The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  “Pediatric heart surgery.”

  “So you want to ruin million-dollar hands crack climbing why?”

  “That life is gone,” said Morgan. “Working on a different career.”

  Tony looked out the window while Morgan watched him drain the last of his beer, sucking on the bottle as if he was hoping to find more hidden inside. Finally convinced it was empty, his fingernail picked at the paper label.

  “Let me tell you, my friend. The way you’re going about it isn’t going to get you there.”

  Morgan stared silently.

  “I’ve trained people to do some interesting shit.” Tony held the rest of his words and chewed his tongue for a moment, then said, “Got time for another internship?”

  “Last one took a year,” said Morgan. “I survived it.”

  “Then this would be a cakewalk,” he smirked. “Not—”

  “I’ll pay you well,” Morgan offered.

  “Who said anything about money? I’m on a pension.” Tony spun the empty bottle on the table. “Maybe a gratuitous gift now and then might be a pleasant surprise.”

  “For expenses, of course,” added Morgan.

  “I’m never going to ask what you’re doing…but I’ve a damn good idea what it is. I sure as hell just found out the why part.” The navy SEAL smiled. “I’ll say this once—what you’re thinkin’ about is really stupid.”

  “I was in love with her.”

  “Then, Doctor…in one year…” Tony came forward in his chair and firmly took Morgan’s hands. “I’ll make you the architect you need to be.”

  ELEVEN

  September 2002

  “Wes…we’re square on the pickup location?” asked Tony. His truck was idling on the shoulder of the road west of Tucson at the edge of the Sonoran desert.

  “Got my trusty sextant right here with me.” Morgan held up his thumb and index finger wide. “Azimuth and declination calibrated to one degree of arc.”

  “Smart ass,” Tony replied. “But you’d better be damn accurate, because if you aren’t I won’t find you until the buzzards circle.”

  “Maybe I’ll play dead so I can roast one,” Morgan replied.

  “They taste like chicken, you know.” Tony smiled then held out his Sig Sauer. “Hey. Want to take my piece? Two-legged coyotes portaging across the border don’t like to be seen.”

  “No, señor.” The Arizona sun was getting hot. “Besides…what the hell have I been paying you for these months? So I can cheat?” Morgan barely grinned. “No damn sport in that. And I’ve been shooting your toys for weeks and am sick of cleaning them.” He patted his knife. “This’ll do me just fine.”

  Tony pulled an icy beer from a cooler and laughed. “Cold one to start the journey?”

  Morgan shook his head slightly.

  “Consider it medicinal.”

  “Don’t tempt me, infidel!” Morgan picked up his canteen of water and adjusted his hat. “I’m just going for a hike.”

  “That’s the spirit,” replied Tony.

  “Got my iPod…” Morgan twirled his walking stick in his fingers. “What more could a nomad want?”

  “Well, Wes, I could think of a few things more to take for pleasure—like a woman, maybe, or—”

  “Not for me.” Morgan pointed at the desolate horizon. “Time’s wasting. See you in a week,” he said, and he started walking west toward Yuma.

  He had few provisions but wasn’t concerned. Water was everywhere, and he knew how to find it. There were things to eat too—under rocks, in the dry arroyos, or scurrying on the ground. At night the desert floor would be his mattress and the stars his blanket. He was grateful for the solitude—and time to let his thoughts drift to Caroline. He fought to control the memories. As much as he hated it, he had to blot her out of his brain. Distractions might provide visible proof that he wasn’t what he said he was.

  “Tony…you’ve helped a lot,” Morgan said quietly to the desert.

  It was as though he had opened Morgan’s head and impregnated his brain with abilities he’d never imagined existed. Even more profound, Tony had taught him how the same intuition he used while operating—his sixth sense of sharpened awareness at the surgical field—could be expanded with his other senses to more broadly analyze and understand his surroundings and dissect what might be erroneous or, as Tony said more than once, just plain strange. Using mnemonics like he had in medical school, to remember things like the cranial nerves and other anatomic structures, whenever Morgan rode his bicycle, he practiced, memorizing the transient ingredients of his surroundings—where cars were parked, the direction and distance of unexpected sounds, and the ebb and flow of pedestrians. Each time he passed the same location, he worked to recall what had been there in the past and how things had changed. After months of practice, Morgan learned how to absorb such information without even realizing it, the mental exercises becoming a game of analytical solitaire.

