Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (92 page)

 
          
"Dr.
MacLaren? I'm Caradoc Buckland." He held out his hand and Colin shook it.

 
          
The
next thing
—
the reasonable thing
—
would have been for Buckland
to ask Colin's business here, but he did not. He gestured for Colin to
accompany him, and led Colin toward the back of the house, where the elevator
Colin had heard before was waiting.

 
          
"Did
you have any trouble finding us?" Buckland asked politely, sliding the
bronze gates of the elevator shut.

 
          
They
know.
The intuition brought with it an almost overwhelming urge for flight.
But Colin had known they would know who he was
—
if not at the moment he
entered the building, then very soon thereafter. The Thule Group never closed
its books on an opponent until it had buried him itself.

 
          
"Oh,
no particular trouble," Colin answered easily, the first rush of dread
fading into the prickle of anticipation along his nerves. The urge to play the
Great Game never died, even after half a century.

 
          
The
elevator stopped on the third floor. "If you'll come this way, Dr. MacLaren,"
Buckland said. His voice gave no hint that anything out of the ordinary was
occurring.

 
          
The
hallway was carpeted in vivid scarlet, with padding so deep that Colin was
conscious of his feet sinking into the surface. The rug seemed to swallow
sound, giving the hall the same dense hush as a cathedral. With a small part of
his consciousness, Colin wondered how the confrontation was to be staged, and
who the players were to be.

           
The door at the end of the hall was
a single slab of carved rosewood, the grain brought out through generations of
hand-polishing. Buckland swung it open and gestured for Colin to precede him.
The office walls were paneled in oak, and in its way this room was as much of a
stage-set as the reception area downstairs had been.

 
          
The
desk stood isolated in the middle of the room, an immense ornate car-ven
antique.

 
          
"Hello,
Colin," the man behind the desk said.

 
          
It
was Toller Hasloch.

 
          
His
bright hair had softened with time to the color of old ivory, and his body had
thickened with age, but he was unquestionably the same man Colin had last seen
a quarter of a century ago. Colin felt the shock of that surprise like a hammer
blow to the chest, making him want to gasp for breath.

 
          
"Do
sit down, Colin," Hasloch said, rising to his feet like any good host.
"Doc, please get our visitor a drink."

 
          
Colin
sank into the offered chair, unable to take his eyes from Hasloch's face. He
barely noticed when Buckland set a glass on the table at his elbow. Age was an
anchor, slowing his reflexes, sapping his resiliency, and Colin set himself
against it as if were a living enemy. Hasloch had meant to stagger him with the
revelation that he was alive, and Colin could not afford to let him have his
way. After a moment the first paralyzing surprise faded, and he could think
again.

 
          
"What
are you doing here?" Colin asked bluntly, although it was the question
Hasloch himself should have asked.

 
          
How
had Hasloch survived? Though in the final analysis the question was irrelevant
to the problem at hand, it still deviled Colin's thoughts. If only he'd stayed
in
New
York
—
if Simon hadn't been injured almost at that same moment,
drawing Colin's attention away to the West Coast. By the time he'd returned to
the East to helm the Bidney Institute, checking to see that Hasloch was
actually dead had been the furthest thing from his mind.

 
          
They
always say that it's the details that will get you in the end. . . .

 
          
"I'm
living my life," Hasloch said, with too much innocence. Buckland had taken
up a sentry position by the door, and Colin felt a momentary pang of smugness
—
all this fuss over one old
man!

 
          
"While
it's true that I prefer to keep a lower profile these days," Hasloch said,
still smirking, "I'm hardly a hermit. I have wealth, power, influence,
material possessions, pleasant company. . . ."

 
          
Hasloch
had always been high-strung, and even now, his nerves betrayed him. He could
not keep his hands still; they roved across the littered surface of his desk
like independent entities, plucking up first one item then another to toy with.
Colin watched his hands moving over the objects. Most of them were perfectly
mundane, but in the middle of them, gaudy and out of place, were five small
clear candy-colored pieces of plastic. A cube, a triangle, a diamond, and two
that had so many facets they might as well be round. Gaming dice, such as
Colin had seen in Rowan's living room.

           
Only the fact that he had steeled
himself not to betray anything kept Colin from showing his surprise now. This
could be coincidence, but Colin thought it was proof, instead.

 
          
And
the approach he'd planned to take with a stranger named Caradoc Buckland would
not work, Colin realized, now that he knew Toller Hasloch was
—
against all expectation
—
involved.

 
          
"Forgive
me," Colin said politely. "I'm just wondering why you're telling me
all this?" He'd learn more by being irritating than through conciliation
—
Hasloch had always had a
tendency to make speeches.

 
          
"Because,"
Hasloch growled, placing his hands flat on the desk and leaning up out of his
chair across it, "/
want you to know how thoroughly you failed, you
son-of-a-bitch.
"

 
          
He'd
hoped to irritate Hasloch, and it seemed he had. Behind him, Colin felt
Buckland straighten to even greater attention.

