“It’s sad not to trust anyone,” she said. And even as she said the words, she was proving the truth of what he had learned. Because she was still using him, of course.
She had awakened a few moments ago to the stark knowledge that these hours of the night were her final chance. She knew she couldn’t possibly escape tomorrow. Even if they freed the children, they could not afford to let her go. She had read doom in Artkin’s eyes from the beginning. And now the boy hated her. He’d been blamed for her attempted escape and probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill her himself.
Yet, she had reached him earlier. He had watched her the way a thousand boys had watched her. And he was her only hope. The others were animals. Not even animals, but robots. Merciless, heartless, they would not hesitate to kill anyone. Artkin’s hands had moved over her body as if she were a mannequin in a store window. But Miro? That longing in his eyes. Could she make it reappear? Not in any hope that he would help her escape—that was impossible now—but to have him regard her as a human being again, someone whose life was precious, someone who’d stirred him a little, aroused him a bit, so that he might just hesitate, think twice, when a showdown came. She didn’t have the key anymore and she didn’t have Raymond, although Raymond had been only a fragile hope. But she had herself. And trying was better than sitting here in the dark, doing nothing.
So she’d crept stealthily down the aisle, crouched and on tiptoe, not wanting to disturb the children. When she spoke to Miro, not planning what she was going to say, he answered immediately, his body jumping slightly. His voice was cold, hate made vocal, as cold and as flat as Artkin’s voice could be when he was angry. It might have been the same voice, in fact; they might have been brothers or father and son. And when she told him that it was sad not to trust anyone in the world, she felt cheap and soiled and treacherous, knowing she was using the words to awaken him to her, using them the way she imagined a prostitute used her body to arouse a man.
“Haven’t you ever trusted anyone in your life, Miro?” she asked. Had she ever used his name before?
“My name is not Miro,” he said, the words a surprise to him.
“What is your name?” she asked, quickly, sensing that she had slipped through his guard again.
“I cannot tell you,” he said, angry at himself for another betrayal. “Why should it mean anything to you? Why do you come to me like this in the night?”
“Because we’re both human. We’re both human beings caught in this terrible thing.”
“I am not caught,” he said. “It’s my wish to be here. This is my work, my duty. There is no other place in the world for me to be at this moment but here.”
She said nothing for a moment. She was really sad for him, the way it’s possible to feel for something you do not understand. He was still a monster, of course. But who had made him a monster? This world, his world. Who was guilty, then: the monster or the world that created it?
“All I wanted to do,” Kate said, “was say that I’m sorry I got you into trouble. You’ve been kind to the children and me.”
She reached out her hand and touched his arm, hoping that her touch would convey the message she intended.
Her fingers on his arm startled him, her hand like a pale flower in the dark, her touch rippling his flesh like the breeze that moves the surface of a pond, his flesh now shivering in the same way. No one had ever touched him so intimately before. He held himself still, letting the quiver of her touch echo through his body.
And then she was gone, moving into the night and away from him.
Miro heard someone fumbling with the lock and came instantly awake. He blinked his eyes to see clearer, into far corners. Night and darkness still clutched the interior of the bus but the shapes of things were familiar to him. The unfamiliar would be a danger.
He made his way to the door, checking the children as he did so. They were asleep. So was the girl. He lingered near her for a moment. He touched the spot on his arm where she had touched him, her fingers as soft as flower petals. He turned away at the thought.
At the door Antibbe waited. “He wants to see you,” Antibbe grunted.
Miro nodded. Action at last?
The van was hot, oppressive like the bus. Artkin’s face was pale in the harsh light of a portable lantern. But his eyes as usual were bright and alert. Stroll, as always, was shrouded in silence, watchful at the window.
“We have made contact,” Artkin said. “The police, the soldiers, they are making offers.”
“Are they willing to accept our demands?” Miro asked, envisioning the arrival of the helicopter and the flight across the ocean away from this country he could not understand.
