1 Manic Monday (13 page)

He raised his eyebrows.

“You think I am being followed by the CIA or FBI?”

“It is very likely.  Your activity of late has
been…formidable.   Your workload has been daunting and we are worried
that perhaps it has drawn the eye of the American government.”

“Nice to know I am so popular,” Jake quipped.

She ignored him.

“We plan to use your services for this assignment in hopes
that you are followed.”

He suppressed the urge to groan.  He hated China. 
He had completed an assignment in Guangzhou a month ago and the smog was
stifling.  Then there was the sour taste of Sinegem.

“So I go to China to find the man who killed
Yonglin
?”  Jake liked the sound of that.  It
smacked of justice.

“Not right away, no.  We have an international incident
on our hands here.  There is enough blood here to implicate our whole
organization.  We cannot risk retaliating just yet.  It would be too
predictable.  We are not the al Qaeda.”

Jake did not need the reminder of who Galbraith truly was at
that moment.  He was still basking in the possibility that he could play
the role of the good guy.

“So what do you have in mind?”

“First, we have to send you to Atlanta.  Your team will
brief you.”

“Atlanta?  I thought this was an international
incident,” Jake said.

“It is. Several of our contacts will be there for an
economic summit.  It will be a high-security event.  We want your
presence there to be extremely visible.”

“I don’t know how comfortable I am with extremely
visible.  I prefer the Casper the Ghost impressions over Donald Trump’s
hair piece.”

“It is a strategic assignment.  It is necessary. 
You will do this, Mr. Monday,” she said.  She set her hands on the desk
with a finality that Jake understood meant that the matter was settled.  
“ Which
leads me to one last thing before I send you back to
Alexandre
.  I just wanted to ask you one more
time about your experience with this woman on the trip to Los Angeles,” Deputy
Director Smith said, her lips set in a grim line.

Jake thought all these questions about the woman were
odd.  They barely asked him any questions concerning Giselle.  Jake
had been assured that his performance regarding their largest client was
completely within the parameters of their expectations.  Not once had his
superiors mentioned why they had felt it necessary to “test” him.  This
unanswered question left a burning ache in his head similar to the one that was
conjured by the image of the spinning silver locket and VANITY. 

“What more do you want to know?”

“For starters, would you recognize her if you saw her
again?”

He thought about that before answering.  His memory
could be unreliable.  He understood this and feared it.  When Jake
Monday feared something, his defense mechanism was to either fight it or ignore
it.  His memory of the lady who had tripped was that she had pretty ankles
and a spray of freckles around her nose.  Is that the sum total of his
memory?  What about the locket?  Hadn’t she given it to him?  He
was proud of his ability to note details and deduct people’s life stories, sort
of an amateur profiler.  What was her dialect? 
Her
level of education?
 
The fabric of her clothes?
 
The style of her hair?
  What did she smell
like?  What did her eyes tell him?  Had she flirted with him, or had
she been scared?

Jake knew if he concentrated, he would recall these
things.  They were important because they were details that kept him
alive.  However, he knew with the recollection would come immense
pain.  Dredging up memories of his past and accounting for gaps in time
had become a value proposition.  Was it worth the effort and misery? 
The answer was usually, no. 

“Yes.  I am sure I would recognize her,” he said with
confidence.

“Good.  You may see her again.  You must be
ready.”

“Am I
bait
for a trap?”

“No.  You are the trap.”

On Thin Ice

He was surrounded by corporate CEO’s. 
Coca Cola.
 
Delta Airlines.
 
The Home Depot guy was shaking his hand.  Everyone was smiling.  No
one knew he was a target.  Some expected it, for sure.  That was why
The Man was surrounded by all those suits with sunglasses and hand guns.

It was too hot for suits, but everyone was wearing one,
anyway.  The stage was flanked by banners for Coke, Georgia Pacific, the
Atlanta Falcons, and Warner Broadcasting.  Media were everywhere. 
The air smelled like popcorn and flowers.  The wind was blowing, mild and
humid. 

