cataract, about six flannel shirts. “This here block is mine,” the man said. “You don’t take no plastic from it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was your territory. In fact, let me give you a couple bottles from my bag.” Zach handed him two seed bottles; he had more than he would need and was supposed to improvise with some of them.
“That’s real nice a-you,” the man said, “ ’Preciate it.” As he went to tuck the bottle into the huge bag he carried, he caught a whiff, and said, “These smell awful, where’d you get them?”
“Some kids’ party house I think. Think they maybe pissed in ’em. They’re still money.”
“Yeah.” The old man reached out and tapped his shoulder in what was probably intended as a friendly gesture. “Got any money? Want to come in and drink or something?”
“Gotta get me to some more carts,” Zach said. “Any more of these blocks yours?”
“Naw. I ain’t got no block that’s mine. Just people shouldn’t fuck with me, you know?” The old man scratched and squirmed, as if he’d had about as much human contact as he was prepared for. “My name’s Peter. You come by anytime.”
“My name’s Paul,” Zach said. After all, he thought , we’re two guys spreading the stuff that’s going to make the whole world better.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. OVER THE WESTERN PACIFIC. AROUND SUNRISE LOCALLY. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29.
With his face against the window, Samuelson could just see the rising sun. The point of what they’d done to poor Taylor, and of leaving Samuelson with the corpse for so long, and the beating that followed, could only be to make him despair; since that was what they wanted, he’d have to hope.
But not hope to live. He knew in his bones that he wouldn’t live. Whether they killed him or not beforehand, they meant to die themselves. They’d left the door open while they beat him, and he’d seen the big gray metal box, with two of them fussing over it, and the array of fifty-five-gallon drums, in the lounge. He was quite sure that whatever the box and the barrels held, it wasn’t supplies or documents, and their destination—no, their target —was a big crowd, a famous building, or both.
The three strong young men who had beaten Samuelson had left bruises everywhere, and now his back and gut ached, and his whole face was sore and puffy.
They’ll demand that I make a statement for broadcast before we hit, he thought. Almost for sure. That’s got to be why they care about what I’m feeling. I wonder if I can say the whole phrase “Mohammed is sucking Satan’s dick in hell” before they kill me on camera? He was surprised at himself, but only a bit. “New situations call for new insights,” he thought, quoting some of his speechwriter’s best work. Maybe I’m just getting in touch with my inner hawk. Some things are hard not to take personally, you know.
He lay sideways on his bed, chained to a furniture bracket, with two guards always watching him.
He really missed Kim.
He wished he’d been more suspicious, more paranoid—maybe just more angry—back when it could do some good, but had to admit that the too-trusting, too-open way he had walked into this had always been his whole approach to life.
He could see now what Rog had been trying so hard to tell him. If your biggest worry was that the other side might stop talking to you . . . well, sooner or later, if there was one genuinely malicious force in the world, you’d meet it, and something like this would happen. Once I made myself into John Samuelson, The Man Who Can Always Get a Deal, I was doomed to come out and meet these guys, even though Rog and everybody who really knew anything told me that it smelled bad and they didn’t want to do it.
He hated feeling like a fool, but it was still no excuse for despair. I’ve done my best, even if I was wrong. Somebody had to take the chance that they were telling the truth when they said they wanted to talk, and they
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was your territory. In fact, let me give you a couple bottles from my bag.” Zach handed him two seed bottles; he had more than he would need and was supposed to improvise with some of them.
“That’s real nice a-you,” the man said, “ ’Preciate it.” As he went to tuck the bottle into the huge bag he carried, he caught a whiff, and said, “These smell awful, where’d you get them?”
“Some kids’ party house I think. Think they maybe pissed in ’em. They’re still money.”
“Yeah.” The old man reached out and tapped his shoulder in what was probably intended as a friendly gesture. “Got any money? Want to come in and drink or something?”
“Gotta get me to some more carts,” Zach said. “Any more of these blocks yours?”
“Naw. I ain’t got no block that’s mine. Just people shouldn’t fuck with me, you know?” The old man scratched and squirmed, as if he’d had about as much human contact as he was prepared for. “My name’s Peter. You come by anytime.”
“My name’s Paul,” Zach said. After all, he thought , we’re two guys spreading the stuff that’s going to make the whole world better.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. OVER THE WESTERN PACIFIC. AROUND SUNRISE LOCALLY. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29.
With his face against the window, Samuelson could just see the rising sun. The point of what they’d done to poor Taylor, and of leaving Samuelson with the corpse for so long, and the beating that followed, could only be to make him despair; since that was what they wanted, he’d have to hope.
But not hope to live. He knew in his bones that he wouldn’t live. Whether they killed him or not beforehand, they meant to die themselves. They’d left the door open while they beat him, and he’d seen the big gray metal box, with two of them fussing over it, and the array of fifty-five-gallon drums, in the lounge. He was quite sure that whatever the box and the barrels held, it wasn’t supplies or documents, and their destination—no, their target —was a big crowd, a famous building, or both.
The three strong young men who had beaten Samuelson had left bruises everywhere, and now his back and gut ached, and his whole face was sore and puffy.
They’ll demand that I make a statement for broadcast before we hit, he thought. Almost for sure. That’s got to be why they care about what I’m feeling. I wonder if I can say the whole phrase “Mohammed is sucking Satan’s dick in hell” before they kill me on camera? He was surprised at himself, but only a bit. “New situations call for new insights,” he thought, quoting some of his speechwriter’s best work. Maybe I’m just getting in touch with my inner hawk. Some things are hard not to take personally, you know.
He lay sideways on his bed, chained to a furniture bracket, with two guards always watching him.
He really missed Kim.
He wished he’d been more suspicious, more paranoid—maybe just more angry—back when it could do some good, but had to admit that the too-trusting, too-open way he had walked into this had always been his whole approach to life.
He could see now what Rog had been trying so hard to tell him. If your biggest worry was that the other side might stop talking to you . . . well, sooner or later, if there was one genuinely malicious force in the world, you’d meet it, and something like this would happen. Once I made myself into John Samuelson, The Man Who Can Always Get a Deal, I was doomed to come out and meet these guys, even though Rog and everybody who really knew anything told me that it smelled bad and they didn’t want to do it.
He hated feeling like a fool, but it was still no excuse for despair. I’ve done my best, even if I was wrong. Somebody had to take the chance that they were telling the truth when they said they wanted to talk, and they
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