Authors: Ronald Klueh
Applenu typed his command to the computer, and a screen appeared asking for a password. Applenu turned to Curt. “Where did this come from? There wasn’t anything about a password before.”
“Hit enter,” Curt said.
When Applenu hit the key, READY appeared on the screen. Applenu typed: PROCEED MACH 492. He stood to watch the lathe, his right hand rubbing his clean-shaven chin.
Inside the cell, the motor started and the lathe turned. Chips curled rapidly from the dummy specimen. Blue smoke rolled from the whirling machine and began to envelop the cell like a morning fog filling a mountain valley.
Applenu dropped into the chair behind the keyboard. “What the bloody hell’s going on?” he yelled, his face reddening. Like a pianist at the height of a Brahms concerto, he hammered at the keys:
END MACH 492
Large letters appeared on the monitor:
ILLEGAL COMMAND: PROGRAM IN PROGRESS
“Illegal command? The bugger’s gone bonkers! It won’t accept the command to shut down.”
Curt stepped up to the keyboard, leaned around Applenu and typed.
Inside the cell, the lathe ground to a halt.
Applenu glared at the word: REBUFF. When he spun around to look up at Curt, his curly black hair streamed down his forehead, his dark eyes burning through. “You did this, Reedan, you son of a bitch.” He swiped at his hair. “You made the computer ruin that sample.”
“That’s right, but it’s a dummy. I did it to prove you need us on this project. You need us alive.” He pointed to the cell now clearing of smoke. “That’s how all your machining efforts will end up unless you make a deal with us.”
Applenu jumped up. Standing on his tiptoes, he stuck his crimson face next to Curt’s chin. “What the hell are you talking about, a deal?”
Curt didn’t move. At last he would show Surling how the computer would get them out of there. “The computer’s been programmed to carry out all of the machining operations you’ll need to finish the project. Surling and Simmons are about finished reducing all the plutonium oxide to plutonium metal. You and Simmons can finish the rest. So you don’t need the two of us anymore.”
Applenu stepped back, nostrils flared, fuming like a rocket on the launch pad at ignition. “Sod you! You can’t ruin the project, nobody can.”
Things were going their way, Curt thought, marveling at his coolness. Occasionally, when making a presentation to clients or a technical audience, his heart raced and his knees turned to rubber. Now, under the greatest pressure ever, he had contacted that confidence to gain control, like that brief moment in Miami Beach when he decided to make a run for it.
“We don’t want to ruin your project. We just want to save ourselves. The programs are there to machine the plutonium. All you need is a password to run the program correctly, and I’ve got the password.”
Applenu pushed past Curt to get to Surling, who stood behind him, taking it all in. “Was this your idea, Professor?”
“Does it matter?”
“That’s right,” Curt said. He dropped into the chair vacated by Applenu. “All the two of us want is to be free. You free us, and then I’ll give you the password and how to operate the programs.”
Applenu glanced at Simmons, who stood in front of the hot-cell window, his hands still on the controls. Simmons’s eyes filled with panic. He stepped back, looking as if he were about to be dragged into quicksand. Applenu looked back at Surling. “We couldn’t trust you to give us the right password after we let you go.”
“We’ll play straight with you if you play straight with us,” Surling said. His eyes glowed from behind his glasses. With the scent of freedom, youth seeped back into his face. “We can work it out so you can verify that the programs operate before we’re completely free.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“We don’t trust you either,” Surling said, a faint smile threatening to break through to his lips. He cocked his head and his blue eyes ducked behind the glare of his glasses. “Look at it this way. We know you’ve got material machined for eight uranium bombs. So what’s the difference to us if you make ten more plutonium bombs?”
“You’ll bring the police down on us.”
Surling’s eyes fixed on Applenu’s. “How’re we going to do that? You’ve eluded the police so far, haven’t you?”
“You could give them our names and descriptions.”
“But we won’t. We know you could turn your people loose on us with their guns. There’d be no benefit for us to go to the police.”
Applenu turned and stared at Curt, then turned back to Surling. “I think you two chaps have a deal… Maybe…if we pay you, too… Anyway, there are some details we’ll have to work out, things like how we’ll verify that you’ve given us the programs.”
