The Syndrome (62 page)

But where was the actor himself? Where was the star? Heart thudding, McBride returned to the hallway and,
holding the shotgun level at his waist, pushed open the door to what turned out to be the bathroom.

“Henrik?”

With the shotgun’s barrel, he drew the shower curtain aside. But there was nothing. And no one.

Confused, he made his way back to the living room—and there he was, standing behind Adrienne, holding a gun to her head.

The Dutchman smiled. “Dr. Duran! I’m so glad to see you—”

“Look, Henrik, there’s no need to—”

“Welcome to Davos! Really, it’s a great place! Now, if you’ll just put your gun down … I don’t want to hurt you or your pretty friend.”

McBride set the shotgun on the floor, never taking his eyes from de Groot. “Just let her go. She isn’t—”

“Shhhhhh,” de Groot said, finger to his lips. “We’re with the Worm.” He angled his head in the direction of the sofa. “Over there,” he ordered, and gave Adrienne a gentle push. McBride joined her and, together, they sat down. The Dutchman stooped to the floor, picked up the shotgun, and removed the magazine. Tossing it into a corner of the room, he ejected the rounds that remained in the weapon’s chamber, and threw it onto a nearby chair.

Going into the kitchen, he returned a moment later with a roll of duct tape. Tossing it to McBride, he ordered him to bind Adrienne’s hands and feet, and tape her mouth. Seeing his reluctance, de Groot approached the couch and, without warning, hit McBride flush in the mouth with the butt of his revolver.

Stepping back, he watched with satisfaction as his erstwhile therapist did as he’d been told, tearing off a strip of tape to place across the terrified young woman’s mouth.

“Now it’s your turn,” de Groot said, removing his shearling coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. Around his neck was a laminated ID, hanging from a beaded chain.

“Listen, Henrik—”

The Dutchman frowned.
“Not to talk,”
he ordered.

At that moment, the house shook with a sudden gust of wind, the lights flickered, and the gate below banged. Distracted, de Groot went to the window and looked out. “Storm,” he said.

“Henrik, it’s really important that you listen to me.”

“I can’t listen to you both.”

“‘Both’?”

“The Worm,” Henrik explained.

“I know what you’re going to do, Henrik. And it’s a very bad idea.”

“Oh? And just what is it that I’m going to do?”

“You’re going to shoot Mandela and the others.”

De Groot shook his head. “Put six loops around your feet—tight.” He paused. “I’m not going to shoot anyone.”

“You’re not?” McBride was confused.

“No. Now bind your
feet
, Dr. Duran. Around your ankles. Six loops.”

McBride bent to his task, unspooling the tape and winding it slowly around his ankles.

“There won’t be any firearms,” de Groot promised. “Just fire.” A snort of laughter jerked from his mouth.

McBride finished with the tape, and looked up. “What are you talking about?”

The Dutchman ignored the question. “Now, put your hands behind your back,” he ordered. When McBride complied, de Groot grabbed the duct tape and began to bind his wrists. McBride’s eyes swept the room, looking for a way out, something he could use. But there was only Adrienne—who
seemed as if she were about to faint—and the table with the lightbulbs, drill and glue gun.

“What are the lightbulbs for?”

De Groot finished the taping, and came around to the front of the couch. Glanced at his watch. Shrugged, and sat down in a leather easy chair. “The Worm is clever. He knows it’s impossible to get at them with a gun. Even me, having a pass, working there. There’s no way.”

“Where? Where are you talking about?”

“The Fribourg. I’ve been upgrading the fire suppression system. Replacing the halon—because it’s killing the ozone, you know? And with all the Greens in town, the hotel wants to make a gesture. It wants to be
compliant
, okay?”

McBride didn’t know what to say. Didn’t get it. “So what? What’s that got to do with all the lightbulbs?”

“It’s a retrofit. I’ve done lots. It’s what I do.”

“What is?”

“Getting rid of the halon. In the sprinkler system. Overhead, you know?” The Dutchman raised his hand above his head, and waggled his fingers. “You replace it with a mix of inert gases, and it doesn’t cause any problems for the ozone.”

“That’s great, Henrik, but—”

“Only this time, the gas isn’t inert. It’s just gas.”

“What?”

“It’s petrol,” de Groot told him. “I replaced the halon with petrol, so when the fire starts—”

“What fire? When?”

De Groot checked his watch. “In half an hour, unless they’re running late. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to see it from here. The whole place will go up like a rocket.”

