Hatch

Chapter 6 of the science fiction crime thriller Freak

Freak

Chapter Six

Hatch

Sandwiched between marshals, Vilenov was squeezed through the doors, bullied past the metal detector, and hauled down a long hallway stuffed to the gills with officers of the court, with private and municipal security, with countless newspersons thrusting cameras and microphones every which way. A narrow corridor bisected the crowd. Vilenov’s progress was peristaltic, his body bruised up and down by the very officers assigned to protect him. Heads of the curious popped in and out of the corridor as he approached, popped in and out as he passed. He walked with a limp and a wince, the injured temple protected by his raised shoulder.

One of six assigned bailiffs held open the courtroom’s doors. Three men in suits backed off spectators. Vilenov was stuffed into a brightly lit arena no less congested than the hallway. There were no camera stations up front; his bleak scaffold contained only the judge’s bench and the witness stand, the attorneys’ tables, a pair of high easels with blank boards, a folding table bearing computer and monitors, and an openly curious stenographer. A bailiff taped up two pre-measured cardboard squares, blocking those eager faces pressing the glass. He stood with his back against the doors, his hands clasped behind him. Lawrence Abram helped escort his client through the gate, but when he took his elbow Vilenov immediately yanked it away. “Touch me again and I’ll bite your nose off.”

“This is the point,” Abram whispered, “where we drop all that.” Only the black shades made it possible to view Vilenov directly. “If you want to be treated like a grown man you’ll have to behave like one.”

“Forgive me, counsel, but now is not a real good time to exercise your famous rhetorical bullshit.”

“Then fire me! You’re entitled to be your own defense. Free me and let me go back to the real world. Let me out of this nightmare.”

“Not a chance, m**********r. Not after all the cash you’ve glommed from me. You’re gonna start earning it, right now!” This little outburst was torture to his temple. Vilenov lowered and wagged his head. In a minute he said quietly, “I’ll have my say down the line, don’t you worry, but it’ll be after you’ve done your job. If you get me out of this jam I might be willing to let bygones be bygones. But if you don’t...God help you.” He slumped into a folding chair.

The prosecution’s table seated two men and a woman, their minds apparently elsewhere. Icy lead prosecutor Baker was flanked by Manwell and Simms, both dead-serious deputy district attorneys. But right now all were rocking in their chairs and joking, infected by the hubbub. Vilenov jangled his chains and the rocking ceased. Three cold faces turned as one.

“Abram!” Sweat was seeping from Vilenov’s sideburns. “I want these shades off!”

“You’ll have to wait. I’ll need to address his honor.”

“Then address him well.” He leaned back his hammering head. The pain was slow in passing, and when at last he heard a bailiff order everyone to rise he was too far gone to comply.

Abram looked down. “I suggest you not irritate the court, Mr. Vilenov. Insolence never plays well.”

Vilenov carefully rolled his head and stared out of one eye. He had to admit that Abram cut an impressive figure. The man’s expression was at once serious, amicable, studious, and game. Immaculately tailored and groomed, scrubbed almost pink. “The court, Mr. Abram,” Vilenov said weakly, “will just have to deal with it.”

Orin Hatch, glancing coolly at the defense table, moved briskly to the bench, scooping scattered notes into a corner pile as he went. Vilenov sat upright, growling like a prodded animal. He quickly sized the passing man, the overhead fluorescents painting long swiveling white embers on his black glasses: early sixties, bespectacled, ruddy. Way overweight, wearing his jet robes like a muumuu. Thin white hair, military cut. Okay, dickhead, thought Vilenov. Come on. Talk to me.

Hatch seated himself with genuine command and deliberation, looking over the spectators as if they were children in an auditorium.

“Be seated,” said the bench bailiff.

Hatch tapped a few keys on his laptop. “In the matter of Nicolas Vilenov,” he said, looking at the screen, “this proceeding will move forthrightly and with dignity. The bench will not tolerate outbursts from the audience.” He peered over his spectacles. “This is the only warning you will receive. I frankly do not appreciate circuses, and deeply respect the solemnity of a courtroom. Any courtroom. So please observe this admonition. Sit quietly and respectfully.”

Vilenov rattled his chains.

The judge’s head jerked a notch, as though he’d just dealt with a crick. His voice, deadly-quiet, still penetrated the room’s every hollow. “Anyone frustrating this proceeding will be ordered removed.”

