Endgame Novella #5

by James Frey

  “Are we safe?”

  “We have to get out of here. I’ve pulled you into an alley.”

  “Can I stand up?”

  “I hope so.”

  “My chest hurts.”

  “You might have hurt a few ribs.”

  I felt her hands pressing on my side, and I gritted my teeth at the pain. I tried to stand. I was weak and hurt, but my feet were steady.

  There was a searing pain near my sternum, and I yelped as she pulled my arm over her shoulder so we could walk.

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think? The bomb went off.”

  “Did people die?”

  She was quiet for a minute. “Maybe. Yes. At least a few.”

  “We should have planted it in the hotel. Then at least we would have killed the Sumerians.”

  “And all the innocent people staying in the rooms.”

  “My chest hurts.”

  “Maybe you were hit by a chunk of cement—they came hurtling out of the hotel.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Scuffed up, but nothing worse than a few bruises. I think. It’s a good thing we don’t have to plant any more bombs. You have a tendency to get beat up.”

  We walked for another 20 minutes or so, but my pain wasn’t letting up.

  “There’s a pharmacy up here. I can see the sign. I’m going to leave you here and go get some painkillers and something for the cut.”

  “Don’t be long.”

  “I won’t. You’re going to be fine.”

  She lowered me down onto the stony ground of what must have been a dirt road. A dirt alley, probably.

  I felt her kiss my cheek, and then she was gone.

  I tried to raise my right arm again, but it felt like the muscles weren’t even there. It didn’t respond at all. It hurt like hell, though.

  After what felt like an hour, Kat came back.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “Where is there to go?”

  “Listen. I’m not wearing the abaya and hijab anymore. My hijab is wrapped around your head. The pharmacy wouldn’t sell to a single white girl not wearing the right clothes. I had to shoplift. It’s a good thing all the cops are busy with the explosion.”

  “Great.”

  “Let’s just get out of here. I got what we needed.”

  “Kat?” I said, as she was helping me to my feet again.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry I called you Mary.”

  She laughed, but there wasn’t a lot of cheer in it. “Old habits.”

  After walking a long way, we checked into another hotel, where we had dropped off our luggage earlier. I got the feeling that Kat picked it because they didn’t look too discriminating in their clientele.

  In our bathroom, she unwrapped the hijab from my face. The bleeding had stopped, and my tears had flooded the dirt out of my eyes. She scrubbed out the wound—I took off my leather belt and bit down on it as she scoured the gouge in my forehead with a toothbrush. Once it was clean, she stitched it up with a needle that she sterilized by holding in the flame of a candle.

  I showered, and the shower stall turned brown from all the dust I had covering me—in my hair, on my face, up and down my arms. When I was clean and dry—and she had taken a shower of her own—she bandaged my head with gauze and surgical tape.

  We divided up the money that we had left, after factoring in plane tickets, which wasn’t much. A couple hundred dollars.

  We had guns waiting for us in Munich, so we discarded the pistols we were carrying—throwing them down the hotel’s garbage chute.

  We had originally planned to split up on our way to Munich, but we had stopped caring about that. We boarded a plane bound for Munich, with a brief layover in Belgrade.

  What if we really did live through this? It occurred to me, then, that we’d also have to live with what we’d done.

  Everybody was talking about the Olympic Games on the plane. From what was said—that I could understand—the USSR and East Germany were on a spree. The couple across from me was talking about gymnastics, where the USSR and East Germany had swept the floor exercises, the vault, the uneven bars, and the balance beam.

  We had done our part. We had delivered our invitations. Munich was going to be a mess, but we made it this far, taking a beating, but with no serious problems. Now we would be getting to the heart of Endgame. We’d see who would show up for the Calling, and we’d try to get them to see reason. It sounded impossible before, but so did the invitations—and we did those missing our third team member.

  I squeezed Kat’s hand and reclined my seat.

