Wild fire

“I’m thinking I like this plan.”

“Bullshit. Hey, how did I do?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?”

“You lost me with the King John thing.” Harry guessed he could be on top of Madox in under three seconds, even with the shackles.

Madox said, “It troubles me that you don’t get this. Do you want this fucking war on terrorism to go on until your grandchildren are old?”

“Look, pal, we have to take our hits, and we hit back. They’re not going nuclear, so we don’t have to go nuclear. You’re missing the point of Wild Fire.”

“No, I’m not. The point is, it works too well.”

“Yeah, that’s the fucking point.”

“It’s like this, Harry-if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed has to come to the mountain. Right?”

“Yeah, whatever.” He grabbed the heavy metal ashtray that Landsdale had used and flung it at Madox, then jumped to his feet as Madox ducked to avoid the ashtray.

Harry covered the ten feet in less than two seconds, but Madox was already on his feet, backpedaling toward the wall. Harry moved as fast as he could with the shackles, but Madox moved faster and drew a gun from under his jacket.

Harry lunged at Madox, who fired at point-blank range. Harry stopped, confused that he didn’t feel the bullet hit him, and aware that the gun had barely made a sound.

Bain Madox moved further away and both men stared at each other. Harry took a step toward Madox, but his legs felt heavy, and the room was starting to swirl.

Madox said, “You need to calm down.”

Harry felt his legs buckling, and he dropped to his knees. He noticed something sticking out of his chest and put his hand on it.

“A tranquilizer dart,” Madox said, “which we use for black bears. We’re not allowed to kill them off- season.”

Harry pulled the dart out of his chest and saw blood on the needle.

“And I’m also not allowed to kill a Federal agent, so you have to die some other way. Probably a hunting accident.”

The door opened, and one of the guards asked, “Is everything all right, Mr. Madox?”

“Yes, Carl, it is. Please take Mr. Muller down to his room.”

Another security guard appeared, and he and Carl came toward Harry.

Harry could barely stay upright on his knees, and the room was getting darker, but he took a deep breath and said, “Nuclear…” He knew he had to stay motionless so that the tranquilizer in his bloodstream wouldn’t act quickly. “They’re going to… blow up… the suitcase…”

The security guards lifted him to his feet, and Carl stooped and got him in a fireman’s carry, then walked toward the door.

Bain Madox stood by the door and said to Harry, “I actually like you. Good balls. And you did me a great service. So, no hard feelings.”

Harry could barely understand what Madox was saying, but he managed to whisper, “Fuck you…”

“I don’t think so.” He told Carl, “Keep him sedated. I’ll check him later.”

They left, and Bain Madox shut the door. He was annoyed by the cigarette butts on the oriental rug and tidied up.

He then went to the black suitcase and ran his hands over the smooth, shiny leather. He whispered, “Please, God, let this work.”

PART VII

Sunday

NORTH FORK, LONG ISLAND, amp; NEW YORK CITY

We have the right to kill four million Americans-two million of them children-and to exile twice as many and wound and cripple hundreds of thousands.

– Suleiman Abu Ghaith

Spokesman for Osama bin Laden, May 2002

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kate and I made it down to breakfast on Sunday morning, and our fellow guests turned out to be no big surprise: the usual collection of cool oenophiles from Manhattan-in this case, three couples of indeterminate gender who took everything very seriously, like they were auditioning for National Public Radio. I couldn’t tell if they knew one another, or who was with whom, or if they’d recently all met at an anti-testicle rally.

They were chatting and passing around sections of the Sunday Times as though they’d found sacred texts rolled up in their napkin rings.

We all did the intros, and Kate and I sat at the two empty places at the dining room table. The prison matron brought us coffee and orange juice and recommended the hot oatmeal for starters. I asked, “Do you have bagels?”

“No.”

“I can’t read the Times without a bagel. Hot oatmeal goes with the Wall Street Journal. Do you have a Wall Street Journal?”

Kate interrupted. “Hot oatmeal sounds fine, thank you.”

My breakfast companions were commenting on little gems from the various sections of the Times-art, leisure, books, travel, and so forth. Did I call this or what?

Kate and I had finished a bottle of wine apres sex, and I had a slight red-wine hangover, which was making me grumpy, and I wasn’t contributing to the conversation, though Kate held up her end.

I was carrying my little Smith amp; Wesson off-duty piece in my ankle holster, and I was thinking about dropping my napkin and bringing up my gun and yelling, “Freeze! I’m a philistine! Shut up and eat your oatmeal!” But I know how Kate gets whenever I get silly.

Anyway, the conversation got around to the Times headline-RUMSFELD ORDERS WAR PLANS REDONE FOR FASTER ACTION-and my fellow guests all agreed that war with Iraq was inevitable, given the mind-set of the present administration.

If I was a betting man-which, actually, I am-I’d bet on January, or maybe February. But I’d probably get better odds if I bet on March.

One of the men, Owen, sensed that I wasn’t paying close attention and asked me, “What do you think, John? Why does this administration want to go to war with a country that hasn’t done us any harm?”

The question seemed slightly loaded, like the questions I ask of suspects, such as, “When did you stop beating