Artkin snapped off the flashlight when he reached her. He was a wraith in the wan light, unreal, surreal. He looked around, studying the children. The children, in turn, looked at him with dull eyes. Some still slept. Those who were awake seemed to be drifting even while sitting still, as if the bus were a boat drifting aimlessly, taking them with it. Kate sensed their lassitude, was grateful for it. It was just as well that they didn’t realize what was happening. What was happening? Nothing. It had to be nothing.
She looked up at Artkin. She had somehow reached the boy Miro. Could she reach Artkin? He looked at her with empty pitiless eyes. Then the eyes rested on Monique. No, Kate thought, pressing the girl to her, trying to absorb her into her own being.
Artkin bent over Kate.
“The boy,” he said. “What was his name?
“What boy?”
“The boy who did not eat the candy at first. The little fat boy.”
Kate tried to protest. Tried to say: Oh, no. But the words were strangled somewhere inside of her and the sound that came from her lips was a sound she had never heard before, as if she had suddenly found a new vocabulary, a new language, a language of despair and futility.
“His name.” Artkin’s voice crackled in her ear.
She couldn’t say his name. Wouldn’t say it. Maybe she could save him this way. Hide his identity so that Artkin couldn’t find him.
But Artkin was moving away from her, the flashlight on again, sweeping the faces of the children.
“Ah, little boy. There you are. What’s your name?”
“Raymond.”
“No,” Kate said. Meaning to scream the word but it limped from her mouth. She gathered herself to cry out: “You can’t.”
“Come, Raymond, we are going to leave this bus. And take a little walk. Aren’t you getting tired of this bus, Raymond? You’ve been here a long time.”
“Are we going home?”
Kate heard the little old man’s voice and closed her eyes.
“Soon. You will be going home soon. First, let us get out of this bus. It’s morning outside. The air is fresh.”
Artkin’s gentle, awful voice.
Kate felt something brushing her leg. She opened her eyes. Raymond stood there looking at her, his face bloated and weary.
“The man wants me to go outside with him. Is it all right?” he asked. His lips trembled. “I want to go home.”
No. This couldn’t happen. She couldn’t let it happen. She thrust herself to her feet, stood to confront Artkin. “No,” she said. “You can’t do this.”
“Miro,” Artkin said.
And Miro was quick, leaping toward the girl, grabbing her, pinning her in his arms, pulling her against his body, smelling her sweat and the dim perfume that still clung to her body after all this time.
“Please,” she said, struggling.
Artkin’s face was close to hers. “You are only going to make it harder for the child, miss. If you continue this way, he will wonder why you are protesting, he will wonder what will happen to him if he comes with me. Let it be quick for him, miss.”
Artkin led the boy down the center of the bus, speaking gently to him, promising him candy and lollipops and chocolate bars and kisses from his mother. The other children looked on indifferently, remote, as if from a far distance.
Kate pulled furiously against Miro, straining to break his hold. “Wait,” she cried.
Something, the desperation in her voice maybe, made Artkin pause.
“Take me instead. Me, not him.”
Artkin looked back at her over his shoulder.
“That’s right—me. Instead of him.”
And even while saying it wanting to deny it, deny the words. Christ, she wanted to live, to get out of here, to survive this nightmare. She didn’t want to die here on this bus, this bridge, this morning, today. She wanted to live. But she cried out anyway: “Take me. Let Raymond go.”
Artkin held her eyes with his eyes. She strained against Miro again, but he held her fast and firm.
“It must be a child, miss,” Artkin said, as if apologizing.
Kate thought: How close I came. And shuddered. And hated herself.
Miro felt her sag in his arms and feared she had fainted. But he bent to peer at her and saw her eyelids fluttering.
Artkin picked up the boy to help him down the steps of the bus to the outside. Raymond looked over Artkin’s shoulder at Kate, said something that Kate didn’t hear, and then he was gone, the ghost of his bright, intelligent eyes and old man’s voice lingering behind.
Miro felt her body loosen, as if her bones had suddenly come apart, rattling inside her body, disconnected, askew. He wanted to say something to soothe her spirit, to comfort her sorrow. But he could think of nothing to say. And then he thought: Why should I want to say such a thing to her? In war, a soldier does not bring comfort to his enemy.
Later, they heard the single shot.
Kate could not believe that it was the sound of a gun firing. Because that would mean that Raymond was dead. It had to be something else. Not a gun. But what else could it be? A door slamming? No, not out here in the middle of the woods, not a door slamming. But it couldn’t be a gun either. Raymond mustn’t die. Then what could it be? It had to be something else. But what? A car backfiring? Maybe. Anything. Anything but a gun. Something else. It had to be something else. A firecracker? Like the Fourth of July? How about that? A firecracker! No, not a firecracker and not a car backfiring but not a gun either. It has to something else. A gun means that Raymond is dead so it can’t be a gun. It has to be something else. Yes, but if it isn’t a car backfiring or a firecracker or a door slamming, then what could it be? What else could it be? Something. Something else.
