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  Andy looked as though he might leap out of his seat at the least disturbance.

  “So Andy, I’ve had a look at this document you prepared–” the senator laid a tanned hand on the inch-thick heap of bound paper.

  “I – I, I mean if there’s anything missing, I can work on it more, senator. Sorry–” Andy breathed anxiously.

  “Oh no,” the senator laughed easily. “I’m sure it’s most thorough, but I do need an executive summary, Andy, so tell me about the LiGa invitation process…”

  “Well, senator, actually, we really don’t know much about the actual invitation process–” Andy shook his head. “I mean, a lot of people make a lot of guesses but there is no hard data, I’m afraid,” he added, looking uncomfortable.

  “Surely you didn’t write –” the senator flipped through the document, “almost two hundred pages telling me we know nothing about the LiGa invitation…”

  “Well…” Andy looked ahead, marshaling his thoughts. “I thought you wanted a memo on the policy implications of the LiGa invitation process–” he fumbled. “I mean, there is a lot we don’t know about the LiGa invitation,” he continued, at the edge of his seat, “but we do know a great deal too–”

  “About the invitation?”

  “Um yes senator… What exactly do you want to know?”

  This boy is clever, he thought. He doesn’t know how to dress, and he has no charisma, but… he is very, very clever… I must be careful. I don’t want him to think I have an invitation. I have to get information without giving away that fact.

  Before he had a chance to formulate a question, Andy had started to speak, explaining that the invitations were always in the same format. Printed on the same type of paper, enclosed in the same black binding, containing exactly the same words. A true LiGa invitation, Andy said, was virtually impossible to replicate. According to Dr. Henry Terra, PhD, of Columbia University, the specific compounds used in the paper and ink, and trace watermarks contributed to the difficulty in forging the document.

  “Thank you, Andy, that’s very good,” the senator interrupted the flow.

  But how can I be certain, wondered the senator, his attention wandering away from Andy’s stream of information, that I have the real thing: an actual LiGa invitation? Perhaps this professor at –which university was it? Perhaps he can examine it for me… I’d rather not let anyone know I have it, though.

  “Thank you, Andy,” the senator repeated, noticing a lull in the young man’s monologue. “That will do.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Andy blushed. “Is there anything else? Would you like me to research anything else?” he leaned forward eagerly.

  As though on cue, the intercom announced that Mrs. Trahan was holding on line three.

  “I’ll take it,” the senator said, flashing Andy a perfunctory smile. “Good work, Andy. We’ll talk more about it later.”

  “Hello, governor,” he said, picking up the phone as the young man closed the door on his way out.

  “Have you received the invitation, darling?” Cat asked.

  “You mean the document that purports to be a LiGa invitation?”

  “It is a LiGa invitation, dear,” she replied evenly. “It’s an invitation to immortality.”

  Was it only a week later? A week. Time passes in the blink of an eye, sometimes. One week, though, can change everything.

  He remembered walking with her among the fluttering pink and white trees surrounding the Tidal Basin. His arm was on gentlemanly offer to the diminutive, elderly lady twittering gently about her godson’s medical school ambitions. This was the legendary WildCat? he had wondered then, bemused. He hoped he would never grow old.

  Operation “Cherry Blossom” had been successfully completed in the middle of the Cherry Blossom Festival. He congratulated himself on getting the invitation out of the woman for only two million dollars. He’d have paid twice that! She seemed pleased too, though, which was all the better.

  So, he was to play bridge to gain immortality. How hard could it be if the invitees were all like this woman? And there was so much good he could do, so much he would do with eternal life. What a glorious day! The blue sky seemed to him unusually bright today, the sun was invigoratingly warm. No, he would not grow old like the washed-up old woman by his side. He would never have given up an opportunity like this. Not like this crazy, narrow-minded, petty old woman. Money! That’s all she saw. Senator Heath took a deep, satisfied breath of fragrant air, and readied to face the future.

  “Darling, you definitely do know how to play bridge don’t you?” she had asked with a worried smile, a claw-like old hand resting lightly on his arm.

