“It is enough for you to know, Miro, that our strategy calls for us to hold the bus and the children until the demands are met,” Artkin said.
Miro waited, hoping that Artkin would tell him the demands without making him ask.
“The demands are these, Miro. We seek the release of political prisoners held here in the States. We must show the world that revolutionaries cannot be held in jails. Second, we are demanding ten million dollars. This is to continue our fight, to finance our operations. Third, we are demanding that the Americans abolish a secret agency within their government. This is an agency that operates throughout the world. It is not our concern, Miro. Our concern is two things. The money, of course, which we need desperately, particularly American dollars. And the fact that we have been able to form an alliance and work with others.”
“But why is an alliance important?” Miro asked. “Our work has gone well, Artkin. You said so yourself many times. The bombings, the explosions, they’ve made our presence known, they’ve made our cause public.”
“Because, Miro,” Artkin said, sighing patiently, “there must be a step beyond violence. Explosions and assassinations and confrontations cannot buy us back our homeland. They are only steps on the way, to call attention. After the terror must come the politics, the talking, the words. At the proper time, the words carry more power than bombs, Miro. So while we still use bombs, there comes a time when we must use words.”
“Words,” Miro said. He was tired of words. He had been trained for action, violence, and now he felt betrayed. Artkin had always said that every action they took was a statement, and now the rules were changing. He also realized that Artkin was not truly in command. Sedeete loomed in the background. They were like puppets here on the bridge, and Sedeete held the strings.
“Be patient,” Artkin said. Perhaps he saw the doubt or the disillusion in Miro’s eyes. “We are in a time of change. This alliance we have formed will be good for us in the end. Today we help them to destroy a secret agency, and tomorrow they will help us in another step to free our homeland. Our causes are different, but we can help each other. There will be many more bridges, Miro. This operation is only the first.”
“What about this operation? What happens now? How long do we wait?” Miro felt like the girl asking these questions because she too had asked them of Artkin.
Again Stroll made a movement and again Miro wondered if he had asked one question too many.
“When the demands have been met, a special helicopter will land. We—you and Stroll and Antibbe and myself—will board it. We will be taken to the airport in Boston. From there, we will be flown in a jet across the Atlantic.”
“To our homeland?” Miro asked, a sudden surge of hope lifting his spirits.
“Not yet, Miro. Home is a thousand alliances away. But they will fly us to safe territory where we can rest a while.”
“But why should they let us go?”
“We shall take one of the children along on the helicopter. He will be our passport. Or perhaps it will be a girl child. I have not yet decided. One child is as good as sixteen or twenty-six.”
“If one child is as good as sixteen, then why did we take the bus in the first place?” Miro asked, throwing caution aside, letting his anger carry his words.
“Miro, Miro, you have forgotten what you learned in the school. The effect of the operation is the reason for the operation. Simple escalation is the answer, Miro. Remember? One hostage in peril is effective, sixteen hostages in peril is sixteen times more effective, although the life of a single hostage—and in particular a child—is as effective as sixteen times the threat.” Miro was always dazzled by this kind of arithmetic. “We seek the effect, Miro. We do not kill without the effect being the reason. Without the effect, there is nothing. So we took sixteen children as hostages for the effect, to capture attention. They do not seem to know it—yet how can they not know it?—but the media, the television and the radio and the newspapers, they are our allies. Without them none of this would be possible. A child held hostage in a secret place does not have the effect of sixteen children held hostage high on a bridge for all the world to see through the television, to hear through the radio, to read about in the newspapers.”
Miro nodded. It made sense but it also fatigued him. At least Artkin was now confiding in him, explaining their position. He also had not taken offense at Miro’s anger and impertinence. He had asked bold questions in the presence of Stroll, and Artkin had answered the questions.
“This is what happens now, Miro. Sedeete is the negotiator for the demands. The deadline for meeting the demands is nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If they are not met by that time, the children die. We, too, perhaps, although we have had that risk from the beginning of our operations here in the States. But Sedeete and those in our alliance are certain the demands will be met. Violence and blood pour out of American television, but these people do not really have strong stomachs. Up to now they have been spared the agonies of other nations, older nations. They will not allow the death of the children.”
“How will we know when the demands are met?” Miro asked.
“The monitor here. The monitor has a special frequency developed with ingenuity. The fequency will allow a signal to be given to us by Sedeete. At six this afternoon, to tell us that the negotiations are in effect. At midnight tonight, to tell us that all is going well. At nine o’clock tomorrow morning, to tell us the demands are met. That is the deadline: nine tomorrow morning. Now, this is important. If we do not receive the signal at nine tomorrow, it means the operation has failed, that demands are not being met and I must take necessary steps. The first step: kill the children to show that the demands next time must be met. Then I must determine the best way to save ourselves, if possible. But, as you know, Miro, saving ourselves is not important. Except if we can live to fight again. Otherwise, to die in these circumstances is the best way to serve.”