All right. Fine. Something else, not a gun.
But what else?
Something, something else.
Yes, yes. But what else?
Nothing. Nothing else.
It was a gun and Raymond is dead.
part
9
Now I can see, Ben, that you are not lost out in the woods somewhere. Not lost at all, but hiding.
I have notified Dean Albertson of the situation, and he has dispatched Castle’s security police to Brimmler’s Bridge. To intercept you if you show up there. But I know that you will return here first. Before you do anything drastic. You said so in those pages near the typewriter. You said you would not make your pilgrimage to Brimmler’s Bridge until you saw me again. You said you would honor your father. I know you will. Don’t I know you better than anyone else in the world? Better than I know myself perhaps?
I am remaining calm, even though I acknowledge the contents of those pages you wrote and saw what I did to you. I have not even taken a blood-pressure pill, which, as you may have suspected, is not really a blood-pressure pill but a tranquilizer of sorts.
Should I have become involved in your life, Ben?
Did I even want to?
I was involved because you were my son, of course, and every father is involved with a son to a certain extent, some more, some less. Ours was more because we lived in the close confines of Delta. Your classes were monitored to provide data for my continuing studies on behavioral syndromes.
The taping of the telephone at our home was necessary because of Inner Delta. Monitoring has always been a vital part of operations. Messages to and from our home, instructions to be relayed or received, all of them had to be recorded. So we recorded all calls and filed them. The tapes were seldom referred to except for occasional checks. It was during those occasional checks that I heard your calls, to your friends. To that girl, Nettie. I was not an eavesdropper, Ben. I did not intend to invade your privacy. But I heard the heartbreak in your voice when she treated you so cruelly. And I ached for you, remembering my own heartbreaks at that age: a girl whose face I can barely remember now, although the ache lingers.
So you see how it was with you and me, Ben? I knew you as a father knows any son, and I also knew you as
a student because the reports of your education were made daily to me. And I also knew the private side that a father seldom learns about, your relationship with friends like Jackie Brenner and the others. And Nettie. I thought all this would make me a better father, provide me with a better understanding of you, making it easier for me to put myself in your place.
Instead it led us to the bridge.
And beyond.
Put yourself in my place.
Or put myself in your place.
Can we strike a bargain, Ben?
Maybe if you put yourself in my place, you can see how it was.
How it was when I summoned you to the office in the middle of that terrible night …
I wondered how much I should tell you.
Earlier, we had awaited a decision from Washington on what our policy should be. The word that came was not unexpected. The official, public policy would be to assure the safety of the children at whatever cost the bargaining dictated. The public demanded this policy. Unofficially, our policy was to storm the bridge and rescue the children. Inner Delta had already outlined procedures for such an operation. If the attempt at rescue failed and more children were sacrificed than were saved, scapegoats had been set up to absorb the blame. They would acknowledge publicly that they went against official policy. They would be stripped of command, possibly face jail terms. The men involved were willing to assume the role of scapegoats. See what I mean about patriotism, Ben? This is the greatest patriotism: to accept disgrace for the sake of your country. The traitor as patriot. Was Judas, too, a scapegoat?
The capture of the terrorist leader known as Sedeete accelerated our plans to rescue the children. But a complication arose, one that could scuttle our plans. One of the hijackers, the mercenary called Antibbe, was shot and killed. Accidentally. By one of the special troops: overtrained, perhaps, overzealous. Who knows? The reaction from the bridge was immediate and direct. A child was killed, the body placed on the roof of the van. But at least the bargaining continued. And your selection as the go-between was approved by the hijackers, Ben. Thus, you were summoned to my office. You were perfect for the role you had to play. Innocent of the background. Innocent of any knowledge of our plans. You were also frightened, and yet so brave, so eager to serve.
You said: “What do you want me to do, Dad? It’s something to do with the bridge, isn’t it? And the kids being held hostage?”
And I said: “Yes. It has to do with the bridge and the children there. An errand we want you to do. An important one.”
You frowned. Yet I saw the eagerness still there in your eyes. I had to forget that you were my son. I had to resist giving you assurances. I felt that I could not deceive you to that extent. So as we talked in the office, it seemed as if I were carrying on two conversations, one with my son and the other with a member of staff personnel being given an assignment. It was important for me to remain neutral, neuter. In the service of your country it is often necessary to perform these deceits.
I told you what was involved in the assignment. That you must deliver the stone to the hijackers as proof of Sedeete’s capture, to prove to the hijackers that their leader had been captured, the entire episode now pointless, that they were in no position to dictate terms but faced complete surrender at the most, negotiations at the least. I told you of the death of the second child. And the man called Antibbe.
Did you flinch? Wince? It was difficult to tell. Your eyes were watchful, alert.
“We have to play a deadly game, Ben,” I said. “And as the messenger, you are caught in it. This stone they require—it may or may not be what it seems. It could be the simple proof they require that their leader is captured. Or it may be a ploy.”
