Firebird Page 6

  That, of course, meant people like Alex. And, ultimately, me.

  It was the reason Gabe was so disappointed in his nephew. Alex never knew his parents. Both had been historians. His mother died giving birth to him. She was one of three women in the entire world to die that year during delivery. His father died a year later while touring the ruins of Kashnir when he was attacked and bitten by a storm of dragon bees. The infant, left temporarily in the care of Gabriel and his wife, Elaina, stayed with them.

  Elaina was long gone by the time I met Gabe. She’d run off with someone. Don’t know who. I never heard the details. I can’t imagine how she could have done any better than Gabe.

  So Alex grew up, as he liked to say, in dig sites. He inherited the family’s passion for history. But instead of following in Gabe’s footsteps, he’d decided there were plenty of artifacts out there for everybody. There was a serious market for antiquities, especially those that could be linked to an historical personage or event. And Alex saw no reason he shouldn’t cash in on it.

  Shortly after I began working for Gabe, I heard that he had a nephew. When I asked, innocently, whether Alex had any interest in archeology, Gabe’s face had darkened, and he’d shaken his head. “No,” he’d said. “None whatever.”

  I didn’t ask again. His colleagues filled me in on the details. “Alex robs tombs,” one of them told me. “You might say he’s not exactly the son Gabe had hoped for.”

  Eventually, they reconciled, although they never became close. I didn’t meet Alex during those years. You’ll understand I had a fairly low opinion of him and felt sorry for his uncle.

  Gabe got interested when an exploration ship, the Tenandrome, returned to Rimway, and Survey became secretive about something they’d seen. Gabe went home, got involved in an investigation, and let me know he’d figured it out. He was on the return flight, on the Capella, when it vanished. He’d asked me to meet him at Saraglia Station. And I’ll never forget sitting in Karlovski’s All-Night listening to the reports. The interstellar was late. Two hours later, it still hadn’t arrived. Then there was an assurance that delays happen, and there was no reason to worry. Search units were being sent out. I was wandering through the concourse, too restless to sit, when they announced that the Capella was officially declared missing.

  They never found it, of course. It was a bad time. As painful as anything in my life. I hadn’t realized how much I liked Gabe, loved him, really. An easygoing guy with a great sense of humor. I used to wonder about his ex-wife, what kind of nitwit she must have been to leave him. He possessed an innocent charm, and I loved spending time with him. Did it whenever I could. It was why I hung around the sites, eating food cooked over campfires and sleeping under the stars. And now and then wielding a shovel. Looking back now, I’ve come to realize that they were among the best days of my life.

  Then, without warning, he was gone.

  After I got myself together, after I’d given up on any possibility that the Capella would magically show up somewhere, I went back to Rimway, to the country house. Gabe owed me two months’ pay and expenses. I had decided to let it go, not to put in my final statement, but when I heard that the nephew had taken over the estate, I had no problem.

  That, of course, constituted my introduction to Alex. Pay me. And I’ll confess that I didn’t like him at first. Maybe it was because of what I knew about him. Maybe, somehow, I resented his being there in place of Gabe. I don’t know. We got talking about the Tenandrome, and why Survey had been so secretive about its mission, and what its connection was with Gabe.

  As the old saying goes, one thing led to another. Before we were finished, he’d saved my life. That can do a lot to cement a relationship with somebody.

  Karen called back that afternoon. “No notebook,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “You couldn’t have misplaced it?”

  “No. If I’d seen it, I’d have remembered. It just didn’t come with the other stuff.”

  Alex spent his time reading everything he could find about Robin. He discovered that the physicist had been a superb athlete in school, that he’d been an only child, that his parents had been wealthy, and that he’d never wanted for anything.

  We continued to get a lot of calls from the media, but Alex knew there was such a thing as overexposure, so he limited access. For him, it was all a game. It had little or nothing to do with making money, per se, other than that he enjoyed seeing his clients prosper. But he spoke of his “enhancement technique” as if he were creating a romance, giving value to the culture.

  I objected occasionally, especially when we went overboard for Karen Howard. The truth is that I suspected there was more to this than the Robin collectibles. That he’d become intrigued with the mystery surrounding the disappearance. He continued to insist that arriving at a solution would be counterproductive. And I knew he was right. But I didn’t think, in the end, it would matter.

  During this uncomfortable period, I stopped by the country house during off-hours a couple of times to reassure myself he was okay. One evening, I found him in the conference room watching a clip of Chris Robin giving out awards at a high school on Virginia Island. I didn’t think he was even aware I was standing there. But he froze the scene, depicting Robin sharing cookies with a couple of the kids. “What do you think?” he asked, without looking up.

  “About what?”

  “Uriel,” he said. “What do you suppose he meant when he said he’d be able to talk about a breakthrough after Uriel?”