  We hadn’t made any contingencies for Olympics security. Jim and Julia had been to the Mexico City games in 1968, and they’d said the security was slim to none, especially in the plazas—like the plaza with the sunburst symbol, where we were going to meet up with the Players, if we couldn’t stop them at their hotels first. Mexico City had had a student demonstration turn into a massacre 10 days before the games—it reminded me of the People’s Park protests where activists had died—along with the one where I hit that cop.

  I looked at Kat. I imagined us heading toward some new, pleasant adventure instead of to Munich to possibly kill people. These Olympics were nicknamed “the Happy Games,” and I wished we were heading there for another reason.

  I missed Mary. And more than once on the plane, I wished that Kat’s hand, which I was holding, were Mary’s hand.

  I hated myself for it.

  It was all planned out. Agatha, the excommunicated former La Tène Player, was going to meet us at the sunburst spiral, where we would all play the role of tourists. Agatha insisted that all of the Players would come to the spiral when they got into the city, just to scope the place out, to make plans for where and when they would show up on September 5. From there, Agatha would ID them, and we would tail them to their hotels—just like we’d practiced in Reno.

  I looked around the plane and wondered if the Player from Baghdad was here. There were a couple of guys who looked to be the right age, but neither of them looked like a trained killer.

  But maybe that was part of the act.

  I slept from Belgrade to Munich. It was the shorter flight, just over two hours, and I woke up as the plane descended into the city and the captain made an announcement.

  The plane was crowded, all the seats filled. Everyone was going to the Olympics. A woman sitting next to me was eager to talk now that I was awake. She wore a T-shirt with the Greek flag on it.

  “You know,” she said, “the Olympics are Greek. We started the whole thing.”

  “I’d heard that.”

  “You are American?”

  “Yes, you?”

  “No, no, no. Greek.”

  “I’ve missed out on the Olympic coverage so far. How is Greece doing?”

  She laughed, and took a bottle of mineral water from her bag. “Not so good. Not like America. Not like the Soviets. No medals yet. But we’re going to win in Greco-Roman wrestling. It’s named for us—we must win!” She chuckled to herself. “The Americans are doing well, but this is not their year. I am always amazed at the . . . what’s the word? Tenacity? Is that right? The tenacity of the Soviets. And the East Germans always surprise—they are such a small country, but they perform so well. Of course, they get help from the Soviets.”

  “Are you traveling alone?” I asked, mainly out of politeness. I should have been faithfully watching for tails or even for Players.

  “Traveling, yes, but meeting friends.”

  “We are too.”

  “Meeting other Americans?”

  “Mostly, yes,” Kat said.

  “Try to keep your chin up. The Soviets already have ten more gold medals than the Americans.”

  “There’s still over a week left,” I said.

  She laughed. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Keep your chin up. We learn that in Greece. No medals in the winter Olympics, only one bronze at the s
ummer games last time, in Mexico City. A Greco-Roman wrestler. It’s what we’re good at.”

  I looked at my watch. It was just past noon on September 2.

  “Is that your luggage?” she asked, pointing to the backpack between my feet.

  “Yes. And we checked two bags.”

  “You’re going to be in for a long wait. That’s why I don’t bring much. The Germans check all the bags when you come into their country, and I’ve heard they’re being extra careful this year. Terrorists.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “Have you not read the news?”

  “Nothing new. I bought a newspaper yesterday, but it was a couple days old.”

  “Terror attacks all over the world, all within days. America, Iraq, China, India.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out an Olympics ticket to see the wrestling matches later in the week. “You see that logo? It appeared at all of the bombings. There was even one in Turkey.”

  “Maybe someone is grandstanding—telling those countries that they will lose in the games. Taunting them.”

  “Maybe,” she said, putting the ticket away again. “But they’ve killed people.” My stomach dropped. We tried our best to avoid killing civilians, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided.

  “So German security is tighter?”

