After Death(28)
The restaurant is around the corner from the street of streets, in this neighborhood where millionaires and billionaires have for decades come to shop for outrageously priced merchandise, which is where they will continue shopping as long as there is both vanity and social order. The former is never in danger of being exhausted, but the latter seems less certain in a country where many of those in the higher echelons of power seem to yearn for anarchy in the style of Batman’s nemesis, the Joker, for anarchy and the brute authoritarianism that will follow. Calaphas heartily approves of this managed descent from democracy to anarchy to soft tyranny.
The tablecloths are of fine cotton so meticulously processed and tailored that they drape like heavy silk, with the soft curves that remind him of thick, powdery snow that has sifted down in the utter absence of wind. The lighting is soft, the shadows sculpted and strategic, the candle glow glittering off polished glassware, stainless-steel flatware, architectural elements leafed in white gold, and the jewelry of dazzling women who believe that ostentation is a virtue.
Calaphas is savoring his first glass of wine and contemplating the appetizers listed on the menu when Julian Grantworth appears and takes a chair at the table, uninvited. Julian is the deputy director of the ISA, currently on this coast because of the catastrophe at Beautification Research. Fortysomething, tall, as lean as a greyhound, with blue eyes and a social-register nose and otherwise the pinched features of one who suffers from chronic constipation, he’s a fortunate son of the Philadelphia Main Line, the product of prep schools and Princeton. If he doesn’t travel to London twice a year and spend two days with a team of tailors on Savile Row, then those tailors come to him each spring and autumn.
Although Julian is Calaphas’s superior, he’s always deferential because he’s afraid of his underling. “I’m sorry to interrupt you at your dinner, Durand, but I’m afraid there’s been a wrinkle in the case.”
“Wrinkle,” Calaphas says, doing his best to pronounce the word in a way that expresses subtle amusement and subtler contempt that will keep Grantworth off balance. The power of Calaphas, a one-man department within the ISA, is a result of his willingness to perform the dirtiest of dirty work while making no effort to protect himself from the legal consequences of his actions. He knows they monitor his phone and internet activities, assess everything he does, to determine if he’s salting away evidence that might implicate them, which he is not. None of the others in the ISA would risk their freedom and privileges with such nonchalance. Some call him—as Julian Grantworth has done, but never to his face—a monstre sans souci, a monster without cares. Calaphas is not only invaluable to the agency, but he has also acquired the status of a foundational myth, as if he were fundamental to the founding of the ISA and will always be the soul of that lethal machine. Lesser men regard him with something like superstitious awe, which is some insurance against anyone attempting to displace him. “What’s the wrinkle?”
At the moment, the nearer tables are not occupied. Grantworth waves off the approaching waiter and speaks quietly. “There was this incident at three thirty this morning.” He consults his wristwatch, probably for no purpose other than to be sure that Calaphas sees it’s a vintage Rolex Daytona worth maybe two hundred thousand. “Fourteen and a half hours ago. Just a couple blocks from here.”
“What incident?”
“One of our friends outside the agency, a man who believes in the New Truth and has connections of enormous value to us, was robbed of half a million in cash.”
“What—he uses a wheelbarrow for a wallet?”
“He’s an attorney, but he’s more than that.”
“Cocaine or fentanyl?”
“Let’s just say he represents various Central American and Chinese interests.”
“Let’s just say.”
“He’s in his office with two associates—”
“At three thirty in the morning.”
“He’s an overachiever. The building is a fortress—electronic locks, concealed doors with steel cores, high-end security system, a secret apartment. The thief waltzes through all that.”
“One guy?”
“He’s not even armed.”
“Three of them, one of him—and he isn’t dead?”
“It’s best you hear the rest from our friend. Carter Woodbine.” Grantworth slides the attorney’s card across the table. “Woodbine is pissed, and he’s calling on his relationship with us to find this thief.”
“As if we’re his personal police force?”
“Like I said, he’s a valuable asset to us.”
“Your asset, not mine. I don’t owe him anything.”
“Woodbine and those he’s aligned with keep the drugs coming across the border in the volume we need. Mass addiction is a key to the social change that the ISA was formed to foment. The chaos and violence caused by a vigorous drug subculture, the dropouts who become mental and unemployable—all of that helps pave the way for the New Truth.” Grantworth taps the business card that Calaphas hasn’t picked up. “He’ll be able to see you in his office at nine o’clock this evening, assuming that works for you.”
“Put someone else on it. What I’m already chasing is bigger than this Woodbine can ever hope to be.”