by Noah Hawley
“Sir,” said Gil, “would you liked me to get command central on the line to do a more formal briefing?”
“God no. Just run it down for me.”
Condor sat behind his desk, picked up an old football. He juggled it mindlessly, hand to hand, as Gil spoke.
“Sixteen email threats intercepted,” he began, “sent to mostly public addresses. Your private lines seem uncompromised since our last reshuffle. At the same time, corporate is tracking some specific threats against American media companies. They’re working with Homeland Security to stay up to the moment.”
Condor studied him as he spoke, spiraling the ball from left to right and back.
“You were in the Israeli army.”
“Yessir.”
“Infantry, or—?”
“That’s not something I can talk about. Let’s say I did my duty and let that be that.”
Condor flipped the ball, missed the catch. It bounce-rolled in a sloppy parabola, settling under a curtain.
“Any direct threats?” he asked. “David Bateman, we’re going to kill you. That type of thing.”
“No, sir. Nothing like that.”
Condor thought about it.
“But okay, so this guy? The one we don’t talk about who took my girl. When did he ever make a threat against a media conglomerate or send a bullshit email? This was a scumbag who thought he could get rich and didn’t mind murdering the maid.”
“Yessir.”
“And what are you doing to protect us from those guys? The ones who don’t make threats.”
If Gil felt dressed down he didn’t show it. To him it was a fair question.
“Both homes are secure. Cars are armored. Your protection detail is visible, high-profile. If they’re looking for you, they see us. We’re sending a message. There are easier targets.”
“But you can’t guarantee?”
“No, sir.”
Condor nodded. The conversation was over. Gil headed for the door.
“Oh, hey,” said Condor. “Mrs. Bateman invited the Kiplings to fly back with us later.”
“Is that Ben and Sarah?”
Condor nodded.
“I’ll let command know,” said Gil.
The key to being a good body man, he had decided over the years, was to be a mirror: not invisible—the client wanted to know you were there—but reflective. Mirrors weren’t intimate objects. They reflected change. Movement. A mirror was never static. It was the part of your environment that shifted with you, absorbing angle and light.
And then, when you stood flush in front of it, it showed you yourself.
* * *
He had read the file, of course. What kind of bodyguard would he be if he hadn’t? The truth was, he could quote certain sections from memory. He had also spoken to the surviving agents at length, looking for sensory details, for information on how the principals comported themselves—was Condor calm under pressure or explosive? Did Falcon succumb to panic and grief, or did she show a mother’s steel? The kidnapping of a child was the nightmare scenario in his line of work, worse than a death (though—to be realistic—a kidnapped child was, nine times out of ten, a dead child). But a kidnapped child removed the normal human safety mechanisms from a parent’s mind. Survival of the self was no longer a concern. Protection of wealth, of home, became secondary. Reason, in other words, went out the window. So mostly what you fought with in the kidnap-and-ransom scenario (other than the clock) were the principals themselves.
The facts at the time of Robin’s kidnapping were these: Twenty-four hours earlier the nanny, Francesca Butler (“Frankie”), had been taken, most likely while traveling on foot on her way home from the movies. She had been coerced at a second location to share information about the Batemans’ rental home and routines—most important, which room was the baby girl in? On the night of the abduction (between twelve thirty and one fifteen a.m.), a ladder had been removed from a shed on the property and propped against the south wall, extending to the lip of the guest room window. There were signs that the window lock had been jimmied from the outside (it was an old house with original windows and over the years they had swollen and shrunk until there was a healthy gap between the upper and lower frames).
Later, investigators would conclude that the kidnapping was the work of a single perpetrator (though there was some dispute). And so the official story was that one man set the ladder, climbed up, retrieved the girl, and took her back down. The ladder was then re-stowed in the shed (what had he done with the child, placed her in a car?). And the child removed from the property. In the words of the principals, She disappeared. But of course, Gil knew that no one really disappeared. They were always someplace, bodies at rest or in motion in three-dimensional space.
And in this case, where this single kidnapper had taken Rachel Bateman (aka Robin) was across the street, to the stalled modern remodel, hidden away behind plastic. To a sweltering attic space, soundproofed with newspaper, where food came out of a plastic red cooler and water from a hose connected to a second-floor bathroom sink. The nanny, Frankie Butler, lay dead in the open foundation, covered with cardboard.
It was from this spot that the kidnapper—a thirty-six-year-old ex-con named Wayne R. Macy—watched the comings and goings across the street. From his vantage point in the future, Gil knew that Macy was not the criminal mastermind they first thought they were dealing with. When you have a principal like David Bateman—worth millions, as well as a high-profile political target—you must assume that the child’s kidnapper has targeted the principal for specific reasons, with full knowledge of his profile and resources. But the fact is, all Macy knew was that David and Maggie Bateman were rich and unprotected. He had done a stretch in Folsom Prison in the 1990s for armed robbery and had come home to Long Island with the idea that he might turn his life around. But straight life was punishing and unrewarding, and Wayne liked his booze, and so he burned through job after job, until finally one day—hauling trash bags out of the back of the Dairy Queen—he had decided, Who am I kidding? It’s time to take my fortune into my own hands.
