THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (16 page)

Turner gunned his Scout through the green-lit intersection. It was a shame a man like Joseph Goldman had been caught up in the unfortunate business at Tech Dynamics. Sometimes, though, the individual had to be sacrificed for the greater good. It was a cold-hearted act that men of Turner's calibre and vision were forced to make.

He pulled over to the curb and rechecked a
Murray The Map Man
map of Baltimore. After getting his bearings, he pulled back onto the road. A minute later he turned right and drove along a winding street that ended in close proximity of Scott Goldman's apartment. Drizzle patted lazily against the Scout's windshield. The general looked through the low-speed arc of the wipers with the stern expression of a man prepared to achieve his objectives at any cost.

SIXTEEN

Belize Cheraz pressed the buzzer and stood back from the door. She glanced critically at her sister. Manuela poked her tongue to counter the uncalled-for scrutiny. The door opened and soft hallway light fell at the women's feet.

'Scott.' Belize stepped inside and pecked her boyfriend's cheek. She slid an arm about his waist and gestured with a ceremonious air towards her sister. 'You remember Manuela?'

The older sister stood hesitantly wearing a yellow frock underneath a long wool coat, a handbag dangling from her forearm. She held a cardboard box containing an apricot cheesecake she'd bought at her local bakery. Goldman's stony expression gave way to an awkward smile. 'Of course I remember Manuela.'

'Well, it's a wonder you do, my love,' Belize scoffed, 'cause you hardly ever visit us any more.'

Goldman just shrugged, slipped from Belize's embrace and gestured for the women to come inside. 'Please.'

Belize spun round and shot a mental arrow at her sister:
There'll be hell
 
to pay if you don't loosen up and come out of yourself tonight.

Manuela shook her head and followed the taut, high-heeled step of her sister.

Haslow braked and saw there was nowhere to park. Especially as some half-wit had abandoned an Impala across two parks at the rear of the cul-de-sac. From the last time he visited Goldman (there'd been nowhere to park then, either), he remembered a lane leading to the courtyard of Goldman's apartment block. He reversed out of the dead-end street and parked in the next street over, several cars back from the lane he'd come to remember. After grabbing a bottle of scotch and a family packet of taco chips, he locked his car and strolled along the narrow thoroughfare, confident a memorable night was at hand.

“What do you mean, go see what's wrong with him? Just relax,
por
 
el
 
amor de Dios
.”

“Well, he's your boyfriend.”

“Listen, I said relax!”

“I can't, I'm having my period!”

“So you keep saying.”

“I think I have to go to the bathroom.”

“
Mierdre
. Again?”

The sandy-haired man in back of the surveillance van listened in on the sisters' conversation with detached professionalism. Even so, he shifted on his stool and fidgeted with the twirling lead of the headphones. For want of something to do he lit a cigarette. He squinted from a hovering nebula of smoke then checked the recording meters on the instrument panel. What was coming through the headphones was hardly inspiring, but his Case Officer training stopped him from succumbing to all out boredom. However the thought of Turner arriving soon made him draw deeper on his cigarette.

Belize jumped up from the sofa, clicking her fingers and swaying her hips. She was in a partying mood and festive tunes from her home country played evocatively in her head. 'Ah, Manuela, let's play some music, eh?'

Manuela arched her eyebrows in a gesture of indifference. She pulled herself up from her seat with the gravity of her monthly cycle. Bag in hand, she headed for the bathroom. Belize sighed aloud, knowing she'd been entrusted to do what was socially appropriate for the hour. She bent down and flicked through the records propped against the wall. She was indifferent to most western music, and appreciated even less the zany extremes of rock and roll. She bypassed Kiss and Alice Cooper records, knowing most of the albums belonged to Goldman's late wife. Belize knew little about the woman and all up preferred it that way. In any case Goldman rarely talked about Rachel. Well, not in any great detail. He'd sold their renovated row-house shortly after her death. Apparently he didn't want to live in the house without her, nor with the memories of her the empty house would continually offer. Belize knew her boyfriend's cut-short marriage was best left alone, for the time being anyway. Maybe in the future, if they were still together, Goldman might open up and let Belize in on the part of his life he'd largely kept from her.

