When Turnbull fell silent, an electric organ began playing, its looping hymn and the assembly’s urgent shouts feeding the flow. A hat was filled, and a last few crumpled bills passed forward. A couple of young men with a fumbling sense of rhythm began playing electric bass and drums. An elderly woman sang into a microphone. She drowned out the murmur of the hall as she gazed somewhere high up, singing to the ceiling and the sky outside.
Charles-Ray Turnbull nodded, smiling, and wiped the sweat from his temples.
CHAPTER 19
N. LAY AWAKE A LONG time in his room. Had lain there, listening to the others through the walls of the factory, and hearing them fall silent for the night in their hall of old offices, with no windows and only a single toilet. That was the last sound he’d heard, the toilet flushing, probably several hours ago now. He was lying on a mattress on the floor, lying on his back shirtless, sweating. The air felt thick and motionless, the old soap factory smells inescapable.
Five rooms in a row, a room for each of them—and there were more farther down in the darkness, he had no idea how many. Beyond his own room, the map was blank. Mary lived at the other end, closest to the factory hall.
Now all was silent through the walls, sunk deep into the night. N. rose slowly.
Out in the hallway, the only light came from somewhere below the stairs leading to the factory hall. It was Adderloy. Couldn’t see him, only the light from the lamp where he sat. He too was silent. N. stood at Mary’s door, hesitant and warm. He held his breath, looked toward the yellow-green light, then pressed down on the door handle again.
He opened the door and went inside.
Gently, Mary pushed the door shut behind him. She took a step back and looked him up and down.
She wore a paint-spotted smock as a nightgown, the kind you’d otherwise think of an artist wearing. It hung unbuttoned and left most of her revealed. Then she came close, but only so that they barely touched. N. inhaled the air around her head, but in the factory she was scentless. He smelled only the old soap from the floor and walls, not her. That strange thing with Mary—dimensions where she did not exist.
He made an attempt against her neck, but she slipped away like a cat—an impossible evasion to one side, so that he brushed past her skin with his lips. Her eyes shone with delight.
She crouched down by a bag, picked up something. Whispered: “Keta . . . Keta . . . Ketalar.”
It was a vial, held so that it spun between her fingers. “Do you know what this is?” She gazed at the liquid in the glass container. “Good and evil, mingled together. It numbs without affecting breathing.” Her lips formed a ring, almost like a kiss, and she inhaled, whistling in the air. “But then there’s the downside.” The vial spun. “You experience what others only see in horror movies—unspeakable nightmares. You can’t begin to imagine, the anxiety. All of Turnbull’s demons gathered in a bottle. With just a pinprick.”
“Is that what he’ll get?”
“A pinprick, then he’s at the mercy of his own demons.”
The whole house shook when the generators turned on. Mary said something more, but it was drowned out by the roar that descended upon them. N. already had his hands on her hips. It was as if freight trains rolled past on every side of them. Her hand pinched his chest. First, just in a playful way, but then she dug her fingers into him. The nails made brands. His mouth felt dry from the pain, and when the blood finally surfaced he jerked involuntarily—but she pulled back and held him tightly to her. He felt the sensual pleasure of her weight against him and let himself be pushed back against the wall.
Her hand moved from his chest and lay like a mask over his face. They both breathed violently. She circled one finger in his mouth. Noise, waves of excitement, a furious erection. He tasted her thin finger and found the saltiness of his own blood.
Hard on his back. Sunburn in a remote place had turned his arms dark. Only the scars were winding white, untouched by sunlight, under her clutching fingers. She kept him inside her, braced, the floor shook, her legs clenched his hips in an iron ring.
His body was studded with small darkening fingerprints of his own blood.
CHAPTER 20
Diego Garcia, three years later
THE PRISONER HIDDEN AWAY BY the Americans poked at the newspapers brought to his cell. The days passed by. Grip spent them fast-forwarding through the surveillance tapes, running in the afternoon heat, or lifting weights at the gym.
