another sip, then set down the glass, careful to place it on the coaster. “Appointed first to the Ministry of Finance, he worked on the budget, then moved to law. He was a judge for a long time.”
“So
But to her mind Bernard hadn’t seemed to fit that crowd. Remembering his haunted look, she became lost in thought. If he’d had some balls, he would have had everything.
The fading afternoon light hit and sparkled in Gaston’s glass. He looked up again; this time his lined eyes were serious. “His father served under Soustelle in Algerie. For a
Maybe what she’d mistaken for Bernard’s cowardice was a conscience. How had he felt to be part of this rarefied echelon? What had it cost him to perform this mission?
“Rumors had it he’d taken a leave earlier this year to avoid a nervous breakdown,” Gaston said. “He holed up in his flat and wouldn’t come out. Until they snagged him for this job.”
BERNARD WATCHED the hands edge toward the 4 on the large wall clock. Around him little snores in the nap room kept time to the Mozart tape that had lulled many to sleep. The teacher, whom he’d heard called Dominique, sat in the middle, writing down Rachid’s whispered dictation, as she rubbed a child’s back.
“In order to escape,” Rachid said, “we demand that the police announce our deaths. Once sure of our safety, we will release the last of the children.”
Dominique held up the paper, written in red crayon, for him to see. Dark circles ringed her eyes.
“Sign it ‘the Human Bomb,'” Rachid said. “Then stay with the children.”
She complied and lay down on a cot.
Rachid stuffed the note in a biscuit tin and crawled over to Bernard. “Go with him,” he said jerking his head towards the other terrorist. “Throw it out of the attic window facing the square.”
“Why not call Guittard?” Bernard asked. “You can explain your demands to the minister.”
Rachid slammed his fist on the counter. The fish tank shuddered. “When I want suggestions, bureaucrat, I’ll ask for them.”
Bernard flinched. He took the note and crept past the sleeping children. Rachid’s accomplice nudged him with the machine gun up the staircase, poking him in the ribs every time he paused.
Bernard was sweating as they reached the fourth floor. All the way up, his mind fixed on how to get the terrorist near a window. A creaking sound on the wooden stairs alerted him… a rat, another escaped school pet, or a hiding child? The terrorist paused, he’d heard it, too.
“Wait here,” the man barked.
Bernard stood on the worn steps, breathing hard. This pampered childhood world felt foreign to him.
The hungry postwar years he remembered were in rented rooms with a toilet shared by two floors. And that, his mother had considered a luxury. His real father had died in a desert skirmish with rebel
His stepfather, Roman, also a
He’d once asked his mother, before he’d learned better, why his Papi’s words cut like a knife. She’d sighed, then pulled him close, something she’d rarely had time for. She told him his Papi bottled everything inside and that some people showed their love in different ways. His Papi, she continued, showed it by working hard. They had a home now, she’d said. She’d gestured toward the room around them. Peeling plaster in two narrow, high-ceilinged rooms, the only water source a pump in the courtyard.
But when Roman spoke, he used language as a weapon. Whereas Bernard learned to use language as a shield, living in the ether of ideas.
His mother said she was sure one day he’d make his Papi proud and show him how smart he was. She’d run her hand down his cheek, smooth down his hair and the stubborn cowlick that never took orders. Her tone had been wistful when she’d asked him if he’d take care of his Papi when he got older.
But he never had. Roman died broken and tubercular seven years later. Before Bernard earned entrance to Ecole Nationale Administratif, and his brother passed the entrance exam for medical school. However, Roman’s fierce silences and cutting words were imprinted on his pysche.
These children would never know his deprivations. And for once, bypassing the envy that lived in his heart, he experienced gratitude. Gratitude that no child would know those days… but then he thought of the Balkans, the blank-eyed orphans. War never stopped, it just took different forms. And these children, weren’t they victims forged from battles of the long-lost Algerian war?
There was a loud shattering of glass ahead of him.
“In here, bureaucrat!” the man yelled. “Now!”
Bernard fought the impulse to flee, ducked his head, and entered the doorway. The terrorist had broken the window. Glass shards blanketed the attic floor, giving off a bluish tinge. Used, musty air and waist-high wooden storefront letters filled the narrow attic. Weak sunlight flashed off the glass, creating a diamond carpet. What if the sharpshooters thought he was signaling? Bernard felt panic, his breathing coming in short gasps.
No, they’d wait—they wouldn’t shoot at anything that sparkled—he felt sure. The bands of tension in Bernard’s head relaxed a fraction. Until he saw the disheveled woman in the corner, tied to a chair, struggling to kick at the terrorist’s shins. She sent him a look that Bernard couldn’t read.
“Take me to the bathroom,” she yelled. “Or I’ll do it on the floor.”
The terrorist whacked her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. “Suit yourself,
Bernard saw her hands clutch the splindly chair back behind her and realized her wrists were untied. She was signaling him. There were two of them and just one big semiautomatic-toting terrorist.
“Look,” Bernard said, edging toward the terrorist, “I’d suggest—”
“Cut the small talk.”
Bernard gestured toward her. “Can’t you at least let her go to the bathroom?”
Bernard wondered who she was.
The terrorist pointed to a window, jagged splinters of glass peeking from the corners.
“Hurry up,” he said. “Throw it from here! Bureaucrat, I’m losing patience,” the terrorist growled. He hawked and spit, coming over and nudging the machine gun into Bernard’s ribs. “Didn’t you hear me? Throw the box out the window.”
Bernard winced as the cold metal barrel poked through his thin suit jacket. He took a step. Shattered glass crackled under his shoes. He froze.
He looked over at the woman for help, but her heavy-lidded eyes stared vacantly. Her nose bled bright red down her chin, spattering on her once white silk blouse.
Bernard knew he was a coward. Schoolyard fights and taunt-ings had proved that. The idea of standing as a window target for RAID sharpshooters was not appealing. Right now he wanted to get on his knees under the skylight, in the chill air among the skewed letters, and beg the man for mercy.
“The police will shoot me,” he said, his veined hands shaking. “I can’t—”
“Makes no difference,” the terrorist yawned. “I’ll use her.”
Bernard’s legs wobbled; they didn’t support him any more. Lightheaded and dizzy, he reached to steady himself against the woman’s chair. He missed. Around him the angle of light spun and shifted. He hit the ground heavy and hard. What must have been moments later, he grew aware of myriad sharp splinters in his arms.
The woman erupted from her chair screaming, kicking at the terrorist’s legs. He tripped over the dazed Bernard and let out a roar. He landed headfirst against the wall and crumpled onto his machine gun. Deafening shots erupted into his chest. His black torso twitched as the round drilled into him. His body fell sideways.
Bernard realized the woman had gone. He was alone. Alone with a dead terrorist oozing guts onto the pebble-like plaster. What should he do? Wouldn’t Rachid have heard the bullets?
He rolled the stocky corpse over and slid out the machine gun, sticky with blood.
Bernard pulled off the man’s black mask. He saw the stubbled slack] aw and vacancy of death. For the first
