The Execution

by Dick Wolf

  Garza said, “He was sanitizing his trail, Major. Erasing his past. What for? That is the question.”

  MacClesh shook his head again—though this time, he was angry. “What kind of madman . . . ?”

  “An artist,” Garza said.

  MacClesh’s eyes narrowed, blazing with anger at her. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Sometimes an artist has to wipe the slate clean before he can move on to a new period, a new style, a new . . .” She ran out of words for a moment, thinking back to her own artistic crisis when she’d been in college. She had wrestled for several years over whether to be an artist—and not a very good one—or to pursue law, something she found dry and uninteresting. From the vantage point of her present existence, it seemed like a foolish little adolescent crisis now. But at the time, she had been racked with turmoil.

  Only the abduction of her sister and her mother had brought clarity—had indeed chosen her path for her.

  “Once you exhaust the seam,” she told MacClesh, “you have to move on.”

  Major MacClesh stared at her without comprehension, his eyes still ablaze with rage. Not at her: at Chuparosa. “You speak of him with respect,” he said. “I cannot. These were his own people, Comandante! Not his enemies. His people! His blood.” MacClesh got hold of himself then, moving to the door. “When we find him, Comandante, he will not stand trial. I promise you that.”

  Garza had never seen MacClesh so embittered. She said nothing, allowing his threat to hover in the air like the flies. He turned and walked out of the room, his shoulders tight.

  “Comandante, over here.”

  Garza walked over to a drawing desk by an open window. The sketches, if there were any, had been taken. All that remained among the charcoal pencils was a single piece of paper.

  It took Garza a moment to figure out what she was looking at. Once she did, she carried it out of the bedroom and through the house, looking for MacClesh.

  She found him outside, standing near a pear tree that stood at the edge of the lush greenery of Chuparosa’s garden. The sun was an orange ball now, just starting to hide behind the dry black teeth of the mountains.

  The pear tree was alive with rapidly darting shapes, glinting in the last orange light of the desert sun. Hummingbirds.

  She showed him what they had found. It was a printout of an article from Reforma, the big newspaper in Mexico City. A story about President-Elect Umberto Vargas.

  Drawn in red over the accompanying photograph was a small design: a picture of a hummingbird, scrawled across the president-elect’s face.

  By Chuparosa’s own fingertip, no doubt. Using the blood of his own nephew.

  “He’s going after Vargas,” said Garza.

  CHAPTER 12

  Late August

  Foley Square, New York City

  The highest-security wing of the Metropolitan Correctional Center of New York is on the tenth floor of the Foley Square building, just across from the federal courthouse.

  Ten South, as it is known, has been home to many notorious criminals with New York ties. Mafia bosses such as John Gotti have called it home. Infamous Ponzi-schemer Bernard Madoff traded in his seven-million-dollar East Side penthouse for a tenth-floor bunk there. Bloodthirsty terrorists such as Sheik Omar Abdel Rahman and 1993 World Trade Center bomber Ramzi Yousef resided in Ten South while awaiting their trials.

  Ten South’s windows are blacked out, but the lights shine inside twenty-four hours each day. There is no interaction between guards and prisoners, and meals—the law mandates that prisoners be fed twenty-five hundred calories each day, for which the state budget allocates $2.45 per prisoner—are served through a narrow slit in a stainless steel door.

  Fisk entered the building through an underground tunnel from the courthouse. He moved slowly from secure area to secure area, and in the midst of his rise to the tenth floor he realized why: security cameras had to be turned off at every stop along the way. He had left his mobile phone at home, where he had been picked up by Dave Link. There would be no electronic record of his visit with Magnus Jenssen.

  “You bring anything for me?” asked Link, as they waited to enter Ten South. He was referring to the small cardboard box in Fisk’s hand, folded similarly to a carton of takeout Chinese food.

  Fisk did not answer. He wore his best suit, a dark, three-button Canali; he had given his appearance perhaps too much thought. He wanted to make a lasting impression on Jenssen. Because of the physical restrictions imposed upon him, he wanted to maximize this visit’s psychological impact.