Abram rose immediately. “Your honor, my client has expressed an urgent desire to be relieved of his very dark sunglasses, so that he may observe with clarity the state’s evidence. He is completely restricted in his movements by what I can only describe as a superabundance of physical restraints. I see no reason he should also be visually impaired.”

“He can’t see what’s going on around him?”

“These are the same dark glasses the blind employ, your honor. They are not designed for observation.”

Hatch gestured impatiently with his fingers. A bailiff unsnapped the harness, peeled off Vilenov’s shades, and handed them up. Hatch lifted the lenses and peered through. When he tilted the device for comparison’s sake he found himself looking directly into the pale gray pools of Vilenov’s eyes.

Hatch couldn’t shake the stare. For a long time he appeared to be deliberating. Finally he said, “The court finds no reason for the defendant to be thus encumbered.” He handed the dark glasses back to the bailiff.

Simms rose with an objection, but a hard look from the prisoner sat him right back down. Vilenov then turned slowly in his chair, his eyes drawing every face. The spectators’ expressions quickly became slack, their eyes dull. Following the sweep of his gaze, their heads began to wobble like the heads of floating corpses. When Vilenov turned back, his chin was on his chest and his temple was throbbing. He squeezed shut his eyes and let himself drift, subconsciously aware of a long, monotonous procession of court proceedings, of technical jargon flying about amid sputtering keystrokes and tramping feet. He must have dozed. When he raised his head again, Vincent Beasely was being escorted from the stand. Something far profounder than straightforward hatred contorted Beasely’s expression as he was led by. His eyes were bugged and raving, his lips writhing, the muscles of his jaw working overtime. His face came at Vilenov like a snake. Vilenov, so startled he didn’t have a chance to lock eyes, could only snap back his head. Knowing and sharing Beasely’s abhorrence, the escorting officer nevertheless restrained him with a quick bending-back of the thumb. It was done with great professionalism. Clenching his teeth all the way, Beasely was thrust up the aisle and out the broad double doors.

“Your honor,” Abram offered in the disturbance’s wake, “officer Beasely’s testimony concerning the raid at Ms. Purly’s residence contrasts dramatically with the memories of his fellow crime scene officers. Without going so far as to color his sworn statement perjurious, I will say that it mirrors only the testimony of the state’s surveillance specialists positioned in the apartment above. It seems pretty obvious that Beasely’s present recollection is inspired by a viewing of this bizarre tape at some time subsequent to my client’s arrest. As this tape is fundamentally inadmissible, I would move that Beasely’s testimony also be ruled inadmissible.”

Vilenov exchanged glances with the judge. Hatch squirmed a bit, scrunched his head into his shoulders, and said testily, “So ruled.”

From then on Vilenov’s impressions were increasingly fleeting and disjointed. He would sink into the brief bliss of abyss, only to be jolted by a phrase or name of particular significance. A few minutes of droning testimony, followed by a dream of cool, uncrowded places. Time lost all meaning for Vilenov. The parade of witnesses became a gently pulsing blur. Examination and cross-examination were oscillating murmurs. Judge Hatch’s voice, gradually bringing it all to a focus, just as gradually let it all trail away. To Vilenov’s tender senses, a verbal respiration permeated the room: voices swirled around him, sucked at him, bored through his eardrums, collided in his brain. He passed out. When he reopened his eyes his cheeks were wet with tears.

The scene had changed: Abram and Manwell were posed confrontationally between the easels and monitors.

One easel featured a blown-up photo of a legal affidavit bearing type and three signatures, the bottommost signature sprawled awkwardly across the page’s lower half. The other easel supported an enlarged photo of the surveillance equipment used in monitoring Purly’s apartment. Both monitors were active. One showed a graph with spiking lines, the other a broad field of brightly colored spectrographic readings.

The air was heavy as water. Manwell, her face drawn, stood clamping the folding table’s edge with quivering hands. Abram, appearing focused and relaxed, had just turned to speak directly to the audience. The words made no sense to logy Vilenov: “...his polygraph readings demonstrate an inability to corroborate the affidavit’s signing that is so glaring I would move that the affidavit itself be removed as evidence.” He vaguely heard Hatch speak the name ‘Carre’ twice, then heard Abram respond emphatically, “Again, your honor, Carre’s and Beloe’s polygraph examinations manifestly prevent their swearing under oath. They do not recall providing signatures!”

