A Murder of Crows

by David Rotenberg

  * * *

  They boarded the small plane shortly after they arrived at the airport, and as the plane took off Decker leaned his forehead against the window and took in the world beneath him.

  Africa from the air.

  The Namibian desert, like a vast stretched cow’s hide, is broken only by folds of upshot rocks and creases of riverbeds that hold only the promise of water.

  The sheer size of something with so little hope of vegetation or water plagues the mind and presents a stark challenge to those who think they are brave and capable—and willing to challenge God, who had clearly signalled to one and all that this place, this land, was not for human habitation.

  Across the vastness of sand and jutting rock a single two-lane road—the Trans-Kalahari Highway—dares car and driver to ante up, to bet your life on a crossing.

  But there is a purity here, and not that Lawrence of Arabia crap. There’s nothing much clean about clots of dust in your hair or up your nose or filling the tiny air pockets of your lungs. But there is a feeling of it all being sanitary, probably because sweat evaporates before it can dampen your clothes or accumulate in your pits or crotch, and your chest always feels dry, and there is no odour—none.

  The Comair stewardesses were dressed British Air proper—and were just as haughty—but they were young and firm and black with names like Khabo, not young and firm and white with names like Patricia.

  Around Decker the guttural snark of Afrikaans and the harsh crunch of German filled the air.

  And outside the plane’s skin, the sun beat down unhindered by cloud or hint of rain: 26, 29, 33, 39, 42 degrees Celsius. What clearer sign does the Almighty need to give that this is no place for humans?

  Yet men survive here—hearty, ingenious men—and have done so since well before recorded time. They have left their marks on flat stones: giraffes for rain, lions for courage, zebra for food.

  Prayers on rocks.

  As the plane approached Jo’burg, lush green valleys spread out like spiders’ legs from the city and belie the real wealth of the great blue funnels that rocket diamonds to the surface and Johannesburg to the map.

  From there it was a direct flight to JFK, and then . . . well, that was up to Special Agent Yslan Hicks.

  * * *

  In the book store of Tambo, Johannesburg’s international airport, Decker felt a familiar subtle pull. He turned the corner and there was a display of reissued novels of John le Carré.

  “Didn’t he write some movies?” Yslan asked.

  For a moment he’d forgotten that she and her guys were keeping a tight rein on him.

  “Yeah, they made some movies from his books.”

  “The Spy Who Comes in from the Cold?”

  “Close. Came in from the Cold.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Good movie.”

  He turned to look at her, a bit surprised that she felt that way. “Yeah. Not sure if he wrote the screenplay, but with the exception of the ending the thing was pretty faithful to the novel. And Richard Burton shows you why he was one of the great actors of his generation, if not the greatest actor of his generation.”

  “More than Elizabeth Taylor’s main squeeze, huh.”

  Way more, Decker thought, but chose to ignore the comment. Even this clearly bright woman was not immune to the American disease of star chasing. It surprised him. He knew it shouldn’t, but it did.

  He turned back to the book display.

  A few novels had been put back randomly. He pushed one aside and saw a copy of A Murder of Quality, a very early le Carré that he hadn’t read in years. He often preferred the early works of great artists to the better crafted later ones. As a director he was attracted to the early works of the masters—Baal and In the Jungle of Cities by Brecht, Peer Gynt by Ibsen, A Dream Play by Strindberg. There was something about the youthful rawness that attracted him. Their desire to stretch the form—to find truth beyond the restraints of their art. Dreams too big for the piano. Paths where there were no paths before. He’d directed most of these early works, and although he appreciated the famous later works, it was the early works that continued to draw him. Like A Murder of Quality, he thought as he leafed through the opening pages.

  “You’re smiling,” Yslan said. “Something funny in there?”

  “No,” he said, closing the book. “Something pleasing.”

  At the counter the girl scanned the bar code on the book cover. As she did he noticed a rack of new CDs behind her. He wondered who exactly bought CDs anymore, but he enjoyed looking at the covers. He found it easier to know what he wanted when he saw the jewel case covers rather than the tiny images at iTunes. He vaguely remembered as a kid loving the artwork on record covers—some of which he still had. And the records inside those covers, for that matter. Although it had been years since he had a working record player.

  The featured CD was the new Adele release. He asked if there was a Wi-Fi hotspot in the airport.

  “Not gonna buy the CD, are you. No one does. Just gonna download what you want?” she asked with a toss of her blue and gold hair.

  “Yeah.”

  She took out a pencil and scribbled something on a scrap of paper and pushed it across to him. It was her employee access code for the airport’s Wi-Fi. She smiled. He smiled back and turned to go.

  “Hey.”

  He turned to her.

  “You owe me for the novel.”

  He paid her, and as she went to make change his eye was drawn to the rack of CDs again—to a rerelease of an early Bob Dylan album. He nodded.

  “What?” she said as she put the change into his hand.

  “Dylan,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  “Yeah. It’s an old one so you can actually figure out what song he’s singing.”

  Decker knew what she meant. He never missed a Bob Dylan concert, but nothing did as much damage to Bob Dylan’s music as Bob Dylan live.

