by Nate Granzow
As I limped around, head down and arms crossed, it occurred to me that seeing Harold on the brink of death had a startlingly unsettling effect on me. I'd always known him to be indestructible, like a rock star that, despite drug and alcohol addiction, loose sex, and reckless driving in fast cars, lives to be 90. If someone as auspicious as my friend could die like this, then how much longer could I count on my luck to see me through on the battlefield?
And there was something else that had been troubling me since our rescue. Harold and I had been locked up in that hellish prison for well over a full day. What had taken Jessica so long to get help? More conspicuously, before we had separated outside the warehouse, she had explicitly pointed me to the window leading to the basement where Harold was being held. I had been captured within the minute. Had it just been a lucky guess and unfortunate timing? After all, she hadn't told me to go inside; that was my own fault for being impulsive. Was I overreacting to coincidence? And should I even question whether things could have happened differently? For the time being, we had all escaped with our lives. Given the trials we had been through, I considered that more than a small victory.
Something warm touched my arm, stirring me from my introspection. Jessica slipped a hot cup of coffee into my hand and kissed my cheek, then rubbed it gently.
"You need a shave."
"I'm sure I do. I must look like hell."
"Just the opposite. I'd say you look ruggedly handsome," she smiled contentedly and rested her cheek against my collar.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you missed me," I said.
"Not a bit. It was a nice reprieve, really," she joked.
Reaching for her hand, I ran my thumb across her palm.
"This is going to sound really, really ungrateful coming from me, especially at a time like this," I said.
"What is it? You can tell me."
Squeezing my jaw as I debated how best to gently articulate my suspicions, she said quietly, "You're wondering why I didn't come for you sooner."
My breath rushed from my chest as I exhaled audibly.
"Thank you. Yes, I mean, I'm glad you came back for us—God knows if you had shown up a minute later, you'd be busy writing my obituary right now—but it's just…you know…"
It was rare for me to be at a loss for words. But I knew if I accused her of something she hadn't done, it would kill any hope for our fledgling relationship.
"Excuse me," a nurse interrupted. "Doctor Huang would like to speak with you about your friend, if you have a moment."
Leading us past the entrance to the ICU, she invited us to sit in a small, warmly lit room cozily decorated with floral wallpaper and soft furniture. It was noticeably different in appearance from the rest of the hospital, and as we sat on a loveseat, my first notion was that the staff used this space for telling families unfortunate news about patients.
A death room.
I hoped I was wrong.
Waiting for the nurse to close the door, Jessica turned to me and grabbed both my hands.
"Grant, I hope you know that I came for you as quickly as I could. After I saw you’d been captured, I just about lost it. There were armed men everywhere. I had to hide for three hours inside a broom closet before I could get away. When I got free, I ran to the police station straightaway."
"Ran there? That's ten miles away. What happened to the car?"
"They found the car and torched it. And yes, I ran all that way, in an hour and a half, in a pair of flats. But when I got there, the bloody jacks sat on their hands until they got a warrant and all their buggered paperwork in order. Those fuckmuppets are as useless as tits on a bull," she looked at me and moved a hand over her mouth. "Sorry about that."
We both laughed. I couldn't help but feel a little guilty for doubting her. But I was tired of surprises, and after learning of Harold's drug addiction and misuse of his diplomatic immunity, I was becoming increasingly suspicious of everyone—even the people I thought I could trust.
Ten minutes passed without anyone entering, and Jessica, her fingers intertwined with those on my uninjured hand, began to tap her feet anxiously.
"Why would they ask us to come here if—"
Before she could complete her thought, there was a tap at the door, and a tired- but kind-looking doctor stepped in.
"Hello, you must be Harold's siblings?"
"We sure are. What's the news?" I asked before Jessica had the opportunity to correct him. I wasn't in a patient mood.
"Well the good news is, your brother will survive. He's got a long road of recovery before him, but as of now he's been stabilized. The bad news is we've been forced to put him into a drug-induced coma for the time being."