 
          
"So
I did," Colin agreed, still calmly. "I suppose I should say I'm happy
to see you're looking well?"

 
          
"Because
it gets you off the guilt-ridden White Light hook?" Hasloch snapped.
"Does it, Colin? Does it really?"

 
          
He
got to his feet and began to pace, but Colin's answer seemed to restore his
good spirits. "You tried to kill me
—
I suppose your Masters gave
you hell for that. Did they throw you out? Or did you remain upon sufferance,
atoning through good works? Tell me all about it, Colin. Tell me about all the
'good' you've done in the world
—
is it any match for what I have done?

 
          
"Remember
our first conversation, all those years ago? I told you then what I intended to
do, and I've done it: my patrons ripped
America
's heart out with the
Kennedy assassination, destroyed its soul with
Vietnam
, and shattered its mind
with Nixon's betrayal of trust."

 
          
Hasloch
must be both secure and confident to speak so freely in front of Buckland ...
or else have an unimaginably strong hold over the younger man. At the moment,
it didn't matter which.

 
          
"And
we haven't been idle since: read the newspapers, Cold Warrior
—
this is the eve of our
triumph! Your American Eagle is dead and the White Eagle of Thule will triumph
in my lifetime. What can you possibly set against that?" Hasloch demanded.

 
          
"Walls,"
Colin MacLaren answered. Hasloch's rhetoric was only the expression of his own
bleakest fears, and he'd had decades to come to terms with them, and find what
comfort he could. "The Berlin Wall is down
—
and as for
Vietnam
, you should visit more of
your hometown landmarks. The Memorial is supreme proof that hearts can heal and
minds can mend
—
and souls can be redeemed. Even yours, Toller."

 
          
Hasloch
stopped his pacing and laughed harshly. "Not by a tired old man who
refuses to face the darkness in his own soul!" He returned to his desk and
lowered himself into his chair, regaining his composure with a visible effort.
"But I've been indulging myself at your expense. You had some business
with my aide, and I haven't allowed you to conduct it. Please, feel free."
He gestured toward Caradoc.

           
This conversation was not going as
it would have if Hasloch had really known the business that brought him here.
Was it possible that Hasloch did not connect him with Rowan Moorcock? There was
no reason he should. Even if she had been questioned, they were as unlikely to
have questioned her about him as she would be to volunteer the information that
she knew him. Hasloch knew him in another connection entirely.

 
          
Colin
said nothing, playing for time.

 
          
Hasloch
raised his brows inquiringly at Buckland. Colin saw the young man frown,
thinking hard.

 
          
"I
suppose it's about Julian
—
ah, Pilgrim, I suppose I should say. But I'm not sure why
Jourdemayne didn't come herself," Buckland said. "I was looking
forward to seeing her again, actually."

 
          
Pilgrim?
What business did the Thule Group have with Truth's half-brother? He'd been
institutionalized since shortly before Truth had come to see Colin for the
first time, and Colin was pretty sure he still was. From what little she'd told
him, it was for the best. The child Colin had known had grown into a monster
—
the faint shadow of malice
that had marred Thome's essentially sunny nature reaching full unchecked flower
in his son. What business could the Cincinnatus Group have with Pilgrim?

 
          
"I'm
sure you can think of a number of reasons she wouldn't want to see you,"
Colin said, getting to his feet. He blessed the assumption that he was here on
Truth's business, as it concealed so neatly his own purposes. All that remained
was for him to get out of here before they realized they'd been hooked by a red
herring.

 
          
"She
can hardly have thought it would be more impressive," Hasloch said
mockingly. "Sending you, I mean. Not that you're not impressive in your
way, of course," he added. "A triumph of superannuation, if nothing
else."

 
          
Both
he and Buckland seemed to know what Hasloch was talking about, but that
wouldn't last long. "Spare me the trite insults," Colin said.
"I'd worry more about my own plans than Truth's if I were you, Toller
—
at least based on past
performance. I suppose you don't need me to spell out the message? And now,
I'll bid both of you fascinating gentlemen adieu. Don't trouble yourselves to
escort me. I can find my own way out."

 
          
Colin
was a little surprised to reach the street unmolested, and a few blocks' walk
brought him to the attention of a cruising cab. He took it downtown and picked
another cab at random from a queue before heading for his final destination.
Even his exhaustion could not tempt him to forgo such elementary precautions,
though he doubted that Hasloch would bother to have him followed. Both of them
knew there was a second act to come
—
and if Hasloch were very
clever, he would realize what it was. Rowan was a student at Taghkanic, after
all.

 
          
And
Hasloch was clever.

 
          
The
Airport Holiday Inn was a soulless cracker box, set along a roadway named for a
famous American traitor. Its accommodations were duplicated in a thousand
locations in half a dozen countries, as anonymous as a phone booth. Colin threw
his coat over a chair and sat down on the bed, kicking off his shoes. He
slipped the pendant between the mattress and the box spring; the concealment
would delay a cursory search, though not a professional one.