The House That Jack Built

by Patrick Ford

  “The spic here yet?”

  “No, man but I’se all ready for him.” The second man sounded like a Negro. He’d have to be, thought Luis. No white man would last long around here.

  “Remember the plan. I do the talkin’.”

  “Sure, you de man.”

  Luis waited several minutes and tapped hesitantly on the door. It opened. The big man said “In here, hurry up.” Luis stepped through the door.

  He found himself in a large, dimly lit, open space piled high with boxes and bags. The gun shop owner was dressed as before except for a camouflage jump jacket against the chill night air. It had bright green cloth patches on the shoulders that read ‘Vermont Citizen’s Militia’ and ‘Live Free or Die’. Accompanying him was a nervous looking Negro, whose eyes darted everywhere and who kept shifting from foot to foot. This one is wired, thought Luis, probably a junky. The big guy motioned him to a crude counter. “I got just the thing for you.” He threw down a battered Colt 1911 automatic. “Ten grand.”

  “You say five.”

  “No. You said five. I said nuthin’. Do you want it or not? I don’t have time to fuck around.”

  Luis picked up the pistol. It looked old, army issue, well used and abused, but the action was smooth and it was well oiled. “I want dos magazines and a hundred rounds ammo.”

  “Ok, that will be another five grand.” Luis hesitated and shrugged his shoulders in resignation. He made a show of drawing a large roll of $100 bills from his jacket and began to peel off the money.

  “Hold it, spic,” said the big guy. “If’n you got that much, reckon we’ll have it all.” Luis looked up. The black man had a pistol in his hand.

  He said, “Here, you have it,” and flung the roll into the Negro’s face. He went to the ground, scrabbling on the floor for the money. At the same time, Luis drew his knife and thrust it into the big man’s stomach, tearing it upwards and gutting him like a fish. He flung himself on top of the black man, pulled his head back by his dreadlocks and cut his throat. Then he swung back to his first target. The big man was sitting, trying to push his entrails back into his abdomen, looking stupidly at his bloody hands.

  Luis walked to him. ”Allah Akbar”, he said, then slit his throat from ear to ear.

  He waited. A car drove past. A couple of streets away another backfired, and then there was silence. After a few minutes, he crossed to some rough industrial shelving behind the counter. He found magazines for the Colt and plenty of ammunition. Making a pile of these, he left them on the counter. He wanted to have a good look around. The boxes and bags contained camping equipment, army surplus clothing and sleeping bags. In the back corner, he discovered a freshly painted door with three deadlocks. He tapped on the door. It was made of steel. Something in there was valuable.

  He returned to his victims. There was a great deal of blood. Despite seeing hundreds of dead, Luis had never ceased to marvel at the amount of blood a human being contained. He recovered his money, discarding the paper wad he had used to inflate it. Then he searched the corpses. There were no keys on the black man. The big guy carried a wallet, but nothing else. The wallet had several thousand dollars in it. Luis took the money; the big guy wouldn’t need it anymore.

  He sat for a while, thinking, and then he started in on all the drawers and cupboards he could find. There were no keys. Then he had an idea. What if the Negro was just a caretaker with no authorised entry to that door? If so, the big guy would have the keys somewhere. He exited the building and went to the four-by-four. There in the ignition was a large bunch of keys. It took about ten minutes to identify the keys and open the door. There was a light switch on the wall and a flight of steps leading down to, presumably, a basement. He turned on the light and cautiously descended the stairs, stepping into a well-lit open room. He fell to his knees and raised his arms to heaven. Allah Akbar, God has shown me his face. Soon I will be in Paradise.

  The room was a veritable arsenal. There were serried racks of M16s, twenty or more M60s, still in their wooden crates, boxes of ammunition and grenades, rocket launchers, webbing equipment and field rations. However, in one corner, Luis found the mother lode. Stacked on a shelf were about twenty blocks of Semtex with detonators in their protective wrapping, and a range of firing devices. He smiled and selected two blocks of the explosive, some detonators and two firing devices, one a push button type, the other a remote wireless device identical to the one he had used in Indonesia. This time he was careful to inspect the batteries and contacts.