“There are—complications,” Artkin said.
“What kind of complications?” Miro asked, sensing trouble in the air, the way the wind turns before a storm.
“They say Sedeete has been captured.”
Miro saw the doubt in Artkin’s eyes and was not sure what the doubt was.
“Can we trust what they say?” Miro asked.
“That is the problem, Miro. There is no trust on either side—how can there be? But there is this: we did not receive our midnight signal from Sedeete, which shows they may be telling us the truth. Yet, it’s understandable that Sedeete might have missed sending the signal for many reasons.”
“The next signal is at nine this morning?
“Yes. If we do not receive that signal, then we know something is wrong.”
Miro waited. A hundred questions crowded his mind but he did not want to voice them. Artkin was in command, and Miro sensed that he knew what he must do.
“The police and the soldiers have been broadcasting to us. They say that the operation is destroyed, that Sedeete and the others they picked up told them everything. They say we must free the children, that it will go easy for us if we do so. They have determined that the child who died was perhaps a victim of an overdose of drugs.”
Miro felt as though the van, the bridge, the earth were crumbling at his feet. They had never been in touch with the enemy like this before. They had struck fast and quick and made their escape. Now they were surrounded and other people were telling them what they must do.
“We still have the children,” Miro said, his voice sounding small in his ears.
“You have touched the crucial spot,” Artkin said. “They can talk all the want, but the children are the most important thing.”
“What do we do?” Miro ventured.
“The most important of all is to wait for nine o’clock when the next signal is expected. If it does not come, then I follow the original orders. Determine the best way to handle the situation, whether it involves killing the children or not. We must show them that we are adamant, however; that we will die here on the bridge with the children if we must. If we falter, we hurt our cause everywhere.”
“We wait, then?”
“I have asked for proof of Sedeete’s capture. But this is a stalling tactic. They can dig up proof in many ways. What we really need is information from them. We have to know how long they are willing to wait us out, whether they think we will really kill the children.”
“But how can we find this out?” Miro asked. He was growing tired of talk and plans and possibilities. He ached for action.
“I have a plan, a method we have used before.”
Stroll stirred, his movement signifying approval of whatever plan Artkin had in mind.
The monitor crackled, spitting static into the air. The code words followed, meaningless utterances to Miro. And then a voice came through, crisp and clear. Artkin held up his hand for silence although no one in the van had spoken.
“We are seeking vocal contact with occupants of the van. We are seeking vocal contact with occupants of the van. Come in, please. Come in, please.”
The voice was impersonal, as if it issued from a machine and not a person. The phrasing was measured, a recitation, like words read from paper.
“We hear you,??
? Artkin said.
“We have the proof you requested. Directly from Sedeete. His watch, his wallet.” Pause. “Repeat: We have the proof you requested. Directly from Sedeete. His watch, his wallet.”
“You do not have to repeat,” Artkin said, insolence in his voice, an insolence that cheered Miro. Artkin would bow to no one. “This may or may not be his wallet, may or may not be his watch. Having a man’s possessions does not mean you possess the man.” Artkin paused. “What of Sedeete himself? Let me speak with him.”
“Impossible,” the robot voice said. “He is hospitalized. In Boston. Unconscious. A bullet lodged in his spine.”
Artkin showed no reaction. “I must have more proof, more than a wallet or watch.”
“Tell us what. Repeat: Tell us what.”
Artkin’s head was bowed, in an attitude of thought. Miro found it difficult to breathe the heavy air.
“You said earlier that you seized Sedeete in Boston. At his room there.”
“Correct. Positive.” The flat, toneless voice.
“Then bring me something from that room.”
“The room has been searched. And is now sealed.” A long pause. “What is it you wish from the room?”
“Sedeete was hiding something in his room. Something special. If you get that something special and show it to me, deliver it to me here on the bridge, then I will believe you and we can begin to bargain.”
