The Firefly

by P. T. Deutermann

“Precisely, old boy. And mind that German idiom, if you please. Duplex: two narrow two-story houses under one common roof, with a common middle wall between them. Brick construction in this case. There is an alley, where each unit has a garage.”

  “So, there is a neighbor?”

  “One occupant next door, a middle-aged white woman, who works in the Library of Congress. Solitary sort, according to the estate agent.”

  “We will proceed with the cover story? That I am an artist?”

  “A sculptor, to be precise. That way, there can be lorries bringing large, heavy objects from time to time. We’ll actually have some marble blocks delivered.”

  “And the roof? Soft? Not slate, yes?”

  Mutaib shot him a sideways glance. “Much better. Yes, it’s asphalt shingle, replaced two years ago. Plus, here’s the best part: There’s a skylight.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. It was a major selling point, as you might imagine. The orientation is perfect. No large trees in the way.”

  “I will need to compute coordinates. Perhaps there is a survey map?”

  “We have an appraisal company working on that right now. The bank is pretending to be interested in buying the duplex, so I asked them for a survey report, with coordinates in three different forms. I told them we needed precise locating data for a diplomatic satellite channel.”

  Heismann winced. “That could come back to bite,” he said, scanning for unmarked vans among the cars parked along the cross street.

  Mutaib shrugged. “I know, but we’re not too worried. You’ll burn it on your way out, correct?”

  “It will burn,” Heismann said. And so will you, princess, he thought. He looked forward to that part. All he had to do was figure out how.

  “Very well, then,” Mutaib said. “And the estate agents accepted the legend.”

  Heismann resisted the urge to laugh out loud. The legend. Really. “I am artist on commission to the bank for six months, yes?”

  “For statuary art at the bank, that’s correct. Which allows us to pay the bills, do the lease, and deflect with a whiff of diplomatic immunity any nosy questions from the authorities. We’ve even cobbled up a brochure on you, Erich Hodler, famous European sculptor, complete with photos of your ‘work.’ That’s the name you wanted, correct?”

  “Hodler is correct. Interpol should not have that one. Do you expect questions about me, the sculptor?”

  “Not really. Besides, we paid full rate, in advance. When one pays what they ask, estate agents tend to move right along. They were politely interested, but nothing more. They did wonder about your not wanting a phone.”

  “If there is no telephone, there can be no wiretap,” Heismann said. “Telephones are homing devices these days.”

  They both glanced over as a small motorcade growled its way up the Mall on the Constitution Avenue side, two Suburbans bracketing a pair of big black limos, three District police cars, the one in front with an impatient siren going, the other two at the back. As a new conscript in the East German army, Heismann had been a tank gunner. If they were serious, the dignitary would be in the lead Suburban, Heismann calculated as he mentally framed up that vehicle in some lovely Zeiss optics. Or maybe even in one of those seedy-looking police squad cars.

  “Occupy it when, exactly?” he asked.

  “This Thursday—that would be the twelfth. I’ve written the address down on this newspaper.”

  “The house is furnished?”

  “The house is furnished, of course, but we’ve asked them to take all the furniture out of the master bedroom on the second floor—you know, for your ‘studio.’ They wanted to store it in the garage, but I insisted they take it away. You may need that garage. We will also get you a street parking permit for your van.”

  “It is close to a Metro station?”

  “Yes indeed. One of our criteria, as you will remember. Eastern Market station.”

  Heismann nodded. The Arabs had surprised him with their thoroughness. They’d done exactly what he’d asked them to. “Very good,” he said. “Then all I need is the weapon.”

  The Saudi didn’t reply for a moment, and he buried his head in the newspaper, as if he’d found something truly interesting. Heismann wondered if he’d said something wrong.

  “May we assume,” Mutaib said finally, “that the fire at the clinic means you are finished with all your, um, medical procedures?”

  And what is this? Heismann wondered. “That is correct.”

  “I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you after all this time. That beard, for instance.”

