The Messenger (9 page)

It’s like that everywhere she goes. She just takes people’s suggestions as she goes about killing them.

The members of the FDNY are used to the celebrity treatment by now. Even in Italy she had been deluged by photographs of ghostly firefighters staggering through the toxic rubble of the Twin Towers. There have been statues cast of them, and you can still see movie stars wearing their T-shirts and caps. Their heroism is taken for granted worldwide.

So she knows it is not suspicious when she walks up and asks if she can interview a strapping young rookie for the benefit of European teenagers. Josh and Tanis come out. She takes them one at a time, happy to explain that Tanis will be good for the boys. To raise the temperature and give the department a little more publicity, Tanis unbuttons the top button of her uniform shirt and exposes a few square centimeters of chest. They are cheerful, competent wisecrackers who pose leaning against their beloved pumper truck.

As usual, Daria asks to use the washroom, and Tanis points out the women’s. She is inside when the sirens start up and the station erupts with the sound of the trucks’ engines.

She gets out just in time to see them roaring away down the street. One of the older firemen, his hair frizzed white at the temples against his blotchy dark skin, follows their progress out on the sidewalk, his hands at his hips.

“It’s very exciting,” she says. The man has turned and is frowning at her.

“Can I help you?” he says.

“I was just in the washroom. I’m a reporter.” She lifts her digital camera.

“Okay … did you get your picture?” he asks.

“Yes, it’s good. I got everything and then, boom—whoosh!”

“Yes, it can be like that around here.”

“Do they go to the fires often?”

“Nooo … it’s all sorts of things. Hell, it can be somebody leaving their stove on about half the time.” He laughs and rubs one of the toes of his shoes against the pavement, gives it a little tap like a dancer would. “It can be anything. Hazardous materials, bomb threat …” He turns and looks at her meaningfully. “We are the first responders, you see.”

“Yes?”

“Police, fire, doctors on the emergency ward. Something bad happens and we are going to get to it first. That’s what I mean.”

“Sure, that makes sense. You have to be prepared,” she agrees. “Can I take your picture?”

“Aw, now … you don’t want some old fart like me …”

“No, it’s good. It might help these teenage girls think about something other than getting a date with the latest football player …” She raises the camera. He takes off his glasses, goes serious, and looks directly into the lens.

“We lost six men from this engine company when the Towers went down,” he says while she frames him. “I lost two of my best friends. I was in the hospital for four months straight. My wife divorced me,” he says, shaking his head. “So, if anything bad happens like that again, we have special training, we know how to deal with toxic waste, and we’re all vaccinated,” he says, pointing to his arm.

“Really?” It only makes sense, she thinks.

“In case there’s some outbreak of plague, or some … unknown big event.”

She looks at him for a moment. “Is it dangerous, being a fireman?”

“No, ma’am, not most of the time, no. But when it
is
dangerous,
it’s
extremely
bad,” he says, and laughs. Turns, heading back inside the big doors. “I have to close this up now. You got everything you came for, didn’t you?” the old man asks.

She nods and waits while he hits a switch that brings down the great doors, leaving her outside in the cool shadows.

“Here’s a little breakfast for you.” It’s a new FBI agent, who comes and goes without giving any more information. And it’s useless to ask, Watterman knows. Useless.

Coffee. A bran muffin. A metal-covered plate with eggs, sausage, a bagel with lox, an arc of Bermuda onion, and some withered-looking capers. A plastic spoon and a crescent of honeydew melon.

The single bed has been unexpectedly comfortable. There is a bathroom for him to do his business. The room is Spartan enough, but boasts a real table that isn’t bolted down. A lamp. Writing paper and some pencil stubs, the standard camera placed obviously in the top corner of the room. Everything wired for sound, of course. On an end table there is a selection of magazines, but the newest is from the previous summer. They must be the kind of things FBI agents read in their downtime.
Golf, GQ, Sports Illustrated
. A crinkly
Vanity Fair
. Half-naked fashion models and celebrity scandal. In the night-table drawer a Gideon Bible, a copy of the Book of Mormon, and an English translation of the Quran; not much solace for a fallen Jew. No television. No windows. Ventilation provided by a grate in the ceiling.

