Presidents' Day

by Seth Margolis

  “Where is she?” Julian hissed. “Just tell us.” He seemed more scared for himself, what he was about to witness, than anxious about the fate of Zach’s kneecaps.

  “Fuck you, Julian. And you too, Billy. Sellout.”

  Sandifer glanced at Julian, who nodded.

  “Shoot him,” Julian whispered, turning away from Zach.

  Billy stepped closer to where Zach was sitting and extended his right arm so that the pistol was just a few feet from Zach’s right knee. Zach pulled his legs into his body, an instinct rather than a conscious attempt at protecting his legs, closed his eyes and prayed that he’d lose consciousness when the bullet hit.

  What he heard next was not gunfire but the chirping of a cell phone. The three of them looked around, as if a small animal had scampered into the cabin. By the second ring they had all discovered the source: Zach’s phone, on the orange plastic table.

  Only one person had his cell number.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you where she is,” he said quickly, hoping to distract them from answering. “I’ll tell you, right now.”

  The phone rang a third time.

  “She’s in New York, staying with a friend, I’ll give you the—”

  Julian flipped open the phone and answered. “Hello?”

  “DON’T SAY ANYTHING!” Zach screamed at the phone. “GET OUT OF THERE!”

  Julian flicked the phone shut, waited a few seconds, then reopened it. He pressed a few buttons and a moment later turned to Zach.

  “Missed calls indicates a Miami area code. The number ends in zeros…a hotel? Let’s try redial.” Julian pressed a few buttons and a few seconds later Zach just barely heard a woman’s voice from the phone’s tiny speaker. Julian hung up. “She’s at the Nassau Hotel. Miami.”

  “You want me to go?” Billy asked Julian.

  Julian thought a moment. “No, I can handle it. I’ll have the chopper take me right to the plane, I’ll be there in four hours. You wait here, keep him alive until you hear from me. If Sarah heard him just now she might run, and he’s our only connection to her.” He turned to Zach. “Your girlfriend spared you a great deal of pain. If she’s still at the hotel, you will die a quick death, which is more than you deserve.” He considered Zach for a few moments, looking down at him like a new rug he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to keep, then quickly left the cabin. “If he tries to escape, shoot him,” he said on the way out.

  Chapter 66

  Moving confidently toward the presidential palace, Sophie felt herself part of a great choreographed dance. She was with ten others, all men. On other streets that fanned out from the palace bands of rebels were closing in. At seven forty-five on a Saturday morning the streets were nearly deserted, the shop windows shuttered. An ominous silence cloaked downtown Villeneuve, as if the population were holding its collective breath.

  She had reconfirmed her plans the night before, then given the signal to Rémy, who passed it along the chain of rebels. She’d visited Claude DuMarier personally, stealing into his house through the kitchen door like a servant or mistress. He had assured her that the guards at the south gate would be off duty Saturday morning, at his orders. Only a skeleton crew would be waiting for them inside—my worst men, DuMarier had called them. Le Père would be in residence, and the head of the military would be with him; the two would attend a special celebratory mass in the private chapel in the palace’s east wing in commemoration of the successful coup two years earlier. “They kill and steal as much as they want, then beg for forgiveness the next morning so as to start the day with a clean slate,” he said with a serious tone, as if describing a clever strategy. Many members of the government would be there, too, gathering early for a midday ceremony of some sort in the grand Chambre d’Etat. Where would DuMarier himself be during the uprising, Sophie wanted to know. On the morning plane to Paris. It chilled her, that the plan to liberate Kamalia depended on the avarice of a slimy traitor, but there it was.

  One block from the palace, in front of a small tobacco store, she raised her hand to stop the men behind her. Like most other stores the tobacconist was still closed. She tried the front door and was gratified but not surprised when it opened; she had become very good at making plans—and spreading around Julian Mellow’s money. Inside, behind the small wooden counter, were ten Kalashnikov rifles. She called for the men to come inside and handed them each a rifle, offering a firm bon courage to each. In their eyes she saw fear and determination and hunger for glory. She’d run small tutorials on how to use the Kalashnikov, but most had never actually fired one. Perhaps, if all went well, they wouldn’t have to.