  He returned to street level and placed his treasures near the roller door. He looked about carefully outside before rolling up the door and driving the 4x4 inside. He closed the door. Now he returned to the basement. He fused a block of Semtex and nestled it among its companions. Then, he affixed a clockwork firing device and set it for one hour. He left the building and carried his booty to his car. Then he drove for about five miles and found an all-night diner.

  He sat drinking coffee, reading yesterday’s newspaper. It was most forthcoming, not only repeating their itinerary, but also naming the Ambassador Hotel as the Riordans’ Washington accommodation.

  About thirty minutes later, he felt the building shudder. He looked out the window to see a huge tower of flame and smoke rising into the sky from the direction of the ghetto. Seconds later, the blast from the explosion surged around the building, buffeting it until it seemed it would surely collapse. Most of the diner’s customers had rushed out into the street to stare at the sky. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Luis left some of the dead guy’s money on the table and walked away.

  Chapter 16

  The Gates of Paradise

  A colonel from the US Army was waiting for the Riordans at Washington National Airport when they arrived. He introduced himself as Colonel Evans. As they walked towards the baggage carousels, he explained that there would be a small informal reception for them in the Franklin Room at their hotel. He waved and a Corporal approached. “This is my driver, Corporal Kaplan,” he said.

  Kaplan saluted and Jack shook his hand. He looked uncomfortable. Jack guessed that Colonels do not shake the hands of Corporals in the US Army.

  Kaplan collected their luggage and led them to an olive drab Ford. They set off for the city. Evans handed Jack a card and said. “If you need anything, just give me a call at this number. I will see you tonight. After that the city is yours until Monday morning when your meeting at the Pentagon is scheduled.” They rode in silence to the hotel where Evans bid them goodbye. “The Franklin Room at 1900,” he said, “I’ll see you then.”

  The Ambassador Hotel was used to visiting dignitaries such as the Riordans. Soon a yellow-jacketed porter ushered them into their suite. “Wow,” said Susan. “Now we know how American toffs live.”

  * * * *

  Across the street from the hotel, Pietro Massimo watched them arrive. He looked at the woman. No doubt, the infidels would think her beautiful, but to him she was no better than a harlot, with her short skirt and painted face. She would be no loss. He had been watching the hotel for a number of days now. He had seen the delivery entrance to the underground parking area, and he watched it for a long time. Vans and trucks drove down the ramp and stopped at a barrier. The drivers leant out of their cabs and punched a code into a keypad mounted on the wall, and then the barrier lifted. Driving out was the reverse procedure. He did not care. He would not be coming out that way. He had worked out a way to get inside. Now he had only to wait until Monday. He would destroy the symbol of the Great Satan and gain his revenge on Jack Riordan.

  He left his rooming house early in the morning. No one had seen him go. He carried his weapons and a few clothes in a small suitcase. He stopped at a sports store and purchased a small backpack. Dressed in casual clothes and sporting his brown beard and wig, he was about to become Michael Bowen, Canadian tourist. He stopped in the long-term car park at Union Station, transferred the contents of his suitcase to his backpack and abandoned the car, locking it and
throwing the keys in a trash can some distance away.

  Twenty minutes later, he sat in a diner eating rolls and drinking coffee. He opened the paper. There was full coverage of the explosion. Authorities believed it to be the result of a gas leak. Casualties were unknown.

  He looked at the press photographs of last night’s carnage. The aerial shots showed nothing left of the building, just a large, smoking crater. The explosion demolished the whole block and the buildings surrounding it had severe damage. Not very symbolic, he thought, but not a bad start never the less. Now, he booked into a small hotel and waited.

  While he waited, he prayed.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, the Riordans settled into their suite on the fifth floor of the hotel. They had a separate room for Jacqui and a lovely view across Washington to the Capitol building. Jack had not experienced such luxury. It was even better than the Madison.

  Jack answered a discreet knock on the door, opening it to find a young woman in a yellow jacket. “Hi,” she said, I am Maryanne and I am your floor supervisor. Please call reception if there is anything you require. All our service people wear these yellow blazers. Just ask any of them for assistance.” Jack thanked her and closed the door.

  “Now,” he said, “What will we do this afternoon?” He had a wicked look in his eyes. Susan looked at him, amused.

