by John Altman
Outside, the wind blew. On the television, the House Floor was filling up. Coverage cut between Michael’s feed and the cameras in the upstairs gallery. Commentators prattled. A clock in the screen’s corner read 8:35 p.m. Beside it, the network had started a countdown:
SOTU ADDRESS BEGINS IN 24:59:04
The eyelid twitched.
Soon, she thought.
Martin Luther King Jr. Ave. SE, Washington, DC
They took the Lexus, Horowitz driving, following the GPS on Dalia’s phone: north to Howard Road, then into a cloverleaf to merge onto I-295.
Across the Anacostia, the city sparkled. They crossed the water onto I-395—and ran into a roadblock. Capitol Hill closed, barricades sending them toward the Potomac. The dome a scintillating floodlit bauble in the distance. Dalia punched at her phone, cursing, and found a new route. They doubled back.
Horowitz drove fast, weaving around slower traffic. The internal combustion engine’s revving, throaty drone sounded strange to Dalia’s ears after so much time in the Prius. Heart leaping and bounding in her chest. The more she thought about it—the man on the floor, the camera—the more credible it seemed. Horribly, hauntingly credible. And the more she told herself to stop thinking and just see for herself. There was enough time—barely. The Colt still in her purse, nestled amid linty Kleenex and sugar-free gum. She remembered the look the man, Michael Fletcher, had given her. Brimming with private contempt. She had known it, had sensed it, but she had not had faith in her senses.
They drove on.
Capitol Hill, Washington, DC
Squee!
Michael could keep the lunatic grin off his face. He could wear that strange, inert mask. But he could not, he suspected, keep the mad glint from his eyes. Surely everyone could see it. Surely everybody knew.
The gavel was banging. The sergeant at arms was introducing the cabinet. People were standing. Michael had only minutes left on earth. Cabinet secretaries were being introduced: housing, state, defense. He was shooting them. He was shooting them all, moving on autopilot. Like when he killed the cop. Two shots and then a third to make sure. Point-blank. The attorney general moved down the aisle, shaking hands. Michael moved in front of him, keeping just out of the way. Back in the house, Jana would be watching, thumb hovering over the call button. He would not know when she pressed it. There would be no fade-out. Just a cut to black. A hard cut—end-of-The Sopranos hard. He was scared; he was jittery; he was nervous. He had never liked jack-in-the-boxes, even as a kid. The anticipation, the anxiety, wore him down. Wound him up. He could not enjoy being wound up that way. Worn down, wound up. Don’t think about it don’t think don’t think don’t …
But what if wasn’t a hard cut? What if it was just enough to take off the rest of his leg and leave him lying soaked in nerve agent, twitching and shitting and puking—SLUDGE they called it, Salivation, Lacrimation, Urination, Defecation, Gastrointestinal distress, and Emesis …
Lacrimation. That meant crying. And now he was starting to do just that. Thinking of Silas. Christ, but he loved that kid. Christ, but he was sorry. Christ, but he had not meant for it to work out this way. Christ, but … but why Christ, of all people? Why Jesus Christ? All bullshit anyway, what the fuck was religion anyway, what the fuck was Jewish anyway—an artificial idea, in-group out-group dynamics at work, weak minds at work, and what the fuck was he doing here? What the fuck was he doing?
He jammed his eye against the viewfinder. Hide the tears. Everybody standing, waiting, the president would be here soon, it would be over soon, soon, soon, soon.
Not too late, Mikey. Put down the fucking camera. Get away from the balcony gallery so that fucking witch can’t see you on TV. And take off the fucking leg.
The Imp of the Perverse. That was what they called that.
The Imp of Fucking Reason, you mean. For Silas’ sake, for the love of God, for that beautiful precious kid, TAKE OFF THE FUCKING—
I can’t hear you, voice. You can’t reach me.
He sniffled. Tears drying up already. He had wavered. But now he was back on track.
Any minute now.
Here, piggy piggy piggy piggy. Soooo-ee!
He set his jaw, set his mouth, and kept shooting.
