OCTOBER 11th

 

 

Large red numbers flashed. The timer counted down:

Twenty.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

The device swelled with power, set for a devastating burst. Amin chanted feverishly, prepared to ride its destructive wave to salvation. The timer hit ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Amin drew a deep breath and held it. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the timer.

Three.

Two.

An electric coil inside the timer whined in a rising pitch, and, just when the sound grew unbearable, it stopped abruptly, sizzling like a match dropped in water. The device’s display faded, and the room’s single fluorescent light sputtered out, enveloping Amin in darkness.

Amin el Fassid was kneeling prostrate on his rug, facing Mecca and, incidentally, the large bubbling device in the middle of the basement floor. The device was a bomb, a collection of chemicals and electronics that was well beyond his understanding; though he had spent the last four hours assembling it, he had no idea how it worked. But, as the bubbling tank in the heart of the bomb grew still, it became clear that it wasn’t going to work.

Amin blinked, hoping his eyes were mistaken. His stomach trembled with panic; he had been ready to die but unprepared for failure. Maybe this was death, he thought. Nothing but a sudden stillness. But no, the bomb remained intact, unexploded, a silent shadow on the dark floor.

Every move Amin had made over the past six weeks had been planned out for him down to the minute. These plans had guided him through his long journey, but there were no plans beyond this moment. He was without direction now, alone in this alien room, in this alien country, far too far from the desert.

Amin clasped his hands together and squeezed reassurance into them. He had to focus. What came next was up to him.

Still on his knees, Amin extended his arms into the black air that surrounded him, probing left and right. He found a thin metal tube and traced it back to the bomb’s core, a copper tub the size used for laundry. The tub was searing hot, but he pressed his palm flat to its side, ignoring the pain and feeling the liquid bubbling inside. The bubbling was tapering off, growing still. He let out a small moan, for both the pain in his hands and in his heart. At the very moment of his triumph, success had been snatched away. He had failed.

He put his stinging hand to his forehead, rubbing the holy mark. The mark was a scar, a waxy lump of flesh that crept down from his turban, the size of a large coin and pale white against his dark leather skin. Allah had put the mark on him fourteen years earlier, singling Amin out and sealing his destiny. The holy mark had brought him to the attention of Il Siyâh, and they had sent him here, to this strange and distant Sodom, where the infidels flaunted their sins on the open streets. Tonight, Amin was to be Allah’s hand, to reduce this foul city to salt and to become a martyr the likes of which had not been seen since Sumayah herself. But now … had God chosen mercy? No, he could not believe it. This was just a further test. He must continue to prove himself.

Amin rose to his feet. He wasn’t a tall man, but the turban added inches. A full beard of black hair masked his face except for his brown eyes, which anxiously searched the dark.

He took a careful step, feeling with pointed toe, trying to remember the room that had been so recently lit. His djellaba, a simple cotton robe, hung loosely over his wiry frame. It was damp with sweat, cold against the bare skin underneath. Two more steps and his foot struck something heavy. He crouched down, finding his duffel bag. He dug through metal tools to the very bottom, where his hand closed around a cheap plastic flashlight.

The duffel had been prepared for him, but he had added the flashlight himself, having found it in the glove compartment of the van he used to transport the bomb. He had been strictly forbidden from bringing anything not provided for him, but it had looked useful, and Allah favors the prepared.

He slid the plastic switch, then banged it quietly against his palm until he was rewarded with a dim orange light. He surprised himself by sighing with relief.

He traced the faint light over the bomb. Its jumble of wires and tubes looked foreign to him now, like he’d never laid eyes on them before. A single bubble rose from the copper tub in the center, its soft gurgle punctuating the silence. Amin tapped his index finger on the dull LED display, then chastised himself for thinking this test could be so easily won. Top scientists had designed this bomb, and top engineers had constructed it. This was an attack on the West to overshadow all others, and everything had been checked and double-checked. Whatever had failed would not be in the device itself.

The flashlight faded and remained dark even as he pounded it against his palm. But there was faint light from a small window set high in the far wall, just above the sidewalk outside. A metal grate secured the window, but Amin had sawed the lock off while he had waited for the bomb to warm up. He hadn’t expected to need an escape route, but he was thankful he had taken such precautions.

His eyes adjusted, bringing shapes out of the darkness. His nose caught the acid smell of burnt plastic, and he followed it deeper into the room, sliding between the elephantine machinery of the ventilation system, heading toward the building’s circuit breaker panel. But then he froze, foot hanging in midstep. Something had tickled in his ear. He strained against the hollow silence, wondering if it was only his imagination, but the noise came again. Distant footsteps.

He lowered his foot softly, looking first at the landing of the staircase, which led down from the ground floor, then to the bomb that sat so obviously in the center of the floor. Even in this dim light, it would be the first thing anyone would see.

He ducked down, estimating the height of the gap between the ventilation machinery and the floor, then he returned to the copper tub and pushed it with both hands. The tub didn’t move; its wall bent inward, and liquid sloshed onto the floor. He cursed himself for assembling the bomb on the floor instead of on the nearby cart, which held nothing but empty bottles whose contents now affixed the tub to the floor. But there was no time for regrets—the footsteps grew louder. Closer.

