by Jess Walter
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen eyes like yours. It’s like reading a textbook. The degeneration and detachment, the thinness of the retinas: remarkable. I’ve never seen such thin, tattered tissue on a human being that wasn’t a cadaver. It’s like mobile home curtains in there, Mr. Remy. It’s like the sheets in an old whorehouse. It’s like—”
“Okay,” Remy said.
“Is there a history of eye disease in your family?”
“I don’t think so,” Remy said.
“Because you have the eyes of a man in his nineties,” said Dr. Destouches. “And I have to ask—did you fly here?”
“Am I still in San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“Then I flew here.”
“And did your ophthalmologist in New York approve that?”
“No. In fact, I think he told me not to fly.”
“Well, so much for your malpractice suit.” Remy could hear papers being shuffled again. “The good news, such as it is, is that you can still see out of your right eye—for the time being. You have a lot of debris in your field of vision…flashers, floaters, that kind of thing.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you’re one of those people who looks for silver linings in mushroom clouds, we did manage to cut those in half.” The doctor laughed at his own joke and cleared his throat. “But please, do yourself a favor and take a train or a bus back to New York. Your eyes are as fragile as origami, Mr. Remy. As fragile as a fat girl’s confidence on prom night. As fragile as—”
“I got it,” Remy said. The word fragile made Remy think of April; he wondered if she was waiting to see him.
“The change in pressure from flying would be very bad for you,” Dr. Destouches continued. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Remy said, chasing the flecks around his good eye.
“I’m going to put that right here. No flying.” Remy could hear the doctor scratching on a pad. “And a word of advice: You might want to cut back on the liquor. At least while you’re on medication. You had a blood alcohol level of .039. That’s four times the legal limit, Mr. Remy. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No drinking and no flying—”
THE PLANE shuddered and jerked with the rattle of molded and fitted plastic and the grind of jet engines, strained against the ground’s pull, and when it felt as if it were on the verge of shaking loose its aluminum shell, finally broke with the ground and became still. They were in the air. Remy opened his eyes, but only the right one opened, the left still trapped beneath the gauze. He had a small airplane whiskey bottle in his hand. He looked over to the seat on his left, hoping to see April, but it was Markham, chewing a pencil, his face screwed up over a mostly open crossword puzzle. Markham leaned in. “Okay. Six letters. Rift. Last letter m. Third letter might be an h.”
Remy closed his eye and leaned back. He opened his mouth to say schism but what came out was—
“THE CELL,” the agent Dave said slowly, lingering on each word, “from what we have been able to gather over the last few months, is constructed thusly.”
Remy looked around the simple conference room. He and Markham sat behind an oval table in swivel chairs. Dave, the tall, thin agent with the braces, stood in the glow of a big computer screen mounted on the wall in front of them. On the screen were the words CELL 93 and a chart connecting six silhouetted heads in a small pyramid. Beneath each silhouette was a number: one, two, and three on the bottom row of the pyramid, four and five in the middle, and six at the top. One of the silhouettes, number five, had a red line through it; another, number two, had a question mark over it.
“Thusly?” Markham said to Remy, under his breath.
Dave spun to face them. “What’s wrong with thusly?”
“Nothing. It’s just…nothing.”
Dave faced the wall, and then turned back to Markham again. “Look. You are guests in this operation. The agency does not typically cooperate like this. I’m out on a limb here. So I would appreciate some support. And professionalism.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Markham said. “My bad.”
“Ninety-three is a classic, small, leaderless cell, sui generis,” Dave continued, shooting a quick, defensive glance at Markham before going on. “Each of its members is connected to one or two other members, but no one member is aware of more than two others, so that if one person goes down, two or three can escape and the cell can theoretically regrow—like a snake losing a tail. This is why it’s important for us to get to as many members as possible.”
“Why’s it called Ninety-three?” Markham asked.