Something made Vilenov focus all his will on the prosecution’s table. The judge looked at Baker, who dully shook his head.

“The evidence,” Hatch said, “is so stricken.”

A brief pang passed quietly. Vilenov managed a smile. All he had to do was stare and concentrate, then just kick back and watch the puppets dance. Abram was performing splendidly; his painted eyes and hinged jaw going through the motions without a hitch, his cufflinks and rings winking arrestingly. Although the prosecution was dead in the water and barely able to converse, Baker pushed himself to his feet. “Your honor, the state would like to call Dr. Bertrand Griffith to the stand. Dr. Griffith is a professor of biology at the University of Southern California. He is also a serologist in the occasional employ of LAPD, working out of Parker Center, and an expert in DNA evidence.”

Hatch, catching himself drifting, jerked up his head and typed in Griffith’s name. Vilenov watched intently as frail old Dr. Griffith, flustered by all the hallway activity, was ushered down the aisle and sworn in. Hatch highlighted the man’s bio, responding to Griffith’s spoken credentials with a succession of weary nods.

“Dr. Griffith,” Baker began, looking down at his notes, “would you please tell the court the results of your DNA comparison tests on those semen samples taken from the residences of Marilyn Purly, Elizabeth Rose, and...” he completed the list of eleven names. “Can these samples be established as having a common source?”

Griffith creaked forward. His voice, even amplified, was as distant as the wind. “All aforesaid samples are undoubtedly from the same source.”

“And, Doctor, isn’t it true that the semen sample procured at the Purly residence was in fact a mixture of this common source semen with saliva demonstrated to be that of Marilyn Purly herself? Speak up, please.”

Vilenov’s eyes narrowed. He looked hard at his attorney.

Abram jumped up, shaking his head like a dog out of water. “Your honor, the testimony of this witness can only lead us all up a blind alley. The affidavit for that sample has been stricken. By extension the sample itself has no evidentiary value in this proceeding.”

“Mr. Abram.” Hatch paused as Vilenov’s eyes pulled at him. With an effort he looked away, found himself, and continued. “A certain sample was tagged and transported to Parker Center, where it was analyzed in conjunction with samples data from the sites of eleven other complainants. The technicians at Parker, as you are aware, are highly competent and thorough in their investigations. The equipment is state of the art.” He rolled his laptop’s mouse and tapped a few keys, calling up the Parker documents. “The court has access to all necessary data for these samples. Now, despite this remarkable gap in the memories of certain individuals at the actual arrest scene, it is quite possible to follow the trail of transporting signatures in reverse, from the lab back to the Purly residence, and to conclude that the sample in question did indeed originate there, without having to incorporate the stricken affidavit. The sample tag was not only signed, it was dated and clocked. Even the odometer readings have been tabulated, and illustrate that a train of transport leading to Purly’s would be consistent within a tenth of a mile. It doesn’t require a Sherlockian leap to deduce that the stated sample is germane to both Ms. Purly and to the scene. Signatures or no. The sample will remain in evidence. Mr. Baker?”

“Thank you, your honor. Dr. Griffith, did the sample in question consist of common source semen mixed with saliva from the late Ms. Purly?”

Vilenov rattled his chains.

Griffith went absolutely pale. Hatch had to twice order him to sip water and clear his throat before the man was able to whisper timidly, “It did.”

“And, Doctor, with all this confusion concerning signatures, conflicting statements, and unreliable eyewitness testimony, how are you able to ascertain that the crime scene saliva is actually Marilyn Purly’s?”

Vilenov thrashed in his seat, sparks leaping in his pale gray irises.

Griffith looked like a man having a heart attack. “Purly,” he gasped into the microphone, “provided detectives a saliva sample prior to the raid on her apartment.”

“So you’re telling the court that the mixture was obtained with foresight; that Purly herself was prepared to acquire an exhibit for the state in this manner?”

“Yes!”

Directly on that blurted word, the table holding computer and monitors collapsed with a double crash that jolted everyone in the room. One monitor rolled halfway across the floor to the gate bailiff’s shoes. Dead silence. Two seconds later the audience erupted with shouts and uncertain laughter. Hatch immediately slammed down his gavel. While the bailiffs and stenographer set the table back up, he ordered a special officer brought in, then summoned both counsel to the bench. The new officer walked directly across the room and stood behind Vilenov. He rested his hands close together on the chair’s back, his fingers just grazing Vilenov’s shoulder blades.