“What kind of ploy?”
“A ploy to deliver another hostage into their hands. Or a ploy to try to determine what our plans are—whether we are willing to negotiate or whether we plan to attack. They were careful in their selection of a messenger to deliver the stone. We suggested various people on our staff—they wanted none of them. They said they wanted a nonprofessional.”
“But why is the messenger so important, Dad?”
“From their standpoint, there are several reasons. First, they want someone who will not be a threat once the messenger is with them on the bridge, in the van or the bus. Second, they would like to elicit information from the messenger, if possible. They know that we could send a messenger who is trained in deceit, programmed for action. They don’t want to risk that; that’s why they asked for a nonprofessional. Yet how could they know whether we were sending a nonprofessional or not? We suggested a priest—they said any man could wear a collar turned backward. We suggested some public figures whose faces were well known. They rejected this suggestion, too. They said the world was full of doubles, that our agency could probably duplicate anyone. Then I suggested you. My son. They accepted. I think they thought that a boy your age could be nothing else but what you seemed to be. And I think they also knew by the sound of my voice when I made the suggestion. The hijacker we are dealing with, the one we have deduced is the man called Artkin, said to me: ‘Either you are a great patriot or a great fool.’ And I replied: ‘Perhaps both.’ And then he accepted you.”
Again, the silence. And again you waited. And then I told you: “There is a possibility, Ben, that they may question you intensively, to determine whether you are, in fact, what you appear to be. In fact, I would say it is a certainty they will question you.” The key word here, of course, was intensively. Torture is such an old-fashioned archaic word. We avoid the term now. There are other terms. Intensive interrogation, methodological intervention, etc.
“But that’s all right,” you said. “You say, Dad, that I am innocent, that I don’t know anything. So how could I tell them anything?”
The telephone rang at that moment. I had often pondered how our lives were altered by that call. The caller was a liaison officer from Washington, D.C., to inform me of the time chosen for our attack on the bridge. 0930 in military time. Nine thirty in the morning civilian time. I listened and made note of the time on my desk pad. I did not want to say the time aloud, not wanting you to hear it. I answered the necessary questions without unnecessary verbiage, assured the liaison that we were prepared for the action, our special forces waiting for the word.
I replaced the receiver.
I saw your eyes go to the desk pad.
Had you seen the time I had written down?
It was at that moment that I should have called it off, removed you as messenger, canceled the arrangements, picked up the telephone and told Washington I had changed my mind.
But I hesitated that fraction of a minute, and then the door opened and the other officers came in and we were caught up in the movements bringing us to the climax of the hijacking.
The room is cold.
The heating system is even worse now than when I was a student here.
When the man called Artkin said, “Either you are a great patriot or a great fool,” he knew exactly what I was. What I am. Just as I knew exactly what he was and to what lengths he would go. We knew each other across the chasm; we had recognized each other across the ravine, although we had never met.
We went by military vehicles to the scene of the bridge. You and I sat together, in the rear seat, a colonel whose name does not matter between us. At the moment you left my office, you had ceased to exist in the minds of those at Inner Delta as my son. And I know it was necessary that you had to cease to exist as my son to me for the duration of the emergency. I thought of your mother. At least she was safe in Weston. I told myself that all would go well. I wondered whether I would ever have the courage to tell her of that night, the part you and I played in it. Everything would go well, I told myself again. Artkin would receive the stone that you brought. He would also perceive that you were exactly what you seemed to be—you have an air of innocence, Ben, that cannot be denied even to a man like Artkin. There would be the inevitable questioning, however. He
would inflict a degree of pain. But not much. I did not believe the pain would be excessive. Men like Artkin do not use these procedures for pleasure, for the sake of being cruel. They are professionals just as I am a professional. Expediency is the rule.
I glanced at you in the car, Ben, a swift secret glance, and saw your pale face, tension in your forehead. I had to withhold myself from reaching across the colonel to give you a pat of encouragement. You looked at me, a brief sidelong glance. I caught a glimpse of trust, determination. A look that said: I won’t let you down, Dad.
The car moved through the landscape of false dawn, that reverse twilight. Only twenty miles away stood the towns of Concord and Lexington, places that had known historic moments. Your mother and I had often taken you to the Concord Bridge where the Minutemen encountered the British soldiers that April morning so long ago, a momentous explosion in our nation’s history. I pondered the moment you and I were living through now. Two hundred years later in a different world. A world of assassination and terrorism, where children are pawns in deadly games. Yet I knew that if we defeated the terrorists on the bridge that morning, we would be setting a precedent for the world to see, sending a message to terrorists all over the world that our nation would not buckle under to intimidation.
When we arrived at our headquarters across the ravine from the bridge, morning light filled the scene. Morning also revealed to us the small bundle on the top of the van: the body of the child, still unidentified, who had been murdered in retaliation for the mercenary’s death. We hurried you into the building so that you would not see the body immediately.
Inside, I was handed a report. The message was brief: Communications established.