My first instinct had been right. Except for her smile, the woman from lunch looked perfectly miserable. “It is bad,” she announced.
“What is?”
“You don't know?”
“I don't.” Nodding at my bed, I admitted, “I have jet lag.”
“You bombed us.”
Startled, I stepped back.
The woman stared at the chain and then at me. Her smile had become something else. The anger was perfectly reasonable, but there was compassion as well. She put her arms around her waist, sighing deeply before saying, “We could be at war.”
“No,” I managed. “Not war.”
Quietly, almost tenderly, she said, “Kyle. Please let me inside.”
I shut the door and unfastened the chain and opened it again. Then I turned on the television, preprogrammed to find the hotel's most useless channel—classical music playing while a slide show proved what a fine city Nancy was. Where was the BBC? I punched buttons, absorbing repeated images of the same fire and smoke. The other networks were full of the news, but at least the British voices could explain what I was seeing.
“Algeria?” I managed. “What's in Algeria?”
“Our space program,” she claimed.
“You have one?” I blurted, using an unfortunate tone.
Noelene grimaced. But for a minute or two she said nothing, allowing me to gain some appreciation for what had happened in the middle of the North African desert. Rockets and the assembly buildings, fuel tanks and even the railroad lines leading south from Algiers had been obliterated. Smart-bombs and small teams of commandoes had done the brutal work. Casualties were less than fifty, although those numbers were preliminary. Then that wise BBC voice explained that a wing of long-range Skyrangers was fueling in Missouri, preparing to strike the uranium enrichment facility outside Grenoble.
“Why are we admitting that?” I asked the television.
“Because you like us so much,” Noelene replied, sarcasm riding on her voice. “We are your friends. Your allies, on occasion. You're giving us time to move our civilians out of harm's way.” That's how we did things in Israel: A stern warning followed less than a day later with a burrowing bomb, famous for its cleanliness but still throwing a horrible mess across the Negev.
Not knowing what to say, I whispered, “All right.”
She looked at my chest.
Yes, my buttons. I undid them and began again, and when success was near, I thought to ask, “But why are you here?”
She didn't seem to notice the question.
“You don't like me,” I continued. “And you hate my country.”
She looked at my eyes and said, “Kyle.”
It's silly, I know. But I liked the way my name sounded coming out of her wide, lovely mouth.
“I don't know you,” Noelene began. “And I don't hate your country. But I know America enough to despise its government's policies.”
“But why are you here?”
“This is my supervisor's idea,” she explained. “When this news broke, he mentioned that he was worried about you. He turned to me and explained that he couldn't get involved—his station and responsibilities wouldn't allow it—but he thought that I might take pity on you. You need help. Yes? Before events swallow up all of our lives?”
I settled on the corner of my bed.
She considered the nearby chair. But sitting wasn't her intention. “Your passport.”
“What about it?”
“You'll need it and any essential belongings.”
I was confused.
“But leave your suitcase, and please don't bother checking out of the hotel. My car is close. We can reach the highway before 17:00.”
“When?”
“Five o'clock.”
It was that late. I stared at my watch, trying to decide what to take. If I was actually leaving, that is.
“Kyle?”
“Are we going back to Paris?”
“God, no.” The ignorance of an average American amazed Noelene. “You have to leave this country as soon as possible. Germany isn't far, if we start right now...!”
* * * *
Every face in the world suddenly seemed important. Every glance from a stranger carried menace: Do they know who I am? Do they want revenge? The average pedestrian looked tense, distracted and angry. Two old men stood on a street corner, rigid fingers accusing the sky of something or another, and though I couldn't understand them, I had no doubt that Algeria was the topic. A gentleman in a suit and tie leaned against a stone building, listening to the static and news on a small transistor radio. A young woman walking toward us suddenly looked at me, and a smile flickered before vanishing into an expression more grim than seemed possible on such a pretty face. Then as we passed each other, she whispered a few words to Noelene.
Noelene replied with a phrase, nothing more.
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“No.” She fished a single car key from her purse. “I don't. How would I?”
“It just seemed—” I began.
“Here,” she interrupted, steering me to a vehicle even tinier than Claude's Renault. But remarkably, it was a Ford. A model not sold in America, but an unexpected harbinger of home. I took this as a good sign. Crawling into the passenger seat, I thanked Noelene for her unexpected help. She nodded and looked at the steering wheel, saying nothing. Then remembering the key in her hand, she started the little motor and took the wheel with both hands before facing me. “I'm doing what I was told to do,” she stated.
“You've explained that. But thank you anyway.”
Pushing the car into gear, she said, “I should warn you. My driving is rather spectacular.”
“What is that?” I said above the revving. I assumed that “spectacular” was the wrong word.
But it wasn't.
Minutes later, I was wearing my seat belt and shoulder harness and my door was locked, both hands wrapped around the plastic handle above the window. As promised, we were flying down the highway. It seemed as if we were on the same road on which I had entered Nancy. Noelene admitted that it was, then added, “But not for long.” Several quick turns followed, and I lost all track of where I was. Maybe we were heading for Germany, but why was the sun on my right? Didn't we want the sun setting behind us? I asked myself that reasonable question, more than once, and she must have heard my thoughts because without prompting, she volunteered, “We will be turning in another few kilometers. Don't worry.”