This event was scheduled to celebrate a new plan to lift tax
burdens on local Atlanta businesses. Promises of more jobs, better pay, and
improved products and services would be exchanged.  Of course the
President was here.  Votes were here.  Financial back scratching was
here. 

And so was he.

The buzzing in his ears was not from the flies or from the
forty thousand people packed into the park.  It came from the back of his
head, from behind his eyes, and from deep within his body.  He felt as
though his whole body was thrumming, like it was wired.  He was invincible
and crippled at the same time. 

A red haze made it hard to focus.  He struggled to
maintain his identity. 

Who am I?
he
would ask
. 

I AM the trap,
a voice, very prideful and domineering
would answer.

It did not matter.  Only the mission mattered.  He
was the conduit.  He was the switch.  He had a limited capacity, but
would produce a stupendous bang.  Under it all, he knew he was Monday.

And over it all was an incessant buzzing.  Until now,
it had felt like he was on autopilot.  He traveled, knowing his
destination, understanding implicitly his assignment.  It was what he
did. 
But never this big.
  Never this
brazen.

Jake looked down at his hands.  They were not
shaking. 
Of course not.
 

The Man, the target, the President, was standing before a
lectern, talking.  He was very animated.  He gestured and the crowd
roared.  Jake could barely hear it all with the buzzing, but the noise of
the crowd was palpable.  He could feel it on his face.  He could see
the smiling faces through the haze.  He could only focus if he watched the
Man carefully. 

The Man, the target, the President was the mission.  He
was the prey. 

The Trap was a highly polished, instinctively capable
machine of death.
A predator.
He must deliver his
prey. 

However, some of his self, the real Monday remained.  A
shred of his conscience was aware of it.  It looked upon the pitiful thing
he was as if through a thin film of ice.  It was the noise and the pain
that masked it.  Through it all, through the haze and the buzz, beyond the
crowded park and the cramped, smelly, humid ride aboard the MARTA, was a silver
locket spinning from a chain.

He felt in his pocket for the last microchip.  They
were emitters.  He had placed a dozen around the area. 
Near all the sound equipment.
 
Under
the stage, behind the big neon signs, beside the big network trucks.
 
He fingered the circuitry.  They were “marvels of modern
technology.” 

Who said that?  Gary?
  It must have
been.  It sounded like something he would say, pride and awe mixing with
nervous energy.

In his other pocket he felt the weight of a button and a
small cylinder.  The slim tube was his “BACK UP PLAN.”  The button
would trigger an electromagnetic pulse between the microchips he had planted
around the park. He should drop the one in his pocket.  Tests had shown
that the pulse could also cause major damage to internal organs and the nervous
system.

The tube was a grenade that would emit the exact same effect
in a more local area in case the button ploy did not work.  It would be
enough. 
Maybe.
 
So many
variables.

In the confusion that would ensue, the Trap would come
alive.  No guns. 
Only confusion, thousands of
people and a small knife.
  It was in the folds of his sleeve, six
inches long and barely a half inch wide. It was shaped like an ice pick. 
It was long enough to find the heart, or to puncture through the neck at the
carotid artery.

Suicide
, he thought. 

He was twenty feet from the stage. 

Seven strides
, his mind told him.  Monday could
spring the trap.  Monday had performed feats just as daring, just as
dangerous, before.  But the stakes had never been this high. 

He glanced at all the executives seated around the
Man.  Some were standing.  It was crowded on the stage.  He
counted six men with guns.  Those were the ones he could see.  He
knew there were others.  The ones on stage looked out among the
crowd.  He was one face among the thousands.  Only, he wasn’t
smiling.  He wasn’t cheering.  Surely, someone would notice.

Suicide
.

