by Daniel Hecht
"You want us to take the materials to someone?" Mo asked.
"We're going to have a lot of media coverage here in"—
Biedermann checked his watch —"about twelve hours. The proverbial eyes of the world will be on this building, and the person who walks out of here will present this file to the newspeople. It won't be me, because I'll still be in here with whoever's still alive. I'll be in here with the TV and radio on, making sure the information gets circulated properly. If it doesn't, the body count goes up."
Rebecca sneezed explosively, and Biedermann glanced over at her. Mo did, too. From his position on the floor, he saw that a dark lump had appeared near her feet. Hard to see, the light was no good. It looked shapeless, a bag. A purse. It had been on the seat, and she'd been working it toward the edge with the movement of her hips.
Thirty feet away, Biedermann went back to unspooling line, clipping it, laying it out.
"Bee, you're not going to like this much, but you're gonna have to be the messenger. You've got the credibility, God knows Ford doesn't. Plus you're photogenic."
"Send Rachel out. Please."
"Um, no. No, unfortunately Rachel is central to this pageant. So is your boyfriend. They'll be used to help light a fire under your fanny, I need you to go out of here in high gear. The maternal-grief thing—that'll play persuasively on TV, right? It's awful, I know. But they're not walking out, and you're going to have to watch the—"
"Erik. Don't. You. Dare." Rebecca's voice curdled Mo's blood.
"Don't tell me what to do, Bed You know better than that! You're gonna go out of here as hurting as I am. You're gonna be motivated.
To make sure the information gets play." Biedermann's voice was a snarl. He took out a small black case, opened it, sorted inside. From what Mo could see, it looked like a medical tool-kit. "Plus, you know, I fucking hate Ford. The fucking attitude, the bulldog thing, always weaseling in closer. You know, you can blame him for your situation right now. If he'd ever let go. If he'd ever take an order. He's the one who forced my hand. And I have a lot of resentment around control issues, don't I." Biedermann was starting to lose it, the feeling taking over. He took out a rechargeable electric drill, looked it over in the dim light, revved the motor.
"You're thinking I'm some kind of freak, huh, Mo? You think you're so different? Well, take a look at yourself. How you hate the strings on you. If you'd seen what I did, how far would you go to do something about it? How well would you do with that demon riding you? Think about it!"
That echoed uncomfortably in Mo's thoughts. He was glad that Rebecca didn't seem to be listening. She had her eyes shut and was taking deep, slow breaths. Beneath the table, her feet were moving, sliding the bag to the end of the booth. Yes—her purse. When Mo looked up again, he found her staring at him. Eye to eye in the dim light, no movement, just the message in the eyes.
This would need some covering noise, some distraction. Mo began talking: "So you were the cleanup man for over twenty years. Why did you start. . . this? Why didn't you just finish, get the last of them, close the book? After so many years?"
Biedermann reared up, eyes shut in mock ecstasy. "Yes! I knew you guys would do it! I knew you'd zero in on the fundamental question. Tell you why, fuckhead. Tell you about how your tax dollars are spent."
He stood up and went down to lane three, leaned on the table with both hands, his face lowered to the circle of heads.
"Why did I start making puppets myself, going freelance, in 1995? Twenty-two years after the original puppet-masters had seen the error of their ways? Any guesses? No? Well, you couldn't know. Because that's when I had to kill a guy, another cruise missile gone out of control. This was a serious screwball, not only hurting other people but doing this autosurgery routine, too? And after I kill him I see that he's only in his late twenties. Six months later, whoops, had to do another one, same age. So I made some discreet inquiries. And found out that the program hadn't ended in 1973. It had never closed down, just got put on the back burner until things cooled off! It's going on right now!"
Biedermann stopped and shined his flashlight into the faces of the people at the far booth and then across the room into Mo's eyes and Rebecca's. "Time for some normative conversational input," he said in a flat voice. "Time for some expression of outrage, people. Or are you too far gone? Too used to this shit?"
A paralyzed silence from the other booth.