“We’re not sure. Maybe the group formed in 1993, although most of the relationships date from much earlier. Another theory, from our analysts, was that the name refers to the ninety-nine names for Allah, and that by subtracting the six members you get ninety-three. Of course, we are also monitoring FM radio stations with that frequency, listening to call letters, dedications, play lists, that sort of thing.” Dave pressed his thumb to the clicker. “Now let’s take a look at the cell members.”
Onto the screen came a black-and-white surveillance photo of a thin Arab man in shiny sweats, talking on a cell phone outside an apartment building. The man’s jaw stuck out in a severe underbite, making it seem as if he were working to keep his teeth from jutting out. “Subject Number One: Kamal al-Hassan, Saudi-born and educated, passionate and intelligent, speaks perfect English…Japanese sports car buff. May have become disillusioned with America as a twelve-year-old after his Taif team was eliminated in the first round of the Little League World Series.”
Markham didn’t look up from his notes. “Position?”
“Second base,” Dave said. “All glove, no bat. Decent range but had an arm that would embarrass a six-year-old girl. As an adult, he moved to Syria and worked as an agent, raising money for jihadist sports clubs under the umbrella of refugee services.” Dave clicked his thumb again and the next slide appeared, another photo of Kamal, this time in a business suit, stepping out of a limousine. “We have reason to believe he has recently made his way into the country, possibly through Canada.”
A photo came up showing a familiar-looking young Arab man in a business suit. Dave said, “Subject Number Two—Kamal’s brother Assan, lives in Miami—”
Remy gasped, but no one seemed to notice. It was the man they’d tortured on the ship outside Miami. Remy looked up at Markham, who shot a quick glance at Remy, scribbled something in a notebook on his lap, and then turned his eyes back to the screen.
“At least Assan lived in Miami,” Dave said. “Honestly, we don’t know where he is now. He’s been missing for months. We had believed he was opposed to his brother’s growing radicalism, but he may have gone underground in preparation for something.”
“You said you were going to let him go,” Remy hissed to Markham, who simply stared straight ahead.
“The next member,” Dave said, and Bishir’s picture appeared on the wall, “as…you well know, is the agency’s CI, Tarzan—Bishir. We’ve designated him Subject Number Three, even though obviously he’s providing us with intelligence. Of course, his cooperation gives us a huge advantage over our enemy—the bureau.” He glanced quickly at Markham and Remy. “I don’t mean to brag, but we believe this to be the deepest actual penetration of a terror cell by any U.S. agency.”
Markham gave a polite golf clap.
Dave clicked his thumb again and it took Remy a moment to recognize the next face. “We’ve identified Number Four as the weakest member of the group, Bishir’s brother-in-law—” It was Mahoud, the restaurant owner.
“Oh, come on,” Remy said, incredulous. “He’s not—”
But Markham reached over, grabbed his arm, and shook his head slightly.
“Mahoud Tasneem is a Pakistani restaurant owner here in the city,” Dave said. “We’re not entirely sure of his involvement or his motivation…all we know is that he recently contacted Bishir and volunteered to be involved,
possibly in a support role, providing transportation, or a safe house.”
Dave hit the button again and on the wall was an image that Remy recognized: a man lying in a smear of blood on the sidewalk. It was the photo Buff had shown him in the gypsy cab.
“As you know, Subject Number Five, Bobby al-Zamil, is dead.” Dave cleared his throat. “Al-Zamil was a former associate of Bishir’s. The reason we initially approached you about March Selios was that Bishir brought her up under interrogation. He said he’d met her through al-Zamil, who had business dealings with her. We’re not sure why al-Zamil was eliminated; perhaps the group wanted him out of the way because he was under surveillance, or it could be that he was having second thoughts, or maybe it’s a kind of reality show thing and they just voted off a member. Whatever, it seems clear they killed him to avoid endangering the operation.”
Markham nodded earnestly.