Miro pressed his lips together in disappointment. He hated that word “bargain.”
“What is this object?”
“In the cabinet of the kitchen, above the sink, you will find it. In a teacup there. Look in the teacup. You will find a round, gray stone. A souvenir from our homeland. Bring that here and then we will bargain.”
Static burst from the monitor as if impatient to end the conversation.
“It will take an hour or so to get to Boston and another hour to return. But wait.” The voice broke off and then returned. “We will radio Boston and have someone bring out the stone. Allow us an hour, ninety minutes perhaps.”
“I will wait,” Artkin said. He turned to Miro, a smile of triumph on his face, his eyes bright and flashing, his flesh flushed with youth.
Another voice filled the air, a contrast to the first voice: gentle, worried, human.
“Are the children all right? The girl?”
“Yes. They are sleeping. They want to go to their homes. But that is up to you.”
“We don’t want anything to happen to them,” the human voice said. Miro wondered: Could this be the girl’s father? Unlikely, of course.
“Neither do we,” Artkin said. “But if something happens, it will be on your heads not ours.”
Artkin flicked a switch and the monitor whined and then fell into silence.
“Is this good for us?” Miro asked, sensing that Artkin was pleased.
“As good as can be expected. When things go wrong, we must use whatever we can, whatever we have at our command. The important thing now is time. We must wait until nine o’clock to see if we receive a signal from Sedeete or someone else. We must also wait for the stone.”
“Is the stone important?”
Artkin smiled, looking at Stroll, as if he and Stroll shared a secret. “Yes, the stone is important. It buys us the time it will take to deliver it here. This stone has been used before in our operations. A stone from our homeland: it serves a purpose. You notice, Miro, that I used the word deliver. The stone must be delivered to us, here on the bridge. So it buys us more than time. It buys us a person who must bring the stone. And that person, whether he knows it or not, brings us information.”
Miro was pleased that Artkin was pleased, although he found it difficult to follow these plans, these operations. All he knew was that there would be action when the nine o’clock deadline came and went. Action, a decision, instead of all this waiting, all this talk.
“We will take one step at a time. First, the stone. Then, we shall see.”
Buoyed by Artkin’s enthusiasm, Miro returned to the bus in good spirits. The night was still dark as he darted to the bus but there was the smell of morning in the air, a freshening in the darkness. And a freshening, too, in Miro’s heart.
It happened moments later.
Antibbe had stepped aside to let Miro enter the bus. “All is quiet,” he said, standing huge beside Miro.
Miro nodded. He was glad to be back on the bus. He had a sense of ownership. He had never felt responsible for something before, other than himself.
Antibbe left without speaking further, and Miro secured the lock. Miro saw a flash of light outside the door: Antibbe’s lantern. Somehow, Antibbe’s lantern had gone on, illuminating him in its light, catching him as if in a spotlight’s glare. Miro was surprised: Antibbe was slow and plodding but careful; perhaps he had touched the switch accidentally as he walked.
Caught in the sudden light, in the space between the van and the bus, Antibbe stood transfixed like a puppet pinned to a black wall. His eyes and mouth seemed to leap out of the mask and hang by themselves in the air.
Suddenly, he was lifted into the air a foot or so, then jerked backward as if by an unseen lariat. For a split second, he hung in the air, suspended above the tracks, crucified on an invisible cross, and then his body shuddered convulsively, his arms and legs twitching uncontrollably. The lantern fell from his hand but continued to shine on him where it fell. Blood gushed from the faucet that had been his mouth a moment before. The blood spilled across his chest like scarlet vomit. His eyes were wild in the mask, bursting from their sockets. And then he was flung backward, slammed into the darkness beyond him, swallowed up in the night.
It was only then that Miro heard the echo of the rifle shot.
