After the First Death (13 page)

Artkin stood before the CB monitor, his maimed hand twisting a dial. He greeted Miro with a nod of his head. The air suddenly came alive, a crackle of sound, static, and then a voice leaping from the monitor:

“KLC. Draw back at the angle. Then report on the zero-nine-six. Repeat: KLC. Draw back at the angle. Then report on the zero-nine-six.”

Another voice: “Parallel. Parallel.”

Then silence.

“They are using a special code of course,” Artkin said, “but we have been supplied with it.”

“What were they saying?” Miro asked. They had used monitors in other operations, although Miro had never paid much attention to what was being said. The messages were always in code, and Miro found codes tiresome. It was bad enough using the American language and trying to think in this language without having to learn codes as well.

“They are saying nothing we do not know,” Artkin said. “Deploying their men, stationing them at strategic points. Mostly, they are using words to substitute for action. They, too, must wait.”

Growing bolder, Miro asked, “And what are we waiting for?”

Stroll changed his posture at the back window. A slight movement, but eloquent because Stroll could remain motionless for hours. Perhaps I have surprised him by asking a question of Artkin, Miro thought, and he took pride in the matter. But hadn’t Artkin said that he had treated Miro as a boy too long? And wouldn’t he earn his manhood soon, if not today then tomorrow?

“All right, Miro. Tell me what you have seen from the bridge and then I will tell you what you have not seen.”

“I see that we are surrounded. That the police and the soldiers are everywhere around the bridge. They have set up headquarters in the building across the ravine. Snipers are in the woods. Helicopters fly above us sometimes. We have the children on the bus. And the girl. One child died.” He hesitated. Was there more? He was amazed again at Artkin, the way he had of turning his defense into an offense. He had said he would tell Miro everything and instead Miro was doing the telling.

“Good,” Artkin said. “You have summed up the situation as far as your knowledge could do so. Now this is what you cannot see, Miro, what you cannot know.” Artkin wiped some beads of perspiration from his forehead with his good hand. “We have entered an alliance. With people who are not of our nation. We are not the only revolutionaries, Miro. They exist in all nations, even here in America, this so-called democracy. I cannot tell you with whom we have made our alliance—even I do not know. Sedeete is in charge of that phase of the operation.”

Sedeete. The use of the name filled Miro with awe. Sedette was above Artkin, above everyone. He was the planner and the mover. Miro had only seen him twice; once when he had ended his schooling and was about to depart for America. Sedeete had shaken the hand of each of them, in the old grasp of freedom fighters. A small man with burning eyes and lips like thin knives. His hand in Miro’s had been curious: like old cardboard, dry, as if his skin had been replaced with false flesh. The second time had been a few days ago in Boston when Sedeete sat on a park bench with Artkin in the Public Gardens. Miro had remained in the van while Stroll and Antibbe stood watch at various points. Miro had only gotten a fleeing glimpse of Sedeete, afraid to look too long at him, as if Sedeete’s glance could
somehow poison him from afar. Sedeete was the leader of all the freedom units in North America. The realization that he was involved in the bus operation made Miro see how important it was.

“It is enough for you to know, Miro, that our strategy calls for us to hold the bus and the children until the demands are met,” Artkin said.

Miro waited, hoping that Artkin would tell him the demands without making him ask.

“The demands are these, Miro. We seek the release of political prisoners held here in the States. We must show the world that revolutionaries cannot be held in jails. Second, we are demanding ten million dollars. This is to continue our fight, to finance our operations. Third, we are demanding that the Americans abolish a secret agency within their government. This is an agency that operates throughout the world. It is not our concern, Miro. Our concern is two things. The money, of course, which we need desperately, particularly American dollars. And the fact that we have been able to form an alliance and work with others.”

“But why is an alliance important?” Miro asked. “Our work has gone well, Artkin. You said so yourself many times. The bombings, the explosions, they’ve made our presence known, they’ve made our cause public.”

“Because, Miro,” Artkin said, sighing patiently, “there must be a step beyond violence. Explosions and assassinations and confrontations cannot buy us back our homeland. They are only steps on the way, to call attention. After the terror must come the politics, the talking, the words. At the proper time, the words carry more power than bombs, Miro. So while we still use bombs, there comes a time when we must use words.”

