Metro (30 page)

Andy next.

Mark's carry-on bag slides through the machine alongside them. The machine sees shoes and shirts and socks and a book by Stephen King. The screen only flickers once and the guy operating it hardly notices the software glitch.

Andy moves into the X-ray coffin and it's not as happy with him.

• • •

H
e is pulled aside as they emerge from the big booth.

Two TSA guys who look like cops, taking him by either arm.

Jollie and Mark are already ahead of Andy, through the coffin at the other end of the rolling belt. They look back and try not to act nervous. Jollie hides it pretty well, considering. Mark is a robot.

One of the big TSA guys holds a hand on Andy and tells him to take off his cap while the other one runs a metal scanner across his body.

Andy does as he's told and the TSA with the metal scanner gets nothing. Asks him about the pants he's wearing and if there's anything metal in his pockets.

The other TSA sees the bandages on his ear and winces, then grabs Andy's left hand and winces some more, seeing the well-wrapped stump where his thumb should be.

Andy shrugs like a wounded kid and says: “Car accident. I'm going home to my parents.”

Jollie hears him and she almost swears out loud.

Mark nudges her to get her gray plastic tub from the belt.

The TSA fiddles with Andy's ear bandage and asks if he's on any medication.

Andy says no.

“Please empty your pockets,” says the other one.

They both look real serious about this.

• • •

M
ark and Jollie sit and put on their shoes, watching in horror.

Jollie feels like a million eyes are watching them and she's right.

Mark knows that's what she's thinking, and as he ties his shoes, he leans over to her and gently whispers, patting the left front pocket of his cargo pants: “The eyes are blind. Just stay cool.”

Any minute now, this whole thing is going to turn into the ending of
12 Monkeys
.

• • •

T
he TSA with the metal scanner watches Andy as he pulls his pants pockets inside out. Nothing to show them. The TSA waves the metal scanner over his crotch. Nothing there either. They send him back through the coffin.

The beep is happy this time.

They hand him his cap without a word.

Random search
, Mark thinks, watching Andy get his shoes from the belt.
Or just some suspicious-looking Beastie Boy.

• • •

A
ndy gets dressed again, sitting next to Jollie and Mark on the bench just past security, and a lot of people are checking them out now. Everyone wants to get that all-important first smartphone photo of the terrorists. The sounds of the airport are stronger here, as the concourse splits off in two directions. It's just one simple row of terminals—not like in other airports, which go on for miles and blocks. A BookPeople store near them. A line of mini-restaurant stalls in a tiny food court. Amy's Ice Creams and Schlotzsky's sandwiches, horribly overpriced for the jet set.

The carry-on bag full of dope and cash is right next to Mark. Right under their noses. He's brought it through here a million times.

But.

• • •

M
ark measures his heartbeat well, as he senses the men coming toward them. Walnut heels on polished marble.

Is this the showdown, Rico?

He looks up and sees them—four guys in black suits.

Tenses.

Ready to be Bruce.

• • •

P
ilots, walking down the main concourse. That's all they are.

But he can almost swear he sees one of them looking back at him, doing something with a cell phone, as he laughs with his buddies.

The cavernous echoes of the airport swirl and swallow.

They get up—the three of them—and head for Gate 7.

Mark can't believe it, and neither can Jollie. Their journey to the plane is entirely without incident.

• • •

T
he flight is less than half-full. It's a big 747 and entire sections are empty. Jollie thinks that's kind of strange, but maybe not really. Mark opens the overhead luggage compartment and slides the carry-on in there, next to Jollie's duffel bag. Closes the latch.

And that's it.

They sit together in coach and wait to be in the air. Andy's in the aisle seat, Jollie against the window, Mark in the middle, feeling lost.

Jollie hasn't spoken a word in twenty minutes.

• • •

T
akeoff is smooth.

Mark fixes on that terrible image of Bruce Willis falling in slow motion at the metal detectors. Shot up and doomed to die. Doomed from the start.

We are not doomed, after all. We're fucking making it out.

Suddenly, Jollie sighs and then she almost laughs, looking at him, remembering like a good princess of the Kingdom: “
When we are very far from here
. You were quoting Ronald Lacey from
Raiders of the Lost Ark
, weren't you?”

He winks back: “Of course I was.”

• • •

S
he asks for a glass of water two hours into the flight and the attendant brings it to her with a big smile. The attendant is short and blonde, not very attractive, wrapped in a gaudy blouse-and-vest uniform with a big bow under her chin. Another attendant who looks just like her is rolling the beverage cart down the aisle, asking if the scattered few passengers want something. Coffee, tea, milk? Diet soda? Jollie brings the water to her lips and smiles, thinking about loud, obnoxious Coke commercials from the 1980s.

Neither Mark nor Andy gets anything from the cart.