Miro felt that Artkin would never die. He accepted the possibility of his own death as a natural consequence of his work. But it was impossible for Artkin to die. They would never win the freedom of their homeland if men like Artkin died. The world would become meaningless without him. So would Miro’s own life.
“Any more questions?” Artkin asked. Astonishingly, there was a teasing in Artkin’s voice, and almost a smile on his lips. “I have found that you are good at questions.”
Miro swelled with pride. His lungs were full of it as he drew a breath. He stood at attention without realizing he was doing so. To die with Artkin would be a great thing. He had pity for those who lived without dedication, like so many Americans his age he had seen, like the girl in the bus.
“Back to the bus now, Miro. Watch the girl and the children. Tell me when you think they need more of the drugs. And the girl, see that she is useful with the children. If she is not, then tell me and you can do your duty with her when you choose. But as long as she is useful to you, let her be.”
“Yes,” Miro said, still proud, proud to have been taken into Artkin’s confidence, to have had his questions answered.
Stroll stirred again at the window. Let him stir, Miro thought, let him make comments with his stirring. Today, I am equal with him.
As he turned to leave the van, Artkin touched his shoulder in a man-to-man gesture. He wished that Aniel was here so that he could share this moment with him.
Kate was uneasy during the time that Miro was in the van. The man that Miro called Antibbe—An-ti-bee—stared at her relentlessly, his eyes following wherever she went, whatever she did. The eyes burned into her. They weren’t the kind of eyes she’d ever seen before. They weren’t filled with lust or longing, or with anything else for that matter. They were flat, dead eyes, as if they had no life at all except what they reflected, and they were now reflecting her. Her image caught, suspended in his eyes. Crazy thought, spooky.
To get away from those eyes, Kate walked among the slumbering children. She acknowledged how many times the
children had offered her distraction during bad moments. On the other hand, she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the children. So one thing canceled out the other, didn’t it? Yet, in a way, it was just as well that she was here instead of her uncle. He had no patience at all. He couldn’t stand kids. He also had ulcers and high blood pressure. He had taken the part-time job of summer bus driver to supplement his retirement income from the Hallowell Plastics Novelty Company and, what the hell, he said, he only had to put up with the little bastards less than two hours a day. The rest of the time he either drove senior citizens around to shopping centers or took chartered groups to the beaches and seacoast resorts.
Kate sat down next to Monique. The child’s nose was running. Kate dug into her pockets for a Kleenex but found only the bunched-up panties, a small damp ball now. Kate allowed the child to wipe her nose on her arm, although her stomach revolted at the act. Would her uncle do that? You can bet your ass he wouldn’t. She noticed as the day wore on that she was swearing more. In her thoughts, anyway. Not exactly swearing but becoming gross in her language. She thought: Maybe there’s a relationship between bravado and cowardice. And tough language made you feel tougher, braver. Maybe the tough kids at school, tough in behavior and language, were really the scared ones after all, the way she talked tough to herself now to keep up an appearance of bravery. Christ, she thought, surprised at the idea. And immediately felt better even as she pondered how the same word Christ could be both a curse and a prayer. And, crazy thought, did Christ know the difference when he heard his name called? Ridiculous, Kate told herself, as she wiped her arm on her jeans. Or am I getting hysterical? All these thoughts and that guy Antibbe staring at her from the front of the bus plus the key in her sneaker. The key that represented her hope for getting out of here. When Miro came back and the man Antibbe was gone, she would have to sit in the driver’s seat and figure out how she could drive the bus with those tapes on the window. And Miro—what about him? And that look in his eyes? Could she make use of that?
Monique was dozing again, and Kate left her to check the other children. She slipped into the seat next to Raymond, wondering if he was actually sleeping now or only pretending. Feeling her presence, he opened one bright eye. Kate smiled at him and he closed the eye again. She took his hand in hers and held it. After a while, the hand went limp and his breathing became the rhythm of sleep. She hoped he could sleep the time away, like the other children. She wished she could sleep. Maybe she should have taken some of the chocolate and let herself lapse into sleep. She felt despondent suddenly, despite the knowledge of the secret key. She was not heroic, her life had not been a rehearsal for heroic deeds. She was trapped on this bus with the kids, in the hands of madmen. She’d seen them without their masks so they would never let her get away. She wriggled the key with her toes. So. So, what did she have to lose then? Why shouldn’t she try a wild ride on the bus and try driving the damn thing out of here? Nothing to lose. No place to go but up. Why not go?
Hey, wait a minute, she thought, what’s going on here? Why this great surge of hope when actually I’m down in the pits? Why not? Things couldn’t possibly be worse, and once you accept that, you can begin to hope. You can begin to take chances, be reckless because, what the hell, you have nothing to lose, right? Right. She closed her eyes, exulting in the sudden flow of thoughts. Let’s count the blessings, she thought, the things on Our Side. The key. Miro who was obviously the weak link among the hijackers. Little Raymond, even, who was bright and intelligent. And this new knowledge of hers, this new hope. She caught her breath, pondering a new thought: the possibility that hope comes out of hopelessness and that the opposite of things carry the seeds of birth—love out of hate, good out of evil. Didn’t flowers grow out of dirt?
