The God Hunter Read online

  CHAPTER 9

  THE RESTAURANT

  I walked a fair way to a restaurant. The first ­couple I passed were full of conference minions, and the next two or three were too plush or bright or flashy, or at least it seemed to me that there was something wrong with them. So I started following the tram lines, out along the main road, till I found a bar. Lively, drunken. I had a pork steak with onions, garlic, and a truckload of boiled potatoes, with strips of smoky-­smelling fat for a side, which I left. I drank a lot of water.

  No one bothered me. I watched a woman dressed in peasant clothes, as big around as she was tall, filling her pipe from a tobacco pouch, carefully tamping it, lighting it . . . Later, she quarreled with a dark, mustachioed man, probably not her husband. There were bold, theatrical gestures, dramatic head turnings and declamations, until they left together, arm in arm, still bickering. The whole bar was like that. Loud voices, rapid motion, glasses downed; quarrels, but no hint of violence. Nothing like you’d see at home. It felt warm to me. It felt human. The language kept it distant, and I liked that, the fact I couldn’t really understand; that it was something I could sit outside of and enjoy.

  I finished with a kevert to keep the vodka crash at bay. It was barely ten when I got back to the hotel—­not the Hollywood this year, and not the swanky place that Shailer had been booked into, either. It was a quiet little backstreet venue, run by a ­couple in their forties who offered me enormous smiles each time I came in sight and spoke no English whatsoever, which suited me just fine.

  I sat around a while, then got undressed and went to bed. I read a few pages of Tolstoy because I thought I ought to, but I wasn’t really getting into it. So I put the book down, looked up at the ceiling for a while, then put the light out. I don’t remember getting sleepy. Just, I was asleep.

  Then, suddenly, awake.

  Alarm clock? No. The phone was ringing. I reached out, couldn’t find it. I scrabbled at the wall for a light switch. Found it, blinked in the sudden glare. I didn’t have a headache, but my throat was dry. I felt washed out, grubby. The phone was on the table near me, a big, old-­fashioned thing the size of a brick. I picked it up, convinced it was a wrong number and already irritated.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Copeland?”

  No. Not a wrong number.

  “Chris?” the voice said, sounding relieved. “Chris, it’s Adam. Where were you? I had to get your number from, you know, your ­people. Where’d you go?”

  “I went to my hotel. To sleep. What else?”

  Hesitation, just a moment. Then, “Chris, I know it’s been a while. But . . . look. You’re awake now. How ’bout I come on over? We’ve matters to discuss. I’d say come here, but it’s been pretty hectic, so best if I come there. More private, too. Open a bottle, huh? See you in—­oh, twenty minutes, OK? Twenty minutes.”

  And the phone went dead.

  CHAPTER 10

  A LATE-­NIGHT GUEST

  I stumbled out of bed. I dressed. It was a little after 2:00 a.m. I made coffee with the room’s electric kettle and the traveler’s pack of Nescafé I’d brought with me. My job’s never been regular hours, but this, I thought, was taking the piss. I put the TV on, flipped channels, caught part of a twenty-­year-­old cop show dubbed into Hungarian. Then the knock came at the door.

  Shailer looked—­well, rumpled is a nice way to describe it. Same suit, same tie, but he was not the cheery, optimistic speaker of the afternoon’s address. He glanced around with brief suspicion, grimaced, smiled, then took my hand, which I hadn’t offered.

  “Chris. Good to see you. It’s been, what? Five years? Something like that. You haven’t changed a bit. We’re alone here, aren’t we? I mean, we won’t be interrupted? Will we?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Good. That’s good.” He retraced his steps, turned the key in the door. He threw his coat and shoulder bag onto the floor. “Mind if I sit? It’s been a hell of a day. Thanks, thanks. Hell. Of. A. Day.”

  He slumped down on the bed, wrists on his knees, hands dangling.

  It was an act, I saw that straightaway. A little bid for sympathy.

  The Shailer I remembered hadn’t been so much aware of others, nor of how they saw him. He’d learned, these last few years. He’d learned a lot.

