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What's your game? I asked. I mean really. What's your passion It can't be the money. What's the money for What will you buy with it Experiences you haven't had?
Yes, I would say that's it. Experiences I haven't had. I'm obviously a sensualist, for want of a better word, but if you must know the truth-and I don't see why there should be any lies between us-I'm a thief in every respect. I don't enjoy something unless I bargain for it, trick someone out of it, or steal it. It's my way of making something out of nothing, you might say, which makes me like God!
He stopped as if he were so impressed with what he had just said that he had to catch his breath. His eyes were dancing, and then he looked down at the half-empty coffee cup and gave a long secretive private smile.
You do follow my drift, don't you? he asked. I stole these clothes, he said. Everything in my house in Georgetown is stolen-every piece of furniture, every painting, every little object d'art. Even the house itself is stolen, or shall we say, it was signed over to me amid a morass of false impressions and false hopes. I believe they call it swindling All the same thing. He smiled proudly again, and with such seeming depth of feeling that I was amazed. All the money I possess is stolen. So is the car I drive in Georgetown. So are the airline tickets I used to chase you around the world.
I didn't respond. How strange he was, I thought, intrigued by him and yet still repelled by him, for all his graciousness and seeming honesty. It was an act, but what a nearly perfect act. And then the bewitching face, which seemed with every new revelation to be more mobile and expressive and pliant. I roused myself. There was more I had to know.
How did you accomplish that, following me about How did you know where I was?
Two ways, to be perfectly frank with you. The first is obvious. I can leave my body for short periods, and during those periods I can search for you over vast distances. But I don't like that sort of bodiless travel at all. And of course you are not easy to find. You cloak yourself for long periods; then you blaze away in careless visibility; and of course you move about with no discernible pattern. Often by the time I'd located you, and brought my body to the location, you were gone.
Then there's another way, almost as magical-computer systems. You use many aliases. I've been able to discover four of them. I'm often not quick enough to catch up with you through the computer. But I can study your tracks. And when you double back again, I know where to close in.
I said nothing, merely marveling again at how much he was enjoying all of this.
I like your taste in cities, he said. I like your taste in hotels-the Hassler in Rome, the Ritz in Paris, the Stanhope in New York. And of course the Park Central in Miami, lovely little hotel. Oh, don't get so suspicious. There's nothing to chasing people through computer systems. There's nothing to bribing clerks to show you a credit card receipt, or bullying bank employees to reveal things they've been told not to reveal. Tricks usually handle it perfectly well. You don't have to be a preternatural killer to do it. No, not at all.
You steal through the computer systems?
When I can, he said with a little twist to his mouth. I steal in any fashion. Nothing's beneath my dignity. But I'm not capable of stealing ten million dollars through any means. If I were, I wouldn't be here, now, would I I'm not that clever. I've been caught twice. I've been in prison. That's where I perfected the means of traveling out of body, since there wasn't any other way. He made a weary bitter sarcastic smile.
Why are you telling me all this?
Because your friend David Talbot is going to tell you. And because I think we should understand each other. I'm weary of taking risks. This is the big score, your body-and ten million dollars when I give it up.
What is it with you? I asked. This all sounds so petty, so mundane.
Ten million is mundane?
Yes. You've swapped an old body for a new one. You're young again! And the next step, if I consent, will be my body, my powers. But it's the money that matters to you. It's really just the money and nothing else.
It's both! he said sourly and defiantly. They're very similar. With conscious effort he regained his composure. You don't realize it because you acquired your wealth and your power simultaneously, he said. Immortality and a great casket full of gold and jewels. Wasn't that the story You walked out of Magnus's tower an immortal with a king's ransom. Or is the story a lie You're real enough, that's plain.
But I don't know about all those things you wrote. But you ought to understand what I'm saying. You're a thief yourself.
I felt an immediate flush of anger. Suddenly he was more consummately distasteful than he'd been in that anxious jittering state when we first sat down.
I'm not a thief, I said quietly.
Yes, you are, he answered with amazing sympathy. You always steal from your victims. You know you do.
No, I never do unless. . . I have to.
Have it your way. I think you're a thief. He leant forward, eyes glittering again, as the soothing measured words continued: You steal the blood you drink, you can't argue with that.
What actually happened with you and the Talamasca? I asked.
I told you, he said. The Talamasca threw me out. I was accused of using my gifts to gain information for personal use. I was accused of deception. And of stealing, of course. They were very foolish and shortsighted, your friends in the Talamasca. They underestimated me completely. They should have valued me. They should have studied me. They should have begged me to teach them the things I know.
Instead they gave me the boot. Six months' severance. A pittance. And they refused my last request for first-class passage to America on the Queen Elizabeth 2. It would have been so simple for them to grant my wish. They owed me that much, after the things I'd revealed to them. They should have done it. He sighed, and glanced at me, and then at his coffee. Little things like that matter in this world. They matter very much.
I didn't reply. I looked down at the picture again, at the figure on the deck of the ship, but I'm not sure he took notice of it. He was staring off into the noisy glare of the cafe, eyes dancing over walls and ceiling and occasional tourists and taking note of none.
I tried to bargain with them, he said, voice soft and measured as before. If they wanted a few items returned or a few questions answered-you know. But they wouldn't hear of it, not them! And money means nothing to them, no more than it means to you. They were too mean-spirited to even consider it. They gave me a tourist-class plane ticket, and a check for six months' pay. Six months' pay! Oh, I am so very weary of all the little ups and downs!
What made you think you could outwit them?