She let her breath out and felt her lips trembling. Christ, such a revelation. She wasn’t certain now whether she was praying or thinking or what. She had never been a hotshot in the philosophy department, had never in fact been required to think, to go beyond what was written in textbooks, and thus the wonder of her thoughts and the new knowledge they had brought her filled her with a kind of ecstacy she had never known before. Not ecstacy of the emotions but of the mind, the intellect.
Overwhelmed, she looked around for someone to share it all with. There was no one, of course. She bent down and planted a kiss on Raymond’s tender cheek. Softly so that she wouldn’t wake him if he slept.
And then Miro was back.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, trying to keep any harshness out of her voice, needing to seem friendly and interested. By this she meant the bus, the children, the hijacking, this entire nightmare.
Miro knew her meaning. “It’s what we must do,” he answered in his carefully measured English, as if he were walking a verbal tightrope. “Our work, our duty.”
“You mean your work is to kidnap children, hurt people, terrorize them?” The hell with trying to appear docile, let the chips fall.
“It’s the war. It’s all a part of the war.”
“I haven’t heard of any war.”
He looked so young, so defenseless, the brown eyes innocent, the mouth sensitive. So unlike the person in the mask.
After Antibbe left the bus with one last lingering look at her, Kate had retired to the back seat and sat there, pondering the time ahead and what she must do. One of the things was winning Miro over. Or at least getting him to talk, to let down his defenses. She had seen that look in his eye and had to take advantage of what that look meant. He had to look upon her as a human being. More than that: as a desirable young woman, and not a victim. She knew the perfect terrible truth of the situation: she had to make it hard for him to kill her. Thus, when he looked her way on his return as he checked the children, she forced a smile to her lips. A weak substitute of a smile maybe, but it had done the trick. After a few moments, Miro came and sat beside her on the back seat. He removed his mask and placed it on the seat beside him.
And now they were talking about some kind of war, something she hadn’t expected when she’d started this conversation. But, she thought: At least, we’re talking, we’re communicating.
“The war is going on all the time,” Miro continued. It was a topic he loved, a topic they had discussed much in the school. “Our duty is to let the people know the war exists, that the world is involved in it, that no one is free from war until our homeland is free.” He wished Artkin was here to listen to him, to see how well he had learned his lessons.
“Where’s your homeland?” Kate asked.
“My homeland is far from here. Across the ocean.”
Kate detected a wistfulness in his voice. “What’s its name?”
Miro hesitated. He had not said the word of his homeland for so long—like his own name—that he wondered how it would sound on his tongue. And he hesitated also because he did not know how much he should tell this girl. He wanted to win her confidence, but he must not betray himself or the others. If he did not say his name aloud to Artkin, how could he tell this girl the name of his homeland? “You do not know the place,” Miro said. “But it is a place of beauty.”
“Tell me about it,” Kate said.
“I have never been there. I have never seen my homeland.”
“You’ve never seen it?” Kate asked, incredulous. “How do you know your homeland is so beautiful then and worth all—all this?”
“I have heard the old men talking in the camps and they have said how beautiful it is. They say that if you take off your shoes, you can feel the richness of the land on the skin of your feet. The orange trees are fruitful and the flight of the turtle dove and the lark is balm to the eyes and spirit.” He was quoting the old men now, and his voice was like music. “The river there is gentle and the sun is a blessing on the earth and turns the flesh golden. The sky is the blue of shells washed by fresh rains.”
Kate thought: This strange, pathetic boy.
And then remembered that he carried a gun and one child had already di
ed.
“Katie, Katie,” one of the children cried.
The cry brought back the reality of the bus, the heat, the oppressiveness, the plastic pail nearby that reeked of urine.
Kate listened, but the child did not cry out again.
“The old men in the camps,” Kate said. “What camps?”
Miro was pleased with her question. She was becoming interested: he was doing his job well. But how could he tell her about the refugee camps, that endless string of filthy crowded places he and Aniel had drifted through in the early years of their lives, unknown and unwanted in a terrible kind of anonymity? They had existed on the generosity of strangers, and when they did not encounter generosity, they stole. Aniel was the expert at theft. Sometimes Miro acted as a decoy in the makeshift marketplaces, while Aniel’s swift hands grabbed and clutched whatever was at hand. Nothing was ever useless. You made use of whatever came your way. Even the time Aniel had wrenched a battery from an old abandoned truck. They had bartered it for food. The food was spoiled and sickened them. But then the battery was also useless. How could he tell the girl all this?
“My people are outcasts, our homeland occupied by others. But we were allowed to live in camps,” Miro said, wanting to hold her interest without telling her about the hunger and the stealing and the begging. He did not want to diminish himself in her eyes.