She slipped a record on to the turntable and skipped into the kitchen. She slid her arms about Goldman's waist as he mashed avocado, mayonnaise and lemon juice into a pre-dinner dip. She could see he wasn't his usual self and tried to lift his spirits with tactical charms that had worked on him in the past; but it was clear he was down in the dumps over something or other. About what was anyone's guess. She knew he didn't open up easily if something was wrong. By and large he was a brooder. Well she was in too good a mood to give up on him tonight, and so ran her fingers teasingly over his chest, coating his neck and cheek with whispered words and the tantalizing contact of her eager lips. By hook or by crook she would drag him out of his mood and get this dinner party up and running. It was, after all, Friday night.

Manuela returned from the bathroom and cringed her nose at the blaring music coming from the record player. She stopped in front of its amplifier in the hope of finding the volume control amidst the many switches, dials and buttons. No sooner had she peered at the formidable array of controls than she heard the piercing declaration of the front door's electric bell. She straightened, thinking it was most likely her date. Curious, she scampered to the door and peered through its peephole. She was presented with the fish-eye depiction of a middle-aged man holding a bottle of spirits and a bag of crisps, while brushing his hair in place. For some reason he was appealing. Much of her adult life she’d had little interest in the opposite sex. Therefore this instant liking surprised her.

She padded her stockinged feet on the hallway carpet. She was at a crossroad. She had to let her hair down and come out of herself in this new land; she knew that. She couldn't stay holed up in her room forever. Heaven knew Belize had been in her ear about it, and yet ...

Manuela took a resolute, but shaky breath and opened the door – and immediately wished she hadn't. Swamped by nerves, she made a hasty retreat to the living room in the pretense of turning down the music. Her astute ears heard Haslow close the door after him. So soon as she saw him proper, in the room's even light, a pleasing feeling flowed through her. She opened her mouth in prelude to some kind of introduction and was stymied in her attempt by the loud music. Bewildered, she looked down at the stereo and then at Haslow. He hunched his shoulders as if party to her bewilderment and a companionable smile spread across his face.

Manuela telegraphed a beaming smile in return (something she hadn't done in the opening moments of meeting a man). Haslow bent forward and turned down the music. For her part Manuela turned aside and cursed under her breath. An abrupt anger took hold of her mind: Mi Dios
!
 
How could you give yourself so openly to this man? To this
yanqui
stranger? Smiling shamelessly like that. He'll think you're nothing but a
puta
!
Aggrieved as such, she dashed into the kitchen.

General Turner locked his 4WD Scout. With a furrowed brow, he studied the low-lying cloud overhead. He debated whether to grab his umbrella from the back seat, but decided against it. He glanced up and down the quiet street before marching from his parked vehicle. His hands were buried in the pockets of his parka, a small knapsack slung over his shoulder. Hunched against the night's chill, he no longer entertained memorable thoughts about Joseph Goldman and DARPA. Cold purpose and harsh practicality propelled him along the empty stretch of sidewalk. Again his mind chewed over the hastily prepared plan, probing for any weak link which might bring down the operation like a collapsing house of cards.

He turned into Goldman's street and stayed in the shadows until arriving at the surveillance van. He rapped on its back door and padded his thick-soled boots on the damp street. All the while scanning the upper-floor area of Goldman's apartment. The back of the van opened and Roswell climbed inside, quietly shutting the door after him.

'Jesus, man.' He plopped his knapsack on the metal floor. 'Open a goddamn window on this smelly tar pit.' He glared at the butt-filled ashtray perched on a shelf below the van's primary recording unit. The sandy-haired youth ripped off his headphones as the general said, 'If you don't mind, private.' The youth bent towards the passenger's side window.

'Not the window facing the subject's apartment,' Turner growled. 'For Christ's sake, what are they teaching you at The Bunker these days?'

The twenty-six year old private who was completing the final term of his Case Officer training at Camp White (aka The Bunker) in Virginia inched down the driver's window. He turned back to Turner, hoping to reclaim his status which for the most part had gone out the window with migrating trails of secondhand smoke.

'Private Duncan Allister, sir.' He saluted. 'I'm completing the final month of my – '

'At ease, private. Give me a breakdown on the situation inside the subject's apartment.'

