That was why I needed to talk to Nim, right away, with no delays. You see, there was no fortune-teller at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I spoke with the manager of the hotel bar for over half an hour to make absolutely sure I had my facts straight. He’d worked there for fifteen years and gave me his assurances repeatedly. There had never been any fortune-teller working at the Fifth Avenue Hotel bar. Not even on New Year’s Eve. The woman who’d known that I was due to arrive there, who’d waited for Harry to call me at the data center, who’d had my fortune all prepared in iambic pentameter, who’d used the same words Solarin would use three months later in warning—the woman who had even, I recalled, known what my birth date was—had simply never existed.
Of course, she had existed. I had three eyewitnesses to prove it. But by now even the testimony of my own eyes was becoming suspect, in my eyes.
So on Monday morning, my hair dripping into my toweling robe, I unearthed my telephone and tried to reach Nim one more time. This time I was in for a surprise.
When I called the number of his answering service, the New York Telephone Company came on the line with a recorded message, telling me the number had been changed to one with a Brooklyn prefix. I dialed the new number, thinking it odd that Nim had switched the location of his service. After all, I was one of only three people in the world who had the honor of knowing the old number. One couldn’t take too many precautions.
The second surprise came when the service picked up.
“Rockaway Greens Hall,” said the woman who answered the phone.
“I’m trying to reach Dr. Nim,” I told her.
“I’m afraid we have no one here by that name,” she said sweetly. This was a pleasant treatment compared with the vicious denials I normally got from Nim’s answering service. But another surprise was yet to come.
“Dr. Nim. Dr. Ladislaus Nim,” I repeated clearly. “This is the number Manhattan information gave me.”
“Is … is that a man’s name?” said the woman with a gasp.
“Yes,” I told her a little impatiently. “May I leave a message? It’s very important that I reach him.”
“Madam,” said the woman, a tone of coldness creeping into her voice. “This is a Carmelite convent! Someone is playing a joke on you!” And she hung up.
I knew Nim was reclusive, but this was absurd. In a fit of fury, I decided I was going to run him to earth for once and all. As I was already late for work, I pulled out my hair dryer and started blowing my hair right in the middle of the living room as I paced about trying to think what to do next. Then I had an idea.
Nim had installed some of the major systems for the New York Stock Exchange some years back. Surely the folks who worked on their computers would know of him. Perhaps he even dropped in from time to time to look at his handiwork. I gave the DP manager there a call.
“Dr. Nim?” he said. “Never heard of him. Are you sure he worked here? I’ve been here three years, but I’ve never heard the name.”
“All right,” I said in complete exasperation, “I’ve had enough of this. I want to speak to the president. What’s his name?”
“The … New … York … Stock … Exchange … does … not … have … a … president!” he informed me with a sneer. Shit.
“Well, what does it have?” I nearly screamed over the phone. “Somebody must run things around there.”
“We have a chairman,” he told me in disgust, and mentioned the fellow’s name.
“Fine, then forward this call to him, please.”
“Okay, lady,” he said. “I guess you think you know what you’re doing.”
I did indeed. The chairman’s secretary was extremely polite, but I knew I was on the right track by the way she fielded my questions.
“Dr. Nim?” she said in a little-old-lady voice. “No … no, I don’t believe I know the name. The chairman is out of the country right now. Could I possibly take a message?”
“That’s fine,” I told her. It was the best I could expect, as I knew from long experience with the man of mystery. “Should you hear from a Dr. Nim, please tell him that Miss Velis is awaiting his call at the Rockaway Greens Convent. And further, that if I do not hear from him by evening, I shall be forced to take the vows.”
I gave the poor confused woman my phone numbers, and we signed off. It would serve Nim right, I thought, if the message fell into the hands of a few scions at the NYSE before it reached his. I’d like to see him explain his way out of that one.
Having accomplished as much as one might with so difficult a task, I pulled on a tomato-colored pantsuit for my day at Con Edison. I fumbled about in the bottom of my closet looking for something to put on my feet, cursing loudly. Carioca had chewed up half the shoes in there and disarranged the rest. I finally found a pair that matched, threw on my coat, and went to breakfast. Like Lily, there were certain things I found hard to face on an empty stomach, and Con Ed was one of them.
La Galette was the local French bistro, half a block from my apartment at the end of Tudor Place. It had checkered tablecloths and pink geraniums in pots. Its back windows overlooked the United Nations building. I ordered freshly squeezed orange juice, black coffee, and a prune Danish.
When my breakfast arrived I opened my briefcase and pulled out some notes I’d taken the prior night before I’d hit the sack. I thought it possible I could make some sense of the chronology of events.
Solarin had a secret formula and had been hauled back to Russia for a while. Fiske had not played tournament chess in fifteen years. Solarin had given me a warning, using the same language as a fortune-teller I’d seen three months earlier. Solarin and Fiske had an altercation during the game and broke for a recess. Lily thought Fiske was cheating. Fiske wound up dead under suspicious circumstances. There were two bullets in Lily’s car, one that was there before we arrived and one that was pumped in while we were standing there. And last, Saul and the fortune-teller had both disappeared.
