I Do Solemnly Swear (22 page)

Trying to preserve his sanity, Guenther found some peace strumming his six-string acoustic guitar. He wasn’t very good—never would be—but could play enough chords to make music. Since he was a little boy, he’d wanted to be a musician, but God hadn’t blessed him with any natural talent. And of course, if there had been any chance that one day he’d be a fair guitarist, all hopes were lost because he had had to keep his guitar hidden from his father, so practicing was nearly impossible.

When he wasn’t playing his Yamaha, he spent way too much time clicking through the TV channels with nothing to watch but soap operas, old movies, and the propaganda of local and nationwide news broadcasts. With limited cable, he couldn’t even watch Animal Planet. Guenther viewed one news segment and learned about the Middle East crisis; he watched it long enough to fear that the president might cancel her lecture. Then what?

Were his brothers testing him again? Was this some kind of perverse initiation? Hadn’t he proven his worthiness and courage when he’d strangled Rabbi Herzhaft, right after the old man began a movement against the Disciples of the Third Reich? All Guenther wanted was to point his gun at President Miles, squeeze off seven rounds, and watch her head explode. Was that too much to ask? If the president postponed her lecture because of the Middle East crisis, surely he’d lose his mind!

Guenther peeked through the blinds for the hundredth time in the last hour. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A Corolla parked next to Guenther’s rental car. A young couple got out of the car. An attractive blonde and a...? Guenther couldn’t even
think
the word!

The tramp musta been raised by hogs
.

If his mission weren’t so vital, he’d show them a thing or two about proper conduct. The cotton-picker? He’d slit his throat ear to ear and watch him bleed like a pig. And the bitch? Bone her to death. It was more than the whore deserved.

Unable to look at them without feeling uncontrollable rage, Guenther turned his head. A sudden dizziness caused the room to spin. He fell on the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel his lungs constricting as if someone were twisting them like a wet washcloth.

“I should’na looked out the window.”

For years, Guenther had tried to understand why his mother never said anything about his scarred stomach. She had to have noticed. How could she have slept in the same bed with a man who had brutally abused both of her sons? Exploring every logical answer, he finally realized that she, too, lived in constant fear. Guenther remembered the heavy makeup concealing her black-and-blue eyes. Often, her lips were puffy, compelling evidence that she
had
confronted his father. He could, perhaps, forgive his mother for allowing Jurgen Krause to use her two sons’ kidneys as punching bags and their bellies as ashtrays, but he’d
never
forgive her for...

Guenther grasped his head with both hands and shook it violently from side to side.

The slow-motion video began to play. He saw his mother lying on the bed. Her legs were wrapped around...

“No! Leave me be!”

He clenched his fist and repeatedly punched himself on the side of his head, trying in vain to dislodge the image. His eyes began to water, and snot dripped from his nose. He could see her clearly now.

Etta Krause’s blonde hair hung off the side of the bed. Her milky-white skin glowed in the candlelight. Oh, God, how beautiful she was! The black man, slick as a wet seal, kissed her wildly, thrusting deep inside her. Guenther pressed his palms against his ears. He could not bear to hear her pleasurable moans. He’d just been released from Maplewood, had only been home for a week. He could never remember how long he’d watched them; the acrobatic fury went on forever. He’d tried to tear his eyes away, but he’d stood in the doorway, frozen. Watching. Feeling his gut turn inside out.

Why, Mother? Why with a
...
?

The telephone rang. He hadn’t gotten a call since receiving instructions where to pick up a special package.

Guenther wiped his face with his sleeve and reached for his cigarettes. He shook one from the pack and lit it. Then he shuffled toward the nightstand; the burning cigarette hung off his lower lip and a swirling plume of blue smoke trailed behind him.

“Yes,” he said. His voice was shaky. He waited for the only comment that would prevent him from slamming down the receiver.

“Nice day for a white wedding,” the unfamiliar voice whispered.