  His watch beeped.

  He took his shoes off, turned around to face east, and knelt to say the prayers. When finished, he dusted off his pants and took a sip of water. Empowered, he continued his trek.

  A dome of blackness descended, and the stars became close enough to touch—offering themselves to guide him. He located the constellation Cassiopeia and drew an imaginary line to the North Star.

  “Hello there, Polaris,” he said and turned his body so he faced west.

  His right arm rose until his closed fist hid the star, then he estimated the angle above the shoulder. He looked at his watch, converted the hour and minutes to Universal time, then looked at Andromeda suspended in the Southeast horizon.

  Latitude and longitude—they were crude measurements, but all he would need.

  “Tony, that’s amazing,” he said. “In position and on schedule.”

  He walked in the calm for several more hours until finally lying down on the hard-packed ground to rest.

  In the predawn light, Morgan opened his eyes and realized he was not alone. Another predator had joined him. Both of them were motionless, except one produced an occasional sizzle.

  “Come here,” Morgan whispered into its glowing eyes.

  The split tongue flicked and retracted.

  “Closer,” he taunted the snake. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Inches away, he watched its nostrils flair as the thick rattlesnake coiled tighter.

  “I’m not going to ask again,” Morgan said.

  Before the reptile could spring, the knife arched over and sliced off its head. The long trunk convulsed for almost a minute before falling still.

  Skinned and filleted, Morgan cooked the meat in sage smoke. The knife brought another piece to his mouth.

  “Tell the chef it needs pepper,” he belched.

  Tony took Morgan to his motel so he could shower. His student was very sunburned and a few pounds slighter but otherwise no worse for wear.

  “Peaceful out there, isn’t it?” he asked Morgan while he dried off.

  “Seducing,” he answered.

  “You said you’re going to visit the desert again next summer,” Tony said.

  “I can’t wait.”

  He dropped Morgan at his car, which they’d left at the Tucson airport.

  “When you return this winter, I’ve got some cold-weather playtime in store for you. Don’t bring anything along.”

  “Don’t have much to bring,” Morgan responded.

  “Remember: in Chicago keep your head low. Blend in,” Tony admonished him. “My buddy knows you’ll be calling him. Isaac will teach you what you also need to know.” He smiled.

  Morgan nodded and opened the door of Tony’s pickup truck.

  “There’s another thing,” the SEAL said. “Your Arabic…needs more work. Your inflections wander.”

  “Not an easy language,” confided Morgan.

  “Go to some services. That’ll help.”

  Morgan had attended local mosques whenever he was in Chicago. Most congregations welcomed him open
ly, only a few were wary.

  “Been doing that,” said Morgan. “But thanks for the critique, I’ll work on it.”

  The men shook hands.

  “See you in two months,” said Tony.

  The BMW motor turned over.

  The nonstop drive east to Chicago was once again grueling but productive. The highway became another classroom. Every second possible he would play CDs to refresh his knowledge. Hours and hours of concentration passed the time, interrupted only by the thirty-minute runs. Then he was home—whatever that meant.

  Morgan drove the BMW into the gated storage locker. After Janie followed him that day, he took no chance of having the BMW seen. It came out from hiding only when necessary—and that was rare.

  Opening the trunk, he placed the black ballistic nylon backpack on the cement and pulled his bicycle off the ceiling hook. Satisfied the tire pressure was okay, he slung the pack on his back and scanned the outside perimeter before pulling down and locking the roll-top door. Confident he wasn’t observed, he rode toward the Rogers Park apartment. After a brief rest, he called Tony’s friend. Morgan would meet him the next day at a private gym on the north side.

  “Krav Maga is…” Isaac said, and hit Morgan in the gut.

  Morgan buckled to the floor. Isaac helped him to his feet.

