Hard Fall (11 page)

“No it's not,” he tells her, finding his watch beneath his glove. “It's right on time. Pull over here.”

As she drives around the block, he carries the suitcase into the lobby, jammed with a hundred pieces of luggage. You can barely move for the luggage. An older couple, clearly late, sets their bags among the others and goes to join the tour for the final free breakfast. One thing you can count on with the Americans, he thinks, is that they will never turn down a free breakfast.

He carries the suitcase across the lobby. Monique has done her job well. There, in the sea of hundreds of bags, are ten, maybe fifteen, identical black Samsonites. Just like the one he's carrying. He cuts his way into the throng and sets his bag next to one of its twins. With his back to the registration desk, which is frantic with check-outs, he slips the personal identification tag off the one bag and on to his. It takes him less than ten seconds. There, it is done. All of these bags will be loaded by the bus driver, his substitute among them. At the airport, at check-in, the bags will be matched with passengers. By switching tags, he has insured this bag of his will be claimed. There will be one extra Samsonite that will not be claimed. Because of rules, it will not be loaded onto the plane. On large tours, such mistakes occur regularly. Nothing will be made of it. The bag will be returned to the hotel or destroyed by airport Security. His replacement will be boarded onto the plane in its place, Bernard's bomb inside.

He pulls the scarf up around his face and flexes his gloved hands, a person preparing for the bitter cold. Only his eyes show above the scarf, like an outlaw in a western.

The Mercedes is waiting. She is bent over the hood, stretched out, scraping the windscreen clear of ice. He feels a twinge of lust stir his loin. So foreign an experience is this that he only faintly recognizes it for what it is. He gets in the car. She climbs behind the wheel.

They drive for three hours to a Bavarian-style chalet hotel where they are to stay for three days. She talks for the entire trip. But he likes it, welcomes it as a blind man welcomes back his sight. It's the most time he has spent with any one person in over a year. As she is parking the car she says, “There has been a slight change of plans. We are to stay together.”

“What?”

“Michael insisted.”

“Impossible. We'll take two rooms.”

“It
is
two rooms. It is a suite. We are registered as a married couple. Do you find the idea so offensive?”

“It's not that at all.”

“What then?”

“Two rooms.”

“Listen, my passport has the same name as yours. So we share the same suite. So what?”

“Three days. We're here for
three
days with nothing to do!”

“He is right about you.”

“Right about what?”

“He said you are wound up as tight as a spring. He said you could use the rest.”

“What does he know?”

“Plenty. And you are wrong. About the three days, I mean. About nothing to do.”

“Am I?”

“It is three
nights
. Only two days. And do not worry about being bored. I can be very entertaining.”

“This is Michael's doing,” he says, smelling a conspiracy.

“Of course it is. It is
all
Michael's doing. No? Relax, you are in good hands.” She smiles. “Wonderful hands.”

He follows her like an obedient pet to the registration desk, signs them in, and accepts the key.

“Only the one bag?” asks the cherub-faced girl behind the counter. She has blond braids and enormous breasts. Red lipstick on her teeth.

Monique answers before Kort can get out a word. “Yes, only the one. We won't be needing a lot of clothes,” she says, winking as she adds, “It is our anniversary.” She hooks her arm into his and leads him toward the lift. He feels a flood of heat in his cheeks. Embarrassment is as foreign to him as the earlier stirring in his loins. This is new ground. He's uncomfortable.

They are only in the room a matter of minutes when a bottle of champagne is delivered.

“We didn't order this,” he tells the delivery boy. Always suspicious.

“Compliments of the manager, sir,” the boy says, pushing his way past and setting the champagne down. He makes a fuss, buying time for the tip. Kort obliges him and the boy leaves.

Monique whirls in from the bedroom and picks up the small note card alongside the glasses. “How thoughtful,” she says.

She hands him the card. She already has the foil off and the cage open. She's twisting the cork. It explodes from the bottle with a bang and his hand instinctively goes for his gun.

