The Eighty-eighth Key Ch. 24

Part IV

Chapter 24

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Senator Walter Chalmers was in the living room of his house in The City, pacing back and forth across the vast, ornately decorated room, stopping from time-to-time to take a sip from a glass of ice-cold Chardonnay. He had started the afternoon in an angry state-of-mind; now, as the events of this morning came into sharper relief, he was growing more and more afraid of a certain, and, he feared, an inevitably terrible outcome to his brother's latest debacle.

Four years ago Paddy had been approached by two South Americans who desired a meeting with the U.S. Export-Import Bank, their stated aim being to secure financing for a new airline to link Columbia, Venezuela, Ecuador, and Peru to gateways in Miami and Houston. The men claimed that they had secured financing from these countries, but only enough to fund about seventy percent of the proposed airline's first two years of operation. Neither Boeing nor McDonnell-Douglas would commit to sales without one hundred percent of two years operations on hand, leaving the group only one option, to lease their first aircraft from ILFC...and this the group did not want to do.

The group had wanted to know if Senator Chalmers could intercede on their behalf and arrange for the US Ex-Im Bank to provide bridge financing, so Paddy arranged the meeting. After looking into the matter, Senator Chalmers learned that the South American group would need to take on a few U.S. investors, and with U.S. interests represented the Ex-Im Bank would have little reason not to lend the money, and though numerous meetings had been necessary, in the end, the group got their financing - and Boeing sold ten more 757 airliners.

Easy enough, Walter Chalmers had thought at the time, or so it seemed because it looked like everyone had come out winners - even before ink met paper.

Except that the investors Paddy Chalmers located here in the Bay Area soon wanted more return on their investment. A lot more, as it turned out.

Notably, they wanted easy little favors, really easy, at least in the beginning. Simple little things, like getting a nephew a job at one of the Chalmers family auto dealerships. More problematically still, Paddy had not objected to all the little favors that followed, though over time Paddy kept Walter out of the loop as 'things' progressed beyond simple nepotism. In a word, Paddy was in deep.

And by then, both Walter and Paddy had been invited to Medellin, Columbia, to meet with one of the biggest South American investors in the new airline, and Walter had - reluctantly - accepted. Yet he and his brother were both more than impressed with the grand estancia of their host, a soft-spoken man named Pablo Escobar, and when Walter returned to D.C. he did so with a very large campaign contribution in hand - not to mention a promise of more to come as time passed.

Of course, things went downhill even faster after Escobar had a US senator in his pocket.

When Senator Chalmers first met Escobar he had no idea who he was, so he had no idea how Escobar had made his fortune; yet all that didn't matter now because he'd been bought and paid for, and as a result he was neck-deep in the largest criminal drug cartel operating on the West Coast...

"How fucking ironic!" he muttered as he paced the living room. He'd begun his career as a 'Law and Order' Republican riding on Richard Nixon's coattails, only now it looked like he was about to go down in flames, forever linked to the very cartels he'd hoped to run out of the country. Worse than that, he'd be branded as just another corrupt politician bought-off by the most nefarious drug dealer in the world...

Yet the most ironic thought that crossed his mind that afternoon was far more troubling to him, and on a very personal level, because he finally understood where Frank Bullitt had been coming from during their final confrontation at SFO - just before he'd looked on passively as Bullitt killed Johnny Ross. Even worse, Senator Walter Chalmers had begun to see that the only person who could conceivably extricate him from this mess was none other than that very same Lieutenant Frank Bullitt.

"My legal idealism," Chalmers sighed, "pitted against Bullitt's life of experience on the street. I should have known better, even then."

But when he'd called the department earlier that afternoon - hoping to find the detective - he learned that Bullitt had recently retired...and after that bit of news he'd grown utterly despondent.

But ironic or not, his fevered thinking went, one thought kept running through his mind: 'I have to find him...find out where he's living. He's the only one in the department who knows the real score.'

The sun was setting, the temperature falling rapidly now, yet Chalmers walked out onto the huge terrace that almost completely surrounded his house, and he walked over to look at the Golden Gate.

Why, he wondered, had that bridge become such an important metaphor about this city by the bay? Was it a symbol of a real 'can do' attitude that was even now slowly fading into a distant, unrecognizable past? Had the pursuit of easy money crushed that spirit?