"Why?" Jessica and I asked simultaneously.
The doctor set his clipboard on the coffee table between us, leaned back, and crossed his leg over the other.
"I'm afraid there's no delicate way to put this. I'm sure you've noticed some behavioral irregularities with your brother?"
We stayed silent.
"You see, his blood tests have indicated substantial cocaine usage within the past few weeks—enough to convince us that he is an addict, not an occasional user. The drug-induced coma is intended to give him a respite from withdrawal symptoms. They can be quite excruciating, and after what he's been through, I don't know that he'd survive it."
"Are there any risks associated with the coma thing?" I said quietly.
"There are risks with everything, I'm afraid. But we believe this is the best course of action for the time being. With any luck, he'll recover from his wounds and his addiction at the same time. He'll be a new man."
27
A New Man
The dining room was as silent as a university library on the first day of spring break. Even the swallows and martins that had been playfully hopping and chattering outside the room's French doors had hushed. Ambassador Chamberlain's jaw hung partially open as he stared disbelievingly at his son across the table, the latter's face so red it bordered on purple. Harold wiped a bead of sweat from his temple with one hand as he tapped a fork against his plate. Though still slow to get around, Harold had made an astonishingly rapid recovery from his wounds. He looked almost exactly as he had before our capture.
Shaking his head, the ambassador said, "So let me get this completely straight; you would have me believe that you took the initiative, entirely on your own, to go find yourself a job? You've been out of the hospital for less than a week. Is this some kind of practical joke or am I dreaming?"
Sneaking her hand into mine under the table, Jessica looked at me and smiled. The difference between the iciness she had exhibited when we first met and the teenager-in-love expression of adulation she wore now tickled me. As far as she knew, I had bravely sought out my endangered friend, endured torture without shedding a tear, and had taken it upon myself to expertly kill the violent leader of a drug smuggling ring. The passionate and unrelenting lovemaking she had subjected me to for the last few days had confirmed my decision to let her continue believing it.
"Sir, this was news to me, too. I'm proud to say I had nothing to do with it whatsoever," she said proudly.
Throwing his hands in the air, Harold looked at his father, exasperated.
"Why is it so hard to believe? I had a near-death experience—those change people."
With a subtle grin, the ambassador pushed his plate forward and set his elbows on the table, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
"Son, I raised you. I changed your diapers. I spent damn-near half of my adult life trying, without any kind of success, to get you to be a productive member of society. If Cogar here hadn't forced you to go to class during college, I doubt you would have graduated in the five years you were there."
Harold tried to protest, but the elder Chamberlain held up a finger indicating he wasn't finished.
"Despite all that, if what you're saying is true, I am deeply, deeply proud of you, son."
It was, in a
way, a heartwarming and oddly poetic scene: Harold, the man-child, had succeeded in coming of age, finally receiving the coveted appreciation of his critical, disapproving father.
A buzzing at my hip signaled an incoming phone call—one I had been dreading. Squeezing Jessica's hand, I pushed myself from my seat at the table and withdrew into the ambassador's study.
"Howdy, Kailas."
"You're a real piece of shit, you know that Cogar? I send you to South Korea only to get a call on my personal line from a kidnapper in fucking Shanghai saying he's going to castrate you with a pair of rusty scissors if I don't wire him a million bucks."
"Well it sounds like you didn't have any trouble convincing them I wasn't worth it. I was told you hadn't even heard of me."
"I certainly wish I hadn't heard of you," he said.
Walking over to the large limestone fireplace at the head of the room, I gingerly lifted an antique Martini-Henry rifle from the mantle.
"Well look at it this way: I cracked open a powerful story for you that's bound to get more attention than just another mediocre status report from Seoul. Do you want it or not?"
There was a pause at the other end. I could envision Kailas rubbing the bridge of his nose, mouth pulled up into a grimace as his inner businessman fought it out with his vindictive side. Finally, resigned, he mumbled, "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
With a firm push, I worked the action on the old rifle. The lever broke loose in my hand.
