by George Lazăr
Until the long nose of a Mack truck cut directly and aggressively in front of their car just as they entered Interstate 678 in Queens. It had appeared from a side street, ignoring the traffic rules, and his companion avoided the truck at the last moment with a violent evasive maneuver that tossed Bolden forward in the passenger’s seat. Safe for the moment, but with a symphony of angry horns behind them, the driver decided to pass the Mack, which had slowed considerably ahead of them.
Yet when the driver of the Mack spotted their move into the passing lane, the truck slalomed into the left lanes with the obvious purpose of boxing them in.
“Damn it! What does this guy want?” the driver cursed, blowing the car’s horn.
“He thinks he’s playing with me, eh? I’ll show him!”
Gritting his teeth, the man spun the steering wheel and snatched the handbrake, a move that put him into an exit ramp and led them down to the intersection with Grand Central. The massive Chevy skidded until it was perpendicular on the street’s axis, then, at full throttle, sprung forth on Grand Central, his back wheels throwing up smoke. Bolden turned his head in time to watch the Mack disappear.
The driver drove his Chevy up to Hill Side Avenue, where he got into the right lane and flowed out onto Interstate 678 again. He drove quietly and tensely, looking in the rear-view mirror. After he convinced himself that they weren’t followed, he relaxed.
“There are all sorts of lunatics out there these days. Guys like these like to pretend that they … Holy shit!” he yelled as a military Humvee barreled down on them with a roar out of Rockway Boulevard and slammed directly into the back of the Chevy, bumping it into the median.
In an instant, Colonel Folder, dressed in a black tactical uniform, charged out of the Humvee and flung open the passenger’s side door to the Chevy.
“Sir, you’re coming with us. Now,” he commanded.
The thought of actually challenging Folder’s authority barely occurred to Bolden, but the sight of two men in matching urban paramilitary uniforms pointing automatic rifles at him squelched that impulse for good.
Two other Hummers arrived simultaneously, one screeching to a halt in front of the Suburban, the other boxing it in from the rear. The colonel escorted Bolden rapidly to one of the military-styled vehicles and climbed into the back seat beside him. It pulled away from the scene with an impressive roar and turned violently, taking advantage of a moment of low traffic, passing the Chevy and its talkative driver, who stood speechless as they accelerated onto Interstate 678 again, only this time traveling in the opposite direction.
“You gave us quite the chase,” Folder said as they merged onto the interstate.
Bolden struggled to articulate his outrage.
“You...,” he pointed an accusing finger at the colonel. “So the taxi... it didn’t have a puncture?”
The colonel nodded slightly.
“And the truck was you, too? Are you mad? I thought you were supposed to protect me! And what the hell do you do? You tried to kill me!”
Folder didn’t seem at all disturbed. “You don’t look dead to me. Seems like I’ve accomplished my mission.”
“Those were absurd risks!”
“Do you know what your risk assessment was this morning? You were up to almost 80 percent. You’re not just likely to die today, Mr. Bolden, you’re supposed to die today. And we’re not going to push you onto a more fortunate probability line with a lot of please-and-thank-yous.”
“I fail to see the logic behind...”
“Shut up and listen to me! What you fail to see is that the event that’s supposed to take your life hasn’t happened yet. The incidents you experienced earlier today were a danger only for those around you and the teams assigned to protect you.”
The colonel pulled a rectangular box the size of a pack of cigarettes out of one of his cargo pockets. It featured two dials similar to the fuel gauges on older generation cars, each calibrated in units of ten, from zero to one hundred. The indicator on the left hardly moved past zero, but the one on the right was descending, pausing to tremble around fifty. He gave a satisfied look and stowed the indicator in the same uniform pocket from whence it came.
“This is a race, and we run against death. This time we came in first. And congratulations. I’m told this is the first time that The Guardian Angel has successfully saved the life of a Level 3 without a contract.”
“That gadget you were looking at,” Bolden asked. “What was it?”
“The Device. It’s not remotely as precise as the equipment we have at our bases, but this model has the advantage of being portable. It is tuned only to your time line, which lets our designers keep the unit so small.”
“And those dials?”
“The one on the left is a general indicator, a sum of probabilities. It randomly picks up fluxes on a very large scale, in principle, from all the human beings on the planet. We can reduce its range with this potentiometer. It’s useful in determining whether the people around the client are entering the risk zone alongside the target. So it would indicate a general threat, like a bomb.
“The dial on the right is entirely solely to you. When the probability indicator remains under 50 percent it means we can control the situation fairly well. In a normal state, the probability should decrease to below 10 percent. Then it is not necessary for us to intervene at all.”
Bolden found himself bucking Folder’s explanation. Now more than ever, the whole story seemed like malicious nonsense. Only lunatics would shoot the tires of a speeding vehicle and say there was absolutely no danger. He felt the blood rushing to his head when he remembered the Mack truck on the highway.
“Stop this vehicle right now!” Bolden shouted. “You think I’m going to swallow this filth? You think a phony little box with indicators on it impresses me? You’re mad! You’re not my protectors – you’re the threat! Now stop this vehicle and let me go!”