I had so much to worry about, I let that topic drop.
“Do you mind?” she asked, reaching between us.
“What?” I sputtered.
“The radio. May I listen to the news?”
“Of course. Yes.”
A professional newscaster was talking. The man's level, almost soothing voice might have been discussing stock prices or the weather. But then he vanished, replaced by the taped comments of some government official. Or so I guessed: Government voices have that gait, that self-importance, making pronouncements meant to represent millions but mattering only to their inflated egos.
We kept driving south.
One important turnoff was marked with what for the French was a large sign, and I was quite sure that the arrow was pointing toward the United German States. But then we were past it, and looking back, I had to ask, “Why?”
Noelene glanced at me longer than she should have. At the speeds we were driving, I wanted her eyes forward. “Do you understand anything?” she asked.
What we were talking about?
“French,” she explained.
“'Merci.’ Maybe a few other—”
“The borders have been closed, Kyle.”
My grip on the handle couldn't be any tighter, but that wasn't for lack of trying. “What borders? With Germany?”
“As a precaution, yes.”
I didn't know what to say.
“But I have a friend,” she continued. “A customs agent, and I think he'll help us
.”
I don't like messes. I never have. And that seemed like the worst part of this nightmare—its considerable untidiness.
“He works in,” she began, naming a town I didn't know.
“And he'll let me across?”
She said, “Yes.”
Then a little softer, “I think so.”
Maybe this was best. Maybe everything would work out, and I could climb on a nice German plane and head home. But even as I sat back in the hard little seat—as the sun finished setting and the French scenery raced past with a succession of blurring, increasingly dark grays—I thought to look at the single key in the car's ignition. What kind of person keeps her key on its own ring?
“Is this car yours?”
Noelene gave my abrupt question a little too much thought. Then looking straight ahead, she said, “Yes.” She used the word that one time, just to practice the lie. Then again, with more authority, she told me, “Yes,” and glanced my way, showing an unconvincing smile.
* * * *
We drove fast and far, and I applied myself to learning everything possible about this strange automobile. The speedometer had us scorching along at better than 150 KPH, riding on nothing but four doughnut-sized tires. Our gas tank wasn't full when we began, and by the time I began paying attention, the gauge read half-empty. Despite the darkness, I tried to spot landmarks and keep track of our turns. But I've never been much of a navigator. Finally, summoning a measure of courage, I asked, “Do you have a road map?”
She seemed ready for my request. “Look in the glove box, Kyle.”
I was already opening it, to find nothing but the car manual and several receipts that I couldn't read in the dark.
I said nothing, contemplating my situation.
She imagined questions and picked one to answer.
“This won't last much longer, Kyle.”
“Pardon?”
“The world situation. American power.” Something about this was funny. I didn't expect her to laugh, but that's what she did: A soft, girlish giggle followed by the apology, “I don't mean that your country will be destroyed. Nobody wants that. But you know, this power you have over the rest of us ... it's fragile. It's doomed. That's what I meant to say.”
I nodded seriously, as if politics were forefront in my mind. Then over the hum of the highway, I asked what seemed like a perfectly reasonable question. “How would that help anything?”
She said nothing. In a particular way, she held her silence.
“I don't understand,” I admitted. “The world is prosperous and at peace. Why would you want to upset the order of things?”
Noelene leaned close to the steering wheel, as if willing herself to reach our destination sooner.
“What kind of world would this be?” I asked. “All right, France acquires the bomb. Then the Israelis and Egyptians, the Soviets and Chinese. Britain and Germany would have to build suitable armories. And I suppose even Canada would want two or three little nukes, just to earn their southern neighbor's respect.” I had found my rhythm, listing progressively smaller nations. French sensibilities were triggered when I mentioned, “Switzerland.”
“Why?” she interrupted. “Why would the Swiss need such things?”
I watched her and watched the dashboard. The red silhouette of a gasoline tank warned that we were nearly out of fuel.
Noelene risked a quick glance my way. Then with eyes fixed on the blurring road, she stated, “Neutral powers wouldn't bother.”
“Well,” I pointed out. “Perhaps they wouldn't see things quite as you do.”
She said nothing.
And I kept my own silence, realizing just how sick of worry I was. This deep dread of mine began before I boarded the plane in Chicago, and every step of my journey had made it heavier and more acidic.
“You never should have done it,” she began.
“What's that?”
“The nuclear monopoly ... you should never have claimed it. Never. If you had shared your nuclear plans, the genuine powers would have each built only what we needed. France would have a few bombs, and the Soviets, and everyone. Our borders would be protected. There wouldn't be any reason for war. Why would one nation fight another if it meant that their capital would burn, their population enduring catastrophic losses?”
“Is that how things would be?”
“Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “Peace. Real peace. And some world court that would judge the nations, identifying what was wrong and making settlements between competitors. This is obvious ... so obvious ... I cannot believe anyone would think otherwise.”