Curt and Surling nodded eagerly.
“I’ll have to consult my colleagues, but I think we might make a deal.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As Applenu followed the massive Beecher into the living room of Lormes’s apartment; his thoughts were on Surling and Reedan and what he told them: “I need to consult my colleagues.” Bloody “colleagues” had only non-technical solutions to problems. Why did the buggers have to pick today? This morning in Amsterdam, BahAmin and her husband were putting their plan for the family into operation, and he wanted to get to his e-mail to see if it succeeded.
After the family got out of Iran and settled in Amsterdam, Uncle Behrouz hired a private investigator to determine if the family was being watched. They were, night and day. Uncle Behrouz’s and BahAmin’s next task was to recruit help from the pool of Iranian dissidents they knew and trusted in Britain, who got them in touch with trusted dissidents in Amsterdam.
Every Wednesday morning since the family arrived from Iran, Applenu’s parents, his two younger sisters and his younger brother took a taxi to the Kinkerstratt Tenkatemarkt at about 09:30 hours. They returned to the apartment around noon with their needs for the coming week. They would do the same this Wednesday—today. There was one difference about this Wednesday. At 08:30, a panel truck pulled up to the back entrance of the apartment building, and six painters dressed in white coveralls and caps emerged carrying ladders and buckets of paint and entered the building. Shortly after the family returned from shopping, six painters dressed in white coveralls and caps would emerge from the building and go to lunch. Only one of the painters—the driver—would be the same as the painters that entered the building earlier. The other five “painters” had left earlier by the front door, and they would return with the driver after “lunch” and remain until 17:00 hours, after which they would leave with their ladders and buckets.
Beecher led Applenu into the living room. Lormes greeted them from the end of a white couch, where he lounged next to a blonde much less than half his age. He shared the rented apartment with her, although he periodically flew back to New York to visit his wife and kids. Applenu tried not to stare at her, clad as she was in short shorts and a red halter.
“So you’ve got a problem, Dr. Applenu,” Lormes said, his eroded mouth smoothed by his smile. He turned to the blonde and told her to go outside and take a long walk. When she protested it was too hot, he stared at her, but said nothing. She stood and hurried from the room on long tanned legs, followed by the sound of the outside door opening and closing.
Lormes motioned Applenu to the other end of the couch. Beecher dropped into the chair across from the couch. Applenu explained the problem posed by Reedan and Surling and the proposal they had for remedying the situation.
Lormes listened, nodded occasionally, his penetrating eyes fixed on Applenu. When Applenu finished, Lormes broke into a loud laugh. “I see you not only lost your beard, you also lost the British accent,” he said, his Russian accent subdued today. Another loud chuckle, his laughter amplified by Beecher’s high-pitched cackle. “I think we can take care of the problem. Do you agree, Mr. Beecher?”
“I think I can solve the problem by tomorrow morning,” Beecher said. “I know just the way to solve it.”
“I’m not sure violence will work on these guys,” Applenu said, looking directly at Lormes. “They’re worried they will be killed when their job is done. I hope that is not their fate, because I don’t want to be mixed up in murder. They promised not to go to the police if we let them go.”
Lormes turned to Beecher. “He doesn’t want to be mixed up in murder.”
Applenu looked at Beecher then back to Lormes. “Why not just pay them to be quiet and put them on your plane and drop them off somewhere in the middle of the country. There’s no way they would know where they’ve been and where we are.”
“And then they’ll go to the police and identify you, me, Beecher, and everybody else. They’ve seen you with and without your beard. According to this morning’s paper, the FBI knows Surling is missing, and they have him connected to the missing nuclear material.” Lormes shook his head. “We can’t leave loose ends when this thing is over.”
“What’s a loose end?” Applenu asked. “Will I be a loose end?”
Lormes laughed. “I hope not, but that will be up to your bosses.”
- - - - -
Lori had just finished frying chicken when the doorbell rang. She planned an early dinner, so she could get back to her studies. It rang again, and she hurriedly wiped her hands and rushed toward the door, hoping to keep Beth downstairs with the TV. Maybe whoever was at the door would give her a chance at some adult conversation for a change.
