by John Altman
They ascended four flights, knocked on the door, rang the bell. Waited, knocked, and rang again. When the agents requested access to the apartment, the super hesitated. Didn’t they need a warrant for that? Not with probable cause, said the shorter agent.
A passkey opened the door. Their hails echoed hollowly back. They entered, switching on the overhead light. The smell of bleach was overpowering. Despite the chemical stench, cockroaches scuttled for cover beneath an exposed radiator. The apartment was two rooms, undecorated, offering a view of the church across the street. An empty Clorox jug sat on the kitchen table beside a heap of rags.
As the agents started looking around, the super told them they could find him in his apartment if necessary, and retreated.
A first pass uncovered minimal evidence of habitation. The bed was stripped, the cupboards sparsely stocked, the closets empty. A second look dug deeper: beneath the mattress, inside toilet tank and ice trays, under sinks. Passing the garbage disposal, the taller agent blinked and went back for a closer look. “Lookit this.”
Using a long-handled wooden spoon, they fished fragments from the drain. Chips of quartz, splinters of glass, chunks of green circuit board.
“Computer,” said the shorter.
“Someone’s covering her tracks,” said the taller.
They placed a call.
Chapter Eleven
Bluemont, VA
Michael Fletcher parked in the dirt driveway, behind a red Chevy Silverado.
He approached the house slowly, rolling his shoulders, feeling the air, double-checking the conclusions he had reached studying Google. The place was isolated, set far off a dirt road, with no visible neighbors, yet still near enough home that he would not spend too long on the highway with cargo he’d rather not explain to a state trooper. Pine and spruce, slash valley, distant cliffs. Above the horizon hulked Mount Weather, command center of FEMA, rumored to house a secret bunker for continuity-of-government purposes.
The property featured small outbuildings: woodshed, toolshed, and an ancient outhouse. All the structures looked sturdy. He veered closer, eyeballing them before continuing to the main manor. Brick and redwood, two floors—downright idyllic in the sunset light.
As he drew near the porch, the front door opened. An old man came out warily. Michael didn’t blame him. You could meet some real freaks on Craigslist.
“Evenin’,” Michael said. “You must be Ralph.”
“That makes you Stuart.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man had a firm, aggressive handshake. Eyes threaded with red but still sharp. Two days’ beard, mostly gray. He wore a checkered flannel shirt and didn’t seem to feel the cold. “Lemme give you the grand tour.”
They entered a kitchen with a wood-burning stove, walked through a living room, past a TV and bathroom, and climbed the creaky stairs. There were two guest bedrooms and the master, which Michael sensed was occupied. The man spoke softly and evenly. “We head out most weekends. Weather warms up, we rent an RV and spend maybe a month poking ’round. So this place spends a lot of time sitting empty. Couple years ago, my daughter suggested we rent it out, and I gotta say, it works out real well.”
Michael wondered whether the man was carrying a gun. Something about his carriage suggested it. A vet. You could just tell. Vietnam, probably.
“Furnace in the basement, but we usually leave it off. ’Tween the fireplace and stove, you’re good. Extra blankets in every closet. Wireless, but it’s spotty. Good old-fashioned landline for emergency. You said one night? Checkout’s not until four, so no hurry to get going in the morning. You provide your own groceries. We provide the linens and the firewood. So there she is. What do you think?”
They’d ended up back in the kitchen, where they had started. Michael’s mouth was suddenly dry. Each step brought him closer to something that he would eventually be unable to turn back from. At some point, critical mass would be reached, but you didn’t realize it when it was happening. You just kept adding straw. Then, suddenly, to your surprise, the camel fell out from beneath you, broken-backed.
He wet his lips, found a smile. “I’ll take it.”
Sixth Arrondissement, Paris
The café was filling rapidly with the lunch crowd.
Inside the truck parked out back, Ali Chamoun needed very badly to go to the bathroom. Rationally, he knew that this mattered not at all. Within the next few minutes, his underwear, soiled or not, would be vaporized along with everything else. Still, he found himself squirming, embarrassed, unwilling to shit his pants, even though no one would ever witness his humiliation.
