The Swede (16 page)

“That’s enough,” snapped N., snarling.

“What did you think was the goal of all this? Sure, part of it was to make the Baptists pay for all the crap they spread. But just by shaking your fist and screaming a little? You shot Turnbull in
the leg, and the way I know you, whenever Topeka’s Baptists come up . . .”

“Him, yes, him I would have shot in the groin . . . and in the head too.” N. shook. “It is the right—”

“—the right you claim for yourself,” Vladislav cut in, without looking at N.

They heard footsteps in the hallway. Mary glanced down the stairs. “Reza’s sleeping,” she said.

Vladislav laughed. “Oh, he does that.”

Adderloy came up behind Mary and looked searchingly at N., who looked like he’d been caught. Adderloy started walking down the stairs and said something about a pair of searchlights that he’d seen light up the night sky outside the large windows.

Then Vladislav rolled off the couch and stood up. He passed right next to N. and whispered, “Now we just have to survive.”

I
N THE ABSENCE OF OTHER
heroes, Stan Moneyhan became the man of the day. The dead security guard from First Federal’s robbery was the media darling. He was the cop who, instead of retiring, chose to protect his fellow citizens. That was how reporters spun it, at least—in fact his meager pension had forced him to keep working. Old coworkers bowed to his memory, saying he’d never drawn a gun on anyone. At his second press conference, Chief Oldenhall announced that they should all be grateful to the security guard for his fine aim. The man they’d arrested could now be tied to the robbery, through his blood. The next day, blowups of Charles-Ray Turnbull’s face appeared behind news anchors and on every front page. It was an unflattering picture, Turnbull lying on a sofa in a rumpled shirt, eyes half closed. The picture was obviously cropped, taken at some family gathering—an arm here and a leg there, from others sharing the couch. (Evidently a relative had been tempted by a photo agency to earn some extra cash.)

In news briefs the aged Turnbull Sr. repeated “We pray for him” with a stiff smile, while trying to hide his face with his hand. Already on the first day police had conducted a raid on Turnbull’s home. Later, when white vans pulled up to Westhill Baptist Church and the plainclothes investigators with gun holsters on their backs carried out hard drives and document boxes, the church was no longer called “a congregation in shock” but instead “a hateful cult.” At
the hospital where Turnbull lay recovering, police stopped a man in greasy jeans who tried to enter the ward with a pipe wrench stuffed in his sleeve. As he was dragged away, he shouted to the cameras outside the hospital entrance, “That motherfucker will die soon anyway.” The Republican politician from the last evening’s news showed up, demanding that hanging be reinstated in Kansas, adding, “Nobody fears a syringe.”

In the factory, Adderloy’s gaze was sharp and clear as he went on and on about Turnbull’s expected execution. Otherwise, he was noticeably silent. Reza remained in his room, and the money from the robbery remained untouched in bags below the stairs.

It was late morning. They were restless inside the factory, waiting, hidden, dutifully eating their stored food, quietly visiting the toilet. Vladislav, shirtless, complained constantly about the heat. The radio reports became background noise. Mary lived on chips and tried to start smoking. N. woke up every morning with a headache, had already consumed an entire bottle of pain pills, and wrestled with his feeling of powerlessness through long cold showers.

Still, the night before, they’d finally decided what to do next. Even Reza had stopped staring at the wall and come to sit with them. It was a short conversation. They would get to New York, then divide up the money and go their separate ways. Everyone agreed. Adderloy would buy a used van big enough for everyone.

He went out before eleven in the morning to check on some listings. As soon as Adderloy left, Mary got her appetite back. “I want food with taste,” she said.

Vladislav suggested the Lebanese joint around the corner. Mary wanted to go farther, to a real restaurant, but when Reza predictably didn’t want to come along, both Vladislav and N. thought they should stay close.

So Lebanese it was.

The place was almost empty, although lunch had just begun. A few customers made small talk by the cash register, waiting for takeout. One of the brothers said hello to Mary and waved them to a table. In the corner, a TV was switched to the news.

Vladislav looked skeptically at the chalkboard menu.

“No fish?”

“No, Vladislav,” said N. “No fish in Kansas.”

Vladislav threw up his hands.

“Shish kebab, you want shish kebab?” N. yelled, “Can we get two shish kebabs?”

“And a T-bone steak,” said Mary. “So rare that it bleeds.”