Nothing seemed to fit, yet there were plenty of clues to indicate everything was somehow related. I knew the random probability of so many coincidences was zero.
I’d finished my first cup of coffee and was halfway through my prune Danish when I saw him. I had been gazing out the big glass windows at the blue-green curve of the United Nations when something caught my eye. A man passed by outside the windows, dressed completely in white, a hooded sweatsuit with a scarf muffling the lower half of his face. He was pushing a bicycle.
I was frozen in my seat, the glass of orange juice halfway to my lips. He started to descend the steep spiral stairs flanked by a stone wall that ran to the square opposite the UN. I put down my glass and jumped to my feet. I threw some money on the table, stuffed my papers back into the briefcase, grabbed the case and coat, and flew out the glass doors.
The stone steps were slippery, coated with ice and rock salt. I tugged my coat over my arm, fumbling with the briefcase as I catapulted down the stairs. The man with the bicycle was disappearing around the corner. As I was yanking my other arm into the sleeve, I caught the tip of my high-heeled shoe on the ice, ripped it loose, and toppled down two steps onto my knees. Above me, a quotation from Isaiah was carved into the stone wall:
They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation. Neither shall they learn war any more.
Fat chance. I pulled myself up, dusting ice from my knees. Isaiah had a lot to learn about men and nations. There hadn’t been a day in over five thousand years that war had not blossomed on our planet. Vietnam protestors were clotting the square already. I had to plow through them as they waved their little dove-footed peace signs at me. I’d like to see them beat a ballistic missile into a plowshare.
I skidded around the corner on my broken heel, bouncing into the side of IBM’s Systems Research Institute. The man was now a full block ahead of me, astride his bicycle and pedaling. He’d reached the crossing to UN Plaza and paused for the light to change.
<
br /> I tore along the pavement, my eyes streaming with cold, still trying to button my coat and close my briefcase as the strong wind hit me. Halfway down the block I saw the traffic light change as he pedaled leisurely across the street. I increased my pace, but the light turned red again just as I reached the crossing, and cars started pouring by. My eyes were glued on the retreating figure across the street.
He was off his bicycle again and was steering it up the steps into the plaza. Trapped! There was no exit from the sculpture garden, so I could calm down. As I did so, and waited for the light to change, I suddenly realized what I was doing.
The day before I’d been near witness to a possible murder and been within a few feet of a flying bullet, all within the public quarters of New York City. Now I was trailing after an unknown man, simply because he looked like the man in my painting, bicycle and all. But how could it be that he precisely resembled my painting? I thought that over and had no answer, but I checked the street both ways when the light changed before stepping off the curb.
Entering the wrought-iron gates of UN Plaza, I walked up the steps. Across the white concrete floor, seated on a stone bench, was an old woman in black feeding the pigeons. A black shawl wrapped around her head, she bent forward, tossing grain to the silvery birds that clustered, cooed, and swirled around her in a great white cloud. And before her stood the man on the bicycle.
I froze and watched them, uncertain what to do. They were speaking to each other. The old woman turned, looked in my direction, and said something to the man. Nodding briefly, but without looking back, he turned with one hand guiding his bicycle and quickly descended the far steps toward the river. I collected my wits and ran after him. A huge explosion of pigeons rose from the terrace, obscuring my view. I headed for the stairs and threw my arm across my face as they wheeled around me.
At the bottom facing the river was a huge bronze peasant donated by the Soviets. He was beating his sword into a plowshare. Before me lay the icy East River, the big Coca-Cola sign of Queens on the opposite bank with fiery furnaces billowing smoke around it. To the left lay the garden, its broad tree-lined lawn blanketed with snow. Not a footprint disturbed its smooth surface. Along the river ran a gravel path, separated from the garden by a row of smaller sculptured trees. There was no one there.
Where had he gone? There was no exit from the garden. I doubled back slowly and went up the steps to the plaza. The old woman had also disappeared, but I glimpsed a shadowy figure going into the visitors’ entrance. Outside on the bicycle rack was his bicycle. How could he have come past me? I wondered as I hurried inside. The floor was deserted except for a guard who was standing, chatting up a young receptionist at the oval reception desk.
“Excuse me,” I said, “has a man in a white sweatsuit come in here just now?”
“Didn’t notice,” said the guard, annoyed by the interruption.
“Where would you go in here if you wanted to hide from someone?” I asked. That got their attention. They both studied me as if I were a potential anarchist. I hastened to explain, “I mean, if you wanted to be alone, to have some privacy?”
“The delegates go to the Meditation Room,” said the guard. “It’s very quiet. It’s just over there.” He motioned to a door across the wide marble floor, checkered pink and gray in chessboard squares. Beside the door was a blue-green stained-glass window by Chagall. I nodded my thanks and crossed the floor. When I entered the Meditation Room, the door closed soundlessly behind me.
It was a long, darkened room resembling a crypt. Near the doors were several rows of small benches, one of which I nearly tripped over in the gloom. At the center was a coffin-shaped slab of stone illuminated by a pencil-thin spotlight that spread across its surface. The room was completely silent, cool, and damp. I felt my pupils expanding as I adjusted to the light.
