Authors: Robert Knightly
When I pulled the trigger, the blade shot up into the lower pins. Whatever noise it made was obliterated by rain and wind. But the lock stayed locked.
I pulled the trigger again, then again, then again, waiting for a slight release in the tension to indicate that the upper pins were trapped above the shear line. But there was no release and I had to fight the instinct to grab for my gun when a car turned onto the block. The car’s lights swept over my body as it approached, casting an elongated shadow across the face of the building, a shadow that steadily retreated, then disappeared as the vehicle passed me.
Despite my best intentions, I found myself holding my breath. Maybe Aslan coming home while I was standing in front of his door with my back turned was a long shot, but it was far from impossible. Meanwhile, the car didn’t slow down until it reached the stop sign at the end of the block. A moment later it was gone.
The pins lined up and the bolt retracted on my twelfth attempt. By that time, my legs were soaked, from mid-shin to ankle, and rainwater was streaming from my coat. I pushed the door open, stepped inside, glimpsing a narrow flight of stairs before closing the door and plunging the space into utter darkness.
I felt instantly reassured. Stairway, hall and door were windowless – Aslan would step into the same darkness (assuming he wasn’t asleep in his bed) when he returned to his apartment. If I positioned myself halfway up the stairs, I’d have him in my sights before he knew I was there. That was important because my raincoat was dripping water onto the linoleum floor and every step I took on those stairs would leave a puddle behind.
I retrieved my flashlight and flicked it on. About the size of a cigar, the flashlight was set to cast a very narrow beam. I ran that beam over the wall to my left, discovering a light switch. Good news. Aslan would reach for the switch with his left hand, while closing the door behind him with his right. The sequence would be automatic, leaving both hands far from any weapon he might have on his person.
It was a nice fantasy. Aslan opening the door, the light coming on to reveal Harry Corbin sitting on the stairs. I could even picture myself, coat open, weapon in hand, smiling my brightest gunslinger smile when I pressed that first button: ‘Yo, Aslan, what’s happenin’? I thought you’d never come home.’
I flicked the light switch, but nothing happened, hall and stairs remained as dark as ever. I was about to throw the switch a second time, then checked myself as I remembered Zashka’s warning; Aslan would kill me if he got the chance. Then I recalled something else she’d said. Faced with a mini-revolt, Aslan had once threatened to blow up the Eagle Street Warehouse with everyone in it. At the time, he’d also claimed the expertise to bring it off.
Surely, replacing the bulb at the head of those stairs, if it blew out on its own, would be one of those household chores that gets taken care of right away. Otherwise, you’d have to climb the stairs and find the lock with your key in total darkness. I widened the beam on the flashlight, examined the area at my feet, finally began to move forward. When I got to the stairs, I dropped to my knees before I began to climb. I was looking for a trip wire, or an electronic sensor that would mark my passing, perhaps set off an alarm, or something far worse. I didn’t find anything like that, just a series of painted wooden steps that rose to a landing barely wider than the door it fronted. Nevertheless, I checked the door carefully before turning my attention to the light fixture on the ceiling above my head. I could see the outline of a bulb through the frosted glass, but that didn’t tell me what I needed to know.
Rising onto my toes, I was just able to reach the light, to unscrew the pins holding the globe in place, to finally expose a single bulb. Gingerly, I took the bulb between my fingers and gave it a slight twist. It was loose in the socket, but I didn’t test it by screwing it down. Instead, I removed the bulb, then examined the filament, positioning the flashlight behind the bulb to maximize the contrast. The filament was perfectly intact and there was no carbon build-up on either pole.
I dropped the bulb into my pocket, next to the snap gun and the tension bar, then closed up the overhead fixture before turning to the door. By then, my brain was rocking along. Aslan’s home country was the place where booby-traps were perfected, especially as they applied to urban guerrilla warfare. According to the Russians, explosive devices of one kind or another were found in every third building when they re-took Grozny, along with a host of lesser goodies, like ceilings and floors rigged to collapse, and light bulbs filled with gasoline.
I sat down on the landing, my legs on the stairs, facing the door at the bottom of the steps. A little voice in my head was insisting that I stay the hell out of Aslan’s apartment. Do it just the way you said, this voice insisted. Wait for him on the stairs. Take him down the minute he steps through the door.
