighting. There's a whole subculture of
violence out there looking for a cause.
And he was the cause.
His brain could guide the teeth when it was time. His brain and his
teeth.
One tongue.
The idea of it thrilled him.
He moved his hand to a large console built into the arm of his chair,
pressed one of the buttons. A floor lamp came on at his right. His fingers
skittered over the console. From an intercom at his left: "Yes sir?"
"Bring the Personnel tape please, George."
"Yes, sir."
"And, George?"
A moment.
"Yes sir?"
"Some tea, please. Some for yourself as well."
"Yes. Certainly sir."
He tapped the console, turning on the other lights, farther from the
last, and pulled himself from the chair. The room was huge.
He dressed, watched himself in the mirrored wall.
When he had finished, he ran a burnt hand through his thin white hair,
his eyes on the mirror, his head erect. With one hand on the white metal cane,
the other in his white trousers pocket, he stared into the mirror and recited
quietly:
"Whenever Richard Corey went down town,
We people on the sidewalk always looked at him.
He was a gentleman from soul to crown,
Clean favored, imperially slim."
His voice floated,
warmed with the fire.
"So on we worked and waited for the light.
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread.
And Richard Corey one calm summer night
Went home and put a bullet through his head."
Silly man. Had the power and blew it. Apparently never used it. Just
being is wasted being. You might as well put a bullet through your head. You need
to use the virtue found within yourself. Direction. Purpose. Constant purpose.
Grow, move or die. Purpose. That's the teeth of it.
The thing in Panama in the spring had been one of his best moves. It'd
taken him almost a year ‑ a lot of moves ‑ but in the end they
buried Hayborne and passed control to Pilot. He knew they would. They knew it
too, before they'd dropped the last shovelful of dirt. They had no choice. He'd
seen to that, slowly. He had more pages in his book than all of them. They were
all reasonable and rational men who knew power and control, knew domination and
influence, knew eminence and alliance, wisdom, determination and rule. Fear.
And consequence. They knew consequence too well, prisoners of it, feared it.
They believed in conclusion. Eventualities were very real to them and what he
knew terrified them. He knew there was no end. The aftermath was his. He was
Pilot.
George signaled from the anteroom. Pilot went to one end of the huge
table, pressed a button on the console. Half of the end wall lit up, became a
huge screen showing George and his wheeled serving dolly waiting in the hall.
Pilot pushed three more buttons. The white door clicked open and George
entered. Pilot nodded to him, smiled, and took his seat by the console.
George served the tea, setting his own near the other end of the table.
Pilot motioned him closer. George repositioned his saucer and cup two seats
away from Pilot. His right hand, steady, confident, was missing its last two
fingers. He stepped to the equipment panel in the corner, inserted a tape,
settled in his chair and waited.
Pilot tried his tea.
"We cannot run from our actions, George."
George waited.
"This is the greatest country in the world, George. No one should
be allowed to wipe his feet on it."
George listened, adjusted his glasses.
"As we both know..." he looked at George's hand,
"strength is restored through wounding, pain."
George sipped his tea, smiled.
Pilot watched him. "What is important, George?"
"Power, sir."
"No."
George looked confused, then brightened. "Obedience."
"To...?"
"You, sir."
"No. Not to me."
"Then..."
"Yes?"
"To power."
"And?"
"To purpose."
Pilot pressed a button on the console. "Yes," he said.
The tape began. The huge screen on the wall displayed close to a
hundred filenames and directories. Pilot played the console with his fingers.
Faces appeared, mostly men, along with their last known locations throughout
the world. The photographs stayed on the screen for fifteen seconds, then moved
to the next figure, each frame listing all known aliases, height, weight,
physical characteristics and nationality in the bottom left hand corner. The
next block, to the right, showed the subject's position of importance, title,
or general duties in a broader scheme of things: Aide to Nevinson; Foreign Min.
London; U.S. Amb. to Lux.; Cultural Attaché, Moscow; Attorney to M. Ovilians,
France (See file: Zell). The next block in most cases was blank, but when
showing an entry was self explanatory: Handgun. Garrote. Telescopic.
Explosives. Many of them listed more than one item. Most showed: 'Knife'. Half
showed: 'Hands only'. Two or three showed: 'Specialties. See file'. The last
block, smaller than the rest, had a white on black coded display: +, x, or *. Only Pilot knew what these meant.
Pilot occasionally made notes as they watched the tape.
"There are great men here, George. Important men who know power
and control. And purpose. They all have purpose. Without them we could not
function in this society. We owe allegiance to them. Needless to say, the world
is not run from this chamber. People make the world happen."
George sat erect, nodded.