He waits. Men can wait for years, he reminds himself.

After breakfast another hour goes by while he reads
Road & Track
and ponders why anyone, ever, would want to restore a muscle car, then Lansing pokes his head in.

“There’s been a change in priorities and personnel. They are going to continue with your interview as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, hey, can I get a telephone?”

“I doubt it, but I’ll boot it up the line.”

“It’s been an entire day. Am I under arrest? If I am, I’ll break
down and pay to see a lawyer. And if I’m not, I still want to see a lawyer.”

“Things are changing fast, sir.” And then, when Lansing goes—he leaves the door open.

Something about the casualness of it makes Watterman angry. Is it by accident or design? Is it some test? Is he going to be lured out to the office corridor and thus qualify as an escapee? Everything is a mindfuck with these guys. The youngest ones are the worst. Dirty tricks, cheap psych jobs. Leaving the door open like that is the most juvenile idea, and it makes him angry at Lansing for even trying something so stupid.

Crazy. Watterman jerks his head, trying to limber up the crick in his neck. There is the perpetual headache. It’s probably the progressive lenses in his glasses. Over the years he’s learned to compensate by lifting his head. Sitting in front of the computer or driving for any distance makes it worse. He shakes his head back and forth and slowly tries to free his shoulders. Way too much stress. And why not? Now he’s back, folks! Back in the vortex where tax dollars are sucked down the drain into the War on Terror, the War on Drugs, the War on Poverty. Endless, fruitless war.

But there’s something else. He can feel it. It’s a disturbance in the goddamn force. Things are changing, moving too fast. First they drag him out of bed at three in the morning, he’s swept into the fray, and now …

The door is wide open. People coming and going. He sees Agent Grimaldi striding through the office with a full cup of tea, dodging coworkers. A pause to exchange a few words with an older man, then they both go their own way.

By now he has come to love the open door, but he’s afraid that if he goes and stands there, they’ll notice and lock him up again. He could complain. He wants to complain, but he’s like a dog that’s been beaten. Better to wait them out, play nice. Give them what they want and then maybe he can get his cell phone back.

But the door beckons and he can’t fight the temptation. He stands, and as if bored, ambles over to the opening, one arm resting
against the jamb, letting his neck roll around. Letting whoever is on the other end of the camera see that he’s stopped right there on the prisoner’s side of the threshold. He’s not going anywhere, he’s a good boy.

Through the fourth-floor windows, he can see a gray sky and a piney-fringed view of Atlanta. It’s still early on a school morning, but already the whole place is swarming with agents.

“We should go to the lab,” he says to the first agent who comes along—the man just nods and keeps going. The CDC labs are not that far from his house, down by Emory University, and if there’s anything in his cloud of expertise going on, they’ll know all about it there. A few seconds later he buttonholes two more agents passing his open door.

“Look, I need to talk to Special Agent Lansing, all right? It’s important.” From a cubicle an even more lowly agent looks up and sees him causing a problem. She stands. “Dr. Wasserman?”

“Watterman, Watterman with two
t
’s. Wasserman was my grandfather. He changed it because he wanted to assimilate.”

“You should wait back inside, sir.”

“No, I shouldn’t. I should go out to the CDC. Look, I
know
what’s going on.”

“Sir, just wait in here.” Iron in her voice.

He takes a step back, hands up in the universal defensive gesture. “
Please
tell Agent Lansing we should go to the CDC labs. It’s an emergency.”

“You’re still in custody until they finish your interview, sir.”

And this time she closes the door.

He curses, he paces, he shoots the bird to the camera. He fumes. He has saved
Golf
for last because it will cause the most pain, and perversely he decides to make this the worst experience of his entire life, and begins turning through the pages with relish. All golf courses look alike, he thinks. You’d have to be obsessive-compulsive to tell them apart; bizarre landscapes. Titanium technology will conquer all. Will the first space colony have a golf course? Probably.

Lansing comes back in, sits. “Lunch is coming.” He looks like
he’s been up all night. Staring a hole through the table, and then snapping out of it. “Do you want anything?” he says.