"Oh God dammit, Cogar. Yes, I would like that story, please."
I glanced into the hallway to make sure no one was coming; then placed the rifle back into its mount above the fireplace, setting the broken lever beneath it.
"Usual rate?"
"Yes. Usual rate. If you have it for me by tonight I'll even give you one more shot at another story—despite my better judgment."
"What's next?" I said, leaning against the ambassador's desk.
"Cairo. We've been hearing a lot of chatter about anti-government demonstrations sweeping the country, and apparently it's getting violent. People setting themselves on fire, policemen beaten to death by protestors…Mubarak is getting antsy, and he might call in the army to maintain power. If he does, this thing is sure to spiral out of control fast."
"Who's this Mubarak fella?"
"You're fucking with me, and I'm not going to play along. You know damn well who Hosni Mubarak is—he's only been in office since before you were born."
"Ah, right. That Mubarak. So you want me to go teach the good people of Egypt how best to make a Molotov cocktail? There is a science to it."
"No. No Molotov cocktails, no joining in the protests, no looting, no grave robbing, no seducing the president's daughter. Everyone's on high alert over there, and a foreign reporter will attract as much attention as a runway model on a construction site. You'll behave."
"You're no fun at all."
"Look, at the risk of enlarging your already-colossal ego, I'm giving you this assignment because I need a reporter who's not afraid to get into the shit and ask blunt questions of dangerous people. You stand an excellent chance of getting incarcerated, injured, or deported, and there aren't too many people I know who can handle those kinds of risks. You seem to actually enjoy them. I can't say it doesn't bother me that everywhere I send you ends up a fiery ruin by the time you leave—I mean, for Christ's sake, your investigative skills share the subtlety of cracking an egg with a baseball bat—but even though your methods lack finesse, they seem to work."
"I appreciate the acknowledgement."
"But Cogar, so help me, if I find out you've taken a weekend vacation to the Netherlands or the Bahamas or wherever else, I'll take it out of your ass."
"I've got it. Thanks, sweetheart."
"Oh, fuck off. And don't forget that article—in to me by tonight."
I slapped the phone shut excitedly and looked down at the ambassador's desk. It was a fine specimen of antique furniture; detailed carvings plunged among the flowing grain and figure, an impressive hand-tooled leather top spanning its width. The man had good taste.
As I traced the lines of the desk with my pointer finger, I suddenly took notice of a peculiar stain. A sprinkling of white powder had lodged itself in the decorative edge. Despite my better judgment, I wiped it with my fingertip and held it to my nose, sniffing it.
Like being stabbed in the ass with a syringe full of Epinephrine, my heart began to race, and I knew without much doubt what the powder was.
Marching into the dining room, I grabbed Harold by the collar and dragged him out of his chair.
"Come with me."
Shrugging at Jessica and his father, he followed me into the front yard.
"Back in Shanghai, you told me that your drug dealing wasn't exclusively your fault, that there were 'others'. I get it now."
He snorted, "I'm pretty sure you don't, Cogar."
I worked my jaw agitatedly, my foot tapping a rapid beat on the neatly trimmed lawn.
"It was your dad, wasn't it? The ambassador is using, and he's in on your operation, isn't he?" I asked, poking him in the chest with my middle finger. "In fact, if I had to bet on it, I'd say he was probably running it—you were just a middleman. Right? He was using you as a front, a means to separate himself from the operation and preserve deniability. You used his diplomatic immunity because he told you to."
Harold looked at the ground and exhaled loudly, one hand stroking the back of his neck, the other stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans.
"What are you going to do about it, Cogar?" he said, looking up at me defiantly.
Ignoring his challenge, I continued.
"So this means you were lying about getting a job, too? That, back there," I motioned toward the house, "You two were just putting on a performance to fool me?"