A man of immeasurable ego, Vilenov had deluded himself, from the moment of his arrest to the very conclusion of Griffith’s testimony, that Purly had in fact been set up, that she was his loyal girlfriend to the bloody end. But the doctor’s sworn word was unassailable evidence of her betrayal; it was the final kick to a beaten man’s pride. He closed his knees and arms, embracing himself pathetically. Vilenov shut his eyes so hard tears squeezed between the lids. Half a minute later he sagged.

The whisper in his hair snapped his eyes right back open.

“Good morning, sir. And how are you feeling on this lovely day? No, don’t turn around. I’ve just been assigned to look after you--to make sure, for example, that nobody accidentally puts his hands around your throat and squeezes and squeezes until those ugly eyes of yours pop clean out of your head.”

Vilenov sat perfectly upright.

“So it’s important,” the voice went on, “for you to be just as nice as you can possibly be. It’s important because you’re a very unpopular boy. As a matter of fact, you’re so unpopular there isn’t a man in law enforcement who wouldn’t gladly give his eyes for the opportunity to rip your heart out.” The voice sucked air with a serpentine hiss. “Do you know what a dead pool is, fuckface? A dead pool is a kind of game where friends bet to see which celebrity dies first, and the players get points depending on how old the dead celebrity is, calculating backward from a hundred. Well, we’ve set up our own little pool. The difference is there’s only one celebrity, and the bet is how long you last from the time I lead your doomed a*s out that door.”

Vilenov’s eyes urgently sought the bench, but Hatch was totally caught up with Abram and Baker.

“What I need to know up front,” the judge was saying, “is just how dependent on that computer you two are. I’ve got no qualms about the system’s viability--computers may crash, but they seldom burn. However, it’s arguably a crippled situation. By the time a new system is brought in and verified as up-and-running we can all be well along if we focus on computer-extraneous material.”

Baker said, “Under the circumstances, I think I’ve completed my examination of this witness. The prosecution’s future need for technical support of testimony will exist only when the defense brings into play any technical questions concerning testimony.”

“Fair enough,” Abram said wryly, “and truly a mouthful.” Tarantulas tugged at the hairs on his nape. Suddenly Abram was sweating profusely. “I’m not prepared to...” he stammered, “cross! I’d like...please--a quick word with my client.”

Hatch nodded, an eyebrow arching. He and Baker watched curiously as Abram walked over to Vilenov, pausing halfway to glare at the restraining officer. The man, stolidly returning the look, stepped very stiffly to the gate and stood with legs wide and hands clasped behind his back, staring at the far wall. Hatch fiddled with his computer while Abram and Vilenov sank into a whispering huddle. Abram tore himself away and stepped back to the bench.

“Your honor, my client has voiced a real concern for his safety regarding the officer you’ve assigned. I would ask the court that this man be removed. Mr. Vilenov is more than adequately restrained, and poses no threat to the court or himself.”

“Mr. Abram,” Hatch said levelly, “the officer is necessitated due to your client’s continued hostility to this proceeding. Since I’m certain you’ve had ample opportunity to instruct him on courtroom etiquette, I can only assume his behavior is beyond your control. I’m not going to allow him to manipulate. No more rattling of chains, no more conspicuous fidgeting. No more slumping or leering, no more moaning and groaning. As to the imposition of officer Welle, a thirty-year veteran and trusted personal friend; he is here solely to maintain order. Certainly his manner may seem gruff. He has a job to do; he’s not here to spread a little sunshine. Furthermore, his very presence assures your client’s safety, rather than compromises it.” He drummed his fingertips impatiently. “I don’t want to go into contempt here. Does counsel require extra time to refresh Mr. Vilenov on proper courtroom comportment?”

“No, your honor.”

“Then we’ll proceed.”

Abram returned to his seat. The officer stepped back behind Vilenov’s chair.

“Dr. Griffith, you may step down. Thank you for your contribution. Mr. Baker?”

“Your honor, I would like to call to the stand as state’s witness Dr. Edward Karl Reis.”

At the name Vilenov rose like a sidewinder. A pair of very strong hands put him straight back down.