Finals week: one more night of study for one last final exam in the morning, and then a week until graduation. At times, she felt guilty about carrying on while Curt remained a prisoner. She considered quitting school when this thing started, but realized she’d go crazy with nothing to keep her busy while fate ran its course.
Outside of her classes, she had hardly talked to anyone but Beth. She needed to talk to an adult about anything, but she hesitated to call friends, afraid she would break down and blurt it all out. Several times, just lying in bed at night, she couldn’t hold back the tears. Next morning, it was business as usual. What else could she do?
Although in a hurry to answer the door, she resisted the urge to race barefoot down the steps, even though there hadn’t been any spotting the last four days. Same thing happened with the last two pregnancies: it came and went. One pregnancy ended early, and the other went all the way. Easy does it, she thought, as she ran her hand across her abdomen: barely a bulge.
As soon as she turned the knob, the door banged back at her, shoved open by Beecher, who rushed past her into the foyer. Maxwell tagged along behind him carrying a briefcase.
“Long time, no see,” Beecher said.
They hadn’t been back for over a month, the only contact being the frequent phone calls.
“What do you want?”
Next to Beecher, Maxwell, who reminded Lori of a giant slug, leered at her through his colored glasses.
“Just get your sweet little ass up there,” Beecher said, grabbing her arm and jerking her toward the steps. “You cooperate, and we’ll be out of here in no time. We wouldn’t be here if your pansy husband would do what he is told to do.”
“Mommy! What’s happening?” Beth screamed, running up the steps to Lori and grasping for her hand.
“Just keep the kid quiet,” Beecher growled, yanking Lori’s arm to force her up the steps and propel her into the living room that was separated from the steps by a wrought-iron railing. He shoved her toward the couch. As on his other visit, Beecher strutted, his huge muscles inflated, shoulders jacked up, this time dressed in cream-colored pants and a dark-blue knit shirt.
Lori sat and Beth scrambled into her lap. When Lori saw Beecher scanning her bare legs, she wished she had left her slacks on when she got back from today’s final. After they came the last time, she quit wearing shorts. Then they quit coming. Why now?
Maxwell straggled into the room, the giant slug in wrinkled black pants and a red knit shirt with broad white horizontal stripes stretched outward by his huge protruding stomach. “Smells good in here,” he said, breathing heavily from climbing the steps. “Fried chicken? She looks good and cooks, too.” He set the briefcase on the coffee table in front of the couch, snapped it open, and extracted a camcorder and a digital camera. He handed the camcorder to Beecher, and then stepped back from the couch and pointed the camera at Lori and Beth.
“We are going to get some pictures of you and the kid,” Beecher said, his fake smile countered by his brutal Russian-accented growl.
“Smile,” Maxwell said from behind the camera.
Lori forced a smile and pushed Beth to the front of her lap to hide her legs behind Beth’s. Thank God, she left the ruffled blouse on. At least it wasn’t a T-shirt.
A flash erupted, and Maxwell checked the display on the back of the camera. Meanwhile, Beecher used the video camera.
“Why are they taking pictures, Mommy?”
“To show your daddy,” Beecher said, “to remind him why he should cooperate with us.”
After studying the digital picture, Maxwell pointed the camera at them. It flashed twice while Beecher continued with the video camera. Maxwell took two shots of Beth alone, followed by three of Lori alone. Before each shot, Maxwell checked her, his wide-eyed stare all over her. If rape was a visual act, she thought, she’d be ravaged.
Beecher shut off the video camera and handed it to Maxwell, who set the digital camera on the coffee table.
“Now let the kid go watch TV so the three of us can talk,” Beecher said.
“I’ll take you downstairs to watch cartoons, honey,” Lori said, leading Beth out of the room.
“I want to stay with you, Mommy.”
“Do what Mommy says,” Beecher snapped.
On the way through the foyer, Lori had the urge to open the front door and run for it. They’d never catch them before they got to the Eberhard’s. But then what would they do to Curt?
Back in the living room, she found Maxwell and Beecher on the couch laughing as they examined the video on the camcorder viewing screen.
Dad used to tell her: “You’re a farm girl, you can do anything.” This too would end, she told herself. Just stay with it; show them you can be firm.
