After the First Death (22 page)

Again, the silence. And again you waited. And then I told you: “There is a possibility, Ben, that they may question you intensively, to determine whether you are, in fact, what you appear to be. In fact, I would say it is a certainty they will question you.” The key word here, of course, was
intensively.
Torture is such an old-fashioned archaic word. We avoid the term now. There are other terms. Intensive interrogation, methodological intervention, etc.

“But that’s all right,” you said. “You say, Dad, that I am innocent, that I don’t know anything. So how could I tell them anything?”

The telephone rang at that moment. I had often pondered how our lives were altered by that call. The caller was a liaison officer from Washington, D.C., to inform me of the time chosen for our attack on the bridge. 0930 in military time. Nine thirty in the morning civilian time. I listened and made note of the time on my desk pad. I did not want to say the time aloud, not wanting you to hear it. I answered the necessary questions without unnecessary verbiage, assured the liaison that we were prepared for the action, our special forces waiting for the word.

I replaced the receiver.

I saw your eyes go to the desk pad.

Had you seen the time I had written down?

It was at that moment that I should have called it off, removed you as messenger, canceled the arrangements, picked up the telephone and told Washington I had changed my mind.

But I hesitated that fraction of a minute, and then the
door opened and the other officers came in and we were caught up in the movements bringing us to the climax of the hijacking.

The room is cold.

The heating system is even worse now than when I was a student here.

When the man called Artkin said, “Either you are a great patriot or a great fool,” he knew exactly what I was. What I am. Just as I knew exactly what he was and to what lengths he would go. We knew each other across the chasm; we had recognized each other across the ravine, although we had never met.

We went by military vehicles to the scene of the bridge. You and I sat together, in the rear seat, a colonel whose name does not matter between us. At the moment you left my office, you had ceased to exist in the minds of those at Inner Delta as my son. And I know it was necessary that you had to cease to exist as my son to me for the duration of the emergency. I thought of your mother. At least she was safe in Weston. I told myself that all would go well. I wondered whether I would ever have the courage to tell her of that night, the part you and I played in it. Everything would go well, I told myself again. Artkin would receive the stone that you brought. He would also perceive that you were exactly what you seemed to be—you have an air of innocence, Ben, that cannot be denied even to a man like Artkin. There would be the inevitable questioning, however. He would inflict a degree of pain. But not much. I did not believe the pain would be excessive. Men like Artkin do not use these procedures for
pleasure, for the sake of being cruel. They are professionals just as I am a professional. Expediency is the rule.

I glanced at you in the car, Ben, a swift secret glance, and saw your pale face, tension in your forehead. I had to withhold myself from reaching across the colonel to give you a pat of encouragement. You looked at me, a brief sidelong glance. I caught a glimpse of trust, determination. A look that said: I won’t let you down, Dad.

The car moved through the landscape of false dawn, that reverse twilight. Only twenty miles away stood the towns of Concord and Lexington, places that had known historic moments. Your mother and I had often taken you to the Concord Bridge where the Minutemen encountered the British soldiers that April morning so long ago, a momentous explosion in our nation’s history. I pondered the moment you and I were living through now. Two hundred years later in a different world. A world of assassination and terrorism, where children are pawns in deadly games. Yet I knew that if we defeated the terrorists on the bridge that morning, we would be setting a precedent for the world to see, sending a message to terrorists all over the world that our nation would not buckle under to intimidation.

When we arrived at our headquarters across the ravine from the bridge, morning light filled the scene. Morning also revealed to us the small bundle on the top of the van: the body of the child, still unidentified, who had been murdered in retaliation for the mercenary’s death. We hurried you into the building so that you would not see the body immediately.

Inside, I was handed a report. The message was brief:
Communications established.

I did not mention the report to you; it was important
that you did not know. We brought you to the window that looked out across the chasm to the bridge, the van, and the bus. You made no comment when you viewed the scene, although I saw your eyes flying everywhere.

One of the generals—his name does not matter, it is a long time since he has used his own name—outlined procedures. We would contact Artkin on the van and tell him you were on the scene. If the situation had not changed, you would be given the stone wrapped carefully and placed in a small box, half the size of a shoebox. You would walk alone the eighth-of-a-mile distance through the woods. You would wear only your shoes, socks, shorts, undershirt, and jeans. The morning would be chilly, but Artkin had insisted you wear no jacket or garment under which anything could be concealed. The box must be held out in the open at all times. Our snipers would cover you all the way.

“There has been one change,” the general said, addressing me and not you. “Originally, this man Artkin said the messenger would be returned as soon as the stone was delivered. Now, he insists that he must stay until the bargaining is finished.”

I had not expected that. Or had I?

“That’s all right,” you said, your voice small now and thin.

“It should not take long, Ben,” I said. “They want to end this thing as much as we do.”

You nodded, your chin firm again. I was proud of you.

We went outside while the final contact was made with Artkin. We did not wish for you to hear the contact in the event Artkin said something that could upset you.

When the signal was given, I said: “It’s time, Ben.”

You nodded again, still firm, resolute. The morning was chilly, but you did not shiver. Neither did I.
Nothing could touch us, I see in retrospect, except the emotions of that moment.

You said: “I don’t want to let you down, Dad. I’ll do my best.”

“Your best is all we want, Ben. And you won’t let us down, no matter what happens. I know my son.”

“Time,” the general said, emerging from the building.

