Cost of Life (21 page)

After fifty-five minutes of pleading with her, fifty-five minutes of appealing to her reason and intellect, after fifty-five minutes of relentless petitioning, Marco and Maria Ortiz, Seats 23A and 23B, had finally convinced their daughter Conchita that their predicament was not, in fact, her fault.

“Even though I moved to Atlanta…” wept Conchita.

“We are so proud of you,” Marco replied. “We brag about you to everybody. We brag about you to strangers in the market.”

Maria continued: “We brag so much that people have asked us to stop, but only because they are jealous. They wish their children were famous animators.”

Marco and Maria were lying—they didn't brag to strangers because that would have been rude—but parents lied to children all the time to calm them down. How many white lies had Marco and Maria spun over the years for their dear daughter? What harm was there in one more? What harm was there in one final, fond fib?

For Madeline, the good news was that Bellum Vellum's station chief in the Caucasus region finally got back to her. The bad news was what his email had to say:

the O. is a fortress.

even the toiletries can only be delivered by military.

it's a little like God. everybody knows about it, but nobody knows about it, really.

terrible about the hijacking, c'est la guerre.

hope all is well otherwise.

—n. t.

N. T.
stood for “Nino Tsereteli.” Madeline had met the man once at a state dinner in Bahrain. He'd spent their entire conversation talking to her cleavage. But he apparently was very good at his job, playing
yojimbo
to the region's tribes. If they were going to kill one another, they were going to kill one another with the training and firepower of Bellum Vellum. It was the cockroach-like immorality of men like him that made Madeline thank the Lord each and every day that she was born a lesbian.

Madeline clicked
REPLY
and was formulating her response when she noticed the time and casually clicked on her office's TV remote. The press conference would be on in a few minutes. She didn't expect to learn any more details about Flight 816—the State Department was, by necessity, being kept in the loop—but was curious about the questions the media would ask and the tenor in which they asked them. The pulse of the nation would be set by whatever narrative the media chose to pursue in the next few minutes.

And so, despite being kept in the loop, the network news was how Madeline learned about the massacre at the airport.

Oh God. Xana.

Madeline's heart thundered against her rib cage. Her mouth became a desert.

She knew several dozen people she could contact to get the details, but she had to call Jim Christie. If anyone knew where Xana was, it would be him.

She dug up his direct line on her contact list.

She had to dial the number twice just to get it right.

Her hands shook like rattlers.

“Office of the special-agent-in-charge. This is Nomi,” said his secretary. “How may I help you?”

Madeline offered her credentials and then asked to speak with the man himself.

The subsequent pause in the conversation did not steady Madeline's nerves one iota. Finally, after maybe ten seconds of agonizing silence, Nomi spoke:

“He…there's been an…incident at the airport…he…”

Madeline exhaled sorrow. What in God's name had Jim Christie been doing at the airport? Everyone in America—if not the world—knew that the man was scheduled to give a press conference from Philips Arena in five minutes.

“I'm so sorry,” Madeline said. “I had no idea.”

“We just heard, like, fifteen minutes ago…”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I should transfer you to one of our special agents.”

“Wait—”

“One moment please.”

And she was put on hold.

Son of a bitch.

She glanced at the TV. According to the chyron across the bottom third of the screen, the gentleman at the podium was Special Agent Del Purrich. Madeline had never heard of the man, but why should she have? The only reason she knew Jim was because he'd gone through the trouble of contacting her after Xana's arrest. He had been trying to gather statements from character witnesses to buttress his argument to DC that, despite overwhelming public and private consternation, Xana Marx should keep her job.

Madeline remembered asking him how many statements of support he'd gotten so far, albeit knowing that if poor Jim Christie was reaching out to one of Xana's exes, his level of desperation had to be very, very high.

“Well, it's not about the
quantity
of statements,” he'd replied.

Which meant he hadn't secured a single one, not one affidavit in Xana's favor—none except his own, of course. And for him to put his credibility out there, on the line, alone, for her, he had to be either the world's most loyal boss or…

In the end, Madeline had typed up a letter of recommendation and sent it down south, in part out of pity for this poor, foolish man and in part out of pity for Xana, whether she deserved pity or not. Amusingly, that letter of recommendation somehow wound its way back up through the channels to Madeline's boss, and it was from this letter, suffused as it was with praise for Xana's unique talents, that he got the bright idea to send Madeline down to rehab to recruit her.

And she'd rejected the offer!

