The CIA and State Department intelligence people at the embassy were divided about how real the threat was. Karr listened to them debate and tried to remain neutral, despite their prodding. Finally he just got up and left the embassy, walking out of the grounds and down the Champs Elysees toward the Ritz. He checked in with the Art Room as he walked.
“Nothing new,” said Telach. “You’d better get to bed.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
He turned off the communications system before she could protest.
58
It was the most beautiful paint job Mussa Duoar had ever seen. The blue swept toward the front of the truck, a wave of the ocean captured on the steel. Above it, the yellow swirl brightened the dark interior of the garage; it was as if the truck glowed with an intense fire.
It was all moving together now, his many strings pulled from their different directions. Four men came around to the back of his pickup truck and took the heavy cart from the back. Mussa’s heart jumped as they nearly dropped it onto the concrete — it was protected against accidental shocks and there was no way for it to detonate accidentally, but even so…
They walked the box to the back of the van. The box was twice as heavy as the case it was dummied up to look like. But except for the wheels, which were slightly bigger (and considerably sturdier) than the wheels on the cart it was replacing, the difference would not be noticeable to anyone who didn’t try to push it.
Or open it.
“Careful, please,” Mussa said, following along behind the case. “Careful now. This has traveled a long way over many months.”
The men slid it into the specially prepared compartment at the back of the van. Mussa once again felt his heart thump as one of the carriers lost his grip. But the others held the case firmly, and it was soon in the back of the truck. Five other carts, these a bit lighter than the first but still a hundred or so pounds heavier than the carts they were to replace, were loaded in behind it. Mussa examined the vehicle as the rear door was closed and locked. The heavy-duty shocks and suspension kept it from sagging; it, too, looked like the genuine article.
Very good. Very, very good.
“Listen, all of you,” he said loudly. “Gather around — I appreciate your work.”
He set down the satchel he’d carried in, bending to unlatch it. Just as his fingers touched the clasp he stopped and straightened.
“Anyone smell gas?” he asked. “Natural gas? Is the line off?”
The workers looked around at one another. There was a gas line to the garage, but it was used exclusively for the heaters and hadn’t been turned on for the winter season yet.
“Call the boiler people to check it,” he told one of the workers. “Call now. Get them to come.”
The man looked at Mussa as if he were crazy. It was nearly midnight.
“Perhaps I am being overly cautious, but I am always concerned about your welfare,” said Mussa. “Well, make the call so you can all celebrate. Go ahead. Please. Put my nervous mind to rest.”
He waited until the man had picked up the phone to bend back to the satchel.
“I promised extra consideration,” Mussa said. “And I think you’ll find I am as good as my word. Sommes” he added, calling over the foreman. “You divide this up as you see fit.”
The satchel was filled with American twenty-dollar bills. They were counterfeit but good enough to fool these men and probably many others. Sommes took the satchel and began counting as the others gathered around.
Mussa went to the truck and started it up. He rolled down the window and called to the guards who were just outside. “Come. Get your bonuses. It’s all right. Don’t be left out. You deserve a reward as well. God bless you all.”
The two men looked at each other and then trotted inside. Mussa took his foot off the brake, easing down the slight curb from the building into the driveway. Outside, he watched for a moment in his rearview mirror, making sure that no one had left the building. When he had gone about one hundred meters, he reached into his jacket pocket and pressed the button on a small radio-controlled device, igniting the explosives he had planted beneath the floor before the project began.
59
“Does he have many good days?” asked the doctor.
“Every so often,” said Rubens. He told himself it wasn’t a lie — though it did beg the question of what a good day actually was.
The doctor nodded grimly.
“He’s a genius of a man,” Rubens said.
“Yes, I’m sure he was.”
The past tense stung Rubens, but he couldn’t really argue with it. The doctor glanced at the General’s court- appointed attorney standing nearby and then continued the examination. The man called himself a gerontologist; it sounded like one of those baloney specialties, but apparently he was a medical doctor, since his card had “MD” after his name.
In Rubens’ opinion, the examination was perfunctory at best. The doctor listened to the General’s heart, looked at his eyes, asked him to cough, examined his ears, then read his medical chart for a second time. When he was finished, he sat down on the bed next to the General and asked how he was feeling.
Not much of a question, except that the General answered by talking about General Grant’s campaign at the end of the Civil War. Even this was disjointed; the General stopped in the middle of a sentence and asked about Corey. The doctor glanced at Rubens, but Corey was a name even Rubens had never heard before.
He might have lied, but he couldn’t come up with one quickly enough.
The doctor asked a few more questions — they ranged from details of the General’s childhood to what he had just had for dinner — but the General remained silent, staring out the window. Finally, his lawyer suggested that perhaps it was time to go.
“They’re working on new drugs, aren’t they?” said Rubens as the three men walked down the hall.
“Difficult area,” said the doctor.
“Yes. But there’s hope.”
“We have to fully understand the mechanism of the disease — and the underlying structures it affects. But someday, yes.”
Rubens knew better than to ask if someday was in the General’s lifetime.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Rebecca, charging down the hall toward them. “Has the doctor come?” When she belatedly realized who Rubens was talking to, her face shaded red. “Doctor, I’m Rebecca Rosenberg, the General’s daughter. I’m sorry I’m late. It couldn’t be helped.”
Rubens almost snickered when she called herself by her maiden name, instead of Stein.
What did she possibly hope to gain? Didn’t she have enough money? How far did greed take a person these days?
“That’s quite all right, Ms. Rosenberg,” said the gerontologist. “Your father’s lawyer and Dr. Rubens have been showing me around.”
“Actually, it’s
“Billy does have two doctorates,” said Rebecca. “Including one my father urged him to get.”
“He always encouraged me,” said Rubens, unsure why she had mentioned that.
Was this all about jealousy? Maybe it wasn’t about money or making up with her father — maybe it was
