I’m just assuming we’re on Avenue Gabriel as the taxi stops in front of what I’m just assuming is the American embassy. I give the driver whatever bills I have left in my wallet—250, maybe 300 francs. I don’t care, I tell myself as I stumble from the cab.
I’m vaguely aware of walking up steps past a sentry box into the building. I’m glancing sideways at members of the Police Urbaine, at a machine gun, at a security camera, at a guard who responds only slightly with bland suspicion when I move by, serenely smiling.
In the lobby I’m allowed to walk through a metal detector without incident. I’m allowed to step up to a plexiglass window.
I tell the woman sitting behind the plexiglass window that I need to speak to an official. “Un officiale … ?”
In English, she asks if I have an appointment with anyone.
“No,” I say.
She asks me my name.
I tell her, “Victor Johnson.”
She asks me what this concerns.
I tell her, “A bomb.” I tell her, “It concerns a bomb.”
She picks up a phone, utters words into it I can’t hear. She continues to explain something that I’m too numb to decipher.
Two policemen carrying machine guns suddenly move into my line of vision, guarding me, not saying a word, standing at attention, waiting.
A young man, familiar-looking and nondescript, vaguely European, vaguely not, wearing a gray Prada suit with a stylish green tie, moves quickly down a corridor to where I’m standing.
The young man asks, “How can I help you, Mr. Johnson?”
“We need to talk elsewhere,” I’m saying.
“What is this about?” he asks carefully.
“I know the people who planted the bomb at the Ritz,” I say. “I know where they live. I know their names. I know who they are.”
The official just stares at me, unsure of how to respond. “You do?”
“Yes,” I say solemnly. “I do.”
“And?” he asks, waiting.
“They blew up the Institute of Political Studies,” I say. “They’re also responsible for the bombing at Café Flore.” Breaking down, I tell him, “They’re responsible for the bomb that went off in the métro last week.” Confidence collapses and I start crying.
The official seems to take this in stride. He makes a decision.
“If you would please wait here,” he says to me.
He leans and says something in French to the two guards, who because of this command nod, relax a little, even as they move in closer.
“No,” I’m saying. “I don’t want to wait here.”
“Please, let me get someone in Security to talk with you,” the official says politely.
“Let me please come with you,” I’m saying. “They might have followed me—”
“Just calm down, Mr. Ward—I’ll be right back,” he says, walking away.
A third guard has joined the other two and I’m in the middle of a triangle, surrounded, and then something black explodes in my stomach.
“Hey,” I’m saying. “How did you know my name was Ward?” And then I start shouting, “How did you know my name? I didn’t give you that name. How did you know my name was Ward?”
But he’s just a silhouette in the corridor, and then even his shadow disappears.
The guards move in closer and I’m sighing urgently to get across to them how distressed I am, fear speeding out of control, the smell of shit suffocating me, and I’m making gestures that don’t mean anything to them, there’s no reaction on the guards’ impassive faces, nothing. Movement, people, sounds start curving toward me and new silhouettes are gliding down a hallway in my direction. Two more guards, the young official, another figure. And I’m breathing louder as the shadows get closer, progressing toward me, and I’m wiping my hands over my face, glancing behind the plexiglass window, but the woman’s not there anymore, and then I hear a voice.
“Mr. Ward?” it asks.
Slowly, dumbly, I turn around.
F. Fred Palakon stands in front of me, dramatically backlit from the light at the end of the hallway.
I try to run.
10
An interrogation room. It’s freezing. There’s a ventilator in the ceiling and confetti’s everywhere, pasted onto the walls, the floor, the chairs we’re sitting on, scattered in piles across the table Palakon and David Crater and Laurence Delta and Russell and the Japanese man from the apartment on Avenue Verdier are all sitting behind. There’s also an inspector lieutenant of the First Section of the Paris Prefecture of Police taking notes and someone who came in from Lyons for Interpol. This man is so familiar-looking it becomes distracting. Smoke has been produced for added atmosphere.
“You never wanted me to find Jamie Fields,” I’m saying, unable to contain myself. “This was never about her, Palakon.”
Palakon sighs. “Mr. Ward, the fact remains—”
“Palakon,” I’m warning, my heart speeding up. “I swear to god, unless you tell me what this is all about I’m not saying another fucking word.”
“Mr. Ward, please—”
“No, Palakon—fuck you.” I stand up, kicking the chair away.
“Mr. Ward, please sit down.”
“Not until you tell me what the fuck’s going on, Palakon.”
“We’re here to help you, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says gently.
“Oh fucking stop it,” I spit out. “Just tell me what the fuck’s happening. Jesus Christ, you have fucking offices in the fucking embassy? What—you’re all having brunch together?”
Palakon glances at Crater, then at Delta, at the Japanese man, who scowls impatiently and gives Palakon a hesitant nod.
Calmly, deliberately, Palakon asks, “Well, Victor, what would you like to know?”
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
Palakon considers this, doesn’t know where to go.
“Oh shit, Palakon.”
I glance over at the inspector from Interpol, who seems to just be taking up space, barely paying attention to the proceedings. But those cheekbones, that jawline—I’ve seen them before and I’m trying to place where I met him.
