by Ty Patterson
‘You could have done more to stop the soldiers,’ the official says with the mildest of reproof.
‘That’s on my head,’ Andrews butts in. ‘I was the one who asked Zeb not to engage with the soldiers. There were a couple of reasons for that. First, there were about forty of them, and Zeb was alone. He wouldn’t be here if he had engaged. Secondly, I had contacted their embassy over here and ours over there to raise hell. Did I do enough? Would Zeb have made a difference? Those questions will haunt me for a long while. I have seen some shit in my life, sir, excuse my language, but this is on a scale that I have never come across.’
‘Sir, may I ask a question?’ Zeb asks finally, breaking the silence.
The UN official nods.
‘Why did you want to meet me? In your position, you will be surrounded by people who can give you the most detailed information; you will have men on the ground or those working with the UN who can give you hourly updates on this. Why me?’
The head of the UN Secretariat smiles humorlessly. ‘I wanted to feel what it was like out there.’
On that, his aide steps into the boardroom, signaling the meeting is over. He clasps Zeb’s hand in a warm handshake; then they leave.
Andrews is silent as they descend in the elevator.
He is silent as he gets the car on 1st Avenue heading downtown.
‘Don’t feel guilty. Don’t ever feel guilty,’ he says suddenly, fiercely, and pounds his horn at a garbage truck, getting the finger in return.
Andrews parks in the basement of a drab-looking building near City Hall.
‘The Director wants to meet,’ he explains.
Zeb recognizes the building from one of his previous visits as an office frequently used by the agency in New York.
The basement has men in suits at the perimeter, one of them stopping them to see their pass, radioing ahead.
Zeb raises his eyebrows at Andrews, who shrugs and mouths, I don’t know.
They go up the elevator from the basement to the fourth floor and step into a tightly wound world.
At the elevator they are greeted by another couple of clean-shaven, neatly dressed men who frisk them, check Andrews’ identity again, and have whispered conversations in their mics before directing them to a receptionist.
There aren’t many people around – the receptionist, a few people hurrying about – but a palpable tension is in the air. He senses Andrews has noticed the charged environment too.
Zeb takes a step back from Andrews, an idea forming in his mind, scans entry and exit corridors, and spots more suits there. The receptionist steps out from behind her desk and leads them to an unmarked meeting room, where the Director awaits. Zeb trails a few steps behind, his senses on full alert.
She regards them calmly, brushes aside Andrews’, ‘What’s burning?’ and motions them to sit.
‘Andrews has briefed me on the Congo, Zeb. I sent all we know about these military contractors to the FBI and have suggested they get international arrest warrants issued. I should hear from them shortly. I have also asked them to put an alert out on all incoming and outgoing flights. It’s possible the remaining three will return to the US. Andrews, will you…’ She stops as an inner concealed door opens and the President of the United States enters.
Chapter 3
Zeb rises instinctively, Andrews doing the same with his jaw dropping open. The Director clears her throat, breaking the spell over Andrews.
The President says, ‘Clare, I’m sorry for interrupting. I wanted a word with you on that dossier before heading off to Washington. Sorry, guys, I have to kidnap your boss for a moment.’
The Director says, ‘Sir, this is Andrews, my right-hand man, and this is Major Zebadiah Carter. I have mentioned the Congo to you. Zeb was there.’
The President sizes up both of them. ‘Andrews, Major, there are many of you who work unsung and unheard in protecting our country and often safeguarding global security. Some of you work within the remit of the government and’ – he focuses on Zeb – ‘some outside.’
He looks old and weary as he addresses Zeb. ‘Major, we have let down that part of the world badly. I’m glad that you were there to raise the first alert, though Clare tells me that you did quite a bit more than that – that you have done things I’m not supposed to know about. Know this, that I am very grateful for the work of people like you and Andrews.’
The Director suggests they meet later and dismisses them.
Andrews is still a little dazed as they head back towards his car. ‘The Secretary-General and the President in one day. Andrews, my boy, you can die happy now,’ he mutters.