But another heavy fog was rolling in, hiding even the bridge from view and, in a way, obscuring the future...and he shivered as a wave of cold, humid air whispered through the pines that flanked his most cherished view of the world.

"Easy money," he said to the wind. "That's all I wanted."

Paddy was on his way over for dinner now, and he'd seemed jolly enough on the telephone. His brother had told him he'd found the answer to all their problems.

And they really needed to talk about it over dinner.

He looked at the pines bending to the suddenly insistent wind-borne flow, then he looked down on the city as it disappeared is this sudden, plaintive evensong.

'Disappearing like this life,' he thought. 'Because without Frank Bullitt, there's no way out. He's the only person I can trust now.'

"...Like sand running down in an hourglass," he said as he turned to go inside.

_____________________________________

Colonel Goodman paced the dock slowly, thinking about the cascade of events that had befallen his world over the last week.

First, Imogen's unexpected cancer diagnosis, then her sudden, if a little mysterious death.

Avi's heart attack, and with it another dear friend taken from this life.

And now, foremost in his mind was a promise he'd made to Avi years ago, that he was to protect Harry Callahan at all cost, and see to it that Avi's final instructions were carried out.

'But now Harry is out of reach,' Goodman thought. 'Worse still, he was sailing into harm's way, carrying out the plan I have devised. If he is killed, his death will be blood on my hands, and I will have let Avi - and Imogen - down...and in the worst possible way.'

He came to the edge of the dock and looked down into the water, down to his tiny reflection thirty feet below.

'My face? That is my face down there, isn't it?

'And the eyes? Yes, those are mine, too.'

And yet, there was Harry, too. Looking up at him, pleading with him to let the team go, to let them finish what they'd started.

But that was why he was here. In Osaka. Waiting for Lloyd Callahan.

Because of all the people left in the world, Lloyd had the most at stake in this operation. So it was only fair that he talk to the elder Callahan before deciding how to proceed.

'But this entire operation,' he reminded himself, 'is all about Hate. About cops killing cops because of ethnicity, or because of religious beliefs. That's why we are there, why I am there. That, and because Avi Rosenthal wanted me there to protect Harry Callahan.'

And still he looked at his reflection.

"Or...was it ever really about Hate?" he said aloud.

His reflection was silent as he questioned himself.

"Killing is killing, whether carried out as simple revenge or legally sanctioned retribution. Look what we did after Munich. We hunted the killers down and killed them one by one, but that didn't make those killings morally 'right,' did it? No, we killed them to settle a score. We killed them to let others know that we are not weak. We killed them as deterrence. So doesn't that mean we killed them to stop even more killing? And if so, wasn't that the right thing to do? But...what if those killings spawn even more violence? More death? Then what? Were we justified killing the killers of our athletes? Can killing ever be justified?"

"My," his reflection said, "but that is a very strange question indeed, coming as it does from a man who has killed so many people."

"But that was war! You can't judge me for that?"

"Can't I?"

Goodman was startled by the voice and he turned and looked around, his eyes settling on an old man in a loden cape. His white hair had yellowed as by extreme age, and he was leaning on a cane. But...something within the cane was alive...

Lightning? Inlaid silver strands of...lightning?

Goodman shook his head, tried to clear his mind...but the old man was still there, staring at him.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"You asked if I couldn't judge you for killing the Munich attackers. Or did I hear you incorrectly?"

Goodman recoiled from the apparition, then drew a Walther TPK from his shoulder holster and without hesitation fired into its face. One shot...two...and then a third...

But the old man just stood there, smiling.

Goodman continued shooting until the little Walther's clip was empty...

...then the old man simply left, like a butterfly on a freshening breeze...

Leaving Goodman to look at his hands, and when he found that they were awash in deep red blood he fell to his knees...

But my pistol...where is it?

He reached for his shoulder holster and found the little Walther still there, so he pulled it free and ejected the clip, and he saw that not one bullet had been fired.

His hands? Clean now, and he shook his head, tried to remember the old man's features - yet he found he could barely recall anything at all about him.