  “That’s a polite…” Morgan coughed, trying to breathe. “Introduction.”

  “As I was saying…” Isaac’s fist hit Morgan’s chest and he fell backward to the padded wall. He had only a moment before the sole of Isaac’s foot smacked next to his ear. “Perhaps I’m not making myself—”

  Morgan’s fist came toward Isaac’s face but was brushed away with a sweep of his arm while Isaac’s other hand grabbed Morgan and pulled his body close.

  “KM is the art of overcoming your opponent with natural, minimal movements, using anything available as a weapon,” Isaac said.

  Morgan sensed only tranquility in the man as his other hand rose and grabbed Morgan’s throat gently.

  “See,” he said, “you were listening again…not acting. In my world, you’re already dead.”

  Isaac’s grips released.

  “A human needs two seconds to process and react to external stimuli. Think how far a car travels at sixty miles per hour.”

  “Maybe…ninety feet,” said Morgan wondering where he’d be smacked next.

  “Two seconds is a very safe distance…if you use it to your advantage,” Isaac reiterated. “Proximity is irrelevant. It’s time. If you act first, you control what happens next…the knife, the bullet…your fist…your escape. Time becomes your tool—your weapon. So…give; never receive.”

  The unassuming middle-aged man offered a handshake. Morgan shook his head. Both men smiled in unison.

  “Ah! Good! You are a quick study,” said Isaac. “See…you’re not dead.”

  “Marginally reassuring.”

  “Street-fighting choreography.” Isaac’s outstretched hand remained. “Now…shake.”

  It was no trick this time. His handshake was sincere.

  “I know Tony would have mentioned the bond of trust. The same goes for you and me. That’s how we work.”

  Morgan’s whole body still smarted from the formal introduction.

  “When we’re done, you will become a machine that moves with deadly precision. Lesson two is tomorrow. Here. Same time,” said Isaac. “By way of fair warning…cut off that little pony tail of yours. Or I’ll use it to break your neck.”

  On a cold Sunday in October, Morgan ran the Chicago Marathon. He hadn’t registered—he wouldn’t have, of course—but he still planned to run the entire twenty-six miles. Morgan’s grueling apprenticeship was no different from becoming a surgeon, consuming every second he lived. Maximizing his stamina remained of paramount importance, and north of the Mason-Dixon nobody would pay attention to a Middle Eastern-looking man inside a crowd of runners.

  In the early morning, he rode the L downtown and waited several hundred yards upstream from where the marathon would start, joining the bulge of runners after the sprinters pulled ahead.

  Until the final miles, Morgan held a determined pace. When Lake Point Tower loomed in the distance, his tempo quickened and he dashed forward of the pack. Morgan saw a local TV reporter direct her camera operator at him, so he covered his face and peeled into the crowd of cheering bystanders to slip away.

  “Queenie, did you see that?” Ross Merrimac sprang to his feet from his easy chair.

  “See what? I’m cooking dinner.”

  “I think I just saw Wes on TV,” he said.

  “Do tell…” Shandra came out from the kitchen. “Where?”

  “I was watching the news…and I saw him…running in the marathon.” He scratched his head. “Least I think it could have been him. His body was muscled and his skin was really dark.”

  “What? You don’t think black people run marathons?”

  “No! It was Wes! I saw him!”

  “Why do you think he’d show up at the marathon? You don’t drop out of touch with everyone just to train. You didn’t have a margarita, did you?”

  Shandra hadn’t smelled any liquor on his breath, but she knew he snuck one now and then. And when she found out, she chastised him.

  “No, Queenie, I haven’t been drinking,” Merrimac said with disgust, becoming sick to his stomach as he again relived Morgan’s disappearance.

  It had been five months since Morgan’s resignation letter arrived, and the last time Merrimac had heard anything. The surgeon’s departure had created serious havoc for the transplant service—a predicament Merrimac was resolving. Nevertheless, he still worried about his friend. Morgan had seemingly vanished, yet today he showed up running the Chicago Marathon? That wasn’t right.