  “But the coat and hat, yes? Loden is distinctive. And also the white bag.”

  “Yes, but, um, I can’t see your face. And your voice. You sound…different.”

  “That is no accident,” Heismann said. “From here forward, you do not want to see my face.”

  “They changed your nose; I can see that. Looks a bit like mine, actually. Your hair—they changed your hair?”

  “They changed everything they could,” Heismann said patiently. “That was the whole idea, remember?”

  “Oh, quite,” Mutaib said. “I completely understand.”

  No, you don’t, Heismann thought. “It has been confirmed, then?” he asked. “You still wish me to execute this thing?”

  “Absolutely,” Mutaib said from behind his newspaper. “The weapon is en route. And given the results of this recent election, my, um, associates feel we have no choice. The Democrats have won the entire election. They have always been the war party. No matter how much they spin it otherwise.”

  Heismann had not followed the American election, other than to know that the Republican incumbent and his party in Congress had gone down to a surprising defeat and that the opposition party, the so-called Democrats, were now going to rule both on Capitol Hill and in the White House. He read the Washington papers diligently to keep up his English proficiency, and they seemed to make much of this “new” situation. In Europe, of course, the legislature and the executive branches were always controlled by the same party. Otherwise, how could anyone govern? One more example of America’s idiotic politics. “It will be quite something,” he predicted.

  “Won’t it just,” Mutaib replied. “But we must strike first. Otherwise, we believe the Kingdom will simply disappear.”

  “And this bait business—I still wonder if that was wise.”

  “Deception is always necessary on something of this scale,” Mutaib replied. “Especially these days. But do you really need to use the nurse?”

  “No one was supposed to survive the fire. But since she has, once they find the file, they will question her. The file will establish the false time line. She may or may not be able to point them to the right name. If necessary, I will nudge her in the right direction. Then I will remove her.”

  Mutaib thought about that for a moment. “My, um, associates are concerned that she remains alive. We have discussed taking care of her ourselves, with our own assets here in the city.”

  “You doubt my abilities?”

  “No, no, it’s not that,” Mutaib said, shifting his seat on the bench. “We agree that, if and when the bait surfaces, they will go to her, because she is the only one left. We don’t know how much she knows about the clinic. Or if she can connect the clinic to the bank.”

  Heismann shrugged. “Then let me take care of it. If my doing that becomes a problem or interferes with the mission, she is yours.”

  “Very well. And if we do not see movement in Interpol channels, then we’ll think of something else. A freight company will leave a message in the mailbox about delivery arrangements. For some Carrara marble blocks. One of the drivers on that delivery will leave behind instructions regarding the weapon container and its delivery.”

  Heismann nodded. “Excellent,” he said. The deception plan had been their idea. He had never thought it necessary, but Mutaib had just made it his problem. Before he could say anything else, a man in a business suit and lightweig
ht raincoat walked up, sat down on the bench across the way, and opened a newspaper.

  Mutaib gave Heismann a theatrically significant glance from behind his own paper, folded it up, looked at his watch, dropped the paper on the bench, got up, and walked away. Heismann pulled the folded newspaper over and scanned the front section while finishing his potato chips. The address was not immediately visible, so he would have to take it with him, but for the moment, he decided just to sit there. The international pages spoke of the growing tensions between the Kingdom and the United States over oil: It described how the new Shiite clerical regime in Iraq, in alliance with the Shiite regime in Iran, had strong-armed the Kingdom into matching their own production cutbacks. How the Americans’ unilateral decision to withdraw all its military forces from the Kingdom and Iraq had unleashed a huge upsurge in anti-American sentiment in the Gulf, to the point where the Iraqi mullahs had thrown all American reconstruction companies out of the country and replaced them with French and German contractors. The ruling faction, increasingly uneasy about the growing Shiite axis to the north and east, was preparing to open the oil spigots, but there was growing resistance within the Kingdom from some of the more powerful royal factions. Rumors of a royal Saudi coup were circulating in the bazaars. Gasoline, diesel, and home-heating oil at close to five dollars a gallon here in America had apparently had much to do with the outcome of the recent election. And equally much to do with why he was here.