His hotel room looked lived-in: spread-out running clothes that never dried in the humid air, shirts under plastic on wire hangers from the base’s dry cleaner, a half-eaten bunch of grapes on a plate, corn chips and a package of cookies on top of the humming refrigerator.
On day eight, Grip found the man sitting and reading a newspaper. Grip played it back and forth, studying the bent figure, verifying the times—he read the paper for almost two hours.
Grip interrupted the playback. Thought for a moment, glanced at Stackhouse, who sat engrossed in some papers.
“I’m going in to him,” he said.
“Huh?” said Stackhouse, who’d understood perfectly well. “Now?”
“Yes. I want to go in to him now.”
“Okay,” said Stackhouse, “but keep him guessing, and no names.”
“I’ve questioned people before.” Grip stood up. “Can I go now?”
“No names,” insisted Stackhouse.
“I promise.”
The heavy door closed behind Grip. The air was surprisingly cool; somewhere, a ventilation fan buzzed. The cell seemed smaller than it had looked through the surveillance camera. The man lay on the bunk. He didn’t move. Grip couldn’t see his eyes through the long hair, but felt that he was awake and very wary.
“Hello,” said Grip in Swedish and nodded. He took two steps forward, pulled out the chair, and sat down with his back to the cell door. The man on the bunk held his fists clenched. Grip looked around with slow and slightly exaggerated head movements, as if becoming acquainted with a newly discovered room.
Clenched fists, and now the man’s chest started to rise and fall in forced gasps. He struggled in vain to hide it.
Grip placed an elbow on the table. “I’m representing the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but actually I belong to the security police.” He paused. No reaction. Continued. “I’ve been called in because they’re wondering who you are. The Americans are wondering. Myself, I know precisely nothing.”
He squinted up at the fluorescent lamps hanging below the ceiling grates. “I was the one who got the air-conditioning turned on, got you the table—and the newspapers, of course.” Grip looked down again, spinning the top paper in the stack his way. A Polish daily. He straightened his back a little. “I suspect that you’ve been sent to many places, and have been through all kinds of questioning. Lots of tricks. To suddenly be showering, have air-conditioning, newspapers—is this yet another one, you wonder? A man who seems friendly, that’s the oldest trick in the book.” Grip exhaled loudly. “I’m Swedish. I will not lie to you, and I will not make you any false promises. That’s what you must consider.”
The man was breathing as violently as before, but now he no longer tried to hide it.
“The date here is a little misleading,” said Grip, tapping the paper with his fingertip. “This was printed a week ago, and today is the sixth, the sixth of May.”
The man moved his head, a short flick. His hair swept across his cheek, but Grip couldn’t see more of his face. His hair was dark, as dark as Grip’s own.
“Admittedly, the newspapers were a trick,” he continued. “But I had to try something.” He tapped his finger on the pile again. “You’ve poked at them, glanced at a page here and there. And like me, with most languages, you have no idea. But this . . .” Grip took a corner and pulled it out from the other papers. “Of course, you’re Swedish.” It was his own well-thumbed Expressen he held. “You sat and read it for two hours. Even the TV listings.”
The man opened the fingers of one
hand and clenched his fist again.
“Yeah, I didn’t do it to get some sort of advantage. I might as well have asked, but they said you don’t answer when spoken to. So I thought this might save us some time. You’re Swedish, and now we both know it.” Grip followed the man’s breathing, kept his eyes on his chest. “If I stand up and kick you a few times, hard, then you’ll be on familiar ground, right? Then you’ll know my type, what to expect. If instead I place something to eat on your table, and leave, then you’ll simply think it’s another trick. That’s a problem. Mostly for me, but probably for both of us. I am neither good nor evil, I’m just from home, and here to find out if you are Swedish. Now I know you understand Swedish, but I’d also like to find out who you are. One more thing. I don’t know how much time I get with you, that’s something the Americans out here determine. It’s not good, but that’s the deal. And it makes us equal—maybe I eat a little better, but right now we’re both their pawns.”
Grip got up, made a gesture in front of the camera’s Plexiglas, and then turned back. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking at the man and his whitened knuckles until the door lock rattled.
