Banquo's Ghosts

by Richard Lowry

  The receptionist had led Wallets through the glass doors and across the noisy bullpen toward the floor-to-ceiling glass partition of the editor’s office. On a couch, Wallets could see an Asian kid playing a Game Boy. But it was O’Hanlon—already there with Bryce—who really captured his attention. The tough Irish DOJ lawyer looked like his face had been cast in black iron—angry at the world, certainly, but angrier at himself.

  The editor in chief didn’t mind the temporary gag order when O’Hanlon coldly explained, using the magic words, “unknown number of casualties at the city’s bridges and tunnels,” but did insist the Post have a man inside the VIP meeting.

  “Nice try,” Wallets told him. The boss of the paper smiled and shrugged. Then to the geology major playing Game Boy Final Fantasy V on the couch, Wallets asked, “Han, how would you like to earn some extra credit?”

  The VIPs decided on the Waldorf-Astoria, hotel of presidents. A massive single city block all to itself with four entrances—north, east, south, west, facilitating inconspicuous entrance and egress. The place sported the most nimble private security in the city, prepared to deal with a president’s staff or a potentate’s retinue.

  O’Hanlon represented the Department of Justice at the table, while Bryce looked on from a metal folding chair along the wall. Wallets stayed out on the street. For what it was worth, O’Hanlon put on his best penny-loafer smile to disarm the political brutes of New York City’s top governing echelon.

  “Don’t you think the Fire Commissioner should be here?”

  Faces looked to faces; nobody had thought to call. Yes. Certainly. Right away. A chastised assistant to the Mayor’s press secretary got on the phone.

  “We’ll wait.”

  A short ten minutes later they began; unfortunately there were more questions than answers.

  “Whaddaya mean you don’t know what this stuff is? Don’t you have a sample? What are we calling this shit, the Grunge? They told me you found evidence twenty-six hours ago in a Queens junkyard.” This from the Fire Commissioner, already bent sideways at being the last informed and by some flunky to boot.

  “No material, just traces,” O’Hanlon explained; his voice got harder. “And just by freakin’ accident, as our goddamn operation was cancelled not thirty minutes earlier.” He slid the inter-agency memo across the table. “We were shut down by some bureaucrat at Langley. I’m sure you all know him.” The memo made its way around the table, the name Andover murmured. Shoulders shrugged, heads shook. Faces looked to faces once more; nobody recognized the name. And nobody wanted to be caught knowing this loser in any event.

  They returned to the matter at hand, attempting to grasp the magnitude of their problem, groping its extremities. From the head of the city’s Transit Department:

  “You mean they coulda dumped a teaspoonful in every other train car? We have miles of rolling stock! We’re going to have to uncouple every friggin’ car and swab it down. I don’t even think the union will allow their men inside. There’s nothing in their contract about that.”

  From the representative of the Centers for Disease Control:

  “We don’t even know what the cleaning agent should be. We need a representative sample.”

  From the Medical Examiner:

  “We’re doing the autopsy now, but my preliminary finding is that the kid’s brain burned up after he cleaned his ear with his pinky or touched his fingers to his mouth after touching his shoes—maybe when he retied a loose lace. In his case, there was massive capillary shrinkage in a matter of hours. That might be the nature of the particles; we just can’t tell right now.”

  From the Chief of Police:

  “Once it becomes generally known in the department, I expect a 35 percent sick out rate. Falling buildings with asbestos dust is one thing; sure, they’ll go in. But asking men to patrol radioactive streets?” He wagged his head. “If it becomes common knowledge at One Police Plaza, nobody in Long Island, Westchester, or Jersey will leave their home tomorrow.”

  From the Chief of the Metropolitan Transit Police, his sister agency, regarding the subway cops:

  “If word spreads, the Transit Authority can expect a 90 percent sick out.”

  Somebody asked incredulously, “You mean 10 percent will actually come in to work?”

  The Transit Police Chief shrugged. “I guess the ones that just want to escape the ol’ ball and chain. Radiation better than Wife. Go figure.”