  These deluded Arabs, he thought. In his opinion, the Kingdom would most certainly disappear after this thing happened. Imagine. Playing medieval power games with the world’s sole surviving superpower. Just like the ancient Jews, who, by intentionally provoking Rome back in the first century with their fervid dreams of religious and ethnic purity, had been flattened into the dust of history for their efforts. He had read that some prominent politicians in the newly victorious Democratic party wanted to do the very same thing to the Kingdom, given all that had happened since their so-called 9/11. No wonder the Arabs were worried. But what did they think was going to happen once they executed this incident? Once he executed this incident. Because there were absolutely going to be Saudi fingerprints all over it—he was going to make damned sure of that. It would be the only way he could buy time to effect his own disappearance. The Ammies would be far more interested in the bomber’s masters than in the bomber himself.

  The man across the walkway seemed to pay no attention to anything going on around him as he read his paper. Coincidence? Heismann wondered. He leaned back on the bench, tilted his face up to where the weak January sun should have been lurking, and rubbed his face, in the process pushing the big sunglasses higher up on his nose so he could just peek out through the two tiny clear spots in the lower lenses. He pretended to be napping but kept his eyes slitted open. The bridge of his now almost Semitic nose still twinged occasionally from the surgery. His Nazi grandfather would have gleefully broken that nose if he could have seen it. Grandpapa had also known a thing or two about fire.

  He watched the man opposite and also scanned for signs of anyone following Mutaib as he strolled back across the wide expanse of dormant grass out on the Mall. Since no one seemed to be following Mutaib, he concentrated on the other man, whom he could not really see, hidden as he was behind the spread newspaper in his hands. In his perfectly still hands, he realized. When had the man last turned the page?

  He focused harder on the man’s hands. Black leather gloves. With his new, surgically altered eyes, Heismann’s vision was now nearly perfect. Still the man didn’t turn the page. Another foreigner trying to improve his American idiom by plowing through the Washington Post’s sometimes turgid prose? He stared hard at the man’s gloved hands.

  The wind gusted again, and the man’s paper trembled. Something. There—the right hand. Yes. Yes. Yes! Right there. He felt his heart quicken. He could just make out a tiny black wire coming out of the glove on the man’s right hand. The wire disappeared up inside the man’s shirt cuff.

  He wanted to shout. His tactical instincts were alive and well. This man was trying to photograph him. Through a tiny hole in the stupid newspaper, no doubt. Holding the paper very steady, despite the wind. Waiting for—what? Waiting for Heismann to take off the sunglasses and expose his face, of course. He closed his eyes and tried not to grin. Then he wondered how long the man could hold his arms out like that. That could get difficult after just a few minutes. He remembered watching the Soviet honor guard soldiers at the Battle of Berlin monument in East Berlin, when they would put their World War II rifles at right-shoulder arms and then, using only their wrist, bring the heavy piece up to a perfectly vertical position in their extended hand and hold it like that for twenty minutes. He’d tried it once, and his arm had collapsed after only sixty seconds. We shall see, he thought.

  And the next question was, Who would want to take his picture? Some Ammie secret government agent? Except, as he remembered his own tradecraft, the Ammies preferred telephoto work.

  No. Not the Americans. This was Mutaib’s man. Some fat-joweled princes back in Saudi telling their point man, Emir Mutaib: you haven’t seen this man for almost a year. He’s had extensive cosmetic surgery. We need to know what he looks like now. You know, for afterward. Obtain a photograph. Meet him somewhere public. Put him at ease, and have someone get his photograph.

  He could just hear Secret Agent Mutaib Bond speaking in code in that superior tone of his: We will be meeting on the Mall. Hidden in plain sight. He will be on the same bench with me. I will have a newspaper. He will have a white lunch bag. There will be secret signs. We need the new face. And the lackey replying, Right away, Your Highness.