“Words,” Miro said. He was tired of words. He had been trained for action, violence, and now he felt
betrayed. Artkin had always said that every action they took was a statement, and now the rules were changing. He also realized that Artkin was not truly in command. Sedeete loomed in the background. They were like puppets here on the bridge, and Sedeete held the strings.

“Be patient,” Artkin said. Perhaps he saw the doubt or the disillusion in Miro’s eyes. “We are in a time of change. This alliance we have formed will be good for us in the end. Today we help them to destroy a secret agency, and tomorrow they will help us in another step to free our homeland. Our causes are different, but we can help each other. There will be many more bridges, Miro. This operation is only the first.”

“What about this operation? What happens now? How long do we wait?” Miro felt like the girl asking these questions because she too had asked them of Artkin.

Again Stroll made a movement and again Miro wondered if he had asked one question too many.

“When the demands have been met, a special helicopter will land. We—you and Stroll and Antibbe and myself—will board it. We will be taken to the airport in Boston. From there, we will be flown in a jet across the Atlantic.”

“To our homeland?” Miro asked, a sudden surge of hope lifting his spirits.

“Not yet, Miro. Home is a thousand alliances away. But they will fly us to safe territory where we can rest a while.”

“But why should they let us go?”

“We shall take one of the children along on the helicopter. He will be our passport. Or perhaps it will be a girl child. I have not yet decided. One child is as good as sixteen or twenty-six.”

“If one child is as good as sixteen, then why did we take the bus in the first place?” Miro asked, throwing caution aside, letting his anger carry his words.

“Miro, Miro, you have forgotten what you learned in the school. The
effect
of the operation is the reason for the operation. Simple escalation is the answer, Miro. Remember? One hostage in peril is effective, sixteen hostages in peril is sixteen times more effective, although the
life
of a single hostage—and in particular a child—is as effective as sixteen times the threat.” Miro was always dazzled by this kind of arithmetic. “We seek the effect, Miro. We do not kill without the effect being the reason. Without the effect, there is nothing. So we took sixteen children as hostages for the effect, to capture attention. They do not seem to know it—yet how can they not know it?—but the media, the television and the radio and the newspapers, they are our allies. Without them none of this would be possible. A child held hostage in a secret place does not have the effect of sixteen children held hostage high on a bridge for all the world to see through the television, to hear through the radio, to read about in the newspapers.”

Miro nodded. It made sense but it also fatigued him. At least Artkin was now confiding in him, explaining their position. He also had not taken offense at Miro’s anger and impertinence. He had asked bold questions in the presence of Stroll, and Artkin had answered the questions.

“This is what happens now, Miro. Sedeete is the negotiator for the demands. The deadline for meeting the demands is nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If they are not met by that time, the children die. We, too, perhaps, although we have had that risk from the beginning of our operations here in the States. But Sedeete and those in our alliance are certain the
demands will be met. Violence and blood pour out of American television, but these people do not really have strong stomachs. Up to now they have been spared the agonies of other nations, older nations. They will not allow the death of the children.”

“How will we know when the demands are met?” Miro asked.

“The monitor here. The monitor has a special frequency developed with ingenuity. The fequency will allow a signal to be given to us by Sedeete. At six this afternoon, to tell us that the negotiations are in effect. At midnight tonight, to tell us that all is going well. At nine o’clock tomorrow morning, to tell us the demands are met. That is the deadline: nine tomorrow morning. Now, this is important. If we do not receive the signal at nine tomorrow, it means the operation has failed, that demands are not being met and I must take necessary steps. The first step: kill the children to show that the demands next time must be met. Then I must determine the best way to save ourselves, if possible. But, as you know, Miro, saving ourselves is not important. Except if we can live to fight again. Otherwise, to die in these circumstances is the best way to serve.”

Miro felt that Artkin would never die. He accepted the possibility of his own death as a natural consequence of his work. But it was impossible for Artkin to die. They would never win the freedom of their homeland if men like Artkin died. The world would become meaningless without him. So would Miro’s own life.