"But for survival, and for the fulfillment of others, and
ourselves..." Pilot jotted in his notebook..."The weak need to re‑evaluate
their positions."
George watched the faces on the screen.
Pilot's head bent to the notebook again. "When this tape is
finished, I'll have a list for you."
The tape stopped at a tousle‑headed kid, maybe twelve, thirteen,
grinning out beyond the right of the camera, leaning back in a rocker on the
porch of a clapboard house.
Pilot got up, moved closer to the screen, stared into the face. George
sat quietly. Pilot nodded his head slightly and went back to his chair.
When the tape ended, Pilot checked his notepad and handed it to George.
"We had an unfortunate, let us say not accidental, incident occur
early this morning, George. Yes. Very unfortunate."
"Yes, I know sir, but...the suitcase was..."
"Very alarming."
Pilot went back to the fire, then moved to the open sliding glass and
looked up at the stars. The wind from the lake, still cold, was softer now.
Hector was feeding the dogs in their yard among the oaks. The moon had pulled
itself from the treeline. A gravel path, bordered with poplars, climbed in a
straight line from the stables to the house. The peacock stepped out of the
trees onto the path and looked at him silently.
"How many do you have here at your disposal?"
George seemed uncertain. "None now, sir. Just me, I mean.
Bags...Mister Harte...is in Philadelphia. He's trying to find Duncan."
"Ah, yes. Duncan. Your man in the Jeep. He is on your list?"
George checked. "Yes sir."
"Bags will find him. It was his money. Take Duncan off your
list."
"Yes, sir."
"How many do you need?"
"One will do sir."
"Hector?"
"Well...sir..."
"Hector is a good soldier."
"Just Hector then, sir. He's feeding the dogs."
"Go to Philadelphia. Get Chi‑Chi, as well."
George stared at him.
"Find Chi‑Chi."
"Yes sir."
"Good. Now. Ten, without Duncan. You know who they are."
"Well, no sir. But..."
"I mean you have the names."
"Yes sir, I have their names, but..."
"That's all you need. The names. Find them."
"But..."
"What, George?"
"They're kids."
"They were kids, once. They're not kids anymore. Oh. The boy on
the rocking chair? Scratch him as well."
George did.
"I'll take care of him privately," Pilot said. "Now I've
got two more names for you."
George looked at his new list and froze.
"That's right, George. Bags and Arnold. Handle them after they've
found Duncan. Do you have it clear now?"
"Yes sir." He waited,
smiling, then said, "I knew you'd want to find him, sir. Duncan, I mean.
It's not right, what happened." He adjusted his glasses. "It was
dumb," he added.
Pilot smiled.
George said, "When I find these people, do you want me to...take
new photographs, update the information for your personnel tape?"
Pilot stared at him. "No, George. I don't."
George shifted his feet.
"Kill them, George."
"But..."
"Yes?"
"Bags, sir?"
"Kill him."
George shut his mouth, adjusted his glasses, sighed.
"You will take Bags' place. Clear?"
George stared at him a moment, then nodded, stuck the notebook in his
pocket.
"And don't worry about the suitcase. I'm in control of it. Mr.
Harte...Bags...is in Philadelphia, at the Raleigh. When it's time, kill him
there. You'll have Chi‑Chi and Hector to help you. Clear?"
George nodded.
"That will be enough now, George. Thank you."
George assembled his cups, saucers, tape and notes onto the tray. He
didn't look up.
Pilot watched him. "We all need belief occasionally. You believe,
I know."
George turned, looked at him. "Yes," he said, then rolled his
cart to the white door and turned, waited for the click of the door lock.
"I know, George." Pilot said, pushing buttons on the console.
The door clicked open. "You were one of the first. You won't be the last.
You'll be with me at the end."
George showed no emotion as he left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Two more clicks and the screen and the lights were off.
Pilot moved back to the huge fireplace and undressed, staring into it.
After a while he went to the open glass door, looked at the moon and the row of
poplars. The peacock watched him.
He sighed deeply and strolled down the pebbled lane of trees toward the
kennel. The peacock followed.
At the fence, he watched the dogs scurry from trough to trough looking
for the meat they'd already eaten. They smelled him and trotted to the fence,
sprawled on their stomachs and watched him. Pilot turned and reached down and
stroked the head, reached for the neck. The peacock was silent.
Pilot closed the meaty clamp around the bird's neck and picked it up.
The peacock couldn't scream.
The dogs waited, silent, eager.
He released the bird.
The peacock screamed and scurried off.
The dogs jumped up, watched him silently a moment then laid down again,
stared at him, at his eyes, the color of dust, dampness forming in them now.
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