“Yeah.”
He wanted to know all about it. When I finished talking, he whistled.
“Did you bring a book or magazine or newspaper?”
From the depths of his bag he whipped out a paperback. A romance. “This was all I could find in English.”
At that point I had no shame. I took it.
“You don’t look like yourself, Tommy,” he said, scrutinizing my face. “You get some sleep.”
“Okay.”
“Take care of yourself, man.”
“I got the zapper.”
He nodded, looked at me again, then was gone.
After I ate I dove into the book. The heroine was a sweet young thing, innocent, who fell in love with a jerk who was trying to find himself. A rich jerk, which is the very best kind. Finally I gave up and tried to sleep.
Several times during that long night, someone — I don’t know who — rattled the doors to the hallway, checking the locks. Each time I came wide awake and lay there with the ray gun pointed at the door. But the doors didn’t open.
I was never so glad to see anyone in my life as I was Jake Grafton on Wednesday morning. I heard someone fussing with the lock on the door, so I popped around the corner into the hallway that led to the right wing of the building while I turned on the battery of my ray gun. When I heard footsteps, I eased an eye around, “Tommy?”
“Here.” I stepped out and hit the ray gun’s power switch.
“Breakfast.”
“I need a potty break.”
“Okay.”
I took the bucket with me down to the kitchen and dumped it in the commode. When I got back upstairs, Grafton was pacing the hallway.
“Long night?” he asked as he handed me several newspapers. One was in English, even.
“You have no idea.”
“We spent the night sweeping this building. My pension against a doughnut there aren’t any more radio- controlled devices.”
“We’re going to be in big trouble if you’re wrong.”
“Oh, no,” Jake Grafton said. “If I’m wrong, our troubles are over. We’re going to be dead.”
It was a long, noisy morning in the hallway. I felt like a monk in his cell, cut off from the world, yet it was just beyond the walls, thumping and bumping. I read all three newspapers, flipped listlessly through the pages of the romance. Nibbled some on the breakfast items that I hadn’t eaten. Peed in the bucket. Walked the hallway, back and forth, back and forth. My headache was back — the concussion, I figured — and I was stiff and sore from being pounded on by gorillas and sleeping on the floor.
I knew Abu Qasim was the guy coming to press the button and send the G-8 leaders and their entourages to wherever it is that good suicidal terrorists don’t go, someplace without virgins. Then I convinced myself that it wasn’t him, that it would be someone else, anybody. A team maybe, anxious to share in the glory.
There was no guarantee that we had found all the bombs. For all I knew, I had slept on one. Underestimating the terrorists was an error that would prove fatal for a lot of people, me included.
Hijack a plane and crash it into the chateau? It was certainly within the realm of possibility. As I walked, the scenes of the World Trade Center collapsing ran through my mind, over and over.
Well, we had Jake Grafton on our side. Maybe that leveled the playing field.
Fire and blood.
Damn, boy, you gotta get away from this.
I felt clammy and sweaty and started swallowing repeatedly. I should have known! Seconds later I ran for the bucket and heaved my breakfast. I felt a little better afterward, but not much.
I was about ready for the straitjacket and funny farm when Jake Grafton came up from the kitchen at 10:03 a.m. I knew because I’d been checking my watch twice a minute since he left my breakfast.
“Here’s a key to the door Willie picked yesterday,” he said, holding it out. “Want a break?”
I snatched the key, grabbed the bucket and started hiking for the stairs.
“Come back in an hour or so.”
“You bet.” I took the stairs down two at a time, dropped a bonjour on the five or six plainclothes security folks sitting around the kitchen table, and hopped into the restroom. When I was done there I went through the kitchen to the great outdoors.
I found myself on the back side of the chateau. I needed a walk, so I circled the building. That takes a while, but that’s how long I had. I was stunned when I rounded the north wing and saw the courtyard, which looked like the parking lot at the Super Bowl. There must have been two dozen media trucks there with satellite dishes on the tops; miles of cable ran everywhere in a hopeless tangle; here and there stood a generator truck with its diesel engine snoring loudly; and there were even a couple of private buses.
Three reporters gripping microphones stood with their backs to the chateau in front of cameramen. A couple appeared to be on the air, chattering into their mikes.
As I watched, a helicopter descended onto the paved area behind the main gate and a small knot of people got out. They walked past the statue of Louis XIV toward the chateau and the waiting television cameras. It looked like a Hollywood premiere — all they needed was a red carpet and a hot dolly or two draped for action.
Trailing along at a respectful distance, I had to run a gauntlet of security types, some in uniform wearing submachine guns, some in plainclothes with bulging armpits. Every one of them scrutinized my face and the pass dangling from the chain around my neck.
Inside the building was bedlam: television lights, cables strung willy-nilly to trip the unwary, cameras, and the technicians and on-air people to make the magic; needless to say, all these people were talking loudly to each other. Several interviews were in progress in front of large blue drapes, which allowed the producers at home to put in any background they wished any time they wished. I recognized none of the interviewers or interviewees, which is natural since I’ve led a sheltered life of quiet contemplation.
In one of the rooms, press secretaries were briefing the working press on agreements and statements that the ministers had issued after yesterday’s meetings. More uniformed paras, police and plainclothes security guys.
Pink Maillard was huddled with a couple of women carrying Secret Service purses. The women were hardbodies who looked as if they would enjoy shooting me or breaking my neck just for practice. I gave Pink the Hi sign and he jerked his head at me in acknowledgment.
Of course I looked around for Arabs and North Africans and didn’t see a one.
Then I did, a delegation in white robes and beards. They appeared to be Saudis, but who knows.
The newspeople were a polyglot lot: their stories and broadcasts were going all over the globe. I leaned against a wall for a while and watched them interview government stooges and ministers and each other. They never tired of it.
As I watched, another knot of people came in, Japanese security types surrounding their leader. Just as I was glancing at my watch, noting that my hour was almost over, the president of Russia arrived. These heads of state were shuffled off to await their summit in the north wing, where they could visit with their own ministers or each other free from press scrutiny.
I stared at the people, scrutinizing them one by one. Which one was the guy with the radio transmitter? Which one had a gun?
That camera — that could be a gun! I walked over, looking at the camera. The guy had a ponytail and wore jeans.
I must have had a strange look on my face, because he said, “Who the hell are you?” in a Texas accent.
I realized I was making a fool of myself and turned away.
Qasim. It would be him. But which one was he?
The key that Grafton had given me opened the door behind the curtain that we had gone through yesterday. No siren went off and no one started shooting. I pulled it shut behind me until it latched, then rattled it.