And far out in Osaka harbor he heard a ship's horn signaling the Harbor Pilot's arrival, and Goodman could see, even from the docks, that this was Lloyd Callahan's ship.

He walked back to the dock's edge and looked down into the still water - and the old man in the cape stared back at him...until a faint breeze stirred the surface, leaving only a bare, lingering trace of the visage, fading like a string of echoes across the dappled water.

___________________________________

He watched the ship, perhaps coincidentally named the California, as tugs helped her to the dock, and he saw Lloyd Callahan out on the flying bridge talking to spotters fore and aft on a little radio. Lines were thrown from the ship as she touched, and then men on the dock hurried to tie her off; Goodman saw that Callahan was looking right at him now - and not knowing what else to do he waved.

And Callahan waved back, then disappeared inside the ship.

He was also the first man down the boarding ramp, and he walked straight to Goodman.

"Is it Harry? Has something happened to Harry?"

"No, sir. It's about Imogen. I'm afraid she's passed, and Avi Rosenthal, as well."

Callahan seemed to stagger back from the news - but caught himself and stood tall as he took a deep breath. "I couldn't tell from your wire, but I sensed something awful had happened. What was it? Does Harry know?"

Goodman filled him in, spared no detail before he came to the crux of the matter: "Lloyd, I'm not sure how Harry will take the news. And, given the nature of the operation, my sense is that I should wait to tell him. Wait until the operation passes the crisis phase..."

"Crisis phase? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, the members of the team have moved into place, they are making what I'd call first contact with members of the opposition, so, for the first time we are moving into a position where we might uncover the real players..."

"So, telling him right now would, most probably, jeopardize the operation?"

"That is my concern, yes."

"Well then, I'm sure you understand that Harry and his mother have been, well, let me just say they've not had a good relationship lately."

"Yes, I understand."

"So, I'm really unsure how he'll take the news. Really, and I hate to say this, but I'm just shell-shocked. I guess there was a part of me that always wanted her to come home. To come back to me, and to Harry. And now that hope is gone..."

Goodman looked at Callahan and nodded. "You loved her, you took care of her when she needed help most, and you gave her a son - who she cherished most of all..."

But Callahan had turned away, and Goodman could tell that this ship's captain was having a hard time holding it together.

"How long will you remain in port?" Goodman asked.

"We leave tomorrow afternoon, 1600 hours."

"Perhaps you might have an hour or two available?" Goodman asked gently. "Some time we could talk about things?"

Callahan comported himself and turned to face Goodman again. "Why don't you come up with me now. I've just got some paperwork to go over, and we could have dinner in my cabin while I see to the formalities?"

"Fine. You lead the way, Captain."

The California was a spartan ship, clean, obviously well run and in fine working order. She carried 500 passengers and typically about two hundred crew, as well as a modest amount of cargo, on an established route that saw her leave San Francisco bound for Honolulu, then on to Osaka and Hong Kong. Each crossing took twenty-one days, and Callahan was the ship's captain for the duration of each passage. When he arrived home again, in three weeks' time, he'd be off for the next fifty days - or until the next return crossing.

His cabin was just aft of the bridge, the visitors' area was surprisingly opulent, and the cabin included a dining area as well as a small library. Callahan got on a telephone of some sort and talked briefly, then joined Goodman on a small balcony that overlooked Osaka harbor, and a gorgeously setting sun. They both leaned against the rail and seemed to allow the moment to pass in peace.

"I just had the most ridiculous encounter," Goodman said as the sun drifted behind a nearby mountain range.

"Oh?"

"Yes. If I'm not mistaken, I think God just paid me a visit."

"God? Really?"

"I know how that sounds, but..." And Goodman proceeded to tell Callahan all about the old man in the loden cape, right down to his shooting him with his little Walther, and when he was finished he looked at Callahan expecting to find disbelief in his eyes...

"You say there was something odd about the cane?"

"Yes. Inlaid silver, or something like it, yet the stuff seemed to be almost alive. Like it was the essence of lightning, captured, harnessed, and almost, well, caged by the wood."

And Lloyd Callahan nodded. "Yes, that's exactly how Imogen described it."

"What!? You mean...?"

"Yes, from the time she was a little girl. She always said he appeared before truly awful things happened to her, that he was warning her and at the same time comforting her."