Chapter Sixteen
Ellicott Street NW,
Washington, DC
Dalia scowled through the windshield.
Addresses skimmed past. Bare-limbed trees, a Montessori school, an apartment complex, a soccer field. Nice, quiet block. But traffic was audible from Wisconsin Avenue, just a stone’s throw away. Restaurants and bars, the Tenleytown Metro stop. “One twenty-eight,” Horowitz read aloud. “One thirty …” He pointed. “Bingo.”
He pulled to the curb and parked across from a Japanese maple. He killed the headlights, the engine. And then, despite the hurry, they sat for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal, feeling the presence of the house.
Curtains closed. Lights glowed on the first floor. One room occupied, at least. The second floor was dark. A garage door was closed. Dalia’s instincts vibrated like a tuning fork. Horowitz felt it, too. They shared a look. Dalia took the revolver from her purse, and Horowitz drew his semiautomatic from the holster inside his waistband. They left the car silently, leaning the doors shut.
A last nod. He struck off around back, past the garage. Dalia went toward the front stoop. She could hear a television playing inside the house. There was no moisture in her mouth. She felt her lips working, her tongue. Like an old woman with no teeth. She was, in fact, an old woman. But she was an old woman with a gun, and her hands did not shake.
Closer. Listening beneath the window. She would not knock on the door. What was one more illegal trespass, all things considered? The television was playing—the State of the Union, she recognized without surprise. “And any second now, Peter, they’ll officially appoint the members of the escort committee. They’ll exit the chamber through the lobby doors—I’m going to see if I can get a little closer …”
Licking her lips again. Rough as sandpaper. But the gun felt good in her hand. Solid. She remembered the Uzi, the liquid feeling of power. For a pacifist, she thought distantly, she sure did like guns. Those who play with the devil’s toys will be brought by degrees to wield his sword.
She could feel her breath: quick, shallow, a flutter in her side. Yet at the same time, she seemed to be holding her breath. Maybe the fluttering was her heartbeat. She was rising on tiptoes, trying to see past the curtain. To see who was watching the television. Jana Dahan. She knew it. But she had to see.
She could not get high enough to see through the window. She was a sturdy old woman, strong but not tall. Good, flat-footed peasant stock. “Built like a brick shithouse,” her ex-husband used to say with a salacious grin.
“We’re counting on you.” That had been Meir. And: “You have my word. My word is my bond.” And: “You must do your part.”
The supreme goal of Judaism was not to crush their enemies but to practice tikkun olam, to repair the world.
She backed away, still holding her breath, if indeed she was holding her breath, side still fluttery, gun held away from her ribs, away from her body, in both hands. She went to the stoop, up the steps. Then she did breathe, gulping it down like a drowning woman, taking herself by surprise.
“Members of Congress …” That was the sergeant at arms. “I have the high privilege and distinct honor of presenting to you …”
Capitol Hill, Washington, DC
“… the president of the United States!”
Applause. Door opening. Official escort coming in. The crowd on its feet, straining to get a look at POTUS. Even the president’s worst enemy was, at this moment, a groveling sycophant.
Michael Fletcher braced himself. Still shooting. Always shooting. The woman would wait until they were in the center of the chamber, halfway down the aisl
e. That would maximize the dispersion. Would the blast kill him outright, or just maim him worse than he was already maimed, leaving him for the SLUDGE? And did it really matter? Did anything really matter now?
Holding his breath. Jack, Jack, Jack-in-the-box. Playing your music, when will it stop? Jack, Jack, Jack-in-the-box. You’re all wound up, time to pop!
Wound up, worn down. Breath held. Backing up. Official escort spreading before him like a puddle of blood. Smiling, waving, shaking hands. And then the president. Stepping in. An arm’s length away.