  “Yes, very much. They always check luggage, but now they’re looking for bombs.”

  I looked down at my bag and at Kat, grateful we had ditched our guns.

  It worried me that this woman hadn’t mentioned a bomb going off in Ethiopia, or Japan, or Mongolia. If we’d missed anyone, we’d have to travel to their compounds and find a different way to stop them.

  The plane hit the tarmac and slowed.

  “Good meeting you,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “You too.”

  I closed my eyes, seeing the images of the bombs again and again—seeing the man in the office building go down from Kat’s bullet. He would have died in the explosion anyway. Hell, maybe other people had died in the explosion as well. But I knew for certain that I’d been part of two people’s deaths now. I didn’t feel like a murderer, but that’s what I was, and it disturbed me how easy it had all been—and how little I felt about the second one. That first—the sheriff—had hit me hard. I’d had panic attacks, nightmares, and waking dreams plaguing me for months, but this second one was easier. I had trouble even remembering the details.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  My squad was the second to arrive. We were renting a house about a mile from the Olympic Plaza—the plaza with the sunburst spiral, where we all would set about turning the Players. We took a cab to the house, left our luggage, and then headed for the plaza.

  Agatha and John were sitting on a cement bench. Agatha was young, only 22 years old. But instead of youthful vigor, she had the posture and attitude of someone who had spent most of her life training to kill other kids like herself. She looked worn out, mentally and physically, and as she sat next to John, I could see the same look on his face. They were both tired of being who they were. They both wanted all of this to end.

  John stood up to hug us as we reached him. “Tell me everything,” he said, pointing at my head. “I know Eugene got nabbed. Did you get your invitations sent?”

  “Yep,” Kat said. “We might have killed the Baghdad player for all we know, though.”

  “I read about that in the paper. You guys are all right?”

  “I got hit in the head a couple times, and might have cracked some ribs,” I said. “Good thing Kat’s a nurse.”

  “Well,” John said. “Agatha and I are watching for Players. You up for tailing?”

  “Sure,” I said, and sat down next to him. Kat sat next to me.

  Agatha knew the Players by sight—the lines all spied on one another, and she had a book of photographs and physical descriptions. We leafed through it, trying to familiarize ourselves with the faces.

  “There,” Agatha said. “Girl wearing a black abaya and head scarf. Ghaniyah. Sumerian.”

  John pointed across the plaza to where squad two—Larry, Lee, and Lin—were sitting on a grassy berm. The three of them stood up and gestured back to John that they had seen her.

  They all spread out casually, Larry moving forward to be the lead, Lin walking close behind Ghaniyah, and Lee in the far-back position. She crossed the street confidently, seemingly unaware of the tail.

  “She doesn’t look like a killer,” I said to Kat.

  “Neither do we,” she said.

  “Don’t get complacent,” Agatha warned. “These people have trained their entire lives to be Players. They know how to kill and how to torture. They know how to shadow other people, and they’ll be conscious of someone following them unless we’re at our very best.”

  “Don’t be afraid to screw the plan,” John said. “If you think you’ve been spotted, then kill if you have to, or abort entirely. Don’t let them get the jump on you.”

  We nodded, though we’d heard all of this a hundred times from Walter and John. We knew what we were doing—or, at the very least, what we should be doing. We weren’t experienced in actually shadowing a real Player. But that was going to have to be enough. The time to prepare was gone, and it was time to act.

  The pay phone at a nearby booth rang, and John jumped up and answered it.

  I couldn’t hear the call, but it was short.

  “It was Douglas,” John said. “He’s back at the safe house. Phyllis, Henry, and Molly just arrived from India. They say Phyllis is hurt, but they came in on the same plane as their Player. Henry is following him. Molly’s staying with Phyllis.”

  “I’ve heard Pravheet is very good,” Agatha said. “I hope that guy you’ve got following him is one of the best.”

  “Pravheet is his name?” Kat asked. “The Indian?”