Andrews drops him off on Broadway with a promise to update him on progress with the FBI.
Zeb tells him finding Holt’s conduit in the US is the key to finding Holt.
Zeb strolls along Broadway, soaking in the energy, buys soup from a vendor in Times Square, and walks towards Central Park. New York is as much a jungle as the Congo is. The rules aren’t that different. The predators aren’t that different. Zeb is good at hunting predators in jungles, wherever the jungle is.
Noise drops off in the verdant expanse of the park as Zeb walks along West Drive and reaches Springbanks Arch. He finds a bench near the arch, slows his metabolism, and becomes one with time.
* * *
She comes when its pitch black, when even the foolhardy would never enter the park alone. She has attempted to take her life on a couple of occasions but lost her nerve at the last minute. She has now come to die in the park, in its most remote section, hoping the darkness and her misery will help her take her own life.
She finds a bench in the darkest part of the park near Springbanks Arch, rummages through the bag she has brought, and removes a sharp kitchen knife. She pulls up the sleeves of her sweater and turns her left wrist upward. She’s not sure how she should do this and takes a deep breath before placing the knife over her wrist.
‘That’s a messy way to die, and there’s no guarantee it will work,’ a voice calls out from the dark.
She starts, and the knife slips from her hand. She gropes for it in the dark while looking around. Nothing, just the dark and the shadows.
‘You can’t stop me. I’ll cut myself before you reach me,’ she calls out defiantly, no fear in her voice. She is past fear.
A chuckle. ‘I’ve never stopped anyone from dying. In fact, I’ve helped many toward that very end.’
‘Are you going to leave?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Who are you? Why can’t you leave me alone?’
‘I was sitting here alone and at peace when you arrived, interrupting my serenity, and now you wish to create problems for me.’
‘What problems did I create for you? I didn’t even know you were here.’
‘If you kill yourself, I have to carry your body to the hospital, talk to the police, and fill out forms…so much hassle. You’re a heavy person, so carrying you won’t be easy either.’
His tone is dispassionate, not mocking, yet she is angered.
‘I guess it’s all a joke to you, huh? I bet you don’t have the slightest clue what acute depression feels like. When you lie on the bed and the room closes in on you, the world closes in on you, you suffocate. When there’s nothing to look forward to when you wake up. Your friends, family, and colleagues give up on you because they see you as a lost cause. Death is the only exit.’
A very long pause. She’s not sure if he’s still there or gone. The park has gone silent as if listening to them.
Then, ‘I know what it feels like. I have been there. I live it every day.’
She barks out a laugh. ‘Right! Next you’ll be telling me you suffer from acute depression too. Dude, I tried taking my life twice before. If you felt as bad as I do, you wouldn’t be around.’
‘I have never wanted to take the easy way. Taking my life would be easy. I don’t want to make it easy on myself.’
She casts her eyes around, trying to find him, but c
an’t see anything other than layered shadows. She sits a long while, reflecting on the weird conversation. She calls out a few times but receives no reply. She’s now not even sure whether there was anyone there or whether it was just voices in her head. The adrenaline in her body seeps away, replaced by the chill-to-the-bone damp night air. She stands sluggishly, packs the knife back in the bag, and makes her way to 100th Street.
* * *
Zeb watches her leave the park and pursues her at a distance. At this time of night there is still traffic, a few pedestrians out and about, and he’s able to blend in. This is New York, after all.
He follows her down the subway entrance and watches her board a train from a hundred yards away.
He catches the down train and goes home.
He lies in bed thinking for a long time of vacant eyes, of what makes people take their own lives.
It’s time to start hunting tomorrow.
He calls Broker the next day.
Broker is just that. He served with military intelligence and was injured during his time in Mogadishu. After receiving an honorable discharge from the army, he went back to college, got a degree in Information Systems from Syracuse University, discovered hacking, and lived the corporate life a few years.
