7 Steps to Midnight (15 page)

His grip was strong enough to make Chris wince a little. “Mr. Modi,” he responded. “I’m Chris Barton.”

“So pleased to meet you, Mr. Barton,” Modi said with a smile.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Chris said. “Lord knows what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come along.”

Modi smiled again. “I am so glad I did,” he said. “What were you doing there, if I may ask? It is not the most desirable of neighborhoods.”

“I’m lost,” Chris told him.

“Ah.” Modi nodded. “Perhaps I can restore you to your proper place then.”

“I’m staying at the Park Court Hotel,” Chris told him.

“Not too far away,” the Indian said. “Allow me to guide you there.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“My pleasure,” Mr. Modi said.

They walked in silence for a quarter of a block. Then Chris had to know. “I still don’t really understand,” he said, “why those four guys backed away so quickly.”

“Well,” said Mr. Modi. “It is, as I have said, a matter of street awareness. I grew up in Bombay under the most harsh of circumstances. I was as they were and perhaps a little worse. There is a brand of what you might describe as telepathic exchange between people of the streets. Mostly in the eyes as I have indicated. The voice as well, however. And also—far more subtly—a matter of the posture, the manner, the assurance. It is difficult to reduce to words but it is quite apparent to those who know it. One knowledgeable street person knows immediately if another is vulnerable to terrorizing. If not, if the other one is clearly not to be trifled with; the retreat is immediate. They
know
. As that young man knew.”

Chris still wasn’t sure that he understood. What Modi said seemed almost mystical to him. Which gave him an immediate idea.

“There are a lot of… mystical things in India, aren’t there?” he said.

“Many,” the Indian agreed. “Our culture is rich with them. Not that what I have spoken of is mystical in any way.”

They had reached a main thoroughfare now and Modi gently impelled Chris to the left. “This way,” he murmured.

Chris nodded. “May I ask you something?”

“You most certainly may,” said Modi genially.

Chris drew in a quick breath. “I’m from Arizona.”

“Arizona, the United States?” The Indian looked surprised.

“Yes.”

“That is very far from where we are,” Modi said, impressed.

“Yes, it is.” Chris’s smile was slightly rueful.

“May I inquire what brings you here?” the Indian asked. “Business? Pleasure?”

“More like enigma,” Chris responded.

“
Enigma.
” Modi looked surprised again. “How so?”

Chris hesitated. Could he trust the man? He thrust the thought aside. The man had saved his life. And there was the possibility that he could help further.

“I work in this plant,” he began. “Government work.”

“I see.” Modi nodded.

“The other night—about three days ago—actually it was early morning, after three, I went to the parking lot to drive home and my car was gone.”

“So far not too enigmatic,” Modi said.

Chris chuckled. “Not so far. But I had to borrow a car and while I was driving home, I picked up a hitchhiker named Veering and got into this insane conversation with him about reality versus unreality.”

“Ah-ha.” Modi nodded. “I sense the enigma coming.”

“He asked if I was willing to wager the security of my existence against the assumption that I knew what was real and what was unreal in my life.”

“An unusual wager,” Modi said.

“An unusual result,” Chris replied. “Assuming,” he added quickly, “that everything that’s happened to me since I took the wager is connected to it.”

“What
has
happened?” Modi asked, sounding intrigued.

Chris told him everything, eliminating Nelson and the man in the pub; he was unwilling to trust the man that far. It was a strange experience to walk along the London thoroughfare in the now darkness, telling the turbaned East Indian what had occurred to him. The more he spoke, though, the better he felt and he realized that it had all been bottled up inside him.

“That’s it,” he said when he’d told all he wanted. “Here I am in London in this unholy mess and I have no idea whatever why I
am
here.”

“Goodness.” Mr. Modi shook his head. “An enigma indeed. How may I assist you in the understanding of it?”

“Well.” Chris braced himself. He didn’t want to plunge into this new world too far but he felt it vital that he ask. “Have you ever experienced—or heard of anyone experiencing—such a mystery? In India, I mean.”

