“Then he doesn’t know. They pull strings,” K said. “The true Illuminati. I’ve spent the last fifteen years tracking down its history. The damned Jews blocked me every step of the way.”
I stared at him intently. Thought about just getting up and leaving the bar. One problem with libertarians, scientific elitists, and other rugged individualists is that a significant minority of them hold odd and sometimes pernicious views about races and religions other than their own. Think The Bell Curve and you’ll know the type.
“Are you sure we have anything to discuss?”
“Your brother believed we did,” K said, his expression hardening. “He recommended you talk to me, right?”
“My brother led his own life, and I lead mine.”
Our drinks arrived. I had ordered a Scotch, something I enjoyed but rarely indulged in. K slugged back his bourbon neat and opened a bottle of club soda, listening for the hiss of escaping gas, then swallowed that down immediately after.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” K said, arching those dramatic dark brows in a way that suggested Errol Flynn. “The Jews, too, have their strings pulled.” His features seemed to melt, as if he were a chastened puppy. A drifting sadness filmed his eyes and his lips twisted, the words were difficult to control. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s a nervous tic. You’ll get used to it. It’s dogged me for twenty years now. Ruined my whole, fucking, life.”
Just as quickly, the arch, self-assured face returned. The transformation was startling. “We are going to do this in stages. Less cautious, sooner dead. You have no idea who I am?”
“Just K,” I said. “Like in The Trial.”
“Your brother told you nothing more?”
“Nothing.”
“How close are you to your goal, Dr. Cousins?”
I examined his face for a moment, wondering whether or not to lie. “Pretty close,” I said. “A few years, maybe less.”
“Rob was at Lake Baikal. He died in New York. Do you have any idea what that means?”
“No,” I said.
“There is a war,” K said. “Your brother found himself in the thick of it—targeted because of his research.”
“Rob and I were—are—doing research in life extension. I know it’s controversial, but how in the hell does it plant us in a war?”
“I am not a scientist, I’m an historian. Your brother told me to give you something. It was practically his last request . . . to me.” He lifted a package from under his jacket and laid it out on the table: a nine-by-twelve buff paper envelope, filled to bursting, wrapped in glossy cellophane packing tape. He pushed the envelope across the table. Scrawled across the front in Magic Marker, in Rob’s blocky style, was Prince Hal Only. Out of the jaws of defeat. For you, Brother. With true love and respect. Rob Cousins.
The signature was definitely Rob’s, with jaunty loops, though more ragged than I remembered.
“As you can see—”
“Please,” I said. My throat tightened, and tears welled in my eyes. I wiped them hastily and took hold of the package.
K watched me. “It is from your brother,” he said softly. “No contamination. His hands, to mine, to yours, and . . . as you can see—”
“Please,” I said.
“This is important, Dr. Cousins. He made sure the document would not be opened by anyone but you.”
The envelope’s flap had been taped over with embedded hairs the same color as my own, quite a few of them, arranged in a crisscross. Hairs protected the seams, as well. Paranoid. Driven. The wrapping matched the mood of Rob’s last message.
“Do I look at it, then give it back to you?” I asked.
“It’s yours,” K said, and withdrew a handkerchief to blow his nose. “Do with it as you please. I suggest, however, that you don’t read it here.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Rob told me to look out for you. So be it. Things are getting rough. You must start training.”
“Training for what?” I asked. Despite the envelope, I was poised to get up and walk out and leave the mysterious Mr. K to his clockwork aberrations. I will not let Rob’s delusions drag me down with him.
“Survival,” K said. “Do you have any money?”
I shook my head.
“I know someone in the City who is very good. She seldom takes on students as an act of charity. I hope we can find the money to pay her.”
“What sort of survival—wilderness, camouflage tents, eating grubs and lizards?”
K smiled with a paternal tolerance that I found more irritating than his nervous bigotry. “She teaches people how to avoid extraordinary attempts on their lives. I’ll make the appointment. Do you eat fresh fruit and vegetables?”
I looked up from the envelope. “Yes,” I said, hoping I wasn’t compromising some important secret.
K gave me a sharp look. “Stop now,” he said. “Canned food only, and supplement it with vitamins in sealed containers. Shop at different stores, widely spaced, supermarkets preferred. Avoid strangers, or friends who behave strangely. In time, you will avoid all your friends. Friends and lovers are our greatest weakness.”
I remembered the little man with the spray bottle. Surely if someone were poisoning the entire city, it would be in the news.
“Why should I do what you tell me?” I asked.
“Your brother worked hard to protect himself, and for a while, it seemed he was succeeding.” He pointed to the envelope. “What he did not know, killed him.” K sidled out of the booth.