Finding it too staid, he went into doing what he was best at.
Sourcing information.
Outside the army, he discovered a knack for entrepreneurship and developed a reputable business out of selling information: information on African dictators, the sexual habits of US senators, security practices of oil companies, buying habits of East European crime gangs, weapons systems, reams of pages on military contractors – anything he could turn a profit from. Most of his clients were national governments, intelligence agencies around the world, defense contractors, international corporations, and security firms.
He and Zeb went back a long way. Zeb was the reason he still had his right leg. He walked with a slight limp, but that beat a prosthetic any day.
Zeb gets Broker’s voice mail.
‘Message. Number. You know the drill,’ his baritone rumbles through the phone.
Zeb hangs up without leaving a message.
He calls Andrews, gets his voice mail, too. Andrews’ voice mail greeting is a recitation of the Miranda rights. Funny.
He prints the photographs from his phone, writes up his report, and emails it to Andrews. With nothing else to do, it’s time to attend to family. He spruces up and catches the subway to Manhattan, changes at Times Square, and goes to Hamilton Heights.
His destination is a mid-rise west of Broadway. The doorman knows him well and ushers him to the elevator. The apartment is empty when he lets himself in. He makes himself a cup of coffee and settles down to wait in the living room.
He is on the Basanti Bukhari raga on the tabla in his mind when, a couple of hours later, a key scrapes at the door. The door is flung open by a seven-year-old boy, who marches to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and helps himself to a can of fruit juice.
He returns to the living room and finally spots Zeb sitting motionless.
Blue eyes widen in astonishment as they regard Zeb.
‘Who are you? What’re you doing here?’ The words spill out angrily.
Full-on New York accent, healthy complexion, spends a lot of time outdoors, black hair, blue eyes, just returned from school, still in his uniform, satchel slung over his shoulders; all this Zeb notes without conscious thought.
‘How did you get in? Did you break into Nana’s house?’
No fear, notes Zeb. Most boys his age would be panicking.
‘I know. You’ve come to steal Nana’s money, haven’t you?’ He darts into the kitchen and comes out with a kitchen knife. ‘Don’t come near me, and don’t move. I’m gonna call my mom.’
With that, he runs out of the apartment and locks it behind him. Zeb hears rushing feet outside the door minutes later, whispers, and the door opens. The boy stomps in followed by a blonde who is obviously his mother. The blue eyes and features come from her.
She’s flustered and says sheepishly, ‘You’re Zeb, right? Cassandra’s brother? Sorry about Rory. He gets a little overprotective.’ She nudges Rory. ‘Actually, you’re the one who should say sorry.’
‘Why should I apologize for looking out for Nana? I didn’t know who he was. He didn’t say a single word to me when I asked him. Even now he’s not exactly talkative, is he?’
The blonde turns to Zeb and introduces herself, ‘I’m Lauren Balthazar, and this little ball of goodwill and cheerfulness is my son, Rory. We’re Cassandra’s neighbors – as of a few months ago. Cassandra’s at work at City College, but she should be back in a couple of hours.’
She observes him as she’s talking: tall, about six feet, brown hair, serious, lean and unnaturally still. And he still hasn’t uttered a word. She thinks Rory was right to freak out at Zeb’s silence.
She relieves Rory of the carving knife and puts it back where it belongs. On returning to the living room, she asks, ‘Want some coffee? Or lunch? It’s no trouble.’ And it’s the least I can do after my son pulled a knife on you.
Zeb shakes his head.
She pauses, uncertain. ‘All right, then. We’ll be right next door if you need anything.’
Rory is still glaring at Zeb as she drags him away. Stillness returns, and Zeb resumes Basanti Bukhari and waits. He’s good at waiting.
* * *
It’s evening when Cassandra enters the apartment. ‘Hi, Zeb! Lauren called me, but I was caught up with some students after classes. Sorry to have kept you waiting.’
She goes to her bedroom to change and calls out from there. ‘Lauren has invited us to dinner. Hope you can stay.’