Bolden tried the door handle next to him, but it didn’t open the latch. Fury welled up in him, and he turned and took a jab at the colonel’s jaw. Folder parried the weak punch with practiced efficiency, grabbing Bolden’s wrist, twisting it and pinning it behind his back in a quick series of fluid motions. Frustration overtook the billionaire, who was now completely under another man’s control.
The colonel reached into another pocket with his free hand, producing a hypodermic pistol, which he quickly and coldly discharged into Bolden’s neck. The tranquilizer t00k effect immediately.
Chapter 9
United Airlines Flight 337 had finished boarding passengers and waited only for approval from the control tower. The huge Boeing 787-12 Dreamliner rolled sluggishly away from the terminal, its two Rolls Royce Trent 1000 engines spinning slowly. The aircraft took position at the end of flight strip 2C, as JFK traffic control had requested, and the captain raced the engines and started rolling the plane.
The engines tightened, like giants who wake suddenly, and each let loose about fifty thousand kilograms of force, easily setting in motion the aircraft, weighing two hundred and fifty tons, with its fuel, luggage and three human souls on board.
After rolling for more than two kilometers, the aircraft reached two hundred and ninety kilometers per hour and, having obtained enough lifting power, it rose slowly into the air above the concrete strip. After it had lifted itself a few dozens of meters, the pilot retracted the landing gear and began a long turn toward the Atlantic, placing it on an air corridor to Haiti, and Port-au-Prince, where they were supposed to arrive in four hours.
Danielle was staring blankly through the porthole next to her comfortable business-class seat. Behind her, in the passengers in economy class sat nine to each row, but for the billionaire’s girlfriend such discomforts were foreign concepts now. She managed with difficulty not to look at the empty seat next to her, the one Ian should have filled. They had been together for only two years, and though there wasn’t an ounce of romance left in their relationship, at least she felt safe next to him.
She cared for him, and she was convinced that, in his own warped way, he also needed her.
That belief had been challenged by his behavior since his strange disappearance in Paris. And now this – a no-show at the gate, without a call.
She couldn’t find an explanation, but resolved to try calling him again. Danielle swiped her credit card through the satellite phone embedded in the back of the seat in front of her, then started keying in his number.
She would never finish. Her attention was distracted by a shadow that rapidly darkened the window next to her.
***
Yassine Gadhe was a terrorist, an Iraqi who had immigrated to the United States with little more than his old grudges and a dream. And even though the rented Cessna Stationair 206H he was flying had room for six, Yassine was the only person aboard. He needed the rest of the room for the bomb.
He had taken off from a private airport, destined for small general aviation aircraft, fifteen minutes prior, and now he was zeroing in on his quarry, just 300 meters above the ground.
He was legally working as a technician in a chemical fertilizer enterprise, despite the fact that he was a licensed engineer. His short, slim body, dressed in the black jalabiya of the Hashashiyyin sect, seemed to have blended with the pilot seat, which was covered in similarly colored leather.
Yassine was well-known at the airport, where he frequently rented small planes. This time he had specifically asked for the only 206H available and was careful to make a reservation well in advance, even though its weight and fuel consumption made the plane an expensive and rare choice for an hour’s recreational flight.
From time to time, Yassine threw a worried glance at the four large canvas bags tied to the seats behind him. Forty square bottles of whiskey were carefully aligned in each of them. Yassine, a practicing Muslim, had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life except to empty the contents of those bottles into the toilet. Instead, these were filled with ammonium nitrate – stolen bit by bit, over a long period of time, from the factory where he worked. Earlier today, he’d mixed the compound with gasoline. The result was high unstable and powerfully explosive, requiring only a spark to detonate. He’d engineered the device so that the spark would come from an inertial impact switch.
In the economy class, the approach of the Cessna aircraft was filmed with the cell phone by a 12-year-old kid with the nickname Serious Boy, who was accompanying his parents for the first time on such a long flight. He had set his phone to broadcast everything he recorded directly on YouTube, at an address he had given to a couple of his friends he hoped to impress. He was planning to record as much as possible from his trip and he thought there was no reason not to start with his airline travel. Like many other passengers, he paid no attention to the ridiculous request of the flight attendants to turn off all electronic devices on the pretext it could affect the flight’s safety. Even a 12-year-old knew that such things no longer occurred.
The Cessna came from the front and from above. Diving, he darted upon the huge airliner. The pilot of the Boeing saw him at the last moment, but too late. The Cessna hit the Boeing right above the port wing, with Serious Boy live-streaming the event to his shocked schoolmates via his cell phone.
The Boeing didn’t disintegrate on impact, and the passengers who survived the initial strike and explosion faced a terrifying plunge. Death didn’t take them instantly, but death didn’t have to wait long.
