Cost of Life

by Joshua Corin

  “He turned himself in.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, really. In a church. During mass. Six months ago.”

  What did it all mean? Xana glanced over at Giant Nezh’s corpse, which lay not too far away. If she’d only had a few more minutes with him…

  No. This one wasn’t ever going to talk.

  Especially not to her.

  “Do we know why Bislan and the others were released?” she asked Angelo.

  “That’s the thing. All evidence that they even exist has been wiped clean off the Internet. The only way we were able to make the connection that Bislan and Zviad were brothers was from one line on Zviad’s Interpol page.”

  “Except we’re not talking about some second-string car-bomber. Zviad helped orchestrate the attack on the Moscow Metro back in 2003. Not only would his immediate family be under constant surveillance but so would all known and past associates, friends, classmates…the fact that Zviad has a brother is not the kind of thing Russian intelligence can just brush under the carpet, not in the twenty-first century. OK. You know who you need to contact? Paul Kelly at the CIA.”

  “Didn’t Paul Kelly retire?”

  “Damn it. So who’s the current bureau chief in…?” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Scrotum-Face speaking to an older Guardsman, probably a supervisor. What a tattletaler. “Listen, Angelo, I’m probably going to have to go soon. Here’s what I need you to do.”

  “Xana—”

  “Just listen. Put Hayley on the phone and take us off speaker.”

  “Xana—”

  “Just do it, please.”

  Silence, then Hayley said, “I’m here.”

  “Are you still on speaker?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because I’d rather Angelo not hear what I’m about to say.”

  “What are you about to say?”

  Xana glanced down at Jim. That half grin on his face simply tickled her heart.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “For this morning. I…I should have done better. I wanted you to know that.”

  “Wow. Is that, like, the first time you ever apologized out loud?”

  “This is why I didn’t want to be on speaker.”

  Scrotum-Face and his supervisor were goose-stepping toward her now.

  “I really need to go, Hayley. In a little bit, you’re going to hear some horrible news. Make sure you let everybody know that Jim Christie was a hero. You got that?”

  “Wait—what do you mean ‘was’ a hero? What are you—”

  But by then the two National Guardsmen had arrived to take her away.

  Chapter 41

  After she gave her statement to the lead investigator, Xana was admonished not to go far, but given that the airport was still under martial law, this wasn’t really a viable concern. So Xana adjourned to the nearest washroom, cleaned as much blood off her hands and face as she could, and then wandered down to the atrium, letting her still-weak stomach roll at the smell of cooked meat.

  The only seat available in the steak house was at the bar.

  Of course.

  But at least the TV was tuned to anchormen reporting the dismal news. Maybe a touch of schadenfreude was just what the doctor ordered to distract Xana’s mind from that lovely, lovely array of labels running along the back of the bar on either side of the inevitable, unavoidable mirror.

  “Our sources indicate four fatalities now in that police shooting at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Airport. Authorities have not yet revealed the names of the deceased. The shooting took place at twelve forty-five P.M. on the third floor of the Domestic Terminal, in or around the airport precinct offices of the Atlanta Police Department.”

  The anchorman had a clean jaw and confident eyes. Farm-boy good looks. His tie was an American flag. Xana imagined ten thousand carbon copies of him storming the beaches of Western Europe on their way to the jungles of Southeast Asia. Central Asia would come later for him, but it would come.

  “As promised, we now take you live to the FBI press conference on the hijacking of Flight Eight Sixteen and the hundred seventy-four lives that hang in the balance.”

  The news network cut away from their apple-pie pretty boy to a decidedly less wholesome Del Purrich, standing onstage at Philips Arena. Someone forgot to add foundation and cream to his face; without makeup under those intense lights, the smarmy schmuck looked like a sickly albino. Still, Xana couldn’t help but feel a little pity for the man. All his career Del had slouch-slithered toward the national spotlight, but to have to step over the dead body of Jim Christie to get there…

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Special Agent Del Purrich of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I am the acting lead investigator in the matter of the hijacking of Flight Eight Sixteen. This is what we know. At six thirty-two this morning, Eastern Standard Time—”

  The spray-tanned bartender popped up between Xana and the mounted television. “Hey, what can I get you?”

  “You got a lunch menu?”

  He passed her the lunch menu. It was bound in red vinyl.

  “Just to let you know,” he added, laying on a thick North Jersey accent, “we’re out of tomatoes.”

  “OK.”

  “And pickles.”

  “OK.”

  “And we’re running low on french fries.”

  “Yeah, well, the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” She handed the menu back. “Just bring me a burger.”

  “How would you like it cooked?”

  “On a grill.”

  “Whatever. Want anything to drink?”

  Oh God, yes. Yes, please.

  “Water,” she grumbled.

  “Coming right up.”

  He walked away.

  She returned her attention to the TV, where the press conference had moved on to the questions and answers:

  Q: Do we know yet if this is al-Qaeda?

  DEL: We are still assessing the facts on the ground and therefore would urge caution before any unjustified conclusions are reached. Next question?