  And why would they need his picture? So when this thing was kaput, they could find him and kill him, of course. The management of loose ends.

  The wind gusted again, and Heismann shivered despite the heavy loden coat. But he kept his head back and watched the other man hold steadfastly to his newspaper. He couldn’t see the wire anymore. Had he imagined it? No, he had not. The wind died away, but the edges of the man’s newspaper kept trembling. Ah. Any minute now.

  Finally, the would-be photographer gave up, lowered the paper, and turned the page. Heismann stood up at once, yawned, picked up the newspaper, and walked away before the man could position the hidden lens again. He didn’t bother to look at the man. Just another amateur. Fools.

  But he had learned something important today. He had planned all along to do his own loose-end management by removing his delicate Arab controller, the one man who could tie him directly to what was coming. He’d been paid half the money in advance, as agreed, but he never expected to see the promised other half. He’d wanted only two things from them all along: the front money and the change in physical identity, something that would release him from his Stasi past forever.

  Heismann had been surprised when he’d been approached by the Saudi moneyman two years ago in Hamburg. They had a big job for him to do, in the United States this time. They trusted him absolutely because he had killed for them and he was not an ideologue—he worked strictly for money. Plus, he had excellent English, American English, actually, and for that and the fact that he was not a major player in the world of professional terrorists, they were willing to pay a fortune. Heismann had no illusions, then or now, about his status as some kind of international terrorist operative. He was what he was—a journeyman criminal with a gift for languages and for physical violence. But he was getting older and tired of all this skulking around and working for the despised Arabs. And the Western nations’ counterintelligence organizations were getting better at finding the players in the terrorist networks. Many of the major players were gone. People were disappearing and not coming back. Germans, too. Pretty soon, they’d concentrate on the midlevel operatives. So he’d named his terms: the money, plus a total change in physical identity. And total would mean total. That had been fine with them—they’d had two years to set the thing up. As was their custom, they’d allowed pl
enty of time.

  Now he had half the money, the entire identity change, and the thing was running. Good enough in all respects. Since there had to be loose strings at each end of every rope, Heismann understood that he was Mutaib’s loose end. So the photographer was really no surprise. He loved it when his opponents showed their hands this way. It made everything so much simpler.

  He adjusted the big sunglasses as he walked across the nation’s front lawn. He could almost feel the camera lens, hear the electric film winder grinding away as the man got some wonderful shots—of the back of his lovely green loden overcoat. And new ears. Well, yes, that would be something to report. Herr Heismann had new ears.

  He laughed out loud.

  Fools.

  Swamp enjoyed the brisk walk up Connecticut Avenue from the Metro station. The afternoon traffic was already building toward rush hour, and he always felt better when he could walk faster than the cars could move. Gary White was keeping up with him, although Swamp detected an occasional puff when the young agent thought Swamp wasn’t looking. He wondered if Gary was a smoker. Most Homicide cops he knew were.

  “Only way to get around this benighted city’s traffic,” Swamp offered as they crossed Wyoming Avenue and passed the embassies of Malta and Senegal. “By the time we get there, all those cars out there will have moved two whole blocks.”

  White muttered something in return, but his words were whipped away by the January wind. Kid ought to learn to wear a hat, Swamp thought, securing his own Borsalino on his head. The fancy hat was an extravagance, but he loved the contrast it made with his face. And besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything else to spend his money on these days.

  The clinic itself was on the south side of Kalorama Road, visible from a block away because of the yellow crime-scene tape fluttering in the wind. Malone had driven over in a fire department sedan and was parked partially up on the sidewalk, inside the tape. He got out when he saw Swamp and Gary approaching.

  The facade of the two-story clinic was brown brick, blackened around the window frames. The windows had been broken out. The front door was propped in place but no longer on its hinges. Heavy smoke stains created a black halo around the upper reaches of the doorway. Malone met them on the steps.