“But Dr. Cousins turned the tables and immunized Mr. Bridger ahead of time,” Banning said.
“As a precaution,” Cousins added. “And, of course, to protect Mr. Bridger. He knows his history, and that’s important.”
“You didn’t trust me,” Banning said, eyes darting around the table. “You wanted confirmation from another source.”
“Because you’re a fucking wacko,” Marquez said. Banning looked resigned and settled into his chair. He had been hit with this particular bladder many times.
“We needed confirmation,” Cousins agreed. “Ben had the expertise.”
“But that isn’t all of it, right?” Marquez said, eyes glittering. “He understands deadly force. Explosives. He’s our power guy.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “I know little or nothing about the rest of you.”
“There’s nothing fair about any of this,” Cousins said.
Tammy nodded as if with special knowledge. Marquez reached over and put his arm around her. “Rudy could have used some immunizing ten years ago,” he said. “Silk turned him into a bigoted Nazi.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use that phrase.” Banning’s lips worked as if trying to clean a scrap of food from his front teeth.
“They didn’t really change you,” Marquez said. “They just brought your hatred of Jews out in the open. If Jews are so inferior, how do you explain Golokhov?” The two men stared at each other, Marquez with the wide-eyed triumph of having scored a point.
Banning’s face emptied.
“Back up a bit,” I said. “Who in hell was Golokhov? How did he manage to do all this?”
“He was the most brilliant biologist of the twentieth century,” Cousins said.
“The Svengali of germs,” Marquez said. “That’s how I’d pitch it.” He stood up from the table. “Everybody eat their fill? Wonderful curry.”
Tammy looked nervous, as if her performance were about to begin.
“Time for some videos,” Marquez said. “I’ll bring a tray of drinks.”
“I’m a pig, and I know it,” Marquez said. We sat in his lavish theater, four rows of plush seats flanked by dark red velvet curtains. A video projector hung from the ceiling, its cooling fan a soft whisper in the hush. In the wall behind us, slits opened for the peering rodent eyes of three film projectors. Marquez pushed a button, and a short length of front curtain pulled aside, revealing racked towers of expensive electronics. He slipped a disk into a player. “Banning’s a loon, but I’m a platinum-plated swine. I got where I am all by myself, with no help from anybody. I locked myself up in this paranoid’s castle, and . . . lo and behold!” He made a biblical sweep with one hand, as if unveiling a new Golden Calf. “I’m just what the poor girl needs.”
Banning marched across the front before taking his seat. He waved his arms like a professor giving a lecture. “In 1948,” he said, “Stalin and Golokhov seemed to have had a massive falling-out. Stalin may have felt that Golokhov was trying to control everyone around him. Stalin gave orders to purge Golokhov and all the specialists involved in Silk. He instructed Beria to deport all”—his lips worked—“the Jewish medical researchers who might have been associated with Silk. The so-called Doctors’ Plot of 1952. Ultimately, millions of Jews were banished to Siberia. You must agree, there was a measure of poetic justice.”
Marquez sat straight up in his seat. “You are a guest,” he muttered. “But you will not provoke me.”
Banning’s eyes seemed to glaze. He sat.
“Rudy, we aren’t concerned here with who was Jewish and who wasn’t,” Cousins said calmly.
“No, of course not,” Banning said, and looked away.
“Golokhov escaped and went to New York,” Cousins continued. “He, and what remained of Silk, kept a low profile. Beyond that, it’s sketchy. We’re going to New York to fit in the final pieces and look at the whole puzzle. Then . . . we’re off to Florida and Exuma Cays.”
Marquez leaned forward. “That’s where Tammy comes in.”
“Tammy?” I asked. “She’s part of this?”
“Tangentially,” Cousins said, and looked to Marquez.
Marquez raised his hands. “What can I say? It’s all amazing.”
I was getting punchy with too much information and too many gaps. The silence lengthened.
“So?” I said.
“Tammy flew to LA from the Bahamas with her boyfriend,” Marquez said. “They were at an awards ceremony for Themed Entertainment at the Beverly Wilshire. You know, Disneyland, Sea World, casino shows, that sort of thing. Have you ever heard of Cirque Fantôme?” Marquez punched a button and another curtain parted. The projector threw a gorgeous, sharp picture of an amphitheater onto the screen. People were filing down the rows to reach their seats. Long, filmy, white drapes obscured several layered stages at the center. Lights inside the drapes played like butterflies.
“Yeah, I suppose,” I said. “Some sort of Vegas show, isn’t it?”
“Mostly European,” Marquez said. “Best circus in the world, really. Incredible acts, staging, unbelievable stunts.” Marquez gazed at Tammy with little-boy worship, marked by a small eyebrow twitch of concern.
“It is my story, I will tell it,” she said, drawing her shoulders up. “Fantôme is more than a circus. They send recruiters into the city, the slums. When they found me, I was orphaned, a slum girl in Rio. What did I know? I was fourteen. If I did not leave, I would end up selling my body, taking drugs, and soon I would die. Tending bar or working dates was the best I could hope for. My guardian—he would have been my pimp, maybe—signed me over and the recruiters got me a visa, a work permit. They took me to Lee Stocking Island.”
“Exuma Cays,” Marquez said. “In the Bahamas.”
Titles played over the screen: “Cirque Fantôme, Fin de Siècle, L’Ombre et la Lumière.” The translucent drapes drew back to show three empty platforms. Steel columns rose on all sides, six in all, supporting lights and ropes, platforms and wires.
“Fantôme taught me English and Russian and French and high wire, juggling, and dance. I try with the boleadoras. You become part of a family. Everybody contributes, everybody works together. They train you day in, day out. The food is wonderful. You eat all you want but you don’t get heavy. You work it off. I had never known fresh sheets, soft bed, people caring. It was heaven.”
A male clown at least twelve feet high from toe to crown, with very long legs, walked onto the largest platform. Though he must have been wearing stilts, they were like nothing I had seen before. One half of his face was painted white, the other black, and he wore a formal suit of charcoal gray. He bowed at the waist, then got down on his knees, if they were knees. Eerie music rose in the background, and above the platforms, another drape lifted to reveal a rock band of men and women wearing what looked like concentration-camp uniforms.
“I was sixteen, youngest in our group, the child,” Tammy continued, her eyes fixed on the screen. “I was a pretty good juggler, but not good on the wire. I lacked concentration. So my family took me to visit Dr. Goncourt at his house on the beach. There, I met Philippe Cabal. Philippe is top performer, close to Dr. Goncourt. He liked me.”
