Ripper

  As he raced down to his truck, Ryan phoned Pedro Alarcón, who at this hour was probably preparing for class and sipping maté. His friend still clung to old habits from his native Uruguay, such as drinking this bitter greenish concoction, which Ryan personally thought tasted foul. He was punctilious about the ritual: he would only use the maté gourd and the silver straw he had inherited from his parents, yerba imported directly from Montevideo, and filtered water heated to a precise temperature.

  “Get some clothes on—I’ll be there to pick you up in eleven minutes,” Ryan said by way of greeting, “and bring whatever you need to disable an alarm.”

  “It’s early, man. . . . What’s the deal?”

  “Unlawful entry.”

  “What kind of an alarm system?”

  “It’s a private house, shouldn’t be too complicated.”

  Pedro sighed. “At least we’re not robbing a bank.”

  It was still dark, and Monday-morning rush hour had not yet started when Ryan, Pedro, and Attila crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Yellowish floodlights lit the red steel structure, which looked as though it were suspended in midair, and from the distance came the wail of the lighthouse siren that guided vessels safely through the dense fog. By the time they reached the house in Tiburon, the sky was beginning to pale, a few stray cars were circulating, and the early-morning joggers were just setting out.

  Assuming that the residents of such an elegant neighborhood would be suspicious of strangers, the Navy SEAL parked his truck a block from the house and pretended to be walking his dog while he reconnoitered the terrain.

  Pedro Alarcón walked briskly toward the house as though he had been sent by the owner, slipped a picklock into the padlock securing the gate—child’s play to this Houdini who could crack a safe with his eyes closed—and in less than a minute had it open. Security was Ryan’s area of expertise; he worked with military and governmental agencies who hired him to protect their information. His job was to get inside the head of the person who might want to steal such data—think like the enemy, imagine all the possible ways of gaining access—and then design a system to prevent it from happening. Watching Alarcón at work with his picklock, it occurred to Ryan that one man, with the necessary skills and determination, could break even the most sophisticated security codes. This was the danger of terrorism: it pitted the cunning of a single individual hiding in a crowd against the colossal might of the most powerful nations on earth.

  Now fifty-nine, Pedro Alarcón had been forced to leave Uruguay during the bloody dictatorship in 1976. At eighteen he had joined the tupamaros, an urban Communist guerrilla organization waging an armed struggle against the government, convinced that only by violence could they change Uruguay’s prevailing regime of abuse, corruption, and injustice. The tupamaros planted bombs, robbed banks, and kidnapped people before being crushed by the army: some had died fighting, some were executed, others captured and tortured, the rest forced into exile. Alarcón, who had begun his adult life assembling homemade bombs and forcing locks, still had a framed poster from the 1970s, now yellowed with age, showing him with three of his tupamaro comrades and offering a reward from the military for their capture. The pallid boy in the photo, with his long, shaggy hair, his beard, and his astonished expression, was very different from the man Ryan knew, a short, wiry gray-haired man, all bones and sinew, intelligent and imperturbable, with the manual dexterity of an illusionist.

  These days Alarcón was professor of artificial intelligence at Stanford University and competed as a triathlete with Ryan, who was twenty years his junior. Aside from their shared passion for technology and sport, both were men of few words, which was why they got along so well. They both lived frugal lives and were bachelors; if anyone asked, they’d claim they’d seen too much of life to believe in schmaltzy love stories or to be tied down to one woman when there were so many willing beauties in the world, but deep down they suspected that they had ended up alone out of sheer bad luck. According to Indiana Jackson, growing old alone meant dying of heartache, and though they would never have admitted it, secretly they agreed.

  Within minutes Pedro Alarcón had picked the lock on the main door and managed to disable the alarm, and both men stepped into the house. Ryan used his cell phone as a flashlight, keeping a tight grip on Attila, who was ready to do battle—straining at the leash, panting, teeth bared, a low growl coming from deep in his throat.

  In a sudden flash, as had so often happened at the most inopportune moments, Ryan found himself back in Afghanistan. Part of his brain could process what was happening: post-traumatic stress disorder, the symptoms of which were flashbacks, night terrors, depression, and fits of crying or rage. Ryan had struggled to overcome the temptation to commit suicide, recovered from the addictions to alcohol and drugs that a few years earlier had all but killed him, but he knew they could come back at any time. He could never let his guard down; these symptoms were his enemy now.

  He could hear his father’s voice: no man fit to wear the uniform would bitch about having carried out orders or blame the navy for his nightmares, war is for the brave and the strong, if you’re scared of blood, get a different job. Another part of his brain reeled off the statistics he knew by heart: 2.3 million American combatants in Iraq and Afghanistan over the past decade, 6,179 dead, 47,000 wounded, most with devastating injuries, 210,000 war vets being treated for the same syndrome he suffered from, to say nothing of the epidemic that had devastated the armed forces: an estimated 700,000 soldiers suffering psychological problems or with brain damage.

  And still there was a small, dark corner of Ryan’s mind—a part he could not control—that was trapped in the past, in that night in Afghanistan.