“I’m listening.”

“Security problems. No one will be allowed into the auditorium without first walking through a metal detector. Wrap the gun in a plastic bag. Go to the literary lecture tomorrow night at seven p.m. During the lecture, go to the men’s room and securely tape the bag inside one of the toilet reservoir tanks with duct tape. The tank doesn’t fill to the top, so tape it to the upper edge of the porcelain. Any questions?”

“She ain’t gonna cancel, is she?”

“As of yet, no.”

“How will I know if she does?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Guenther dropped the phone on the bed and went to the window again, forcefully separated the blinds, and twisted them out of shape. The young couple removed the last piece of luggage from their trunk and strolled arm and arm toward the back stairway of the hotel.

“Ain’t that sweet.”

Guenther hurried into a pair of jeans, pulled a sweatshirt over his head, slipped into his sneakers, and reached for the Redskins cap. He grabbed his keys, stuffed his wallet into his back pocket, and entered the hall. As he slowly made his way toward the stairway, the young couple opened the steel fire door and walked toward him.

“Mornin’, folks.” He pulled open the fire door, cranked his head, and looked over his shoulder. Ebony and Ivory entered the room next to his. He’d been careless. He’d looked Ebony square in the eyes. Smiled at Ivory. He just might have to take drastic measures.

***

Filling his mouth with the warm canteen water, Stevers limped along the sandy terrain, unsure where he was headed. He had plenty of water, but soon the Iraqi sun would make it difficult for him to drink it sparingly. During survival training, he’d been taught never to challenge the desert sun, to walk during evening hours. But terrified that the moonlit landscape, abundant with uneven surfaces, might cause him to turn an ankle—an additional injury that would ensure his demise—he defied sound judgment and journeyed in daylight.

He sat on the ground and rested his back against a huge rock. There was no need for him to wander aimlessly. Preserving his
energy was just as imperative as conserving food and water. He needed a plan for survival.

Stevers slipped the knapsack off his back, unzipped the front pocket, and removed a map. He unfolded it, laid it on the ground between his spread-eagle legs, and studied it. Abadan was just east of the air force base—perhaps three miles. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t a city he wanted to visit. He seriously doubted that the Iranian military would welcome him with bands playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Looking at the map more closely, Stevers estimated that the Kuwaiti border was about ten miles east of his current position. He felt certain he could find refuge there. If he could maintain a pace of three miles per hour, and rest only when necessary, he would likely reach the border in about four hours. But with the bum knee, he had no idea how often he’d have to rest.

He looked at his once spit-shined boots, now dull and dirty. They reminded him of his own deterioration. His luster had been gone for a long while. He’d gotten lazy since his tour of duty began on the
Ronald Reagan
, almost eighteen months ago. What happened to the high-spirited young man with the rock-hard body? He wanted to hold the Navy accountable for his apathetic attitude, but a little voice in his conscience told him otherwise. If he had any hope of surviving this ordeal, trudging his way to the Kuwaiti border, somehow he’d have to resurrect the once-determined, disciplined Kyle Stevers from the dead.

He swiped a black fly off his head.

It was now more apparent than ever that Lieutenant Kyle Stevers might never see Debra or Todd again. He could not afford to think about such a devastating possibility right now. Stevers stood and stretched. He bent forward and touched his toes. His joints snapped and cracked, and a dull throb blossomed in his knee.

Ten miles
.

He snatched the knapsack, flipped it around his back, and slipped his arms through the straps. He removed the compass from his leather flight jacket and held it between his thumb and index finger. He headed east, focusing his eyes on the horizon, hoping he’d reach the Kuwaiti border before he ran out of food, water...and time.

***

Kate was discussing the Middle East crisis with McDermott when her intercom buzzed.

“Mr. Alderson is on line seven,” Emily said.

“Hello, Richard. I hope you have good news for me.”