It seemed at first as though Modi wasn’t going to answer; they walked about fifty yards in silence. Chris began to regret telling the Indian anything of what had happened. The man must think him totally demented.

“May I ask,” Modi finally said, “the nature of your work?”

Chris hesitated. It was taboo for him to discuss his work. Still… perhaps he could generalize. “I can’t tell you exactly,” he answered, “but as I said, it’s for the government.”

“I understand,” said Modi, nodding. “What I am getting at, however, is the
nature
of the work. I have no desire for you to mention details which are necessarily confidential. By the nature of your work, I mean… how shall I put it?” He paused, then said, “Does it deal with aspects of reality perhaps? With areas that go beyond the merely mechanical into zones of, shall we say, more nebulous reality? Where, perhaps, the senses need be transcended?”

Chris had no answer for that. He thought about it hard. It was true that the areas he’d been dealing with were certainly beyond the senses, nebulous. Still—

“Well, I
am
a mathematician,” he said.

“
Ah.
” Modi nodded. “And your work, I much suspect, does not involve adding columns of figures.”

Chris smiled. “No.”

Modi was silent for almost a minute before he said, “In India, as you have sensed, we are more intimate with concepts of reality and unreality. We know full well that the tissues of what we say is
real
are thin indeed. That they can be torn asunder with more ease than people realize. And if your work—your mathematics—seeks to deal with elements beyond the senses, well…” He gestured vaguely. “Perhaps you have—how shall I put it?—
trespassed
.”

Chris felt a chill across his body and knew it wasn’t the coldness of the wind. It was a kind of fear he’d never known before. “Have you… ever run across anything like this?” he asked.

“This aggravated, no,” Modi answered. “Small things. Nothing this… grievously perplexing.” He sighed. “I can only say, it could well be an aspect of your work. One would have to know its precise nature to analyze it. And I realize that this is not feasible.”

Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Well,” he said, “at any rate, it certainly is food for thought. How fortunate you have the sort of mind accustomed to analysis. It could make things easier for you. Analyze by all means. Use every skill you possess.”

Chris started slightly. That was almost exactly what his mother had said to him.

“Well, this has been most interesting,” the Indian said. “And you are now within a block or two of your hotel.” He removed a pocket watch from his coat and looked at it. “I have a brief appointment I must attend to. However, it appears to me that we have merely scratched the surface of what you have most aptly described as an enigma. If you would do me the honor of allowing me to take you to supper later—perhaps about nine o’clock—we could pursue it further.”

Chris almost accepted, then remembered
Crown above H
(whatever that was).
Tonight.
Should he drop it in favor of a further talk with Modi? No. He’d better not.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have something on tonight.”

“Ah.” Modi nodded. “Well, perhaps tomorrow. I will telephone you at your hotel before noon. Perhaps we can lunch together.”

“That would be nice,” Chris replied.

“Well, here I leave you,” Modi said. “You go down this block, turn right and there you are.”

“Thank you so much,” Chris said, shaking his hand. “You’ve been very kind.”

“No, no, my pleasure,” the Indian said. “And, now, goodbye.”

“Before you go,” Chris said quickly.

Mr. Modi turned back, an inquiring look on his face.

“Do you have any idea what
Crown above H
means?”

“Oh, yes, indeed; it means the Theatre Royal, Haymarket.”

“Ah-ha.” Chris nodded. “Thank you again.”

“Most welcome,” Modi said. “Perhaps we will rejoin tomorrow.”

Chris watched him walking away, then turned down the block. Jesus, what an afternoon, he thought.

And there was still tonight.

When he entered the hotel lobby, he noticed a table near the entrance to a small shop. A man was sitting at it, theater posters on the wall behind him. Impulsively, Chris walked over to him and asked if there was a ticket for him for tonight’s performance at the Theatre Royal Haymarket.

The blank look on the man’s face was his answer. “I believe they’re all sold out,” he said.

“Thank you,” Chris said. He started to turn toward the shop to buy a newspaper, then realized that a story about the man in The Blue Swan couldn’t have been printed so quickly and turned away again. He glanced at the lobby clock as he started for the elevators. 6:12. Adds up to eighteen, eighteen (1 + 8) totals nine, that goddamn number strikes again.