He's standing there with his hand inside his coat—she's shaking her head at him—and he thinks, maybe she's right, maybe I am wound up a little tight.

“Read the card,” she says, pouring two glasses of the wine.

He does.
Happy anniversary
, it reads.
Enjoy your stay with us
.

She walks over to the television and turns it on to CNN. They watch for a minute. Nothing yet.

Kort checks his watch.

“Relax,” she says, handing him a glass. “We have nothing but time.”

She lifts her glass to his, and there's that smile again. And he knows what she has in mind. And he knows he will enjoy it.

He was thinking that nothing repeats itself; nothing is ever the same. Time doesn't heal all wounds, it causes them.

She placed her hands on her hips defiantly. “Any problems?” she repeated. “We have nothing but problems! It is
over
,” she said. “Do you not see that? Do you not
feel
it? They have arrested him. Placed him in jail! My God, the sense of relief when I heard that.”

His face burned. “Relief? How can you say such a thing? Michael is in
jail
. He'll go to prison—probably for the rest of his life. And you … you act as if it's a holiday.”

“It
is
a holiday. We're free! He
used
us. Me, for the better part of three years; you, for how long? Five years? How many has it been for you? Or has it been
too
many? Maybe
that
is the problem.”

“And
Der Grund
—The Cause—what of the cause?” He saw a flicker of guilt cross her eyes, and in that instant knew she could be won over. “You've become like all the rest of them—you give up before accomplishing anything.” He was shouting. He crossed the room and turned up the volume on CNN. He ran CNN every waking hour.

“He has brainwashed you. Have you somehow forgotten that he blackmailed us? How can you forgive him that? I cannot. Will not. He is paying for it now. He deserves it. Why should I throw away these last two years? Give me one good reason.”

He thought for a moment and replied in terms he knew she would accept. “Because he will see us hunted down if this operation doesn't come off.” He gave this time to sink in. “Even from jail.” He watched as understanding registered on her face. He said, “The
only
way to break free of this—if that's what you want—is to see this operation through. No more
Der Grund
, no more operations. It's that simple. You can
buy
your freedom, Monique. We can both buy our freedom. Think it through.”

She paced the small room, hands in her pockets. There was more in this for him than for her. One of the men he intended to kill, the present chairman of EisherWorks Chemicals, was the man he held responsible for his child's birth defects and the destruction of his family. He needed Monique in order to accomplish this operation. Tackling an operation this size, alone, was nearly unthinkable.

“What operation? You must be kidding? We are crippled. We are nothing but a three-legged dog.” She glanced over at him suspiciously.

“We may be a three-legged dog, but we still can bite!” He tapped the briefcase, indicating the detonator, and stepped toward her. He felt a wonderful sense of power. Was it the result of the briefcase and its contents, or her? He wanted to take her. Right here. Right now. It had nothing to do with love. Nothing to do with feelings. It was power. He wanted her to submit to him fully, to open herself for him, to surrender. She had the face of a little girl when she climaxed—almost as if her pleasure was pain. He remembered that clearly. God, how he wanted her.

“A
two-legged
dog,” she corrected. “It is just the two of us now. No?” She collapsed to the edge of the bed. He sat next to her.

“A two-legged dog can still drag itself. A one-legged dog can only lie down and die. I won't do that. I refuse to do that.”

She leaned herself against him fully. “So what now?”

He felt triumphant. “Now, we have some time to kill.” He reached over and unbuttoned her top button. She slapped his hand away but he knew she didn't mean it.

“Tell me,” she said.

He unfastened the next button. “I'm going to drop a couple of planes. First here, and later, one in Washington. EisherWorks is finished.”

“You said the same thing at Frankfurt.”

“True.”