So he set out to grab a rich man’s kid and make a few dollars. Details came out later that he had cased two other families first, but certain factors—the husbands were on the premises full-time, both houses had alarm systems—deterred him from acting, and ultimately steered him to settle on a new target—the Bateman family—the last house on a quiet street, unguarded, populated by two young women and a child.
The consensus was that he had killed Frankie that first night, after getting all the information out of her he could—there were signs of physical cruelty and also evidence of sexual assault, possibly posthumous.
The child was taken at twelve forty-five a.m. on July 18. She would be missing for three days.
* * *
The word came back as they were already in transit. Command relayed it to the lead car and the lead car transmitted it to Gil, who listened to the voice in his ear, speaking to him through fiber and void, without betraying anything.
“Sir,” he said in a certain tone of voice, as the car left their road. Condor looked over, saw Gil’s expression, nodded. Behind them, the kids were animated, like push-button toys. They always got this way before getting on the plane, excited, nervous.
“Kids,” he said with a look on his face. Maggie saw it.
“Rachel,” she said, “that’s enough.”
Rachel sulked, but stopped the game of poke and tickle. JJ was too young to get the message the first time. He poked Rachel and laughed, thinking they were still playing.
“Stop,” she whined.
Condor leaned over to Gil, who closed the gap, speaking quietly into Condor’s ear.
“There’s a problem with your guest,” he said.
“Who, Kipling?” said Condor.
“Yessir. Command did the routine check and a flag came back.”
Condor didn’t respond, but the question was implicit: What flag?
“O
ur friends in State are saying Mr. Kipling may be indicted tomorrow.”
The blood drained from Condor’s face.
“Jesus,” he said.
“The actual charges are sealed, but research think he may be laundering money for non-friendlies.”
Condor thought about that. Non-friendlies. Then it hit him. He was about to host an enemy of the state on his plane. A traitor. How would that look in the press, if the press found out? Condor pictured the bored paparazzi at Teterboro, waiting for all the celebrity returns. They would stand when the plane taxied in, then—when it was clear Brad and Angelina weren’t on board—they’d snap a few photos just in case and go back to their iPhones. Photos of David Bateman arm in arm with a traitor.
“What do we do?” he asked Gil.
“Up to you.”
Falcon was looking at them, clearly worried.
“Is there something—?” she said.
“No,” Condor told her quickly. “Just—it looks like Ben’s in some legal trouble.”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah, bad investments. So I was just—the question comes up for me—do we want to—if we’re seen together—after the news comes out—are we going—it could be a headache is all I mean.”
“What’s Daddy saying?” Rachel asked.
Falcon was frowning.
“Nothing. Just a friend of ours is having some trouble. So we’re going to—”
—this directed at Condor—
“—we’re going to stand by him, because that’s what friends do. Sarah especially is just such a lovely person.”
Condor nodded, wishing now that he’d dodged the question and handled things privately.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re right.”
He looked forward, met Gil’s eye. The Israeli had a look on his face, which implied he needed direct confirmation that they were going with the status quo. Against his better judgment, Condor nodded.
Gil turned and looked out the window as they talked. It wasn’t his job to be part of things. To have opinions. On the road, he could see the marine layer hanging low, lampposts vanishing into the mist. Only a hoary glow at height indicated they were whole.
Twenty minutes later, parked on the tarmac, Gil waited for the lead car to disgorge the advance team before he gave the okay to exit. The two lead men were scanning the airfield for irregularities. Gil did the same, trusting them and not trusting them at the same time. As he reviewed the area (entrance points, blind spots), the family climbed from the car. Sparrow was asleep by this point, draped across Condor’s shoulder. Gil made no offer to help carry bags or children. His job was to protect them, not to valet.
From the corner of his eye, Gil saw Avraham sweep the plane, climbing the deployable stairs. He was inside for six minutes, walking fore to aft, checking the washroom and the cockpit. When he emerged, he gave the high sign and descended.
Gil nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
The family approached the gangway, boarding in random order. Knowing the plane was swept clear, Gil was the last to board, protecting against attack from the rear. He could feel the chill of the cabin before he was halfway up, a ghostly kiss on his exposed neck, cutting through the August musk. Did he feel something stir in his lizard brain in that moment, a low foreboding, a wizard’s sense of doom? Or is that wishful thinking?
Inside, Gil remained standing, placing himself by the open door. He was a big man—six foot two—but thin, and somehow found a place in the narrow entryway that kept him out of the aisle as passengers and crew settled in for the flight.
“The second party has arrived,” said a voice in his earpiece, and through the door Gil could see Ben and Sarah Kipling on the tarmac, showing ID to the advance men. Then Gil felt a presence off his right shoulder and turned. It was the flight attendant holding a tray.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “did you want some champagne before we take off, or—can I get you something?”
“No,” he said. “Tell me your name?”
“I’m Emma—Lightner.”