'Well you couldn't have picked a better time to arrive, general,' Allister said in a calm and qualified voice. 'The main meal is under way and the guests are currently voicing their concern about their host's despondent manner. I would say, sir, that your man is about to open up, or failing that – '

'You're dismissed, private.'

Allister looked like he hadn't heard right.

'You're dismissed, private,' Turner barked. He read the hurt expression on the young man's face, saw his clenched jaw and tightening shoulders. 'Don't worry, son, there won't be any negative comments on your performance report. I just want to be
left alone!'

Unnerved by the violent outburst, Allister snatched up his bag and saluted perfunctorily before shuffling toward the back of the van.

'And take that with you,' Turner snapped. Allister turned and grabbed the small tin ashtray with a vice-like grip, not wanting to spill its ashy mound of butts. He climbed out of the van and eased its back door shut.

Turner dropped on to the vacated stool. He put on the headphones and listened in on the conversation inside the apartment.

Goldman and his guests had finished the main meal. Seated about the living room table, they sipped their drinks with the languid repose of well-fed diners. A candelabrum with burning candles stood in the middle of the table. Its wavering gold light highlighting a bottle of Australian Riesling and a green bottle of French champagne. Haslow and the Cuban sisters were without complaint as they chitchatted and sipped their white alcohol drinks. Goldman was relieved the main meal had been eaten without a hitch.

Earlier on, he'd bought two pre-ordered casseroles from
Belle Laurant
, a rustic Mediterranean-style restaurant in Fells Point. The casseroles were filled with clam, crab, calamari, prawn and lobster meats; along with green vegetables, cheese, cream, and a smattering of herbs and spices. Goldman had heated the casseroles, along with sticks of fresh French bread, in his two-tier gas oven. He'd done the honours, however, of making a large bowl of green salad garnished with herb and olive oil dressing. Of course he'd also made the pre-dinner quacamolie dip, this last complemented with gluten-free crackers.

Goldman didn't care if his guests were satisfied with the offering or not. Preparing the meal had been all he could do to stop from getting in his Saab and driving non-stop to Canada, or failing that driving non-stop to Mexico. Anywhere in fact. After learning the truth about his father's murder, he'd wanted to white-line himself from any further pain and confusion the day might bring. He'd even thought about catching the first available flight to Australia. Just up and leaving. A thought he hadn't entirely divorced. It was an appealing out to his less than satisfactory life  in North America.

His homeland shone like a South Pacific haven awaiting his return. He remembered a simpler and fairer life there. But was aware of the tricks nostalgia played on the mind. Nothing remained the same. The juggernaut of time made sure of that. Anyhow, for better or worse, he was seated with his chattering guests, doing his best not to be broken by the day's events, which weighed down on him like the stone blocks of a collapsed wall.

He could see it was no ordinary night for Manuela, either. She couldn't keep from sidelong glances at Haslow, nor from lingering moments of direct eye-contact. She seemed attracted to the older chemist.
Well good for her
, Goldman thought. Undoubtedly the night's champagne had helped bring about some of the magic, judging by the rosy glow masking Manuela's cheeks.

He'd heard about Manuela's solitary lifestyle from Belize, who was certainly prone to complaint in that regard. Once during a visit to the sisters' Highlandtown row-house, he'd looked in on Manuela's room. He remembered the blank walls, minimal furnishings and cluttered book shelves. The bare-bulb room spoke of her humdrum existence in a new land, her tomes' spines of her dislike for Castro's
Fidelistas
and Marxist doctrine in general. In any case, Manuela's eyes sparkled with uncustomary verve as she sat at the table and listened in on the English-spoken conversation about her ...

'... well, it's not
unreasonable
' – Haslow toyed with his drink – 'to put aside some MPA for yourself. I mean, you did
make it
, after all. Of course, it goes without saying that it's illegal to smuggle classified drugs out of a military base.' He looked up at Goldman and chuckled wryly. 'Woe to you should you be caught.' The older chemist was of such cheer from drink and the night's company he seemed to have relinquished the patriarchal role he generally assumed while in the laboratory. Goldman couldn't believe the transformation, which was akin to an old snake shedding its skin. It seemed socializing with the fairer sex had proved the perfect prescription for Haslow's ongoing moodiness since his divorce.