The Extremes

by Christopher Priest

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And quit rubbernecking.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Teresa took it as calmly as she could. She replayed the video, made notes, put in more hours on the shooting range. She went again to the offender profile workshops from which she had already graduated. She wrote a paper on armed intercession. She tried again.

  It’s a movie! she thought. That’s how they do it! They hire one of those companies that work out in Hollywood, renting period cars to the studios. They bring in extras from somewhere! She was amazed by the amount of trouble they had gone to in the cause of making it authentic.

  There was the crack of another shot, sounding closer. She moved quickly to the intersection, where a crowd had gathered, staring down the street. She was briefly amazed by the men’s baggy clothes, the women’s garish lipstick.

  She slipped a hand under her jacket, checked the weapon was ready for quick retrieval, then walked warily down the street towards the sound of the shooting. When another shot came, she realized Howard Unruh was positioned on the opposite side of the street, so she crossed quickly, darting between the bulky saloons and sedans, finding cover against the walls of the buildings.

  A police patrol car went down the street. One of the cops sat by the open window, holding a rifle in both hands, the barrel pointing out at the street. He saw Teresa, said something to the driver, and the car braked sharply to a halt. Teresa pulled out her Bureau ID from its clip on her belt, held it aloft; the cops nodded their acknowledgement, and the car accelerated away.

  Teresa saw the first body slumped against a garbage can at the street corner. One of the man’s arms had hooked itself into the top of the can, holding him in place. His head lolled, and blood poured from wounds in his neck and back. A bullet flew past her, and Teresa threw herself on the ground behind the can. The shot had come from a window somewhere above her. The man’s dead face looked blankly at her. She backed away in horror, scrambled back round the corner. She pulled her gun, cocked it, settled it comfortably in her hands, held it high in front of her.

  She entered the building through the main doors, seeing more bodies lying in the lobby. Some people were still alive, and they called out to her for help as she passed through, the gun seeking before her at every obstruction, every corner. She was in a bank, she thought. All this marble, the big windows, the long counters.

  There were police outside, shouting up with bullhorns to where Unruh must be hidden. Teresa paused, trying to remember the rule book. She could intercede, attempt the apprehension of the gunman alone or with any other members of the Bureau assigned to the incident. Or she could put herself at the disposal of the police, until Bureau reinforcements were sent in. She thought hard. This was not real; this was training. Would they send her into this only for her to throw in her lot with the city police?

  She knew the answer, and dashed across the rest of the long lobby, pushing quickly but cautiously through double swing doors, to where there was a cage elevator built in the well of the staircase.

  She took the steps two at a time, the gun always questing before her. She paused, listening, thinking, aiming ahead, at every corner. At the next level there was another pair of swing doors; Teresa trained her gun on them in case Unruh came through.

  Then he did, pushing through with his back towards her. He was crouching, moving with great caution.

  ‘FBI!’ Teresa screamed. ‘Freeze!’

  Unruh turned in surprise towards her, holding his rifle. He worked the action without haste, but with deadly attention; she heard a mechanical process with loud clicks. Calmly he raised the weapon towards her, and squeezed the trigger.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Teresa said, and then his bullet struck her in the throat.

  Agent Dan Kazinsky said, ‘This is 1949. We don’t shout “Freeze” to suspects.’

  ‘I’m training for now, sir,’ Teresa said.

  ‘You got to be in rôle, Agent Simons,’ said Kazinsky. ‘None of this is made up. Howard Unruh was a real man, the event you’re entering is a piece of Bureau history. Mr Unruh went through World War II in the US Army, in the Tank Corps. He came out in 1946 with a stolen service rifle, and in 1949 he used it to kill thirteen innocent people in Camden, New Jersey. He was apprehended by agents from the Bureau, and because he was judged insane spent the rest of his life in a federal pen.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Teresa, who had researched the Unruh case before going into the ExEx the first time. ‘How do they get all those details of the city right? The cars and all?’