Fuck. There really was no one like her. The possibility that Xana Marx could be dead was such an anathema to known reality that Madeline simply refused to believe it. No. Stab her, drown her, riddle her with an ammo shop's supply of bullets and she wouldn't die. Death might try to take her soul, but she'd just piss him off until he threw up his hands in defeat and sulked away.

Madeline could sympathize.

There was a click on the other line and then came a voice:

“Special Agent Angelo Potter.”

If fatigue could speak, Madeline decided, it would sound exactly like Special Agent Angelo Potter.

For the second time in five minutes, Madeline relayed her credentials over the phone and then, gathering her hopes in a pause, shifted to the subject of her inquiry, namely what exactly had just gone down at the airport, what were the names of the deceased, and what, if any, were the names of the survivors.

The FBI agent did not interrupt her.

Through it all, she couldn't even hear him breathing.

She finished her spiel and waited.

And waited.

Oh for fuck's sake, had he fallen asleep?

“Special Agent Potter,” she said. “I—”

“Yeah, OK. There was one witness. She'll be able to fill you in better than me.”

She?

“One second.”

Wait!

But again she was put on hold. Damn it.

Madeline didn't notice she'd been chewing on her left thumbnail until she suddenly felt its severed sliver slide across her tongue. She quickly spat the jagged half-moon into the trash. She hadn't chewed on her nails in years. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd succumbed to—

Oh wait. It was when she'd received that package in the mail, with all of the clothes she had left at the house after the breakup, a rainbow snake of shirts, bras, socks, skirts, and slacks all coiled inside an old printer box. She had stared at that open box and she had nibbled her thumbnail so far down that the fleshy tip of her thumb had blobbed back over what remained.

Angelo came back on the line. “Yeah, I've got her on the other line. I'm going to try to connect you directly to her. Her name is Xanadu Marx. She's actually a former—”

“Yeah,” interrupted Madeline, feeling suddenly euphoric. “I know who she is.”

“You have my condolences. Anyway, here she is.”

Click, then:

“Hello?”

Madeline stood up, then sat down, then stood up again.

“Hello?” Xana repeated. “Is anyone there?”

“I…yes…hi. Xana? Hi. It's Madeline. Hi.” On the TV, Del Purrich was answering questions. Madeline turned her back to him and gazed out her window at the nation's capital. “Are you OK?”

“I'm alive.”

“That's something, I guess, right?”

“It's something. How are you?”

“I'm…” Madeline sat down again. “I'm fine, I guess. Busy. You know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm so sorry about your boss.”

“Did you know him?”

“No,” Madeline lied. “But DC is a company town and you know how company towns operate. I heard nothing but good things about him.”

“Yeah. Jim was one of the good guys.”

“What was he doing there anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be giving this press conference?”

Silence.

“Xana?”

“It's a long story.”

Madeline nodded. Enough said. She glanced back at the TV screen. Del Purrich was no longer at the podium. In his stead was a good old boy with the world's largest flag pin affixed to the lapel of his gray suit. The chyron labeled him as Sutton Buttle Jr., chairman of Pegasus Airlines.

“Who is this joker?” she and Xana said simultaneously.

Madeline smiled to herself. “The press conference?” She turned on the volume of her TV.

“—our hearts that this happened on one of our aircraft. We are proud to be an American company and have proudly served the United States of America with convenient and affordable air travel for over twenty-three years. My granddaddy—”

“Anyway…” said Madeline.

But Xana said, “Wait.”

So Madeline watched and listened to the windbag prattle on:

“—and he taught me how to shoot my first rabbit. The rifle was a Remington, another great American company. I still have that Remington rifle. And I remember when crazy Charles Whitman took to that tower back in 1966 and started shooting people and I remember hearing later that the weapon he used was a Remington rifle, well, I didn't want to even touch it.”

“Um?” said Madeline.

But Xana said, “Wait.”

“But then my granddaddy said to me these words of wisdom. He said, ‘Pickle'—'cause that was what he called me—he said, ‘Pickle, remember how I taught you how to shoot straight? Imagine I didn't and then you went to pick up that there gun and instead of killing a rabbit like you're supposed to, you just hurt her so she was in a lot of pain. Now whose fault is it that the rabbit's in all that pain? Is it the gun company's? It is not. It is your fault.' ”

Madeline groaned. “Oh for the love of—”

“Wait,” Xana said. “It's about to get even worse.”

