"What is it?"
"A case file. A dossier, really."
"On?"
"A Swiss. Name of Hans Vogel. Lives in the countryside south of Bern."
"Is he a chocolatier or a cheesemaker?"
"He's a politician in the cantonal government. On the rise. His entire platform is that all Muslims should be expelled from Switzerland."
"I see."
"We've connected seven murders to his cabal. One, an L.A.-style drive-by shooting of some poor Moroccan grocery clerk who was standing at a bus stop. Another, an abduction and shooting of an Algerian who they grabbed as he was walking home from his custodian's job at a grammar school. The other five were an entire Algerian family who lost control of their Volkswagen and plunged off a cliff while one of Vogel's goons was trying to intimidate them, swerving his lorry at their car as they descended the narrow road from the village of Villars where the parents worked in a hotel laundry."
"Why haven't the Swiss police taken him down?"
"The Swiss, as you well know, are by and large a nation of xenophobic crazies."
"The authorities are turning a blind eye?"
"They have the same evidence that we do."
"You're going to take out Vogel."
"We haven't decided yet. But in the meantime, we'd like you to take a look at what we have here in this file. Give us your take on this guy."
"You want my opinion on whether you should kill him."
"No. Pretend our group doesn't exist. Take us out of the equation."
"That's a tall order."
"Just try. Give us your impressions of this guy. Is he a rising threat to innocent human life? Is he infecting others with his fear and hate? Will he inspire others to commit atrocities in the name of his beliefs? Is he forever going to be a small potatoes asshole, or does he or his movement pose a threat to grow into something big and strong and terrible?" Sheffield rose from his chair. "That's enough for today."
"Wait. What's on the menu for this evening?"
"Ah! Sea bass with butter, sea salt, and capers, grilled over local hardwood. Simple, but excellent. Lisbeth usually pairs it with a nice Maipo Valley sauvignon blanc. One of my favorite meals when I'm down here."
FIFTY-TWO
Over the following weeks, Sheffield brought Arkin a steady stream of files, each one filled with horrifying stories of violence, suffering, and death inspired or wrought by the fanatic or sociopath whose name appeared on the tab. An Australian cattleman who led a group pushing for an anti-Aborigine ethnic cleansing of a self-declared white territory near Perth. A Pakistani cleric who preached that women and girls who went to school should have their hands cut off. A Chinese communist and latter-day Boxer whose disciples had killed three Catholic priests in Hong Kong. A Ugandan medicine man whose followers hacked dozens of hospitalized AIDS patients to pieces with rusty machetes. An ex-pat Egyptian whose hoodlum gang was detonating pipe bombs outside Jewish grammar schools and synagogues in Buenos Aires and Montevideo. An Iranian cleric whose vigilantes had abducted and lynched five men accused of being homosexuals. Murderous fundamentalists and fanatics. Each of them charismatic and influential. Each of them on the rise, with growing followings.
Thinking it would help improve the believability of his act if a small, controlled part of him were allowed to believe in the group's doctrine, Arkin gave sincere consideration to the question of how much better off the world could be if a generation or two of such people were simply erased. It would make a real difference, there was no doubt in his mind. In seeing this, he felt an honest temptation to destroy them, just as he had when Raylan McGill was in the crosshairs of his rifle scope years earlier. He went as far as to wonder whether the moral parameters and rules that constrained him might be the product of flawed philosophy set down by flawed forefathers who'd been attributed with overblown authority by the recorders of history. After all, despite his own strict adherence to his personal moral code, in Arkin’s opinion, nobody really had any authority to say, definitively, what was right and what was wrong, or what was good and what was evil. There was always going to be some element of subjectivity. Of relativity.
Over time, the case files they gave him detailed atrocities that grew more and more egregious. More and more horrible. And as they did, he found himself growing less and less troubled by the group's utter disregard of what he'd long held to be inalienable human rights to due process and the opportunity for redemption. Eventually, he began to lose sight of the border between his resistant-but-open-minded prisoner act and the part of him that genuinely agreed with the group's doctrine.
Finally, they brought Arkin a file that disturbed him so thoroughly that he had nightmares inspired by its content. It involved a man named Uktamek Babayov—formerly a deputy secret police commander in Uzbekistan, now the governor of Andijan Province. A thug and ostensibly fanatical socialist, Babayov, as part of his brutal campaign to purge his territory of quote-unquote Islamic radicals—a label he was quick to put on any political opponents, regardless of their actual level of religious fervor—was hunting the hidden ringleader of a group that distributed leaflets criticizing the government and calling for greater religious freedom and autonomy for the people of the heavily Muslim Ferghana Valley. In an effort to provoke and draw the man out, Babayov had gone to his house, barricaded his three young children inside, and firebombed it. The file contained heartbreaking witness testimony describing the children's screams as they burned to death, as well as photographs of their charred and blistered bodies pulled from the ruins by neighbors after the police had moved off. It also included a black-and-white photograph of Babayov, probably stolen from his government personnel dossier. He looked like a rabid animal. His glassy eyes burned with evil rage, even in what was probably just a routine photo for an I.D. card or credentials.