His bowels clenched sharply, sending a cramp up his side. He grimaced. All the times he had pictured this moment, he had never imagined it like this.
He consulted his phone. 11:58 a.m. Thus began his last two minutes on earth. He should be having enlightened thoughts, divine thoughts. Instead, he was wondering if the triacetone triperoxide mixed by his brother in a damp, dingy basement would liquefy his remains sufficiently that, were he to lose control of his bowels, all evidence would be destroyed. Of course it would. But what if it wasn’t?
It doesn’t matter.
But in a strange way, it did.
Biting back a groan, he glanced in the sideview mirror. The view was of dumpsters, trash cans, gutters. The front of the café opened onto a quaint cobblestone street of shops, patisseries, galleries, and restaurants, but here in back you saw the real truth. It reinforced the most basic fact Ali Chamoun had discovered during his two years in Paris and Belgium: in the Western world, shiny surfaces concealed dirty secrets.
His hands were sweating. What if he could not pull the cord when the time came? What if his hand just slipped off? Absurd. He need only find enough purchase to tug lightly. His mind was serving up absurdity, nonsense.
His bowels clenched again. Moaning softly, he checked the time: 11:59.
Do it now, before you shit yourself.
No. The others would be acting at noon precisely. If he went sooner, he would put the gendarmerie on guard and might ruin everything.
He tossed another glance in the mirror. He had been afraid that police might hassle him, parking here. Dark-skinned man in a closed truck. He had a Baikal IZH-79-8 on the seat beside him, ready to answer just such an occurrence. But there were no police. He had been afraid, too, that he might see his imminent victims and lose his nerve. Pretty girls, innocent young children. Dogs and cats. He had a soft spot for dogs and cats. But there was nothing back here except garbage and rats. He hated garbage and rats.
He checked the time again. As he watched, the clock ticked down to twelve noon exactly.
Now.
His took hold of the cord, opened the small curtain separating him from the jugs piled in the back of the truck—not that the curtain would really make any difference—and braced himself.
Now. Go!
All around Paris, at this moment, two years of planning would be coming to a head. This was it. This moment was his destiny. This, now. A place in paradise, seventy-two virgins. His brother would already be waiting. This moment. This moment right now.
Now! GO!
He was staring at his own sneakers. Bright orange Nikes. When he pulled the cord, would the sneakers burn, too? They were nice sneakers. Nicer than any he’d ever had back home. But of course they would burn.
The clock read 12:01.
His body, his mind, were betraying him.
Allahu akbar! God is great!
He closed his eyes and pulled the cord.
Ellicott Street NW,
Washington, DC
“Silas, Kristen. Kristen, Silas.”
She hunkered down to his eye level and stuck out a hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said gravely.
“Buddy?” Michael nudged the boy’s foot with his toe.
Silas
shook hands reluctantly, without making eye contact. “Can I go play?”
“Sure. Dinner in ten.”
Silas ran away. She straightened, firing Michael a look. He shrugged: It is what it is.
They sat around the dining room table, eating salmon and couscous. Michael watched without contributing as she tried without success to engage his son, asking reasonable questions and receiving blunt, dismissive answers. What had he done at school today? Nothing. What did he hope Santa would bring him for Christmas? A telescope. What was his favorite food? Candy.
Afterward, they retired to the living room couch with bowls of ice cream. Michael and Silas had been watching Superman: The Movie. They picked up where they had left off. Gene Hackman: “Only one thing alive with less than four legs can hear this frequency, Superman, and that’s you. In approximately five minutes, a poison gas pellet containing propane lithium compound will be released through thousands of air ducts in the city, effectively annihilating half of Metropolis …”
Oh, the irony! Crowing, mocking, victorious. Lex Luthor using poison gas! This will throw the boy for a real loop, Mikey, when he’s lying on the couch in twenty years trying to make sense of it all. The bad guy used poison gas; Daddy used poison gas. Therefore, Daddy is the bad guy. But Daddy’s the one who showed me the movie! And sitting eating ice cream alongside his whore. You do realize, Mikey m’lad, that children of suicides are five times more likely to take their own lives. You do realize you’re signing Silas’ death warrant. But you’re not giving him the gift of a fast death, oh, no. That one you’re keeping for yourself, you selfish prick. No, you’re putting Silas on the slow boat to hell, the one that twists through dark hallways of confusion and self-loathing and alcoholism and drug addiction until finally, mercifully, comes the blued steel of a one-way ticket.