“What place?”

“I’ve been telling you! The Fribourg. There’s a gala for the South African delegation. Big banquet, lots of speeches from the
schwartzes
.”

McBride shook his head. He still didn’t get it. “What about the lightbulbs?” he asked. “What the fuck are the lightbulbs for?”

The Dutchman giggled, and McBride realized that he was on some kind of drug. “I keep forgetting … You see the bulbs over there—the little ones. They’re for the podium. Or one of them is. When the speaker goes to the podium, he’ll turn on the light behind the stand—so he can see his notes. Because it’s dark in the ballroom. Very romantic.”

“So?” McBride asked.

“It took me almost a dozen bulbs to get it right.”

“Get
what
right?”

“Drilling a hole through the glass,” de Groot explained. “Without breaking it.”

“And why did you want to do that?”

“It’s tricky. The glass is so thin—you need a special drill bit, or it shatters. Even then, the filament is fragile, so it kept breaking.” The Dutchman sighed. “But I got it right—eventually.”

“I still don’t understand,” McBride said. “What’s the point of the hole?”

“For the starter fire,” de Groot told him. “I fill the lightbulb with phosphorus and kerosene, so when it’s turned on, the circuit’s completed, and the mixture explodes. But it’s just a small fire. Probably the speaker’s shirt goes up, and maybe his hair—especially if he’s using some kind of mousse.”

“Then what?” McBride asked.

“Then? Well, there’s a fire extinguisher on either side of the dais. One of the security guards will use it to put out the fire. Only …”

“What?”

“They’ve been altered, too.”

“With what?” McBride asked.

“Butane.”

McBride felt faint. “So when they try to put the fire out …”

“They make a bigger fire. Then the sprinklers come on, and the hotel—well, you’ll see it from here.”

“Henrik—”

The Dutchman tore a length of tape from the roll, and
leaned toward McBride so he could place it over his mouth. McBride fell back, and out of the way.

“Henrik, listen to me. I want to tell you something about the Worm.”

“No. There is already too much talk.” Moving to the couch, he sat down beside McBride, the strip of tape in his hands. Suddenly, the lights flickered, then brightened so intensely McBride thought they’d blow.
A power surge
, he told himself, until the flash of light was followed by a boom of thunder, a crack of noise so loud that even de Groot jumped at the sound.

Then there was another flash of lightning, and another. McBride could feel the electricity in the air, the fine hairs at the back of his neck lifting away from his skin. The air shuddered with light. McBride couldn’t remember experiencing a thunderstorm in the midst of a snowfall. The windows were opaque with snow, and the effect was extraordinary, an oscillation of light that was almost like a strobe.

De Groot sat there with the tape in his hand, poised to strap it over McBride’s mouth, but blinking now, like a deer in the headlights.

It’s the flicker
, McBride realized.
He’s conditioned to it, entrained by it.
Instinctively, McBride began to speak in the low, mellifluous tone that he used in his office when putting a client under. “Listen to me, Henrik. I want you to pretend that you’re on an elevator … and it’s taking you to your safe place. Deep in the earth.” Another boom shook the walls, and McBride could see the lightning in de Groot’s eyes. “The doors open. You step inside. The doors close. And now we’re going down, deeper and deeper, to the safe place.” The room flickered as lightning flashed, seriatim, beyond the window. “There’s no Worm here, Henrik. Just a feeling of perfect peace.”

De Groot’s eyes were half-open, and seemingly unfocused.

“Now, we’re sitting together on a rock, far from anywhere we’ve ever been,” McBride confided, working hard to keep the strain out of his voice. “In a little harbor that no one else
can see. Just you and me, the waves, and the birds. And a light wind that smells of the sea. Can you smell the sea, Henrik?”

“Yes.”

“We’re in a wonderful place, Henrik, but … my hands are tied. Do you think you can cut me free?”

The Dutchman didn’t answer. And for a long while, he didn’t move, but sat there in the flickering light, silent and blinking. Though his face was impassive, McBride knew that a battle was raging deep inside the Dutchman, in a part of the brain so primitive that words had no meaning.

Then the paralysis gave way, and de Groot got to his feet. Going into the kitchen, he returned with a boning knife in his hand. Looming above McBride, with a look of desolation and regret, he mumbled something unintelligible, leaned over, and cut the tape from his therapist’s wrists.