He unlocked the door to his room with trepidation. What was he going to find inside now? An elephant? A corpse? Another cassette?

There was nothing extra in his room, he saw as he turned on the light. Thank God for small favors, he thought. He wondered briefly if he should have gone to supper with Modi. At least it would have been predictable. God knows what would happen if he went to the bloody
Crown above H
. tonight.

He realized that he didn’t know what time the play started; he had to assume that there would be a ticket waiting for him at the box office. He called down to the lobby and found out that curtain time was seven-thirty.

Removing his jacket, he sat on the bed, a wave of depression settling over him. Should he really go on with this? he thought.
He could end it simply enough. No matter who or what was behind this, he could terminate all efforts with a simple visit to the nearest police station. He was innocent of any wrongdoing. What could they—?

“Oh, sure,” he said. He’d been innocent from the start. That hadn’t stopped that man in his house from holding a gun on him. Hadn’t stopped Meehan from roughing him up or Nelson from trying to kill him. His “innocence” had prevented nothing from occurring. Jesus God, only three days and there were probably four corpses already. It was James Bond out of Kafka sure as hell.

He lay on his side and drew up his legs, assuming a fetal position.
I’m regressing
, he thought.
Dread is infantilizing me.
Use his skills? “Bullshit,” he muttered. He’d be lucky if he could stand up again and go to the bathroom. His work on the project seemed somewhere in another dimension. What had that man said in the pub?

“You’ve got a way to go before it’s home-sweet-home again.”

***

Twenty minutes later, he sat up with a tired groan. Well, what the hell, he thought. What was he going to do, just lie around like a vegetable? That man had died to transmit the message about the play tonight. The least he could do was check it out.

Standing, he walked into the bathroom and washed off his face, almost afraid to look at his reflection in the mirror for fear it would be someone else’s face; things seemed to be going in that direction.

Drying his face, he went into the room, picked up the jacket and put it on. Suddenly, it struck him that he hadn’t taken his hypertension medicine that day. He got one of each—the white oblong tablet, the little white pill—and washed them down with tap water, making a face at the taste of it.

Then he went downstairs and left the hotel, shivering at the outside air. The jacket was heavy but he still felt a little cold. He asked the doorman to get him a cab and waited inside the lobby until it came. Then he exited quickly, tipped the doorman and got into the taxi.

“Theatre Royal, Haymarket,” he told the driver.

“Right you are,” the driver said, steering back onto the street.
Now he’ll tell me that the play’s sold out; I’d better eat with Modi after all.

Chris made a face. Everything isn’t a mystery, he lectured himself. Some things are what they seem.

I hope
, he thought.

He closed his eyes and tried to blank his mind. It almost worked until he heard Nelson’s words in recollection: “
It’s not the first time it’s happened
.”

The memory made him feel stranger than ever, giving him an image of scientists and mathematicians all over the world immersed in similar enigmas.

Why?

The project, of course. Basy had been clear enough about that. “
Bottom line? Of course.
” And then, “
you’re a very important part of it.
”

That he wasn’t sure about. He knew that what he’d been doing was important, yes, but
very
important? That made it sound vital. He’d never considered that before. He had taken it for granted that there were multiple mathematicians everywhere noodling with the turbulence problem, some of them better than he was. The idea that he was so important to the project that he’d become a victim of some international cabal seemed just too farfetched, a lot harder to believe than any plot he’d ever skimmed through, seeking sleep.

One option he’d discard though: giving himself up. Why should he? He hadn’t done anything wrong.
Let them find me
, he thought resentfully.
I’m going to see it through.
He smiled to himself. It must be a second wind, he thought, or the dazedness of jet lag, because he felt a kind of pleasure once again at the impending evening. The possibilities were infinite.

At least one more corpse.
His mind was a wet blanket on his sense of enjoyment.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Nice of you to suggest it.” However, he’d better buy an evening newspaper if he could; see if the man in the pub was mentioned in it.