  “I can trust you, right?” said Link. “I mean, something like an open-hand slap isn’t going to matter, but no marks, no bruises, no nothing. In other words, there won’t be any telephone books in the interrogation room.”

  Fisk nodded.

  “We’ll be watching and listening. Don’t make us come in there.”

  Fisk nodded again. This felt like a prefight talk between a trainer and a boxer.

  Link continued, “This is not a regular interrogation room. There is no window or mirror. In case you’re curious, we’re in the crown molding running around the top of the walls. It’s molded to the wallboard so that prisoners can’t pry it off and stab you to death with it. It’s all prefab with access holes for installing sensors, microphones, cameras, the usual. All that is going to be erased after you’re through. No, you don’t get a copy.”

  Link was smiling. Fisk was not.

  Link said again, “Fisk, you’re worrying me here. I’m not making a mistake doing this, am I?”

  “It’s fine,” said Fisk, his voice distant even to himself. “No worries. Let’s get this over with.”

  THE HEAVY METAL TABLE was bolted to the far wall. Two chairs were set on either side of it.

  One chair was empty. The other one held a man, hooded and shackled.

  The white hood turned as the door lock clicked behind Fisk. The prisoner was listening.

  Fisk stared at him. Waiting for Jenssen to speak.

  He did not.

  Jenssen wore an orange jumpsuit and plastic flip-flops. His ankles were shackled tight to the legs of his chair. His wrists were shackled together, but at Fisk’s request his arms remained in front of him, chained to the chair back behind him. Just long enough to reach onto the table, though his empty hands rested in his lap now.

  Fisk walked toward his chair. The hooded head tracked him until Fisk was opposite Jenssen, the hood facing forward.

  Fisk placed the carton in the exact center of the table, equidistant to both of them. He pulled out his chair and sat.

  He did not remove the hood at first. He let Jenssen bake in silence.

  He watched the little patch of hood get sucked in and out on Jenssen’s foul breath. He wanted to hit him so hard. He wanted to shatter teeth.

  Link wouldn’t be able to get inside fast enough to stop that.

  After some amount of time—one minute or ten, because everything had slowed down for Fisk—he reached across and slowly pulled the hood from the prisoner’s head.

  The blond hair was short, as he had seen it in court. So was the beard Jenssen wore now. He wore a white knit skullcap. His face had lost the health it once had: Jenssen was a marathon runner and fitness buff. Now he had to make do with sixty minutes a day outside his eight-by-eight cell in an “exercise” room that was entirely empty and nicknamed “the rat cage.”

  But his blue eyes still burned bright. Brighter now as he recognized the man across from him.

  Jenssen brought up his shackled hands to rub his blond beard. He smiled, and Fisk briefly entertained a fantasy of grabbing Jenssen across the table and strangling him to death with his own handcuffs.

  “Jeremy Fisk,” said Jenssen.

  The smile held, trying to come off as superior, but behind it was concern, even worry. Fisk could see that. Jenssen was utterly vulnerable here.

  So Fisk just looked at him. Jenssen stared back for a while, then bailed out on the staring contest as thoug
h it were beneath him. But he was nervous. Fisk watched his throat work as he swallowed saliva three times in quick succession.

  Jenssen looked at the carton in the center of the table. He was surprised and intrigued, wary.

  “You brought me some dinner,” said Jenssen.

  It was supposed to come off as bravado, but when Fisk did not respond, the words hung in the air like a foul odor.

  “I was disappointed that they could find no role for you in that courtroom farce,” Jenssen said. His Swedish accent was recognizable, but like most educated Scandinavians, his English was better than that of a great many Americans.

  Fisk was regretting coming here. He thought about standing and walking out now, and leaving it at that. Putting the hood back on Jenssen and walking away from him forever was a very attractive option. His one goal was to allow Jenssen no satisfaction whatsoever.

  But he was here, and he stayed. He let his eyes drop once to the carton.