Adrienne squirmed, but McBride held his hand out toward her until de Groot sat back down. He suggested to de Groot that he was exhausted and, soon, the Dutchman began to yawn. He probably was tired, McBride thought. He’d been up all night. He suggested that de Groot close his eyes and try to sleep. When he awoke, he was to contact the police and tell them about the Worm. Then he’d feel wonderful. Soon, de Groot was snoring quietly on the couch, his head thrown back, mouth open.

McBride freed Adrienne, then carefully lifted de Groot’s ID from around the Dutchman’s neck. Put it over his own.

“It won’t work,” she said. “You don’t look like him.”

“It’s all I can do!”

“But—”

“Call the hotel,” he told her. “See if you can get through. Tell them it’s an emergency. Tell them the fire extinguishers are booby-trapped.” He was at the door. “And get me a lawyer!”

“But—”

Then he was out the door and pounding down the stairs to the car.

It was three miles from de Groot’s flat to Davos Dorp and it took him nearly fifteen minutes to cover the distance, crawling through the traffic, windshield wipers fighting the snow. Even so, he couldn’t get anywhere near the Fribourg—the access roads were in gridlock—so he abandoned the car by the side of the road and broke into a run.

De Groot’s ID bounced on his chest as he charged up the hill through the slush and the snow. Arriving at a security barricade, he was stopped by a frozen-looking soldier. Waggling the ID, he cursed the cold, complaining loudly in German about having to miss the Wolfsburg Kaiserslautern match—just because someone thought there might be a problem with the fire extinguishers. “It can’t be anything,” he complained. “I just checked them this afternoon.” The soldier peered through the swirling snow at the ID. “De Groot,” he said. “I’ll have to call.”

A sort of makeshift shelter had been thrown up—a construction of canvas and transparent plastic—and the soldier retreated into this and spoke into his telephone. He tossed McBride an exhausted look, raising his eyebrows as he waited for a reply. It was difficult to wait. McBride kept imagining the round tables of banquet goers, the waiters clearing the plates, the speaker at the head table, checking his watch, sneaking a peek at his notes as he prepared to walk to the podium. The dinner had started at seven. How many courses were there? How long would it take?
Relax
, he told himself, but a glance at his watch sent his heart into his throat: 7:48.

Then the soldier poked his head out, and waved him through. McBride took off like a jackrabbit, leaving the soldier calling out with a laugh:
“Wo is das feuer?” Where’s the fire, indeed.

A figure dressed in lederhosen and an alpine cap was fighting a losing battle against the snow accumulating on the red carpet under the porte cochere at the entrance to the Fribourg. Also in sight were a man who looked like an admiral (the doorman as it turned out) and two soldiers. McBride launched
himself in their direction, trying to remember the words for ‘Fire security.’
Fe
w
er
-something.

Then he was there. The doorman reached for the door’s brass handle, suddenly frowned, and let his hand drop. One of the security men stepped forward, and took McBride by the arm.

“Feuersicherheit!”
McBride yelled, grabbing de Groot’s badge and jerking it toward the man, then wrenching free of his grip to plunge through the doorway.

“Stoppen Sie!”

He was running through the Fribourg’s lobby, surrounded by crystal chandeliers, old wood and plush carpet, looking for a sign for the Ballroom.
What’s the German for ‘ballroom’?
People were screaming
Halt!
—which was German for ‘Halt!’—but what was the German for ‘ballroom’? Then he saw the sign:

Three sets of swinging double doors, flanked by testosterone-types in dark suits, with little wires running from their ears. Nearby, a claque of smokers clustered around a standing ashtray, and two ladies in African garb, with elaborate headdresses, made their way toward the restrooms. On a pedestal, a silver-framed sign:

Seeing McBride, one of the security guards raised an arm to block the way. But McBride’s impetus carried him past the guards and through the doors before anyone could actually stop him.

But he was too late.

The room—with its candlelit tables, and spiky flower arrangements, its white linen and gleaming crystal—was erupting in panic. Or if not panic, horror. Men in tuxedos and
women in gowns, a handful of men and women in vibrant tribal costume, were getting to their feet and looking wildly around. The normal hubbub of three hundred diners—the clatter of dishware, the murmur of conversation, the burble of laughter—had given way to a primitive roar. A thin scream arced toward the spangled ceiling and it was as if the crowd was a single beast, with its eyes on the dais, where an elderly black man stood behind a blazing podium, slapping at the flames on his lapels.