  The Deputy Mayor was scribbling on a yellow pad. “I keep coming back to our press statement. I’m leaning toward the words ‘limited exposure. ’ That seems safest. But those words are predicated on the idea we know what the limits are. When the hell will we know that?”

  Everyone looked around the table at one another.

  And O’Hanlon shined his penny-loafer smile on them, saying, “That’s what we’re trying to find out. A sample of the material and a general roll-up of the dispersal units. We’re going to need official authorization for a general sweep. And right now we don’t know how many people are involved.”

  “And so when the hell will we know that? ”

  Peter Johnson’s cell phone rang. The woman’s voice sounded familiar, though distant. “Turn on your laptop.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Look at your cell phone.”

  A photo appeared on his cell, sent to him by text: A postage stamp-sized image, terribly clear, of a person sitting in a chair, hooded. Not like the photo taped to the back of Dr. Yahdzi’s Kodak Moments back in Iran, but horribly familiar. Johnson’s heart stopped.

  “Will you turn on your laptop now?”

  It took a moment to boot up. A window blinked for Instant Message Vid-Cam link access. Johnson hit “Allow access.” The same picture again. Person in a hood. The hood came off. And this time Johnson’s heart leapt into his throat and nearly came out his mouth. Giselle sat in the chair. Her eyes taped shut, her mouth taped shut. Her face looked red and bloated, tears glistened on her cheeks. The hood went back on.

  Then the voice came again, and this time Johnson recognized the voice. Yasmine. The vid-cam panned, leaving Giselle in the chair and coming to Yasmine, who sat behind a table, much as she had back in Mahabad, at the interrogation.

  “I’m not going to tell you twice. If I have to repeat anything, no matter how simple, we cut something off her. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Here Yasmine began to explain. “My colleagues feel that the only purpose for this white American whore is to die in the service of Allah. Do you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  Yasmine explained more. “Of course, we could execute her for pure punishment—but frankly that is not enough. We need to achieve something greater than the American whore’s mere life. And alive, she can still serve a purpose. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  Yasmine asked one question, “And you will help us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Anton will contact you. You will meet him and do what he says. Is there anything you do not understand?”

  Johnson said one final word: “No.”

  He felt as sick as he had sitting at the interrogation table in Iran moments from wetting himself. The possibility of something like this lurked in the back of his mind ever since his fingers touched the photo of Giselle taped on the back of the picture. He felt a kind of nightmarish vindication: dammit all to hell, he knew it. And wanted to kneecap every bastard at B & D, castrate every authority in the city and federal government who allowed this—but, above all hated himself. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, knowing he was going to weep.

  Anton met him at a familiar restaurant, out in the open. Why not? This wasn’t back-alley; this was pure blackmail and as such could be done in the light of day, or should we say the light of Il Monello once again.

  Johnson sat down with a knot in his stomach and kept his hands in his lap, lest Anton see them shaking. Trembling hands, and sober too. He glared at Anton with fantasies of gr
abbing him by that impeccable hair, slamming his head into the table where they sat, again and again, wine glasses falling to the floor and the tablecloth slowly staining bright red from the Frenchman’s bleeding forehead. In front of everyone. His hands had stopped shaking.

  Anton saw none of this in Johnson’s eyes, merely turning his wrists this way and that to admire his new Alfred Dunhill Onyx Coin cuff links.

  Anton began, “I know what you’re thinking, but . . . ”

  “Please,” Johnson said, “no bullshit. Just tell me what you want.”

  He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a fold of papers. They slid across the tablecloth. “Here.”

  Johnson unfolded the multiple sheaves as the waiter appeared with a Shiraz and began the business of uncorking the bottle. Johnson felt horribly exposed, trying to focus on the writing in front of him and gritting his teeth at the pop of the cork and the little gurgle as the waiter gave Anton his “taste” for approval. The wine swirled in the Frenchie’s glass, the required snuff of the aroma, the ceremonial sip, the nod of approval.

