Black Sunday

by Thomas Harris

  Now his eyes were hooded as he looked at Dahlia. His mouth opened slightly and his face was slack. This was the dangerous time. It hung in slow seconds while the motes swarmed in the sunlight, swarmed around Dahlia and the short, ugly shotgun by the bed.

  “You don’t have to get them one at a time, Michael,” she said softly. “And you don’t have to do the other for yourself. I want to do it for you. I love to do it.”

  She was telling the truth. Lander could always tell. His eyes opened wide again, and in a moment he could no longer hear his heart.

  Windowless corridors. Michael Lander walking through the dead air of the government office building, down the long floors where the buffer had swung from side to side in shining arcs. Guards in the blue uniform of the General Services Administration checking packages. Lander had no packages.

  The receptionist was reading a novel entitled A Nurse to Marry.

  “My name is Michael Lander.”

  “Did you take a number?”

  “No.”

  “Take a number,” the receptionist said.

  He picked up a numbered disk from a tray at the side of the desk.

  “What is your number?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Michael Lander.”

  “Disability?”

  “No. I’m supposed to check in today.” He handed her the letter from the Veterans Administration.

  “Take a seat, please.” She turned to the microphone beside her. “Seventeen.”

  Seventeen, a seedy young man in a vinyl jacket, brushed past Lander and disappeared into the warren behind the secretary.

  About half the fifty seats in the waiting room were filled. Most of the men were young, former Spec 4’s, who looked as slovenly in civilian clothes as they had in uniform. Lander could imagine them playing the pinball machine in a bus terminal in their wrinkled Class A’s.

  In front of Lander sat a man with a shiny scar above his temple. He had tried to comb his hair over it. At two-minute intervals he took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. He had a handkerchief in every pocket.

  The man beside Lander sat very still, his hands gripping his thighs. Only his eyes moved. They never rested, tracking each person who walked through the room. Often he had to strain to turn his eyes far enough, because he would not turn his head.

  In a small office in the maze behind the receptionist, Harold Pugh was waiting for Lander. Pugh was a GS-12 and rising. He thought of his assignment to the special POW section as “a feather in my cap.”

  A considerable amount of literature came with Pugh’s new job. Among the reams of advisories was one from the Air Force surgeon general’s national consultant on psychiatry. The advisory said, “It is not possible for a man exposed to severe degrees of abuse, isolation, and deprivation not to develop depression born out of extreme rage repressed over a long period of time. It is simply a question of when and how the depressive reaction will surface and manifest itself.”

  Pugh meant to read the advisories as soon as he could find the time. The military record on Pugh’s desk was impressive. Waiting for Lander, he glanced through it again.

  Lander, Michael J. 0214278603. Korea 1951, Naval OCS. Very high marks. Lighter-than-air training at Lakehurst; N.J., 1954. Exceptional rating. Commendation for research in aircraft icing. Navy polar expedition 1956. Shifted to Administration when the Navy phased out its blimp program in 1964. Volunteered for helicopters 1964. Vietnam. Two tours. Shot down near Dong Hoi February 10, 1967. Six years a prisoner of war.

  Pugh thought it peculiar that an officer with Lander’s record should resign his commission. Something was not quite right there. Pugh remembered the closed hearings after the POWs came home. Perhaps it would be better not to ask Lander why he resigned.

  He looked at his watch. Three-forty. Fellow was late. He pushed a button on his desk telephone and the receptionist answered.

  “Is Mr. Lander here yet?”

  “Who, Mr. Pugh?”

  Pugh wondered if she was making a deliberate rhyme with his name. “Lander. Lander. He’s one of the specials. Your instructions are to send him right in when he comes.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pugh. I will.”

  The receptionist returned to her novel. At three fifty, needing a bookmark, she picked up Lander’s letter. The name caught her eye.

  “Thirty-six. Thirty-six.” She rang Pugh’s office. “Mr. Lander is here now.”