  “You, Colonel Riordan, will make sure your best uniform is immaculate. Then you will be babysitter to your two fine children while I find the hairdresser and make myself beautiful for this evening. You may use the bed, but only to have a nap with Patrick. Later, it might find itself used for a different purpose.”

  * * * *

  Jack dressed in his best uniform. He looked in the mirror and saw a handsome face and a spotless uniform. His medal ribbons always impressed him, but tonight he was looking for the first time at the crowns and stars of his new rank. It had been a meteoric rise for a reserve officer. Susan appeared from the bathroom. She looked spectacular, in a soft peach flowing dress that showed off her lovely figure. Once again, he thanked his lucky stars for this beautiful creature. He reached for her. She dodged his embrace. “Just like Boston, Colonel. Look now, touch later!”

  There was a knock on the door from the hotel-provided baby sitter. She was a nice looking middle-aged woman who took a liking to the children immediately. She gathered them up and set them on the bed, “Hello,” she said, “I’m Maggie and you and I are going to have some special fun tonight. Say goodnight to Mommy and Daddy.”

  Jack and Susan went down to the Franklin Room. As soon as they opened the door, Jack knew this would be a special night. Smiling at them was Colonel Evans. There were about forty people in the room. Suddenly, they looked vaguely familiar. Then Jack realised that his old squad from Bien Long was there accompanied by their brightly dressed womenfolk. A smartly turned out Staff Sergeant James Baker led the party. “Oh, Jimbo,” said Susan, “Jimbo.” She ran to her brother and clung to him. “Jimbo, I have missed you so!”

  A young Lieutenant approached Jack. “Remember me, sir? I am John Zilski, the pilot. I owe you my life. I never thought I would be able to thank you personally.” So, the pilot had come home to his Momma after all. Jack was so glad. It had been a near thing for the boy.

  The whole squad was there, S/Sgt Bell, now a Master Sergeant. PFC Lawson, one of the wounded, now in civilian clothes, Corporal Riley, who had refused evacuation to stand and fight with Jack. He felt immensely proud of them all. Colonel Evans called for their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Colonel Riordan, the youngest officer to reach field rank in the Australian army since 1918. To those who served with him at Bien Long, that will come as no surprise. You are all here tonight to have a real good time. No saluting, no sirs, no ranks. Go ahead and enjoy the evening.”

  The time seemed to go so quickly. There was a buffet and music. All the men lined up to dance with Susan. Jack attracted a good number of the wives and girlfriends. Many of them thanked him tearfully for bringing their men safely home.

  Jack had a long conversation with every one of his old comrades. He asked Tom Lawson. “I see you have left the army. What are you doing now?”

  “I finished my time and went home to the farm. My Dad needed me, and Vietnam had given me enough excitement for one lifetime. We have a couple of sections in Kansas. We grow wheat and corn and sometimes beans, and we raise hogs.”

  Jack was very interested in this. “I am a farmer too, you know. I have been looking at some of your farm land, particularly the prairies to see how you do things over here. I am interested in this concept of no-till farming. What do you think?”

  “Well, my Dad won’t have a bar of it. Sometimes I think he is welded to the tractor, but I’m sure it is the future of cropping in dry areas.” Jack resolved to keep in touch. Tom Lawson would have his finger on the pulse over here, and would be a valuable contact.

  They made their goodnights and thanked Colonel Evans for his thoughtfulness. “Not a problem,” he said. “I happen to know the folks of that boy you saved from his Huey. I can’t do enough to thank you. I’ll see you at the Pentagon on Monday, 0900 hours.”

  * * * *

  The children were sleeping softly when they returned. “They are the sweetest little things,” Maggie said, “and so clever!” They thanked her, and she left. As she closed the door, Susan said, “I bet she tells all the mothers that.”

  “Maybe,” said Jack, “but I have a feeling she just loves kids.”

  “Colonel Riordan,” said Susan, “you may be correctly dressed for a military gathering, but you are too well-dressed for the activity I have in mind for you. Please disrobe and report to the bed!”

  Their loving was sweet and lingering. How much pleasure this woman has given me, he reflected. What have I done to deserve her? He looked at her lovely body, her soft milk coffee skin, her beautiful face, and, most of all, those wonderful eyes. I will love her until I die.