"It's horrible, Erik!" Rebecca called. "But why did they—"
"Thank you. Why did they do such a terrible thing? Because with the Vietnam War over, we still had the Shining Path to kill, we had Commander Marcos and his Mayans, we needed agents in communal movements all over. And we had to have contingency plans for troublemakers here at home—radical environmentalists, socially conscious rock stars, that type. Manufactured assassins and provocateurs are so politically convenient, see. No overt action needed. And they'll do anything, they don't make moral judgments about assignments, they'll take on suicide missions, they'll kill our own people so the powers that be can pin the blame on someone else. If they're caught alive, they're impenetrable under questioning. For a decade or so it was still the commies, anything faintly Red, had to nip it in the bud. But then the truck bomb went off in the World Trade Center, and good morning America! Suddenly everybody's worried about the Middle East. Islamic fundamentalists, America-haters, Arab terrorists. Don't think it's a real concern? Fact is, our guys who know about this shit, all the Defense Department spooks, they all know it's only a matter of time before we see some major terror damage here in the U.S. But how do we fight these guys, how do we manage what they call an 'asymmetrical conflict'? The Arab fanatics, they're more than happy to die for their cause, plus they're decentralized, they're in enclaves and cells scattered all over the world. Can't hit them with our big weapons, we need a more precise, delicate tool. But our normal soldiers don't seem to have sufficient commitment or desperation just now, do they? So how do we get at all those nasty guys?"
Biedermann paused expectantly, but again got only frightened silence from the other booth.
"The program," Rebecca called.
Yes! We manufacture operatives that are their equivalent. Programmed androids without scruples, who'll go in and do unspeakable things. Who won't care who they kill or if they live through their missions. We build ourselves some pet monsters, terrorists to fight terrorists. But the funny thing is, all the advances in the neuro-sciences, and the psych boys still can't do it right! These puppets still go screwy on their handlers. You wonder why we've seen twenty years of rising statistics in serial murder and rampage killing? You see now? You see how heavy this is? You see why we've got to go through with this?"
With Biedermann looming over them, cranking himself up, the people at the other booth were crying more loudly. Rebecca positioned the bag with her feet. Biedermann was only about fifty feet away, there'd be only one chance.
She deftly booted the purse toward Mo across the smooth boards. It skated straight but stopped short, a black mound appearing in the middle of the floor, obvious even in the half darkness. Mo flung out his legs until he was out full length, hanging by his cuffed hands from the ball-return carousel. He managed to snare the purse with his feet, then drew his legs in. The weight of it told him some bad news: not heavy enough to contain Rebecca's .38 as he'd hoped. Of course not—Biedermann would've checked. Then what? He had slid it up below his arms before he realized he couldn't pick it up. The cuffs stopped his hands several inches short.
He threw himself prone again, got his teeth on the bag, raised his head, got his hands on it. Hard to open with the cuffs on, the dead finger. But now Biedermann had straightened from the other booth and was looking back. Mo froze, hoping the purse wasn't visible. Biedermann looked back for a moment, motionless. Mo's heart pounded so loud he was afraid the G-man would hear it.
But then Biedermann bent back to his cowering audience. He was obviously coming more than a little unglued. "See? Look at your own skep
ticism! I mean, you wonder why I had to do this whole big production, look at your own fucking response—'Guy's a real fruitcake, all this paranoid conspiracy shit.'"
Mo loosened the drawstring and got his hand into the bag. Rebecca was still staring at him as if beaming a transmission from her brain to his. His fingers felt her wallet. Computer diskette. Key ring. Tampon. A roll of breath mints or something. The broken finger was getting in the way, stiff and fat as a frozen hot dog, the purse a tangle of invisible objects.
"Give me a fucking break!" Biedermann was saying. "Didn't anyone notice how every goddamned assassin is this total loony, driven by weird compulsions, voices in his head? With mysterious chunks missing from his past? I mean, Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan, Hinckley, Mark David Chapman, the whole gang—you got superpowers and terrorists up the wazoo wishing they could bump off our leaders, and their best agents, their James Bond types, can't do it, but these guys can? Guys who can hardly wipe their asses they're so fucked up, but suddenly they can get past the Secret Service? You think about that! I mean how obvious can it get? I finally decided somebody had to say, Wake up and smell the coffee, America!"