Abram pressed his palm on Vilenov’s forearm. With his mouth right up against his client’s ear, he hissed, “Like it or not, you’re going to have to control yourself! Maybe you didn’t notice, but I just got chewed out thanks to your misbehavior. I’ve told you a thousand times that the worst thing you can do is get on the judge’s bad side. He’s a human being like anyone else.”

“That’s the one. That’s the son of a b***h who tormented me in every session.”

Abram shrugged angrily. Vilenov’s attitude in full view of the court brought out a snarl of resentment. “Who? Reis? I don’t give a damn if he’s the Devil in drag. And guess what, pal: you’re not exactly Mr. Warm-and-Fuzzy yourself. So just shut up already, and pretend you weren’t born in a storm drain. Okay? Is that too abstruse for you? You’re really screwing me here, and that only redounds to your disfavor. Besides, this isn’t a contest. The man’s here to testify.”

Vilenov’s mouth fell open. His eyes bulged in their sockets. “It is too a contest! And you will tell the judge you want his testimony barred! Now! The prick’s a liar.”

Abram jerked his face away. “I can’t do that! I’m not running this show. Besides, I’d not only be out of order, I’d be out of my mind. So would you please just wait for him to complete his testimony? We’ll have our chance.”

“Get up, you thieving puppet,” Vilenov whispered nastily. “Up, backstabber! Get...up!”

Abram peered at the bench.

Hatch was looking daggers. “What did we just discuss?” He thrust forward a hand, the thumb and forefinger spread an inch. “Counsel, you are this close.”

Staring coldly at Abram, Baker continued, “Your honor, Reis is a psychiatrist and criminal psychologist. He has interviewed the defendant extensively, while simultaneously overseeing a team of specialists incorporating findings into a series of physical and psychical tests in the alpha spectrum alongside psi evalua--”

“Thank you, Mr. Baker.” Hatch was clearly frustrated by the proceedings. “I have Dr. Reis’s credits right here. He is admitted to the stand.”

The bailiff opened the courtroom doors and stepped outside. Half a minute later he reappeared with a severe-looking man in a light gray suit. Reis walked with an odd limp suggesting prosthesis: his progress was slow, and his right foot seemed to tremble an instant before meeting the floor. He looked like a Nazi death camp administrator; an officious workaholic who could write you off pleasantly or spare you with indifference. That said, he was a grimly handsome man, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and iron jaw. Vilenov stared venomously as the doctor limped down the aisle. Reis ignored him completely, steadfastly staring straight ahead. He climbed into the stand with great dignity, and with great dignity was sworn in.

“Dr. Reis,” Hatch said equably, “you are chief investigator over a team of specialists specifically involved in an inquiry into the defendant’s mental processes?”

“This,” Reis lisped, “is a statement of fact.”

Hatch looked from Abram to Baker with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. He turned back to Reis. “Rather than become immersed in a lengthy examination right now, Doctor, I’d like you to present to this court an overview of your sessions with the defendant, and a summary of your conclusions.”

Reis nodded curtly. He moved back from the microphone and cleared his throat, clasped his hands on his lap. Leaning forward, he spoke to the room with the measured monotone of a man talking down a suicide.

“First of all, I want to testify that this was not a compliant subject. He resented and despised me from the outset; extracting information from Mr. Vilenov was like squeezing blood from the proverbial turnip. However, by patiently and persistently addressing his demons, which are by the way all familial, I was eventually able to attain a fairly clear picture of a most extraordinary personality.”

“Go on, Doctor.”

Reis appeared to brighten. “Well, Mr. Vilenov’s story is one of remarkable dysfunction, and though it is rife with Old World superstition, and contains a tiresome defense of patently supernatural events, its consistency and brooding sincerity provide, in my professional opinion, the necessary clue to his bizarre temperament and behavior. His is a capital example of what I like to call premise spin: by genuinely believing in the hocus-pocus that makes up his interpretation of reality, he enables all the impossible events and ludicrous interpretations that support that interpretation to become perfectly credible.”

A harsh report of chains. Before anyone could prevent it, Vilenov was halfway to his feet. “Enough with the ‘hocus-pocus’, man! What did I tell you?”

Hatch sat straight up, slamming down his palms. “Officer! You will restrain the defendant!”

The hands were like pile drivers. That menacing voice behind him said, “Don’t speak until his honor says you can.” Then, in a snarling whisper, “Now shut your f*****g face!”