  Yslan cleared her throat loud enough to remind Decker that she was waiting.

  He thanked the girl again and headed to the Wi-Fi hotspot.

  * * *

  He took out his iPod and punched in the Wi-Fi code the girl had given him. It promptly announced that this was the private airport code and should be used “judiciously.” He just loved that in South Africa they assumed that folks knew what the word “judiciously” meant. He supplied his iPod account number and downloaded some early Rickie Lee Jones—he particularly liked the song that began “Show business kids making movies of themselves, they don’t give a fuck about anybody else.” After that he downloaded the new Adele and some Antony and the Johnsons. Then he punched in a search for Bob Dylan. The new rerelease of Highway 61 Revisited came up first, but he found himself momentarily unable to make his fingers select the album.

  “What?” Yslan asked.

  “What, what?”

  “You’ve got a funny look on your face. One I’ve seen before.”

  He looked back at the surface of his iPod and wondered again why he didn’t just select the album. Then—with a force of effort—he did. And immediately he felt a coldness around him, something metallic in his hand and a slickness between his fingers. He shivered.

  “You cold?” Yslan asked.

  “No,” he managed. “When’s our flight?”

  * * *

  As the plane lifted from the runway, Decker took a last look. Africa was a place of beginnings and endings for him—and he knew it. And now it was time to return to a more complex world that was supposed to be his own.

  This world—Namibia, Etosha, Mowani, Wolwedans—Inshakha—were really just dream interludes for him. They belonged to others—fabulous and gracious and at times deeply insightful others—but they belonged to others nonetheless.

  And it would always be so—or so he believed.

  But where did he belong? To Canada? To Toronto? To the Junction—to the Junction yes—but the others—that was to be seen.

  Seth belonged to Canada and Canada to him—but tha
t was different.

  Theo and Leena and Trish at least belonged to Toronto.

  Eddie—well, Eddie belonged to his own very special world, a world that he hoped would at some point include his daughter.

  SOLITAIRE

  At the intersection of Highway 6 and Highway 1 in the gift shop, petrol station and bakery that make up the entirety of Solitaire, Namibia, the fat white man named Moose finished the first of the day’s eighty-six deep-dish apple pies, awaiting the coming that he had begun sensing almost five months ago. Then Inshakha walked into his bakery, smiled, and said, “He’s on his way.”

  32

  A SNIPPET OF AN AIRPLANE CONVERSATION—T MINUS 7 DAYS

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE MID–SOUTH ATLANTIC, YSLAN TURNED TO Decker and said, “The body count is up to two hundred thirty-seven.”

  “Could there be more?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And when we get there you want me to do what exactly?”

  Yslan considered telling him about Viola Tripping, then decided to wait until they got their feet back on terra firma, so she said, “Do whatever we ask you to do.”

  “That’s a bit of a wide job description.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tough. There are two hundred thirty-seven people dead. You’ll do whatever we tell you to do. Clear?”

  “As mud,” he replied, then took out his iPod and popped in his earphones. He unwrapped the complimentary sleep mask. “Do you mind?”

  “No. Get some rest; you’ll need to be wide awake when we get there.” An image of Viola Tripping popped into her head and she repeated, “Wide awake.”

  Decker slipped on the sleep mask and—to the plaintive falsetto of Antony and the Johnsons singing Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”—dozed off.

  33

  A PRIVACY OF THOUGHTS—T MINUS 6 DAYS

  HE COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. EVEN NOW, SIX DAYS LATER, HE couldn’t believe it.

  It had all gone off better than he could have imagined—ka-boom, then KA-BOOM, boom, boom, boom! And such good luck; better luck than he’d ever had—ever. Not only that the bombs had worked like that snot-nosed professor had claimed they would, but he’d tricked Mr. Professor and ka-boom boom boom to him, too. So who’s the smart one now?

  And who are all those cops and FBIs and the other spooks looking for? A-rabs!

  He’d seen it. They were all over the college, pulling aside brownies and ripping off face hankies and drillin’ those fuckers new assholes.

  They were looking for him but they’d never find him. Cause he wasn’t no fuckin’ A-rab. In fact he hated A-rabs—every fuckin’ one of them who came to this richy bitchy college and thought they were so much better than him.

  34

  A CONFUSION OF RIDDLES—T MINUS 6 DAYS

  HARRISON STOOD AND PUT HIS PHONE ON SPEAKER TO FIELD THE call from Mallory, the head of Homeland Security. He quickly filled him in on the arrival of Decker Roberts, although he avoided mentioning Viola Tripping.

  “And you really think—”

  “Yes. It’s worth a try.” Changing the subject he asked, “How’re your guys doing with those photo enhancements?”

  “Good. You’ll have them by three o’clock.”

  “Do you have the final IT report for me?”

  “Yeah, there was no unusual chatter before the attack, no one’s even bothered to claim it. What have you got from your end?”

  “The explosions were so massive that we’re still sorting out the debris, although I doubt it will get us much of anywhere.”

