“I didn’t know you cared about money.”
“Everyone cares about money when they don’t have any.”
“You could come to France. Americans are shocked when they come over and experience how good the living is.”
“If they can get work. But you guys hang on to those work permits like they’re your balls.”
He grinned. “Go home, Vanessa. I will call you when this is over.”
She nodded and leaned over. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” was all she said.
“You’re welcome.”
As he watched her walk away, he couldn’t help but think again of where his life would be if she had shown up that day in Paris. He loved his wife dearly and had no regrets, but it was interesting to contemplate. He pushed it out of his mind and turned his eyes back toward the front entrance. Crowds of people came in and out. Men with backpacks pulling small carrying cases with wheels. Women with luggage and purses filled with personal items. The airport was a strange place to people-watch. People were usually either very happy or very melancholy. There was no middle ground.
Henri rose and walked over to the metal detectors. Vanessa had bought a ticket and was going through the security line. She passed through and put her shoes back on as she thanked the TSA officers. Before she was out of sight, she looked back to him, and smiled.
CHAPTER 54
Santos Aras lay nude in the bed as the woman dressed. She was slim with muscles that rippled underneath her tight skin. She was in her early twenties and Santos knew that was the age where the muscles would appear that way. No matter how much older women worked out or went in for surgeries or starved themselves, they could never get that tightness. It was a purview of youth. Something that once lost, could never be regained.
She climbed on top of him and stuck her tongue in his mouth. It was warm and tasted like honey, and she licked his lips before kissing him and lying next to him.
“I wish you’d fuck me every day,” she said.
“I think your husband would have a problem with that.”
“Fuck him. He doesn’t care what I do.”
Santo cupped one of her breasts and kissed her hard before rising and pulling on his boxer shorts. He went into the bathroom and urinated.
“Aspen this weekend?” she yelled out from the bed.
“Sure. Let’s leave Friday, though.”
“I have to be back Sunday. I have deadlines on Monday morning at work.”
Santos stared at himself in the mirror. He looked much older than he expected and it surprised him. He pulled at his eyes and at the wrinkles that had just appeared this year. He felt the rim of fat around his belly and flexed his pecs. Done examining himself, he dipped toward the sink to wash his face then toweled off and returned to the bedroom to dress.
She came up behind him and helped him put on his tie and his jacket. He had never married and he wondered if this is what it would be like: to have someone always there willing to help you. But no one respected marriage here. It was a piece of paper that people forgot about over time. He was better off alone.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”
He kissed her and she walked him out. At the door, she lit a cigarette and then kissed him, watching as he strode out and went to his car.
The rain had stopped but the ground was wet and he had to skip over puddles in the uneven parking lot of the hotel. He found his car and got in, turning on the stereo before his cell phone rang. He answered.
“Santos…yes…yes…when? I’ll be right down.”
He hung up and pulled out of the parking lot. The woman he had been with was leaving too. He watched as she continued to smoke through the lobby despite the NO SMOKING sign and then entered her Lexus. She blew him a kiss and disappeared around a corner to the other exit. Santos pulled away and turned onto the main street, speeding through a red light.
He rolled down his window. The rain had cleared away the smog for a moment and the air tasted salty and clean. He had grown up in a Mexican fishing village and that was what he missed most about it: the clean air. Completely poor and with never enough to eat, he was so focused on what he didn’t have that he hadn’t appreciated what he did. Only when he moved to the city and comprehended that there were places where human voices were never quiet, places where even in the deepest sleep you still heard the chatter of meaningless conversations, did he appreciate the solitude and soundlessness of his village.
He drove on the interstate for fifteen minutes before exiting and stopping in front of a building with police tape around the entrance. The DC police were here and the FBI wouldn’t be far behind. He got out and walked to the entrance, ducking under the police tape. The DC police acted as bodyguards for several members of the State Department when they were in town, and Santos recognized one of the officers. The officer waved him through.
“Do we have the shooter?” Santos asked.
“Afraid not, Mr. Aras. Got away clean. We got surveillance video, though. The detectives took that back to the station. They said it was one man and a girl but I ain’t never seen one man do this. He cut clean through security. There’s nine bodies in there and one security guard is missing.”
“I’d like to see the bodies. For identification.”
“Of course. One second.”
The officer went to speak to a few other people, and then came back. “You’re all clear.”
Santos walked inside, escorted by the officer, who walked a few paces behind him. He had just been here, in this same building, but something seemed different now. Whenever murders occurred in a building, it changed the atmosphere, the essence, of the place. Santos’ grandmother would say that the spirits haunted the space now, and that was what he was sensing. He just thought one couldn’t be in the place without thinking about death and that the change was internal.