  SIX

  The secret of a truly successful career in almost any field is the ability to control what people think. In other words, pure public relations. It is the difference between talent and greatness.

  —Henry Taylor, The Statesman, 6712 C.E.

  While we watched interest build in the Robin artifacts, we got involved in the search for Korman Eddy’s Clockwork, which had vanished from a train in the middle of the last century. The sculptor, then at the beginning of his illustrious career, had achieved celebrity status but hadn’t yet reached the superstardom that awaited him. He famously took the sculpture aboard an Andiquar local and somehow—nobody had ever understood how it could have happened—left it on the seat when he got off at Mill Harbor. “A beautiful young lady had come aboard,” he’d explained, “and I’m easily distracted.”

  Clockwork was an abstract depiction, according to the experts, of the inevitable passage of time, and its effect on the psyche. It was a collection of springs, clock hands, pinions, Roman numerals, wheels, electric dials, and pendulums. It wasn’t a large piece, but Eddy had needed two seats to transport it. It had been inside a transparent wrapping. He sat on the opposite side of the aisle.

  Eddy apparently realized his oversight after leaving the train. He was in a cab on his way to the Vancouver Center, where it was to be unveiled. Horrified, he immediately called the train. A quick search ensued, but the sculpture could not be found. Passengers reported seeing a woman struggling with it, carrying it toward the back of the car on which Eddy had been riding. That had been several minutes after the train had left the station. Police were waiting at Cuirescu, the next stop. But they could find no sign of the missing artwork or the woman the other passengers had seen. An inspection of the forty-three-mile-long track between the two stations turned up the wrapping but nothing else.

  Eddy was heartbroken. Prior to arriving at Mill Harbor, he’d shown it to no one. “It was to be a special moment for the Vancouver Center, and for me,” he said in the aftermath of the event.

  It had happened in 1341, ninety-three years earlier. We got interested when Eddy’s Varesque became available, and some of our clients began commenting what a shame it was that nobody had ever found the Clockwork sculpture, and how much they’d give to get their hands on it.

  So we went through the documents, read the media accounts, talked to two of the witnesses and several of the avatars. We visited the two train stations, which had changed considerably over the years, alth
ough their layouts were basically the same. We satisfied ourselves that, with the distribution of people reportedly on the platform at Cuirescu, no one could have gotten off the train carrying the sculpture without being seen.

  I thought the conductor was involved. “He has to be,” I said. “The woman, whoever she was, needed help. A place to hide, both the sculpture and herself.”

  “It’s not difficult to search a train,” Alex said. “Not when you’re looking for something that big. No, I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “So what did happen, Sherlock?”

  He grinned. I’ve often wondered where that term came from. But I’ve never been able to find an origin. “Well,” he said, “I wonder why the thief discarded the wrapper?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “I can see only one way it might have been done. I can’t prove it, of course, but when you eliminate the impossible—”

  “I’m listening.”

  He enjoys moments like this. “It’s unlikely that the woman could have hidden successfully from the police. They had witnesses who could identify her. What other explanation might there be for the fact that she, too, had gone missing?”

  “She got out the back, somehow.”

  “Well, I suppose the police might have been that sloppy. But—”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me ask you a question: If you were carrying a valuable sculpture around, what kind of wrapping would you use?”

  “Something that would protect it, I suppose.”

  “But would you advertise its presence?”

  “No.”

  “That raises a question: For what purpose would you use a transparent wrapper?”

  I hesitated. “Only to show it off, I suppose.”

  “Very good, Chase. It strikes me that the most feasible explanation is that this woman was never there in the first place. It was someone else, probably a male, wearing a disguise.”

  At times like that, my head starts to spin. “Isn’t it unlikely that she—or he—would have been on board, wearing a disguise, just in case a sculptor left something valuable in a seat?”

  “Yes. I’d say so. Which suggests it would have been a setup.”

  “A setup in what way?”

  “Eddy was still at the beginning of his career.”

  “And—?”

  “A little publicity wouldn’t hurt.”

  I got a good laugh out of that. “I guess you’d know best. But where’d she hide the sculpture?”

  “Chase, I don’t think the Clockwork ever existed.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It was a fable. From the beginning.”

  “But he brought it on the train. There were witnesses.”

  “What they probably saw was something thrown together, probably using corbicide. Or anything else that’s dissoluble in water and can be broken apart fairly easily.”

  At the time, we were sitting on one of the benches at Cuirescu. While I began to see what he was saying, a train glided into the station, kicking up a gust of wind. It settled down onto the rail, and passengers started climbing out. I had to raise my voice, almost shout, to make myself heard. “You’re saying she flushed it down the toilet?”

  “Then he took off the wig. And probably had dinner with Eddy that evening.”

  “What was the payoff?”