  “Harrison, it’s been almost—”

  “I know. But this isn’t like the downing of an airplane or the blowing up of a subway train.”

  “No. It was just the largest terrorist attack on U.S. soil since nine-eleven and the president is anxious—”

  “For results. Yeah, I get that, Mallory.”

  “The stock market is down more than thirty percent.”

  “Did you check short sellers?” It wasn’t well publicized, but al-Qaeda may well have shorted the entire market two days before 9/11 and made off with billions of dollars.

  “We checked—nothing out of the ordinary. If anything, trading was long, not short.”

  “What about the date? Al-Qaeda’s addicted to historical precedent.”

  “April twenty-first? Means nothing to our experts. And the claims on the jihadi websites ring hollow.”

  “You just said there were no claims.”

  “Those sites claim responsibility every time a drunk teenager drives his stupid ass off a highway in Nebraska. Besides, not a single thing we’ve held back from the public appeared in any of the claims. Not one. If they could stick their finger in our eye, Harrison, believe me, they would.”

  Harrison sat heavily in his chair. He’d actually assumed most of this before he’d picked up the phone. But now he and Mallory knew that this just might be the most dangerous of dangers—something new, an innovator, a novelist in the old sense of the word.

  He ended the phone call quickly, logged its time, then waited for Yslan.

  * * *

  Yslan gave Decker an hour to get settled in the dorm room they’d found for him. It was what colleges call a psycho single, designed for students who just can’t get along with other students—perfect for someone who “does not play well with others.” And it fit Yslan’s purposes. The room was on the top floor by itself at the end of a corridor. It allowed her to post a single marine guard to be sure that Mr. Roberts stayed put.

  After an hour she appeared at his door and did her best to prepare Decker for what he was about to see—and experience. Finally she said, “You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

  They left the dorm, and as they passed by the mirror-sunglassed marine, Decker shouted, “Crossing. Two crossing, boss, two.”

  The marine didn’t flinch.

  Before Yslan could say anything, Decker said, “Name that film, Special Agent Yslan Hicks, and win a prize.”

  “Paul Newman eats a lot of eggs—that film.”

  “Cool Hand Luke.”

  “Right.”

  They walked up the hill of the campus and passed two other armed marines as they entered a low building that evidently had been built into the side of the mountain. They walked down a long, dimly lit corridor and stopped at a metal door. More guards. One on either side of the door. Decker ignored them and turned to Yslan.

  “She’s in there?”

  Yslan nodded.

  “She’s just a small woman, right?” Decker asked.

  “Right.”

  “So what’s with the guards and the steel door?”

  “It’s the way she wants it. A room with no windows and a heavy door.”

  Decker did his best to maintain his calm. A room with no windows was the stuff of his nightmares.

  “You all right, Mr. Roberts?”

  “Sure. Just a bit jet-lagged,” he lied.

  “A sixteen-hour flight does that.”

  “Yeah. So what else can you tell me about this Viola Tripping?”

  “As I told you in the dorm room, she’s a speaker for the dead. Put her on the spot a person died and she’ll recite what the person was thinking. In her own way her talent is as unique as yours.”

  Decker stared at her, then closed his eyes: straight lines—a truth.

  “You think she’s like me?”

  “I think she’s more than that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Yslan hesitated, made a decision, and said, “I think she’s one of you.”

  More straight lines.

  “So what do you need me for if you have her?”

  “Mr. Roberts, she recites what people were thinking—just recites. If the person—”

  “Lied, she’d repeat the lie. Like the twin sisters at the fork in the road to London.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just a riddle.”

  “What’s the riddle?”r />
  “Is now the time for—”

  “Tell me the damned riddle.”

  “Okay. So there are identical twin sisters who live at the fork in the road to London. One sister always tells the truth. The other sister always lies, and between them they will only answer one question. One and only one. Because they are twins, you don’t know which sister answered your knock at their door—so what’s the one question you ask to be sure to know which is the proper road to take to London?”

  Yslan thought, then smiled. She never used to be able to figure out silliness like this, but since she’d spent time with Decker Roberts her way of thinking, her perception of the world had changed.

  “So?” Decker demanded.

  Yslan spoke slowly, completing the idea even as the words came to her lips. “If I was to ask your sister which is the correct road to take to London, what would she say?”

  Decker nodded then said, “And?”

  “And whichever road the sister said, take the other road. The honest sister will honestly repeat the lying sister’s lie and the lying sister will lie about the truth that the truthful sister would say—so both sisters would point you to the wrong road.”

  “Very good,” Decker said, but it troubled him that she could figure it out.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” he lied, then he turned to her. “I thought deathbed confessions were accepted in most courts. So why do you need me at all?”

  “These folks didn’t know they were going to die—that’s an important element in a deathbed confession. They thought they were going to see another sunrise. They had no idea the end was around the corner.”

  “I assume under their feet.”

  “Yeah—that.”

  “Okay, but Viola repeats people’s final thoughts—their thoughts. People don’t lie to themselves.”

  Yslan’s stare brought her brilliant translucent blue eyes into clear focus. And, as at the first time he met her, Decker was not able to hold her gaze.