  Xana shook her head in amusement. Del always did have the realpolitik doublespeak down cold. The bartender delivered her water. The ice cubes tasted like soap.

  Q: What efforts if any are being made to rescue the passengers?

  DEL: Any and all operational activities vis-à-vis achieving a peaceful resolution to this conflict are currently being explored. Next question?

  Del wasn’t enjoying himself up there. None of his top-of-the-class smugness was on display. Well, he had known Jim Christie a long time.

  Almost as long as Xana had known Jim.

  Q: I have a source who has confirmed that the decision to ground all domestic air travel has stranded approximately eighteen thousand people across the country. Do you have a timetable for them on when the airports might be reopened?

  “Yeah,” muttered Xana. “God forbid this terrorist attack inconvenience Dick and Jane’s summer vacation.”

  To her left, a jarhead in desert fatigues snickered into his Sam Adams.

  Xana raised her glass of water and toasted him.

  “Awful rude to toast with water,” he said. His hands were quick; when he snapped his fingers, the bartender rushed over like a faithful mutt. “Get this feisty lady a real drink, would you now?”

  “That’s OK…” Xana said. She suddenly felt warm. “I’m fine.”

  “Now, come on, are you really denying a genuine war veteran on this day of days the opportunity to buy a beautiful woman a beer?”

  For a closer, the marine brought out the aww-shucks, boy-howdy grin.

  And it would have been so easy for Xana to politely demur, perhaps even flash him her sobriety chip, but she didn’t say a word. Was this pride again or something else? What caught her tongue? Was it shame?

  No.

  She wanted the drink.

  For fuck’s sake, her boss had just died in her arms. Surely she’d earned one beer.

  Da
mn it.

  She took out her phone—Jim’s phone—and turned it back on.

  The screen lit up. She—Jim—had seventeen missed voice messages. This was why she’d turned it off in the first place. She scrolled through the recent calls until she found the number she was looking for. She dialed it.

  “Who’re you calling?” asked the marine. “Your husband?”

  “My sponsor,” she replied.

  The person on the other line picked up immediately. “Hello?”

  “Hayley, hi. How are you?”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s all over the news! Is it true? Is he…?”

  “Yeah. He’s dead.”

  “Wait, who’s dead?” The marine frowned. Then he noticed the blood on Xana’s shirt. “Oh Jesus, were you involved in what happened upstairs?”

  Xana held up her one-minute finger and rotated away from him on her stool.

  “Hayley…I know it is incredibly unfair of me to burden you with this, but I’m at this place in the airport and I need you to tell me not to drink.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Or drink. Whichever you think is best.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  “I…well…OK…first of all, were you hurt?”

  “Hurt? No. It’s a miracle, really. Does that mean I shouldn’t drink or that I should?”

  “You’re making a joke out of—”

  “I swear to Christ, Hayley—I have never been more serious in my life.”

  “OK…well, in that case, you’re right. It is unbelievably unfair—not to mention irresponsible—to ask another person to make this choice for you—not to mention a teenager. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Hey, if I were able to process things clearly right now, you think I would have called you?”

  “Is this PTSD?”

  “Call it whatever you want.”

  “Why did you call me? I mean, why me?”

  Xana rubbed at her eyes. “Do we need to get into that now?”

  “You’re right. I should probably go…”

  “I think I need you to absolve me. I think I need you to either absolve me or condemn me. Does that make sense?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Hayley, I don’t know how else to say it, unless you want me to repeat it to you in Russian or Cantonese or—”

  “Why me?”

  “I have blood on my hands.”

  “So wash it off.”

  “I’m being metaphorical.”

  “So am I. Look, you’re an adult—more or less. You’re going to do what you’re going to do. You want me to absolve you? Fine. You’re absolved. But if you think that means anything, you’re crazy.”

  “I miss indulgences. Redemption for sale. That was a good system.”

  “Yeah, that was a little before my time.”

  “It’s not that I believe in heaven…”

  “You may want to file that under ‘things not to say to a girl who is dying.’ ”

  “Oh please. You don’t believe in heaven. Do you?”

  Hayley paused. Then:

  “I like happy endings.”

  “If only they weren’t so goddamn elusive…”

  “You want my advice? Here’s my advice: Don’t drink.”

  “Thank you, Hayley.”

  “Or drink. Whichever you think is best.”

  Xana chuckled. “Bitch.”

  “Hey, I learned from the master.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “Angelo is giving me a strange look. Are you going to be OK?”

  And that was the question, wasn’t it?

  Xana told Hayley yes and they said their good-byes.

  Then Xana took a deep breath.

  Then Xana spun around in her seat to face the marine.

  Sitting on his stool was a middle-aged Indian in a wide white turban. He was sipping at a Shirley Temple. Xana recognized the style of headwear as “Nok,” and therefore placed the gentleman as probably originating from Punjab. She greeted him in Hindi and then looked around the restaurant for her marine.

  “He left,” said the bartender, setting down her hamburger plate. “I think you scared him away.”

  “Yeah, I have that effect on people.”