N. turned toward the kitchen and saw the large freezers. Kept his gaze there for a moment.

On TV, a fanfare announced the noon headlines. The new images caught their attention. In the boredom of the factory, they’d grown numb to the nuances, the reporters’ angles, the latest witnesses. Now the story wasn’t so much about Turnbull but the ones still at large. The bank had come up with a few grainy surveillance pictures: disorder, people lying on the ground. Suddenly Vladislav came into view: straight-backed and masked, a submachine gun at his hip.

“Quick as TV,” he said quietly and squinted, unconcerned.

The news anchor pressed on. At the Houston airport, police had been swarming for hours. A flight to Cancun was canceled and the passengers taken off to be screened. Departure boards scrolled with delayed flights. Policemen in black ran in clusters. A federal police officer with a thick mustache said the men from the Kansas robbery had been trying to flee the country.

N. looked nervous. Mary fiddled with her cigarette.

The food arrived. The TV news was switched to sports. A basketball player shot a free throw before a cheering mob. In the street outside the restaurant, a jackhammer started pounding.

“This is good,” said Mary mechanically after a few bites. Vladislav was lost in thought.

“To Cancun,” she said, and laughed sharply.

“What?” said N.

“Where did they get Cancun from? People will fall for anything.”

But N. wasn’t listening; his question was aimed at Vladislav.

“Just going to get a little fresh air,” said Vladislav, putting down his silverware. “Back in a minute.”

He went out in the street and disappeared.

Mary kept going on about Cancun. “Is that what Turnbull told them?” She fiddled with her unlit cigarette, cut the steak, took a bite.

“Imagine, there he sits with a bullet hole in his leg and a sweaty lawyer by his side begging him to cooperate. He’ll say everything, anything at all. Then maybe he’ll avoid the gas chamber.” The bloody juices made a red film on her plate.

She smiled again. N. had finished his beer; the last drops settled in his glass. He was watching TV. Images without sound: flashing blue lights, a reporter interviewing Chief Oldenhall, anonymous gray-brown city blocks viewed from above by a news helicopter.

“Obviously a mistake,” said N. listlessly. “Cancun, the airport, all that. The police had an idea, someone ran through security control, a suitcase went astray.” He saw one of the Lebanese open and shut a freezer in the kitchen. “Charles-Ray has nothing to say. He’s just wondering what nightmare he woke up in.”

They both turned around at the sound of the jackhammer when the front door opened. Vladislav came in and sat down.

“You feeling okay?” asked Mary.

He dismissed the question with a flip of his hand. “Do they often do street jobs like that around here?”

“I guess so. Why?”

“I went around the block and saw three gangs drilling. Awfully busy.” He took a quick look out the window. “Removing old asphalt. Saw no lines marked for what they’re doing. You know—sprayed. Seems pretty random.”

“A gas leak, these neighborhoods, you know,” said Mary, removing the cigarette from her mouth.

Vladislav bit his lip. “If you drew a circle on a map around the drillings, the factory would be right in the middle.”

“Gas, sewer, there are always leaks around here,” said Mary. “Eat!”

Vladislav took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. N. glanced at the TV.

“Damn it,” he said, getting up so fast that the plates jumped. Mary dropped her fork and recoiled. N. ran to the door and looked up at the sky through the glass. He glanced at the TV again, his gaze moving back and forth: TV, sky, TV.

Then he saw it. A news helicopter slowly circling above. The drilling outside the door had deadened the sound.

“Helicopter,” he said, pointing at the TV. They could see their block from the air. Mary picked up her knife and fork as if nothing was happening.

“There you go,” said Vladislav slowly.

N. continued looking out; the helicopter was out of sight. He twisted and turned and caught sight of it again. Lost it.

Then two black streaks passed overhead. So close that the muffled beats of the rotors broke through the drilling. The TV image shifted to the newsroom.

“I think there are two. Two black ones,” said N.

Vladislav understood exactly.

N.’s cell phone rang. He looked at the TV before answering. It was Reza. At first N. heard only breathing.

“Someone’s here.”

“Reza . . . ,” said N.

“Make sure he gets out,” Vladislav hissed from the table. “He has to get out.”

“Reza, you have to . . .”

But Reza had already hung up. Vladislav went for the door.

I
nside the factory, Reza had heard the helicopters but didn’t understand. Their roar was lost in the din of jackhammers that had begun long before. It was the footsteps that scared him, the distant boots on metal stairs and wooden floors. Inside the empty factory, sounds carried far—echoes and resonances revealed every movement. People were coming.