She goes to the kitchen and, in a few minutes, returns with two steaming cups of coffee.
Placing his in front of him, she sits across from him and studies him. He hasn’t changed much. A few more wrinkles around his eyes, some grey in his hair. ‘How have you been? Clare told me you were out of the country. When did you get back?’
Clare, the Director.
Cassandra and Clare had been to Bryn Mawr together, and then later on to Penn. Clare had started working at the agency as an analyst and was the first female director of the agency. Cassandra had started her career as a foreign service specialist in the State Department, was noticed, and became the aide to the Secretary of State. Clare’s and Cassandra’s friendship had weathered the politics of Washington, and they frequently bounced ideas off each other. After a time, Washington had palled for Cassandra, whereupon she quit to pursue an academic career in New York. If anything, the Director and Zeb’s sister had gotten closer now that she had left Washington.
‘A couple of days ago,’ he replies.
‘And how have you been?’
He shrugs. Talking, feelings, that was never his thing.
She sits for a long time, watching him. She is so much older than he, yet thinks he has seen and experienced much more than she ever will. People who don’t know him mistake his self-containment for loneliness. ‘Okay. I should know better than to even ask. I’m going to get dressed for dinner at Lauren’s.’ She shrugs mentally. He has always been a mystery. Nothing new there.
She slides a key across. ‘I keep them in the sideboard.’
He opens the sideboard and removes a pair of tablas. These were gifted to him by his guru in Jamaica. Since his first visit to the school, he’d spent hours learning the tabla, the various taals, and had often accompanied his guru in his performances. His guru had been right. He hadn’t found what he was seeking in tabla, but the drums provided an escape.
He takes out a soft cloth and polishes the wooden shell of the sidda and then repeats the polishing on the brass of the dagga. He adjusts the tension ropes on the sides of the drums and cleans them carefully. He takes a basalt stone and polishes the black spots, the syahi, on the drums slowly and rhythmically.
Cass observes from her bedroom. She doesn’t understand his fasci
nation for Indian drums. As a child, he wasn’t musically inclined. Zeb puts away the drums when she emerges ten minutes later, dressed to the nines, and they make their way to the apartment next door.
Rory opens the door with a flourish. ‘Hello, Aunt Cassie, I helped Mom make dinner for us, so I bet you it’ll be good.’
‘You’ve trained me well, Rory. I would never dare say your dinner is bad,’ Cass replies. ‘You have met Zeb, haven’t you?’ she asks with a mirthful glint in her eye.
Rory squirms and shuffles and then sticks his chin out. ‘He shouldn’t have let himself in, Aunt Cassie. I could have called the cops, and then it would have been a bigger scene.’
Lauren comes along with a tall dark-haired man. ‘Rory, shush. We all know how well you watch over Cassie’s apartment. Zeb, this is my husband, Connor. Connor, this is Zeb, Cassie’s brother.’
The man has a firm grip as he shakes Zeb’s hand.
Connor is an award-winning journalist working at the New York Times. He started his career at local newspapers in Kentucky and became noticed nationally when he exposed corruption in southeastern Kentucky politics. His big break came when he was snapped up by the New York Post. He trained his sights on exposing the corrupt practices of New York’s senators, won a George Polk award for that story, and moved to the New York Times, where he took on global features.
He opens a bottle of wine and makes small talk as they sit around the living room. Lauren says she’s expecting Connor’s sister for dinner, as well. She works in an advertising agency and is nearly always late for any occasion.
His sister enters just as Lauren finishes her apologies. Anne Balthazar is as tall as Connor, maybe five eleven, athletic build, and with the same dark hair, blue eyes and healthy complexion.
Rory jumps up with a squeal and flings himself into her arms. He rips at the paper on the gift she has brought him and squeals even louder when he finds a pair of baseball batting gloves in the box.
Connor asks Zeb about his work. Zeb shrugs and says he does investigative work for the army occasionally and some security consulting work for businesses.