Robert Sawyer - Frameshift

“Tell him a woman from Poland named Maria Dudek suggested I call him. Give him the message now; I’ll hold on.”

“He’s really quite busy, sir, and—”

“Just give him the message. I’m sure he’ll want to take this call.”

“I really can’t—”

“Do it.”

There was quiet for a moment while the secretary mulled this over.

“Just a sec.”

A click as Pierre was put on hold. Three minutes went by.

Another click.

“Abraham Danielson speaking.”

“Hello, Ivan. Maria Dudek sends her regards.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Meet me in one hour at the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re a crazy person—”

“You can talk to me, or I’ll start talking to other people. I understand the Department of Justice has a special office devoted to exposing war criminals.”

Silence for almost thirty seconds. Then: “If we’re going to talk,” said Danielson, “it will be here, on my turf.”

“But—”

“Take it or leave it.”

Pierre looked over at Avi Meyer, who was listening on an extension phone. Avi held up three fingers.

“I’ll be there at three o’clock,” said Pierre. “Make sure your gate guard knows to let me in.”

“Pierre Tardivel,” said Pierre. He was standing in front of the secretary’s desk in the founder’s outer office on the thirty-seventh floor of the forty-story Condor Building. “Here to see Abraham Danielson.”

The secretary was two decades older than Rosalee, the knockout who worked elsewhere on this floor for CEO Craig Bullen. She was clearly startled by Pierre’s dancing limbs and facial tics, but she quickly recovered her composure. “Have a seat, please. Mr. Danielson will be with you in a few moments.”

Pierre understood that he was being put in his place, that Abraham wanted the upper hand psychologically — you don’t sleep with a psychologist every night for three years without picking up a thing or two.

Still, his palms were sweaty. With the aid of his cane, Pierre made his way slowly over to the lobby couch. Several current magazines were on the glass-topped coffee table, including Forbes and Business Week; there was also a copy of the yellow-and-black Condor annual report.

Avi Meyer, four other OSI agents, and two officers from the San Francisco Police Department were parked a short distance away, outside the fence around the Condor property. All of them were crowded into a rented van, huddled over the listening equipment.

After a few minutes, the receptionist’s phone rang. She picked up the handset. “Yes, sir? Right away.” She put the phone down, then looked at Pierre. “Mr. Danielson will see you now.”

Pierre struggled to his feet and made his way slowly into the office. It was smaller than Craig Bullen’s — it had no conference table — but the furnishings were equally opulent, although Danielson’s tastes were ironically more modern than those of the much younger Bullen, running to black leather and chrome, with turquoise and pink accents.

“Mr. Tardivel,” said Abraham Danielson, with no warmth in his thin, accented voice. “Now, what’s all this nonsense?”

“I see you recognized the name Maria Dudek,” said Pierre, slowly taking a seat in front of Danielson’s desk.

“That name meant nothing to me.”

“Then why did you agree to see me?”

“You’re a stockholder; I recognize you from that shameful bit of grandstanding you did at our meeting. Still, I always make time for my stockholders.”

“I’ve been here once before,” said Pierre. “Oh, not to this room, but to this floor. I had a meeting a while ago with Craig Bullen. But I had the wrong person then — the puppet instead of the puppeteer.”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And it’s not just being Ivan Marchenko that I’ve got you on — not that that isn’t bad enough. I know you’re also the leader of the Millennial Reich. You’ve done more than just discriminate against people who have genetic disorders. You’re increasing your bottom line by killing off those who would otherwise represent expensive payouts for you, the single largest stockholder in this company.”

Danielson looked at Pierre, his expression blank. “You’re crazy,” he said at last.

Pierre said nothing. His hands danced.

Danielson spread his arms. “You suffer from Huntington’s chorea, isn’t that right? Huntington’s is a degenerative nervous disorder that has a profound effect on the faculties. Whatever you think you know is doubtless just a product of your disease.”

Pierre frowned. “Is it, now? I’ve been doing a lot of research, looking at unsolved murders in the last few years. A disproportionate number of those who died had genetic disorders, or were waiting for expensive medical treatments. And most of that subset were insured by Condor. And I know you routinely take secret skin-cell samples from new policyholders.

If someone you insured has bad DNA, or applies for an expensive treatment, you have them killed.”

“Come, come, Mr. Tardivel. What you’re proposing is monstrous, and I assure you I am not a monster.”

“No?” said Pierre. “What exactly did you do during World War II?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was a minor Red Army soldier in the Ukraine.”

“Bullshit,” said Pierre. He let the word hang between them for several seconds. “Your real name is Ivan Marchenko. You were trained at Trawniki and then stationed at Treblinka.”

‘“Ivan Marchenko,’” said Danielson, pronouncing each syllable with care. “Again, that’s an unfamiliar name.”

“Is it, now? And I suppose you don’t know the name Ivan Grozny, either.”

“Ivan — Ivan the Terrible that would be, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t he the first czar of Russia?” Danielson’s face was composed.

“Ivan the Terrible was a gas-chamber operator at the Treblinka death camp in Poland where eight hundred and seventy thousand people were killed.”

“That has nothing to do with me.”

“There are eyewitnesses.”

“To events that took place half a century ago? Come now.”

“I can prove both charges against you — the insurance-related murders, and that you are Ivan. The question is, which one do you want to admit to? Do you fancy your chances are better here in a California court, or in Israel in a war-crimes trial?”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Any good defense attorney could make mincemeat of someone with a brain disorder on the witness stand.”

Pierre shrugged. “Well, if my story doesn’t interest you, I’ll take it to the newspapers. I know Barnaby Lincoln at the Chronicle .” He started the slow process of getting out of his chair.

Danielson’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

Pierre lowered himself back down. “Ah, now that’s more like it. What I want, Ivan, is five million dollars — enough to look after my wife and daughter after my Huntington’s disease finally takes me.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“It will buy my silence.”

“If I’m the monster you believe I am, what makes you think you could possibly get away with blackmailing me? If I’ve killed as many people as you say, surely I’d not stop at killing you?” He paused and then looked directly at Pierre. “Or your wife and child.”

For once, Pierre was glad of his chorea; it masked the fact that he was trembling with fear. “I’ve taken precautions. The information is in the hands of people I trust, both here in the States and in Canada — people you will never find. If anything happens to me or my family, they have instructions to make it public.”