“Ahmad Habib wants to meet me on neutral territory.”

“For what purpose?”

“His communication said, and I quote, ‘to circumvent further consequences.’”

“Consequences for whom?”

“I’m assuming the United States and Israel.”

“Where does he want to meet?”

“Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.”

“Has the king agreed to this?”

“Yes, Madam President.”

“How do you feel about this, Richard?”

“My bags are packed. All I need is your blessing.”

“Would you excuse me for one minute, please?” Kate pushed the mute button and looked at McDermott. “Habib wants to meet with Richard in Riyadh.”

McDermott stood and folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a positive gesture, but...Alderson may be in over his head.”

“In what regard?”

“I’m not so sure he’s a potent negotiator.”

“Then who should mediate, Charles?”

“The secretary of state.”

She was surprised at how unreservedly he answered.

“Richard, I’m going to dispatch Toni Mitchell to Riyadh. She will be our official representative, but I’d like you to accompany her during the meeting with Ambassador Habib.”

The telephone was silent for a moment. “I understand, Madam President.”

She hoped he did. “Is everything OK with Prime Minister Netanyahu?”

“He’s not going to do anything stupid, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’d like to conference with the secretary of state and you prior to the meeting. I’ll advise the Joint Chiefs so we can outline a detailed strategy.”

“It’s important we cover all the bases,” Alderson said.

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” She unconsciously crossed her fingers. “Any word on the missing pilots?”

“I expect Habib will be the first to tell us.”

“I’ll speak with you soon,” Kate said.

She set down the receiver and remembered a battered face she’d seen on the cover of
Newsweek
many years ago. She couldn’t recall the brave pilot’s name, but she never forgot the terror in his black-and-blue eyes.

“Are you OK, Madam President?”

McDermott’s words startled her. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m not.” Her head was pounding. “Would you locate Toni Mitchell for me, please?”

It was an invigorating notion, one that Guenther Krause reluctantly dismissed. To deviate from his plan, even for such a worthy venture, was a risk he was not willing to take. No matter how appealing, he forced himself to resist the temptation. Nonetheless, he fantasized about the things he wished he could do to Ebony and Ivory.

To Guenther, there was a greater satisfaction than the pleasure derived from exterminating inferior ones. The begging, the hopeless pleas for life at the exact moment before death, made Guenther feel godlike. When he’d killed the rabbi, he could have been compassionate and ended his life quickly. But there was no joy in mercy. The rabbi’s pathetic whimpering had produced sheer joy. Guenther had watched the self-righteous old man die slowly; he’d reduced him from a holier-than-thou preacher to a sniveling, spineless coward. During this first eradication of an inferior one, Guenther discovered that the power over life and death was the greatest of all mortal pleasures—a transcendental orgasm beyond definition.

Guenther pressed his ear to the wall and tried to decipher Ebony and Ivory’s conversation. Their words were garbled, but Ivory’s pleasurable moans were unmistakable. Hers was a quivering,
almost painful cry. A horrible image crept into Guenther’s thoughts.
Mutter
. He knew what Ebony was doing to Ivory; he’d lived this nightmare before. He pressed his ear harder against the wall. To be reminded of his mother was unbearable, yet he was unable to stop the intrusion into his neighbors’ private world. He could see the thrusting, Ebony slamming between Ivory’s spread-open legs, his demon seed searching for her fertile egg. Another misfit could be conceived. The procreation of an inferior breed. How could a loyal Aryan do nothing?

Currents of rage gushed through Guenther. His hands curled into fists, and his fingernails dug deep into his flesh. He could not imagine despising his mother more than at this moment. Guenther had found a way to forgive his mother for neglecting his brother and him, for allowing his father to abuse them. But he could not live with his mother’s disgrace. Etta Krause had tarnished the purity of Guenther’s white blood by giving herself to a black man. For this, he could never forgive her. He buried his face in the pillow; his guttural scream was audible only to him.