I sat on one of the little benches. The straw squeaked. Setting my briefcase beside the bench, I looked at the stone slab. Suspended in midair like a monolith floating in open space, it quavered mysteriously. It had a tranquilizing effect, almost hypnotic.
When the door behind me opened soundlessly, letting in a small stream of light and closing again, I started to turn as in slow motion.
“Do not cry out,” a voice whispered behind me. “I shall not harm you, but you must be silent.”
My heart pounded against my ribs as I recognized the voice. I leaped at once to my feet and spun about, my back to the slab.
There in the dim light stood Solarin, his green eyes mirroring twin luminous images of the stone slab. I’d jumped to my feet so suddenly, the blood had drained from my brain. I put my hands behind me and leaned against the slab for support. Solarin stood facing me calmly. Still dressed in the slim gray trousers he’d been wearing the day before, he was now wearing a dark leather jacket that made his skin seem paler than I’d remembered.
“Sit down,” he said in a low voice. “Here beside me. I have only a moment.”
My legs weak, I did as he asked. I said nothing.
“I tried to warn you yesterday, but you would not listen. Now you know I was telling the truth. You and Lily Rad will stay away from this tournament. If you do not wish to end as Fiske has.”
“You don’t believe he committed suicide,” I whispered back.
“Don’t be a fool. His neck was broken by an expert. I was the last to see him alive. He was quite healthy. Two minutes later, he was dead. And articles were missing—”
“Unless you killed him,” I interrupted. Solarin smiled. His smile was so absolutely dazzling, it completely transformed his face. He leaned toward me and placed both hands on my shoulders. I felt a kind of warm glow passing through his fingers.
“I’m at great risk if we are seen together, so please listen to what I have to say. I didn’t put those bullets in your friend’s car. But the disappearance of her chauffeur was no accident.”
I looked at him in amazement. Lily and I had agreed to tell no one. How had Solarin known unless he’d done it?
“Do you know what happened to Saul? Do you know who did fire the gun?”
Solarin looked at me and said nothing. His hands were still resting on my shoulders. Now they tightened as he gave me his warm, beautiful smile again. He looked like a young boy when he smiled.
“They were right about you,” he said quietly. “You are the one.”
“Who was right? You know things you aren’t telling me,” I said irritably. “You warn me, but you don’t tell me why. Do you know the fortune-teller?”
Solarin pulled his hands abruptly from my shoulders and slapped on the mask again. I realized I was pushing my luck, but I couldn’t stop now.
“You do know,” I said. “And who was that man on the bicycle? You must have seen him if you were following me! Why do you follow me around giving me warnings, but keep me completely in the dark? What do you want? What does all of this have to do with me?” I stopped to catch my breath and glared at Solarin. He was watching me closely.
“I don’t know how much to tell you,” he said. His voice was very soft, and for the first time I could hear the trace of a distinct Slavic accent beneath his formal, clipped pronunciation of English. “Anything I tell you may only place you in further jeopardy. I must ask you only to believe me, for I have risked a great deal just to speak with you.”
Much to my surprise, he reached out and touched my hair gently as if I were a small child. “You must stay away from that chess tournament. Trust no one. You have powerful friends on your side, but you don’t understand what game you are playing.…”
“What side?” I said. “I’m not playing any game.”
“Yes, you are,” he replied, looking down at me with an infinitely tender expression as if he wanted to wrap his arms around me. “You are playing a game of chess. But don’t worry. I am a master of this game. And I am on your side.”
He stood up and moved toward the door. I followed him in a daze. As we reached the door Solarin flattened his back against the
wall and listened as if he expected someone to come bursting in. Then he looked back at me as I stood there, still confused.
He placed one hand inside his jacket and motioned with his head for me to go out first. I caught the glimpse of a gun that he was holding inside his jacket. I swallowed hard and passed quickly through the door, not looking back.
Bright winter light flooded through the glass walls of the lobby. I walked quickly to the exit. Wrapping my coat around me, I crossed the broad icy plaza and hurried down the steps to East River Drive.
I was halfway down the street, braced against the bitter wind, when I skidded to a halt before the gates of the delegates’ entrance. I had left my briefcase beside the bench in the Meditation Room. It contained not only my library books, but my notes from the prior day’s events.
Marvelous. It would be just my luck to have Solarin find those papers and believe I was investigating his past in far more detail than he’d suspected. Which of course was precisely what I planned to do. I cursed myself for a fool, turned on my broken heel, and went marching back to the UN Plaza.
I entered the lobby. The receptionist was busily engaged with a visitor. The guard was nowhere in sight. I assured myself that my fear of returning to the room alone was ridiculous. The entire lobby was empty—I could see all the way up the spiral staircase. There was no one about.
Walking boldly across the lobby, I glanced over my shoulder as I reached the Chagall window. I pulled open the door of the room and looked inside.
It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the light, but even from where I stood I could see that things were not as I’d left them. Solarin was gone. So was my briefcase. And lying face upward on the stone slab was a body. I stood there at the door, ill with fear. The long, outstretched body on the slab was dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform. My blood turned to ice. There was a pounding in my ears. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room and let the door swing shut behind me.