Caleb Carr by Killing Time (html)

Author:Killing Time (html) [Time, Killing]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-10-07T15:51:18.960823+00:00

CHAPTER 29

In the United States of the information age there are many grand houses that were once inhabited by people who brought life into their rooms but that have now fallen into the hands of wealthy international transients who do not so much live in this world as move through it, grabbing at whatever power and pleasure they can. Ari Machen was such a person, and his villa in Bel Air was such a place. Built in the mid-twentieth century by that rarest of Angelenos, a person with genuine style, the house as we approached it that misty night after again being deposited in an out-of-the-way spot by our ship seemed to cry out for habitation by someone who would make it a home, who would plant foliage and install furniture that were expressions of personality rather than of the ability to hire what I'm certain Leon Tarbell would have called "sexless" designers and decorators. Melancholy prevailed over obvious signs of money in every chamber of the place; although, given what we had come to do, such an atmosphere was only too fitting.

Disabling first the heavyset security guards who prowled about the estate and then the place's electronic surveillance system did not even amuse Larissa enough to bring out her predatory smile; or perhaps the importance of the work at hand was too great for even her to view it as sport. With weapons at the ready we swept silently through the house, finally detecting signs of life in the master bedroom upstairs. It is unnecessary to detail herein what exactly was going on in that room; suffice it to say that Machen was afflicted by all of the usual sexual neuroses that so often characterize men whose craving for power and excitement betrays even to the layman an almost fantastic insecurity. The sight of strangely dressed and armed intruders was enough to send Machen's several male and female prostitutes (he likely never would have conceded them to be such, but they had all the earmarks) screaming toward another room, into which Larissa promptly locked them after delivering a stern warning to be silent. Machen, meanwhile, attempted to grab an old Colt .45 automatic from a wall full of vintage weapons but was thwarted by Colonel Slayton, who, it seemed to me, handled the producer in a particularly rough and humiliating manner. When Larissa returned, she and I took up positions by the door and window, keeping watch over the house and grounds as Slayton's interrogation began.

"You don't remember me, do you, Mr. Machen?" Slayton asked after trussing our host up in his bed with some drapery cord.

Machen—a small but athletically built man of about fifty, with deeply tanned skin, thinning hair, and piggish eyes—shook his head nervously while using his feet to try to cover his naked body with a sheet. "Are you CIA?" he managed to get out. "Do you work for the Palestinians?"

"The two most logical choices, given your past exploits," Slayton answered, pulling up a chair and straddling it.

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