“He dead?”
“Stone dead,” the second man said, staring down at the bloody carnage that had once been Augie Manson’s chest. “You wouldn’t think a guy like that could drop Blanchard. He looks like a bank clerk.”
“You’ve been watching too many movies. Where’s Peters?”
“Back on the phone talking to Blanchard. Where’d Blanchard say the stuff was hidden?”
“In the Thermos.”
The second man reached down and picked up the Thermos from beside Augie’s body. He unscrewed the top and poured two or three ounces of coffee out on the floor. Then he stuck a pencil down through the false bottom; the tip of the pencil came up white and the second man touched the powder to his tongue.
“Heroin, all right. About a half million’s worth.”
A fat man with red veins running through his nose and cheeks pushed his way through the police lines at the opposite end of the corridor and shuffled hurriedly toward them. He stopped a few paces away from the men and stared down at Augie’s lifeless body.
“Why the hell did you have to kill him?”
“He had a thirty-eight Police Special that he somehow managed to sneak past the metal detector in Spain. There were a lot of people behind us.”
“He was a lousy tourist,” Peters said, half-swallowing the words. “A lousy tourist.”
“A tourist?”
“Right,” Peters said, not looking up. “Blanchard says they finally found the other one, the guy that gave the Thermos to this guy. Turns out the Syndicate has a new gimmick; they smear some guy up with fake blood, then pick out some nobody on a charter flight. Tell him the Thermos contains microfilm, tell him it has to be brought back here. Give him an American flag medallion and get him all hopped up. Secret agent stuff, you know. Really appeals to them. Then when they get here, the Syndicate snatches it away from them. Simple. Really cuts down on the risks of smuggling the stuff in.”
“This one was tougher than they figured.”
Peters nodded slowly, unconsciously touching Augie’s body with the toe of his shoe. “It’s just a damn shame.”
FIREFIGHT OF THE MIND
They’re all yours, Eddy,” Brokaw said, stepping out into the hallway and closing the classroom door behind him. “Did you get your business with the draft board taken care of?”
“Yes, sir,” Eddy said to the principal of the Marsten Elementary School. “I’m sorry to have to be late on the first day of school, but—”
“Listen,” Brokaw said, touching Eddy’s arm solicitously, “you just let me know if the draft board gives you any more trouble; I’ll call them personally.” Brokaw winked broadly. “We need all the men we can get in the elementary schools. This war keeps up much longer, and we’ll have them.”
Eddy jammed his hands into his pockets and looked away to hide his anger. He knew he could not really blame Brokaw for assuming he had entered the teaching profession because it was a deferred occupation, the easiest way to beat the draft—it was a widespread practice—but he wished Brokaw and the others would keep their opinions to themselves and stop acting like smug, self-satisfied collaborators.
“Well, your class looks like a bright bunch,” Brokaw said hurriedly, sensing Eddy’s embarrassment. “Believe it or not, there’s even an apple on your desk.”
“Thanks for covering them for me,” Eddy said evenly. “I don’t think my board will have any more questions now that I’ve actually started on a job.”
“Well, good luck,” Brokaw said. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any problems.”
“Thank you. I won’t have any trouble.”
Brokaw smiled nervously and hurried off down the hall.
Eddy waited until Brokaw had turned a corner, then he turned to go into his classroom. He hesitated with his hand on the knob. A month before it would have been inconceivable to him that he would be made nervous by the prospect of facing a roomful of fifth graders; now he recalled his own elementary years and he imagined himself being greeted by a large spitball in the middle of the forehead, or a fleet of attacking paper airplanes.
Eddy laughed aloud, and stepped into the room.
“Good morning, Mister Reese!”
It’s going to be all right, Eddy thought. He could feel his anxiety melting in the vibrant glow of the children’s eagerness and warmth. He walked up to a blond-headed boy with braces on his teeth and rumpled the child’s hair.