Jollie sets down the drink and leans against the window, looking absently at the plastic ring on her finger. A promise of something. Mark's promise to her. She decides to keep it on. For now.

Then falls asleep, deeply and blackly, without dreams.

Until
 . . .

• • •

T
hey are together, the three of them, in a forest glade near a riverbank. The wind blows in her hair and the tingling on her skin is like raindrops and dew, but the sun shines also. It's like summer and fall, rain and shine, all in one. Like her cake, which sits on the picnic blanket, ready to be eaten—but she can have the beauty of it also, have it both ways. Like her two beautiful men, on either side of her, almost faceless in the dream, but smiling and reassuring. Telling her she's come through it all and that love is all you need.

The cake spells her name in beautiful red icing.

The cake says NOVEMBER 12 in lovely blue icing.

Red and blue, yin and yang.

Mark and Jollie. And Andy too. Just like always.

The cake draws an intricate map to the future, like the diagram of a city, or a country or a building that contains her darkest secrets and her greatest challenges and her most painful love.

And she is swimming now
 . . .

Swimming on the shore, swimming in the water, swimming in place.

This is what you've always done
, Mark tells her, and his voice is so far away and so close. Andy laughs and says it's true. Says she will always be swimming, no matter where you are, but to swim is to know truth . . .
and it is enough to aim at the moon, Jollie
. Enough to have something you can call yours, no matter what shore you wash up on. Good to have something that feels like home, even if it's busted beyond repair.

Yes, Jollie. No matter what happens, we will always be your home.

Andy says that to her.

And then she sees his face peek through the darkness that hides him, his eyes shining through and the smile breaking like sun rays . . . and it's horribly familiar.

Darian's smile.

This is the false house you come to, Jollie. This is the lie you've lived in all your life.
Live in it now.

No . . . no you bastard . . .

She struggles because this has all turned bad somehow, all of it so wrong and icy, dirty and evil. She reaches for a shore she knows is not there. She plunges down, deeper and deeper, Andy's hands slipping away, Mark long gone. And there is no Dana, only Zuul. There is no truth, only the maze.
There is no way out
 . . .

Except through it.

• • •

A
nother hour and fifteen minutes into the flight, just after the captain comes over the speakers and announces that Philly is really close now and thanks for flying American Airlines, Andy asks the attendant if they have champagne. She says yes with a cheery smile and brings it to them a few minutes later—three silly plastic cups, and three single serving bottles. It costs them thirty dollars in cash, which Mark forks over with a smile. Andy pops the cork on his bottle and Mark does the same with his. They pour the booze and it sparkles in the cups. It's like being at a birthday at work, or some low-rent office cocktail party. They leave Jollie alone because she's sleeping. She can celebrate when she's awake. Always so deep under, when she finally goes. Mark loves that about her.

“She's one in a million, isn't she?” the Boy Prince says, raising his cup.

“Yeah. I hope she always will be.”

“Some things never change.”

Mark raises his cup and toasts his friend.

“Hey, buddy,” Andy says. “Guess we made it, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess we did.”

And they both drink, smiling at each other.

This is the last time Mark Jones will ever smile about anything.

J
ollie feels herself spiraling deeper, and somewhere in the stream of thought that floats by in every direction—shades of everything in her life, names and faces, facts and figures, blood and ­thunder—she realizes she's been deceived. It breaks over her like a wave of weird elastic lava, and she feels stupid because of it, like she's been tricked by dumb people.

But these people aren't dumb, Jollie. They've had your number since the start. They always have. All of them.

She fights it, spewing further down, smothered by the waves of molten logic, starting to scream now and hoping the sounds somehow float to the surface . . .

So she can warn her men . . .

Mark . . . Andy . . . they're going to kill us all . . .

30 minutes and COUNTING . . .

T
he first wave of paralysis becomes noticeable. It starts as a tingling in Mark's lower legs. Then the tingling becomes like steel bands tightening somewhere just under the surface of his skin. And then his chest constricts. His upper arms stiffen. His eyes go sleepy and foggy. And he chokes on it for a moment.

Looks over at Andy.

Who is still smiling and staring straight ahead.

“I'd like to explain a few things to you, Mark. I'd like to say that I'm sorry and tell you it's all for a higher purpose. But you've heard all that before. Truth is, I think you'll find it all very fascinating. I think you'll really appreciate this.”

Mark tries to move and icy daggers shoot through his chest.

Pinning him there.

Andy still stares straight ahead, not looking at him. His voice is very different now. He's like a new person in this sudden shifting moment.

Andy . . .

25 minutes and COUNTING . . .

“Y
ou'll be dead in about twenty minutes, Mark. Give or take a minute. But not from the poison you drank. That'll just render your nervous system moot for a while. It works really fast and it's very reliable. I've used it a few times before. It's a little like roofies, but a lot more intense, and it acts in different areas of the brain, sending electrochemical messages to your body. Basically just shuts you down while you still have full consciousness. I wanted you to be conscious, just like I wanted Jollie to be dead. She's been dosed too, you know. We put it in her water. Just a drop of the harder stuff.”