  “We will wait in here until eight o’clock exactly,” she said. Small groups of rebels surrounded the palace, each securing their weapons at the shop or home of a sympathizer (or, as in the case of the tobacconist, a paid supporter). Since Zach Springer’s visit and the raid on her house she had stayed with one such sympathizer; perhaps that night she’d be able to return to her own place. In the past days, her thoughts often returned to the photograph of Matthew on the small table next to the front door; she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had abandoned it.

  The short wait felt interminable. The men smoked cigarettes and said little, shifting their weight from foot to foot as they tried to relax, running their fingers gingerly over their rifles, wondering, no doubt, if they would be firing them that morning. Sophie’s mind had already entered the palace, whose floor plan DuMarier had supplied, though she’d been to any number of events there, back before Le Père, when she and Matthew had been courted by the democratic regime as models of the new Kamalia. She pictured herself entering the palace grounds through the east gate, crossing the small courtyard to the enormous east door, built to withstand siege, which would be left unlocked, DuMarier had assured her. Inside, an immediate left. The chapel was the second door on the right. Others would charge up the south staircase and secure the second floor, while another group would secure the north wing. It would be over in a few minutes. A bloodless coup. Much as she wanted Le Père dead, killed by her own hands, she knew that the future of Kamalia would be better served by keeping him alive. She imagined a public trial for crimes against humanity, following the release of political prisoners, one of whom, Roger Derain, would act as interim head of the government until elections could be held, most likely in January. Perhaps Le Père would receive a sentence of death—she would be there for his execution, holding Matthew’s photograph.

  She opened the small locket she wore around her neck and kissed the tiny photo of Matthew.

  “It’s time.”

  The air had warmed up during their brief hideout in the shop, or perhaps it was anticipation. The palace was girded by a circular road, four lanes across. The city’s broadest avenues fanned out from it in a five-pronged star pattern. It had been designed by a Frenchman after the Place Charles de Gaulle in Paris, but the area had never quite lived up to the plan’s grandeur; one block from the ornate palace and the grand, if decaying, limestone public buildings that surrounded it, the city relaxed into ramshackle one-story shops and homes that looked almost embarrassed by their place of honor along the broad boulevards.

  They walked quickly to the Place du Palais, and when Sophie reached the corner her spirits soared: almost simultaneously, bands of armed rebels appeared around the circle and, presumably, on the other side. As planned, all of them quickly moved to the south gate, brazenly occupying the street and forcing the sparse Saturday morning traffic off the circle.

  The palace was a two-story building, modeled, Sophie had heard, after a French château along the Loire. It had always struck her as an absurd symbol of Kamalia’s vain aspirations; it didn’t look out of place so much as out of proportion. It was too big for the small park in which it sat, too formal for the honky-tonk city over which it loomed, too grand for the third-world country that its occupants sought to rule. And the damp tropical climate had had its way with the palace’s pretensions, riddling it with pockmarks and sendin
g voracious, giant-leafed vegetation up its walls faster than the understaffed maintenance crew could cut it down. It was ringed by a fifteen-foot fence composed of steel spikes two inches apart, connected by steel bands at the bottom and top, each capped by an ornate finial, once gilded, now a rusty black. There were four gates, the grandest to the south, through which visiting dignitaries passed, the others used for deliveries and more prosaic arrivals and departures.

  Despite DuMarier’s assurance that the south gate would be unguarded, she was hugely relieved to see it untended. Also buoying her was the sight of the entire rebel army, more than eighty strong, mostly men but with a few women, walking with long, confident strides toward the gate. Gone was the slump-shouldered Kamalian shamble. The collective determination and pride would carry them to victory, she felt sure.