“Sure. I want to go home and see my wife. And I’m ready to make a statement. I’ve repeatedly agreed to cooperate, but what you and I actually should do is get over to the lab.”

“What about the lawyer? You still want one?”

“No … no …” He actually sees a mental picture of dollar bills flying through the air. “The nurse got out to my place eventually, correct?”

“I’m sure she did. I’ll double-check for you, Doctor.” Lansing wearily gets up from the chair.

“No. Don’t go. Why don’t I just make the statement for the cameras and finish up?”

“Don’t push it,” Lansing says, and shuts the door.

Eons pass. He takes off his jacket, starts inventing ways to kill himself with it. He could eat it, rip it apart with his teeth, make a noose and strangle himself with it. Set it on fire somehow and escape when they came running …

The door finally opens and an older, presumably more senior FBI agent comes in. He has the suit and a fresh shave, and smells of mint. A tight smile. Barrigar is his name. Little American flag pin in his lapel. More agents come in and find places for themselves in the corners. Everybody is quiet now, looking from one to another, and then back to him. Grimaldi comes in. Now there’re six of them crammed in there.

“There’s been a … release, Doctor. Anthrax, both at the CDC and at the hospital. Perhaps elsewhere,” Barrigar says.

“Not an accident?” Watterman can’t hide the tremble in his voice.

“We don’t think so,” Barrigar answers.

“An attack. Anthrax. Was it letters, like last time?”

“No.”

“So, of course they’re testing at the lab and the hospital. What about here? Have they tested here?” he asks, working to keep the fear out of his voice. The agents all try not to react, but he can feel everybody tightening up.

“We’re being tested right now.”

“Good, good … Forget what I said about going to the lab.”

“The CDC labs are under quarantine at the moment.”

“Yes, right. Good. Of course. Well …” He looks up at them. There’s nothing really to say. “Spores
inside
the labs?”

“No.”

“Outside. In the offices?”

“That’s right. And also other locations.”

“Right.” That only makes sense. “Okay. Well, what do you want with me? I suppose you think I did it?”

Barrigar stares at him. All the FBI agents hold their breath.

“You know none of this surprises me. Not one bit. I’ve written paper after paper on this exact situation. Well, I’m not staying here. I’m a consultant. You’ve got to pay my fee if you want to pull me out of bed and waste my working hours. I already told Havercamp—”

“Who’s Havercamp?”

“The director—god
damn
it.
Shit!
” He’s losing his mind, going senile. Havercamp has been retired from the directorship of the CDC for a decade at least. Christ … falling apart … “Look, I can’t stay here. I have to get back. My wife has a very serious condition and she depends on me for … for emotional support. That’s extremely important for her health—”

“We have some questions for you …”

“This has nothing to do with me!” Adrenaline is pumping through his system and he is starting to lose it. “Nothing,” he repeats.

“There’s still some basic questions we have to ask, Doctor. I need you to account for your movements over the last two years.”

“That’s easy. I haven’t been anywhere.”

“Nowhere?”

“Stayed right here in Atlanta. Look, suppose I just go home? Just put one of those damn ankle things on me. Call it house arrest. It would save the taxpayers my upkeep—”

“Dr. Watterman, you’re going to be part of a conference call. Five minutes from now. We’ll get a phone in here, and a monitor.
You take the call and then we’ll go from there. We can’t keep you against your will.”

“Actually, I think you can.”

“We’ll talk after the call,” Barrigar says. That tight little smile, and then he gets up and leaves along with his posse.

Daria goes for something to eat at a cafeteria across from City Hall, and takes her time with the menu, lingering in the line, leaning close to the glass, peering at the entire range of food selections. Going all around the salad bar, leaning close in and inspecting every radish.

In the end she sits at a small table and consumes about a tenth of a plate of mushed chicken—too salty—and some spinach wilted to the consistency of algae. She wipes her mouth and moves the napkin all over the table. Does it another half dozen times. Goes over and borrows parts of a newspaper from the table of a young guy. Cute enough. He looks like a student.

She ends up with a business section and part of the entertainment section. The economy continues to repair itself slowly; some oddball markets are doing better than older, traditional repositories for investments; costs have to come down, and jobs have to go up–that’s what passes for wisdom on the business pages.