“But rather than dissuade the group, al-Zamil’s death seems to have galvanized the others and, if anything, convinced them to step up the timetable. Which brings us to Subject Number Six,” Dave said, “the cell’s most mysterious member. Even Bishir isn’t sure of his real name. The others call him Ibn ’Arabi, which appears to be a reference to a pacifist Sufi teacher. We’ve given him the code name Jaguar.”
“Why not call him Iceman?” Markham offered.
“What?” Dave asked.
“Yeah,” Markham said. “You know…if it was me, I’d call him Iceman.”
Dave looked incredulous. “Iceman?”
“Yeah. Iceman.”
“You want us to call him Iceman? But his code name is Jaguar.”
“Isn’t that kind of…predictable?”
Dave put his hand across his chest, chagrined. “No, it’s not predictable…we chose Jaguar because of Tarzan. You know. It’s an animal.”
“Yeah. I guess. But isn’t it a bit melodramatic?”
Dave seemed stung by the criticism. “And Iceman isn’t?”
“It’s a literary reference. It’s more sophisticated.”
“Top Gun is a literary reference?”
“No…Iceman from the Eugene O’Neill play.”
Dave scrunched up his face. “It isn’t that play with the obnoxious kids trying to make a chorus line?”
“No, that’s A Chorus Line.”
“Because that was awful.”
“I’m not suggesting you name someone from A Chorus Line. I’m saying that you consider naming the cell leader Iceman.”
Dave shrugged. “Well, we can’t. It’s too late. And we already have an Iceman in Riyadh. It would be too confusing.”
“But Jaguar?”
“Yes,” Dave said. “Jaguar. Now, as I was saying, Bishir believes—”
“Jaguar?” Markham mumbled.
Dave cleared his throat. “Bishir believes the cell is being funded by…Jaguar. Unfortunately, we have no idea where Jaguar is getting his money. We’re following the usual charities, Swiss accounts, drug sales, energy markets, alt-country music royalties, et cetera…but so far we’ve come up blank. All we have is Bishir’s post office box. A week ago, a blank postcard arrived there—no prints—with a rendezvous point.”
The card appeared on the screen. It read WM PARK 0800. This time Remy wasn’t terribly surprised to recognize the handwriting as his own.
“At this meeting, we believe, targets will be assigned. Once this happens, we have two choices. We could take them down at the meeting, but we cannot move until we can account for all of the members, especially Jaguar. If we move…too quickly, we risk allowing some of them to escape. Move too slowly and—”
“It’s a race against time,” Markham said. Then he snorted into his hand like a high school kid trying to suppress a laugh in class.
“What?” asked Dave.
“Nothing,” Markham said, straightening up. But he closed his eyes and snorted again.
“What’s so funny?” Dave asked again.
Markham straightened his face. “Nothing. Just…nothing.”
Dave clicked his thumb and the next picture came up, Dave keeping his eyes on Markham disapprovingly. “This is the only photo we have of the man we believe to be Jaguar.” It was a grainy photo of two men leaning on the railing of a ferry. At first Remy tried to make out the man on the left, who may have been smoking a cigarette. “The man on the left is Assan,” Dave said, clicking the plunger again.
An enlargement of Jaguar appeared, even blurrier than the picture from which it was taken. His face was impossible to make out. But it was clear to Remy that the man was older, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties, and that he was Middle Eastern, with short gray hair. And he was wearing a long, gray wool coat.
“Oh, no,” Remy muttered.
Dave ignored him. “This is Jaguar, the man they refer to as Ibn ’Arabi, an ironic reference to the teaching of Islam as a religion of love. We think Jaguar may have been a professor at one time, and may have taught one or more of the members. We think he may have become radicalized when he lost a family member, perhaps a son, during the first Gulf War, although we don’t know how, or to which side. We also believe he is Americanized, highly educated, with a knowledge of explosives—”
“No, I know that guy,” Remy said.