  A group of Navy SEALs advances through the desert terrain, heading for a village in the foothills of the mountains. Their orders are to conduct a house-to-house search, dismantle the terrorist cell apparently operating in the region, and bring prisoners back for interrogation. Their ultimate objective is the elusive phantom of Osama bin Laden himself. It is a nocturnal mission, aiming to surprise the enemy and minimize collateral damage: at night there will be no women in the market, no children playing in the dust. This is a secret mission requiring speed and discretion, a specialty of SEAL Team Six, trained to operate in desert heat, in arctic cold, to deal with underwater currents, soaring peaks, the pestilential miasma of the jungle. The night is cloudless, moonlit; Ryan can make out the village silhouetted in the distance and, as they move closer, a dozen or so mud huts, a well, and some livestock pens. The bleating of a goat breaks the spectral silence of the night, making him start. He feels a tingling in his hands, in the back of his neck; he feels adrenaline course through his veins, his every muscle tense; he can sense the men advancing through the shadows with him, who are a part of him: sixteen brothers but a single beating heart. This was what the instructor had hammered home during BUD/S training, the infamous Hell Week during which they were pushed beyond the limits of human endurance, an ordeal that only 15 percent of men come through; they are the invincibles.

  “Hey, Ryan, what’s up, buddy?”

  The voice came from far away, and had called his name twice before he managed to come back from the remote village in Afghanistan to the deserted mansion in Tiburon, California. Pedro Alarcón was shaking his shoulder. Ryan snapped out of his trance and sucked in a lungful of air, trying to dispel the memories and focus on the present. He heard Pedro calling to Amanda a couple of times, careful to keep his voice low so as not to scare her, and then he realized he had let Attila off the leash. He searched for him in the beam from his cell phone and saw the dog dashing around, nose pressed to the floor, bewildered by the combination of smells. Attila was trained to sniff out explosives or bodies, whether alive or dead. With two taps on his collar, Ryan let the dog know they were looking for a person. He had no need to use words; he simply picked up the leash, and as soon as he tugged, Attila stopped, attentive, his intelligent eyes questioning. Ryan signaled for him to s
tay, waiting until the dog was a little calmer. Then they resumed the search, Ryan following a still restive Attila, keeping a tight grip on the leash, through the kitchen, the laundry room, and finally the living room, while Alarcón kept watch at the front door. Attila quickly led him to the packing crates, snuffling between the planks, teeth bared.

  Shining his flashlight between the crates at which Attila was pawing, Ryan saw a huddled figure and was immediately plunged into the past again. For a moment he could see two trembling children huddled in a trench—a girl of four or five with a scarf tied around her head, her huge green eyes wide with terror as she clutched a baby. Attila growled and tugged at the leash, jolting Ryan back to the reality, to this moment, this place.

  Exhausted from crying, Amanda had fallen asleep inside the packing crate, curled up like a cat in an attempt to keep warm. Attila immediately recognized the familiar scent of the girl and sat back on his hindquarters, waiting for instructions while Ryan woke Amanda. Awkwardly she straightened her cramped body, blinded by the light shining into her eyes, not knowing where she was. It took a few seconds for her to remember what had happened. “It’s me, Ryan,” he whispered, helping her out of the crate. “Everything’s fine.” When she recognized him, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his broad chest while he stroked her back reassuringly, murmuring words of affection that he had never said to anyone, his heart aching as though it were not this spoiled little girl wetting his shirt with her tears but the other girl, the girl with green eyes and her little brother, the children he should have rescued from the dugout, carefully shielding them with his arms so that they would not see what had happened. He wrapped Amanda up in his leather jacket and held her up as they cut through the garden, collecting the backpack she had left under one of the bushes, and headed back to his truck, where they waited for Pedro Alarcón to lock up the house.

  Amanda was choked with tears, and with a cold that had been brewing for some days before viciously flaring up that night. Ryan and Alarcón thought she was in no fit state to go back to school, but when she insisted, they stopped by a drugstore, where they bought a cold remedy and rubbing alcohol to remove the fluorescent paint from her arms. They stopped for breakfast at the only café they could find open—linoleum floor, plastic chairs and tables. The room was warm, and the air was filled with the delicious smell of fried bacon. The only other customers were four men wearing overalls and hard hats. A girl with hair gelled into porcupine spikes, blue nail polish, and a sleepy expression took their order, looking as though this was the end of an all-night shift.

  While they waited for their food, Amanda made her saviors promise they would not say a word to anyone about what had happened. She, master of Ripper, expert in defeating evildoers and plotting dangerous adventures, had spent the night in a packing crate, a mass of snot and tears. With a couple of aspirin, a cup of hot chocolate, and a stack of pancakes and syrup in front of her, the escapade she recounted to them sounded pathetic, but Ryan and Alarcón did not make fun or scold her. The former methodically tucked into his eggs and sausage, while the latter buried his nose in a cup of coffee—a poor substitute for maté—to hide his smile.

  “Where are you from?” Amanda asked Alarcón.

  “From here.”

  “You sound foreign.”

