The Silent Man

from the Russian arsenal, what then? Do we hit back? With what? We’re going to talk this out for fifteen minutes. Then you’re going to go back to your offices and make sure it never happens. But first. This is a yes-or-no question. We’ll discuss it after. How many of you think nuclear retaliation is justified in the case of a nuclear attack on American soil?”

Duto had thought he’d understood the danger they faced. But he realized, as the president asked his question, that he hadn’t. Not really. The late-night helicopter ride to the White House, this meeting, they’d all seemed almost unreal. No, they hadn’t found the bombmakers yet. But they would, and then the world would go back to normal, and this night would seem almost a dream. Or, more accurately, the crowning moment of his career, the moment that would put his memoirs on the best-seller list.

But now the president was asking about nuclear retaliation. The president believed this bomb might go off. And if he believed it, Duto had to believe it, too. A nuclear bomb on American soil.

“I want a show of hands,” the president said. “If you believe nuclear retaliation is justified, raise your hand.”

There were seven of them in the room, not counting the president and his chief of staff. Seven hands rose. “Now, what if it’s a Russian nuke but we can’t be sure the Russians were involved? What then?”

Christ, Duto thought. Can I? Can we? But he kept his hand up. There could be no excuses. No honest mistakes. Someone would have to pay. And as he looked around the room, he saw he was in the majority. Only the secretary of state and the director of the FBI had lowered their hands. Five-to-two in favor of retaliation.

“Doomsday it is,” the president said. He didn’t smile.

34

N°. Bashir heard a voice, not inside his head but a real voice, a man speaking. Had he fallen asleep? The clock said 1:58, so he must have. But he hadn’t. He was sure. He sat up and looked around, but the room was empty. It had spoken with such power. Allah? Muhammad? Whoever had spoken, he needed to obey.

No. He couldn’t allow it. He would go to the stable and take the the uranium and disappear. Maybe he would go directly to the police. Or he would simply vanish. In a day or two, he’d call Thalia and tell her to go back to Egypt, call Nasiji and Yusuf and tell them to leave, that the police would be raiding the house and the stable.

Either way, Washington would still be standing tomorrow. Yes. He breathed slowly, inhaling and exhaling five times, a step he sometimes took before entering the operating room. He waited for doubts but felt none. He was making the right decision. He touched his wife’s forehead and she stirred in her sleep. And then he rolled out of bed and noiselessly padded to the rocking chair — a relic of the house’s previous owners — where he’d stacked his jeans and sneakers and sweater.

HE PADDED DOWN the second-floor hallway, sneakers cradled in his hands, trying not to set off the creaky wooden planks. He edged past the bedroom where the Repard kids had once lived and where Nasiji and Yusuf now slept in twin beds decorated with Star Wars blankets.

A plank groaned lightly and Bashir pulled his weight off it and leaned against the wall waiting for Nasiji or Yusuf to rouse. But the rhythm of their breathing didn’t change. So Bashir slipped down the stairs and pulled on his shoes and walked out the kitchen door and—

Creak! —

How had he forgotten the soft plank on the porch? He waited for the house lights to come on, for Nasiji and Yusuf to emerge. I heard something outside. I wanted to check.

The house stayed silent. After a minute, Bashir headed down the path connecting the house and the stable, a river of brown brick between the snow-covered ground on either side. Yusuf cleared the path every day. He seemed to enjoy shoveling. Bashir wondered what Yusuf thought of the bomb. He’d never said. He reminded Bashir of a tiger at the zoo in Cairo, a big lazy beast. Once the tiger had strolled to the front of his cage and pushed himself up on his hind paws and leaned against the bars. He towered over Bashir, three meters from his paws to the black tip of his nose. He yawned and turned his head and looked Bashir up and down, slowly, almost gently. Meat, his eyes said. And I’m hungry.

Yusuf had eyes like that. Bashir would be happy never to see them again.

IN THE STABLE, Bashir flicked on a penlight, followed its narrow beam to the Spear round with the uranium cap attached. It sat on a steel workbench beside the bomb, just where he’d left it. He would need less than a minute to grab it, get to the Suburban, be gone. He fingered his car keys, safe in his pocket. Good.

Was he sure? He was. He walked across the stable, picked up the cap.

He was halfway back to the door when the lights clicked on—

And Yusuf walked in, pistol in hand.

Bashir froze. “Yusuf,” he said. “I was worried. So stupid of us to leave it out—”

“Hush.”

“You must have the wrong idea.”

“Thalia said this might happen. She told Sayyid.”

Bashir found himself shaking his head. “Thalia. ” My Thalia? My wife?

His wife had betrayed him? Impossible. But apparently not, because here came Yusuf, stalking toward him, blocking the door—

And Bashir ran.

Not for the door. Running for the door meant running toward Yusuf. He ran for the blue tarp they had put over the hole in the stable wall, the hole blown open when they tested the dummy bomb. The hole was narrow and splintery and Bashir wasn’t sure he would fit but it was his only chance. If Nasiji had wanted to talk things over, he would have come, too. Instead he’d sent Yusuf, gun in hand, with one order and one order only.

Yusuf didn’t shoot when Bashir started to run. Bashir guessed he was afraid of hitting the bomb. Bashir dropped the uranium plug and tore at the tarp, tugging it from the nails that held it to the walls. He squirmed through, the splinters from the wall cutting at his hands—

And heard Yusuf ’s pistol bark and felt the burn in his right shoulder at the same time. The impact of the shot shoved him through the hole and into the snow behind the stable. He landed hard, and when he tried to catch himself with his right hand, a blast of pain shot up his arm and through his shoulder and stole his breath. He couldn’t even scream.

Then he heard the second shot. It missed, scattering the snow in front of him, giving him the strength to pull himself up and run for the woods. A few hundred meters to the south, on the back side of this hill, a narrow creek marked the boundary between the Repard property and the state park behind it. Eventually the creek reached the state road that connected Addison and Corning. If he could just get to the road.

He blundered through the woods, cracking branches and scattering snow with every step. He knew he was leaving a trail, but he couldn’t help himself. His shoulder still hurt, but instead of an electric charge, now he felt a solid lump of heat and pain, as though a charcoal briquette had been sewn into his back.

Behind him, and not far, he heard Yusuf, blundering through branches. His one hope: Yusuf wasn’t used to this terrain either. Every thirty seconds or so, Yusuf’s flashlight caught Bashir, but each time Bashir ducked and turned sideways to escape. He forced himself not to look back. Whether Yusuf was ten meters away or a hundred didn’t matter. The creek. And then the road.

Even so, Bashir felt himself fading as he topped the hill and made his way down to the creek. The snow was thicker here, and Bashir’s jeans and sneakers were soaked and his feet had turned to blocks of wood. Though he wanted to run, he had to step carefully. He couldn’t risk a fall. Yusuf would surely be on him. His shoulder was still leaking blood, a warm trail down his chest and right arm.

“Stop,” Yusuf yelled behind him. “Stop running. Let’s talk about this.”

“The tiger speaks,” Bashir yelled back, but his breath was faint and he wished he’d said nothing.