by Blake Banner
“Anything, anything you want know.”
“Where are the components for the bomb? Where is the canister of SF2?”
His mouth started trembling and tears started running down his face. He tilted his head on one side. “Please, Abbassi have it. He does not live here. He will bring, on Thursday.”
“Where does he live?”
He shook his head. “Please, I don’t know.”
I didn’t hesitate. I took the cleaver, stepped behind him, and cut through the joint of his right thumb. The scream was horrific. I didn’t like doing it, but while he screamed and sobbed I replayed in my mind the women and children that Abdul Abbassi had tortured and executed in Helmand, because he suspected one of them had helped me. When I was done thinking of that, I thought of the eight million people that this bastard was willing to murder, women, children, and babies, because they didn’t believe the right things in the right way.
I went and sat in front of him again. “Where?”
He shook his head, sobbing, “He don’t tell us. It is protocol. He does not tell us. Please….”
“How often does he communicate with you?”
“Fridays.”
“By phone?”
“Only in emergency. He come in person.”
“You have his cell number?”
He nodded. “But never call, only in emergency.”
I stood and pulled my weapon. “Make peace with your god, Aatifa.”
His face crumpled and he began to sob.
“This is the path you chose. Next time choose a better path.”
I put a round through his forehead and it was all over for him. I holstered my gun and went up the stairs to his room. I collected my goggles from the floor and found his jacket hanging on the back of a chair. I fished around in the pockets till I found his cell phone. There was only one number in his address book, Chief. I figured that had to be Abbassi.
I had the son of a bitch.
I went downstairs, opened the front door, and stepped into the night. The houses and the cars all looked at me through the yellow haze of the streetlamps with gaping black eyes. I ignored them and started up the road in the direction of Rhinelander Avenue, where I’d left my car.
A movement across the road made me look. Two men in trench coats climbed out of a Dodge Charger. The doors slammed like two gunshots and they walked across the road toward me.
“Hold up there a minute, Mr. Walker.”
I slowed but kept walking. “Agents Mclean and Jones. What are you doing out this late?”
“Just stop walking, would you?”
I kept walking. “Any reason why I should?”
Jones stepped in front of me and Mclean snarled, “Yeah. I want to ask you some questions.”
I stopped and looked deep into Jones’ eyes. Then I turned to look at Mclean. “Really? Aren’t you afraid my replies will be some elaborate James Bond fantasy?”
“Yeah, maybe, but I’m curious anyway.”
“I’m sorry, boys, I don’t have time to talk to you tonight. Phone Miss Moneypenny at MI6 and make an appointment.”
“Cute. What were you doing in that house?”
“Your job.”
Jones scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I leaned toward him and stared into his face. “It means I was in that house doing your job, Special Agent Jones. Now please step aside.”
Mclean hitched back his coat to reveal the butt of an automatic. “Take it easy there, Walker. Don’t do anything you’re liable to regret. Now I’m going to ask you again, what were you doing in that house?”
I sighed. “If I tell you, can I go on my way?”
Now Mclean frowned, like I’d asked a stupid question. “Well, that depends on what you were doing in there.”
I looked him straight in the eye with no expression at all and spoke in a dead voice. “I killed two young terrorists, Ali Kamboh and Hassan Barr, by stabbing them in the neck while they slept. I pulled a third, an Afghan by the name of Aatifa Ghafoor, from his bed, tortured him to find out where the bomb was, and then shot him in the head.”
They both struggled for a moment to make sense of whether I was telling the truth or being a wiseass. Then Mclean said, “Jesus…!”
“Agent Mclean, have you ever heard of SF2?”
“What?”
“After this, look it up.”
“After what?”
Bruce Lee said the abdomen and the hips were the most important parts of the body when you were fighting. He was right. If you use your abdominals and your hips to drive a punch, instead of your arms, you can multiply the speed by a factor of three or four. I smacked Jones on the tip of his chin and while Mclean was still wondering what the hell was happening to his partner I rammed my elbow into the side of his jaw. The whole thing took maybe a second. Jones sank down where he stood and Mclean fell back against a battered old Ford pickup. I felt bad, they were just doing their job. But I had no time to waste on them, or on getting arrested. I needed to get to Abbassi, and I needed to get to him fast.
I fished in Mclean’s breast pocket and pulled out his wallet. I found a business card and kept it. I’d be sending him an email that night. I put his wallet back and jogged the rest of the way to my car.
As I pulled away and headed south, I barked at my phone, “Gantrie!”
Gantrie was a contact my father had given me before he died. He was an IT genius and had never yet let me down. His cell rang twice and a voice that could only belong to a nerd said, “Lacklan. Long time. What’s happening?”
“Listen very carefully, Gantrie, all your craziest conspiracy theories and nightmares just came true. I haven’t got time to explain, but I need you to locate a phone for me, and I need you to do it now.”
He was quiet for a second or two. When he spoke you could hear the smile in his voice. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, Gantrie, I’m serious!”