  At first Johnson thought the papers were some kind of mistake; then he realized they were an affidavit of some sort, three copies like multiple contracts:

  “I, Peter Johnson, being of sound mind and body wish to confess and testify to the details and particulars of my recent trip to Iran. First to admit that I traveled as an intelligence agent at the behest of the United States to injure the Islamic Republic of Iran in violation of the UN Charter, international laws, and comity of nations. Failing in my mission to secure state secrets and intelligence, I sought to assassinate Dr. Ramses Pahlevi Yahdzi of the University of Isfahan as per my instructions. In attempting this outrageous mission I have abused the trust of the people of Iran, a people of peace and righteousness who wish harm to no nation or race. I have sullied myself and my country in the eyes of the world and of Allah . . . ” This business went on for about ten pages in a similar vein. He flipped to the second and third pages, full of dense type blurring together.

  “They want a confession,” Johnson said.

  Anton took a snootful of the Shiraz. “Obviously.” He paused from his wine to stare at Johnson across the white tablecloth. And suddenly Johnson noticed the table was only set for one.

  “The affidavit will be released along with the videotapes of your interrogations, when the time comes. Everything in a nice bow.” Anton made a motion with his hands, like tying a knot. “But they also want this confession in your own handwriting, so you’ll have to copy it out and return it.”

  He pulled out a maroon—technically Bordeaux-colored—Montblanc Classique Meisterstuck pen from the pocket of his suit jacket, uncapped it, and held it out to Johnson: “You can sign and date the bottom of the last page there, right here. I’ll take two copies now.”

  Were they out of their minds? Johnson wanted to shout, but kept himself in check. Yet it made a kind of sense. A kind of justification: you hit us; we hit you. Backdated payback. He checked the dateline—yeah, three weeks ago, while he was still in Iran. Now they could justify anything.

  “She trusted you,” Johnson said, his voice rising despite himself.

  “Don’t make a scene,” Anton replied, flatly.

  “Don’t make a scene!” Johnson hissed under his breath, his fingers curled around the tablecloth. “What about Giselle?” A couple at a table within earshot at a nearby table looked their way, then quickly averted their eyes—a domestic dispute, none of their business.

  Anton reached over the table and put his hand on top of one of Johnson’s. Not to reassure, but to control. He pressed it downward slightly, and his eyes widened, as his speech slowed down, deliberate, not to be mistaken: “I’m really glad we had this chance to talk.”

  Johnson closed his eyes and slumped in his seat, paralyzed by the image of his bound and gagged daughter. Of all the dissipations and betrayals of his life, of all the ways he had let her down, nothing, nothing compared to this. Had he really and truly considered the price of his decision? To go to Iran, to sit in a stinking car through a sandstorm, to pull the trigger? The answer so obvious now. He must have been crazy.

  What could he do, except what the odious French banker wanted? A confession was the least of it; they had his kid. He opened his eyes, and Anton was holding the pen up again, looking bored. Johnson could see the engraving of Anton’s initials at the top of it, in serif type, AHA. Ah-hah. He flipped to the last page of the first copy and hastily signed. Then put down the pen and handed it back, keeping the remainder of the sheaves. “When do you need my handwritten version?”

  Anton settled back in his seat. “Tonight,” he said amicably. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  He offered him a tiny electronic device, about the size of a matchbook. “Here, it’s a wire. A little insurance. We hear everything you do, and, because it can be tracked, someone will be following your every move . . .” He paused to break a heel of bread from his roll and found the butter plate.

  “As for me, I’m going to sit here and have an early dinner. After dinner I’m taking your first ex-wife to the Mamet on Broadway. That should give you plenty of time. Now go back to Brooklyn, and do what you do best—write.”

  Johnson stood outside his Brooklyn Heights apartment and put the key in the front lobby door. Then wondered if Yasmine was listening to the sound of his key in the door from some obscure corner of New York, with Giselle nearby. The thought made him want to crawl away and die.