When Sheffield eventually showed up to discuss it with him—as he did after Arkin read each file—he said, "Admit it, Nathaniel. Part of you believes this man—this monster—deserves death."
"Part of me would take pleasure in killing him myself," he answered.
"And surely the world would be a better place without him."
Arkin nodded and stared an angry stare.
FIFTY-THREE
On a gray and blustery morning, Sheffield arrived with a cup of hot coffee and the announcement that they had a "surprise" for Arkin.
"What kind of surprise?"
"One we think you'll find great satisfaction in. One we think you are ready for."
Arkin gulped his coffee as soon as it was cool enough, put on his warmest clothes, and, escorted by his usual detail of guards, followed Sheffield, out into the cold and windswept open pastures of the island. Dense low clouds rendered the landscape nearly colorless, and a gale blew out of the west, chilling Arkin's face as they walked. They followed one of the paths they'd often exercised him on, up and over a gentle hill, before taking an abrupt left. Oh no. They were leading him toward the flat where he'd seen the fresh graves.
But as the graves came into view, he quickly pieced together that they were not going to shoot him. They were going to shoot someone else. A man, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, stood on his knees at the long end of a freshly dug rectangular hole. Three other men stood around him.
"Allow me to introduce you to Uktamek Babayov," Sheffield said as they arrived.
Arkin glanced at Sheffield, his face betraying his genuine surprise.
"That's right," Sheffield went on. "The Uzbek secret policeman and provincial governor. A man who has murdered at least two dozen people, including the three children you read about. The three children he burned alive."
At this, one of the men pulled a 9mm semiautomatic from a hip holster, turned it around, and reached out to hand it, butt-first, to Arkin. Arkin stared blankly at Sheffield.
"We think you're ready. We also need to know that we can trust you."
Arkin looked dubious. "Roland, I . . . ."
The man who held out the gun gave it a quick
, short shake, as if to demand that Arkin take hold of it immediately. Arkin did. He stared at it for a moment, took stock of its weight. It felt foreign to him. How long—how many long months had it been since he'd held a gun? His heart began to pound in his chest. He looked down at Babayov. He thought about the file—the photographs of the dead children, burned beyond recognition. He took aim at the back of Babayov's head and touched his finger to the cold steel trigger. But there, he froze. Pulling the trigger would win him the group's trust. That was a good thing, no matter what use Arkin ultimately made of that trust. And Babayov had it coming, surely. Part of Arkin wanted to watch him burn to death. But Babayov, like all human beings, also deserved some sort of due process, didn't he? If he didn't, then civilized society deserved it. An application of the rules that gave society its form. A verdict that reaffirmed society's sense of right and wrong. Was there anything that more meaningfully set civilized society apart from the unfettered barbarity of humanity's past?
"He won't feel anything," Sheffield said.
Still, Arkin stood frozen.
"You've killed men before."
"When they were trying to kill me. Or in war."
"This is war."
"Not like . . . ." He clenched his teeth, trying to pull the trigger, trying not to.
"Think of those children burning to death. Use your anger as a tool."
Arkin's heart pounded in his ears.
"Please, Nate. Don’t disappoint me. Not now."
The father-figure card. How low of Sheffield to play it, Arkin thought. He wasn't going to fall for it. If he shot Babayov, it would be because he'd decided it was right, not because of Sheffield's ham-fisted stab at child psychology. Trying to push himself over the line, he imagined the screaming of the children. His trigger finger began to flex. But then something suddenly struck him as odd. Babayov's hair was curly. Exceptionally curly. Like that of someone from Lebanon or some other Mediterranean country. Uzbeks were Central Asian—mostly ethnic Turkik, sometimes Persian. They didn't have such curly hair. And why was he gagged? So Arkin couldn't hear him speak? Couldn't hear what language he spoke? And did it really make sense that they would go to all the trouble to bring the man all the way from Central Asia to Southern Chile just to test Arkin? Weren't there easier ways?
As Arkin pondered this, it occurred to him that the Babayov file was horrifying in a perfect way. In perhaps too perfect a way. In a way tailored to push Arkin's buttons. To push him over the edge. A fabrication? His gut told him it was more than possible, and that maybe the man whose head he aimed at was just some poor guy the group needed to get rid of. Maybe someone whose conscience had finally gotten the better of him, causing him to break ranks. Someone who wanted out, or threatened to tell his story to the authorities. A convenient tool for the group's test of Arkin's conversion. His trigger finger relaxed and drew back a hair.
What now? Did he try to shoot his captors? There were six of them. At least three of them were armed. And he'd bet good money that there was only one bullet in his own magazine. He lowered the gun.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry, Roland. I just can't."
Sheffield looked more irritated than disappointed. And as he and Arkin stood staring at each other, the man who'd originally handed him the gun grabbed it back from Arkin, took prompt aim, and shot the bound man in the back of the head. His body fell into the new grave.
