Wednesday's Child (11 page)

“I could have come up with that analogy myself,” she said, “but I don’t get how it supports your theory.”

“I used to think about this stuff when I studied relativity.  Try to imagine the space-time continuum spread out in a four-dimensional tableau.  Every event that ever happened or will happen, any place, is laid before you simultaneously.  Think of it as a giant trampoline made of infinitely long, intertwined elastic strands under enormous stress, with a giant arrow indicating the downstream time flow.”  Ilene nodded dubiously.

“Every point on the trampoline represents an event, some as trivial as your next breath, others as powerful as the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima.  The effects of some, like the A-bomb, extend far downstream in all directions.  They impact the trampoline so violently, their ripples reverberate throughout the continuum in every dimension.

“On the other hand, what if you didn’t take your next breath?  You could look at that event as connected only to the breath after it.  Miss one and you might gasp, but you’d recover and the downstream ripple effect would be trivial.  Miss too many, and you’d die.  If you lived alone in the desert and had no friends or family, that would probably be the end of it.  But if you were, say, the President, the ripple effects of your death might be felt around the world for years.  Keep in mind, the trampoline has mass and its stretched fibers contain enormous potential energy, so you can think of a significant event as one that releases enough energy into the system to disturb the balance that keeps it in place.”

“You think that’s what’s happening in reality?”

“That’s what my physics professor would have said.”

“Whatever the mechanism, I’d say you handled things pretty well.”

“Except for one thing.  I never bought those stocks.  We could have made twelve thousand dollars on Wednesday.”

18.

Opening up to Ilene had energized me.  Nearly two full days after my injury, I felt no overt symptoms from my thankfully mild concussion.  With more than six hours at my disposal after Ilene left for the city, I could have gone to my office, but it was another July Friday.  It didn’t seem worth the trouble.  I called my voice mail and found a message from Gayle from earlier in the day – I’d have to call her later.  And I had another of those nagging feelings that I was missing something important. 

Though I couldn’t identify why, I’d wanted to object when William told me to sit tight until we were ready to inspect the ship.  One thing this week’s Thursdays had in common was that the terrorists were a step ahead of us on both days.  We’d assumed that they bombed the ship to keep us from finding the isotopes they’d been smuggling.  With my head clearer, I realized that didn’t make sense.  Sinking the ship was a diversion or delaying tactic.  They’d offloaded the stuff before the explosion.  I placed a call to William.

My stock was obviously high; he sounded happy to hear from me.  “Any fresh ideas?  You seem to be more on top of this than the rest of us.  Must be why I keep you around.”

“William, that sounded like a compliment.  And I do have a suggestion.”  I explained my reasoning and he quickly agreed.

“What do we do about it?” he asked.

“If they offloaded the stuff at sea, there’s nothing we can do.  It’ll have already arrived at its destination.  We need to focus on how they could have done it once they reached New York.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Surveillance of the harbor is pretty good these days, isn’t it?  If any other craft approached
Al Khalifa
after she dropped anchor, it ought to show up somewhere.”

“We’d have to collect video from dozens of sources over several days. It’d be tedious.”

“Given what’s at stake, isn’t that better than sitting around?”  I felt William’s enthusiasm wane, taking my star’s luminescence with it, when I realized what had been niggling at my memory.  “What about the crew?  Are they being interrogated?”

“Harbor Patrol’s handling that.”

I needed to use my knowledge of the Thursday William hadn’t experienced without explaining about my screwed up time stream, which, with William, would be a bad idea. “Any chance of including us in the interrogations?”

“What would that accomplish that would be worth a turf battle over jurisdiction?”

“A couple of things.  First, I could check the crew for traces of radioactivity.”

“Can’t the Harbor Patrol do that?”

“Probably, but if they find anything you’ll want me there.  Also, it’s likely that any of the crew who knew what they were carrying understood the risks.  With Sam’s help, I could test that and maybe trick them into revealing more knowledge than a journeyman seaman ought to have.”

That was complete bullshit, but William thought it over.  I think what tipped the balance was that sitting and waiting for others to mess things up stuck in William’s craw as much as it did mine.  His response was more than I’d hoped for.

“I like it.  I like it so much, we won’t waste time going through channels.  Like you said, if Homeland Security doesn’t like it, screw ’em.  Can you be downtown at 12:30?  I’ll round up Sam and meet you at the Federal Detention Center.”  Way to go, William!  Once he fixed on an objective it was best to get out of his way. 