“Is he Swedish?” said Stackhouse, once Grip was back in the monitoring room.
Grip replied: “How much have you thrashed him? He curls up in a ball and starts to hyperventilate whenever a human comes near him.”
“Is he Swedish?”
“How much? Every other day for a year—more? A guess: first electric shocks and waterboarding, then just kicks and punches when people got tired.” Stackhouse didn’t respond. Grip tucked his shirt into his waistband. “The nails are growing in again, but they look lumpy. Usually takes six months to get them back.”
“It hasn’t been handled professionally,” said Stackhouse effortlessly, but without looking at Grip.
“Thank you. And during all that, no one can be completely silent. How many identities has he claimed?”
“Many. A mess. I’ve said before, nothing we’ve been able to document.” Stackhouse raised his voice. “And regardless of where he was before, he’s here now. That’s enough. A straight question—is he Swedish?”
“I don’t know,” lied Grip. “He said nothing. He only hyperventilated.”
CHAPTER 21
Topeka, 2005
WATER RAN OVER REZA’S HEAD. The metal bowl between his feet echoed with the rivulets. He was about to shave his head.
It was the night before.
Adderloy stood by the row of windows at the factory hall, looking out over the evening lights. A folded newspaper hanging in one hand. He hummed something, its tune unrecognizable. N. sat on the couch and picked among the handwritten notes and maps on the table. On top lay a couple of sheets taped together, Vladislav’s sketch from memory of the bank—First Federal United. By the door on the drawing, he’d scrawled “2:30.” That was all the time they’d have. An absolute, at three minutes they’d have to be back outside and on their way. Vladislav could prove it, had worked out all the details—distances to police stations, alarm times, police responses during armed robberies. There was a city map on the table where he’d drawn lines and written down something like formulas.
“Actually, two thirty-two,” he’d said, “but let’s say thirty. That’s something you can remember.” This was one of the few things the tall Czech took seriously. “When those doors open and you enter the bank, your memory goes blank.”
That was then, a little while ago. Now Vladislav stood by the bookshelf, flipping absentmindedly through some volumes. A few seconds per book, though longer if there were pictures. He wasn’t the type who sat down to read; always some other impulse took over. N. looked at him and remembered the story of the bus. How Vladislav had sat perfectly still as the water rose, how all the others around him drowned in panic. Two and a half minutes. It wasn’t much. Certainly, there were people who could hold their breath that long.
Reza poured another bucket of water over his head, dragging the razor across.
“I told you to burn them,” Adderloy said, with an irritated glance at N.
N. let go of the bank sketch, shoved it into the pile with all the other stuff in the middle of the table. In it were all their notes, checklists, and maps. Adderloy started humming again, watching some distant movement in the night.
“Are there smoke detectors?” said N.
Mary was sitting and flipping through a fashion magazine, eating bacon chips out of a bag. “Some . . . maybe . . . I’ve seen a few.” She turned the pages in the pauses between words, smiled slightly absently down at her magazine. She was swinging one leg impatiently over the other, looking as if she sat in a waiting room. She was the only one who seemed to enjoy the idea that there were only hours left.
“Hey Mary, smoke alarms—if I start a fire then it could—”
“Just burn it,” repeated Adderloy without turning around.
N. filled a pan from the stove with his stack of papers. He splashed some nail polish remover from a can he found in a cupboard, and set it on fire. The flames burned a fierce blue, big flakes of ash rising straight up as the smoke disappeared in the dark. He didn’t have to poke around for it to be completely incinerated. The flames died down, and soon there were only embers eating their way, like thin glowworms among black leaves.
“Anyone still not have it down?” said Adderloy loudly. All that remained of their lists and plans were specks of soot that slowly floated into the room. Adderloy had been taciturn and short-tempered all night. N. saw behind his gray eyes something like the vigilance of a predator. Capable of anything—flight or furious confrontation.