“Over these past few hours, I've thought a lot about what Granddaddy said to me. I feel a personal shame that it was one of my planes these barbarians used to perpetrate their despicable acts of terror. I know this isn't my fault, Granddaddy, but it still disgusts me to the core. And so, I say here and now, on behalf of Pegasus Airlines, on behalf of my family, on behalf of the American people, I am going to go on that god-awful website and pledge fifty thousand dollars to each of those one hundred and seventy-four passengers. If any of you fine folks are watching this, know that this is a nine-point-three-five-million-dollar sign of solidarity from me, from my family, from Pegasus, and from the great United States of America, to you.”

He stepped away from the microphone. No questions apparently for him.

“Wow.” Madeline pressed
MUTE.
“I have no words.”

“You've got to admire the twisted logic. He really thinks wiring the terrorists ten million dollars is making things better.”

“Except it's not even about that. ‘Fifty thousand dollars' is not an arbitrary number.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's—I can't even believe the gall of this guy—how much do you want to bet that is the exact amount Pegasus is on the line for in death and dismemberment coverage?”

“Of course. Bastard's trying to indemnify himself from a hundred and seventy-four lawsuits.”

“And do we even know what the money is actually for? Because it sure as hell isn't going to support Cuba.”

“Is that where the money's tracking to?”

“Depends which IT expert you ask. One says it's Cuba. Another says the money's funneling right back to your airport. It's probably neither. And guess what the Cuban government had to say when we contacted them?”

“They ‘deny any involvement' and assure you they're ‘investigating the allegation with the utmost attention.' ”

Then Xana shared with Madeline what she'd just learned about Zviad and Bislan Daudov. When she was through, Madeline asked the obvious question:

“Why would the Teflon terrorist willingly turn himself in?”

“I'm willing to bet the answer's behind those ancient prison walls,” Xana replied. “How high do your contacts run at the CIA?”

Madeline glanced at her computer screen, where her reply message to Nino Tsereteli remained all white space, still waiting to be filled.

“I've actually got a better idea,” she said.

The city of Grozny was founded in 1818 to serve as a Russian fort against the barbaric Circassians, barbaric insofar as they occupied territory that the tsar desired due to its proximity to the warm water of the Black Sea. In their zeal to wash the land clean of Circassian settlements, the Russian troops murdered over 10 percent of the entire ethnic group. Even to this day, on nights as black and starless as this, the screams of the children could be heard in the blasts of the wind.

Not that Boris Peskin believed a word of such bullshit. No, Boris was a child of the Soviet Union. He was a child of clarity and science. None of that serf-bound superstition for him. So what that the Soviet Union was no more. Remove the window dressing and the window still remains. Every day he spent in this ugly city, Grozny, Boris sat on his balcony and drank deep his karsk—the balance between the coffee and the vodka well measured—and scoffed at the incessant, naïve rumormongering in the café below. A vent installed beside his balcony allowed him to eavesdrop on every conversation and since the café below was the only establishment of its ilk in the city, Boris became aware not only of the rumormongering but also the woolgathering and, most delectably, the secret-sharing. And so, along with his karsk, he carried out with him a journal in which he maintained the city's secrets. Most of them were mundane to him, but the value of a secret lay in its thrall over someone else. Sometimes, after dinner, Boris phoned old acquaintances—those few who were still alive—and shared with them the silly secrets of Grozny. And then he would retire to his bed and spit a curse to the generals who had retired him to this privy of civilization. Once in bed, he rarely slept. He never, not once, heard children screaming in the wind.

Boris was ninety-two years old. The grand muscles of his chest and arms had long ago deflated into droopy flaps. So what. What use did he have any more for grand muscles? Twice weekly, a boy delivered him groceries and books and cleaned his flat and washed his clothes. All things considered, for a ninety-two-year-old man, especially for an ex-soldier, Boris Peskin was doing well. And if he rarely slept, well, he could use the time to catch up on all the great adventure novels he had neglected growing up. Thus enthralled was he when, well into the evening, near midnight, in fact, his phone rang.

He ignored the first ring.

He put down his book on the second ring.

He answered it on the third.

“What?” he grumbled.

The voice on the other end replied by telling him his name, former rank, and current address. The voice belonged to a woman. He did not recognize it. But he knew a threat when he heard it.

“You call me to tell me what I already know?” he said. “That feels like a waste of your time. It certainly is a waste of mine. Good-bye.”

“My name is Xanadu Marx. Also on the line is a special agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and a liaison with the US State Department. We have a mutual acquaintance to whom you provided vital intelligence less than twelve hours ago. Specifically, you gave him a list of names. Do we have your attention now, Major Peskin?”