“Yeah.” Dave sighed and turned to face the fuzzy image of Jaguar. “That’s how I feel.” He walked to the wall and stared into the fuzzy image of the man in the wool coat. “When you finally see the enemy’s face, it’s like you’ve known him your whole life.”
“No—” Remy began.
“Oh, there is…one other consideration,” Dave said slowly, as if searching for the right words. “And it comes from the highest levels, and is not to be repeated outside this room.” He took a breath. “There is some…concern—as I said, at the highest levels—that the perception of danger has…”
“Waned?” Markham said.
“Yes. And we think it’s counterproductive for the public to view our enemies as a bunch of harmless nuts, lunatics with shoe bombs, ineffectual zealots. In other words, we can’t afford to capture a band of unarmed cabdrivers and motel operators.”
Markham looked over and raised his eyebrows, as if this were good news.
“We’re not looking for anything fancy,” Dave said. “It wouldn’t even have to be necessarily operational. But an enemy without weapons is a dog without teeth. So we are not to move until the enemy has an incendiary device.” Dave waited for this to sink in. “And then…we need to move fast.”
And just as Remy was about to stand up and say this was all crazy, Markham burst into nervous, staccato laughter. “It’s a spelling bee with death,” he said. “A hockey game against evil—”
APRIL ANSWERED the door of her apartment and stared coldly at him across the tightened chain. She was wearing jeans and an oxford shirt buttoned over a tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her face seemed thinner. Pale.
Remy was pleasantly surprised to be there. “Hi,” he said.
She refused to meet his good eye. “What do you want, Brian?”
“What’s the matter?”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? I…want to see you.”
“Why?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
Remy was surprised by her iciness. “I miss you.”
“Tell me what you want, Brian.”
“Well…” He wasn’t sure where to start. “I seem to be involved in something and…I don’t know. I need to see you.”
Finally she looked up and seemed to notice the eye patch for the first time. But she didn’t say anything about it. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” he asked again. “Can’t I come in?” He looked past her, into her apartment. The living room was filled with cardboard boxes. Sweaters were stacked on the box closest to the door. “Are you going somewhere, April?”
“Yes,” she said. It felt to Remy that they we
re speaking too quietly and too quickly, like actors working over a familiar scene. “I’m moving.”
“What? Where?”
“I can’t do this now, Brian.”
“I can’t come in?”
“No,” she said. “You can’t come in.”
“Why?”
“I’m with someone.”
Remy looked past her. “I don’t see anyone.”
“You can’t see ghosts,” she said.
“Ghosts? What are you talking about, April?”
“Please don’t do this,” she said again, staring at the ground.
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember. I never remember. There are these gaps.”
“Yes,” she said, easing the door shut. “So you’ve said—”
EDGAR LOOKED different—older, more self-assured—although it might have been his haircut. His mop of hair was much shorter, stubble on the sides and a small tuft in front; his old baggy clothes had been replaced by sweatpants and a rain jacket. And physically, he was definitely thicker, as Remy had noticed before, like he’d been lifting weights, his bony neck replaced by a kind of pedestal. Remy was parked along the street again, at dusk, at the top of the hill across from the same mall parking lot. He watched through one lens of the binoculars, traffic cresting the hill, and between the cars he caught glimpses of Edgar walking along the sidewalk. He stopped in the same place as before, hopped over the retaining wall, and dropped again down into the lot. Determined not to lose Edgar this time, Remy took off the binoculars, dropped them on the bench seat, jumped out of the car, and made his way across traffic. He ran down the sidewalk and climbed over the same retaining wall, his patched eye aching as he ran. It was drizzling as Remy dropped over the wall and into the parking lot, twisting his ankle on the five-foot fall. By the time he got back up, he’d lost the boy again.
“Edgar!” The parking lot was landscaped with little tree boxes at the end of every row, and Remy limped his way around cars and sickly trees, rising up on his tiptoes every few minutes to scan the mall for him. “Edgar!”