His heart racing, Amin yanked a white sheet off the cart, then kicked it away, its wheels squeaking over the polished concrete. He spread the sheet over the bomb. In the dim light, it resembled a melted ghost.

The metallic clink of a door latch echoed through the room, and the beam of a flashlight danced in the stairwell. Feet shuffled down the steps—a single person—and Amin heard him whistling to keep up his spirits as he descended into the dark basement.

Amin drew a heavy long-barreled revolver from the worn holster under his arm. He wasn’t supposed to have his gun either, but he would have no sooner left it behind than come naked. The revolver’s wooden grip was supple, polished for generations by the palms of holy warriors like himself. Amin tilted the revolver forward and back, its familiar weight vanquishing all fears. He gave no further thought to the strange device behind him or of the long journey to this God-forsaken country. It was only him now, and his approaching enemy.

Amin moved across the room on the balls of his feet, then flattened himself to the wall beside the doorway.

The whistling grew louder, and the footsteps shuffled to its rhythm. Feet hit the landing and the light swept across the room, flashing in Amin’s eyes, blinding him. His finger tightened, but he didn’t fire. A blind shot would be useless, dangerous. The flashlight moved away; he hadn’t been seen.

Through orange spots, Amin saw the shadow of a man, outlined against the oval beam of his flashlight. The whistling stopped when the light found the bulging sheet.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?” the man muttered, bending down, lifting the cloth, and inspecting the nest of plastic tubes underneath.

Amin stepped forward, extending his arm. Not trusting his light-blinded eyes, he pressed the revolver to the back of the man’s neck. The man jumped, first from the touch of the barrel, then again as the gun kicked a bullet into him.

The man crumpled, his lifeless body slapping the floor. The ring of the gunshot echoed, a tuneless requiem for an unknown man. Amin stared dumbly at the body. Guns had been his whole life, but he’d never before killed a man.

The echo of the gunshot faded, replaced by distant yelling and hurried footsteps.

“Guillaume?” a voice called down the steps. “Guillaume?”

Amin shook off his stupor, holstered his gun, and sprinted across the dark room. It was sheer luck that he didn’t trip. He leapt for the small window with all his strength, slamming into the wall as his hands gripped the windowsill, his feet hanging in the air. He used one hand to flip up the grate, then got his shoulder under it and punched through the window. Glass tinkled out onto the sidewalk, and cold fresh air poured over him.

Footsteps drummed down the stairs, stampeding toward him. Amin reached through the broken window, grabbed the outside sill, and pulled himself up. The jagged shards of glass scraped along his arm, then his shoulders, as he pulled through. He chanted softly, warding off the pain.

When his shoulders were through, he turned his palms flat on the sill and locked his elbows to his hips. He raised his legs until his body was flat, balanced horizontally, then he tipped forward, sliding through the gap in the tendrils of glass. As he passed outside, he rolled his feet over his head, curling into a ball. He flipped over and landed feet first on the hard sidewalk, dropping to a crouch, waiting, listening.

Though he was in the middle of a city, the cool night air was thick with the smells of trees and foliage. It was overpowering after so many hours of confinement.

There were panicked voices inside; the body had been found.

He inspected the lacerations on his arms and shoulders. His djellaba was absorbing the blood, so he would leave no trail. Staying low, he dashed across the empty street and ducked behind the row of parked cars on the other side. He used the vehicles as cover as he made his way to his own, a white van with a cartoon of a well-fed maid in a skimpy outfit on its side. Blue italic letters declared Premier rang: Service de ménage. A bubble rose from the maid’s mouth, affirming, “Nous sommes au premier rang!” The company was real, but they knew nothing of this van.

Amin drew his revolver and flipped it around to use the butt as a hammer. The barrel was as warm as flesh, as if it held the life it had stolen. He smashed the window, scattering diamond-sized chunks of glass across the bench seat. He popped the lock and slid to the driver’s side. The key was in the ignition, just as he had left it, and the van started easily. He tucked the revolver at his side and, despite the urgency he felt, idled the van from its parking spot and puttered slowly away. He checked the mirror frequently, but nothing moved on the street behind him.

He had no idea what came next. If things had gone according to plan, he would be dead.

He decided to head back to the de Gaulle airport, where he had acquired the van. There he could retrace his steps, again using the crowd from an arriving flight as cover and returning to the city by train. Once he was certain he was not being followed, he’d seek out his contact and confess his failure.

After two blocks, he turned the van down a narrow street, edging between the cars parked on either side. He puttered through two more byways before arriving at the Seine, the wide river that cuts Paris in two as it wound toward the English Channel. The light was red as the van turned onto the wide avenue that traced the river’s edge. The van accelerated, blending anonymously into the city’s traffic, which persisted even at this dark hour.

The clock atop the Musée d’Orsay watched the passing van like the eye of a giant. That eye had beheld two world wars and, tonight, had nearly witnessed the start of a third. Hidden among the tree-covered neighborhoods behind it, a normally sleepy bank was a flurry of activity. Security guards were calling police, and the police, once apprised, were calling higher authorities.

text ©2009 Brett James