*****
Over the following weeks, the files continued to come, and Sheffield continued to visit to discuss them. But there seemed, to Arkin, to be less direction or logic to the process. For example, the horrors described in the files didn't gradually increase in magnitude or outrageousness as they had before. And Sheffield's comments seemed more haphazard. Still on point, but largely rudderless.
It didn't matter. Convinced as he was that the group had used false information to try to trick him into shooting a man, he would never trust them again. He would never join them. He just had to keep his anger in check and play the part until an opportunity for meaningful action presented itself.
FIFTY-FOUR
One late autumn day, Sheffield showed up with the chessboard, his glasses hanging, to Arkin's horror, from a fluorescent neoprene eyewear retainer much like the one Pratt used to wear. Memories came flooding in. Earnest and innocent John Pratt from Eden, Utah. Husband to Ella, father to Kayla, John Junior, Sarah and Jake. A good husband and father. A good man.
Arkin did his best to bury the emotions and focus on the game. He played the black side, and as he predicted, Sheffield took an aggressive approach, beginning with a king's pawn opening in what would develop, as Arkin taunted him with his black king's knight, into a classic four pawns attack.
"So where else does your money come from, if not entirely from salmon farming?"
"We have donors all over the world. Some sit in high places. Some are household names."
"Like who?"
"Let’s just say that if it ever got out who was giving us money, you would see faces you recognize from some rather large multinational software, internet search engine, media, and conglomerate holding companies being paraded across your TV screen."
Arkin began to spring his trap, first taking a pawn at the edge of Sheffield's line. But after several more turns, despite his best efforts to stay focused, Arkin found his attention being repeatedly drawn to Sheffield’s fluorescent eyewear retainer. Every time he looked at it, he thought of Pratt and his family, and his anger grew. Soon it became more than he could fully contain. He knew better than to ask, but couldn’t help himself. "Did you really have to kill Pratt?"
Sheffield took a long time to answer. "That was unfortunate."
"Yes." Arkin took another of Sheffield's pawns.
"It was not a decision that was made lightly. But there was no other option. We had no time to find a better way. He surprised us. He was going to expose us. He threatened our very existence. We acted out of a greater love for humanity."
Arkin took a couple of deep breaths through his nose as his blood began to boil. If only Sheffield hadn’t uttered that last, ridiculously offensive sentence. Sheffield, the man who'd presumably ordered Pratt's murder, the man who'd forced Arkin to abandon his dying wife. Hearing him say that he acted out of a greater love for humanity flipped a switch in Arkin's mind. He was instantly furious but fought to keep it under wraps.
"Isn't there some other, non-lethal approach you could take in dealing with the fear- mongers?"
"Such as?"
"Such as addressing what creates them in the first place, or addressing what makes some people more susceptible to their influence."
Sheffield smiled an approving smile. "So where would you start?"
"Identify the cause. The process. It isn't inherent or universal. After all, we aren't all fearmongers, and we aren't all overly susceptible to fearmongering, right? If we were, we'd all be fanatics or their followers. We'd all be Nazis or Earth First tree spikers or suicide bombers. So what drives some of us down those paths?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know. You've spent a lot more time thinking about this than I have."
"You're not getting off that easy. Let me ask you this: What drove you when you were a striver, working your fingers to the bone trying to climb that slippery career ladder back in D.C.?"
"Drove?"
"What were you after? You were so dedicated and tenacious. So driven. To what end? An enviable reputation? Fame? More power? More control? Your father's approval and unconditional love?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, please. You're more self-aware than that."
"I suppose we're all looking for some sort of lasting meaning. Checkmate."
"What?" Sheffield stared at the board. "Alekhine's Defense?"
Arkin nodded. "Planinc Variation."
"And I charged right into it with my eyes wide shut."
"You did."
"I should have recognized it."
"But you didn't."
Arkin sat silent, perplexed by Sheffield's question.
"Think about that, and we'll pick this up another time. Suffice it to say, we've given a great, great deal of thought and effort to non-violent tactics. But the sad fact is, you don't treat cancer with gentle medicines and then hope for slow progress."
Arkin didn't want to pick it up another time. He was fuming, itching for a fight. "That sounds like the sort of clichéd metaphor a cable news pundit would use," he said, knowing Sheffield despised all things cable.
Sheffield smiled weakly. "What an awful thing to say."
"If you don’t like it, then play me straight and quit feeding me your abstract tripe. Tell me what you’re getting at."
Sheffield held his palms up as if in surrender. "Another question, then."
"Fine."
"Who was the most evil person in the history of the world?"
"Hitler."
"You said that without hesitation."
"We've been over this."
"And yet, years ago, when we discussed this, you said you wouldn't have gunned down Hitler without due process."
"Before he'd done anything. Before he'd risen from obscurity to become a threat. That was the context of our conversation."
"See, that frames our whole issue here, or at least establishes a baseline—philosophically, ethically, practically."
"And my feelings remain the same."
"I’m not asking if you’d have shot some backwoods, meth-dealing Virginia hillbilly. I’m talking about Der Fuhrer."
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