A body covered in black plastic lay near the front desk. Over by the metal detectors were three others. Staff from the Medical Examiner’s Office were busy loading them onto gurneys and wheeling them down the hallway and out the entrance. The officer stepped over one of the bodies and pressed the up button on the elevator. They didn’t speak as the elevator came down. They stepped on and rose up to the top floor.
As soon as they stepped off the elevator, Santos could see three more bodies. They were off to the side in a room, all gathered by the door. One body wasn’t yet put in a bag and the forensics team was filming its location and snapping photographs. It was a man in his forties. He had been shot several times in the back. He was reaching for a window that was partially open. Santos could imagine the logic: he was certain to die here, but he might survive the jump.
Farther down the hall, there was one more body that was already on a gurney. He couldn’t see if it was male or female and he didn’t look at the tag that was on the zipper. A massive bloodstain sullied the wall and bits of bone, and what looked like organ or brain tissue, was sticking to the paint.
Turning into the last office, Santos caught the ME’s staff just as they were bagging the last body. He watched as the zipper came up over the face of Mitchell Phelps, a man he had known for twelve years. He stepped to the side as the gurney was wheeled out and down the hall.
“I’ll leave you here, sir,” the officer said, “in case you want a minute.”
“Thank you.”
The officer left and Santos walked over to the liquor cabinet. He noticed a glass on Mitchell’s desk, and he grabbed it, walking back to the cabinet and pouring some whiskey. He sat at the desk, his thumb and forefinger pressed to the bridge of his nose as he tried to prevent the migraine that was building up. He took a sip of the drink and then turned and looked out the window. He retrieved his cell phone and dialed a number.
“This is Vanessa.”
“Mitchell’s dead.”
Silence. “How?”
“I think we both know that,” he said, taking a swig. “I’m getting out of town for a while. I think you should do the same.”
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He hung up as Vanessa was saying something and placed the phone on the desk. He put his feet up and finished his whiskey.
CHAPTER 55
Billie woke up in the passenger seat. At first, she had faked sleep and then eventually sleep was all she could do. She looked out the windows at the passing landscape. Less than seven hours ago it had been farmland and trees. Now it was damaged buildings and broken fire hydrants with kids on corners selling drugs.
It was a seven-and-a-half-hour drive down to Washington, DC, and they didn’t exchange a single word. She was terrified beyond any reason or comprehension, but still she needed to speak to someone. Maybe especially because she was terrified she needed that connection to another human being. The fact that he wouldn’t give that to her was another form of torture. Or maybe he wasn’t doing it purposely. She had caught him speaking to himself several times, and then he would take out his amber bottle and pop some pills. Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted. If that was true, there was still hope that she could talk him out of keeping her.
They stopped at a café to eat. He walked around the car and took her by the arm, leading her inside as they passed by the hostess and just sat down. The hostess gave them a dirty look and said, “Assholes,” loud enough for them to hear. Gustav reached for his weapon. Billie grabbed his hand.
“No, no it’s fine.”
He stared at her a moment and then pulled his hand away. He placed it on the table. The waitress came and Billie ordered for them. As much as it revolted her, she knew her life depended on how much of a connection she could form with him. She placed her hand on his.
“Why are you like this?”
“Like what?”
“This violent? That was just a little insult and not even a good one. You’d kill her for that?”
“Men have died for less.”
She was quiet a moment and then said, “I see you talking to yourself sometimes. And then you take those pills.”
“My father had it too. He would come home drunk in a rage over something that did not occur. He would scream until he did not have a voice and then he would punch at walls. When he would have his lucid moments he would tell me that he was possessed by Satan. That he could hear Satan’s voice inside his head and that he would tell him to do things. At that time they did not know what things like that were.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was killed in a bar fight. He offended someone larger than himself and was stabbed in the stomach. He stumbled home and began screaming and then died on the floor before we could get a doctor.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“It made me stronger. You have nothing to be sorry about. Be sorry for those fools that have no pain in their lives. They are soft and weak. They fly in whatever direction the wind takes them because they have no direction.”
“You think pain makes us stronger?”
“Those of us that see pain as a gift.”
“My mother died of breast cancer when I was twelve. I would never see that as a gift.”
“And that’s why you live in illusion. There is an entire world that you know nothing about, that you sleepwalk through without a hint that it is there. Your life is inauthentic. If you want an authentic life, you must go through pain. Intense pain that would break other people. And you must want to go through that pain.”
The waitress brought their drinks and he took a cup of coffee with both hands and sipped it. He grimaced at the taste and placed it back down. He took out his bottle of pills and Billie could see there were only a handful left. He placed two in his mouth and washed them down with the coffee.