  He stabbed the elevator button and waited, sinking into himself, feeling smaller and smaller. The car groaned quietly down to his level and clunked to a stop, and the door slid open. Someone inside—Johnson hardly bothered looking up. But when he did, nearly gasped. Wallets stood in front of him, with a finger to his lips in an emphatic sign to keep quiet. Shush.

  They rode up to Johnson’s apartment together in silence and went inside. Still, Johnson couldn’t settle down; his eyes felt like they were going to pop out of his head. Wallets waved him toward the back of the apartment. A guy in a Padres cap and plumber’s jeans came out of his bedroom. Right, the technician—Jordan? Yeah, the thorough and deliberate Jordan—from the surveillance van that early morning in Brooklyn after Johnson’s wild subway ride. Jordan too held a finger to his lips. He came over to Johnson, fished the tracking device out of Johnson’s pocket. He patted Johnson down and, finding his cell phone, fished that out and began fiddling with it on Johnson’s desk. The technician had set up equipment: a kind of laptop with snug foam receptacles that allowed both the cell phone and Anton’s little matchbook tracking unit to be pressed into the foam and hook up. Apparently the technician was making the two devices talk to each other. Wallets put his finger to his lips again. Sheesh, he didn’t need to be told three times!

  Satisfied, Jordan the Technician put Johnson’s phone and electronic matchbook on the desk. Wallets led Johnson the few paces back toward the front door and paused there while the technician went into the bathroom. When the toilet flushed, Wallets opened the door and escorted Johnson out the door. Then the technician turned on the shower. Cover noise.

  A few steps down the hall, Johnson blurted. “They’ve got Giselle.”

  Wallets didn’t raise his voice, just nodded: “We know.”

  Johnson wanted to blurt a thousand expletives, but Wallets’ matter-of-fact explanation pre-empted him: “We’ve grafted your cell phone CPU onto their tracking device. Cloned it, so to speak. Make some noise at this end, and it’ll be picked up by the matchbook, and we’ll be able to trace it back to its source. Sort of like a party line. Wherever they’re listening. They track you with their device; we track them with their device. Every signal a two-way street. They’ll still hear your voice but won’t know we’re listening in too.”

  “Okay. Where are we going?”

  “We’re not going anywhere, yet.”

  Jordan the Technician came out into the hall and gave thumbs up. All set.

  “Now go fi
nish your shower, scribble up what you have to for Frenchie, and wait for his call. We’ll be downstairs.”

  Back in the apartment Johnson saw the Hung Fat van idling in front, in all its white clunky glory. God bless Jordan. They’d laid pen and paper out for him. And his hands were shaking again.

  Anton’s call came about 7 PM. So the Frenchie banker had decided to abandon Mamet. The two men arranged to meet at Carl Schurz Park, a thin strip of manicured lawn and garden that hugged the river’s edge of Manhattan, overlooking the FDR Drive, the city’s east-side artery. Night cast a pall across the East River. The bell-shaped classic New York street lamps made strollers cast shadows along the paving stones and the trees in the park, their bare branches reaching to the bald faces of stone luxury apartments.

  Johnson saw Anton approach from East End Avenue under the trees of the park.

  The two men stood on the river promenade. The cars roaring along the roadway underneath their feet provided the thrumming undercurrent to Johnson’s anger.

  “Look, you garçon de merde, here—take your parchment.” He shoved his handwritten confession and the affidavits back. “Now how do I get my daughter?”

  Anton sneered at him, and Johnson could see the sneer like a yellow smile under the lights. Johnson stared back at the young man, eyes blank and challenging. As good an imitation of Wallets’ gravedigger eyes as he could muster. Anton stepped away from Johnson, whispering muted words over the roar of traffic.

  “We’ll let you know.”

  Dismissing Johnson, he flipped open his cell phone and walked lightly toward the welcoming narrow strip of parkland, then the luxurious east side of Manhattan. And he didn’t get twenty steps.