Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

I push the plate of Mrs. Beasley’s cookies closer to him, without any real hope that they will have their intended medicinal effect.

Naomi says, “Mr. Bean, I want to make one thing abundantly clear. My questions are intended to reveal what may be crucial clues as to what, exactly, has been GSG’s involvement in the case of Professor Keener. In no way are you to be held responsible for anything that may have been revealed under duress. Your task, penetrating through company security, is by its very nature dangerous. You were in peril from the moment you agreed to enter QuantaGate. You knew the danger and yet you persisted, which demonstrates great courage on your part. Particularly after we all learned what had been done to Randall Shane. Clearly, these were professional interrogators using proven techniques. In my book you were a hero the minute you entered the door. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Bean?”

“Sure. You’re trying to make me feel better. I appreciate it.”

“I hope you come to accept that it is we who appreciate you . Now I’m afraid we have to get back to this business, however painful it may be to relive the experience, because a little boy is still out there and I’m very much afraid that our time may be slipping away. So, how exactly did they react when you mentioned Joey?”

“They were surprised.”

“Surprised?”

“Or they did a really good job of acting surprised. I remember being surprised myself, because I assumed that if they had been investigating Professor Keener they had to know about his son.”

“Think back, Mr. Bean. Was the boy’s existence a surprise to them, or was it our involvement in his recovery?”

Milton puts a hand to his forehead, closes his eyes. “I don’t know. That’s my honest reaction. All I know is, once I mentioned Joey they stopped asking questions for a little while and conferred among themselves. Something had changed and the next question they asked was about you.”

“About me?”

“‘True or false, Naomi Nantz is acting on behalf of agents of the Chinese government.’ I said ‘false,’ and their reaction was to wheel out the gurney and tell me they were ‘going chemical,’ because they didn’t believe a thing I’d told them. That’s when Jack broke me out of there. He’s the real hero.”

And with that, Milton Bean nibbles at his sugar cookie, stares at the floor and begins weeping silently.

We find Randall Shane sitting up in a comfortable armchair, looking perky and alert. His eyes are clear. He’s clean-shaven, which makes him look younger and thinner, although the thinness may be the result of actual weight loss. He’s been given a VIP room, obviously, complete with a small fireplace and a lovely view of the Charles, but the food still comes from the hospital kitchens and according to his doctor he hasn’t developed much of an appetite.

“If you can persuade him to eat, that would be great,” Dr. Gallagher had told us over the phone. “He’s a big guy, he needs his calories, especially when the body is healing.”

As a consequence Naomi arrives bearing a Tupperware container from Mrs. Beasley’s kitchen.

“We heard you lost your appetite” are her first words to the patient.

He shrugs. “Not a big deal. I have weight to spare.”

“Not that much, from the look of you,” Naomi says, popping the container into a small microwave. “First you’ll do me the favor of trying Mrs. Beasley’s macaroni and cheese, and then we’ll sweep the room for bugs and have a conversation.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“That’s why I brought this particular dish. It has been known to stimulate an interest in food.”

Naomi carefully dishes a portion into a white crockery bowl, supplies it with a fork and hands it to the reluctant patient. Shane places it on the table beside him but makes no move to eat. Naomi, persisting, removes a small shaker of salt from her purse. “Sea salt,” she announces briskly. “It makes a difference. I checked your chart, you have no prohibition against salt.”

“Really, Miss Nantz,” he says, looking annoyed.

“Call me Naomi or Nantz, but never Miss Nantz.”

“Okay, Nantz. Thanks for the food. Maybe I’ll try it later.”

“By then it will be cold and it won’t reheat well for a second time. Let me describe the contents, which are exceedingly simple but nevertheless not like any similar dish you may have had in the past. Certainly not like whatever glop the hospital, or indeed most restaurants, calls macaroni and cheese.”

“Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done, really I do, but-”

“No buts. Allow me to finish,” Naomi says, overriding his protest. “Mrs. Beasley first makes fresh pasta according to her own recipe, in this case rotini in shape, and boils it to a precise state of al dente. The steaming pasta is then transferred to a casserole pan. Over the pasta she grates a precise quantity of truly exceptional aged cheddar, sharp but not too sharp. On the top, a crust of toasted bread crumbs moistened with drawn butter. The dish is then baked for thirty minutes at three hundred and fifty degrees so that the cheese melts and achieves a kind of magical balance with the pasta. As a last touch the casserole is taken from the oven and the bread-crumb crust is browned with a hand torch and lightly sprinkled with select parmigiano. The result is simple, nutritious, delicious and easy to digest. I dare you to take one bite and prove me wrong.”

Shane grimaces. “You don’t give up, do you, Nantz?”

“Never. Be glad of it.”

He sighs and reluctantly lifts a small forkful to his mouth. His pale blue eyes brighten. Without saying another word he adds a few shakes of sea salt and empties the bowl in about three minutes. He then heaves a sigh and says, “Oh my God. Who is Mrs. Beasley?”

“A woman of many mysteries. Shall I dish out another portion?”

“No, I’m good. You’re right, it was delicious. Familiar but at the same time not like anything I’ve ever tasted before. Wait, wait. Changed my mind. Yes, please,” he says, handing her the bowl.

In the end he empties the Tupperware. I’m not one of those women who derive any particular satisfaction from watching a man eat, but there’s something about Randall Shane that makes me want to pay attention to whatever he happens to be doing at the moment. Not my type, not my type at all, but still. Interesting is how I’d put it. Like watching a pacing tiger is interesting. Makes you feel sorry for the cage, if he ever wants to escape.

When he’s done Shane pushes himself back in the armchair and flexes the ankle that has the plastic monitoring device attached. “We need to talk about Kathy Mancero,” he says.

Naomi stops him. “Not quite yet. Sweep first.”

She steps out of the room and returns with Dane Porter and a gentleman, a consulting expert who shall not be named or described in this narrative, per his explicit request. Suffice to say that he’s the same gentleman who designed and implemented the electronic-surveillance shielding system at the residence, and checking a hospital room for bugs is something he could do in his sleep. The process takes about fifteen minutes, wanding his detector over every square inch of the room, and in the end he pronounces the place bug free.

“Excellent,” Naomi replies.

“That being said,” the expert continues, “my concern is the windows. Glass transmits sound vibrations, which can be detected from a considerable distance by a laser microphone. Before leaving I’m going to place a small, battery-operated device on the windowsill that generates random masking vibrations, but even so I suggest you keep the conversation as quiet as possible and be sure to face the wall, not the windows. Any questions?”