Lipstick. Fountain pen. Soft pack of Kleenex. And then Mo found what she must have intended: a clipper. Just a fingernail clipper, but a fairly heavy-duty one. A little lever that swiveled out, biting razor jaws. He got his fingers around it, shook it free of the bag, used his knee to shove the bag out of Biedermann's view. Turned the clipper awkwardly, felt along his left wrist to the strap there. Couldn't get the angle right. Followed the band up to the flange, found the loop there, fitted the jaws to the strap.
Biedermann was facing this way again, coming back to his duffel. Mo froze. Then Rebecca was starting to sneeze, Ah—ah—and at her explosive ka-CHOO! Mo snipped the band.
The click was lost in her sneeze, but when he felt the cut he realized it had only gotten halfway through. Another painstaking fit of clippers to nylon, another sneeze from Rebecca, and he felt the tension go off the band.
Crouched over his duffel, Biedermann looked over at her. "What the hell, Bee. You coming down with a cold? Allergies, maybe?" He stood up and started toward her.
She sneezed again and Mo clipped through the second Flex-Cuf. Biedermann striding quickly now. "You up to something, Bee? You being a bad girl?"
"You ever have to sneeze when your hands are tied?" Rebecca asked acidly.
Biedermann's big body was moving with that scary heavy agility, coming toward her. He passed Mo. The instant he bent over Rebecca, Mo slipped the bands free of the flange and got up with one long strand of Flex-Cuf trailing. Biedermann had Rebecca's golden hair in a big handful and was wrenching her neck back over the booth seat, and that's when Mo hit him from behind, hands clenched in a double hammer blow, knocking the bigger man's head to the side.
Biedermann went to his knees and Mo leapt onto his back. The advantage lasted only an instant. Abruptly Biedermann flung his weight into a roll and struck out with an elbow all in one move. Mo hit the floor next to him, two feet from the booth. He tried to get his hands under him, but Biedermann was too fast. He kneed Mo between the legs and then was on top of him, whaling at his face with fists like wrecking balls. Mo felt his jaw snapping, the grind of bone ends.
And then Rebecca's foot whipped up and caught Biedermann square under the chin with a chock! and Biedermann tottered sideways. Mo got an arm around him, found the trailing end of the handcuff, pulled it against the bull neck.
Twenty-two inches of nylon band, just enough. One end was still cinched around his wrist, the other he wrapped in his broken hand. Pulled with every ounce of strength. Rebecca pounded Biedermann's temple with her heel. Biedermann's face turned scarlet with rage. Mo felt his grip start to fail, his strength giving out, but then Rebecca raised her leg and put her whole weight into a second heel to the purpling forehead.
And then it was Big Willie all over again. The bucking, grappling, fading. The slackening back muscles. The torpid dead-meat half-roll.
Mo gave it a full minute. Then slipped the band, got unsteadily to his feet. Limped down the lane to retrieve his guns. Came back to the booth, stepped over Biedermann's body.
Rachel was in shock, head tilted and mouth half-open, and Mo crossed quickly to her. "Rache. Rachel. Try to look at me." She didn't lift her head, so he did it for her, trying to be gentle as he turned her face to him. Her nose bled freely down her chin and throat. "Are you hurt badly somewhere?"
She seemed to think about it. "No." And all Mo could think was Not the parts you can see, anyway.
"It's all right now." Mo's face felt paralyzed, he could hardly talk at all, but he made the jaw move: "He's not going to hurt us anymore. Do you hear me?"
Again, she thought about that. "Yeah."
Mo squeezed her shoulders hard, caught Rebecca's eye. He went to get the clipper, came back, cut their hands loose. Rachel fell into her mother's arms. Then he needed to sit down in a hurry, the pain in his jaw so intense he couldn't see, he felt like he was going to throw up. Ringing in his ears, sweat on his temples. He closed his eyes to get a grip on the pain.
Only an instant, he thought, but when he opened his eyes, Rebecca was just sliding back into the seat. She wrapped her arms around Rachel. She had gone down to lane three and cut the others loose. Mo could see them lurching out of the booth. One of them stood and immediately lay down on the boards. Probably the old man, having a heart attack.
