"Why were you really in my apartment?"
Bliss's head tilted to the left. Considering Finch. "Checking you out. Seeing how you checked out. I found a lot of familiar books on those shelves. Familiar to me, at least. A curious lack of photographs. That's what really gave you away."
"Me catching you wasn't part of the plan."
"No. I'll never tell you."
"So what do you think you found out?"
A bit of the old facile cleverness shone in his eyes. "Familiar books. No photos. I told her, `He's changed his look. Shaved the beard. The hair is lighter. He's older, but still him. James. The son John helped hide."
"How did you know my father?"
Bliss sidestepped the question. "Your father knew how to keep a secret. I always admired that about him. He had his head on straight. He knew what was important. And what wasn't. I think you do, too. Your father would have agreed to this mission without a second thought."
"My father is dead," Finch said through gritted teeth. Put down his whisky. Bliss knowing didn't shock him. It was the rest. "You still haven't answered my question."
"I trusted your father," Bliss said. "And he trusted me. If that wasn't the case, I'd have suggested one of the others. Blakely. Maybe even Wyte. But your boss did make you the lead on the case. Much easier for you to get in there."
"Dar Sardice," Finch said. Didn't know if he pursued it because he really believed it was important.
Bliss nodded. Didn't seem surprised. "I met your father while using that name. Out in the desert. It was a complicated time. Many conflicting allegiances." Seemed ready to say more. Stopped himself. Head tilted down. Eyes still on Finch. "But I'm telling tales when we don't have much time. You need to focus on the present."
He carefully laid the cigar on the edge of the table. Kept his other hand on the gun. Pulled something out of a pocket on the inside of his jacket. Put it down on the table. On Finch's side.
A piece of metal, about ten inches long. Segmented, it looked like it folded out into something larger. Like one of the surveyor rulers his father had always carried with him. Except it was made of a strange alloy, the color deep blue, almost gray. With the rainbow hues when the light caught it that meant it was very old. Odd symbols had been etched into every inch of it. None of them familiar. They didn't even look like what he'd seen of gray cap writing. The metal seemed heavy, substantial. But Bliss had lifted it from his pocket like it weighed nothing at all.
Finch said, "What is that? It doesn't look like something made by us. Or by the gray caps."
"It's not."
"Oh." Again, the world opened up. Became larger, wider, deeper, than before.
Let it flow over and through you or you'll be lost.
"Now give me the memory bulb the Photographer gave you," Bliss said.
"Why?" Sarcastically: "How am I supposed to kill myself without it?"
"Just do it. Trust me." In a pinched, irritable tone. Like Finch should know what was good for him.
Finch placed the pouch on the table.
From his pocket, Bliss took out a small glass vial with a blue crystal stopper. "Watch and learn," he said, finishing his whisky. Puffing furiously on his cigar.
He retrieved the memory bulb from the pouch. Broke it into pieces in his whisky glass. Filling it to the top with a hill of colored dirt. Puffed on the cigar again. Blew away the ash column until there was just the blazing tapered tip.
"They call that a dog's dick," Bliss said, laughing.
"Here we call it the Kalif's cock," Finch said.
Bliss stopped laughing. Applied the tip to the memory bulb dust. "Yes, well, they call this . . . well, they don't call this anything because your normal sort of person on the street never does this ..."
The dust began to smoke, then liquefy. In a minute or so, the whisky glass was filled with a pale blue liquid. Bliss carefully shepherded it into the vial. Stoppered it. Put it on Finch's side of the table. Hard to think of backing out faced with something so specific. A procedure so matter-of-fact.
"In this form, it has a completely different effect," Bliss said. "You'll prop Shriek up when you get into the apartment and pour it down his throat, making sure he doesn't choke. He won't have a gag reflex, of course. It will complete the process of regeneration, taking maybe a minute."
Complete the process of regeneration. Shriek awake. An image of everything happening in reverse. Of corpses getting up, walking backward to wherever they'd come from. Unliving their lives. Becoming children. Forgetting how to walk. Returning and returning and returning until they were gone. Never seeing Shriek or the dead gray cap. Never having to kill anyone, for any reason.
"What then?" Finch asked.
"You will give him the piece of metal. He'll know what to do. Afterward, he'll leave it behind and you will take the piece of metal with you. And I will come to get it from you.
"Just know that in all of this you must be fast. You won't have much time. You'll get in because you work for them. And that still means something. For a day or two, at least. They've had distractions thrown at them all day. Dividing their attention. But you can't count on that. We don't have eyes or ears inside of that apartment complex. Too risky. They'd find their way back to the Lady."
"And what do I do then? Confess all? Throw myself on the mercy of the gray caps?"
Bliss shrugged. "If you have to, give yourself up, yes. If all goes well, you won't have long to wait. We'll be watching. But there's always that risk."
Up close, what appeared immaculate about Bliss was actually shopworn, threadbare. His pants. His shoes. A button missing on the jacket. Was it noble or sad that he was still out in the field, running games, networks, schemes?
"Who are you, really?" Finch asked.
The old eyes stared out from the well-preserved face. "Any spy worthy of the name would figure that out. Any spy. For anyone."
Bliss came around the table, too fast for Finch to warn him off. Then stood there looking at Finch.
"Sometimes you have to take a leap into the unknown, John. Sometimes you just have to trust that, plan or no plan, you have limited control over the situation. Now, it's almost dusk. Leave when it's dark. Take the route you think gives you the most cover. That means people, Finch. Lots of confused, frightened people. Not back alleys. They can see a lone man. A crowd's more difficult, even for them. But stay away from Partial checkpoints. They're on edge, and that means they're more dangerous and less predictable. Even with your badge."