“Disclosure? Aliens…?”
“No, Gantrie! Not aliens! Just locate this number for me, will you?”
I gave him the number and he sighed. “I assume it has GPS.”
“I’m pretty sure it has.”
“You realize there are websites where you can do this yourself?”
“Cool. Just do it, will you!”
“OK, I’m on it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have it.”
I hung up and then called Ben.
“Yes.”
“I need to see you now.”
“I’ll send a car for you. Where are you?”
“I’ll be at my apartment in an hour and a half.”
“Is everything OK? Anything I need to know?”
“No, everything is not OK. But I’ll tell you when I see you.”
I got back to my apartment within half an hour. I immediately sat at the computer and set about editing an audio file which included all the information about the bomb and Aatifa’s statement that Abdul Abbassi had the device and the canister. I attached the file to an email, along with the earlier file where Abbassi explained the plan to them, and sent it to Mclean.
My phone rang. It was Gantrie.
“Dude…”
“What?”
“I was having trouble finding him, then I realized he was at a location where I was being jammed. I narrowed it down and I can place him within an area of about two hundred and fifty feet square.”
“Good. Where?”
“Dude, you were not kidding. That area is occupied by the palace of Prince Mohamed bin Awad. And they are jamming my GPS locating software.”
“Good work. Keep tracking him, Gantrie. Stay on him until I get back to you.”
I hung up, closed down the computer, and the doorbell rang. I went and opened it. It was Ben.
Nine
We stood staring at each other for a moment. I was debating whether to drag him to the terrace and throw him over. I decided not to—not yet—and stepped aside.
“Come in.”
; He crossed the threshold and I closed the door. He said, “Have you got Marni?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Where is she?”
I walked into the living room and poured myself a whiskey. “You want a drink?”
“Sure. Whiskey is fine, straight up.”
I poured him a glass and handed it to him. I was still wondering whether to kill him. He took the glass. He was watching me with curious eyes. “Where is she, Lacklan?”
“Safe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I am seriously debating whether to beat seven bales of shit out of you and then throw you over the terrace.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that.”
“I imagine you wouldn’t. Now how about you quit asking me questions and start answering a few of mine?”
“Shoot.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I fished a Camel out of the box and lit up. I let the smoke out slow, taking a hold of my anger. “You said you’d take care of Abbassi.”
He walked over to a chair and sat, crossed his legs, and studied my face, like he was wondering which of a number of answers to give me. Finally, he said, “So?”
“You didn’t take care of him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m running out of patience, Ben. Answer one more question with a question of your own and I will kill you.”
He nodded and sipped his drink. “I wasn’t aware you had asked a question, Lacklan. It sounded like a statement to me. What is your question, exactly?”
“Why didn’t you take care of Abbassi?”
“I told you to leave it to us.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He sighed. “They have a part to play.”
“What part is that?”
“It is none of your concern.”
I took a deep drag, let the smoke out, and took a pull on the whiskey. “Let me see if I can get through to you, Ben. I don’t work for you. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” I gave a small laugh. “And you sure as hell don’t get to tell me what is and isn’t my concern. Now, what part does Abbassi play in this game?”
“I have no reason to tell you that, Lacklan. Join us, and you will be a party to the whole thing.”
I studied his face for a while. He really believed I might do that. “Aatifa Gafoor, Ali Kamboh, Hassan Barr and Abdul Abbassi.” His face went hard. I went on. “They are planning to detonate a bomb at the United Nations on Friday, during Gibbons’ and Marni’s talk. It will be a dirty bomb and it will infect everybody there with SF2, within weeks the casualties might be counted in hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions. Two of those casualties will be Marni and Gibbons. Now I want to know, what part of your plan is that?”
“How did you come by this information?”
“Fuck you. Answer my question.”
“That is no part of our plan.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No, Lacklan, I don’t expect you to believe it. You are too stupid and obstinate to believe it. But you might try thinking. In what possible way could this further our interests? Just think about it, Lacklan! Why could we possibly want Marni and Gibbons dead? And, if we wanted them dead, do you really think it would be that difficult for us?”
I felt the anger welling up inside me. “Then why the hell didn’t you act on Abbassi when I told you about him?”
“We did. We were watching him. He has hardly moved out of Prince Awad’s house!”
I moved to the other armchair and sat. “When Gibbons challenged Hennessy, at the UN.”
“What about it?”
“You and Hennessy used Muslim activists to disrupt the debate.” I waited. He didn’t answer. I went on, “Then you and Hennessy were taken in Prince Awad’s car back to his house.” I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you did anything at all about Abbassi, because I think you knew about him all along. I think you’re in bed with Awad.”
He sighed again. “Lacklan, you are a problem. You are becoming a problem. I like you, I am trying to help you, but you are becoming a problem.”
“Just answer the goddamn question, Ben. Is Omega in bed with Awad?”