“And just exactly how do you intend to do this? You killed Eisher; they replaced him—”

“With Hans Mosner,” he interrupted. But whereas this name meant everything to him, it could never mean as much to her. Mosner had been in charge of the Duisberg factory at the time of the contamination emissions that had poisoned his community and his wife's pregnancy. Mosner was now chairman of EisherWorks. “Mosner is going to be in Washington. He is one of our prime targets.”

She looked at him skeptically. “More than one target?”

A pigeon landed at the window. Its wings were discolored by the polluted air. You couldn't see a half mile, it was so bad out there. He felt tempted to point out the pollution to her. It's what Michael would have done. “It's complicated. You'll see. In good time, you'll see.”

“See what?” she asked.

The less she knew, the better, and yet he was anxious to tell her because the plan was complex. Its complexity added to his sense of power, of superiority. He was anxious to tell
anyone
. The loneliness of the past month—his weeks in hiding prior to the operation—nearly fell prey to the comfort of her company. “It's better you don't know everything. What I can tell you is this: The plane we are dropping today is carrying key ingredients in the manufacturing of pesticides that can't be sold in the U.S. because of Food and Drug regulations. So, to get around the law, an EisherWorks American subsidiary makes the ingredients here and flies them to Mexico where they are combined to make the exact same pesticide that is outlawed. That pesticide is then used on Mexican food crops that are later harvested and eventually shipped back for consumption in the U.S. Around and around it goes. It stops today, this hypocrisy. And this is only the prelude.”

“Meaning?”

He hadn't meant to explain this much, but he was started now, and it felt good. “There's to be a meeting in Washington. Heavies. Mosner will be at this meeting, William Sandhurst of BiGeneer, Matthew Grady of ChemTronics, Douglas Fitzmaurice, Elizabeth Savile, Howard Goldenbaum. The heads of the biggest companies. I'm sick of cutting off fingers and limbs. It's time we cut off the head.”

Her voice filled with excitement. She recognized all the names, just as he knew she would. “Kill them all? What … they are all going to be on the same plane or something?”

“Or something.
Anything
is possible if you put your mind to it. Didn't your parents ever tell you that? You'll see.” He had the third button undone. Anything possible indeed. She hardly noticed. He reached in and cupped her breast. She filled his hand fully with a warmth that he felt in his groin. “With something like this, you take your time.”

“You are making fun of me. I hate you.”

“I'm making love with you.”

“Not until you tell me what it is we are going to do.”

“I can't. I've already told you more than I should.”

“No you haven't.” She looked him over and her eyes reconsidered. “Then again, there are other ways to make you talk.” She smiled. He skimmed his fingers lightly over her breast and felt her respond.

He wondered if his erection was the result of touching her, or the enormous sense of power he now experienced. He pointed to the television. “The television is the only thing that talks to the people. The only thing they listen to. So we're going to fill their screens with a little truth for a change. A few flames on the runway is always good for prime time. CNN is going to love us.”

She was grinning. She had a beautiful smile, alluring and cunning; a woman filled with sexual secrets. One of these secrets he already knew from personal experience: All you needed to do was tease her lips and it was like lighting her fuse. He had never met a woman so sexually charged—so addicted to it.

“I've missed you.”

“You are a liar.”

“It comes with the territory,” he said, his finger circling her creamy red lips until she kissed it and then drew it into her mouth and sucked on it, wrapping it in her tongue.

The talking was over. He slipped his wet finger out of her mouth and, working down her body, found her nipples now fully erect. He felt triumphant—like setting the timer on a detonator. His next chore after this. Forty-seven seconds, he recalled.

She tugged at his belt buckle. But this was not to be her show. He teased her legs open slightly with his slick fingertip, and spun tiny circles there until she willingly surrendered to her own pleasure.

Everything was in its place now. Despite the drumming in his heart, the pain in his jaw, he felt himself relax. Things were going just fine. Actually, much better than he had hoped.

Thirty minutes later, the bed sheets lay in a heap, and the air smelled of her. It had been the frantic lovemaking of two people in a bomb shelter, the lovemaking of no tomorrow. They were bonded. They were a team again.