  “Comrades!” she shouted in front of the gate. “COMRADES!” The air went silent. “We have longed for this day for two years. Many of our friends have been imprisoned and some of them have been killed. We have lost our freedom and our livelihoods. Today we change all that. Today we take back our country for the people. Today we begin a new chapter. Bon courage, mes amis. We will meet next in the Chambre d’Etat! Allons! Allons! Pour Kamalia!”

  She thrust open the gate—unlocked, as promised—as shouts of Pour Kamalia! rang out behind her. The south door was less than thirty yards away, across a dusty and, most importantly, deserted courtyard. The words bloodless coup floated into consciousness as she broke into a run, her right hand holding aloft the rifle.

  Then a shot rang out, a series of shots.

  Still running, she turned back and felt her insides drop.

  The tight mob had dispersed to either side of the courtyard, revealing several fallen bodies. At the rear she saw some comrades attempting to retreat back through the gate, but it had been closed behind them. In front of the gate, and to either side of the mob, stood soldiers in full uniform, dozens of them, all carrying machine guns. She and her comrades were trapped in the small courtyard. Men were throwing themselves at the fence, as if hoping to topple it, only to be gunned down, shot in the back by round after round of machine gun fire. Comrades were falling like dominoes, unable even to fire back.

  She had been betrayed.

  They had been betrayed.

  Rage propelled her forward. Screaming, firing the rifle to either side, she sprinted for the door, hoping that it would be unlocked as promised and that there would be someone alive to follow her. Behind her, earsplitting gunfire was punctuated by the shrieks and moans of her comrades.

  She reached the door, dimly aware that this in itself was a miracle. She threw her body against it but it didn’t move. Her nostrils burned from the smell of gunpowder, her ears rang with explosions. For a moment she stood there, her back to the ambush, immobilized by the weight of the betrayal—and of her responsibility for the carnage taking place behind her. She waited for a bullet in her back to release her from that weight.

  The bullet never came.

  Instead, she felt hands grip both of her arms and turned to find two soldiers, huge men in military fatigues and helmets, gripping her, lifting her, carrying her away. The courtyard was an agony of fallen bodies, most of them lifeless, some writhing and moaning until a spasm of bullets from the ring of soldiers surrounding the courtyard stilled them. To one side of the gate, Rémy Manselle had managed to climb the iron fence only to be shot down when he reached the top; his body landed on the hard ground with a sickening thud she heard even over the din. She saw that several men had managed to escape before the gates had been closed. They were running toward the promised sanctuary of the US embassy.

  The rest, all of them, were going to die, trapped in the courtyard like cattle brought to the slaughterhouse.

  Why was she being taken away? She needed to break free, to join her comrades not in their final struggle, for no struggle was possible, but in their final glory.

  She tried to push her captors away but their grips were unyielding. They dragged her to the back of the palace as if she were a small child being led to punishment by angry parents. They turned the corner and walked quickly to the palace’s north door; as they pulled her inside she was already aware of the sudden quiet from the west courtyard. The gunfire had ceased. The moaning had stopped. It was over.

  Chapter 67

  Zach played out the scenario in his head, over and over. Julian on his helicopter, then his plane, then the short cab ride to South Beach, up the elevator to the fifth floor of the Nassau Hotel and into Sarah’s room. It was hard to imagine Julian lowering himself to dealing with Sarah personally. Violence, like so much else, was beneath him. And then there was the risk of getting caught. But whom could he send? His companies employed hundreds of thousands of people, but he could hardly call up an employee and order him to Miami to execute an unarmed woman. He’d use his own gun; Julian, at the recommendation of Mellow Partners’ security consultant, owned a small pistol, and he’d have no trouble transporting it from New York to Miami—one of the perks of flying private, as the Gulfstream crowd liked to say.

  Each time, the scenario ended with Sarah innocently opening the door. His mind couldn’t go further. He had to warn her.