  Of course I know how to play bridge, he recalled thinking, pulling his arm away from that ancient grip.

  Senator Heath pulled himself away from the past. He was here to play, and it was time for the next round.

  *

  As the second round drew to an end, the scoreboard reflected the players’ points.

  “Senator, when we are defending, we should take care to watch all the cards that are played, particularly those by our partner,” the judge said icily at table 2. “Don’t you think?” she added, directing the full strength of her stern blue stare towards him.

  The senator cleared his throat. “Certainly judge,” he said smoothly masking the knot in his stomach. “It was a delight playing with you.”

  “Please find your seats for round three,” Peter announced at table 1.

  Bruce rose. “Mr. Drake, you and I are partners,” he said, taking the south seat vacated by Danny, who would be playing south at table 2 for the third round.

  “Good luck, everyone,” Porter waved, walking towards the glass entrance to take his place as north at table 2.

  “Take your seats–” Tanner said impatiently.

  “I’m delighted to be partners with you this round, Father,” the senator extended a hand. He was sitting west.

  “The pleasure is mine, senator,” Father Griffith smiled as Tanner placed board 9 on the table.

  *

  Helen pushed her plate aside. A comforting fullness settled upon her as the waiter poured a second cup of indifferent coffee.

  LiGa Bridge… Helen flipped through the notebook to a short news report from the English countryside.

  *

  Farnham, Surrey.

  Police were alerted at 2 A.M. to the residence of Annabelle Leigh-Smith, 86, who had been awakened by the sound of breaking glass. Mrs. Leigh-Smith, locking her bedroom door upon hearing a loud noise called the police. Upon arrival, the police discovered Dr. Alistair Moxley, 44, of Islington, London, passed out on the sofa in the living room, whence he had gained entrance by breaking the window. Dr. Moxley, a cardiologist who appeared ill and disoriented, was arrested and later released into the custody of his sister, Dr. Hyacinth Moxley, also of London.

  *

  Dr. Moxley’s sister was at a loss to explain his behavior, or the reason for his presence in this small, peaceful town amidst the rolling verdant hills of Surrey.

  The next news report on Dr. Alistair Moxley held a more somber tone as a hospital visit to diagnose the gentleman’s disorientation, revealed that he was suffering from an unknown – and potentially fatal – disorder. The doctors cautiously stated that they did not believe the unidentified disease to be contagious.

  Within ten days, Dr. Moxley was dead. He had died of heart failure, it was reported, of a tragically undetected heart disease. And the public had not cared. It was a shame, of course, to lose a bright, young doctor with so much to offer…

  But nobody had paid much attention until the following article appeared as an editorial piece.

  *

  April 3

  “He is not dead,” declared Susan Hurst, 7, with quiet authority, her frail frame swathed in hospital bed sheets. In that small, resolute face that had faced death with grim bravery for more than a year, the large green eyes that she raised to her mother were fearful and questioning. No. Unbelie
ving. “He can’t be dead,” Susan whispered; her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Who killed him?”

  Dr. Alistair Moxley died three days ago. He had no recollection of Susan Hurst before his death, the little girl he had spoken of incessantly for the past year. He lives still in the heart of that exceptional little girl with the congenital heart defect, who had been read a death sentence by every specialist – except Dr. Alistair Moxley.

  For a year they battled together, those two. And it was a battle. In the body of a small child. He had breakfast with her every morning when she was in the hospital. He made a point of it, I know, for I saw them together often. He sat by her bed, and they talked and laughed and discussed life. He talked to her as he would to a peer, as an equal, and she to him.

  Alistair Moxley died three days ago, an incoherent, debilitated shell of the man he had been a month earlier. He was surrounded by people he did not recognise; they were his family. He asked for water politely on the night before he died. It was of me that he made this simple request. I brought him a glass of water. Alistair thanked me quietly without a hint of recognition in his now-filmy blue eyes.

  My brother died three days ago. I had seen him a month before. We had celebrated his birthday with friends. He was happy and excited about the future. He was healthy. He was 44 years old.