I’M NOT LISTENING!
The tree had been set up beside the TV set. Stacy’s Christmas trees had been studies in glittering symmetry, with the presents artfully arranged beneath the lowest branches. Michael and Silas had done their best. The result nonetheless looked sad and lopsided, bulbs unevenly distributed, tinsel knotted and sparse. Still, there were plenty of presents. Trying to assuage his guilt, Michael had gone overboard, buying not only telescope but binoculars, skateboard, Laser Pegs, Legos, art set, Nerf sword, Razor Scooter, and Tonka backhoe.
Great parenting, Mikey. Dad’s gonna check out, leaving you holding the emotional bag. But here, have some crappy plastic toys. That oughta take the sting out of it. God bless America.
He pushed up from the couch and went into the kitchen. His ice-cream bowl was still mostly full. He ran water in it anyway, washing the sweet dessert down the drain.
“Superman can just change into his costume like magic,” he heard his son announce from the next room.
“I noticed that,” she answered. “Weird. Usually, he has to duck into a phone booth or something.”
“He just jumped out the window and, blam, he was wearing his costume!”
“I wonder if maybe he changed, like, so fast we couldn’t see, using super speed, so it looked like magic.”
Michael went back into the room. The two had closed ranks on the couch, taking his space, and watched side by side. “Will you put me to bed tonight?” Silas asked.
“My pleasure.” She sent Michael another quick glance—this one of triumph.
* * *
Saturday morning, they made sure to be up before Silas, dressed, in the kitchen, sipping coffee, frying bacon and eggs.
Stacy picked him up at 8:00 a.m. sharp. She ventured no farther than the doorstep. This was no longer her territory, and she seemed to know it, although, judging from her eyes, she harbored mixed feelings about her choices. Waiting for Silas to get his shoes on, she and her estranged husband made polite but insipid small talk about the weather.
By nine o’clock, Michael was on the Hill. Rehearsal started twenty minutes late. Christina Thompson opened with a bracing pep talk about not slacking off, about leaning into the home stretch. Then the members of the Capitol’s four major news galleries filed out from Statuary Hall to their various stations: Cannon and Russell Rotundas, which offered clear views of the dome, used as react locations for elected officials doing live shots; beauty-shot duty near the House Triangle or the Elm Tree; B-roll, filming arrivals whom network anchors would comment on during the long run-up to the event itself. Inside the House Chamber, the sergeant at arms made his first announcement. As Michael backed down the aisle, photographers and security moved with him in fluid lockstep: if not quite a well-oiled machine, then a close likeness.
“Mister Speaker, the dean of the Diplomatic Corps!”
By half past one, Michael was home again. By two, he had the car packed. He had been shopping all week, squeezing in forays around the edges of his schedule. By two fifteen, they were on the road. In the passenger seat, Kristen wore a cloth coat, sunglasses hiding her eyes, woolen cap pulled low around her ears. Michael wore a Full Sail hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and down jacket. It felt almost like a date … and, perversely, he was almost enjoying himself.
The little Hyundai rode low, suspension creaking even under this modest burden. They headed west, following the same route Michael had followed Thursday evening. The sky blue and white, the day mild enough that his pretty passenger had cracked a window. They did not speak, but the silence was comfortable.
They left Route 7 and rolled up the dirt driveway a few minutes later. The lock on the front door was keyless, opening to a preestablished code. She waited in the car until he had confirmed that the owners were gone. Taped beside the wood-burning stove, they found a typewritten note:
Welcome to Chez Bluemont! Checkout time is 4:00 p.m. Wireless code JY534, but connectivity is unpredictable. In case of emergency, dial 911. You are at 143 Saw Mill Hill Road in Loudoun County, Virginia. Recycling and garbage bins beneath the sink. Firewood beside the stove, more in woodshed if necessary. Circuit breaker in cellar near washing machine. Please place all dirty linens and towels into the washing machine before leaving. Please run dishwasher and return silverware and plates to proper cupboards. Please remember to lock up. Enjoy your stay!