“Thank you, Emma. I’m providing security for the Batemans. May I speak to your captain?”
“Of course. He’s—I think he’s doing his walk-around. Should I ask him to speak to you when he comes back?”
“Please.”
“Okay,” she said. Clearly, Gil felt, something was making her nervous. But sometimes the presence of an armed man on a plane did that to people. “I mean, can I get you anything, or—”
He shook his head, turned away, because now the Kiplings were climbing the front stairs of the plane. They had been fixtures at Bateman events over the years, and Gil knew them on sight. He nodded as they entered, but moved his gaze quickly to deter conversation. He heard them greet the others on the plane.
“Darling,” said Sarah. “I love your dress.”
At that moment the captain, James Melody, appeared at the foot of the stairs.
“Did you see the fucking game?” Kipling said in a blustery voice. “How does he not catch that ball?”
“Don’t get me started,” said Condor.
“I mean, I could have caught that fucking ball and I’ve got French toast hands.”
Gil moved to the top of the stairs. The fog was thicker now, blowing in trails.
“Captain,” said Gil. “I’m Gil Baruch with Enslor Security.”
“Yes,” said Melody, “they told me there’d be a detail.”
He had a slight, unplaceable accent, Gil realized. British maybe or South African, but recycled through America.
“You haven’t worked with us before,” he said.
“No, but I’ve worked with a lot of security outfits. I know the routine.”
“Good. So you know if there’s a problem with the plane or any change in the flight plan I’ll need the copilot to tell me right away.”
“Absolutely,” said Melody. “And you heard we had a change in first officer?”
“Charles Busch is the new man, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve flown with him before?”
“Once. He’s not Michelangelo, but he’s solid.”
Melody paused for a moment. Gil could sense he wanted to say more.
“There’s no such thing as an insignificant detail,” he told the pilot.
“No, just—I think there may be some history between Busch and our flight attendant.”
“Romantic?”
“Not sure. Just the way she acts around him.”
Gil thought about that.
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”
He turned and went back inside, glancing into the cockpit as he did. Inside, Busch was in the copilot’s seat, eating a plastic-wrapped sandwich. He looked up and met Gil’s eye and smiled. He was a young man, clean-cut but with a slight glaze to him—he’d shaved yesterday, not today, his hair was short, but unbrushed—handsome. Gil had to watch him for only a moment to know that he’d been an athlete at some point in his life, that he’d been popular with girls since childhood, and that he liked the way it made him feel. Then Gil was turning back to the main cabin. He saw the flight attendant, Emma, approaching with an empty tray.
He gestured to her with one finger. Come here.
“Hi,” she said.
“Is there an issue I should know about?”
She frowned.
“I’m not—”
“Between you and Busch, the copilot.”
She flushed.
“No. He’s not—that’s—”
She smiled.
“Sometimes they like you,” she said. “And you have to say no.”
“That’s all?”
She fixed her hair self-consciously, aware that she had drink orders to fill.
“We flew together before. He likes to flirt—with all the girls, not just—but it’s fine. I’m fine.”
A moment.
“And you’re here,” she said, “so—”
Gil thought abo
ut that. It was his job to assess—a darkened doorway, the sound of footsteps—he was, by necessity, a connoisseur of people. He had developed his own system for knowing the types—the brooder, the nervous talker, the irascible victim, the bully, the sprite—and within those types had developed subtypes and patterns that signaled possible shifts in anticipated behavior—the circumstances under which the nervous talker might become the brooder, and then the bully.
Emma smiled at him again. Gil thought about the copilot, the half-eaten sandwich, the captain’s words. Travel time was just under an hour, gate-to-gate. He thought about Kipling’s indictment, about the case-closed kidnapping of Robin. He thought about everything that could go wrong, no matter how far-fetched, running it all through the gray matter abacus that had made him a legend. He thought about Moshe Dayan’s eye and his father’s drinking, about his brothers’ deaths, each in turn, and the death of his sister. He thought about what it meant to live your life as an echo, a shadow, always standing behind a man and his light. He had scars he wouldn’t discuss. He slept with his finger on the trigger of a Glock. He knew that the world was an impossibility, that the state of Israel was an impossibility, that every day men woke and put on their boots and went off to do the impossible no matter what it might be. This was the hubris of mankind, to rally in the face of overwhelming odds, to thread the needle and climb the mountain and survive the storm.
He thought of all this in the time it took the flight attendant to pass, and then he got on the radio and told command that they were good to go.
Chapter 32
Countryside
Scott drives north, paralleling the Hudson past Washington Heights and Riverdale. Urban walls give way to trees and low-slung towns. Traffic stalls, then abates, and he takes the Henry Hudson Parkway past the low mall clot of central Yonkers, shifting to Route 9 heading up through Dobbs Ferry, where American revolutionaries once camped in force, probing the Manhattan border for British weakness. He rides with the radio off, listening to the slush of his tires on the rain-slick road. A late-summer thunderstorm has moved through in the last few hours, and he navigates the tail end of it, windshield wipers moving in time.
