Shift: A Novel

“What have you done?”

Melchior peered into his eyes. “Don’t you know?” His eyes opened wide then, and for a moment it seemed his mind did as well. Chandler saw Melchior standing in front of a sharply dressed bald man sitting behind a highly polished desk, saw Caspar on his knees in front of Melchior, saw BC fall on the floor at Melchior’s feet, saw Melchior stab him in the heart and drag the body—

“C’mon, Chandler,” Melchior said. “Push.”

Chandler pushed, harder than he’d ever done. Melchior staggered, took a step back. His eyes closed, but his mind opened wider. Chandler had seen the beginning of his incarnation as Melchior. Now he would see the end.

He beat Song to the airstrip in north Dallas, parked BC’s Rambler in the hangar she’d rented, and paced the concrete for the next ninety minutes. Just after nine, Song’s Gulfstream finally taxied through the wide-open doors. Melchior couldn’t help but be amazed. A little more than a decade ago, Song had been a homeless runaway in Korea, caught in the middle of a proxy war fought by the newly christened superpowers, with 500 million Red Chinese thrown in for good measure. Now she ruled her own empire, not just of girls, but of intelligence services and a series of shrewd investments that had boosted her net worth to millions of dollars. Ivelitsch had told him: she was worth a lot more than a few compromising pictures or a roll in the hay. She could bankroll them for years, until their own schemes began to pay off. But now Melchior had to ask himself: was it worth the price?

Chul-moo killed the engines and the hangar went silent. The hatch opened and a staircase descended from the fuselage with a nearly silent whine of hydraulics. The fur collar on Song’s jacket was more suited to DC than Dallas at this time of year, and she pulled at it as she descended into the stale air of the hangar. By way of greeting, all she said was:

“Have you heard from Pavel?”

“He docked at No Name Key about twenty minutes ago. They’re in the process of moving the bomb from Giancana’s boat to ours. They should be ready to head north by ten.”

“And Naz is with Garza?”

Melchior nodded. “What about Everton?”

Song’s smile was tired but, underneath that, mischievous. “Like I told you: second and fourth Thursday of every month.” Then, more seriously: “How did your meeting with Caspar go?”

Melchior was silent a moment. “Don’t worry,” he said finally. “He’ll play his part.”

She was on the ground now. She reached up and adjusted Melchior’s wig slightly, let her hands sit on his lapels while she inspected his appearance like a mother about to send her child off to his first day of school.

“The whole world’s going to be looking for you.”

Melchior shook his head. “I don’t exist anymore. With Everton and Jarrell out of the picture, Caspar’s the only person who could ID me, and he’ll be gone soon enough.”

“Gone?”

“Giancana’s going to call in a favor.”

“You think he’ll do that after he finds out you double-crossed him in Cuba?”

“He has to. There are enough bread crumbs between him and Caspar that he’ll face indictment as an accomplice if he doesn’t shut Caspar up.”

“Melchior.” Song’s voice softened, but only slightly. “It’s Caspar.”

He shook his head. “There’s no Caspar. There never was. There was just Lee, and there’s not much of him left anymore. I’ll be doing him a favor.”

Song took this in. Then, hardening again: “What about the Wiz?”

“Scheider took care of him for us. His brain is fried. He doesn’t know himself anymore, let alone anyone else. Trust me, he’s not long for this world.”

Again Song paused, studying Melchior. There was something different about him. Something she couldn’t put her finger on, but she didn’t like it.

“I don’t understand why we have to go through with it if you’re not actually planning to work with Giancana. We’ve got Orpheus. We’ve got the bomb. What does killing—”

But Melchior was shaking his head.

“We’re not going to kill him.”

“I don’t understand. You just said Caspar was in play.”

“Like you said: it’s Caspar. He couldn’t make this shot with a bazooka, and I’ve seen his rifle. It’s a goddamn mail-order antique. Plus there’s a tree blocking his view of the road. He’ll fire, he’ll miss, he’ll be taken into custody, Giancana will have him taken care of. End of story.”

Song shook her head incredulously. “You’re betting a lot on a bad shot. Never mind the fact that a man’s life is at stake. If Giancana doesn’t take Caspar out, if the Bureau finds out about his CIA connections, this could start a scandal that brings down the government. Why don’t you just call the cops and get him picked up?”

“I call the cops and they know it’s a conspiracy, they’ll dig that much harder. Caspar’s got to fuck this up on his own.”

“Melchior, think this through. Caspar’s Company connections are bad enough. But if his ties to KGB come to light, this could kick off World War Three, for God’s sake.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Melchior’s voice went up a notch, and Song had to work to keep her face calm. “I have no doubt Caspar’s past is going to come out. It’s there for anyone to see. I mean, Jesus Christ. A teenager running around spouting a Communist line about the coming revolution, but still joining the Civil Air Patrol and the Marines. A recruit whose boot camp nickname is Oswaldkovitch, who gets posted to the base of the U2, the single most valuable weapon in the U.S. espionage arsenal. A soldier who announces his intention to defect and provide