Best regards,
Hattie and Ralph
347-763-2939
They inspected the outbuildings. The woodshed was half full of mossy lumber. The former outhouse was even more cluttered: chainsaw, old Ping-Pong table broken into parts, jumper cables, ruined carburetor, dusty gray boxes of nails and screws. But the toolshed was mostly empty. They rolled out an old lawnmower. Beside it, in the yard, they set hedge clippers and WD-40, a rusty hoe and trowel, and a dull hatchet.
They unpacked the car. Clothes, groceries. Duct tape, bell jar, wire, spoons, plastic tub with airtight lid, sealed syringes, twelve-volt battery, four-thousand-watt inverter, box of latex gloves. Bleach, string, safety goggles, scissors, heavy-duty trash bags, baking rack, disposable sterile towels. The faded black case. A wire cage floored with cardboard and newspaper and hay, containing three gray rabbits with twitching pink noses and downy white tails.
All these things went into the house. Into the now-empty toolshed went turpentine, staple gun, Nonel tubes, electric blasting caps, waterproof tarps, dye, test tubes, and two burner phones.
By tacit agreement, they started with the rabbits, carrying cage and equipment down to the basement, then coming upstairs again to fetch two-liter bottles of soda and a gallon jug of vinegar. Diet Coke frothed into the sink. They rinsed plastic and returned to the basement. Finding a broom leaning against a mossy wall, they cleared a workspace between furnace and washing machine, pushed rat droppings and cobwebs and a single decomposing mouse in a glue trap against one wall. In the corner, a dehumidifier rattled and thrummed. Beyond narrow windows set high in cinder-block walls, the afternoon sky had turned a hard copper. The rabbits watched apprehensively, noses vibrating.
Kneeling on the f
ilthy basement floor, exchanging only monosyllables, they assembled the apparatus. They worked quickly—she with God knew what training, he with skills from USAF Explosive Ordnance Disposal. Using heavy, multibraid copper cable, they wired the four-thousand-watt inverter to the battery and ran a length from the positive terminal to one end of a spoon. They ran another back from the spoon to the negative terminal but left it unattached. Then they set the large bell jar on top, making certain the insulated seal around the wires remained tight.
Michael prepared the baking rack, snipping it down to size, bending sharp wires at right angles to give it some height. He cut a sheet of paper into quarters, rolled one piece into a cone, and used tape to seal the crack. Moving aside the bell jar, he set the small cone with its base over the spoon. Then he set the rack above the cone, with a millimeter’s clearance between them.
They assembled their homemade hazmat suits, more for peace of mind than for actual efficacy. They cut holes in two black trash bags for arms and head and donned them like soccer pinnies, then snipped plastic Coke bottles into masks, softening the ragged edges with duct tape. Soaked surgical towels in vinegar, stuffed them into the narrow neck at the top. Put on goggles. Tied the masks onto each other’s faces with elastic string. Cut another garbage bag into pieces, covered their hair, and sealed every juncture with duct tape. The acrid smell of vinegar stung Michael’s nostrils, but he didn’t let himself cough.
They put on gloves. Michael moved aside the baking rack and paper cone and took a deep breath.
Kristen knelt, opened the black case, and drew out a plastic packet labeled Handhabung siehe Anleitung. SOMAN, SARIN, V-GASES.
Opening the packet, she slipped out one glass ampoule. Michael reminded himself to breathe.
She nodded, and he took the lid off the airtight plastic tub, unwrapped a syringe, and fitted a needle to it. She accepted it and moved beneath the window, into good light, where she snapped the ampoule at its neck. Just below the neck, the tiny hole was plugged with cork. She flipped the tip protector from the needle, pushed the tip through the cork, and slowly raised the plunger. A quivering drop, pea-soup green, rose from the ampoule into the hollow barrel of the syringe.