Beecher and Maxwell stood. Maxwell pointed the camcorder at her and began recording.
Beecher motioned her to the couch and loomed above, looking down at her. “We don’t want to hurt you, Lori, or your husband.” He spoke as if talking to a child. “All you have to do is cooperate.”
“I am cooperating. I haven’t told the police or anyone.”
“Good. Trouble is, your husband isn’t.”
Maxwell moved closer, the camcorder pointed at her face.
“He will. Just…just give him a chance.”
Beecher moved closer and towered above her, making her lean back to look up at him. “That’s why we’re here. To make you convince him to do our job.”
Without warning, his right hand smashed into her left cheek and jolted her head around to the right, pain blazing across her face and into her jaw. She screamed and grabbed the side of her face. For a moment she thought the flash of light was from the digital camera, but Maxwell still lurked to her left with the camcorder, the digital camera still on the coffee table.
Beecher dropped onto the couch beside her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Beecher lunged at her and grabbed her wrists. He shoved her backwards and pinned her against the couch, her scream muffled by his massive chest that smothered her face in the odor of cigarette smoke from his shirt. Immobile, every muscle straining to escape, she felt his lips brush her cheek, his breath sour. She twisted her head sideways, but could not detach his damp lips now plastered on her left cheek.
Maxwell crouched at the front of the couch with the camcorder pressed to his face. “Give it to her, Beech.”
“Quit! Please quit.” She wriggled her shoulders and tried to move her arms to push his hand off the inside of her thigh and moving toward her crotch. Her face burned.
With her body pinned to the couch by his massive body, he grabbed her face with both hands and twisted it around to him. He kissed her on her open mouth, his slippery wet tongue thrusting inside. “We’re going to give the pansy a demonstration of what’s going to happen to you if he doesn’t cooperate.”
She fought to free her arms. “Goddammit,” she mumbled, her anger damming the tears that threatened. “He’ll cooperate.”
Beecher released her and sat back.
Maxwell stood, the camcorder still pointed at her.
Lori straightened up and wiped at her mouth, trying to slow her breathing.
Beecher reached out with both hands, grabbed two handfuls of the blouse material, and ripped it to shreds.
She screamed and shoved at his arms, protesting and promising.
“You scream again and bring your kid up here, you’ll regret it.”
Maxwell chuckled from behind the camcorder. “I think it’s fun time, Beech.”
“Let me go, please. I’ve done what you asked me to do. Curt will do the job, I know he will.”
- - - - -
As soon as the two men were on the steps down to the front door, she grabbed her underpants and shorts. Beth, she thought, can’t let Beth see me like this. She dropped the slimy underpants and pulled on the blue shorts, remembering how Maxwell used the underpants to wipe himself.
The front door slammed, and they were gone.
She collapsed onto the couch, the mess on the coffee table catching her eye: the greasy plate with chicken bones and four empty Budweiser cans. Sometime while Beecher was…Maxwell went to the kitchen and brought back the chicken and beer, which must have been in the refrigerator for six months, she thought, trying to distract herself, trying to relax long enough to think—and to forget. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts stunk up the room. Got to get them out of here, she thought. She shook her head to forget and noticed the ache. No way could she forget the taste in her mouth. She bolted for the bathroom, her hands plastered across her mouth.
Afterward, she lay on the bathroom floor, her head next to the cool toilet bowl. She wiped at her mouth and eyes with a wet cloth, hoping the nausea had passed and the headache subsided. She struggled to her feet and stumbled into the bedroom, where she wrapped herself in her yellow robe. In the mirror, she examined her left cheek, red and swollen from where Beecher hit her. A shower, she thought, long and hot.
“Beth!” Momentarily, she’d forgotten Beth. She called her, and while waiting for her to respond, she went to the window and pulled the drape aside.
There they were, leaning against their car. Maxwell ate chicken and licked his fingers. Beecher smoked while he scanned the video on the camcorder screen. He reached down to his crotch and tugged. She couldn’t hear what he said, only the derisive laughter.
“Mommy! Mommy! Are those bad men gone?”
Lori fought the tears as she stooped to hug Beth. “They’re gone. Everything’s okay.”
She stepped back to the window and watched them eating and smoking, taking in the evening.