“I’m just figuring out the best way to explain—”
“Fuck the best way,” I shout. “Just fucking say it. Who do you work for?”
“I’m an independent contractor, Mr. Ward—”
I cut him off. “I’m not saying anything else until you tell me who you work for.”
A long pause, during which Delta sighs heavily, then nods at Palakon.
“Who in the fuck do you work for?” I ask. “Because Jamie Fields has nothing to do with any of this, right?”
“Not … exactly.” Palakon tilts his head.
“Goddamnit, Palakon, I’m so fucking sick of your bullshit,” I scream.
“Mr. Ward—”
“They killed Tammy Devol,” I’m screaming. “They fucking raped her and cut her throat open. Bobby Hughes ordered it done.”
Everyone just stares at me blankly from across the table like I’ve lost it or as if losing it isn’t understandable.
“Mr. Ward—” Palakon starts, his patience dropping.
“Fuck you, Palakon!” I’m screaming. “Who in the fuck do you work for?” I’m at the table now, gripping its edges, glaring into Palakon’s face. “Fucking tell me who you work for,” I’m screaming at maximum volume, my face twisted into a grimace.
Palakon draws in a breath and stares icily at me.
He says, simply, “I work for your father.”
Palakon pauses, looks away, sighing, then back at me.
“I work for your father, Mr. Ward.”
This is uttered so matter-of-factly, delivered so deadpan, that its existence opens a door and if you looked through that door you would see me moving above a winter road then descending rapidly and no one’s there to catch me and I’m hitting pavement. What this implies simply is that truth equals chaos and that this is a regression. A physical sensation causes me
to ignore everything in this room—to turn away from Russell running his hand through his hair, turn away from the Japanese man lighting another cigarette, turn away from the fly buzzing around my head. These men are perpetrators and the table they’re sitting behind suddenly seems vaster and they’re making plans, they’re jotting memoranda, they’re casting motives, they’re plotting itineraries. Something invisible is forming itself in the cold air in the interrogation room and it’s directed at me, wheeling forward. But the familiarity of the inspector from Interpol interrupts everything, makes me remember an earlier scene, and something emerges, obliterates the fuzz.
“What do you mean?” I ask quietly.
“I was hired by your father,” Palakon says. “He came to me.”
I slowly move away from the table, my hand on my mouth, and I’m sitting back down in the chair I’d kicked away.
“Mr. Ward,” the Japanese man starts, with a thick accent. “Your father is leaving the U.S. Senate quite soon. Is this correct?”
I stare blankly at him. “I … don’t know.”
The Japanese man continues. “Your father will be making a bid for the—”
“Wait,” I say, cutting him off. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Victor,” Palakon starts, “your father—”
The Japanese man interrupts. “Mr. Palakon, please. May I speak?” Palakon nods uncertainly.
“We have not been formally introduced,” the Japanese man says. “Who are you?” I ask.
He hesitates. “And for reasons owing to our mutual personal safety, Mr. Johnson, we will not be.”
“Oh shit,” I’m muttering, clenching up. “Oh shit oh shit—”
“Mr. Johnson, your father is leaving the United States Senate.” The Japanese man pauses. “He is interested in moving on, shall we say?” The Japanese man gestures with his hands, tries to smile kindly but is incapable. “To a higher place. He is planning to announce his bid for a higher office, for—”
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” My moaning cuts him off, distracting the Japanese man.
“Mr. Ward,” Crater starts, “when your father came to us, he was concerned about certain … well, proclivities you had toward—”
“What he’s trying to say, Victor,” Palakon interrupts, “is that you’re not exactly an unknown quantity.”
“I’m not a what?” I’m asking.
“In certain circles, in certain media circles, people know who you are.” Delta this time. “You’re a target.”
Palakon and Crater nod subtly.
“There were certain aspects of your life that your father felt were affecting”—Delta pauses—“certain … possibilities from forming.”
“Listen, Victor,” Crater says impatiently. “Your dad basically wanted you to take a vacation.”
“Why did he want that?” I ask slowly, in a very restrained voice.
“He felt that some of your … antics, let’s say …” Palakon has trouble completing this sentence. He checks a file resting on the table, as the room seems to grow smaller. “Well, they were distracting.” Palakon pauses. “They were … unnecessary. There was the possibility of bad publicity,” he delicately adds.
“There was a concern that things might not fall into place properly,” the Japanese man says. “There were worries that things might not work out in New Hampshire since you—”
“We don’t need to go there quite yet,” Palakon says, cutting him off.
“Yes, of course,” the Japanese man says. “You’re quite right.”
“Victor, your father didn’t want you harmed in any way,” Palakon says. “He simply wanted you to, well, take a break for a little while. He wanted you … preoccupied. He didn’t want you in the States.” Palakon pauses. “So he came to us. Things were discussed. Arrangements were made.”
Silence, empty and graceless. I’m just staring at them, unable to take all this in because of certain details my mind cannot accept, and that lack of acceptance keeps spreading and I’m looking at this through a window and it’s being boarded up and it’s night and no one has said or is going to say who they really are.
We’ll slide down the surface of things.