I did a quick touch-up of my face.  A brief soak with a hot washcloth cleaned off the dead skin and some of the remaining scabs, and a few dabs of Ilene’s liquid makeup reduced the redness on my cheek.  Reflecting sunglasses helped, too. 

The 11:40 train into Manhattan got me to Christopher Street a few minutes after noon, an easy six-block walk from the Detention Center. I got there in time to see William and Samir approaching from the Houston Street subway station.  William winced when he saw me.  “Fall asleep in the sun?”

I laughed, and no one mentioned my face again.  We entered the facility in a three-man wedge with William at the point.  He flashed his ID at the federal cop monitoring the metal detectors, signed the entry log, and demanded to be escorted to the detainee holding area.  When the cop hesitated, William recorded his name and badge number.  “I don’t have much time, son.  If you can’t handle this, I’ll deal with your supervisor.  Now!”  I felt sorry for the guy.

Ten minutes later we entered what looked like a high school gymnasium, with bleachers along one wall, in front of which stood eight armed guards.  Twenty or so men, looking as though they hadn’t washed or shaved in days, were seated far enough apart to prevent them from communicating with each other. 

I scanned the bleachers, looking for two individuals.  I spotted one, immediately, still wearing the UCLA shirt I’d seen on Thursday.  There was no sign of the other one. 

“Is this all of them?” I asked one of the guards.

“There are three more being interviewed.”  He gestured toward some screened cubicles at one end of the large enclosure.  “Over there.”

I walked over to where a frustrated-looking Samir was standing.  He’d intended to get close enough to the detainees to overhear snatches of conversation, but the enforced silence had left him with nothing to do while William negotiated with the Harbor Patrol Captain.  A couple of minutes later, two men emerged from one of the cubicles, one in a Patrol uniform, the other in jeans, a dirty tee shirt that had once been white, and a New York Yankees cap.  Bingo. 

Improvising on the fly, I turned to Samir.  “I need your help.  Trust me?” 

We approached the officer escorting Mr. Yankee Cap, and I took him aside.

“Can we isolate this guy from the group?  I want to try something.”  The officer handed me his clipboard and seated Mr. Yankee Cap apart from but in plain view of the other detainees with a guard posted at his side.  Samir and I reviewed the officer’s interview report, which told us that Achmed Abdul Qadur spoke little or no English and knew nothing about anything.

“What’s going on, Dylan?”  I understood Samir’s consternation.  In the past, I’d always followed either his lead or William’s; he’d never seen me take this kind of initiative.

“I’ll explain later,” I said, hoping he’d let things be for the moment, and led him to where William was pressing a point with the Captain.  A stack of six-by-nine cards containing photos, fingerprints, and personal data for each captive was on the table in front of them.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, addressing the Captain and interrupting William.  “Can I borrow these?”

The Captain looked to William, who nodded affirmatively.  “Help yourself.”

Walking with Samir, I leafed through the cards until I found Achmed’s and the one with the picture of the guy in the UCLA sweat shirt.  Samir looked bemused but didn’t say anything. “I need you pretend to be an interpreter, and let me ask the questions.  I’ll be the belligerent asshole they expect while you act sympathetic, maybe mutter something to that effect in Arabic when it seems appropriate.  Just play along and try not to act surprised by anything, okay?”

Samir agreed, struggling to suppress a smirk.  We approached Achmed and dismissed his guard.  He looked at us warily and I made sure he saw whose picture I held next to his. 

“Achmed Abdul Qadur?”  I mangled the pronunciation of his name deliberately and Samir did an admirable job of maintaining a straight face.

Achmed glared at me, his face a mask of superior insolence.  I had no illusions about understanding the psyche of an Arab ship hand. But if Achmed was an average seaman about to be exposed for some petty crime, who’d been yanked off a ship after it was rammed by an exploding tugboat and thrown into detention in the land of the Devil, I guessed he’d try not to piss off his inquisitors. I took off my sunglasses and glared back, trying to convey revulsion and disgust as I studied him, from his greasy hair to the grimy toes protruding from his open sandals.

“Tell him that most of his friends will be released, as soon as we locate a ship willing to take them,” I instructed Samir. Achmed might or might not understand more English than he claimed, but he couldn’t mistake my sneering tone.  “Make sure he knows that doesn’t include him.  Tell him he we know what he was sent here to do, and he won’t survive a week in one of our prisons once the other inmates find out.”