  Pugh was mildly surprised at Lander’s appearance. Lander was sharp in his civilian flight captain’s uniform. He moved briskly and his gaze was direct. Pugh had pictured himself dealing with hollow-eyed men.

  Pugh’s appearance did not surprise Lander. He had hated clerks all his life.

  “You’re looking well, Captain. You’ve bounced back nicely, I’d say.”

  “Nicely.”

  “Good to be back with the family, I’m sure.”

  Lander smiled. His eyes were not involved in the smile. “The family is fine, I understand.”

  “They’re not with you? I believe you’re married... it says here ... let’s see, yes. Two children?”

  “Yes, I have two children. I’m divorced.”

  “I’m sorry. My predecessor on your case, Gorman, left very few notes, I’m afraid.” Gorman had been promoted for incompetence.

  Lander was watching Pugh steadily, a faint smile on his lips.

  “When were you divorced, Captain Lander? I have to bring this up-to-date.” Pugh was like a domestic cow grazing placidly near the edge of the swamp, not sensing what was downwind in the black shade watching him.

  Suddenly Lander was talking about the things he could never think about. Never think about.

  “The first time she filed was two months before my release. While the Paris talks were stalled on the point of elections, I believe. But she didn’t go through with it then. She moved out a year after I got back. Please don’t feel badly, Pugh. The government did everything it could.”

  “I’m sure, but it must—”

  “A naval officer came around several times after I was captured and had tea with Margaret and counseled her. There is a standard procedure for preparing POW wives, as I’m sure you know.”

  “I suppose that sometimes—”

  “He explained to her that there is an increased incidence of homosexuality and impotence among released POWs. So she would know what to expect, you understand.” Lander wanted to stop. He must stop.

  “It’s better to let—”

  “He told her that the life expectancy of a released POW is about half the average.” Lander was wearing a wide smile now.

  “Surely, Captain, there must have been some other factors.”

  “Oh sure, she was already getting some dick on the side, if that’s what you mean.” Lander laughed, the old spike through him, the pressure building behind his eyes. You don’t have to get them one at a time, Michael. Sit in a cell and sing and masturbate.

  Lander closed his eyes so that he could not see the pulse in Pugh’s throat.

  Pugh’s reflex was to laugh with Lander, to ingratiate himself. But he was offended in a Baptist sort of way by glib, cheap references to sex. He stopped the laugh in time. That action saved his life.

  Pugh picked up the file again. “Did you receive counseling about it?”

  Lander was easier now. “Oh, yes. A psychiatrist at St. Alban’s Naval Hospital discussed it with me. He was drinking a Yoo-Hoo.”

  “If you feel the need of further counseling I can arrange it.”

  Lander winked. “Look, Mr. Pugh. You’re a man of the world and so am I. These things happen. What I want to see you about is some compensation for the old flipper here.” He held up his disfigured hand.

  Now Pugh was on familiar ground. He pulled Lander’s Form 214 from the file. “Since you obviously are not disabled, we’ll have to find a way, but”—he winked at Lander—“we’ll take care of you.”

  It was four thirty p
.m. and the evening rush had begun when Lander came out of the Veterans Administration building into the soiled Manhattan afternoon. The sweat was cold on his back as he stood on the steps and watched the garment district crowds funnel toward the Twenty-third Street subway station. He could not go in there with them and be jammed in the train.

  Many of the VA personnel were taking an early slide from their jobs. A stream of them fanned the doors of the building and jostled him back against the wall. He wanted to fight. Margaret came over him in a rush, and he could smell her and feel her. Talking about it over a plywood desk. He had to think about something. The teapot whistle. Not that, for God’s sake. Now he had a cold ache in his colon and he reached for a Lomotil tablet. Too late for Lomotil. He would have to find a restroom. Quick. Now he walked back to the waiting room, the dead air like cobwebs on his face. He was pale and sweat stood out on his forehead as he entered the small restroom. The single stall was occupied and another man was waiting outside it. Lander turned and walked back through the waiting room. Spastic colon, his medical profile said. No medication prescribed. He had found Lomotil for himself.