Chapter 10
When he woke up, Bolden’s head felt heavier than it had after the drinking bout at the hotel. He turned sluggishly on one side and tried to pick out the outlines of the room in the semidarkness. He was lying on a black sofa that smelled of recently processed leather and someone had place a small pillow under his head. They hadn’t taken his shoes off, but someone had covered him with a blanket, and he’d been sweating profusely beneath it
He didn’t hear a sound, but he perceived the variations of light in the room. Colonel Folder was already seated comfortably next to him, in a leather armchair the same color as the sofa. In front of the sofa, a muted flat-screen was broadcasting the news.
“Take this,” the colonel said, passing him a small plastic cup with a pill in it. “It’ll cut through that headache pretty fast.” Bolden took the pill, then accepted the cup of water Folder passed him to chase it down.
“What have you done to me?” he asked as he set the cup down and settled back into the sofa. “Where am I?”
He wanted to lash at the colonel, but felt much too exhausted. And the questions ... he had shouted them in his mind, but the words came out like an anemic whirr. Bolden winced as he sat up, blinking away the fog.
The colonel watched with a patronizing smile.
“This is a Guardian Angel safe house,” he said. “And as soon as that tranquilizer wears off, you’re free to go. We’ll even provide the car and driver.”
Bolden’s mind struggled to focus.
“What happened back there in Queens?”
“We rescued you,” Folder said quietly. “Your last freebie.”
“Rescued me? What are you talking about?”
Folder took the remote control from the arm of his chair and unmuted the audio. For the next ten minutes, Bolden watched in horror as news reports recounted the fate of the airliner he’d been rushing to catch.
Not only was everyone on board believed to be dead, but the crash had obliterated the larger part of a dense neighborhood in Far Rockaway, Queens. Scenes from the ground were chaotic, but the discovery of Serious Boy’s video stream had injected a terrifying new element of fascination into the news mix.
Bolden had been watching for several minutes before his tranq-addled brain was able to form the question that had been nagging him. Danielle was supposed to meet him at the airport. Danielle was going to wait for him at the gate.
“Was Danielle on that plane?” he asked.
The colonel averted his eyes and nodded grimly.
The answer struck him like a falling stone.
His life, his perfect life until recently, seemed over. It wasn’t the thought of losing the woman with whom he had spent the previous two years that made him cry, but the realization that his innocent normalcy had died in the crash with her. He was no longer the spoiled man who received every good thing in life as a personal entitlement. He had become an animal, hunted by relentless fate.
He swiped at the tears on his face with his sleeve.
“You could have saved her,” he said. “You could have saved all of them. Hundreds of people. You just let them die.”
The colonel leaned in toward him.
“We’re not God,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “We saved you, and just that rescue alone taxed our resources to the brink. Danielle wasn’t under our observation.”
“You should have known. We were both about to board the same plane.”
“That’s hindsight.”
“It’s common sense!”
“Listen to me: we’re not responsible for her, or for any of those people,” he said, pointing at the television. “We did our jobs, and because we did them well, you’re still here. But people die, Ian. That’s the way it is.”
Bolden clenched his jaw.
“That Device with two dials. You said one of the needles indicates my probability of dying and the other one refers to the people around me. If the thing works at all, it should have indicated a catastrophe of this magnitude, which means you had to see this coming. So did you let them die to make your sales pitch more convincing?”
He spoke without emotion or reproach. The reasoning seemed logical enough.
“If you need to blame someone besides that terrorist for what just happened, call your own name,” Folder said. “You still don’t get it, do you? You’re the one who caused the deaths of all those people, Ian. The events generated by the forces that are trying to restore the natural balance we’ve disturbed always get more violent over time.”
“You hold it right there!” Bolden
yelled. “I … you …”
“You’re free to voice your objections, but we’re finished here,” Folder said, standing to go. “The maximum time limit for your free protection expired an hour ago, which means that for the first time in decades, you’re no longer my concern.”
Bolden gaped at him like a beached fish.
“So stay here until you get your bearings, and you’ll find a car and driver waiting for you on your way out. But that will be the end of your dealings with The Guardian Angel. Have a nice life.”
Folder turned to leave, picking up his leather briefcase from beside the armchair.
Panic spiked in Bolden’s gut.
“Stop! I want to see that contract!”
The words came out involuntarily, more ancient survival instinct than reason.
The colonel stopped and turned around slowly. Bolden expected to see a triumphant smile, but Folder’s face was expressionless, inscrutable. He returned to the armchair, deliberately placed the briefcase on his knees, opened it, retrieved a leather portfolio from inside and handed it to Bolden.
“I’m authorized to give you an additional twenty-four hours, starting now ...” he said, checking his watch, “to study the contract. You’re free to consult your attorneys and financial advisers, but they will also confirm that this is nothing more than a standard security contract with a conditional payment clause. It’s just an unusually expensive one.”
Bolden’s eyes scanned the document. “Good. I’ll have my people review this and we’ll get back to you with an appropriate counter-offer.”
“No, you won’t,” Folder said, closing his briefcase sharply and preparing to leave. “The contract terms are non-negotiable. You either sign it or you don’t.”
“Wait!” Bolden said. “Are you saying it is effective right away? Where do I have to sign?”
The colonel let his hands rest on the briefcase.