  “I tell you. I was fighting to get out and see you. Literally fighting. But it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t do it! I’d known there’d be an interest, obviously, but this was—­it was crazy. It was insane. They’re all so hung up on the oil crisis right now, I swear, I could have told them we made gas from navel fluff, and they’d believe me. These guys are desperate! Jeee-­sus.

  “And—­well. Thing is, we can deliver. Not yet, but in a year, maybe two. We’ve got the patents. Collection, containment—­ ours. We’re going places, Chris. You, me, the Registry. Big, big places. You won’t believe some of the ­people who were there today. That’s the level that we’re moving on. That’s the game. And, well, I’m dealing with it, I’m dealing with it, and then—­well. This thing happened. This thing, it’s kind of what I planned to talk to you about. Or part of it. It’s why I wanted you to come. I just—­didn’t expect . . . you know. Tonight of all nights.”

  He waved a hand. “Bottle in the bag there. Get it out, will you? Good stuff. I need it, too, the night I’ve had. Pour a ­couple of glasses, huh? Drink with your old buddy, talk over old times. That’s good, yeah? ’Cause old times have a way of . . . reaching out. Catching you. You know?”

  I said, “We’ve all got Stone Age bodies.”

  “Huh? Dunno ’bout that.”

  I poured the drinks, just as he’d asked.

  He said, “There’s things we need to talk about, Chris. Get them straight between us. And this shit tonight . . . Jeez. This I did not need.” He shook his head, then looked up suddenly. “Oh yeah.” He reached into his pockets. “You field ops—­I know you know how to relax, yeah? I got the stuff right here. This’ll lift the mood, all right.”

  He took a small enamel pillbox from his inside pocket and set it on the tabletop in front of me.

  “Take a look. Go on.”

  I did. It was a very beautiful, exquisite little item, with a kind of leaf-­and-­petal motif on the top and a striking sky-­blue background.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “French. Two hundred years old, not a dent, not a ding. See that? Not so much as a hairline. And this shade blue—­celeste, it’s called—­that’s a real find in itself.”

  He let me contemplate this. Then he unscrewed the lid. I wasn’t much surprised by what I saw inside.

  “Now then—­a mirror and a dollar bill. Or whatever they call them here. You can take first toot.”

  “Forints. They’re called forints.”

  I’d done coke before and liked it; I won’t pretend I wasn’t tempted. But I didn’t care to be off my face with Adam Shailer. So I shook my head and watched while, in lieu of a mirror, he chopped a ­couple of lines on the tabletop using his credit card and noisily inhaled the first one through a rolled-­up note, which I supplied. He told me that he never carried cash.

  Then he sat there.

  “You’re very welcome,” he invited, “if you change your mind . . . ?”

  Nothing happened for a minute or two. Then, where he’d been slouching, he began to sit up straight. It was a subtle thing. He went on telling me about his day. He cleared his throat. He tapped a finger on the table, dabbed up the crumbs of white, and licked them from his fingertips.

  “The chemical life. Can’t say it hasn’t got its uses, huh?” He grinned at me. “Goes without saying—­you mention this to anyone, I’ll have you on the street so fast you’ll think you’re flying. Hey!”

  He put his head on one side, chuckling, looking at me like I ought to join in.

  “Come on—­do a little. It’ll buck you up.�
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  Instead, I sipped my drink.

  “Are you threatening me?” I said.

  “Threat . . . ? Shit, no. Why would I threaten? You’re good ­people, Chris, you don’t rat on a friend. You’re one of the best.”

  “Because I didn’t ‘rat’ when you nearly killed me? That what you think?”

  Shailer paused a moment, watching me, then bent and snootered up the next line with a sound like someone clearing drains.

  He sat back, unfurled the bill, licking the edge of the paper with a small, pink tongue. I thought he’d lick the tabletop, too, but he restrained himself.

  “You’re good ­people,” he said again, and this time I could almost see the wave of well-­being rise up in him, just like filling up a glass.

  I’d have liked to puncture that—­his silly, druggy smugness. Though by now, I doubted anything that I could say would touch him anyway. He’d feel too confident and generous to quibble.