"Look, you're taking this personally, but it's not about you. Don't you understand, Cogar?" Harold pled, his voice becoming quiet as he took a step closer to me. "You've done a lot for me, and you've always been a good friend, but I'm asking you, begging you, for just one more favor. Let this go."
Shaking my head, I backed away from him. Before I could turn around, from over my shoulder the ambassador spoke loudly, "He's right, Cogar. This isn't your business."
Cradling a double rifle in the crook of his arm, the ambassador slid a cigar from his pocket, tucked it into the corner of his mouth, and moved a lighter under the tip. He appeared as calm and uninterested as if stepping into the lawn to take a shot at a squirrel. Turning to me casually, he lifted the rifle.
"You like it, Cogar? You’ve always appreciated my collection of firearms. This beauty is chambered in .416 Rigby: one of the favorite calibers used by elephant hunters on safari. It delivers 5,000 foot-pounds of energy—like getting hit by a Mack truck. Leaves a great big hole."
Slowly, he turned his torso until the gun's muzzle pointed at my chest; then, let the foregrip slide down his forearm into his cupped hand.
"You said I was like a son to you, Richard."
"If my son was contemplating turning me in, taking my reputation, my job, my life's work from me, I'd do the same to him," he said, his craggy features veiled in the cigar's smoke.
I tried to ignore the enormous rifle as I looked at Harold, who hadn't shifted his gaze from his feet.
"Harry, you're better than this."
The shame and sorrow on his face didn't give me much hope.
"Harold, get your ass inside. Cogar and I are going to spend a minute alone."
My friend paused, looking at his father, then at me, before shuffling toward the door.
"You're a lot of things, Harry, but I never figured you for a coward," I shouted after him.
"Move." The ambassador poked me in the back with the gun's barrels.
I walked slowly, hoping Jessica would grow curious about our absence and come to my rescue. As we went, I pretended to admire the expansive lawn lined with black wrought-iron fence, lifting my face to the warm sun as if enjoying i
t for the last time. For all I knew, it might very well have been.
"It's a shame you had to know about this, Cogar. I would have preferred you leave the country thinking of Harold and me as your old friends, and left us to our business."
"Your business?" I said over my shoulder. "You make it sound like it's a legitimate enterprise. You're just a petty criminal, Richard, a drug lord like the guy who tortured your son and me in a basement."
"If you're trying to guilt me into letting you live, you're barking up the wrong tree, my boy. I'm not ashamed of what I've had to do. I'm sixty-five-years old, Cogar. I'm one of the most important people in international politics, and I was all set to die a poor man. That is wrong, not a man trying to make enough money to live comfortably in his final years."
"You'll understand if I don't feel any sympathy for you," I snorted.
"I won't lose any sleep over that, Cogar. On your knees."
Even as I knelt, I struggled to believe that the ambassador was desperate enough to follow through with murder.
Just when you think you know someone.
"Fine. But know this: Killing me won't make any of this go away. Even with me gone, someone else will find out what you're doing. You'll go down for this, Richard."
"I'll take my chances, kid," he said, letting his cigar fall from the corner of his mouth. The glowing tip hissed as it contacted the freshly watered grass.
Closing my eyes, I could hear, almost hidden by the wind brushing along the tree leaves, the sound of the rifle's butt stock as it slid against the ambassador's shoulder. I could sense the barrels pointing at my head, and clenched my teeth in preparation for the kill. Strangely, instead of a flashback through my life, or seeing the faces of my family, I could only think of where he was planning on burying my body. It wasn't as though he could chuck my carcass into a shoebox and bury me in the backyard like the family cat. I almost wished I could stick around and watch him try to clean up the mess after he pulled the trigger.
My face flushed as it occurred to me that the ambassador's lack of discretion in using such an enormous gun was sure to bring Jessica running. Would that second barrel be for her? After all, murder is one of those 'in for an inch, in for a mile' exploits. What effect does one more corpse have on a lifelong prison sentence?
