Cost of Life

by Joshua Corin

  Chapter 25

  During the insurrection, Larry had been confined by the two men there to a seat in business class, and this was where he remained for all of Bislan’s speech.

  He still held his phone in his hands.

  The call from Jim Christie was still on.

  The FBI had overheard the rebellion, the gunfire, the speech, everything.

  On his way from the flight deck, Bislan hadn’t spotted Larry, but on his way back, he stopped to exchange words with his associates and couldn’t help but notice the pilot sitting beside them.

  “Captain Walder! What a pleasant surprise! I would have expected to see you with your family. Please tell me your presence here at the front of the plane was not to serve as some kind of lookout for the rebellion.”

  “No,” Larry replied, and handed him the phone. “You’ve got a call.”

  Bislan cocked his head in curiosity and took the phone—but before speaking into it, he made sure to accomplish what he had stopped here to do, namely tasking his pair of laptop jockeys, Alvi and Ansor, with the onerous task of corpse disposal. Without a word, they picked up their empty duffel bags and headed to the tail of the airplane. Only then did Bislan address his mystery caller:

  “Hello?”

  “This is SAC Jim Christie with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Who am I speaking with?”

  “I think you know exactly who you’re speaking with, SAC Jim Christie.” Bislan returned to the solitude of the flight deck and rested his stress-worn bones in the captain’s chair. “You may not know my name…but you know who I am.”

  “Then at this point, sir, on behalf of the government of the United States of America, I request that you and your companions disembark the aircraft immediately. This doesn’t need to go any farther. No one else needs to be harmed.”

  “But Special Agent Christie, that’s just not true. We need to be harmed. How else do we learn to avoid pain?”

  “How about by using our common sense?”

  “Ah, but common sense only can prepare us for common danger. You shelter a child from the uncommon evil of this world and you spoil him for life.”

  “Yeah, I overheard your little speech.”

  “Excellent! That will save me a great deal of repetition, although I would imagine by now at least half of the passengers have shared what’s to come with their friends and lovers and co-workers, not to mention the cable news outlets. Hmm. I wonder if any of them recorded my speech. I should turn on CNN and find out.”

  “You know we can’t let you proceed with your ‘experiment.’ ”

  “Oh, Special Agent Christie, you have to let it proceed. The consequences for interference are severe.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bislan watched the two body bags, now full, being carried off the plane. “As I told the passengers, it’s best to think of this as a game.”

  “This isn’t a game.”

  “No? Read John Nash. Read Leo Hurwicz. They insist life is a game and they’ve won Nobel Prizes. Who are you or I to argue with pedigree?”

  “Yeah, whatever. Listen, since we’re on a timetable and all, do you mind if we cut through the bullshit?”

  Bislan frowned. “I may not be an expert, Special Agent Christie, but insulting the man with the hostages doesn’t strike me as effective negotiation.”

  “Hostages? Let’s be real. You don’t think of those passengers as hostages.”

  “No? What are they?”

  “Your marketing team. And right now you’ve got them advertising this little experiment or game of yours and the more people they tell—you know, those friends and lovers and co-workers—the more TV networks like CNN carry the story, not to mention the online news aggregates and Facebook and Twitter, and soon you’ll have the whole world paying attention so when your website goes live, everybody’s going to want to check it out.”

  “People do like a spectacle.”

  “And everybody’s got a credit card. I assume you’ll be accepting all major credit cards on your website.”

  “And you are going to allow us to do so. It would be unfortunate if one or more of your credit card oligarchies was asked by your government not to comply. Quite unfortunate. On the other hand, we do not discriminate as to our customers. Anyone is welcome to bid. Even the Federal Bureau of Investigation! There’s no minimum and there’s no limit.”

  “Well, that’s good, because their families and friends will want to bid as much as they can. They don’t want to risk their sister or father or best pal being one of the bottom five. They’ll bid a lot and then the other people will need to top them because they don’t want their loved ones being in the bottom five and then there are those hundreds of millions of strangers watching all this go down and they won’t want anyone to be in the bottom five so a lot of them will bid too—maybe not as much, maybe only a few bucks, but a few bucks spread over a hundred million people is going to add up, don’t you think?”

  “When you spell it out like that, it does sound rather clever.”

  “But what happens after the three hours are up? You release five hostages and you kill five hostages and you’ve still got over a hundred fifty left. What happens then?”

  “Oh, isn’t it obvious? We play again. And then again. And then again. And then again. Each round getting shorter and shorter as the numbers dwindle smaller and smaller. In the end, of course, we still keep a few of the passengers alive. Otherwise what leverage would we have to deter you?”

  “And then what happens? You fly away? You disappear?”

  “With the sum we will have raised, I think we’ll be able to go wherever we want. If you had couple billion dollars in your bank account, where would you go, Special Agent Christie? Honolulu? The Amalfi Coast? I’ll bet you could buy yourself a couple of islands near Indonesia.”

  “Wherever you go, we’ll find you.”

  “No. You won’t. But come now. You didn’t want to talk with me so you could cast idle threats. You called to negotiate.”