“I have never understood how Americans can tolerate the mediocre. In Europe, corporations and governments are frightened of the people because the people hold the power. Over here the people are frightened. But it does not matter I think. Man has an inclination toward tyranny and both systems will lead there through different paths.”
“What’s your name?” she asked softly.
He looked at her a long time. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? You said you were from Corsica but is that really where you’re from? I mean, your English is better than mine but I can hear an accent.”
“I was born in Corsica. I remember the island from my youth. Napoleon the First was born there too, and the entire island was so proud of him. It is funny that dictators can be remembered so fondly if they are your dictators and not foreign ones.”
“What do your friends call you?”
“Gustav.”
“I like that name.”
He nodded, glancing around the café.
“Can I ask you something, Gustav?”
“What?”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“I have not decided yet.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I do not know.”
“Why did you bring me with you? I’m just slowing you down.”
He sipped his coffee and grimaced again as if he were drinking swill out of a pigpen. “I’ve given you a gift.”
“How is this a gift?”
“If you survive this, your entire life will change. Little things that you never noticed will bring you enormous pleasure, your meals will taste better, the conversations you have with friends and family will be that much sweeter because you will know that it is time you have been given that is not yours.”
The waitress put two plates down in front of them and asked if they needed anything else. They said no and she left them as Billie dug into the pancakes, bacon, and two eggs. She was halfway done when he said, “We need to go.”
“I’m not done.”
“We need to leave now,” he said, standing up and taking her arm. He pulled out a wad of cash with his other hand and left a hundred dollar bill on the table before walking out. Outside, he placed her in the car and got into the driver’s seat. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“We have one more stop to make and we should go now.”
Disgust washed over her and nausea made her feel like she would vomit. “Please, I can’t watch anyone else die. Please don’t take me.”
“Oh but you will want to see this. I’m going to make this one special.”
CHAPTER 56
Henri sat in the chair just inside the terminal for three hours before he had to get up and use the bathroom. He walked over to a McDonald’s and ordered oatmeal with strawberries and an orange juice. A friendly TSA officer came up and began speaking to him about how one gets into Interpol and what credentials one would need to apply. Henri was polite and told him everything he wanted to know, but his eyes remained on the entrance and the metal detectors.
By now, the FBI was here. Several plainclothes agents were stationed inside and outside the terminal. Henri, who wouldn’t be involved in the takedown, really had no place here, but he wanted to be here and see for himself. He had to see the cuffs placed on Gustav and him hauled down and put in a cell. Otherwise, he wasn’t going to believe it.
As Henri walked down the terminal and returned to his seat, one allowing him an unobstructed view of the entrance, he saw a man in a white shirt and black suit walking toward him. The man sat next to him and didn’t say anything at first.
“You know,” Henri said, “J. Edgar Hoover is dead. You don’t have to use his dress code anymore.”
“We’ve met once before,” the man said. “You taught a seminar on facial sketching at Quantico.”
“That seems like a lifetime ago. Were you a cadet?”
“They’re called special agents in training and yes I was.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“There are eight terminals. What makes you so certain he’s coming into this one?”
“This is where the flights for Africa leave from.”
“Why is he going to Africa?”
> “He has a kinship with that place. Heart of Darkness and such.”
“Never read it. What part of Africa?”
“Algeria.”
“They don’t have reciprocity with the United States. They won’t extradite him if he gets there.”
“Well then we’ll just have to make sure he never gets there, no?”
The man glanced to him and then away. “I was on the special task force that helped capture him the first time. Before he was extradited to France and that idiot judge granted him bail. I understand he was serving a life sentence on something else before you let him out?”
“I was not the one that let him out. That little gesture is courtesy of your Department of Homeland Security.”
“I wasn’t told about that.”
“What you haven’t been told can fill volumes, Special Agent. Now if you’ll excuse me I’d like to get back to watching the entrance.”
The man watched him a moment before rising and walking off, melting back into the crowd though Henri knew Gustav would spot him in less than a minute. Then again, he was acting erratic and making completely irrational decisions. Killing when he didn’t need to, kidnapping someone for no apparent purpose. Maybe he would just walk in here and try to engage in a shootout. Henri had considered the possibility and brought it up with TSA but they weren’t willing to close the airport on his word.
His cell phone rang and he saw it was Vanessa. He let it ring a couple of times and then answered.
“Are you back yet?”
“Yeah, I just walked into my apartment. Guess what? Mitchell was killed.”
“Phelps? How?”
“How do you think? Santos called me and said I should leave town for a while.”
“Where was he killed?”
“In his office.”
“In DC?”
“Yes.”
Henri jumped up. “Get out of your apartment now, Vanessa.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 57
Diary of an Assassin Page 17