  Why didn’t I take some before?

  The man with the moving eyes tracked Lander as far as he could without turning his head. The pain in Lander’s bowels was coming in waves now, making goose bumps on his arms, and he was gagging.

  The fat janitor fumbled through his keys and let Lander into the employees’ washroom. Waiting outside, the janitor could not hear the unpleasant sounds. At last, Lander turned his face up to the Celotex ceiling. Retching had made his eyes water, and the tears ran down his face.

  For a second he was squatting beside the path with the guards watching on the forced march to Hanoi.

  It was the same, the same. The teapot whistle came.

  “Cocksuckers,” Lander croaked. “Cocksuckers.” He wiped his face with his ugly hand.

  Dahlia, who had had a busy day with Lander’s credit cards, was on the platform when he got off the commuter train. She saw him ease down off the step and knew he was trying not to joggle his insides.

  She filled a paper cup with water from the fountain and took a small bottle from her purse. The water turned milky as she poured in the paregoric.

  He did not see her until she was beside him, offering the cup.

  It tasted like bitter licorice and left a faint numbness in his lips and tongue. Before they reached the car, the opium was soothing the ache and in five minutes it was gone. When they reached the house, he fell into bed and slept for three hours.

  Lander woke confused and unnaturally alert. His defenses were working, and his mind recoiled from painful images with the speed of a pinball. His thoughts rolled over the safe, painted images between the buzzers and the bells. He had not blown it today, he could rest on that.

  The teapot—his neck tightened. He seemed to itch somewhere between his shoulders and his cortex in a place he could not reach. His feet would not keep still.

  The house was completely dark, its ghosts just beyond the firelight of his will. Then, from the bed, he saw a flickering light coming up the stairs. Dahlia was carrying a candle, her shadow huge on the wall. She wore a dark floor-length robe that covered her completely and her bare feet made no sound. Now she was standing by him, the candlelight a pinpoint in her great, dark eyes. She held out her hand.

  “Come, Michael. Come with me.”

  Slowly backing down the dark hall, she led him, looking into his face. Her black hair down over her shoulders. Backing, feet peeping white from under the hem. Back to what had been the playroom, empty these seven months. Now in the candlelight Lander could see that a huge bed waited at the end of the room and heavy drapes covered the walls. Incense touched his face and the small blue flame of a spirit lamp flickered on a table near the bed. It was no longer the room where Margaret had—no, no, no.

  Dahlia put her candle beside the lamp and with a feather touch removed Lander’s pajama top. She undid the drawstring and knelt to slip the trousers off his feet, her hair brushing against his thigh. “You were so strong today.” She gently pressed him back upon the bed. The silk beneath him was cool and the air was a cool ache upon his genitals.

  He lay watching her as she lit two tapers in holders on the walls. She passed him the slender hash pipe and stood at the foot of the bed, the candle shadows moving behind her.

  Lander felt that he was falling into those bottomless eyes. He remembered as a child lying in the grass on dear summer nights, looking into heavens suddenly dimensional and deep. Looking up until there was no up and he was falling out into the stars.

  Dahlia dropped her robe and stood before him.

  The sight of her pierced him as it had the first time, and his breath caught in his throat. Dahlia’s breasts were large, and their curves were not the curves of a vessel but of a dome, and she had a cleavage even when they were unconfined. Her nipples darkened as they came erect. She was opulent, but not forbidden, her curves and hollows lapped by candlelight.

  Lander felt a sweet shock as she turned to take the vessel of sweet oil from above the spirit lamp and the light played over her. Kneeling astride him, she rubbed the warm oil on his chest and belly, her breasts swaying slightly as she worked.

  As she leaned forward, her belly rounded slightly and receded again into the dark triangle.

  It grew thick and soft and springy up her belly, a black explosion radiating tufts as though it tried to climb. He felt it touch his navel and, looking down, he saw suspended in the whorls like pearls in the candelight, the first drops of her essence.