At first the signs were small, vibrations from a door shut a bit carelessly, a banister’s far-off shaking. But soon this rose to an audible tramping. Finally, as the response teams poured into the building, the sounds rose into a stampede. Down they came from helicopters on the roof, in through doors, smoke hatches and entryways in the street, smashing the windows for faster access.

A surgical intervention, striking with precision. But the bowels of the factory were far too treacherous and confusing for them to
actually get where they wanted. Walls had been demolished and others added later, doors welded shut and corridors made dead ends. The police couldn’t know any of this from the city’s outdated blueprints.

Reza heard them, like hordes of rats forcing their way inside. He stood in the open space above the stairway, the steel door on one side, the endless hallway on the other. A few guns were stashed at the bottom of the stairs, along with the money. In a few seconds, he could be armed. He looked at the bags, the instinct to defend himself surging inside. He stood and considered; the sounds approaching. Alone and abandoned, amid the machinery of hidden agendas. A futile resistance—wasn’t that what they wanted, the slightest excuse to fire at him? In a rage, he crushed his cell phone against the brick wall.

He would not arm himself. Simply stand, take it. He would explain. Someone would understand. He would never be given a chance to talk if he armed himself. The ones who came rushing in would set him free.

Reza thought they’d bust in through the metal door, so he was surprised to hear sounds coming from the hallway. Past the row of rooms that ended who-knows-where. The yellow-white beams of a few flashlights moved in the darkness, dancing in step to the same swaying tempo of the stampeding boots. First sound and light, then figures. Reza took a step—they would understand.

Someone was shouting.

Reza raised his hand to show he was unarmed and at the same time hold back anyone approaching too urgently.

A force of six men arrived first. Like all other units, they’d been lost too long inside the factory’s labyrinth. “The terrorists” would get their guns, prime, arm, and wait in ambush. The element of
surprise was gone—now they themselves were potential victims. Weighed down by equipment, numbed by lactic acid, they ran blindly down a never-ending hallway. The commanders broke radio silence and screamed into their earpieces. Everyone knew that at any moment one of their own would fall. Adrenaline-drained resignation took over. Everyone ran, just ran. In tight, drilled groups they swept the darkness.

Then one of them was standing there.

Shouts into the earpieces. At any moment an ambush would strike or the whole building explode. Was he alone, was he carrying? Two or three police officers screamed for him to lie down. Six men and an entire arsenal came running: weapons, shock grenades, helmets, body armor. The man before them did not appear to have anything, only a gaze that never wavered.

And then he raised his hand. Just as they screamed. Just before they threw themselves on him. The second-in-command’s view was blocked by an elbow. Or so he said afterward, anyway. “I thought he was lifting a . . .”

He had already drawn his pistol. From the moment he entered the building, he’d seen everything through the red point in his sight. His legs were stiff, his shoulders aching from holding the weapon in front of him.

Perhaps he didn’t even mean to, only an unfortunate reflex that traveled straight to the trigger.

Reza Khan got a 9mm bullet through his frontal lobe. A pink mist shot out of his head upon impact. Mostly skin and bone, but not only.

He never closed his eyes. From the floor, on his back, he looked at them, at the man who had shot him and at those who were trying to stop the pool of blood that was flowing from his head.

I
nside the Lebanese restaurant, N. caught the onrushing Vladislav in a rough embrace.

“No.” N. snorted. “They’d like nothing better.”

Vladislav stepped back, then pressed his fingers to his temple as if his head was about to explode. “The passport . . . damn it!”

“Here, it’s cool!” said N., patting his coat pocket. “I forgot to tell you.”

N. had been the last to leave the factory. Vladislav, half dressed when they decided to go for lunch, had dug around for his clothes, debated, thrown aside a tracksuit, then grabbed his jacket instead. And when N. was about to leave, he saw Vladislav’s wallet on a table. He stuffed it in his pocket and ran after the others.

V
ladislav took the wallet in both hands and pulled out the edge of his passport to make sure that it was still there. He closed his eyes and nodded.

Back in the kitchen someone had noticed the running and agitation. One of the brothers looked out from the doorway.

Vladislav smiled broadly, gave a clueless look. “Yes?”

“Is everything all right?” said the Lebanese, nervously drying one hand on his apron.

“Absolutely,” Vladislav replied.

“We should pay,” said N., returning to the table. The Lebanese nodded but stayed put. N. pulled out some bills. Mary sat motionless, while the TV showed photos from above: the two black helicopters flew out of the picture, and a swarm of red and blue lights flashed in the streets.