Jumper 1 - Jumper (27 page)

"That's right," said Perston-Smythe. He seemed surprised at my knowledge after my earlier ignorance. "Even among Shiites, terrorism is abhorrent. One of Mohammed's strictures calls for the protection of women, children, and the aged. One of the ninety-nine names of Allah is 'The All Merciful.' "

"All right. I accept that most Muslims wouldn't practice terrorism. I'll keep that in mind. But I want to know about the men who
do
practice it. I want to know about the men who killed my mother."

He leaned back. "All right." He opened a file in front of him. "Indications are that the hijackers of flight 932 were Shiite extremists belonging to Islamic Jihad, a terrorist group associated with Hesballah, the 'Party of God.' While we don't know who two of the hijackers were, we suspect that the leader was Rashid Matar, a Lebanese Shiite who is know to have worked with Mohammed Abbas, the organizer of the hijacking of the
Achille Lauro.
Oddly enough, the reason we believe it's Matar is his choice of your mother as his victim. With the exception of random bombings, woman hostages are usually the first to be released in airline terrorist situations.

"In nineteen eighty-seven, Matar was implicated in the beatings of several Italian prostitutes in Verona. He left the country just ahead of the police, but automatic weapons and technical manuals on various types of aircraft were found in the apartment he was forced to abandon. In early eighty-nine he was forced to leave Cairo after the beating death of a female Swedish tourist.

"Matar was also caught on an Athens Airport security camera the day before the hijacking. This is too large a coincidence." Perston-Smythe handed me an eight-by-ten photograph.

It was a blown-up shot of a newspaper photo which, in turn, seemed to be taken from a passport photo. The newspaper caption was in Italian, I thought, with only the name Rashid Matar understandable. The dots of the printing process were visible and I had to hold the picture out at arm's length to smooth out the lines of his face. He was younger than I expected, despite the reading I'd been doing. He was clean-shaven and had dark, bushy eyebrows. Though dark-complexioned, he didn't fit my image of the Arab. His nose was ordinary and his jaw somewhat weak. His face was thin and long and his ears were very flat against his head. His eyes were dark and remote.

"The fact that the terrorists not only didn't release the women, and also chose a woman to kill, strongly points to Matar, an obvious misogynist."

I waved the picture. "Can I get a copy of this?"

"That's a duplicate, you can keep it."

"Where is he now?"

"We don't know. I have some ideas, but I'm not sure."

I ground my teeth together and waited.

He shrugged. "This is purely speculation, you realize?"

"It's informed speculation," I said.

"Well, yes." He leaned forward suddenly, fingers linked together. "An executive jet left Algeria almost immediately after the hijacking and flew to Damascus in Syria. While no comment was made about its passengers, the press in Algiers was allowed to watch it leave. The implication is that, A, the Algerian authorities promised free passage to the hijackers if they released the hostages, and B, that they were flown to Syria. This is exactly what happened after the nineteen eighty-eight hijacking of the Kuwaiti airliner."

"So you're saying that they're in Syria?"

"In the case of the Kuwaiti Airways hijacking, the hijackers traveled from Damascus back to Lebanon, overland. There they took refuge in the Baka Valley, which is the stronghold of Hesballah."

"So you're saying that they're in Lebanon."

"That's what we're supposed to think. I don't think they ever left Algeria. I have a friend with Reuters and he said that there was an area that the Darak al Watani were carefully screening at the same time the reporters were allowed to watch the jet depart. My friend has a suspicious nature. Whenever an official points one direction, my friend looks the other way. This is why he saw three unshaven men in badly fitting army uniforms climb into a truck which was driven out of the airport under police escort. He thinks that one of those men was Matar, but he didn't get a good look.

"I should think it extremely likely that they are still in Algeria."

I showed up at her door, walking from around the corner. My stomach was upset, I was nervous, and I was having trouble catching my breath, as if I'd run a long way or been jabbed hard in the stomach. My hand shook badly when I tried to ring the doorbell, and I finally dropped my hand to see if the shaking would stop. I was steeling myself to try again when Millie opened the door.