“You are asking me questions that I cannot answer for somebody who is outside of Omega, and you know it.” He sat forward, earnest and eager. “Just take up your father’s position and I can answer all of these questions for you, and more! Join us! And anything you want can be yours: wealth, information, power—Marni! But as long as you persist in this absurd, lone wolf position, you are doomed to failure.” I didn’t answer and he sat back in his chair. “Do you really think you hurt us at Turret? Do you really think that the setback at the Biosphere in Arizona harmed us at all? Not even this conference, with Marni and Gibbons threatening to disclose her father’s research—not even this is a serious threat. It’s an inconvenience.” He shook his head again. “You are swimming against the tide, Lacklan. More, you are beating your head against a brick wall, and all the blood you see is your own. You are hurting no one but yourself.”
I thought about it for a long moment. Finally, I said, “Bullshit. You’re a liar.”
“How did you find out about the attack on the conference?”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s not your concern. Join me, Ben, and I will tell you everything.”
He smiled, drained his glass, and looked at mine. It was empty, too. He said “May I? You have excellent whiskey.”
I gave a sour nod. “Sure.”
He stood and held out his hand. “Can I get you a refill?”
I gave him my glass and he went to the sideboard to refill them both. While he was there he asked me, “Have you killed Aatifa, Ali, and Hassan?”
I thought for a moment, then said, “Yes.”
He came back and gave me my drink. “Is that your solution for everything, Lacklan? If somebody is a problem, just kill them?”
I sipped, savored the malt, and swallowed, feeling the pleasant burn as it went down. “If it were, Ben, you’d be dead by now. You may not have noticed, but I am trying to cooperate with you. You say you don’t want Marni and Gibbons dead. If Abbassi goes ahead with his plan, Marni, Gibbons, and maybe a million more souls will die.”
“You’ve answered your own question, haven’t you? If that is the case, why would we be in bed with Awad?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I am trying to find out. You seem awful cozy with people who should be your enemies.”
He smiled. It was a tolerant, patronizing smile. “Like you? Here we are, drinking whiskey and chatting like old friends. But am I cooperating with you?” Before I could answer he went on, “So you saw the cell as a threat, you tracked them down, and you killed them?”
I nodded, “Yeah, but I tortured Aatifa first.”
“For what purpose?”
“To find out where Abbassi was, and where the bomb was.”
“And did he tell you?”
Did he tell me? It wasn’t an easy question to answer right them. I frowned. I felt very tired. I saw the glass between my fingers slip and fall on the carpet, and wondered if that mattered at all, if it was important, if anything was important anymore. My breath was heavy and warm with alcohol. I frowned at Ben and sighed a big sigh. “No,” I said. “No, he didn’t know. It’s a cell. A need to know basis.”
“So you killed him.”
“Yeah. I killed him.”
He was hazy and kind of far away, but I could see he was shaking his head. “You are a problem, Lacklan,” he was saying. “I try to help you, like your father asked me to, but you make it so hard. You’re a problem, a real problem…”
And then I blacked out.
* * *
I woke up with a bad hangover in a room I did not recognize. I wasn’t so much thirsty as dehydrated. My mouth tasted as though a medium-sized rodent had gone in there to die, and my stomach felt as though its mother was decomposing in my bowels. My head, on th
e other hand, felt as though they had both impaled blunt axes in my skull before they scurried off to die.
I shielded my eyes from the glare that was shouting at me from the open window. As I adjusted, I became aware of green hills and forests that did not correspond to Riverside Drive. I levered myself onto one elbow and waited for a wave of nausea to wash over me and pass. Then I levered myself the rest of the way up. There was a glass jug of water on my bedside table. Beside it there was a glass. I managed to spill half of the water into it with a hand that hadn’t shaken so badly since Mindy Sinclair took me behind the bike shed when I was fifteen.
I sipped some of the water and looked around the room, trying to link up random, unhappy thoughts. There was a bathroom en suite. The walls were off-white. The door had an institution look which was enhanced by the presence of some kind of chart on a clipboard hanging on it. There was a sage green vinyl chair with wooden arms between my bed and the window, angled so that anybody sitting in it could look at me and feel sorry for me. To complete the picture, there was another clipboard attached to the foot of my bed. The bed was made of metal tubing painted white.
I was in hospital. I looked out the window again. I was in hospital outside New York. I tried to remember. I tried to remember what I remembered and I didn’t remember much.
I swung my legs out of bed and realized I was wearing one of those hospital gowns that expose your ass to ridicule. As I realized that, my stomach lurched toward my mouth and I staggered to the john just in time to vomit convulsively, but to little effect. After a couple of minutes I rinsed my mouth, drank a little more water, and returned to fall on the bed. I began to shiver and covered myself with the sheets.
Shortly after that, the door opened and a pretty nurse in her late twenties came in and smiled at me.
“Aha,” she said. “We’re awake!”
“What, both of us?” Even when I’m sick I can be a wiseass if I have to.
She ignored me and asked, “How are we feeling?”
I repeated my joke, hoping she’d get it this time. “What, both of us?”