Randy's work table. The drawers are locked shut. This cabinet has actually been locked into place with a few turns of heavy chain and a padlock, so it's very clear that he is expected to use the computer there, in that corner of the cell, and nowhere else. As Attorney Alejandro promised, an extension cord has been plugged into a wall outlet near the cellblock entrance and run down the passageway and securely knotted around a pipe out of Randy's reach and the tail end of it allowed to trail across in the direction of the filing cabinet. But it does not quite reach into Randy's cell, so the only way to plug the computer in is to set it up on that cabinet and stick the power cord into the back and then toss the other end out through the iron bars to a guard, who can mate it with the extension cord.
At first this appears to be just one of these maddening control-freak things, an exercise of power for the pure sadistic pleasure of it. But after Randy's been unchained, and locked in his cell, and left alone for a few minutes to run through it in his head, he thinks otherwise. Of course normally Randy could leave the computer on the card table while the batteries charged and then carry it over to his bed and use it there until the batteries ran down. But the batteries were removed from the machine before Attorney Alejandro gave it to him, and there don't seem to be any ThinkPad battery packs lying around his cell. So he will have to keep it plugged in all the time, and because of the way they have set up the filing cabinet and the extension cord, he is forced by certain immutable properties of three-dimensional Euclidean spacetime to use the machine in one and only one place: right there on top of that damn filing cabinet. He does not think this is an accident.
He sits down on that filing cabinet and scans the wall and ceiling for over-the-shoulder video cameras, but he doesn't look very hard and he doesn't really expect to see one. To make out text on a screen they would have to be very high-resolution cameras, which would imply big and obvious; subtle pinhole cameras wouldn't do it. There aren't any big cameras around here.
Randy becomes almost certain that if he could unlock that filing cabinet, he would find some electronic gear inside it. Directly underneath his laptop there is probably an antenna to pick up Van Eck signals emanating from the screen. Below that, there is some gear to translate those signals into a digital form and transmit the results to a listening station nearby, probably right on the other side of one of these walls. Down in the bottom are probably some batteries to make it all run. He rocks the cabinet back and forth as much as the chains will allow, and finds that it is indeed rather bottom-heavy, as if there's a car battery sitting in the bottom drawer. Or maybe it's just his imagination. Maybe they are letting him have his laptop just because they are nice guys.
So this is it then. This is the setup. This is the deal. It is all very clean and simple. Randy fires up the laptop just to prove that it still works. Then he makes his bed and goes and lies down on it, just because it feels really good to lie down. It is the first time he's had anything like privacy in at least a week. Notwithstanding Avi's bizarre admonition against self-abuse on the beach in Pacifica, it is high time that Randy took care of something. He needs to concentrate really hard now, and a certain distraction must be done away with. Replaying his last conversation with Amy is enough to give him a good erection. He reaches down into his pants and then abruptly falls asleep.
He wakes up to the sound of the cellblock door clanging open. A new prisoner is being led in. Randy tries to sit up and finds that his hand is still in his pants, having failed to accomplish its mission. He pulls it out of there reluctantly and sits up. He swings his feet down off the bed and onto the stone floor. Now he's got his back to the adjacent cell, which is a mirror image of his; i.e., the beds and the toilets of the two cells are right next to each other along their shared partition. He stands up and turns around and watches this other prisoner being led into the cell next to his. The new guy is a white man, probably in his sixties, maybe even seventies, though you could make a case for fifties or eighties. Quite vigorous, anyway. He's wearing a prison coverall just like Randy's, but accessorized differently: instead of a laptop, he's got a crucifix dangling from a rosary with great big fat amber beads, and some sort of medallion on a silver chain, and he's clutching several books to his belly: a Bible, and something big and in German, and a current bestselling novel.
The guards are treating him with extreme reverence; Randy assumes the guy is a priest. They are talking to him in Tagalog, asking him questions-being, Randy thinks, solicitous to his needs and desires-and the white man answers them in reassuring tones and even tells a joke. He makes a polite request; a guard scurries out and returns moments later with a deck of cards. Finally the guards back out of the cell, practically bowing and scraping, and lock him in with apologies that start to get a little monotonous. The white man says something, forgiving them wittily. They laugh nervously and leave. The white man stands there in the middle of his cell for a minute, staring at the floor contemplatively, maybe praying or something. Then he snaps out of it and starts looking around. Randy leans into the partition and sticks his hand through the bars. 'Randy Waterhouse,' he says.
The white man frisbees his books onto the bed, glides towards him, and shakes his hand. 'Enoch Root,' he says. 'It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Randy.' His voice is unmistakably that of Pontifex- [email protected].
Randy freezes up for a long time, like a man who has just realized that a colossal practical joke is being played on him, but doesn't know just
'Make a bridge?' Randy echoes, feeling and probably sounding rather stupid.
'I'm sorry, my English is a bit rusty-I meant
'Bridge? No. But I thought it took four people.'
'I have come up with a version that is played by
'Fifty-four,' Randy muses. 'Is your game anything like Pontifex?'
'One and the same.'
'I think I have the rules for Pontifex squirreled away on my hard drive somewhere,' Randy says.
'Then let's play,' says Enoch Root.
Chapter 87 FALL
Shaftoe jumps out of the airplane. The air is bracingly cold up here, and the wind chill factor is something else. It is the first time in a year that he has not been loathsomely hot and sweaty.
Something jerks mightily on his back: the static line, still attached to the airplane-God forbid that American fighting men should be entrusted to pull their own ripcords. He can just imagine the staff meeting where they dreamed up the concept of the static line: 'For God's sake, General, they're just enlisted men! As soon as they jump out of the airplane they'll probably start daydreaming about their girlfriends, take a few hits from their pocket flasks, catch forty winks, and before you know it they'll all pile into the ground at a couple of hundred miles an hour!'
The drogue chute flutters out, catches air, and then eviscerates his main pack in one jerk. There's a bit of flopping and buffeting as Bobby Shaftoe's body pulls the disorganized cloud of silk downwards, then it thunks open and he is left hanging in space, his dark body forming a small perfect bullseye in the center of the off-white canopy for any Nipponese riflemen down below.
No wonder those paratroopers think they are gods among men: they get such a nice view of things, so much better than a poor Marine grunt stuck down on the beach, who is always looking uphill into courses of pillboxes. All of Luzon stretches out before him. He can see one or two hundred miles north, across a mat of vegetation as dense as felt, to the mountains in the far north where General Yamashita, the Lion of Malaya, is holed up with a hundred thousand troops, each of whom would like nothing better than to strap lots of explosives to his body, sneak through the lines at night, run into the middle of a large concentration of American soldiers, and blow himself up for his emperor. To Shaftoe's starboard is Manila Bay, and even from this distance, some thirty miles, he can see the jungle suddenly turn thin and brown as it nears the shore, like a severed leaf that is dying from the edge inwards-that would be what's left of the city of Manila. The fat twenty-mile-long tongue of land protruding towards him is Bata'an. Just off the tip of it is a rocky island shaped like a tadpole with a green head and a bony