A good shot. Centered in the screen. Going out to forty million. Perfect framing. Not so far gone that he could not take pride in his work. Once, he had been a photographer—not a cameraman, but a photographer. He’d used the vintage Pentax 67—not as heavy as this kit but still plenty fucking heavy, but worth it. He had loved that fucking camera. Durable motherfucking camera. Made you work for it. Like a cat. You had to earn it. Nothing easy about the Pentax. But when you treated her right, she put out nice as ice, smooth as silk. Some people said you needed a tripod with the Pentax but not if your hand was steady enough, if your muscles were strong enough. If you were strong and steady and had the talent and the drive, you could snap shots with that camera that would make your big brother proud. It had the wooden handle, it had the perfect shutter sound, that was what a real fucking camera sounded like, kathunk, a lost sound now, lost like typewriters and real phone rings, this younger generation …
The president was waving: the same tight-wristed Queen Elizabeth wave Michael remembered from a long-ago rehearsal. Head swiveling left and right in a way that reminded him of a robot mannequin at Disney World. He could almost see the hinge in the jaw. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. They were moving now, backing down the aisle. Pausing to shake hands. Each pause, each handshake, bought Michael another instant of life. Suddenly, every instant seemed precious: the burning lights, the heavy kit, even the anxiety, the bracing against the explosion. He turned to face these feelings, leaning into them, embracing them, savoring them. These were his life, this was his death.
Official photographers drifting just behind him. Sykes of the Secret Service. The president of the United States was a celestial object whose electromagnetic field pushed them all back down the aisle. Behind and around POTUS, senators and House members shook hands. Golden crumbs dribbled off their fearless leader, to be gobbled up hungrily by anyone who could reach them. Fat cats, pigs, dogs, sheep.
Michael blinked. Sweat trickled, stinging, into his eyes. Almost halfway down the aisle now. Any second, he thought. Any second. He expected some snark from the voice, but the voice was uncharacteristically silent.
So bring it!
He felt himself cracking. His mind was a tree branch coated with ice, and when enough ice built up, that branch would crack neatly in two.
Bring it!
But the woman was waiting, for the moment of maximum damage. Fucking ice queen.
Now! Please, for the love of God …
The president took another step forward, shook another hand.
Do it now, Michael Fletcher thought, or I’ll scream, I swear to God I’ll scream.
Ellicott Street NW,
Washington, DC
After that, it happened very quickly, in the span of seconds.
But at the time, events seemed to move slowly, with syrupy grandeur. Dalia tested the front doorknob. Locked. At the same moment, there came a sound from around back. Horowitz, trying a door. The sound wasn’t loud, but in Dalia’s hyperaware state it was enough to register.
And then Dalia sensed something else. Someone inside the house had also caught the sound. She knew that in everyday perception, most cues picked up by the senses were shuffled aside as unimportant. But in this stop-time moment, Dalia registered everything: the barely perceptible creaking of floorboards, the changing glow of curtains as a figure passed before the television screen, the slight but distinct baffling of sound from speakers. The bizarre sharpness she had experienced in Hopewell was back, in spades. She knew that the figure was pausing, just on the other side of this door. Hesitating—probably facing away, toward the rear of the house, toward the sound on the rear stoop.
Those who play with the devil’s toys will be brought by degrees to wield his sword.
Stepping back, she aimed a slow-motion kick at the door, just inside the knob. Her stout right leg pistoned out, her foot caught the wood—thank God she was wearing flats—and the door popped open with surprising ease. At that instant, a faint wall of sirens picked up far away down Wisconsin Avenue.
A woman standing in the foyer, turning around.
This was Jana Dahan.
She wore a straight black wig and had done something to change the shape of her face. But it was the same woman whose features Dalia had studied at such length in dossiers and on screens. Pretty, fox-like. Something of the hunter here, but also something of the hunted. Now the mouth formed a perfect surprised O. On TV they were cheering, on Wisconsin Avenue the sirens were moving away, and out back, Horowitz, having heard the thud of the door, was battering his own way in. But here, now, Dalia faced Jana.
Jana was holding something. Not a gun but a phone. And with sudden, sickening certainty, Dalia knew what it was. Oh, yes, she knew—knew how close they were to a scene all too familiar to any Israeli: screaming and crying and weeping and sobbing. And then the nightmare hiss, the dreaded sibilance, the last sound heard by countless victims in Auschwitz and Mauthausen and Dachau and Buchenwald, the reason bomb shelters in Tel Aviv were stocked with gas masks. And the wailing and weeping and screaming would become a partition, a barrier, a great divide between sanity and insanity, but too late. Too late.