  “Let’s say I was tipped off, shall we? That business we had, all that time ago.”

  He barely reacted to this; a dreamy smile caressed his face.

  I said, “Advised I might be better keeping quiet. If I wanted a career. And everything I’ve heard since, up to and including your little promise earlier, has suggested this was good advice. So I made up a report, cited a fault, claimed I’d repaired it, and got top marks all around for damage limitation. Everybody happy. See?”

  He didn’t move at first. Then his shoulders lifted and he went, “Hnf!” through coked-­up nostrils, and I realized it was actually some sort of laugh.

  Then he said, “Accident.”

  “That doesn’t happen by accident. And you don’t have ‘accidents’ on jobs like that. Not if you want to stay alive, you don’t.”

  He seemed to consider this a while.

  “Sure you don’t want . . . ?” he said, producing the little inlaid box again. I got the sense he’d have been happier if I’d been as blitzed as he was; I’d have been a softer target.

  “Very sure,” I said.

  He stood up and began to walk around the room. His arms made twitchy little gestures, flexing and straightening. His face screwed up.

  “It was a long time back. A long, long time. Christ, I was a kid! I can hardly remember it, if I’m honest. It’s like—­stuff a kid does, do you blame the grown-­up? You do not! How’d I know, how’d I even think . . . I didn’t want to hurt you, Chris. Gotta believe me. It was just part of some massive sulk that I was on, you know? I didn’t even stop to think. What happened . . . See—­the thing is this. The thing is this. You dealt with it. You fixed it up. And—­OK, I didn’t like you much back then, I’ll say that straight. But right away, I thought, This is the guy that I want working for me someday. I was in awe of you, Chris. Totally in awe.”

  I sipped my drink. Despite my intentions, I was downing it.

  Shailer’s hands moved rapidly, like a conjuror’s misdirection.

  “So. So. Even before—­this thing came up—­I was gonna call you. I did call you, in fact, and then, tonight—­same night as my fucking speech, Christ sake—­it all went off again.” He shook his head. “I’ve got contacts here in law enforcement. I’ve seen pictures. God, they’re horrible. Horrible. I can’t, I can’t describe . . .”

  “Look,” I said. “Thanks for the booze. Nice meeting you again. But it’s three a.m., I’m tired, I need to sleep. If you could get to the point, I’d appreciate it. Assuming there’s a point to get to, that is.”

  “Yeah.” He rounded on me, rapid anger flaring in his face. “There’s a point, all right. ­People are dying! ­People are getting killed! And if this gets out, you and me—­maybe the Registry itself—­we are fucking fucked, that’s my fucking point!”

  He stood up quickly, took three sharp steps towards the window, then stopped. He turned back, calmer suddenly, almost contrite.

  “I’m under pressure here. I’m under real pressure. We’ve got projects, plans—­plans that’ll change the way we live, change everything. And if this gets out, even a hint of it, any bad publicity, just any kind of shit at all . . . What happened, all those years ago. You talk to anyone? Or did you just write the report? Does anybody know?”

  I was glad I wasn’t coked. Because something in me woke up at this point; some soft, inaudible alarm, and it put me right on guard. I didn’t show it. But I told him, “Yeah. Spoke to some of the guys. That’s what happens, you know, something goes wrong. You talk it over. Share it. Like I said, I was advised.”

  “By whom?”

  By whom. I wouldn’t have got that grammar a few years back, I’m sure.

  “Some of the guys.”

  “Some? Like . . . ?”

  “A few of them.”

  “Right. Right.” He put a knuckle to his lips. He knew I’d sussed him; knew it was a standoff.

  “Chris,” he said, “I’m going to tell the truth here, OK? I’m going to tell it all.”

  First, though, he had to have another line.

  And I poured out another drink.

  CHAPTER 11

  YOUTH AND OTHER ERRORS

  “I was a stupid, irritating, snot-­nosed kid. There. I admit it. Jeez. I’d fucking hate myself if I could see me now. Self-­obsessed, annoying little bastard. Oh, I know, I know, don’t think I don’t . . .”