“I see you know my name,” Eddy said, laughter tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It shouldn’t take me more than six or seven months to learn all of yours.”
The children giggled. Eddy strolled to his desk and picked up the large, gleaming apple someone had placed there. He juggled it in his hand. The long, thin streaks of brown discoloration on the skin of the fruit registered somewhere just below the surface of his consciousness.
“I want to thank whoever brought me this apple,” Eddy intoned with mock seriousness. “We’re all going to get along fine as long as you keep me well fed.”
There were more excited giggles as Eddy lifted the apple to his mouth. The muscles in his jaw tensed, but not before his teeth had broken through into the crisp meat of the fruit. Now the memory of the brown slashes in the fruit surfaced, tripping a warning signal in his mind.
The warning came too late.
The sound of metal scraping against bone echoed inside his skull as the acid tartness of the apple was blurred by the warm, salty taste of his own blood in his mouth. The ribbon of steel screeched down between his teeth and sliced into his gum and upper lip. The front of his tie and white shirt were suddenly spotted with red.
Eddy jerked the apple from his mouth and stared at it; his blood, diluted with the juice of the apple, was beading on the exposed edge of the razor blade. He threw the apple to the floor and wadded his handkerchief into his mouth to stanch the bleeding. He glanced up at the faces of the startled children.
Which one? Which child was so sick that he or she would try to destroy a man’s mouth? And why?
The faces of the children were white. Two girls in the back of the room had begun to cry, and others soon joined them. The aura of excitement and anticipation that had greeted Eddy when he first entered the room had now hardened into the sour smell of fear.
Which one?
Eddy walked over to the intercom. It seemed an eternity before Brokaw’s secretary finally came on the line.
“I’d like to speak to Mister Brokaw.”
“Mister Brokaw is in conference now.”
“Get him!”
There was a moment of shocked silence, then the sound of another phone buzzing. Eddy continued to stare at the faces of the children. The children stared back. At last there was the sound of Brokaw’s voice crackling over the line.
“This is Mister Reese,” Eddy said around the edge of his handkerchief. “I need you right away.”
“Eddy, what’s the matter with your voice?”
“Right away,” Eddy repeated, and then replaced the intercom on the wall. He glanced up to find the children turned around in their desks, staring at something in the back of the room. Eddy followed the direction of their gaze, and froze.
A tall man with lean, hard features was standing at the back of the room in front of an open closet door. Both his hands were buried in the pockets of a worn, checked jacket. Intense, pale green eyes searched for and locked onto Eddy’s.
“I see my booby trap was not entirely successful,” the man said. His voice was soft, but his words carried clearly, like the distant sounds of rifle shots on a cold day.
Eddy continued to stand very still, holding the man’s gaze. He was too far away to rush. Too many children. The man had made no move toward any of the children, but Eddy knew that was no guarantee that the man wouldn’t if there were any sudden move on his part. There were four girls sitting directly in front of the man; a single swipe with a razor could kill or at least disfigure all of them.
Eddy struggled against his ow
n panic. He knew there was a small fire-alarm box just outside his room in the hallway. One blow on the glass would set off a cacophony of bells, which would in turn summon scores of police and firemen to the school; but the alarm was out in the hall, and he had closed the door to the classroom.
“Who are you?” Eddy asked quietly. “What do you want?”
The man walked slowly and deliberately toward Eddy. Eddy pressed his lips tightly around the cloth in his mouth and tensed, ready to leap. The man stopped directly in the center of the room; he was now completely surrounded by children.
“You’re very fortunate,” the man said, still looking directly into Eddy’s eyes. “I can see the bleeding’s almost stopped. By rights, that apple should have been a land mine; I’d like to see you try to stuff your handkerchief into a hole where your leg used to be.”
The man was not drunk. He spoke very clearly, every word distinct, but the blood was draining from his face, and his voice was steadily rising in pitch. Eddy thought he could hear Brokaw’s steps in the hallway.