The gun was up. Aiming at Jana’s chest. Center body mass. Finger tight on the trigger. Another ounce of pressure and Dalia would shoot the girl dead.
Their eyes locked.
Dalia’s throat felt oily. Jana held the phone in her right hand, thumb already on the button. Dalia’s mind rolled, racing emptily without catching, then found sudden purchase on rocky soil and lurched forward, scattering tiny stones.
She shot Jana Dahan in the chest.
As the girl fell, Dalia shot again.
Capitol Hill, Washington, DC
Michael Fletcher backed up before the president.
Only with great effort did he keep his eyes open. It was the last moment before the jack-in-the-box popped, the last moment, and you wanted to look away, you wanted to squeeze your eyes shut; you wanted to protect yourself, avert your gaze, but you could not, you kept your eyes open, you backed up, nostrils flaring, jaw set hard, teeth gritted, braced, bracing, ready, ready, ready, ready steady go.
At the rostrum now. The entire chamber on its feet. Rolling, thunderous applause. Tiered platforms climbing away dizzyingly. Lenses staring blankly from balcony railings. Michael had lost the president. Through his viewfinder he saw only out-of-focus marble columns. He felt confused. He lowered the heavy camera. The official House photographer, standing just behind him, emitted an involuntary sound of surprise and disapproval.
The president was climbing to the platform. Applause booming from all sides. Bright lights. Stars and stripes. Dizzy. Michael reached out a hand to steady himself. He was dropping the camera. Someone was grabbing it. Someone else was taking him by the elbow. The inscribed words—Union, Justice, Tolerance, Liberty, Peace: IN GOD WE TRUST—moved sideways, listing crookedly across his field of vision. Air hot and close, pungent with sweat and stress hormones.
Knees giving out. Sykes holding him up by his elbow. Dragging him from the chamber, into a hallway. Spinning, spinning. A mad exhilaration, a sense of freedom at last. Reaching for the leg. Trying to get it off. Get it off before the bitch could press her button. Anticipating the nine clicks as the pin left the housing mechanism. But Special Agent Bob Sykes must have misread the movement and thought he was going for a trigger and body-
slammed him onto the floor. Pinning him down, knee sharp between shoulder blades, barking into a microphone, other agents running, polished black shoes trip-tripping against polished marble. And in the last instant before the door to the House Chamber closed completely, Michael heard the gavel rapping again. And then the president:
“Thank you, thank you. Thank you, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, members of Congress, my fellow Americans, tonight I come here to report on the state of the union.”
Epilogue
North of Tel Aviv, Israel
Beneath twin shafts of moonlight, a man picked out aimless chords on an upright piano.
Dreamy major sevenths, tragic minor ninths. A diminished triad straining toward resolution … but instead left hanging as a bell took the man’s attention away.
He ran a bright glissando up the keyboard and got up from the bench, weaving slightly on his feet. As he reached the intercom, the bell rang again. The camera at the front gate presented two black cars with smoked windows. A dark-suited man with hooded eyes stared lifelessly back into the lens. Another stood behind him.
The ramsad started to reach for the button that would let the men through the gate. Then he paused and stood there for a moment, swaying. He turned almost indifferently as the bell rang again, and went out into the courtyard of Jerusalem stone and desert flowers. A warm night breeze caressed him. His glass of wine sat where he had left it. He forsook it in favor of the bottle. Weaving back inside to the piano, he slumped onto the bench and took a long swig of Cabernet Sauvignon.
Hunching again over the keyboard, he began to play. Despite his inebriation, he played well, swaying as he played, head bobbing, feet working the pedals, long fingers intuitively seeking out notes. His mouth twitched into a grimacing smile. The bell rang again. Now the two black Shin Bet cars would be pulling out of the driveway, making space for the armored assault vehicle with the tactical battering ram. Snipers would already be in position high on the hillside, taking aim through picture windows.