  “Oh, Chase. Instead of having a minor piece of sculpture on display at the Vancouver Center, he became the media highlight of the week. It’s the kind of story everyone loves. A potentially valuable piece of art stolen. And before you object, the perception would be that it must be valuable, or it wouldn’t have been taken. And certainly not in such an elegant manner. Add an apparently insoluble mystery. And there are some people who will tell you that Eddy never really lived up to his reputation. But he became famous because of the Clockwork incident. And he had just enough talent to make it pay off.”

  As we started home on the train to Andiquar, his head sank onto the back of the seat, and his eyes closed. “You okay?” I asked.

  “Tired.” He’d been tired a lot lately.

  “You need a vacation.”

  He smiled, but the eyes stayed shut. “Who’d run the business?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m fine, Chase.”

  The sunlight blinked off as we entered a tunnel. Within seconds, we were out the other end. “When are you going to set a date for the auction?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. The artifacts keep going up. But you’re right. We ought to get it moving while we’re still headed in the right direction.”

  He fell quiet again.

  “Is it Robin?” I asked.

  “No. Why would you say that?”

  I shrugged. “Just a thought.”

  “He been on your mind?”

  “A little.” He lapsed into silence again. I watched the forest racing past. “You know what I keep thinking—?” I said.

  “That he might still be alive somewhere? Off in the islands enjoying himself?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Alex shook his head. “Robin was too committed to his work to disappear. No, whatever happened, he didn’t instigate it.”

  “You have any idea at all?”

  “Not a thing. I’ve talked with Shara. Told her about Robin’s being at Sanusar and again at Skydeck when the sightings occurred.”

  “What does she think?”

  “She doesn’t know what to think. But she told me what I guess she told you. Find the notebook.”

  We rocked a bit as we entered a long curve. “I miss Gabe,” I said. “I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”

  He nodded. “Mysterious ships in the night.”

  “I guess.” I sat listening to the air circulating through the cabin. We came out of the woods, intercepted the Melony, and charged along its bank. Alex rearranged himself, trying to get comfortable. The compartment was cramped.

  “I’m getting the feeling,” I said, “we’re going to be heading for Virginia Island.”

  He didn’t respond right away. “I hate even to start,” he said finally. “Robin wasn’t a young guy when it happened. The chances that he’s still alive somewhere—”

  “When do we leave?”

  “It’s going to be a few weeks. I have all kinds of commitments here.”

  “Well,” I said. “Why don’t I go there and get the process started?”

  “What would you do?”

  “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “Sure I do.”

  But he was still waiting for an answer. “I’d do tourist stuff. Wander around a bit. Get to know people. See what I can find out. Somebody there must know something.”

  SEVEN

  A dream that survives becomes myth. And, ultimately, dogma.

  —Tulisofala, Extracts, CLII, iii (translated by Leisha Tanner)

  Virginia Island is located about ten minutes off the coast of Kinesia, four time zones away, on the other side of the equator. It’s fourteen kilometers long, and, at its widest, you could walk across in twenty minutes. It was a hard, bitterly cold night when I left Andiquar, but it was summer on Virginia Island.

  I’d ridden the last leg of the journey on a small shuttle from the mainland, which delivered me to the Windraven, a lodge with more modest accommodations than its name might suggest. It was midafternoon, and the walkways were crowded with tourists. I checked into my room, looked out at a series of low hills that framed my view of the ocean, and called Alex. “I’m here,” I said. “The place is gorgeous.”

  “Good.” He was at his breakfast table. “The flight went okay?”

  “Everything ran on time.”

  “All right. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I expect to.”

  “And, Chase, there’s no pressure, okay? It’s a long time ago, so you’re not likely to come up with anything. Just try to get a sense of how Robin lived, what he was like, how m
uch his fellow citizens knew about him. See if you can find out what he was doing on that last flight. And how long he was gone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t feel you have to get started right away. There’s no big rush.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I think the first thing I’m going to do is head for the beach.”

  “Very good. Umm—”

  “Yes, Alex?”

  “Have you been out to Robin’s place yet?”

  “Alex, I just got here.”

  “Okay. Sure. Look, one thing—”

  “Yes?”

  “Jack Ramsay called last night. He’ll get to you in a day or two for an interview. Be careful what you say to him. We don’t want him to hear anything that gets in the way of the mythology. Right? If somebody knows what really happened, tells you he ran off with a local dancer, sit on it. We want Ramsay to be able to write that the ultimate skeptic—that’s you, by the way—went out there against her will, and now she’s beginning to wonder if there isn’t something to all the stories.”

  “Alex, you know as well as I do that Ramsay isn’t going to buy any of that.”

  “He doesn’t have to buy it. All he wants from you is a story he can use. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  “Whatever else you find, save for me.”