  A month ago – the day after his birthday party – he told me he was going away for a while. A week or two, he said. Perhaps a little longer. He was evasive when I asked him where he was going. But he hugged me and told me he would be back soon.

  I did not see or hear from my brother for a month – not until I was awakened at four in the morning by the Surrey constabulary, informing me that a Mr. Alistair Moxley had been detained in Farnham, Surrey.

  Why was my brother in Farnham? What was he doing there? Why did he break into an elderly lady’s home in the early hours of the morning? There are so many questions, and no answers.

  It has been said that my brother died of heart failure. It has been reported that my brother, the cardiologist Alistair Moxley, died because of an undetected heart condition. Words cannot do justice to the indignation I feel at the utterance of such a statement.

  No. Alistair Moxley did not die of an undetected heart condition. In fact, my brother’s medical history reveals conclusively that his heart was perfectly healthy until approximately a month ago.

  The truth is that Alistair Moxley died of old age.

  It is true, as inexplicable as that sounds, and it is the medical mystery that has not been revealed about my brother. You see, our medicine cannot explain how, in the space of one month, a man of 44 can age thirty, forty or more years. There is no known disease or condition that can cause such rapid degeneration, and there is certainly nothing in my brother’s medical records or history to point to such an eventuality.

  Susan Hurst will be discharged tomorrow. She will be able to go home because of my brother, and live out what I hope will be a very long, very healthy life.

  And I want to know, like seven year-old Susan Hurst, what and who killed my brother, Alistair Moxley.

  Hyacinth Moxley

  *

  4

  At the end of the tenth board, the scores were as follows:

  On board 11, the auction had started with a bid of 1-club by Bruce and Danny at their respective tables, showing at least the minimum points required to open the bidding. Their respective partners, Storm and Porter both responded with 1-heart, showing at least six points and at least four cards in hearts, their longest suit. By this point, Storm and Porter both knew that their respective partnerships held enough strength to attempt a ‘game’ contract, which scored extra points. The issue would be to find the correct game contract. The remaining players were too weak to enter the auction.

  On his next bid, Danny, at table 2, considered what to bid. The leading contender, in his opinion, was 1-notrump. One advantage of the bid lay in its efficiency of communication as it told his partner he had just enough points to open the bidding, and held less than four hearts. The disadvantage was that it could potentially be interpreted to mean that Danny had a high honor card – at least an ace or king – in all the unbid suits, since all suits have equal value in notrump, unlike a suit contract in which one suit is ‘trump.’ Any trump card, however low, will overtake any card in the other suits, which makes it less important to hold high cards in the remaining suits. Anyway, notrump scores higher, Danny thought. If we can take the same number of tricks in notrump as in hearts, we will get a better score. Even 10 extra points will mean we beat the other table.

  Danny’s hand had no honor cards in spades. It’s all right, he reasoned, 1-notrump at this point doesn’t say anything about what I hold in spades, all it tells my partner is that I have a certain number of points and less than four hearts. Besides, Saber must have bid 1-notrump at the other table. If I raise my partner’s 1-heart bid to 2-hearts instead of bidding 1-notrump, I will put myself at a disadvantage. Danny placed the 1-notrump bidding card before him.

  At table 1, Bruce also considered his options, including a bid of 1-notrump. Unlike Danny, however, his weak spade suit caused him concern. He was particularly worried that his partner, Storm, would expect at least one high honor card in spades with a 1-notrump bid, and rely on it to their detriment.

  My other option is to raise my partner’s bid to 2-hearts, he thought, knowing that, judging from the bidding, he and Storm might hold only seven hearts between them. Playing with anything less than eight cards in a suit was not ideal, but Bruce was aware that even a seven-card suit contract may well have a better chance of success than a notrump without at least one high honor card in each suit. He bid 2-hearts.

  Porter raised Danny’s 1-notrump to the ‘game’ level and bid 3-notrump. The contract was set, and to be played by Danny at table 2.