  It would bathe him he knew, and be warm on his scrotum and it would taste like bananas and salt.

  Dahlia took a mouthful of the warm, sweet oil and held him in it, nodding gently, deeply to the rhythm of his blood, her hair spilling warm over him.

  And all the while her eyes, wide-set as a puma’s and full of the moon, never left his face.

  3

  A SOUND LIKE A SLOW roll of thunder shivered the air in the bedroom and the candle flames quivered, but Dahlia and Lander, fixed in each other, did not notice it. It was a common sound—the late jet shuttle from New York to Washington. The Boeing 727 was six thousand feet above Lakehurst and climbing.

  Tonight it carried the hunter. He was a broad-shouldered man in a tan suit, and he was seated on the aisle just behind the wing. The stewardess was collecting fares. He handed her a new fifty-dollar bill. She frowned at it. “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

  “For two fares,” he said, indicating the big man asleep beside him. “For his and mine.” He had an accent the stewardess could not place. She decided he was German or Dutch. She was wrong.

  He was Major David Kabakov of the Mossad Aliyah Beth, the Israeli Secret Service, and he was hoping the three men seated across the aisle behind him had smaller bills with which to pay their fare. Otherwise the stewardess might remember them. He should have tended to it in Tel Aviv, he thought. The connection at Kennedy Airport had been too close to permit getting change. It was a small error, but it annoyed him. Major Kabakov had lived to be thirty-seven because he did not make many errors.

  Beside him Sergeant Robert Moshevsky was snoring softly, his head back. On the long flight from Tel Aviv, neither Kabakov nor Moshevsky had given any sign of recognition to the three men behind them, though they had known them for years. The three were burly men with weathered faces, and they wore quiet, baggy suits. They were what the Mossad called a “tactical incursion team.” In America they would be called a hit squad.

  In the three days since he had killed Hafez Najeer in Beirut, Kabakov had had very little sleep, and he knew that he must give a detailed briefing as soon as he reached the American capital. The Mossad, analyzing the material he brought back from the raid on the Black September leadership, acted instantly when the tape recording was played. There was a hurried conference at the American embassy and Kabakov was dispatched.

  It had been clearly understood at the Tel Aviv meeting betwe
en American and Israeli intelligence that Kabakov was being sent to the United States to help the Americans determine if a real threat existed and to help identify the terrorists if they could be located. His official orders were clear.

  But the high command of the Mossad had given him an additional directive that was flat and unequivocal. He was to stop the Arabs by whatever means necessary.

  Negotiations for the sale of additional Phantom and Sky-hawk jets to Israel were at a critical stage, and Arab pressure against the sale was intensified by the Western shortage of oil. Israel must have the airplanes. On the first day that no Phantoms flashed over the desert, the Arab tanks would roll.

  A major atrocity within the United States would tip the balance of power in favor of the American isolationists. For the Americans, helping Israel must not have too high a price.

  Neither the Israeli nor the American state departments knew about the three men sitting behind Kabakov They would settle into an apartment near National Airport and wait for him to call. Kabakov hoped the call would not be necessary. He would prefer to handle it himself, quietly.

  Kabakov hoped the diplomats would not meddle with him. He distrusted both diplomats and politicians. His attitude and approach were reflected in his Slavic features—blunt but intelligent.

  Kabakov believed that careless Jews die young and weak ones wind up behind barbed wire. He had been a child of war, fleeing Latvia with his family just ahead of the German invasion and later fleeing the Russians. His father died in Tre blinka. His mother took Kabakov and his sister to Italy in a journey that killed her. As she struggled toward Trieste, there was a fire inside her that gave her strength while it consumed her flesh.

  When Kabakov remembered, across thirty years, the road to Trieste, he saw it with his mother’s arm swinging diagonally across his vision as she walked ahead, holding his hand, her elbow, knobby in the thin arm, showing through her rags. And he remembered her face, almost incandescent as she woke the children before the first light reached the ditch where they were sleeping.