  ‘Beats me. Aren’t they something? That authentic detail is there to help you. Next time look at yourself in a shop window, or a mirror if you can find one. Familiarize yourself with the clothes you’re in, the way your hair is done, how you look. Feel the part. Your task is to apprehend Mr Unruh, either alone or with other members of a Bureau team, depending on how you read the situation on the ground. Are you ready to go in again?’

  ‘I’ve got a medical note, sir,’ said Teresa. ‘I’m scheduled for another session next week, but I’m having trouble with the valve.’

  She indicated the plastic seal on her neck, which was protected by a square of lint and some Band-Aids. The incision on her neck had gone septic after the latest entry to the Unruh ExEx, requiring it to be cleaned and the valve to be replaced, and delaying her training course by an extra three days.

  She wasn’t sure yet if she welcomed or resented the delay. More of this kind of training lay ahead, a great deal more, and so far it had not gone well. She was tom between trying to rush through it and get it over with, and backing off, preparing more thoroughly and getting it right. Andy had completed a similar course two years before her, and described it as a pushover. Maybe it had been a pushover for him, but Teresa knew that some of the other trainees were having as hard a time as she was. Not all, though. Harriet Lupi had also suffered a septic neck valve, but it had cleared up quickly and her training was already ahead of Teresa’s.

  The next day, the nursing sister in the medical wing told Teresa her neck infection was clearing up, and authorized her for ExEx duties again.

  She was in a bank, she thought. All this marble, the big windows, the long counters. There were police outside, shouting up with bullhorns to where Unruh must be hidden. She dashed across the rest of the long lobby, pushing quickly but cautiously through double swing doors, to where there was a cage elevator built in the well of the staircase.

  She took the steps two at a time, her gun always questing before her. She paused, listening, thinking, aiming ahead, at every corner. At the next level there was another pair of swing doors; Teresa trained her gun on them in case Unruh came through. She saw a shadow moving beyond, so she stepped across to them, kicked one of the doors open. Unruh was there, his rifle held ready. He turned towards her.

  ‘Drop the gun!’ Teresa shouted, but Unruh, with unhurried movements worked the action; she heard a mechanical process with loud clicks. Calmly he raised the weapon towards her, and she fired. Her bullet caught him in his arm. He spun round and away from her, and the rifle clattered to the floor. Half crouching, he pulled an automatic from his belt and tried to aim it at her. Teresa moved swiftly behind him, her gun trained on his head.

  ‘Drop the gun, and lie flat!’ she yelled, and within a few moments Howard Unruh did exactly that.

  ‘Harriet? It’s Teresa.’

  ‘Hi! How you doing?’

  ‘I got him! I got Unruh!’

  ‘You did? I never could. I managed to wound him, but I was out of ammunition. The city police came in and dragged him away. Dan Kazinsky flunked me, and moved me on. How did you do it?’

  Later in the phone call, Teresa said, ‘Harriet, have you ever been to Camden, New Jersey?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Have you?’

  ‘I feel as if I have. How the hell do they do that? All those cars and buildings! They’re so real!’

  ‘Have you ever been to Texas on a hot day?’

  ‘No.’r />
  ‘Then you haven’t done Whitman yet. That right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whitman’s next. It’s real tough. And it’ll make you sick.’

  It was noon on August 1, 1966, Austin, Texas. A former boy scout and Marine called Charles Joseph Whitman was on the observation deck of the University of Texas Tower, overlooking Guadalupe Street, ‘the Drag’. In his possession was a 6mm Remington Magnum rifle with four-power Leupold telescopic sight. He also had with him a rented handcart and a green duffel bag. In the bag, and spread around him, were packets of Planters Peanuts, sandwiches, cans of Spam and fruit cocktail, a box of raisins, two jerrycans, one containing water and the other three gallons of gasoline, rope, binoculars, canteens, a plastic bottle of Mennen spray deodorant, toilet paper, a machete, a Bowie knife, a hatchet, a .35-calibre Remington rifle, a .30-calibre carbine, a .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson pistol, a 9mm Luger automatic, a 12-gauge shotgun with sawn-off barrel and stock, a Galesi-Brescia handgun, some thirty-shot magazines, and over seven hundred rounds of ammunition.