It’s what you don’t know that matters most.
The room slopes, then rights itself.
Outside, thunder.
You are beyond uneasiness. You force yourself to look at them. You stop yourself from falling over. You try to care. But you can’t. Even if you wanted to, you can’t. And now, in this room, it occurs to you that they know this too. Confusion and hopelessness don’t necessarily cause a person to act. Someone from my first publicist’s office told me this a long time ago. Only now does it resurface. Only now does it mean anything to me.
“Why did you use Jamie Fields as an excuse?” I hear myself ask.
“We delved into your past,” Palakon says. “Interviews were done. There were discussions. Choices were made.”
“We did not know, however, about Jamie Fields’ connection with Bobby Hughes,” Delta says, scratching the cleft in his chin.
“That was a mistake,” Palakon concedes lamely.
“We assumed she was in Europe shooting a movie,” Delta says.
“That’s all.”
“Oh shit, that’s a lie,” I moan. “That is a fucking out-and-out lie. You knew more than that. Jesus Christ.”
“Mr. Ward—” Palakon starts.
“You asked me to bring that hat with me and give it to Jamie Fields.”
“Yes,” Palakon says. “This is true. But we still had no idea she was involved with Bobby Hughes. We didn’t even know of Bobby Hughes’ existence until … it was too late.”
“So does Bobby Hughes know who you are?” I ask, flashing on the videotape the director showed me.
“Yes,” Palakon says. “Not personally. But we’re fairly certain he knows of us.”
“Do they know you sent me? That you’re the reason I’m here?” I’m asking, trying to piece things together.
“It appears that way,” Palakon says. “We don’t think Jamie Fields told him.”
“When did they find out?”
“It could have been as early as when you and I first met,” Palakon says. “We’re not sure.”
“And what do they want?”
Palakon breathes in. “They want us to fail,” Palakon says. “Obviously they are trying their best to ensure that this happens.”
“Fail what?” I’m asking. “Who’s they?” I’m asking.
“Well, who they are exactly is impossible to answer,” Palakon says. “Actually there are many answers. But they obviously have decided to use you—your presence—to their advantage.”
“Mr. Ward,” Delta says, “we learned at a late date that Jamie Fields has connections with a faction that works in opposition to the faction Bobby Hughes belongs to. Once we found this out we discussed the possibilities of how this could affect the outcome of the situation, of your situation. We decided that any problems arising from that connection—in relation to harming you—were remote. And if you were placed in any danger we would step in and remove you from the situation.”
Crater speaks. “Jamie Fields, at that point, had no immediate contact with Bobby Hughes. At that juncture we thought you were safe.”
“Jamie Fields works for a counterintelligence organization that has infiltrated Mr. Hughes’ organization,” Palakon says. “At the time you were sent, we had no idea this was happening. We didn’t know until you disappeared from London what the situation was.” He pauses. “Until it was too late.”
“But they met a long time ago,” I mutter. “Jamie told me she’d met Bobby years ago, that they were hanging out for years.”
“They had met, this was confirmed,” Palakon allows, nodding. “But Bobby Hughes meets a lot of people. Not all of them tend to work for him. Not all of them end up being recruited.”
Pause. “What about the hat you asked me to bring?” I ask.
Palakon sighs. ??
?The hat I asked you to bring was intended for the group that Jamie Fields works for.” A long pause suggests that this is an answer.
“So … Jamie Fields doesn’t work for Bobby Hughes?” I ask. “No, she doesn’t, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says. “Jamie Fields works for the United States government.”
“What was … in the hat?” I ask tentatively.
All around: heavy sighs, a smattering of flinches, men repositioning themselves. Palakon glances over at Crater, who nods, resigned. I’m on the verge of placing where I first met the Interpol inspector but Russell distracts me by lighting a cigarette. There’s no relief in knowing Jamie doesn’t work for Bobby, because I don’t believe it.
“In the seams of the hat,” Palakon starts, “was a prototype for a new form of plastic explosive.”
I turn ice cold, chills wash over my body in one enormous wave and veins freeze up, start tingling. I’m writhing in my chair, unable to sit still.
“We were uncertain of how detectable it was,” Palakon says. “We needed a carrier. We needed someone no one would suspect. Someone who could transfer this sample to Europe.”
“But once you boarded the QE2, Victor, you had obviously been spotted,” Crater says. “Something got leaked. We’re not sure how.”
“I’m not … really clear on this,” I manage to say.
“I agreed to get you out of the country for your father and I did,” Palakon says. “I also agreed to something else.” He pauses. “I owed … a favor. To another party.” Another pause. “I agreed to bring this other party the prototype for Remform. But the two things—you heading to Europe and the delivery of the plastique—were not related. Your father knew nothing of that. This was my mistake and I take full responsibility. But things were urgent and moving fast and I needed to find a carrier immediately. You were available.”
“What exactly is Remform?” I’m asking.
“It’s a plastic explosive that escapes detection from, well, just about anything,” Palakon says. “Metal detectors, x-ray machines, trace detectors, electron-capture vapor detectors, tagging, trained dogs.” Palakon shrugs. “It’s highly efficient.”