  Jenssen said, “Ah. A prop. Bravo. I’m supposed to inquire about it? Fixate on it somehow? We’re to go back and forth about it? And then you’ll never reveal what is inside. And that is supposed to haunt me for the rest of my days.”

  Fisk reached out and unfolded the top of the carton. He peeled back the flaps and lifted out the small white foil-lined bakery-style bag inside. He opened that and pulled out a cupcake.

  He set the cupcake, nestled in its ridged foil baking cup, on the table. The cake was yellow, the frosting mocha.

  “Dessert?” said Jenssen. But he was truly mystified. He regarded the cupcake as though it contained a bomb.

  Fisk said, “You don’t have cupcakes in Sweden?”

  Jenssen could not figure out Fisk’s game. “No, this we don’t have in Sweden.” He studied the dessert treat. He could smell the coffee and chocolate scent of the frosting.

  Fisk said, “I made this myself.”

  “For me?” said Jenssen.

  Fisk said nothing.

  Jenssen sat back a bit, trying to assume control over the conversation. “I presume this little culinary presentation has some didactic purpose?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Don’t play stupid. It offends me. Was I caught by a stupid man? I don’t think so.”

  Fisk said nothing.

  Jenssen continued, “I read the articles about you. I know you speak five languages. And I killed your girlfriend with my bare hands.” Jenssen cocked his head a bit. “You did not come here to bring me sweets as a peace offering. So? By all means. Instruct away. Teach me your pious little lesson.”

  Fisk shook his head, as though Jenssen had just proved his point. “See, that’s the thing. There’s no ulterior motive here. No lesson, really. It’s just a cupcake. Something for you to contemplate.”

  Jenssen stared at it. His eyes were shining. He was engaged. “You have poisoned it, and need to trick me into eating it.”

  Fisk smiled.

  “No? You certainly hate me enough.”

  “Why would I want to release you from the years of deprivation awaiting you in prison?”

  “Because of the satisfaction you would receive from the sight of me dying before you.”

  “That would be your final triumph, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t follow you, Detective.”

  “If I did something to cause your death, and then ended up spending my life in jail for it? I’d really be giving you the last laugh then, wouldn’t I?”

  Jenssen eyed the cupcake again, this time with undisguised loathing. “You made this thing?” he said. “This glob of unhealthy garbage? In one small package, you have managed to encapsulate everything I hate about your world.”

  “Dessert?”

  “Your compulsion to appeal only to animal appetites. To disgrace your bodies with this filth.”

  “Lighten up, Jenssen. You’re eating healthy in here? It’s not going to get any better in the penitentiary. Poor nutrition is just another circle of hell for you.”

  Fisk reached out, pushing the cupcake toward Jenssen.

  “This is the last treat you’ll ever be offered. You can eat it, or not. See, I haven’t sat around thinking about you. I’ve been busy.”

  “So my lawyer told me. But do you think those two crossing the Canadian border are the end of it?”

  “Of hatred disguised as a holy war?”

  “The ground is crumbling away beneath your feet and you can’t even feel the tremors. Your failing is the same as your entire society’s. You have no real beliefs. And so you lack will.”

  Fisk held up one hand. “Don’t waste your time with this.”

  “I know your type,” said Jenssen. “Remote. Superior. So you came here to gloat. To visit me in my cage. Knowing you are safe. You have every advantage. You can afford to be magnanimous and patronizing. It makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it? Like a winner. Like an American.”

  Magnus Jenssen would never give Fisk an inch. He was a highly disciplined man going to seed, but he would not crack. Fisk had zero interest in sparring with him, allowing Jenssen to spin out his tired brand of Islamic fundamentalism to justify what he felt in his own rotten little heart.

  “The problem,” Jenssen continued, “is that I, too, know I am safe. This is why your country is so vulnerable to jihad, because it cannot and will not respond to blood with blood. Thanks to your outdated Constitution and your Byzantine system of justice. What is a jury trial now but a television entertainment show? I do not fear you, Detective. As you yourself said, in wounding, maiming, or even killing me, you would only be harming yourself. I have nothing else to lose. You have everything.”