Mark wants to look at her but he can't move.

She is motionless in the corner of one eye.

No . . . Jollie . . . please . . .

He tries to scream all that but his larynx constricts now.

In terrible bursts of needle-pain.

“That hurts, doesn't it? I've been informed that it's a bit like being burned alive, huh? Don't worry—this isn't revenge for my face. It's just the best way to keep you down, Mark. You're way too good to take any chances with. And I advise not moving too much in the next few minutes. The more you try, the more painful your paralysis will be. But that won't be what kills you first.”

Mark wants to ask why again, wants to grab Andy by his throat, tell him this is not funny—tell him this has to be a joke—tell him Jollie is still alive and
this just can't be happening
 . . .

He tries to do it, and a billion tiny daggers hit him.

And then the daggers are joined by needles.

Which are joined by a terrible anvil that crushes his lungs.

And he realizes finally, somewhere just under the pain . . .

The face of Dictator Ken, almost laughing at him now:

They're going to kill us all, you dumb shit.

“Yeah, I know, Mark. I can totally see it on your face. The breaking dawn that happens in the eyes of every target, right before you kill them. You know
that look
, right? When you slide the knife in and they stare up at you and wonder what the hell is happening? And you don't really have an answer for them, except that this is just the way it has to be.”

The Dictator, who somehow knew they were going to do this.

And tried to stop it.

You don't know what they're gonna do, kid . . .

You don't know what they've done . . .

“And you're right, Mark. We both came from the same place, you and me. I was trained, just like you were. I was put in that house. That's why I answered your ad for a roomie, all those years ago. But would you like to know something really funny? I never even
knew you were like me
for a long, long time. That's how good
both
of us were. How well we lived our parts in the Kingdom. How perfectly our bosses manipulated us.”

The Dictator, who sat there and said it, in plain English:

They killed my wife . . .

I couldn't let them kill everyone else . . .

It's the end of the fucking world, you dumb punk.

“You used to sneak out and do your hits and assassinations, and I did mine, and we were just so wrapped up in ourselves that we never even noticed each other. And then Marnie Stanwell came along. And you had no choice but to save your friends from men with guns. And I was so stunned. Amazed at what you really were. So goddamn impressed with how well you had us all fooled.”

And you just sat there on your knees and watched me do it.

You let me.
You watched.

Andy.

“I had to make my own call right then. Figure out what was really going on and how badly you'd screwed things up. Decided it was best to keep up my disguise, even though it was hard. That's how the big boys eventually get control in situations like this. So long as at least one of us stays loyal to the company. That was me, Mark. Loyal soldier to the end.”

The perfect mole. More perfect even than me.

Mark tries to say that because he's just so damn impressed, even as the rage thunders in him. But he's paralyzed now.

“I thought everything was going to work out just fine at first, without blowing my cover. Even the dictator you first reported to had no idea who I really was. Or poor Penelope. I thought for sure she would know I was an operative when we first talked at the Denny's. But she didn't. I was too deep for that—or maybe she was just too drunk to notice.”

We shouldn't have lived.

We should have died, like Dictator Ken
wanted.

“I didn't even know what the score really was until I woke up in that mad bastard's operating room. Darian knew everything. He'd just been promoted in the field and they needed him to bring us all in. He knew what the package really was and what we were supposed to do with it. Saw the sealed instructions in Eddie Darling's safe. He explained it all to me. Said I was gonna have to go under the knife to sell the whole thing to Jollie. But the crazy fuck went a little too far. I knew I had to get control of the situation. It was tough, being on all those drugs . . . but I still pulled through it, man. And I killed that crazy son of a bitch.”

Andy looks around. Points at the woman in the empty row next to them, then the man in the empty row ahead of her. They both lean against the windows, their eyes closed.

Gone forever.

“See those guys? They're dead now too. All of these people are dead. Everyone who ordered a drink off that beverage cart is in a special little coma designed just for them. We've had this whole thing planned for years, apparently. When you went crazy and blew the handoff, adjustments had to be made, of course. But that's what I was for. What Darian was for. I got my final instructions the other night at that first motel we stopped in. Remember that? When you and Jollie went outside to talk? You left me alone with an open phone line for almost twenty minutes. I even called in the exact time and flight number later, once I knew the details. I did that while you and Jollie were cutting your hair this afternoon at the Hilton. They told me to make sure you drank the poison, after we were secure in these seats—with the package nice and snug in the overhead luggage rack. Wanna know what the package really is, Mark? I think you do. I think you'll
really
appreciate this part.”

Andy looks up at the luggage compartment. Raises his eyebrows. Gets closer to Mark, who swims in pain now, absolutely unable to move.