“On the way to school this morning,” the man continued, “you should have fallen into a pit lined with bamboo stakes. They say it takes four strong men to pull a man off one of those things.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“My name is Plakker,” the man said. “Ernest Plakker.”
“I still don’t know you. What reason do you have to want to hurt me or the children?”
Something clicked far down in the green depths of Plakker’s eyes. “Your father didn’t know my son either. Not really.”
Eddy blinked at the mention of his father. He tried hard to find some association. None came.
“My father’s a major general in the Army,” Eddy said tightly. “He’s in Vietnam.”
“I know where your father is.” The man’s voice was like silk pulled over the edge of a knife.
The door clicked open and Brokaw burst into the room, then stopped when he saw the blood on Eddy’s face and clothes. His startled gaze swept down to the apple with its deadly seed, then up to the man standing a few paces away.
“What the—!”
“This man’s name is Plakker,” Eddy said hurriedly, half turning in Brokaw’s direction, but keeping his eyes firmly locked on Plakker. He spoke softly, with a perfectly even cadence. “It seems like he’s after me. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to harm the children, but I think it would be a good idea if you pressed the fire alarm out in the hall.”
Brokaw did not hesitate; he wheeled and darted out into the hall, swinging his fist through the air and smashing it into the tiny glass box. Immediately, the air was alive with the sound of clanging bells.
Plakker stood impassively, as if the sounds—and the results they would bring—held no meaning for him.
Brokaw raced back into the room and went directly for Plakker. Plakker calmly lifted his hands out of his pockets. Brokaw jumped backward, smashing into a desk and falling to the floor. He pulled himself to his feet and slowly backed away.
Plakker was standing with both his arms extended in front of him, a hand grenade clenched tightly in each fist.
“I don’t know whether either of you is familiar with this type of grenade,” Plakker said. “As you can see, the pins have already been pulled. They will explode six seconds after I release the levers on the side.”
Someone had shut off the alarm bells. A horn was blowing a few blocks away, and there was the distant ghostly wail of fire engines.
“Get out,” Brokaw whispered fiercely to Eddy. “I’ll handle this.”
“No,” Plakker said, raising both his arms. “I’m here because of Reese. He’s not going anywhere. Not until I want him to.”
“Let the children leave, man!”
Plakker shook his head. “In war, there is always the danger that innocent bystanders will be hurt. This is no different.”
“This isn’t a war!”
“Yes it is,” Plakker said. “It is because I say it is.”
“You’re crazy,” Brokaw said through clenched teeth. Muscles in his jaw rippled and danced. “In a few minutes this whole building will be surrounded by police and firemen. You can’t possibly get away with whatever it is you’re trying to do.”
Plakker smiled thinly and motioned Brokaw toward the door. “You get out there,” Plakker said, holding one grenade over the head of a boy who whimpered and crouched down behind his desk. “It will be your responsibility to make sure no one comes into this room. If anyone does try to come in, I explode the grenades.”
“And kill yourself?”
Plakker’s answer was in his eyes. Brokaw continued backing away until finally he was out the door. At the same time there came the sounds of booted feet running in the corridor. Brokaw shouted, and the running stopped. Then there was nothing but silence.
I am alone, Eddy thought. Completely responsible for the lives of twenty-six children. Alone with a madman where all our lives could depend on what I say, or how I say it. Or maybe, after all, it really makes no difference; Plakker will release the grenades anyway. Eddy shivered. I am adrift on an ice floe, freezing under a blue, frigid sun.
Plakker settled himself down on top of one of the desks. The child at the desk got up and ran to the back of the room. Plakker seemed to take no notice. He seemed to be studying Eddy.
Eddy could feel his legs begin to tremble. Occasionally, a dark spot would well up and swim before his eyes.
“You know,” Plakker said in a tone that was more conversational than threatening, “your father thinks you’re a coward. He’s said so.”