  During the previous night Whitman had murdered first his mother, then his wife. On his way into the UT Tower a few minutes earlier he had shot and killed a receptionist and a family of visitors. Now he was leaning on the parapet, peering through the telescopic sight at the crowds on the Drag below.

  In the heat and humidity of the Texan midsummer, Teresa Simons, unaware of the sniper at the top of the tower, was looking at the handmade sandals on one of the craft stalls. The humid air smelt of cedarwood, hot road-tar and the incense that several stallholders were burning. On one of the other stalls the Beatles’ new single ‘Paperback Writer’ was playing loudly. Teresa smiled and listened to the words; the song reminded her of a boy she’d known for a while, twenty years ago.

  She moved on down, looking at the goods displayed on another stall: brightly coloured posters, tasselled leather shoulder-bags, embroidered muslin shirts and equipment for growing cannabis. She was Whitman’s first victim, and died from a shot through her back.

  The Austin Tower ExEx was one of the toughest assignments on the course, and Teresa was involved with the challenge it presented for most of a winter. But she got her man in the end.

  CHAPTER 16

  At lunchtime Teresa went to the hotel bar, where she knew she could order some sandwiches. Amy brought them to her, looking and sounding more friendly than at their last encounter, but after that she left Teresa alone in the bar. Teresa drank a glass of chilled mineral water, feeling virtuous, and a small cup of coffee afterwards. The bar remained solidly normal. Nick and Amy appeared at intervals, going about their business, serving the handful of other customers who appeared.

  Back in her room she again consulted her street-map of Bulverton. She located Welton Road: it was in a small grid of streets close to the Ridge, the ring road that followed the line of hills to the north of the town, forming an effective boundary with the countryside.

  She drove up to Welton Road and found that it was part of a recently built industrial estate. A number of large, undistinguished buildings, constructed of prefabricated concrete with brick facing, lined the streets. Most of the businesses appeared to be light industry: she saw signs for computer software companies, packaging suppliers, manufacturers of electronic components, package couriers. In this environment the extreme experience building blended effortlessly. She drove past it twice before she located it. All it had was a discreet white sign next to the door announcing: GUNHO EXEX. The place had few windows, and only one entrance area; in front of the building there was a wide parking lot. Teresa drove in, but could find no spaces left and had to move to a place on the side of the road a couple of hundred yards away.

  She was locking the car when she became aware that someone was leaving the building. She instantly recognized him: it was the man she had seen talking aggressively to Amy in the Old Town market. Teresa moved at once to the rear of the car and opened the hatch door. Using the raised door as cover she looked up the road through the tilted glass of the window. The man walked briskly from the main entrance, strode through the parking lot and went to a car parked not far from her own. He did not appear to notice her, nor should there be any reason why he would.

  She waited until he had driven away, not fully understanding why she felt the need to stay out of his sight. She closed and locked her car, then walked across to the building. A pair of double glass doors led into a conventional reception area, where a young woman sat behind a large desk.

  There seemed to be people everywhere. Five people were sitting in a waiting area opposite the reception desk, and there were two others already in a line in front of her at the desk. The young receptionist was speaking on the telephone, and writing on a pad of paper with her free hand. To one side of her desk there was a pile of wrapped packages, apparently awaiting collection or delivery.