  “The Harappan,” Agatha said, nodding.

  “Henry has his ups and downs,” John said. “He can shadow, though. He did all right in training, anyway.”

  Agatha shook her head. “Doing all right is not enough. He’s got to be good.”

  We waited there for another hour, everyone quiet. This was what we had been training for. Everything here—waiting for the Players, shadowing them to their hotels. This was real. This was where people were going to get hurt. Us or them. Probably both. Hopefully both, because I didn’t expect us to come out unscathed—we just had to get them on our side or take them out. There were more of us than there were of them, and we’d need all the manpower we could get.

  “Why don’t you stay here and help, Agatha?” I asked, the waiting driving me crazy.

  “I’ll tell you what I told John and Walter: I’m out of the business. I’m done. Done with the La Tène line. I’m helping you because the world needs fewer Players. We need to stand up to the Makers and say we’re not part of their game. But my method of doing that is to walk away.”

  I was about to speak when Agatha interrupted.

  “There she is,” she said. “Raakel. The Minoan. Gorgeous.”

  Raakel was indeed gorgeous. She was dressed in tight jeans and a loose shirt. Her dark hair was twisted into a knot on the top of her head, and she literally danced down into the concrete sunburst, her small backpack swinging in her hand before she pulled up on it and slid it on her back.

  “She’s excited about something,” John said.

  “She’s one of them,” Agatha said wearily. “Eager to Play. Excited to be the big winner. Everything I’ve been told indicates that she’s cocky but deadly—she enjoys a fight. Bloodlust. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Well,” John said. “Mike, Kat, go shadow her. Take Barbara with you.” He nodded toward the grass where Barbara sat. She nodded back and stood.

  I was in the lead, Barbara was back, and Kat was far back.

  At the airport I had gone to a clothing store and bought everything that a certain mannequin was wearing, from its shirt to its shoes. I wanted to wear something authentically Germa
n. It wasn’t lederhosen or anything like that, but it was a slightly different look from American jeans and a T-shirt.

  I hurried up the opposite side of the main road. Raakel was moving at a fast clip, and so I didn’t try to sprint to get in front of her. Instead I walked parallel to her.

  We followed her for five blocks when she suddenly turned on her heel and headed backward. I had to peel off. If she’d seen me in her periphery, she’d see me if I turned around and tried the same trick. I stopped at the traffic light and pretended I was heading the other way, but it just gave me a chance to stop and watch.

  Barbara kept moving in the same direction, crossing paths with Raakel. Kat was the only one of us who could keep after her—she’d now become the lead.

  Barbara turned and ran down the side street, while I hurried into an alley, furiously unbuttoning my shirt. Underneath was a yellow T-shirt.

  I walked back out onto the street and searched for Raakel. I couldn’t see her anywhere, but I told myself not to panic. I was just here to watch the Olympics and do a little shopping. I wasn’t supposed to run.

  As I backtracked my route, I saw Kat, briefly, heading north—the same direction Barbara had gone. I turned at the next opportunity. I walked down a block, amongst a large group of tourists. And, for just an instant, I saw Barbara turn a corner and disappear behind a building.

  I followed her as quickly as I could, but as I turned the same corner, Barbara was kneeling down, tying her shoe. I walked past her, trying not to look like we were together.

  “Mike,” she said.

  I froze. That wasn’t how were supposed to shadow someone. We weren’t supposed to talk.

  “She went in that hotel on the left—the Hilton.”

  “Should we wait for her? See if she gets a room? A lot of hotels are full because of the Olympics.”

  “Kat went in,” she said, standing up and moving next to me.

  We sat down on the bench beside a bus stop and waited. The bus came, and we waved it past us.

  “I’m not as afraid of them seeing us,” Barbara told me. “The Players, I mean. They have no idea who we are. Why would she even care about us? I don’t think anything bad will happen if she—Raakel—spots us.”