  “He’s from Uruguay,” Ryan interrupted.

  “A tiny little country in South America,” Alarcón explained.

  “This semester I have to do a project on a country for my social justice class. Do you mind if I use yours?”

  “I’d be honored, but you’d be better off picking somewhere in Africa or Asia—nothing ever happens in Uruguay.”

  “That’s why I want to use it—it’ll be easy. For part of the presentation, I have to interview someone from the country I’ve chosen, probably on video. Would that be okay?”

  They swapped phone numbers and e-mail addresses and agreed to meet up in late February or early March to film the interview. At seven thirty that miserable morning, the two men dropped the girl off in front of the gates of her school. She said good-bye, shyly kissing each of them on the cheek, hiked her backpack onto her shoulder, and walked away, head down, dragging her feet.

  Monday, 9

  Alan Keller’s best-kept secret was that from a young age he had suffered from erectile dysfunction, a constant humiliation that made him avoid intimacy with women he found attractive, for fear of failing, and with prostitutes, because the experience left him depressed and angry. He and his psychoanalyst had spent years discussing the Oedipus complex until they were both thoroughly bored and moved on to other subjects. To compensate, he set himself the task of gaining an exhaustive knowledge of feminine sensuality, the things they should have taught at school if, as he liked to put it, the educational system dealt less with the reproduction of fruit flies and more with human sexuality. He learned ways of making love without having to rely on his erection, skillfully making up for what he lacked in potency. Later, by which time he had already developed a reputation as a ladies’ man, Viagra came along, and the problem ceased to torment him. He was on the point of turning fifty when Indiana blew into his life like a spring gale, ready to sweep away any trace of insecurity. He dated her for several weeks, never progressing beyond slow, lingering kisses, laying the groundwork with commendable patience until finally she tired of foreplay, unceremoniously grabbed his hand, and firmly took him to her bed—a four-poster with a preposterous silk canopy hung with little bells.

  Indiana lived in an apartment above her father’s garage, in an area of Potrero Hill that had never become fashionable, close to the drugstore where, for twenty-nine years, Blake Jackson had earned his living. From here, she could cycle to work by a route that was almost completely level—there was only one hill in between—a major advantage in San Francisco, a city built on hills. At a brisk walking pace, the journey took her an hour; by bike it was just twenty minutes. Her apartment had two separate entrances, a spiral staircase that connected to Blake’s house and a door that opened directly onto the street via a steep flight of worn timber steps that were slippery in winter, and which every year her father suggested replacing. The apartment comprised two good-size rooms, a balcony, a half bath, and a tiny kitchenette set into a closet. It was more studio than apartment, and the family called it “the witch’s cave,” since aside from the bed, the bathroom, and the kitchen, every inch of space was taken up with art and aromatherapy equipment. The day she took Alan to her bed, they had the place to themselves; Amanda was at boarding school, and Blake was playing squash, as he did every Wednesday night. There was no danger of him coming home early; after a game, he and his buddies would always go out for sauerkraut and beer at some decrepit Bierkeller, where they carried on drinking until they were thrown out at dawn.

  After five minutes in bed, Alan, who had not thought to bring a magic blue pill with him, was so intoxicated by the smell of essential oils that he could hardly think. He surrendered to the hands of this youthful, joyous woman, who performed a miracle, managing to get him aroused with no drugs, just a playful tenderness. Gone were his doubts and fears. Amazed, he followed her lead, and at the end of the journey he returned to earth deeply grateful. And Indiana, who had had many lovers and was in a position to judge, was also grateful: this was the first man interested in her pleasure rather than his own. From that moment, it was Indiana who sought out Alan, who called him up, taunting him with her desire and her humor, suggesting they meet up at the Fairmont, flattering and praising him.

  Alan never detected any falseness or scheming on her part. Indiana was outspoken. She seemed utterly in love, happy and beguiled. It was easy to love her, yet he did not allow himself to be tied down, considering himself a wayfarer in this world, a traveler who did not take the time to look more deeply into anything except art, which alone seemed to offer permanence. He had had his share of conquests, but no serious lover until he happened on Indiana, the only woman ever to captivate him. He was conv
inced their relationship worked precisely because they kept it separate from the rest of their lives. Indiana made do with little, and this selflessness suited him, though he considered it somewhat suspect; he believed that all human relationships were a trade-off in which the cleverest came out on top. They had been together for four years and never mentioned the future, and though he had no intention of getting married, it offended Alan that Indiana had not raised the subject. He thought of himself as a good catch—especially for a woman of no means like her. There was still the problem of the difference in their ages, but Alan knew a lot of men in their fifties who dated women twenty years their junior. The only thing Indiana had insisted on from the beginning, from that first unforgettable night spent beneath the Indian silk canopy, was fidelity.

  “You make me really happy, Indi,” he said in an uncharacteristic surge of honesty, mesmerized by what he had just experienced without recourse to pills. “I hope we can go on seeing each other.”

  “As a couple?” she asked.

  “As lovers.”

  “Meaning we’d be exclusive. . . .”

  “You mean monogamous?” He laughed.