Still seeing the face of Dictator Ken, who mocks him, crying because his failure is complete.

Andy almost whispers the next bit in his ear like a lover.

19 minutes and COUNTING . . .

“I
t's a chemical-warfare compound, Mark. Something really advanced. That's what Darian told me. It looks like white powder, it even
tastes
like pure ecstasy . . . but it's really hell on earth, Mark. Some Russian science lab developed it a few years ago and they've been refining the formula ever since. They stole it and smuggled it into the States through the drug cartels. I'm not exactly sure how they did it, but I figure the last stop was Mexico, and then Austin, and finally that backroom deal with Razzle Schaeffer. You were supposed to intercept it, then get on a plane with it. Because guess what? Only a very high degree of heat
will activate the chemical.”

Andy gets even closer, his mouth almost touching Mark's ear.

“An
exploding airplane
provides that heat. Along with the perfect amount of shock and awe. And then the explosion turns into a cloud of hemotoxic fumes that'll cover more than a thousand miles. It'll be the biggest, most awesome terrorist attack the world has ever seen, and the most destructive too. A change in the course of history. Millions of innocent people choking to death in their own blood, gagged out of existence. It's really amazing in its simplicity. And its complexity too. That's what Darian told me. And that's what I'm telling you now. I know you appreciate it. You have to.”

And he laughs a little.

“This is the way METRO has always done it, all throughout the decades. They use guys like us, and we do our little part and all the parts come together. And we are the makers of history and never even know it. Isn't that beautiful? Isn't that perfect? And I wanted you to know something else. Something very important.”

Andy's lips touch Mark's neck, and the Boy Prince shivers.

“I
love you
, Mark. I know a lot of people have been throwing that word around lately. Darian and all his insane bullshit. But this . . .
what I feel for you
 . . . is very real. That's what I almost couldn't betray. It was never about Jollie. I never loved her, not really. That was all an act. It was always
you
. That was the secret that was hardest to keep. My true desires, just under the disguise. All those women, just to make everyone think I was normal. Thank God for Viagra, I guess. But it was you, Mark. Always you.”

Please, Andy . . .

“And now I realize why I loved you all along. Because we are truly brothers in arms. That's why this is so perfect. That's why I wanted you to know everything before you die. You'll be the first martyred saint in a war that begins in just about ten minutes, when this plane crashes into the Comcast Center building in Philadelphia. That's the tallest building in the city, by the way. The fifteenth-largest in the whole country. They wanted it to happen in New York, which is where you were going originally . . . but we had to work with what Jollie and Peanut Williams gave us. Poor Jollie. Poor, sweet, angry, fat Jollie.”

He laughs again, cruelly.

“That she ever thought I wanted her is so disgusting. But we all have our illusions. Just like mine, Mark. So I'm burning all those illusions, now. I'm walking away and going into my new life. I would say I wish you could come with us, but I don't. You're far too dangerous now. They'd never trust you again after what you did. Not ever.”

Mark tries like hell to get up again.

Andy smiles, seeing the pain stitch his frozen face.

“Really, don't try to move. It'll just make it worse. This isn't a James Bond movie. You know, where the bad guy talks his ass off and spills the beans and then the hero gets loose at the last minute and saves the day. You need to know that you're totally fucked right now. And Jollie is dead.”

Andy . . . you mother . . . fuck . . .

“So don't be a sore loser, Mark. It doesn't look good on you. It never did.”

The unattractive blonde attendant comes over to their seat, holding something. Mark can't move his head to see what it is. Mark hears silenced gunshots in the back of the cabin and a scream or two. The other attendants mopping up the stragglers—the ones who didn't order a drink.

All of the passengers dead now. Right along with him.

“I want to kiss you one last time. Kiss you for real, while you're helpless and you can't do anything about it. Like Darian kissed me. Makes me feel like this is a little bit more than poetic justice. And I'll remember this moment forever.”

Mark doesn't even feel it. Just sees the Boy Prince come in for his smooch. Feels the world smothering out. The smell of Andy's bandages and burned skin overwhelming him. Pain and needles worse than ever. Paralyzed.

Andy pulls away and smiles.

“Good-bye, Mark.”

Then Andy stands up and the attendant gives him his parachute.

9 minutes and COUNTING . . .

A
ndy looks down at Mark as he straps it on, and the attendant checks over the buckles, making sure it's all good. The rip cord hangs from Andy's chest, like the brass ring on a merry-go-round. Mark can see the glint of the ring, can almost make out other shapes moving in the aisle, but he can't tell what they are. It's the rest of the team—the attendants, the pilots, all METRO guys, the standby unit. The ruthless rat bastards who came in and took over at the last minute. Because Andy made the call. They've been waiting at the airport for days now, since Mark was originally supposed to arrive there.