  In the morning, Jacqui woke them, jumping on the bed and snuggling up to them as usual. She said, “Mommy, why don’t grown-ups wear pajamas?’ Jack did have a pair of boxers on but Susan loved to sleep in her birthday suit. Patrick began to wail. Jacqui ran to fetch him. This was the usual morning ritual, the joint loving session in Mommy’s bed. She came back with him. He had an angelic smile on his face, but his bottom smelt like a sewer. “Yuk,” said Jacqui, “he needs changing.” The morning snuggling session was over.

  At breakfast, Susan took control of the conversation. “Colonel,” she said, “You are now on leave until Monday morning. Today you will have fun with your son while we girls go shopping. Tomorrow, you will be the doting father and husband and take your family on a sightseeing tour that will include a picnic lunch in a soft green park.”

  “Yay’” said Jacqui, “I love shopping with Mommy. Can we have ice cream, please?”

  “You’d make a great staff officer,” Jack said, with a smile.

  On Sunday, Susan and Jacqui went shopping. They did not notice the dark-skinned man sitting nearby in the lobby reading the news, nor the smile that came over his face when she took her room key to reception and said, “Our suite is ready for housekeeping now, number 546. My husband and the baby are still there, but they will be leaving shortly.”

  On Monday morning, an army staff car arrived at the front door and a tall officer in a foreign uniform entered, and the car drove away. Jack had left for his Pentagon meeting.

  * * * *

  Pietro/Luis/Michael had decided to return to his former operational name of Rashid. He would not need the other identities any longer. He would go to Paradise with his proper name. The Saracen and all the others would know redemption had found him.

  He waited a half hour to make sure Riordan did not return before he walked across the street to the hotel’s delivery entrance. He did not have long to wait. A laundry van drove down the ramp and halted at the barrier. Swiftly, Rashid took a spray can of black paint from his pocket, walked into
the entrance and painted the lens of the one security camera. Then he ran down the ramp and halted right at the van’s rear doors. Here, he was in the driver’s blind spot. He had to hope the driver failed to see him in his door mirror, but the man was paying all his attention to the keypad.

  Rashid followed the van into the basement for about twenty yards, and then peeled off and scuttled behind a large rubbish skip. He froze and waited. About two minutes elapsed; then two hotel security guards ran to the ramp to inspect the camera. “Fuck!” one said. They both ran back to the laundry van. “Hey, buddy, did you see anyone come in with you?”

  The driver shook his head. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “The camera’s been painted out. Those goddamned kids want their asses kicked. That’s the third time this week.” A supervisor had reamed them out about the camera earlier in the week. They did not want to get in trouble again. One went to get a cloth and thinners to clean the lens, the other went back to his booth. They would not report the breach of procedure this time.

  Rashid waited for about fifteen minutes to let them settle, and then moved silently to the service elevator. He still had no firm plan about how to do this, but he knew there would be plenty of opportunities inside. Already he knew the hotel security was slack.

  He climbed the stairs to street level. There were several doors leading off his corridor. He moved slowly towards the lobby. Then he heard a trolley with a squeaky wheel come to a halt and a young female voice say, “Maria, take that back to the kitchen and get one that doesn’t squeak. We don’t want to disturb our guests.”

  Rashid quickly stepped through the door next to him.

  Before him, was a long laundry room with large commercial grade washing and drying machines, ironing tables and a number of rectangular wicker baskets on wheels. At the far end of the room was a fat man in a yellow blazer. Perfect!

  He approached the man. He looked Hispanic; he had a nametag that said ‘Julio’. Rashid smiled at him, and then produced the Colt. Julio’s eyes filled with terror. “Take off your jacket,” said Rashid, waving the pistol for emphasis. Julio fumbled with his buttons in a panic before taking his jacket off and placing it on a table. Rashid motioned for him to climb into one of the large baskets. Puzzled, Julio began to do so. As he did, Rashid hit him on the head with the pistol butt; he collapsed semi-conscious into the linen. Rashid drew his knife, and then changed his mind. He wanted no blood here. He took a pillow and held it over the man’s face. Julio struggled, clawing at Rashid’s arms as he forced the pillow over the mouth and nose. Soon he was dead.