“He sure was, Joe, he sure was.” Wiley turns to Fay Li. “Fay. Let’s tell Joe about the package we’re offering.”
“In recognition of your exemplary record, Mr. Wiley is proposing to set you free early. You’ll receive full pay for the eighteen months still on your contract, your bonus—then your index-linked pension will kick in.”
Walk the plank! Napier makes a “wow” expression. Bill Smoke is behind this. Wow fits both the retirement offer and Napier’s sense of the seismic shift in his role from insider to liability. “This is .?.?. unexpected.”
“Must be, Joe,” says Wiley but adds nothing. The telephone rings. “No,” snaps Wiley into the mouthpiece, “Mr. Reagan can wait his turn. I’m busy.”
Napier has decided by the time Wiley hangs up. A golden chance to exit a bloodstained stage. He plays an old retainer speechless with gratitude. “Fay. Mr. Wiley. I don’t know how to thank you.”
William Wiley peers like a jokey coyote. “By accepting?”
“Of course I accept!”
Wiley and Fay Li are all congratulations. “You understand, of course,” Wiley continues, “with a post as delicate as Security, we need for the change to come into force when you leave this room.”
Jesus, you people don’t waste a second, do you?
Fay Li adds, “I’ll have your effects shipped on, plus paperwork. I know you won’t be offended by an escort to the mainland. Mr. Wiley has to be seen to respect protocol.”
“No offense, Fay.” Napier smiles, cursing her. “I wrote our protocol.” Napier, keep your .38 strapped to your calf until you’re off Swannekke, and for a long time after.
The music in the Lost Chord Music Store subsumes all thoughts of Spyglass, Sixsmith, Sachs, and Grimaldi. The sound is pristine, riverlike, spectral, hypnotic .?.?. intimately familiar. Luisa stands, entranced, as if living in a stream of time. “I know this music,” she tells the store clerk, who eventually asks if she’s okay. “What the hell is it?”
“I’m sorry, it’s a customer order, not for sale. I shouldn’t really be playing it.”
“Oh.” First things first. “I phoned last week. My name’s Rey, Luisa Rey. You said you could find an obscure recording for me by Robert Frobisher, Cloud Atlas Sextet. But forget that for a moment. I have to own this music too. I have to. You know what it’s like. What is it?”
The clerk presents his wrists for imaginary handcuffs. “Cloud Atlas Sextet by Robert Frobisher. I listened to it to make sure it’s not scratched. Oh, I lie. I listened to it because I’m a slave to curiosity. Not exactly Delius, is it? Why companies won’t finance recordings of gems like this, it’s criminal. Your record is in the mintest condition, I’m happy to report.”
“Where have I heard it before?”
The young man shrugs. “Can’t be more than a handful in North America.”
“But I know it. I’m telling you I know it.”
Nancy O’Hagan is speaking excitedly on her phone when Luisa returns to the office. “Shirl? Shirl! It’s Nancy. Listen, we may yet spend Christmas in the shadow of the Sphinx. The new owner is Trans Vision Inc.”—she raises her voice—“Trans Vision Inc.?.?.?. Me neither, but”—O’Hagan lowers her voice—“I’ve just seen KPO, yeah, the old boss, he’s on the new board. But listen up, what I’m calling to say is, my job’s safe!” She gives Luisa a frenetic nod. “Uh-huh, almost no jobs are being axed, so phone Janine and tell her she’s spending Christmas alone with her abominable little snowmen.”
“Luisa,” Grelsch calls from his doorway, “Mr. Ogilvy’ll see you now.”
K. P. Ogilvy occupies Dom Grelsch’s temperamental chair, exiling the editor to a plastic stacking seat. In the flesh, Spyglass’s proprietor reminds Luisa of a steel engraving. Of a Wild West judge. “There’s no nice way to say this,” he begins, “so I’ll just say it the blunt way. You’re fired. Orders of the new owner.”
Luisa watches the news bounce off her. No, it can’t compare to being driven off a bridge into the sea in semidarkness. Grelsch can’t meet her eye. “I’ve got a contract.”
“Who hasn’t? You’re fired.”
“Am I the only staff writer to incur your new masters’ displeasure?”
“So it would seem.” K. P. Ogilvy’s jaw flinches once.
“I think it’s fair to ask, ‘Why me?’?”
“Owners hire, fire, and say what’s fair. When a buyer offers a rescue package of the bounty that Trans Vision offered, one doesn’t nitpick.”
“?‘A Picked Nit.’ Can I have that on my gold watch?”
Dom Grelsch squirms. “Mr. Ogilvy, I think Luisa’s entitled to some kind of an explanation.”
“Then she can go ask Trans Vision. Perhaps her face doesn’t fit their vision of Spyglass. Too radical. Too feminist. Too dry. Too pushy.”
He’s trying to make a smokescreen. “I’d like to ask Trans Vision a number of things. Where’s their head office?”
“Out east somewhere. But I doubt anyone’ll see you.”
“Out east somewhere. Who are your new fellow board members?”
“You’re being fired, not taking down an affidavit.”
“Just one more question, Mr. Ogilvy. For three magical years of unstinting service, just answer this—what’s the overlap between Trans Vision and Seaboard Power?”
Dom Grelsch’s own curiosity is sharp. Ogilvy hesitates a fraction, then blusters, “I’ve got a lot of work to get through. You’ll be paid until the end of the month, no need to come in. Thank you and good-bye.”
Where there’s bluster, thinks Luisa, there’s duplicity.
YOU ARE NOW LEAVING SWANNEKKE COUNTY,
HOME OF THE SURF, HOME OF THE ATOM,
DON’T STAY AWAY TOO LONG!
Life’s okay. Joe Napier shifts his Jeep into cruise control. Life’s good. Seaboard Power, his working life, Margo Roker, and Luisa Rey recede into his past at eighty miles per hour. Life’s great. Two hours to his log cabin in the Santo Cristo mountains. He could catch catfish for supper if he’s not too tired by the drive. He checks his mirror: a silver Chrysler has been sitting a hundred yards behind him for a mile or two, but now it overtakes and vanishes into the distance. Relax, Napier tells himself, you’ve gotten away. Something in his Jeep is rattling. The afternoon reaches its three o’clock golden age. The freeway runs alongside the river for mile after mile, slowly climbing. Upcountry’s gotten uglier in the last thirty years, but show me a place that