You are the Trap.  The trap does not need to survive
to succeed
, the self-important voice reminded him.  This felt like
something that had been taught to him a very early age.  He knew it in his
soul.  But, he did not like the voice.  He did not like what it was
telling him, even if it was something he already knew.

Why do I care if I
succeed.
 
I want to live
, he thought.

The Man,
The
Plan, the
Trap.  That is all.  That is your world.  Accept it and you will
succeed,
the voice said.  It seemed logical.
Compelling.
 
And wrong.

The Man continued to talk.  The crowd continued to
smile and wave, laugh and clap.  The haze continued to threaten his vision,
the buzzing continued to pierce his mind with its numbing drill. 

All the doubts that had haunted him until now came boiling
to the surface, frothing over the buzzing in his head, pushing past the red
haze. 
If I am Monday, why am I here?  Why would I do this?

“Excuse me. 
Mr. Monday?”
 
A hand, slim and light on his elbow.
  He turned.

Would you recognize her if you saw her again?

Yes.  Yes, he would
.

She had a concerned look on her face.  The crowd came
to life around him.  They erupted in applause.  She seemed distracted
for a moment.  He swallowed, his eyes bulging.  He dropped the
microchip back in his pocket and tried to smile.  He was sure it came out
as a grimace.  All he could think was,
VANITY
,
VANITY,
VANITY
.

“Yes?”  He knew he was not supposed to recognize
her.  He feigned confusion, glancing back at the Man.  The red haze
had disappeared.  The buzzing had stopped.  He was so
grateful,
his eyes began to brim with tears.

“Do you remember me?”  She looked hopeful. 

He made himself act the part of someone waking up to a
reality.  It was not hard to pretend.  He felt like he had been
drowning.  Was she saving him from the watery depths?  Or, was she
here to endanger The Plan.

“From the flight to LA this winter,
right?”
  He had to almost yell to be heard over the crowd.  He
found himself leaning forward, grasping at the sleeve of his jacket.  He
could not help himself.  It was habit.  And, something else was
compelling him, pulling him inexorably to a destination.

She smiled.  Her freckles touched in places, like
someone connecting dots.  It was such an innocent smile.  How could
she be a danger?  How could he plunge the knife into her soft neck?

Who am I?
he
asked again.
She had called him “Mr. Monday” and he had responded.  That was
right.  But if so, why was he here?

You ARE the Trap
, the voice reminded him.  It
lacked its earlier conviction.

“Yes.  You played doctor when I twisted my ankle,” she
said, above the roar of the crowd.  She leaned closer to him, her voice
straining.  He could smell her perfume.  If she was dangerous, danger
smelled good. 
Rose petals and vanilla with a hint of
jasmine.

“Of course,” he looked down at her ankles.  They were
still there.   “How are they now?”

“Fine.
  I wanted to thank
you.”

“You did.”  He tried on a smile.  Thought maybe he
could remember how to do it.

“Yes.  But you left it on the seat beside you, I am
afraid,” she said, holding out her hand.  In it she held a slim silver
chain that held a small locket, spinning in the morning Atlanta sun.  It
reflected the light as it spun.  It was all very mesmerizing.

In his mind’s eye, he could hear what came next.  And
then, it was like he was plunging into a pool of water in reverse.  His
ears popped as if a pressure had been released. His vision cleared and he knew. 
Not all, but enough. 

The words were on her lips.  He could see them
forming.  He could not let her repeat them.  The truth behind them
was too terrible.  He reached for her hand just as the speakers popped
with a loud bang.  People screamed.  Lights flashed and went
out.  He heard curses.

He turned to look at the stage.  The men there were
whisking the President away.  They each had a hand to one ear. Men, women,
and children ran toward exits.  The press of people around him dissipated.
He stood amid a sea of discarded paper cups and flyers.

He knew that in those two seconds between the pop and the
crowd’s frightened reaction, he was supposed to have taken the life of the
President.  He also knew that even if he had succeeded, he would be dead
right now.