  In ten minutes Billy would be back from taking Julian to the helicopter. Zach rolled from one side to the other, surveying the cabin. If only he could get the ropes off his feet, he’d be able to stand. He noticed that the slate hearth extended a foot from the fireplace, and that its edge was relatively sharp. He rolled himself across the room and positioned himself so that his legs were facing the fireplace, then lifted them up onto the slate ledge. He shimmied to his right, then a bit to the left; finally, his feet were where he wanted them, the ropes around his ankles directly over the edge of the slate. He began moving his legs from side to side, forcing the rope into the sharp corner. After a long minute of effort he saw some fraying, but at that rate it would be an hour or more before he made any real progress. He shimmied to his right and tried another spot, then a third, where he felt some resistance as he worked his feet from side to side—some sort of nub on the slate, a flaw. He concentrated on pressing his feet into the ledge and a minute or two later the rope was cut nearly in half. Encouraged, he worked harder and faster. Finally, the rope split and his left foot dropped to the floor.

  Slowly he got to his feet, feeling the effort in every bone and muscle. He flexed his legs until he could safely move about the cabin without fear of tumbling forward. He crouched before the fireplace and ran the handcuffs along the ledge, but quickly realized that the slate was no match for steel. He could run, but the road was at least a half mile down the long dirt driveway, and he didn’t recall seeing any houses nearby. In any case, Billy would be back before he reached the road.

  He’d have to get the key from Billy.

  He searched the cabin for something that might help him. Candles and matches by the fireplace…he could burn down the place, but how would that help? Billy had locked the cabin door, so he crossed the room and powered his shoulder into a back window, shattering several panes of glass along with the rickety wooden framing. He repeated the action until he’d managed to push out most of the glass, then carefully hoisted one leg up over the sill, pressing his body against the side to stay balanced. Once he was straddling the sill he slowly brought his other leg across and jumped down.

  Outside, he was tempted to run into the woods. Eventually he’d find a house with a telephone, even if he had to walk for hours or a day. But by then Julian would be in Miami. Running away wasn’t an option.

  Across a small patch of what had once been a grass lawn but was now a raggedy expanse of weeds and debris there was a small shed. He pulled open the door by pressing his right elbow against the wooden handle. Inside he made out an old, rusted rotary mower and, next to it, a red can of gasoline. There was also a rake, shovel and various other yard tools. He crouched to his knees, with his back to the gas can, and managed to lift it with one shackled hand, his left—his
right was still tightly bandaged and in no condition to do any lifting. The can felt full. He went back to the cabin, hoisted the can over the window sill, his back to the cabin, and let it fall inside. Then he climbed in.

  He squatted in front of the can, picked it up again, and carried it behind him to the table. Once it was on the table he unscrewed the cap, still with his back to it. The cap off, he picked up the can and poured a third of its contents in a six-foot-long puddle that began about two feet from the cabin door. He put down the can and, in the small kitchen area, found a large stock pot in a lower cabinet. He filled this with the remaining gas and placed it next to the puddle, at the point farthest from the door.

  He heard an approaching car. Crouching in front of the fireplace ledge, he managed to pick up the large box of kitchen matches with his shackled hands and slide out the inner compartment. Most of the matches fell to the floor but he was able to secure one with his left hand while holding the box in his right. Pain shot through his wrists, particularly his injured left fingers, as he angled both hands to light the match on the side of the box. The first swipe was unsuccessful, and on the second he dropped the match.

  The crunch of tires on the dirt driveway grew louder. He got a second match and, pressing it as firmly as he could against the side of the box, gave it a swipe. He smelled sulfur but didn’t hear the sizzle of ignition. Backing up a few feet, he pressed the hand holding the box against the cabin wall for greater stability. The cuffs dug into this wrist he ran the match along the striking surface.

  He heard it hiss.

  Outside, the tire crunching stopped. He forced himself to walk very slowly toward the kitchen area, worried that the match behind his back would extinguish. When he reached the table he carefully angled the lit match to the candle. The flame was biting into his fingertips. He pressed his arms back from the shoulders and just managed to connect the match to the wick. Then he turned around; the candle was lit. He picked it up, still in its holder, and backed across the room to the puddle of gas.