“What is he, fifteen?” Willis asked.
“I’m twenty-two, actually,” Brooks said. “I just graduated from Yale. I’m an intern.”
When Brooks glanced back for Randa’s support, Randa just sighed and shook his head. This wasn’t going as he’d planned, and even though he knew the senator would have done anything to avoid meeting with him—last time, he’d seen the man hurrying away along a long corridor while his assistant swore blind that he was out of the country at a conference in Canada—he also knew that persistence would pay off. With Brooks acting like some starry-eyed kid on a movie set, they were giving Willis every excuse he needed to have them escorted from the premises.
Still, his naive air seemed to be hitting a chord with Willis’s assistant. She was very pointedly not looking at Brooks, and the kid didn’t seem to realise that this meant all of her attention was on him.
Yeah, he still had plenty to learn.
“Please, Al,” Randa said. “For old times’ sake.”
The senator sighed heavily. True, they had a history, and its weight seemed to rest on his broad shoulders now, just for a moment. Recent history might have been regarded as rocky, but they’d gone to college together, played football in the same team, drank in the same bars, and mixed with the same crowd. It had only been for a year, before Randa’s family moved away to South America and the exotic lure of the Amazon dragged him with them. But it was a year of shared experiences that neither of them could deny, and Randa knew for sure that in private the senator would hold fond memories of those times, just as he did.
He also held memories that carried a share of guilt and shame. Fear too, perhaps. Randa had never mentioned any of those more edgy moments from their past, not once. He hadn’t even hinted at them. Yet Senator Willis knew that they were there, hanging between them like years-ripened fruits waiting to be picked, should the need arise. As it was, the need would only ever arise for Randa. His reputation was low enough, without revelations about drug-taking and decadent parties driving it any lower.
The senator, on the other hand, had plenty to lose.
Old times’ sake was as close as Randa had ever come to referencing the skeletons in the senator’s closet, and the fact that he held the key.
“Jane?” the senator said.
“You really don’t have long,” his assistant said. She flipped a diary page on her desk and scowled at Randa and Brooks. “Really.”
“We’ll be quick,” Randa said, and he was already skirting around the desk and approaching Willis where he stood in his office doorway. Brooks followed. “You’re putting on weight, Al.”
“You too, Bill.”
“It’s called getting old,” Randa said.
“Speak for yourself. I’m sixty this year, but I feel forty.” Willis turned and led the two men into his office, and Brooks closed the door gently behind them.
Randa had been here before, so he knew what to expect. He smiled as he heard Brooks draw in a sharp breath. This was the first senator’s office he’d ever seen, and although he’d probably harboured some idea of what to expect, the truth was as surprising as it had been for Randa the first time he’d stepped foot in one. That had been sixteen years ago, another senator in a different age. The men changed, but it seemed their love of the finer things did not.
The office was almost forty feet square, with a large oak desk placed before two floor-to-ceiling windows, the chair facing into the room so that natural light bathed the desk. It held two phones, several stacks of bound reports, a writing pad, pots of pens, and a small statuette of a diving mermaid that Randa guessed was worth more than he made in a month. Across the office were two sofas set facing each other across a wide, low table. The glass table was strewn with magazines and newspapers, several used coffee cups, ashtrays and a crystal decanter and glasses, the decanter half-full of a deep bronze liquid that Randa knew would be a good single malt. It paid to know what the senator’s tipple was.
Paintings hung on three walls, several more small sculptures sat on wooden pedestals, a large TV was placed before four chairs in one corner, and there was another well-stocked drinks cabinet beside one of the large windows.
Randa remembered just how much Willis liked a drink.
Behind the desk, the senator grabbed a jacket from the back of his high-backed chair and slipped it on.
“I’m already late for a meeting,” he said. “You’ve got five minutes.”
Randa sat in a chair before the desk and gestured for Brooks to do the same. He was still hot from rushing across town, every part of his journey haunted with the fear that they’d not get in to see Willis, he’d have security primed to turn them away, he might really not be here. Now with five minutes, Randa knew he could make it ten if he had to. Sitting and taking a deep breath helped prepare him for what he had to do.
If it came down to it, he was ready to plead.
Willis shrugged himself comfortable, then placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward.
“So, what imaginary monsters are you hunting this time?”
“I appreciate the humour, Al,” Randa said. “Reduces tension. One sec…” He opened his briefcase on his lap and pulled out a cardboard file. Placing this carefully on the desk before him, he also extracted some loose sheets and a few illustrations, shuffled them together, leafed through them and handed one to Brooks.
While Randa took items from his briefcase, Willis packed his own, ready for his imminent departure. Randa noted the sturdiness of the senator’s case, the metal corners, combination locks, and the reinforced handle able to take a pair of handcuffs if the need arose. Al sure had come a long way. For that, Randa was glad. He hoped that by the end of the day, he’d be happier still.
Randa half stood and held out a large photograph to Willis. The senator took it, glanced at it, then fixed his gaze on Randa. One raised eyebrow said, Well?
“This is a satellite photo of an uncharted island in the South Pacific, east of Kiribati,” Randa said. “It has remained unexplored, and virtually unheard of, until now. Rumours of it persist through history, if you know where to look. Spanish explorers called it Isla de Craneo. Skull Island. There are also writings referring to it as ‘the island where God did not finish creation’. It’s notorious for the number of ships and planes that have gone missing in the area.”
“Like the Bermuda Triangle,” Senator Willis said, chuckling.
Brooks shifted in his chair, ready to retort, but Randa grabbed the sheet from his hand and nudged him in the process. Shut up. He knew how to handle Willis, and confronting his sarcasm with anger wasn’t the way. The senator had to believe he was steering this conversation.
“In a way,” Randa said. “But we think it’s much more than that.” He glanced at the photo he’d taken from Brooks, pausing for an instant, as he did every time he looked at this image. He’d seen it hundreds of times before, and would look at it countless times again. Searching for its secrets. Wishing, somehow, that by staring at those blurred lines, the out-of-focus waves and skin and spines, it would become clear to him.
He slid the photo onto the desk and pushed it across to Willis. The senator stopped it with one finger, turned it slightly, and looked. He smiled. He had also seen this image before, and Randa knew very well that his own take was very different.
“The nineteen fifty-four Castle Bravo nuclear tests weren’t tests,” he said. “They were trying to kill something on Bikini. I firmly believe that, and I think you do too, Al. I think you know it.”
Willis glanced up, still smiling. Giving nothing away.