  Shandra came to his side while her husband changed channels. “You said his townhouse was empty months ago…”

  “Maybe we’ll see him again on another replay,” Merrimac said, only half listening.

  “You could check with the marathon people,” his wife suggested.

  “Good idea,” Merrimac said while scrolling through the channels. Until now he had held out hope that Morgan had disappeared to get the help he needed. But seeing him on TV made Merrimac realize he had rationalized the months away.

  He called the race organizers on Monday. When Morgan’s name wasn’t listed, Merrimac went to the TV station. After reviewing the raw footage several times, the technician printed out the best image, and Merrimac took it to the local police precinct.

  “You say you haven’t talked to him in months…and now all you got is this picture?” said the detective, eyeing the image and shaking his head. “Did you…like…talk to his family? That’d be simple enough, don’t you think? I mean, you don’t need a detective to tell you that.”

  “His only family was his mother, and she died at the beginning of the year.”

  “That’s some sorry shit probably going’ on here, Doc.” The man leaned back in his chair, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and bumped one up before looking at the physician sitting across the desk. “Do you mind?”

  “Go right ahead,” said Merrimac. He wouldn’t have even noticed.

  “Screw it. I’ll wait,” said the detective, sticking the white roll behind his ear. “So. Morgan’s mom—that’s his name, right?”

  Merrimac nodded.

  “She dies. Who’s doing the estate?”

  “Probably Morgan’s attorney,” said Merrimac.

  “Numb-nut lawyers…We bust our humps breaking a case, and those slimebags get them off. Ought to lock those assholes in the same cell as the perps…” He looked at the surgeon and said, “Cheap way to fix their hemorrhoids, right, Doc?”

  “I think so…” replied Merrimac, hoping anything he said might encourage the detective to consider the matter more seriously.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I tried.” Merrimac knew it had been a while ago.

  “His attorney won’t tell you shi
t, of course.”

  “That about covers it,” answered Merrimac. “He gave me his PO Box, told me to write a letter.”

  “So…let me like…be clear on this,” said the detective. “This doctor friend was supposed to see a shrink and didn’t, you get a letter that says fuck you…and now you think you seen him running? So…because he didn’t check in with you, he’s missing?”

  The detective rubbed his eyes. “With a PO Box and an attorney, he’s not missing. You just can’t find him, if you know what I mean.” The detective pointed at the picture. “Sounds to me like he doesn’t give a shit about you.”

  “If that isn’t him in the picture…could he be dead maybe?” Until that moment Merrimac hadn’t thought that likelihood possible.

  “Need a body,” said the officer. “Tell you what. We’ll check it out… Pass it to Missing Persons if I don’t find nothing.” The detective concluded with, “I’ll get back to you.”

  Merrimac sat alone in his office wondering if he should call Jane Bonwitt. She had called months ago looking for information when she found Morgan leaving his townhouse.

  “Wes,” he said out loud, “I’m doing this for you…”

  He sighed and picked up the phone. From past dealings with her, he knew to start talking right away.

  “Jane, I think I saw Wes on TV running the marathon...so I went to the police. They really didn’t help...said he wasn’t missing…but also said they would look into it. I doubt they will. Have you heard from Wes?”

  Her response took several minutes. “Oh, my! Let me remember…Okay…After I saw Wes at his townhouse—he looked really hairy—and men were there who took out all the furniture! All the things he bought from me! Then he took the picture Cay gave him from their first night—she looked so beautiful! What a cute couple! Then Wes got in his car and drove off! He wouldn’t talk to me! So I followed him to O’Hare, that’s where I lost him…”

  Good God! thought Merrimac. How does she talk without breathing?

  “Jane—” he tried to interrupt.

  “Then his townhouse sold—a real estate friend of mine told me—so I talked to the new owners and they said the whole thing was handled by Wes’s attorney. So they gave me that number and I called him. He said Wes has no phone number, just a post office box, and I’m supposed to send him a letter! So I did, several over the past months! What unmitigated gall that lawyer has! I’m Wes’s friend! I warned him the head of the Illinois Bar was a—”