On the floor Biedermann suddenly sighed and rolled his head.
Mo had put the Glock in its holster, but still held the Ruger, and now his hand flicked like a snake and the gun seemed to fire itself. Once through the throat, point-blank. Only a .22, but the shot was loud in here, the muzzle flash blinding. When he regained his vision, he saw a small hole just to the right of the Adam's apple.
Biedermann's eyes rolled, focused. "Well," he gurgled. "You get the idea anyway. Some idea of the hurt, huh." He blew some blood out of his mouth. "Should have taken the purse away, huh. Should have known how resourceful. Gotta admire you guys." On the floor, a pool was spreading away from his head, black as an oil slick in the dim light.
Rebecca's face had that look that gave Mo chills. She reached over, took the gun from him. Put it into Rachel's hand, wrapped her fingers around it. "Rachel. I want you to focus. No one has therightto do what he did to you. If you want to, shoot him."
Rachel tilted her head to look at Biedermann's face, almost curious.
"Rachel, you understand, you don't ever have to be subject to him again. Him or anyone! If you need to kill him to prove that to yourself, do it."
"You don't have to talk so loud. I'm not retarded," Rachel mustered.
She angled the wobbly Ruger at Biedermann's face, still watching him curiously. Held it for a few seconds. Then set it on the table.
"You think you're free now?" Biedermann asked in a wet whisper. "Dream on. You'll know what I mean when you walk out of here. Even after you've gotten the materials out, you'll be afraid. I'm dead, but Zelek isn't. They won't Hke it that you know things. They'll wonder how much more I told you. They'll need to protect the program. Not just a dirty secret from the past. A very now kind of secret. It's worth your life. To even know about it."
Rebecca gave Mo a wide-eyed questioning look, What do we do? The black cape of blood widened around Biedermann's head Hke a poisoned soul taking its leave. After another moment he turned his cheek into the wet and closed his eyes. He looked relieved to be shut of the problem.
53
MO DIDN'T UNDERSTAND ALL of it, but Rebecca explained at length and gave him a couple of books to read. Posttraumatic stress, on top of the regular stuff between mother and daughter and Mo the new rival for Mom's intimacy, very complex psychology. But a couple of months had passed, Rachel was beginning to come around. It helped to have someone as insightful as Rebecca working with her. And Rebecca had been very strategic about the three of them being together, almost always outdoor stuff, where conversation was not central to the act
ivity. No bowling.
Today it was Rollerblading in Central Park. Sunday, mid-August, the foliage was thick and full, everybody was out in the steamy heat, a great weekend. Mo was fine on the skates until he had to stop—braking was tricky. But that was okay, it gave Rache something to laugh about.
With all the residual anxiety, concern about her daughter, Rebecca had lost weight since that night, but it made her look even more terrific in shorts, knee- and elbow-pads, T-shirt. God have mercy, Mo thought, what skates did to an already long-legged woman.
They got to the area around the zoo and pulled over for a rest. It was nice beneath the big trees, rocks and lawns all around, the bustle of activity, the smell of hot dogs and roasting pretzels. Rebecca went to one of the carts and got lemonade. They watched the passing parade for a few minutes, then Rachel met a trio of friends and they skated off with promises to rendezvous in an hour.
Rebecca picked up a discarded Times from the bench, and they scanned it together. She pointed out an inside article featuring a photo of a familiar face: bald head, big grin, eyes that didn't smile as much as the mouth.
She shook her head. "You called this right, all the way, Mo. Did I tell you I think you're a genius?"
"I think you might've, but you're welcome to tell me again,"
The article was about Westchester DA Richard K. Flannery, who was quitting his job to take over as deputy-some thing-or-other in the Defense Intelligence Agency. A nice fat Washington posting with a title that told nothing about the new job. His meteoric rise from a county-level position to a national-security role was attributed to his prosecutorial skills and his shrewd political networking. Also his apprehension of the deranged FBI agent who had flipped out and killed a couple of people at a bowling alley, a demonstration of investigative cunning and bravery that had gotten him national press only two months ago.