  “It is the official policy of the United States government not to negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Yes, but I’m not a terrorist. I’m an extortionist. And it has been the official policy of the United States government to negotiate with thieves like us ever since you first unfurled your Stars and Stripes.”

  “Fine. What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. What could you possibly offer to counterbalance a multibillion-dollar payout? Hmm? Want to sell me a monument? I’ve always been rather fond of your Statue of Liberty.”

  “Yeah, it’s not for sale.”

  “You may want to reread your Adam Smith. Everything is for sale. Everything and everyone. How much are the lives of all these people on this plane worth to you?”

  Silence. Then:

  “I’m going to need some time to discuss this with my superiors.”

  Bislan smiled. “Special Agent Christie, take all the time that you need. You know where to find me.”

  He ended the call.

  Chapter 26

  On the drive back to Sandy Springs, Hayley had her car radio set to NPR. The reporters were analyzing the Flight 816 situation with input from their special guest, Alfred Cummings, retired director of the National Counterterrorism Center.

  “In scenarios such as this,” Cummings explained, “it’s vital to remember that the success factor for terrorism is just about zero percent. It reminds me of the old adage about insanity—you know, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? That’s terrorism.”

  “If it is so unsuccessful, then why does it persist in our modern world?”

  Cummings made what was intended to be a noise of pensive rumination, but in actuality…

  “Sounds like he’s farting through his nose,” said Xana.

  But Hayley didn’t laugh, didn’t even twitch a grin. She was still livid—and not without reason. Sure, she had been protected from watching Xana beat the living shit out of Yuri, but even outside the pawnshop she co
uld still hear his shrieks of agony. When the ambulance pulled up to the curb shortly thereafter, Hayley wasn’t at all surprised. She overheard Xana give the paramedics her statement—something along the lines of “he fell”—and then witnessed the elderly Russian, who had given her maybe the best bottle of soda she probably would ever drink, being carted on a stretcher out of his own charming place of business.

  His face was a crushed rose.

  Xana held two envelopes, one of which was scribbled with code and one of which was scribbled with ten names. It was this second envelope that had a corner wet and dark with blood.

  “Here’s a riddle for you,” she had said to Hayley on the walk back to the car. “Why would a prison notorious for never releasing anyone, ever, suddenly let loose ten of its inmates? And when were they released? Was it a year ago? Was it last week? Here’s an even better riddle: Why would these ten ex-inmates, enjoying a freedom they never expected to see again, then hijack an American plane?”

  Hayley’s apathetic reply was a mumbled “I don’t know.” She couldn’t clear her mind of Yuri’s broken face. She glanced down at Xana’s hands. The woman must have washed them clean before the EMTs showed up. Finally, she followed up her mumble with a clearer, louder “How many times have you done that before?”

  “Done what?”

  “Never mind.”

  And they didn’t talk again until they’d rejoined the traffic on the freeway and Xana had felt the need to comment on a radio guest’s noises, as if they, above all, with the madness of this day’s events, were in any way relevant. What was she, a sociopath?

  Del Purrich had warned Hayley. “Be careful around that woman,” he’d said, just before the intern boarded the elevator to meet Xana in the lobby. “She’s a black hole.”

  Hayley had assumed Del was exaggerating—or at least referring to a version of Xana Marx that no longer existed, the soused Xana Marx, enemy of houses. When Hayley had volunteered to be Xana’s chaperone, she’d done so enthusiastically. Someone with Xana’s vast, unqualified skill set belonged in the FBI, and her ousting had surely been premature.

  But now…

  They took the exit off the freeway. Soon they would be back at the office. Jim Christie would ask for a report and Hayley had no reservations about providing him with every detail of the truth, from the insubordination at the airport to the—yes, use the phrase—acts of torture committed in the pawnshop.

  The discussion on the radio suddenly went silent. Xana had clicked it off.

  “You think there’s a fixed line between right and wrong,” she said.

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I don’t mind being judged. I don’t mind it because I don’t find it especially relevant. Sometimes you got to cut off a leg to save a life.”

  “And sometimes you don’t.”

  “You think you could have persuaded Yuri to give you the names without the use of force? Go ahead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll be him,” she said, and then added, in a Russian accent perfect in match to the old man’s, “Persuade me.”

  Was she teasing her? Hayley glanced over at Xana. The woman was serious.

  “Well, Special Agent O’Leary? You want something?”

  Hayley pulled over into the nearest parking lot, which turned out to be a derelict gas station, and braked the car. If she was going to do this, she was going to do this.

  Could she do this?

  It was only, after all, her life’s ambition.

  But which psychological tactic was the best to take? Which would be the one that a man like Yuri would best respond to? What did Hayley know about him? He was old, obviously. He was an expat. He sold other people’s detritus.

  He gave her a free glass of ice-cold Coke on a hot day.

  Empathy.

  “Yuri,” she said, “do you—”

  “Stop call me that.”

  Hayley blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “That is not real name.”

  “I’m sorry. What would you like me to call you?”

  “Ronald Reagan.”

  “Your real name is Ronald Reagan?”

  “You ask what I want to be call.”

  “All right…um…Ronald, do you have a family? Of course you do. Everyone has a family.”