A few blocks beyond the old mill stood two newly stolen cars: a black Impala for size, and a Nissan with scraped-up rims for invisibility. On a banister inside the factory, four new suits hung in a row, still in their plastic, with matching pairs of athletic shoes and robber hoods in a neat pile on the floor below. The weapons were packed in their trunk, magazines loaded. The medical bag with all the vials was ready. The next morning, they would pick up the blood from the freezer of the Lebanese.
“Are you ready now, you freakin’ suicide bomber?”
If Mary’s smile was inscrutable, Vladislav’s was the opposite. An outright sneer.
“Huh?” Reza turned toward the bookshelf, as if sleepwalking. He was still holding the razor in his hand.
“That’s what you look like. Is this some kind of ceremony, first you cut off that blond shit and then jihad?” Vladislav shoved things around for no reason on the bookshelf, a few inches here and there. “Is this what you have to do to get those waiting virgins—those heavenly fucks?”
Two days before, Reza would have thrown himself at him in blind rage. Now he just looked at Vladislav. Maybe his nerves were already on overload. As of a few days back, he’d stopped asking his contentious questions about everything, and his jerky way of moving, his wandering gaze—those too were gone. As if everything he did was a little too slow, as if he could only do things he’d decided on far in advance. And now the attack was too quick for him to follow. Maybe this saved Vladislav, or whichever of them was being saved.
Vladislav wasn’t satisfied. “You need some kind of fucking ceremony. Don’t they always have shaved heads, your brethren, on the pictures you see afterward, after they’ve killed a bunch of people? Virgin horny fucking martyrs.”
Reza groped for a moment. He pulled his hand through the hairy water, his lips hesitating at first, but then he said, “But we won’t kill anyone.”
“No, that’s right,” said Vladislav, pushing a bookend into a few paperbacks. “Everyone will live happily ever after.”
Only Mary’s turning of the magazine pages broke the silence.
Vladislav waited. No one said anything.
“Poker, anyone?” he said then, suddenly, and kicked the base of the bookshelf. “Where’s the deck?” He started to look around.
“And what would the stakes be?” said Adderloy. His voice was low and self-assured. He
straightened his ring and looked sternly at Vladislav.
Vladislav had started a poker game once before. After absurdly cautious bidding, the game had run out of steam. No one wanted to admit it, but who had the nerve to bet, when all that sat in their pockets was Adderloy’s money?
“Oh, all right,” said Vladislav, throwing himself into an armchair. His legs stuck straight out across the floor. “Who knows,” he said, slapping his hands on the armrests. “Maybe things will be better tomorrow?”
A few hours earlier, when the generators went on and the building was drowned in shaking and noise, Adderloy had pulled Vladislav aside. Earlier, he’d said he wanted to practice shooting, claiming it had been a long time since he’d held an automatic weapon. Best to fire a few rounds when the generators were on—no one would hear. And he wanted Vladislav to instruct him. So with the first tremors, they each took a submachine gun and vanished. Toward the vast halls downstairs, N. supposed.
Soon after the generators died, they returned.
But there was something about their behavior that made N. send himself off on an errand, to the weapons trunk. They kept glancing around too much. While he was checking on a pistol, N. swiped his finger around the muzzles of the submachine guns, just replaced at the top of the bag. On his finger, he found only a hint of shiny weapon grease, but no trace of burned powder. Not a single shot had been fired.
Adderloy and Vladislav had been alone for a while—the generator had hidden not bangs from automatic fire but rather the lack of them. It was then that N. had looked into Adderloy’s gaze, to where the unsafe predator stalked, although Adderloy himself stood still. By now it was clear to him that Adderloy’s intentions didn’t include any of them. An obscure agenda that only he knew. And Vladislav, sneering in mock offense at Reza, had possibly sensed what was going on.
Suicide martyrs, Charles-Ray Turnbull, and First Federal United.
The new world N. had almost unconsciously become part of was a minefield of unspoken threats and creeping conspiracies. He felt the currents around him, they would all converge eventually, but the only thing that mattered to him now was his goal: to get revenge for his girls. As long as that happened, the rest didn’t matter.
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