"Hi," she said quickly. Then, more slowly, she said, "It looked like you might change your mind. Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Well, it's been two weeks." Two weeks since my last note.

"I was glad you called, but you didn't sound very sure."

I shrugged. "No. Just... just, well... I was scared." I made no move to touch her, no move to get closer. I was still scared.

She gestured toward the open door. "You want to come in while I get my coat?"

"I'll wait here. Honest. I won't leave."

She smiled uncertainly. "Okay." In a minute she was back, shrugging into a long gray coat. "Where do you want to go?" She dug in her purse for the car keys.

I wasn't hungry at all. "I don't know. Anywhere you'd like to go."

She stared at me. "Anywhere?"

"Anywhere we can get to."

She looked down at the sidewalk for a moment, then looked up at me, head raised partway, peering through her bangs. She dropped the keys back in her purse. "I want to eat at the Waverly Inn."

It was my turn to stare. The Waverly Inn was in the West Village, in Manhattan. I looked at my watch. It was six, it would be seven in New York. I didn't have a jump site for the Waverly Inn, but I could jump within ten minutes' walk.

"I'll have to pick you up," I said.

She blinked, sucked on her upper lip for a second, then said, "Okay. What should I do?"

"Just stand there."

I walked behind her and put my arms around her waist. Her hair, her scent was in my face. I stood there for a moment, until I could feel her fidget. Then I lifted her and jumped to Washington Square, by the arch. I let go of her, then grabbed her again as her knees gave way.

"You okay?" I helped her to a bench a few yards away.

"Sorry," she said. Her eyes were wide and she kept swiveling her head around to look from the arch to the buildings to the street. "I knew that you could do it, but I didn't
know
it, if you know what I mean."

"Theoretical knowledge versus certainty. Believe me, I know. Just as I know that you'll doubt it happened later, even though you experienced it now."

It was colder here than in Stillwater, probably below freezing, and the few people who were in the park walked briskly. Still, it was Friday night in the Village and things were lively. Millie stood slowly and asked, "Which way?"

I led the way down the edge of the park. On the way Millie asked about the funeral and I said it was okay. I complained about the pastor and told her about Mom's friends. Then I told her what I'd done to Dad when he showed up at the service.

"I feel guilty about it."

"Why?"

I shook my head. "I just do."

We turned onto Waverly Place.

Millie hesitated a moment, then said, "He abused you both, but I think you realize that he is capable of feeling the loss. That he loved her in some sense. By no means was the relationship healthy, but you may be feeling guilty because you feel you deprived him of his chance to grieve."

"Humph. Let him do his grieving away from me!" I lowered my voice. "You might be right. Or I just might be feeling guilty because I defied him."

She nodded. "That's possible. Oh... here's the inn."

There was no room at the inn, so we waited fifteen minutes, just inside the door, out of the cold, trying to avoid tripping the waiters. When Millie and I had last eaten there, we'd sat on the terrace out back, but that had been summer.

I told her about sergeants Washburn and Baker and why they'd been after me. She frowned for a moment, then said in a small voice, "You could have told me."

I looked away from her and swallowed. I didn't want to get into an argument about it.

She shrugged. "All right. Maybe I didn't give you a chance to tell me."

I almost smiled. "The encounter didn't reflect well on either of us."

The hostess led us to a table for two, wedged into a corner. I held Millie's chair while she sat.

"How do you do it?" she asked, wrapping her hands around the glass candle holder to warm them.

I pursed my lips. "Well, you grasp the back of the chair and pull it out. Once the person is seated, you push it forward while they scoot in to the table."

"Ha, ha.
Très amusant."
She did not look amused.

"How do I do what?" I knew exactly what she meant.

"How do you... teleport."

I exhaled noisily. "I call it 'jumping' and I haven't the faintest idea how I do it. I just do."

She frowned. "You mean there isn't some sort of device or anything?"

"Just me." I played with the salad fork. Then I shrugged and told her about the first time. She'd heard all the gory details, but she hadn't heard how I got away. I told her some of my speculations, my attempts to find other jumpers, and some of the constraints. I told her about my revenge on Topper the attempted rapist and the guy at the transient's hotel in Brooklyn, and, finally, I told her about stealing the money.