  “My family is dead.”

  “Yes, but at one time they weren’t. At one time they were alive. Right?”

  “I cannot argue with this statement.”

  “And you would do anything for them, right?”

  “What would you do?”

  Hayley blinked again. “Excuse me?”

  “For this list.” Xana waved the envelopes in the air. “What would you do to have names?”

  “You mean, like a trade? Well, Ronald, if you give me the names, what you’ll get in return is the knowledge and satisfaction that you’ve not only helped save scores of innocent lives but also, you know, spared their families all that grief.”

  “That is for later. What would you give me now?”

  “What do you…are you asking for money?”

  “I am not asking for money. Here. I will make it easy for you.”

  Xana reached into her pocket. She took out her crushed pack of cigarettes and her lighter.

  “I don’t understand,” said Hayley.

  Xana slid a cigarette out of the pack and held it aloft. “Smoke this and I give names.”

  “Very funny.”

  “ ‘Scores of innocent lives.’ ‘All that grief.’ Where is the funny?”

  “OK, OK, I get it. He was pushing you to drink and now you’re pushing me to smoke and neither of us could do what he wanted, blah blah blah, but I’ve got to tell you—it’s a bit of a false equivalency. If I smoke that cigarette, I’ll probably die. You taking one drink wasn’t going to kill you and potentially would save those same lives. Plus—plus—beating the truth out of him doesn’t guarantee he even gave you the right information. It just proves he wanted you to stop beating him.”

  Xana nodded—and then flicked awake the lighter—and then dipped the bloody corner of the second envelope into the flame.

  Hayley cried out for her to stop, but Xana merely opened the car door and leaned the envelope out into the midday sun. The paper curled into black ash. Hayley tried to reach across Xana to grab at the envelope, but her efforts were hopeless.

  “Stop!” she cried again. “What are you doing?”

  But it was too late. Fire devoured the names, the paper, everything, and really in no time at all. Xana let the breeze pick up the charred remains of the envelope. They flew away like a horde of gnats.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Careful,” Xana replied. “You don’t want to shout yourself into a coma. And besides, you still have this.”

  She handed Hayley the first envelope, the one with the coded inscriptions.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I don’t know. Give it to a code breaker. Because he used elements from lots of different alphabets, that should make it a little hard, but we’ve got some really good cryptography software. I mean, sure, they’re still trying to decipher KGB intercepts from the 1970s, but who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  Hayley’s eyes welled up. “Oh my God…are you so spiteful that you’re willing to sacrifice all those people just because I insulted your pride?”

  “What are you talking about? I offered you a trade. You didn’t smoke the cigarette. You made your selfish choice. I made mine.”

  “Jesus. You are a sociopath.”

  “Like I said, I don’t mind being judged.” Xana pulled her door shut. “Don’t we have places to be and all that jazz?”

  “They’re going to arrest you for obstruction of justice!”

  “I doubt it. Like you said, beating the truth out of Yuri didn’t guarantee it was even the right information. But let me ask you this: While I was pretending to be him, you saw I had the envelope with the names on it in my h
and. Why didn’t you just take it?”

  “Just take it? That…that wasn’t what we were…I mean…”

  “It would have been breaking the rules?”

  “Exactly!”

  “But you would have gotten the names. And with those names, you would have been able to provide the FBI with invaluable intel. The problem with thinking inside the box, Hayley, is that you’re restricted. You think these Chechen sons of bitches are worrying about restrictions?”

  “What are you saying—because they’re breaking the law, we have to break the law to even the playing field? There is such a thing as doing the right thing.”

  “And that’s exactly what you should tell all the families after their loved ones have been executed: ‘I’m sorry for your loss, but you can take heart that at least we did the right thing.’ I’m sure that will be a tremendous comfort. Now find me a pen.”

  Hayley reached into her pocketbook and handed Xana an FBI-branded click-top pen, which the older woman promptly used to write in the margins of the remaining envelope the list of ten names she had, of course, memorized.

  Chapter 27

  Travis Quick, Seat 18D, needed to eat.

  As if the stress of this hijacking weren’t enough to tax his volatile blood sugar, he hadn’t so much as noshed on anything since breakfast, and breakfast had been a bowl of cereal he’d scarfed down right before helping Nell secure Amy-Poo in her car seat so they could maybe be on time for once, and to the airport no less. But now he needed to eat.

  His brain felt swimmy.

  Sure, he could have packed a bag of gummi bears or something, but he had counted on a snack midway through the flight. Weren’t snacks included in the exorbitant fees he had paid to fly his entire family 927 miles? So what if Baby Amy had been free—his round-trip ticket and Nell’s round-trip ticket and Zelda’s round-trip ticket, all together, had ended up totaling almost two thousand dollars. At least their expenses once they arrived would be covered. Nell had won a week’s stay at the resort through a radio contest. Travis couldn’t remember the last time he’d listened to terrestrial radio. His daily commute was forty-five minutes long each way and he spent all of it in silence. It was the only silence he was guaranteed. He loved his family deeply, desperately, but lately he wondered if he loved that forty-five-minute bubble of silence just a little bit more.