  He reached for a glass. “You still want that drink?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m OK for now.”

  Her phone rang. It was still in her hand. She had forgotten to turn it back off—and was about to do just that when she saw the phone number on the screen.

  Hmm.

  She pressed TALK.

  “Hayley?” she asked.

  “Yeah, um, there’s a woman on the other line who says she knows you and needs to speak with you?”

  Xana didn’t have to ask who it was. With the day she was having, only one person could possibly have called. And once again the booze along the shelves appeared mighty, mighty alluring.

  Chapter 42

  After fifty-five minutes of pleading with her, fifty-five minutes of appealing to her reason and intellect, after fifty-five minutes of relentless petitioning, Marco and Maria Ortiz, Seats 23A and 23B, had finally convinced their daughter Conchita that their predicament was not, in fact, her fault.

  “Even though I moved to Atlanta…” wept Conchita.

  “We are so proud of you,” Marco replied. “We brag about you to everybody. We brag about you to strangers in the market.”

  Maria continued: “We brag so much that people have asked us to stop, but only because they are jealous. They wish their children were famous animators.”

  Marco and Maria were lying—they didn’t brag to strangers because that would have been rude—but parents lied to children all the time to calm them down. How many white lies had Marco and Maria spun over the years for their dear daughter? What harm was there in one more? What harm was there in one final, fond fib?

  Chapter 43

  For Madeline, the good news was that Bellum Vellum’s station chief in the Caucasus region finally got back to her. The bad news was what his email had to say:

  the O. is a fortress.

  even the toiletries can only be delivered by military.

  it’s a little like God. everybody knows about it, but nobody knows about it, really.

  terrible about the hijacking, c’est la guerre.

  hope all is well otherwise.

  —n. t.

  N. T. stood for “Nino Tsereteli.” Madeline had met the man once at a state dinner in Bahrain. He’d spent their entire conversation talking to her cleavage. But he apparently was very good at his job, playing yojimbo to the region’s tribes. If they were going to kill one another, they were going to kill one another with the training and firepower of Bellum Vellum. It was the cockroach-like immorality of men like him that made Madeline thank the Lord each and every day that she was born a lesbian.

  Madeline clicked REPLY and was formulating her response when she noticed the time and casually clicked on her office’s TV remote. The press conference would be on in a few minutes. She didn’t expect to learn any more details about Flight 816—the State Department was, by necessity, being kept in the loop—but was curious about the questions the media would ask and the tenor in which they asked them. The pulse of the nation would be set by whatever narrative the media chose to pursue in the next few minutes.

  And so, despite being kept in the loop, the network news was how Madeline learned about the massacre at the airport.

  Oh God. Xana.

  Madeline’s heart thundered against her rib cage. Her mouth became a desert.

  She knew several dozen people she could contact to get the details, but she had to call Jim Christie. If anyone knew where Xana was, it would be him.

  She dug up his direct line on her contact list.

  She had to dial the number twice just to get it right.

  Her hands shook like rattlers.

  “Office of the special-agent-in-charge. This is Nomi,” said his secretary. �
��How may I help you?”

  Madeline offered her credentials and then asked to speak with the man himself.

  The subsequent pause in the conversation did not steady Madeline’s nerves one iota. Finally, after maybe ten seconds of agonizing silence, Nomi spoke:

  “He…there’s been an…incident at the airport…he…”

  Madeline exhaled sorrow. What in God’s name had Jim Christie been doing at the airport? Everyone in America—if not the world—knew that the man was scheduled to give a press conference from Philips Arena in five minutes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Madeline said. “I had no idea.”

  “We just heard, like, fifteen minutes ago…”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “I should transfer you to one of our special agents.”

  “Wait—”

  “One moment please.”

  And she was put on hold.

  Son of a bitch.

  She glanced at the TV. According to the chyron across the bottom third of the screen, the gentleman at the podium was Special Agent Del Purrich. Madeline had never heard of the man, but why should she have? The only reason she knew Jim was because he’d gone through the trouble of contacting her after Xana’s arrest. He had been trying to gather statements from character witnesses to buttress his argument to DC that, despite overwhelming public and private consternation, Xana Marx should keep her job.

  Madeline remembered asking him how many statements of support he’d gotten so far, albeit knowing that if poor Jim Christie was reaching out to one of Xana’s exes, his level of desperation had to be very, very high.

  “Well, it’s not about the quantity of statements,” he’d replied.

  Which meant he hadn’t secured a single one, not one affidavit in Xana’s favor—none except his own, of course. And for him to put his credibility out there, on the line, alone, for her, he had to be either the world’s most loyal boss or…

  In the end, Madeline had typed up a letter of recommendation and sent it down south, in part out of pity for this poor, foolish man and in part out of pity for Xana, whether she deserved pity or not. Amusingly, that letter of recommendation somehow wound its way back up through the channels to Madeline’s boss, and it was from this letter, suffused as it was with praise for Xana’s unique talents, that he got the bright idea to send Madeline down to rehab to recruit her.