“Yet I do,” I admitted.
She grimaced. “You can't hold this power forever.”
I was terrified and extraordinarily tired, yet at the same moment my mind was sharp. Pushing my face close to her ear, I asked, “And how will you stop us, Noelene?”
She gave a start, the swift little car wandering out of its lane. Then she straightened her back and our trajectory, eyes straight ahead, bright with tears. “You aren't monsters,” she informed me.
“I know I'm not.”
“When you realize ... when your country understands how many innocent civilians you'll have to murder to maintain your hegemony ... well, you'll stop yourselves. Your president will have no choice but to recall those bombers. Yes? I know this. You're not psychopaths, and your conscience won't let you slaughter thousands of peaceful demonstrators.”
“Thousands?” I blurted.
She fell silent.
Leaning against my door, I asked, “Where are you taking me, Noelene?”
One hand came off the steering wheel, fingertips wiping at her eyes as the car drifted out of its lane again. “To the border. I told you.”
There was little heart left in her lie.
For the next sixteen minutes, we rode in total silence. I asked myself how close we were to Grenoble and how slow we would have to be going for me to open my door and roll onto the pavement. Better that than get involved in some bizarre self-imposed hostage situation, surely. Then came the mechanical clicking of a turn signal, and Noelene was braking while pulling off the highway. A pool of fluorescent green light beckoned, gas pumps and cheery French signs and a very welcome Coke symbol hung in the bright station window. “I thought we had enough fuel,” she muttered, perhaps speaking to herself.
She sounded as worried as I felt.
“I'll make this quick,” she promised, throwing a weak smile at her increasingly wily captive.
* * * *
I opened my door as soon as the car stopped. My mind was made up. Better to take my chances with strangers, I reasoned, than remain at the mercy of this misguided woman. I assumed that Noelene would try to stop me. She'd offer more lies or perhaps threaten me. What I didn't expect was no reaction past a vague, “Where are you going?”
“The bathroom,” I lied.
But before I managed two steps, someone shouted her name. People were standing at the edge of the light, a large group gathered around what looked like a parked school bus. Noelene climbed out of the borrowed car and looked at them, and the worries on her face fell away. She called out several names, waving enthusiastically. Several young men came running, examining me while passing and then gathering around their good friend, talking with quiet intense voices. I kept walking. One by one, the men glanced at me, nodding happily. Stepping into the service station, I realized that I had to pee in the most urgent, desperate way. The bathroom was a small, extraordinarily clean room with one toilet and a lock. There had to be a back door out of the station. But first, I did what couldn't wait, and then as the toilet ran, I splashed water on my face and dried my hands, wondering which way was east, and what were the odds of a terrified, language-impaired American making his own way across the German border.
But the challenge wouldn't be met. Two substantial men were waiting outside the bathroom door. Waiting for me, judging by the hands that grabbed my shoulders and elbows. I felt tiny. I felt carried, alth
ough my feet remained on the floor with every step. A sour looking woman behind the counter glared at me, and the largest man said, “Your passport. It is with you?”
For no good reason but to be difficult, I said, “No.”
Noelene was waiting for us outside. The big man asked her a question, and visibly surprised, she said, “He brought it with him, yes.”
“I threw it out the window,” I lied. “Miles and miles ago.”
“You did what?” Strangely, that angered her. She sneered and gave a few quick instructions in French, and a hand almost too big to fit inside my right front pocket snatched up the prize. Then it was handed to her, and she slipped it inside her pocket, saying, “I'll keep this safe for you, Kyle.”
“No,” I muttered.
“We ride in the bus together,” the big man said, giving me a bone-rattling pat on the back.
Again, I said, “No.”
“We insist.”
I decided to collapse on the pavement. But that did nothing but strip away the last of my dignity. The men grabbed my arms and legs and carried me to the bus and up into the darkness. I smelled smoke and liquor and competing perfumes. Who wears perfume to a mass suicide? I begged to be put down, and I agreed to stand on my own, but my captors insisted on shoving me into one of the front seats, next to a small figure that looked female and was wearing some kind of uniform.
I didn't recognize the woman. Honestly, I hadn't looked twice at the face riding beside me in the airliner. But the black and orange-trimmed uniform was the same, and she had the same build and similar short hair. Someone or something had struck her face, probably more than once, and someone else had given her a white towel to press against what looked like a very ugly cut beside her left eye.
I looked at the bus door, ready to run.
But the big Frenchman read my mind. Standing in the aisle, he grinned down at me, explaining, “We wait for the rest. As soon as they come, we leave. Very soon now.”
My earlier terrors were nothing compared to this. Anxieties were piled high. I breathed hard, moaned and shook. My hope of hopes was to panic—a full-blown craziness born from adrenaline and nothing left to loose. I would beg. I would lie. Any excuse was viable, aiming for whatever was most pathetic. I was even sorry that I had emptied my bladder, since I doubted anyone here would appreciate riding to the Alps with a urine-soaked coward.
Asimov's SF, January 2010 Page 13