"You know, I think I need to sit down for a bit."

"Alright. Dinner's on the way, and I've a little whiskey stashed away for emergencies..."

"I think this qualifies."

Callahan laughed. "I'd say so. It isn't every day we meet God."

Goodman shook his head. "I'm not at all sure what I saw. A hallucination, probably. Or overwork..."

"Yes? And the very same man Imogen experienced? Isn't that a happy coincidence?"

"Oh, come on. You're a ship's captain. A man grounded in rational intellect."

"True enough."

"So, how can you explain this?"

"I can't. But I will say this. If what you say is true, if it really happened, perhaps you should think about the gift you received."

"The gift?"

"I don't know," Callahan sighed. "Call it what you will. Even a hallucination, if that suits you. But even hallucinations are grounded in facts of a sort, though they may be distortions or even misrepresentations of the facts. Yet what fascinates me right now is the congruence of experience you share with Imogen's companion."

"Companion?"

"Oh, yes. He was with her throughout her life. At times, he never left her side. Especially in that ghetto, north of Prague. I can never remember the name..."

"Theresienstadt?"

"Yes, that's it. He was with her almost all the time there. Especially when she was writing."

"Writing?"

"Yes, her music. Her Third Piano Concerto was written there, though to my knowledge it has been played only a few times."

"I wasn't aware there was a third. So, the piece she was working on was her fourth?"

Callahan leaned back on the rail and sighed. "So...did she finish?"

"Finish? What, the new piece?"

"Yes."

"You know, I'm not sure."

"Do you think you could find out?"

"Yes, certainly."

There was a knock on the door so Callahan went to answer it; a steward entered the room and rolled a cart up to the dining room table, then set out their dinner. Goodman followed Callahan and sat across from him.

"The chow on this tub isn't bad," Callahan said.

"Good lord, I should say not. What is all this?"

"Lobster thermidor, prime rib, asparagus Hollandaise. You know, the basics."

They both laughed at that.

"The ship's officers eat pretty much what the passengers eat. By way of compensation, we have our own gym. If not, I'm afraid we'd all look like Santa Claus. So, are you good with iced tea, or do you need a shot of whiskey?"

"I think this is a whiskey night for me."

"Splendid! Me too."

They talked around the perimeter of the main issue for an hour or so, then Callahan revisited it: "So, about Harry. Why don't you leave it to me."

"What?"

"You give me the go-ahead when you think the time is right, and I'll tell Harry about his mother, and, of course, about Avi."

Goodman scowled at the thought: "I promised Avi I would take care of this. Besides, there are other responsibilities entailed."

"Such as?"

"Well, the estate, for one. And there are other matters involved, but I'm afraid most of these are private matters. Affairs Avi wanted to be conveyed to Harry, and only to him - by myself. Most were committed to paper, though a few were not, and again, these were left for me to convey."

"You were close friends, then? With Avi, I mean?"

"Yes. Since the early days."

"Did you know his brother, Saul?"

"Not very well. I met him once, in Copenhagen."

"Before the war?"

"No, no. In the sixties, if I recall correctly."

"I see. Well, would you care for some dessert? We could walk down to the café for coffee and ice cream, if you like?"

"No, no. I have kept you from your duties long enough. If you could tell me what time to return tomorrow?"

"Why don't you come around about noon? Just give the purser manning the ramp your name; they'll see that you get to me."

"Very good, and thanks for the hospitality."

Callahan nodded, his mood different now, as he escorted Goodman to the door. A purser's mate was waiting there, and she saw Goodman to the boarding ramp.

Callahan went back to the bridge, then walked out on the flying bridge, and there he watched Goodman leave before he made his way back to his cabin.

"Bloody liar," he muttered as he returned to his desk. "So, if that jackass didn't kill Saul, who the hell did?"

But after almost forty years at sea, he could read men pretty well, and everything he knew screamed that this Goodman character was a liar and that he had been caught off-guard by the question about Saul. He'd seen it in the man's eyes, the darting evasions, the sudden hammering pulse, and the eyelid flutter.

"No, he's hiding something," he said to a framed picture of Harry and Imogen that sat on his desk. "He's hiding the truth, and my boy's life is in his hands."