  I’m screwed, thought Danny, as Porter laid out his hand as dummy revealing a complete lack of honor cards in the spade suit. I will lose all the spade tricks – at least four – Danny realized. Plus, I’m going to lose a trick to the ace of hearts. I’ll be down at least one trick!

  Danny closed his eyes. On the table, his left hand twitched rapidly. The worst part is that I can see that we could actually make a contract of 4-hearts, he thought.

  At table 1, Storm, who had raised Bruce’s 2-hearts to the requisite game contract of 4-hearts, prepared to play the contract.

  As Bruce laid out his cards on the table as dummy, Storm smiled. “Thank you, partner.”

  That was a good call, Saber, he thought. If you had bid 1-notrump instead of raising hearts, I would have assumed you had a high card in spades and bid 3-notrump, which would have failed on this distribution.

  At table 2, Father Griffith and the senator, holding all the high spades, won the first four tricks. It’s over, Danny thought. “Don’t bother,” he said truculently at the top of the fifth trick. “I give up the ace of hearts.” He threw his cards on the table. “Down one trick.”

  “Too bad about the spades, partner,” Porter said mildly.

  Danny said nothing.

  “Well played, senator,” smiled Father Griffith with a kind smile. “The spade lead was perfect.”

  “Thank you, Father.” The senator said, clearing his throat and involuntarily straightening his posture.

  “What else was he supposed to lead?” Danny muttered ungraciously to the table.

  Porter wrote down the score: -50 to North-South and 50 for East-West, and handed the slip to the director.

  “What did the other table make?” Danny asked, ignoring his partner. Tanner was writing down the score from table 2.

  “Bid and made 4-hearts,” Tanner replied crisply.

  “Good call, Saber,” Storm told his partner, with a satisfied half-smile, as he wrote down 420 on the score sheet for their side. “They’d have killed us in notrump.”

  And the scoreboard reflected their updated points:

  *

  Following the op-ed piece By Dr. Hyac
inth Moxley, medical authorities issued a statement that there was nothing to suggest that Dr. Moxley had died of anything but natural causes.

  A young, bright, successful physician. Dead of old age… A blond, blue-eyed man smiling… a lopsided half-sneer on account of the scar, but such warmth and love in his eyes…Helen shook her head vigorously to clear the image.

  The official verdict of death by natural causes failed to quell the rumors and accusations, and it had taken a week for the reports to start trickling in about the stately manor house lost in the manicured hillocks of Surrey where Dr. Moxley had reportedly spent the last month of his life.

  And then, abruptly, one form of speculation ended following a concise statement from Xavier Redd, the spokesman for LifeGame Bridge.

  It was stunning, Helen remembered. Stunning, in the sense of leaving one speechless. She rummaged through the papers for a record of that first known statement from LifeGame…

  Immortality.

  A dream, she thought. Who could know, after all, whether one was immortal? How many years would it take to know you weren’t going to die?

  And there was more… Immortality at a price. The price? Your opponent’s life.

  There was elitism too, to titillate the public further. One couldn’t simply enter to play by paying an entrance fee. One must receive an authentic LiGa invitation.

  *

  “You may proceed to the main room for a fifteen-minute break,” Peter announced at table 1 as the players placed their cards back into the sleeves of board 16, spelling the end of the fourth round.

  On the scoreboard, the players’ scores automatically updated:

  The smell of fresh coffee beckoned the players as they variously left their rooms.

  The judge strode directly to pour herself a cup of steaming coffee, adding a hint of milk, and sat at one of the several small tables. She sat straight-backed, sipping thoughtfully.

  “Judge, may I join you?” Bruce asked, moving towards the chair opposite.

  He was motioned to take a seat.

  The senator stood lost in thought at the entrance. He was looking intently at Father Griffith walking towards the buffet table. He’s here as a priest, not hiding it. Why is he here? The biography had been extensive. Father: British; mother’s family from Russia. Schooled in England and in the U.S.; joined the Jesuits upon graduation from university, ordained seven years ago, spent the last five years serving in Colombia, chosen by the superior general to attend this LiGa tournament… Chosen by the superior general himself.