The sound of the rifle had not been loud enough to awaken the girl or the children, but suddenly they were awake, as if Antibbe’s blood had splashed like cold water on their faces. And, immediately, the woods and the building across the ravine and the bridge itself came alive. Spotlights flashed out bathing the bridge in harsh brilliance. The trees rustled and vibrated as if occupied by a thousand waking birds. Sirens howled and Miro looked across the chasm to see a military jeep speeding away from the building. The building itself was suddenly swarming with activity, its windows lit up, men coming and going, blue lights blinking within. Miro saw Artkin at the doorway of the van, one foot on the railroad track, the other foot inside the vehicle. He stared at Antibbe’s body as if studying it for future reference, as if he were memorizing its every shape and contour.
The children cried out, but Miro did not respond. He felt the presence of the girl nearby but did not turn his head. Then she was next to him. He heard her intake of breath when she spotted Antibbe’s body in the spotlight’s glare. Miro looked at her. There was horror in her eyes. As she turned toward him, Miro saw something else darting in her eyes, a small flash of—what? Triumph. He knew what she was thinking: One of them is dead, only three left. But Miro continued to hold her eyes until the deeper truth penetrated: the meaning of Antibbe’s death as far as the girl and the children were concerned. An eye for an eye. The old words fresh as ever, fresh as Antibbe’s blood. The truth dawned in the girl’s eyes. Her jaw dropped, like a small trapdoor suddenly sprung. She reached her hand to that mouth. “Oh, no,” she cried.
Miro had no more time for her. He turned again to see what Artkin would do now. But Artkin had reentered the van. A siren began to howl. Like a call to arms. Our arms, Miro thought. Action. At last.
Miro looked at Antibbe’s body, which lay like a sprawl of rubbish across the tracks. Thank you, Antibbe, he whispered to himself in the same way he sometimes sang Elvis Presley’s songs with no one else to hear.
That look in Artkin’s eyes.
Miro knew that look. A calm look, serene. A look of wisdom, as if Artkin had searched deep within himself and then arrived at a conclusion. He had seen that look when Artkin had finally declared, after nine hours under siege in the hotel lobby in Detroit: “We leave.
Now.” As if invisible gods were whispering in his ears, guiding him, lending him the wisdom of the ages.
As soon as Artkin stepped into the bus, Miro knew what the look meant and a shiver raised hairs on his flesh. Now it begins, Miro thought.
Artkin locked the door behind him. He crouched on the steps, beckoning Miro to him at the same time. Miro knelt above, his head inclined, eager to listen.
“They say that the shooting of Antibbe was a mistake. An unauthorized act. They were on the monitor right away and they said a sniper pulled the trigger by accident. A sniper who was too alert, too keen, his nerves strained and taut from watching in the night, too well-trained, so that his finger squeezed the trigger automatically when Antibbe’s light went on.”
The fools, Miro thought, to give such an excuse.
“It happens that way,” Artkin said. “Reflex action. The way a hand is drawn from a flame before the brain has time to record the pain.”
“You believe them?” Miro asked, incredulous.
“I believe them,” Artkin said. “They have too much to lose at this point to risk such a thing. They have Sedeete. We have also selected a messenger to bring the stone. The son of one of their generals. We are on the edge of action.”
Action, Miro thought bitterly. Their action, not ours. We sit here waiting while they take action.
Artkin looked toward the girl and the children. “They begged us not to take vengeance against the children, to put aside reprisals. But I told them that this was impossible. A child must die for Antibbe. Otherwise, they would have no respect for our cause, our position here. And they could kill us, one by one.”
Miro, too, looked in the direction of the girl and the children. Which child? It made no difference to him.
Artkin’s flashlight sent a feeble finger of light through the bus, touching the children’s faces, remaining for a second longer on this one or that one. Morning had arrived but darkness still mingled with the tentative daylight seeping through the slits in the tapes. Kate blinked into the flashlight’s beam as Artkin approached. She reached protectively for Monique and drew her near. This can’t be happening, of course. What can’t be happening? She could not allow herself to say the words, to form her thoughts into words.