  Beyond the waiting area, on the side, there was a door with a glass panel, and as it appeared she was going to have to wait for several minutes Teresa sauntered across to it and peered through. Above the door was a large sign, the lettering drawn in a brilliant emulation of the kind of spray-paint graffiti you saw everywhere: CYBERVILLE UK. It was a long, windowless room, not brightly lit, equipped with at least a dozen PCs. Each computer was in use, with someone staring raptly at the screen. Teresa realized that the place was an internet café: website graphics were constantly loading and wiping, as the endless search for data went on. At the far end of the room were some arcade games machines, but these were not being used. Most of the computer users looked remarkably young.

  She returned to the reception desk, and waited her turn. At last, the young woman, identified on her lapel badge as Paula Willson of Customer Services Dept., was free.

  ‘May I help you?’ she said.

  ‘I’d like to make use of the ExEx equipment here.’

  ‘Yes, we have that facility. Are you a member?’

  ‘No. Do I have to be?’

  ‘Yes, unless you’re already a member of one of our associate clubs.’

  ‘I’ve used ExEx in the States,’ Teresa said. ‘But not on public equipment. It was…training equipment.’

  Paula Willson passed her a form from a large pile on her desk.

  ‘If you would fill this in,’ she said, ‘we can enrol you straight away. Were you planning on using the equipment today?’

  ‘Yes, I was. If that’s possible.’

  ‘We’re always booked up, but there are a few slots free this afternoon. Weekdays are better than weekends.’ She had turned the form round on the desk, and was indicating it with a finger. ‘All we need from you is some form of identification, and we do require a membership fee when you enrol. We accept all major credit cards.’

  ‘When I’ve filled this out, I give it back to you?’

  ‘Yes. May I help you?’

  She had turned to the two people standing behind Teresa, who had come in from outside while they were talking. Teresa picked up the form and took it across to the waiting area. She found a space on one of the black leather sofas, and leaned forward to lay the form on the glass-topped table in front of her. The page was headed GunHo Corporation—Extreme Experience and Internet Access.

  It was a low-intensity form compared with some of the ones she had had to complete in the US; there were the usual questions concerning identity, status, finances and occupation, none of which bothered her. She hesitated over the questions about her job, wondering how she should describe it. There was no official Bureau policy on this, although when answering similar form questions in the US she and other agents usually named their employer in vague terms, such as ‘US Government’ or ‘Dept. of Justice’, and their job as ‘civil servant’ or ‘federal employee’. For the time being she left this box blank, and turned over the page.

  Here she found a list of questions about her intended use of the equipment, ranging from e-mail, internet conferencing and access to website browsing, to use of extreme experience scenarios—general and
specific uses, with a long list of the latter—and training modules. She glanced through the list, remarking to herself on the extent of what was on offer.

  She confined herself to two choices: the general scenario option, because she was unclear about what was available and this seemed to open the way to the rest, and from the training modules ‘Target Practice: Handgun’. A note to this one said that applicants were required to produce accreditation or licence, and a police or employer’s reference also had to be produced.

  She ringed it anyway, then returned to the front of the form. In the box enquiring about her employer, she wrote ‘US Dept. of Justice—FBI’, she described herself as ‘federal agent’, and in the Number of Years Employed box she wrote ‘16’.

  After another wait at the reception desk Teresa handed in her form, and waited while Paula Willson checked through it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said after a moment. ‘May I have some identification, Mrs Simons, and your credit card?’

  Teresa handed over her Baltimore First National Visa, and her Bureau ID. The young woman ran the card through the electronic swipe, and while waiting for a response she glanced at the ID. She handed it back without comment, then typed a few entries on the keyboard in front of her.

  Finally she said, ‘I’m afraid I’m not able to assign handgun target-practice authorization myself. Would you mind waiting for a few minutes, and I’ll ask our duty manager to see you?’

  ‘No, of course not. You said there were some slots free this afternoon. Assuming I get the go-ahead, can I book one of them now?’

  Paula Willson looked surprised, but she typed at the keyboard, and in a moment said, ‘Well, we have target range software free at three-thirty, in just under an hour. And there’s another slot at five. Or would you prefer to use the general scenarios?’