  “You are correct and wrong at the same time,” said Fisk. “I could certainly kill you right now. With ease. But where is the sport in that? What you see as weakness—my forbearance—is in fact a sign of strength. But you can’t know that, because you can only function in terms of revenge, of lashing out, of punishment. I could kill you where you sit right now. Instead I bring you a cupcake.”

  Jenssen laughed at Fisk.

  Fisk nodded to it. “This cupcake is a symbol of your fear, Jenssen. You can trust no one and nothing any longer. You are completely at the mercy of others. Think about what it took for me to get in here right now. No one else will ever know of this visit. It is one hundred percent deniable. I want you to talk about it. Talk all you want. No one will believe you. And yet . . . here I sit. Within a second’s reach of your throat. If I can make this happen, I can make just about anything work. You can expect the rest of your days to be a living hell. Knowing that, anytime I want, I can reach into that hole and get you. Perhaps you’ll come to desire it. To hope for me to come and end it all for you, to release you from this curse. Paranoid fear is going to eat away at you like a cancer. For the very reason you do not dare to taste even a crumb of this cupcake.”

  Jenssen sat forward, eyes blazing. “You are wrong, Fisk. I have a strength. Allah gives me strength beyond all this.” He waved his manacled hands in a circle, as wide as his chains allowed. “Beyond your laws, these chains, your reach. Do you know what the ummah is?”

  In his excitement, Jenssen had apparently forgotten that Fisk had spent the past five years in antiterrorism, or that his mother was from Lebanon.

  “The body of the faithful,” said Fisk.

  The surprise of him answering threw Jenssen for a moment. “The people of the Word. Those who follow Allah. Inside the body of the faithful, the people who truly believe in Allah and follow him, there can be no strife. Inside the ummah is the Dar al Islam—the House of Peace. Outside—where you live, among the godless and faithless—is the Dar al Harb. The House of War. I welcome prison as a retreat from this world. My actions are a reflection, not of the nature of Allah, but of this world of filth in which you live. It is the ooze in which you crawl, the slime you eat. I am not these things. I am just a messenger. A holy messenger. Holding a mirror up to you. Showing you your own true face.” His eyes shone with self-righteousnes
s. “When the roll is taken at the end of time, it will be clear that you and your girlfriend Gersten were infidels fighting on the side of evil, destruction, perversion, and corruption. And I was fighting on the side of good.”

  Jenssen realized he had become carried away, and reacted as though Fisk had gotten him to reveal something of himself that he did not wish to be seen. For a moment, the ugliness that was inside Jenssen almost clawed its way out, wearing its usual vestments of religious fervor.

  He made his body relax now, and he smiled again.

  “So you eat the cupcake, Detective,” he said. “You put that shit in you. I am pure.”

  Fisk’s body felt almost as though it was vibrating, like he was running a low-voltage charge through his entire nervous system.

  “You see,” said Fisk, “in spite of everything you did and tried to do, I have not lost the capacity to enjoy life. Not that that was your goal, only your hope. Yes, to be certain—your life in prison is inestimably preferable to mine. Please keep telling yourself that until you choke on the words. And now I will eat this cupcake in front of you, but I will imagine that it is your heart, condemned to an eternity of fear.”

  Fisk reached for the small cupcake—and suddenly Jenssen’s hands shot out to the length of their chains, seizing the cupcake and mashing it into his mouth.

  It was a supremely violent act. Jenssen stared at him, fire eyed, making quick work of the dessert.

  Fisk sat back in his chair, watching him.

  Jenssen swallowed the cupcake with less bravado than he had when he began eating it. Fisk’s manner put him off.

  Fisk said, “I thought so.”

  Jenssen rallied. “You are weak, Detective Fisk. America is weak! Your government, your people . . . You will never prevail. We will consume you.”

  Fisk waited until he had been quiet for a while. “You’ve got some frosting right there,” he said, touching his own chin.

  Jenssen glared at Fisk until uncertainty crept into his gaze. Eventually he reached up and brushed the frosting away roughly.

  Fisk reached across the table suddenly—as though to grab Jenssen by the throat.