  You were twenty-­two, I thought. That’s more than old enough.

  “Thing is, see—­thing is, I didn’t want to be there. Hated the whole bit. I—­look. You’ve got to understand about my life, OK? I know what ­people say. Christ, I’m not dumb! Adam Shailer, spoiled little rich kid. Well, I tell you. When you live it, it’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.

  “My mom and dad, they’d got no time for me. Wouldn’t say it, but it’s true, just the same. Growing up—­yeah. I ask for something, I get it. Every birthday, there’s some top act for the party, TV stars, movie stars, whatever. But in between . . . in between, I don’t see anyone. My dad is this guy miles away, you know? All I see is the nanny, and after that they just kind of—­they farm me out. Uncles, cousins, older brother. They didn’t have the time. Lots of ways, a family like mine, well, it’s a burden. That’s a fact.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Oh, wait. Wait. I don’t want sympathy, OK? I don’t want ‘oh poor Adam,’ shit like that. Just want you to understand. I’m not the man you think, Chris. Honest I’m not. I’m . . . Let’s say, it’s not been easy for me. Not a bit.”

  “OK.”

  “I lived in England, two years. Southend. Brits all think it’s like some great vacation town, like Vegas . . . I dunno. Live there, though, and it’s a hole. I’m telling you. A fucking hole.

  “I’d had—­well, I suppose I’d had some problems. Youthful rebellion, all that kind of thing. Public intox. I mean, my dad squashed all the charges, straight out. But . . . family was worried. I was smoking too much pot, and even I could see the crew that I was hanging with were losers, plain and simple. Solution? Pack me off to Auntie Millie in Southend. Christ, I was just growing up, that’s all. It’s normal, right? So they send me to this school, this crammer, right, supposed to put me somewhere. Hated it. The Brits all called me Yank. Home on vacation, and I get, ‘Ooh, listen, he’s gone Brit.’ It was shitty. Then finally, I’m out of it. Amherst wasn’t great. But after that . . . New York. I’m there, I’m training for the Registry. All my life I’ve been pushed around, one place to the next, no one gives a damn. And here I am, I’m in the greatest city in the world, got money, got connections . . . I walk into a club, a party—­­people know me. For the first time in my life, I am the person that I want to be. Imagine how that feels? At that age? It’s like, rock star, man! Then all at once . . .”

  “Field Ops.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. You get it, don’t you? You understand. You’d feel the same.” />
  I had a drink instead of a response.

  “These days, of course—­it’s policy, and I’d support it. Course I would. But then—­”

  He shrugged. He smiled. He had the look of somebody who knows he’ll be forgiven; or that everyone will tell him he’s forgiven, because nobody would dare do otherwise. And that’s just as good.

  “Unprofessional. I know, I know.” He put his hands up, open palms, fending off a comment that I wasn’t even going to voice. He pressed a knuckle to his nose and sniffed. “Here’s the problem, see. That episode, that whole thing . . . We’ve got fallout. I mean, none of it was meant. Accident, OK? Or pretty much. But now, there’s repercussions. For the Registry. But most of all, for us. For you and me.”

  I sipped my drink. So this is how it feels to be blackmailed, I was thinking.

  “Let me stress now. Let me stress. There is nothing, nothing right now that links us with what’s happened. But in the interests—­the interests of humanity—­it seemed to me the Registry should offer up its ser­vices. Out of goodwill, see? Remember that. And if I’m going to send someone, who else can I trust? Who else?”

  He was looking straight at me. I had an urge to get up, move aside, avoid that arrow stare.

  We are the cleaners of the world. We drain its sumps, siphon its spills, empty out its cisterns, and recycle what we find. We are priests without a faith. Exorcists with neither cross nor holy water, bell nor book nor candle. We are the ones who must exist, here in a world that worships far too much.

  Or look at it another way: we’re pest control. We’re sanitation. That’s what I was taught. That’s how we see ourselves.

  We solve problems, and the problems that we solve we put to solving other problems. That’s all. The world, which once throve on religion, now thrives upon electric power.