"You did
what?"
She sat straight up in her chair, her eyes wide, her mouth open.

"Shhh."

Other diners were staring at us, frozen in silent tableau, some with forks or spoons halfway to mouth.

Millie was blinking her eyes rapidly. Much quieter, she said, "You robbed a
bank?"

"Shhh." My ears were burning. "Don't make a scene."

"Don't shush me!
I
didn't rob a bank." Fortunately she whispered it.

The waiter walked up then and took our drink order. Millie ordered a vodka martini. I asked for a glass of white wine. I didn't know if it would help, but I figured it couldn't hurt.

"A million dollars?" she said, after the waiter left.

"Well, almost."

"How much of it is left?"

"Why?"

She blushed. "Curiosity. I must look like a proper little gold digger."

"About eight hundred thousand."

"Dollars!"
The man at the next table spilled his water.

"Christ, Millie. You want me to leave you here? You're fifteen hundred miles away from home you know."

The waiter arrived with the drinks and asked if we were ready to order. "You better give us a while. I don't think we've even looked at the menu."

Millie took a swallow of her martini and made a face.

"What's the matter? Is it the wrong drink?"

She shook her head, took another swallow, and made the same face again. "It's perfect. You wouldn't really strand me here in New York, would you? I mean, I've only got fifteen bucks with me."

"Well... I could drop you in Central Park. Or there are certain parts of Washington Heights that would be lively about now."

"Davy...!"

"All right. I won't abandon you."

She looked at me strangely.

"What? I thought you'd be relieved."

"Strange choice of words." She licked her lips. "Not so much strange as too appropriate."

"Huh?"

She shook her head. "Abandonment. That's the issue, isn't it? She abandoned you again, didn't she?"

"She died. She didn't run away."

Millie nodded. "The ultimate abandonment."

I felt myself getting angry. "Excuse me a second." I got up abruptly and went to the bathroom. Someone was in it. I leaned against the wall, my arms crossed tightly, my eyes staring straight ahead and seeing nothing.

I didn't really need to go to the bathroom, but I didn't want to shout at Millie. My mother was the victim of terrorism, not someone who'd abandoned me.
Well, not this time.

Nobody was watching so I jumped to the bathroom of the Stillwater apartment.

I felt like hitting something hard. I didn't have any plates left to break. I dropped to my knees by the bed and hit the mattress very hard, perhaps twenty times, until the heels of my hands began to ache. I took several deep breaths, then, and went into the bathroom and washed my face.

My memory of the sidewalk outside the restaurant was fresh and I returned there. The hostess saw me come in and blinked. "I didn't see you go out."

I shrugged. "Just needed a breath of fresh air."

She nodded and I went back to the table. I'd been gone about five minutes. Millie looked relieved.

"The waiter came by again," she said. "We should probably look at the menu."

The business of choosing and ordering the food got us safely through the next ten minutes. When we were alone again, Millie seemed unwilling to talk about anything serious. I guess she didn't want to scare me away again.

"I'm sorry, Millie. I'm not too rational about Mom right now. I'd rather not get into an argument about her."

Millie nodded. Her face looked pale in the table's candlelight and her hands glowed red as she wrapped them around the candle again. My irritation faded, melted like wax. She was very beautiful, very desirable. I felt tears forming and blinked rapidly. I looked away from her, toward the wall, and said, "I've missed you, Millie."

She reached a hand out and squeezed mine. Her hand was very warm. Impulsively, I kissed the back of it and her lips parted. I enclosed her hand with both of mine. She said, "I've missed you." She didn't say anything else for a moment, then pulled her hand back gently.

"I've got to tell you that I'm disturbed about the money you stole. I don't think that was right."

"I didn't hurt anyone."

"What about the depositors?"

I'd thought about this for a long time. "That bank loses that much money in bad loans every month. They make that much money in interest every day. They're a
big
bank. The money I took was small change to them. No depositor was hurt."