Killing Time

CHAPTER 13

The conference table in the lowest level of the nose had been draped with a rich cloth and laid with china, silver, and candles, and the color of the panorama outside the ship had turned a rich blue-black, indicating that we had taken an eastern turn into the deeper waters of the Atlantic, away from the waste that had marked the coast. The ship's exterior lights cut lovely shafts through these storied depths, yet even as I admired the beauty there seemed something odd about the sight, something lonely that I couldn't initially explain. I tried to shake the feeling off, attributing it to my own general sense of being on my own in a strange place — and then I realized that it actually stemmed from the surprising but very apparent lack of any signs of life in the water.

Tarbell was already standing by the table, along with the Kupermans; and although I couldn't see who was responsible for the cooking or where it was being done, the aromas filling the area were singularly appetizing. Tarbell handed me a glass of his personal vodka — a Russian brand I did not know — and then Eli Kuperman asked:

"You like lamb, don't you, Dr. Wolfe? Medium rare, I think it was. It'll be ready in just a few minutes."

"None of us has time to eat much during the day," Jonah Kuperman added, heading through a small door that evidently led to some sort of galley, where I could see Julien Fouché laboring in a sweat over a stainless-steel stove. "So we try to make dinners as civilized as we can."

I picked up a few pieces of the china and silver: very elegant and very old. "I guess you do" was all I could say, taking a sip of Tarbell’s vodka and trying yet again to orient myself: after all, moments earlier I'd been standing in this same area watching a battle take place outside. "I don't suppose," I went on, "that anybody would like to tell me what it is that keeps you all so busy during the day? I mean, when you're not busting people out of jail."

Fouché raised his voice to call from the galley, "That should never have happened! A pet project of les frères Kuperman that grew completely out of hand!"

"Oh, come on, Julien!" Eli shot back. "It had just as much validity as anything else we've done. You've seen the statistics: gambling's become an epidemic since the crash, and there's no way I'm going to let a lot of anthropologically nonsensical folklore rationalize it. If we'd been able to plant that evidence—"

" 'Plant?' " I interrupted, surprised. "You mean you weren't stealing anything?"

Jonah Kuperman threw me a friendly glance. "There's really nothing in that particular burial site worth stealing, Dr. Wolfe."

"Gideon," I said.

"All right — Gideon. Well, as you probably know, it's been apparent for years that the various peoples who call themselves 'Native Americans' were not, in fact, the first inhabitants of this continent. But many of the tribes have attempted to suppress or destroy evidence that might support this conclusion. They're afraid, and with reason, that if they're suddenly revealed as simple conquerors of their predecessors, they'll lose emotional and historical justification for a lot of questionable activities — including the creation of a generation of gambling addicts in their casinos."

"That burial ground in Florida," Eli said, "is currently being explored by a team from Harvard, and Jonah and I were trying to slip several artifacts in to demonstrate—"

Eli cut his words short at the sound of Malcolm Tressalian's wheelchair moving about on the control level above us. From the looks on the faces of the men on the lower level with me, I could see that they were all concerned as to what shape their leader was in. They relaxed again, however, when we all heard Tressalian call out:

"It simply would not be dinner without one of our rousing professional differences of opinion! Though you'll find, Dr. Wolfe, that these discussions can become quite personal as the evening wears on."

Slow, heavy steps on the metal staircase indicated that Tressalian was making his way down with the aid of his crutches, and soon he appeared, his light blue eyes bearing no trace of the agony that had filled them earlier. Behind him I could see Colonel Slayton, ever on the alert for any sign of trouble, as well as Larissa, who looked only more beautiful for having brought us through a hard-fought engagement with law enforcement.

"Well, gentlemen, whom are we beating up on tonight?" Tressalian went on. It occurred to me that once they saw that he had recovered from his bout of illness, none of the others thought to ask the man how he felt, even though the attack that had seized first his head and then his entire body had been savage. I took my cue from their example, remembering Tarbell's statement that these episodes were something of a regular occurrence and assuming, as I had when I'd first seen him struggle out of his wheelchair, that help and sympathy were not things Tressalian desired.

"Oh, Malcolm, it's absurd!" bellowed Fouché, who appeared from the galley. "Eli and Jonah continue to maintain that their Florida escapade was worth the trouble it brought!"

As a general though still good-natured uproar ensued, Larissa moved up close to me. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to settle you in," she said quietly, her dark eyes gleaming in the soft light even more than her silver hair. "Was everything all right?"

"Yes, perfectly," I answered, again feeling very self-conscious in her presence. "Dr. Tarbell did his best to help me get my bearings, though it was a tall order. But your brother — is he—?"

"Fine, now," she said, even more quietly. "But we can talk about that later."

The argument around the table continued, eventually prompting Tressalian to hold up his hands: "Decorum, gentlemen, please. Jonah, Eli — I think that for the foreseeable future we'll have to ask you to confine your activities concerning the gambling issue to informational pursuits. No one faults your zeal — we all know the extent of the problem and the false assumptions that underlie it. But there are far larger matters at hand just now. Not to mention that we are being unspeakably rude to our guest, who, unless I'm mistaken, understands only a fraction of what we're talking about."

I shook my head once with a smile. "You are certainly not mistaken."

"Then let's be seated while Julien serves." Tressalian moved to the head of the table, directing me to sit beside him. "We shall try to clarify the situation, Doctor, after which you can see our ideas at work in Afghanistan." He leaned toward me, the blue eyes alight. "And then you can decide if a life of brewing global chaos holds any appeal…"