Plakker seemed to be waiting for Eddy to say something. Afraid that he would say the wrong thing, Eddy remained silent.
“Your father was my son’s commanding officer,” Plakker continued. “Your father used to tell his men how ashamed he was of you. Did you know that? He told them you were one of the people trying to tear this country down. Does it surprise you that your father would say these things about you ?”
“No,” Eddy said flatly, “it doesn’t surprise me.”
“Frank used to write me about the things your father told his men. Your father thinks you’re a rotten coward, Reese. So do I.”
Eddy breathed deeply in an attempt to clear his head. The dark spot in front of his eyes was growing larger, furrier. His voice sounded thick and muffled as he forced his words through lips he dared not move.
Plakker’s arms remained extended out in front of his body, and it seemed to Eddy that the arms must be suspended from invisible wires; they never wavered or trembled despite the steel bundles of death they supported.
“Frank is your son, isn’t he?” Eddy murmured. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
Eddy glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye and he glanced out of the window in time to see two policemen duck behind trees about fifty yards away, at the very edge of the school yard. Both men carried rifles with telescopic sights.
Eddy felt his mouth go dry. He could imagine policemen moving toward them on the outside, hugging the side of the building. Hadn’t Brokaw explained? Even if they could be sure of killing Plakker without harming any of the children, the grenades would almost certainly go off when Plakker fell.
Don’t let them shoot, Eddy thought. Don’t let them be stupid enough to shoot.
“They’d been out in the field for three weeks,” Plakker said. His voice was unsteady now, and he continually glanced around the room as though he were speaking to the children as well as to Eddy. “All that time they’d been sleeping in the water and the mud. They’d take off their clothes and find chunks of their skin inside. And all the time the VC were taking potshots at them, picking them off one at a time.”
Plakker heaved a great sigh. He was standing at the window now, his hands at his sides. Eddy studied the man, feverishly trying to explore any possibilities open to him. He could still try to rush Plakker, but that would mean he must somehow find a way to grab the grenades before Plakker
released the levers. Eddy suspected that once the levers were released, there was no way of stopping the explosion. Six seconds.
There was no way. Eddy stood still.
“The word came down that a battalion of North Vietnamese Regulars would be sweeping down through their area,” Plakker continued. “The men were told to stand and fight.” Plakker looked up at Eddy, and for the first time Eddy felt pity for the older man. “Those men were in no condition to fight. They were hungry. They were exhausted.”
“Your son was killed,” Eddy said softly.
Plakker shook his head. He closed his eyes and grimaced as though he were trying to erase the memory his words conjured up.
“Frank ran. He turned tail and ran. When they found him, Frank was sprawled in a ditch, crying his eyes out.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Eddy said carefully, watching Plakker’s face. “Your son’s not the first person to suffer from battle fatigue.”
Sunlight glinted off metal somewhere out in the yard. Eddy braced himself, half expecting to hear a shot.
“Your father decided to bring Frank up on charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy,” Plakker continued “He said it was necessary to preserve the morale of his men.”
“My father was wrong,” Eddy said with genuine anger. “My father’s wrong about a lot of things.”
“But you have no right to say that!” Plakker snapped. He clicked the two grenades together and the sound crashed around inside Eddy’s skull. “My son hanged himself three days before his court martial was scheduled to begin! Frank killed himself rather than live branded as a coward! You! You revel in your cowardice!”
“You’ve already said that I’m a coward,” Eddy said, afraid now to stop speaking, afraid that Plakker was working himself up to a pitch where he would release the grenades. “My father has said it, and I admit it. You’ve made your point.”
“It’s not enough!” Plakker’s voice was approaching a shrill scream. His hands had begun to tremble. “You don’t suffer, and your father won’t suffer until everyone knows that you’re a coward! I want that fact plastered across the pages of the newspapers! I want to hear it on radio and television! I want people to whisper behind your father’s back! I want him to suffer like I’ve suffered!”
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