Hatch was about to ream Abram when he fell into Vilenov’s furious gray eyes. A great sigh broke from his lungs like a death rattle. Exercising tremendous control, he said, “You may proceed, Doctor.”

Looking everywhere but at Vilenov, Reis wriggled his shoulders and took his deepest breath. “Well, the subject appears to have been overwhelmingly influenced by his father, a gothic figure performing in a traveling circus in post-war Eastern Romania. The subject’s senile mother was the better half of his act, and the two made a lucrative living, and eventually a considerable fortune, by buffaloing the superstitious peasantry with magic acts, ectoplasmic inducements, séances, and the like. The woman pretended to move random objects telekinetically--no doubt with the assistance of her trained sons and daughter-while her husband, a man disturbing both in looks and demeanor, made a black, unforgettable show of hypnosis. It was very stark and primitive, and all the more effective for its crudity. Just imagine these two purely theatrical characters exploiting the ancient superstitions of a well-primed audience, lost in some godforsaken field under a cold white moon. Anyway, as I understand it, the defendant’s mother was a sensational magician, but his father was so convincing he could milk whole crowds of their valuables through suggestion alone. That is to say, he could master his subjects’ psyches using only his presence, as though it were a weapon. Fascinating stuff. But he was too egomaniacal for his own--”

“No!” Vilenov lunged to his feet and was immediately seized in a bear hug from behind. Observers gasped in waves as security personnel and bailiffs hurried over. Vilenov stood tall. “No, goddamn you! There wasn’t any magic. This is all bullshit!” He was locked in by six strong hands. “Your honor,” he called out, struggling while trying to hold the judge’s eyes, “this witness is manipulating the facts! I’ve been jerked round and round by this guy. He doesn’t listen!” Vilenov abruptly pressed his pounding temple into his shoulder. “You’re all bulls**t!”

On the penultimate syllable Reis’s hands shot to his chest and his upper body lurched forward. His skull connected with a thunk on the stand’s massive oak rail. The entire audience rose with shouts of rage, fear, and bloodlust.

Hatch hammered his gavel repeatedly. “Officers! You will bring this court to order!” Vilenov was slammed down on his chair. The uniforms quickly intimidated the audience, and in less than a minute the room was contained.

Hatch left to check on a hazy, rapidly blinking Reis. He pulled back an eyelid and studied the doctor’s color, checked his pulse. He excused Reis, and was just resuming the bench, staring angrily at the defense, when Vilenov overcame his pain and threw his whole soul into the judge’s eyes. Hatch seemed to sink into his robes. He motioned back the restraining officer. Vilenov stood and kicked over his chair, then used his cuffed hands to heave the table on its side, producing a flurry of loose papers. The room stopped on a dime. “Permission,” Vilenov hissed in the echoes, “to approach the bench.”

“Step forward.”

He could barely walk in his shackles. A few feet from the bench he lowered his temple to his shoulder and whispered, as much to himself as to Hatch, “Man, I’m about as sick of this crap as I can be.” Vilenov took a minute to control his breathing. “I’ve had my skull cracked open by some illiterate old fool, been betrayed by my baby, diddled by doctors, and screwed by my attorney. Otherwise, Your Wonderfulness, I’d have to say I’ve been treated pretty darned well.” He shook his chains at the doors covering Reis’s exit. “But what bugs me more than anything is having that coat hanger define my existence!” Vilenov rolled his neck. “He’s history now.” He smiled bitterly. “My life’s been a trip, man, a stone trip. And it’s time to lay it down. So you tell everybody to pay real close attention here, and to not make any noise. I’ve got to get this out while the moment’s ripe.”

Hatch inclined his head to the left. Vilenov climbed into the witness box, his restraints causing him to move like an old man. The assigned officer stepped right into the box behind him, positioning himself against the wall at arm’s-length. Every time Vilenov tried to meet the officer’s eyes the man deliberately turned away. Vilenov shrugged. When he was seated comfortably his gaze swept the room.

Spectators reacted with a shuffling of shoes and nervous clearing of throats. The judge leaned forward and froze, using body language to squelch even these minor, normally forgivable noises. Half a minute later he turned back to Vilenov. “All right, sir. You’ve got your chance.”

Vilenov ignored him.

Hatch a-hemmed. “I’m...listening.” Suddenly he felt the onset of a tremendous yawn. He raised a hand, feigning casualness. Once the hand was covering the bottom half of his face he closed his eyes and let the yawn rip.