Boris glared at the phone receiver. If it had been a face, he would have punched it. Repeatedly.

“If it makes you feel any better, Major Peskin, he did not give you up. We've merely had a trace on his phone line for many, many years. It took us ten seconds to identify your phone number and another thirty seconds to identify your dossier.”

“Are you asking for applause?”

“No, Major. We're asking for assistance.”

“What assistance? I am ninety-two years old. You have traces and seconds and dossiers. I have arthritis. Leave me alone.”

“But that's not true at all. For example, those names you acquired…how did you get them?”

“Why don't you ask our mutual acquaintance?”

“I'm asking you.”

“I don't remember.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes.”

“And I suppose there's nothing at all I can do to jog your memory?”

“I don't believe so, no.”

“Oh. Oh well. It was worth a shot. Thank you for your time.”

Click.

Boris frowned. If the woman on the other end was who she said she was, then she had given up far too easily. He wasn't sure what her next play would be, and this uncertainty made him nervous. He slid his feet into his slippers and made his way to the kitchen. A drink would fortify his nerves. No coffee, just vodka, straight up, in a highball glass. Down the hatch. Good. Let it flow through his lolling veins. Let it comfort his extremities.

He poured himself another. Why not. If he didn't have someone to share the bottle with, then who or when was he saving it for? The doors to his balcony were already open to let in the fresh air. The night out there was quiet. No wind. No life.

The telephone rang.

He owned only one and it was the one beside his bed and he was still in the kitchen. It trembled as it screamed to him and he swallowed down that second shot of vodka in one quick gulp. It rang three times, five times, eight times. He didn't move. It would shut up eventually. Twelve rings, twenty rings, twenty-six rings. It had to shut up eventually.

Thirty-one rings. Thirty-five rings. Thirty-eight rings.

He moved as fast as he could and in the middle of the forty-fifth ring, he ripped the cord out from the wall.

There. Try and harass him now, Americans.

He bent himself back into bed. The light in the kitchen remained on. The light beside him remained on. So be it. He set his head against his pillows. His mouth tasted of sweetened ethanol. He shut his eyes. He wouldn't sleep—he knew that well enough—but he could relax. Yes. The Americans and their problems were a world away. He could rest.

From across the room, on the other side of the kitchen, someone double-tapped on his front door.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Then nothing.

Then the knob began to shake a bit. Whoever was on the other side was attempting to pick the lock.

Fuck this shit. Boris went for his gun.

He kept a loaded Makarov semi-automatic under his pillows. It held eight rounds and could take down a target at fifty meters. The front door was well within fifty meters. Boris sat up in bed, flicked off the safety, and aimed at the door. Let the Americans come. He would make their torsos see-through.

He didn't hear the man enter from behind him, from the balcony, didn't even know he was there until the man had snatched the pistol up from Boris's hands. The intruder was tall and athletic and his pale skin glowed in the moonlight.

“Clear,” he softly said, and the front door opened and another man, also tall and athletic and pale, sauntered into the flat. The second man held something small. He handed it to Boris. It was a smartphone.

“Do we have your attention now?” said Xana.

Boris swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good. So. How did our mutual acquaintance know you'd be able to provide him with those names?”

“I live above a coffeehouse that is frequented by a loud man. He takes women to this coffeehouse and buys them desserts and boasts to them about how much power he has in his job. He is a warden at the prison.”

“So he boasts to his women and you boast to your friends about what a fool he is.”

Boris licked at the roof of his mouth with his sand-dry tongue. He asked one of the men to get him a glass of water and thanked him when he did so.

“How does Zviad Daudov fit into this?”

The glass was the same he'd used for the vodka. Boris finished off its fresh contents and was still parched. Wasn't that always the case. “This time, the warden meets with a man. Many months ago. They talk quietly but I can hear them through my vent. I can hear everything. I even take notes. My journal is on my desk. It's all there.”

The balcony intruder picked up the journal and flipped through its pages. He nodded to his partner, who took the phone and informed Xana. He then pocketed the phone and the two men headed back toward the front door.

“May I have my gun back,” muttered Boris, “so that I may shoot myself in head?”

Perhaps they heard him. Perhaps they didn't. Either way, they left him alone without his gun or his journal. But at least there was a wind now, blowing in from the balcony, to cool his sweat, to keep him company during the endless, sleepless black.