“Any more questions?” Artkin asked. Astonishingly, there was a teasing in Artkin’s voice, and almost a smile on his lips. “I have found that you are good at questions.”

Miro swelled with pride. His lungs were full of it as he drew a breath. He stood at attention without realizing
he was doing so. To die with Artkin would be a great thing. He had pity for those who lived without dedication, like so many Americans his age he had seen, like the girl in the bus.

“Back to the bus now, Miro. Watch the girl and the children. Tell me when you think they need more of the drugs. And the girl, see that she is useful with the children. If she is not, then tell me and you can do your duty with her when you choose. But as long as she is useful to you, let her be.”

“Yes,” Miro said, still proud, proud to have been taken into Artkin’s confidence, to have had his questions answered.

Stroll stirred again at the window. Let him stir, Miro thought, let him make comments with his stirring. Today, I am equal with him.

As he turned to leave the van, Artkin touched his shoulder in a man-to-man gesture. He wished that Aniel was here so that he could share this moment with him.

Kate was uneasy during the time that Miro was in the van. The man that Miro called Antibbe—
An-ti-bee
—stared at her relentlessly, his eyes following wherever she went, whatever she did. The eyes burned into her. They weren’t the kind of eyes she’d ever seen before. They weren’t filled with lust or longing, or with anything else for that matter. They were flat, dead eyes, as if they had no life at all except what they reflected, and they were now reflecting her. Her image caught, suspended in his eyes. Crazy thought, spooky.

To get away from those eyes, Kate walked among the slumbering children. She acknowledged how many times the children had offered her distraction during bad moments. On the other hand, she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the children. So one thing canceled out
the other, didn’t it? Yet, in a way, it was just as well that she was here instead of her uncle. He had no patience at all. He couldn’t stand kids. He also had ulcers and high blood pressure. He had taken the part-time job of summer bus driver to supplement his retirement income from the Hallowell Plastics Novelty Company and, what the hell, he said, he only had to put up with the little bastards less than two hours a day. The rest of the time he either drove senior citizens around to shopping centers or took chartered groups to the beaches and seacoast resorts.

Kate sat down next to Monique. The child’s nose was running. Kate dug into her pockets for a Kleenex but found only the bunched-up panties, a small damp ball now. Kate allowed the child to wipe her nose on her arm, although her stomach revolted at the act. Would her uncle do that? You can bet your ass he wouldn’t. She noticed as the day wore on that she was swearing more. In her thoughts, anyway. Not exactly swearing but becoming gross in her language. She thought: Maybe there’s a relationship between bravado and cowardice. And tough language made you feel tougher, braver. Maybe the tough kids at school, tough in behavior and language, were really the scared ones after all, the way she talked tough to herself now to keep up an appearance of bravery. Christ, she thought, surprised at the idea. And immediately felt better even as she pondered how the same word
Christ
could be both a curse and a prayer. And, crazy thought, did Christ know the difference when he heard his name called? Ridiculous, Kate told herself, as she wiped her arm on her jeans. Or am I getting hysterical? All these thoughts and that guy Antibbe staring at her from the front of the bus plus the key in her sneaker. The key that represented her hope for getting out of here. When Miro came back and the
man Antibbe was gone, she would have to sit in the driver’s seat and figure out how she could drive the bus with those tapes on the window. And Miro—what about him? And that look in his eyes? Could she make use of that?

Monique was dozing again, and Kate left her to check the other children. She slipped into the seat next to Raymond, wondering if he was actually sleeping now or only pretending. Feeling her presence, he opened one bright eye. Kate smiled at him and he closed the eye again. She took his hand in hers and held it. After a while, the hand went limp and his breathing became the rhythm of sleep. She hoped he could sleep the time away, like the other children. She wished she could sleep. Maybe she should have taken some of the chocolate and let herself lapse into sleep. She felt despondent suddenly, despite the knowledge of the secret key. She was not heroic, her life had not been a rehearsal for heroic deeds. She was trapped on this bus with the kids, in the hands of madmen. She’d seen them without their masks so they would never let her get away. She wriggled the key with her toes. So. So, what did she have to lose then? Why shouldn’t she try a wild ride on the bus and try driving the damn thing out of here? Nothing to lose. No place to go but up. Why not go?