We shook hands stiffly, Ben, you and I, although I had to resist reaching for you and enclosing you in my arms. I went inside the building. They thought it best if I did not see you make that long, vulnerable walk to the bridge. I sat down, near the monitor. I tried to keep from thinking but I knew I could not keep myself from listening. And I also knew that soon I would be listening to your voice from the van.

Communications established.

The report meant that we had managed to establish a communications link with the van without the knowledge of Artkin. One of the troopers trained in terrorist countermeasures had climbed the girders under the bridge and connected a direct line from the van to our headquarters. The connector was a sophisticated piece of equipment developed for military use. The trooper had worked painstakingly, directly under the van, under cover of darkness. The operation probably would not have been possible if there had not been space between the railroad ties for the trooper to have access to the bottom of the van. The communications device would absorb all sound within the van much like a suction cup and transmit it to our monitor in our headquarters.

I waited while you traversed the edge of the ravine in your walk to the bridge. You were part of the operation
now, part of its success or failure. I did not want failure. The least of my fears was that I had volunteered to be one of the scapegoats if we met failure. The worst of my fears was you, Ben, as you made your way to the bridge. I pictured you in my mind’s eye as you walked. The building I stood in was silent and so was the monitor.

But thirty minutes later, the silence would be broken by screams. Your screams.

I still hear those screams, even here in this room all this time later, screams that are as much a part of me as of you. Screams that never stop.

I know, of course, where you went when you left this room.

I said before I know you better than anyone else and I should have realized you were trying to throw me off the track when you wrote on those pages that you wouldn’t go to Brimmler’s Bridge until I returned to the room.

That’s where you’ve gone.

That’s where I must go.

Before it’s too late.

Is it too late, Ben?

part
10

The boy
was naked. Miro’s first instinct was to look away. The boy looked so forlorn and pathetic and frightened that Miro did not wish to invade his privacy any further. But he also found himself fascinated by the boy who was almost a mirror to himself, except that this boy was fair with almost no body hair while Miro was dark with clusters of hair already gathered on his chest. The boy avoided Miro’s eyes. His hands were crossed in front of the private place between his legs. Why was he naked?

Artkin said: “It was necessary to search him. Thoroughly.” Answering Miro’s unasked question. “He is clean. There was nothing hidden on him. And he brought this.”

He handed Miro a gray smooth stone about the size of
an egg. Miro rubbed it with his thumb. A stone from his homeland. Would he ever see that place? It seemed so distant from this bridge, this van.

“So we know they are telling the truth,” Artkin said. “They have Sedeete. But we still have the children. And this boy.” He turned to the boy. “Put on your clothes.” He tossed the boy his clothing, all bunched up in an untidy pile. The boy was too slow to react, and the clothing fell in a heap to the floor.

As the boy dressed himself with hurried fumbling hands, keeping his face averted, Miro studied Artkin’s face. Sedeete was captured; Artkin was now in command, and Artkin liked action. Would there be action at last? But Artkin’s face told him nothing. Artkin merely watched the boy dress, as if fascinated by the procedure. Miro also watched him closely. He wanted to stay alert. Artkin had summoned him here and left Stroll with the children and the girl. The best way he could serve Artkin at the moment was by being alert.

The boy was finally fully clothed. His breath came in small sharp bursts as if he had run a long distance. His hands twitched and trembled at his sides. Miro deduced that the boy was a year or two younger than himself—but then, he remembered, of course, that he did not know his own age.

“Now,” Artkin said, facing the boy. “I have questions for you. And what you answer will decide whether or not you will survive. Do you understand? You must speak the truth and quickly.”

The boy nodded, obviously terrified. Miro was always fascinated by the terror in people’s eyes. Miro was eager for the questions and answers to begin. When Artkin had told him that a boy about his own age had been selected to deliver the stone as proof of Sedeete’s capture, Miro’s interest and curiosity had quickened.
But why a boy? Because, Artkin had explained, he preferred someone who was not a professional. When the general on the monitor had said he would be willing to send his own son as a gesture of goodwill, to hurry matters along and bring the bargaining closer, Artkin had been intrigued. His own son? Ordinarily, the person sent in a situation of this sort was a pawn, part of the game both sides were playing, a game in which advantages were being sought, balances were weighed. But perhaps the general was not playing a game after all. Perhaps he really wanted to bargain, unwilling to risk the death of the children. Perhaps the death of the little boy in retaliation for Antibbe’s death had served a larger purpose than revenge. Who could tell about Americans, anyway? Thus, he accepted the general’s son as the messenger. But he counseled Miro: “Watch him, study him. He is close to your age. You may see something that I won’t see.”

But all Miro could see now was this trembling, timid teen-ager.

“Tell us,” Artkin said. “Are you the son of one of those generals?”

“Yes,” the boy said. “My name is Ben Marchand. My father is General Mark Marchand.” His voice emerged as small and thin and quavering, as if an even smaller boy inside of him were speaking.

“Tell us what you know of this entire situation and why your father chose you to bring us the stone,” Artkin said, voice harsh, demanding, taking advantage of the boy’s fright.

“My father called me into his office. We live on Fort Delta. He said that a package had to be delivered to the—to the men on the bridge. He said it had to be delivered by someone who could be trusted by both sides.”

“Did he admit that he was placing your life in danger?”

“Yes,” the boy said, gaining a bit of control now, as if his own voice were giving him courage. “He said it was risky but the risk was worth taking. He said he believed you were sincere in negotiating.”