As Samir translated, I did my best to look intimidating.  Maybe I don’t look mean enough; the son of a bitch never even flinched.  He glared hatred at me until it was I who looked away.  I’d never been face-to-face with anyone like Achmed before.  For that matter, I’d never conducted a hostile interrogation.  The malevolence of Achmed’s stare cut right through me.  But after the way he’d tried to escape on Thursday, I felt sure he held the key to what we were looking for. I couldn’t let anything stop me from finding it. 

I didn’t mind letting him think he’d won that round.  This little drama was for the benefit of Assem Hamid Jabir, who watched intently from inside the hood of his UCLA sweatshirt.  Either he was trying to hide or they didn’t have air conditioning where he came from.

I spent several minutes stoking Achmed’s loathing, noting that some of Samir’s translations seemed overlong, and wondering if Assem could see Achmed’s eyes bug out with rage from eighty feet away.   

I turned to Samir and spoke so Achmed could hear me. “Does he understand me?”

“I’m sure of it.  I can tell from his eyes that he doesn’t need my translation.”  No more good cop/bad cop.

I thought I played the final act to perfection, reaching down and grabbing the neck of Achmed’s shirt, jerking him off his seat in plain view of everyone in the gym.  In his face, I said, “You’re going to tell me who sent you, you bastard!”  He just glared silently at me. 

I released him and backhanded his face hard enough for him to see stars as he dropped back to his seat.  I was as shocked by what I’d done as Achmed.  I’d always been horrified by stories of prisoner abuse, yet I’d hit him without a thought. The resulting hush told me I had everyone’s attention.

Resisting the temptation to turn to see how William was reacting, I held up the picture of Assem and pointed to him, towering over the now-cringing Achmed and stage-whispering, “We know what you and Assem were up to, Achmed.  What will your friends think when they see you giving him up to gain your release?  Tell me who sent you here or you’re a dead man.” 

He tried to stare me down again, this time from six inches away. His malevolence got to me again, heightened by the stench of his filth and sweat.  His glare told me he would gladly kill me if he could; a part of me I hadn’t known was there whispered,
unless I kill you first
.  His rage filled me and I made it my own, submerging my moral center so deep I was deaf to it.  No way was I going to let Achmed and his friends hurt my family, my city, or my country.  I brought my left shoe down on his foot, grinding the heel onto his exposed big toe.  Everyone saw his back stiffen from the unexpected pain, but not what caused it.  His gaze locked on Assem.

I pressed harder on his toe, feeling something give.  He gritted his teeth, and I said, “Louder, Achmed I can’t hear you,” making sure Assem heard me.  I leaned down to put my ear to his mouth, effectively blocking everyone’s view of his lips.  Then I rose, and looked directly at Assem, releasing Achmed’s crushed toe.

“Assem Hamid Jabir,” I shouted.  “Achmed says you have something to tell us.”

William watched attentively, and the Harbor Patrol Captain signaled for one of the guards to escort Assem down to Samir.

Remembering how he and Achmed had run on Thursday, I wasn’t surprised when Assem broke away from the guard.  He got three steps before Samir tripped him and pounced on him, levering his arm backward until he screamed.  Assem rose, glaring at Achmed, who said, in perfect English, “They lie, my brother, you know I would not.”

Samir dragged Assem to his feet and led him to where Achmed was trying to stand on his damaged toe.  As he passed me he turned and spat, his sputum landing squarely on my face.  “You think you have won,” he sneered, “but you are too late.”  He barely got the last word out when William, who had been striding rapidly toward us, slammed a ham-sized fist into his face.  It’d be a while before Assem spoke clearly.

Samir and I watched as the two prisoners were cuffed and led away.  “What do you suppose he meant by that?” Samir asked William.

“He meant Dylan was right.  We can search that ship until doomsday but we won’t find a thing.  I need to go sit in on their interrogation.  We may still salvage something from all this.”

“How’s your hand, William?” I asked, still wiping my face.

Samir looked at me as though he wasn’t sure who I was.  “What the hell was that, Dylan?”  He clearly expected an answer.

In Samir’s world what I did to Achmed was mild.  He didn’t sound like he was scolding me for abusing a prisoner, though with my adrenaline level returning to normal, I knew I had some explaining to do – to myself.

“Your insight was inspirational,” Samir said, “How did you know?” 

I should have realized this moment would come.  “The UCLA shirt made me suspicious,” I lied.  “It seemed over the top.  The others were sullen and morose, but the more I watched Assem, the more nervous he seemed.  Then I saw Achmed’s Yankee cap and the way Assem’s eyes followed him when he came out of the interview room.  After that I just went with my gut.”