But there was another voice, too, a nasty little voice that whispered, Aslan killed your son. Over and over and over again.
Of one thing I was certain. The loose bulb was not some sort of trigger mechanism. Not unless Aslan had imagined me clever enough to check the bulb out, then stupid enough to screw it back down. There had to be another reason.
I sat there, in total darkness, until I thought I knew that reason. Then I got to work.
I wasn’t surprised to find the door unlocked, though I admit to a flash of bladder-clenching fear when the hinges squealed as it swung away from me. I was at the back of a long room, facing a narrow table set against a wall fifteen feet away. Light streamed into the apartment through a pair of windows and the room seemed well lit compared to the hallway. There was enough light, for instance, for me to pick out a shadow beneath the table, a shadow mounted flush to the wall. I could even see little pinpricks of light, so faint I might have imagined them, within the shadow.
But I wasn’t imagining the wires running from a light switch to my left, down to the floor, then out along the wall in both directions. To Aslan, the sequence must have seemed obvious. You climb those stairs in the dark, the first thing you’ll do, when you finally get into his apartment, is grope for that switch. The light at this end of the room, furthest from the windows in front, was extremely dim. It had to be, otherwise the shadow between the legs of the table would be revealed for the pound or so of plastic explosive it actually was. And that would ruin all the fun.
I leaned through the doorway and looked around. The space was large, easily fifteen-by-thirty, and sparsely furnished. The Chechen flag caught my eye first, just to the right of the rain-spattered windows. I couldn’t see the wolf’s eyes – the walls to either side of the window were in deep shadow – but I knew his gaze was as mean spirited as ever.
A worn leather sofa, an end table supporting a painted ceramic lamp, a small TV set on a rolling stand, and a coffee table littered with newspapers and DVDs were clustered before the windows. Along the near wall midway between where I stood and the windows, an open notebook computer, along with a stack of floppy disks and a small printer, rested on a metal desk.
Facing the desk, an L-shaped serving bar partitioned off a small kitchen, its metal sink piled with unwashed dishes. A pair of doors to my right led to interior rooms. The room closest to me was the bedroom, the one I’d looked through when I climbed the drainpipe. The second room was undoubtedly the bathroom.
I registered each of these items carefully, in search of anything out of order. When I was satisfied, I squatted down to examine the open spaces between the furnishings. I was looking for trip wires and the light was very dim, especially along the walls. But I kept at it, until I was sure I could enter the apartment without blowing myself all the way back to Manhattan. Then I stepped inside and took another survey, this one limited to the explosives, mounted six feet apart and six inches off the ground, on all four walls.
From close up, those pinpricks of light I’d observed when I first opened the door were obviously the heads of common nails. The nails had been pressed into bars of what looked like molded clay, the intention to shred the flesh of anyone caught in their path. But the nails were pure overkill. There was enough explosive material in that room to take out the building. If it went off, I wouldn’t live long enough for the nails to reach my body.
Still, I appreciated the theatrical touch; as I also appreciated the way Aslan had rigged the trap after I found a second set of wires, in addition to the wires leading from the light switch. These wires began at a DVD player positioned on the floor where the eastern wall of the building met the kitchen’s service counter. They ran the full length of the room and were connected (as were the wires from the light switch) to detonators on each of the little bricks fastened to the wall.
I stood over the DVD player for a moment, staring down, until I finally hit upon its purpose. Then I began a search of the room that ended when I found the Sony’s remote control next to the computer. Needless to say, I was careful not to press any of its buttons. Instead, I carried it to the door through which I’d come, back to the rigged light switch.
I’d had some formal training in the handling of explosives while I was in the military. Enough to know that Aslan had created a dual system. The explosives could be triggered by turning on the light switch or the DVD player, either one. Thus, an intruder, like myself, entering while Aslan was out, would be the immediate cause of his own death when he switched on the light. On the other hand, if I’d made an appearance while Aslan was at home, he’d literally have his finger on the button.
Still, there was a definite bottom line here: no current, no explosion.
I went into my pants pocket, removed a small folding knife, and opened the blade. I told myself that the remedy here was apparent. If there was a break in the wire, no circuit could be completed, no matter what you did with the switch. But despite all that macho bullshit about inviting Aslan to the dance, I couldn’t bring myself to cut those wires. My knowledge of explosives was limited. For all I knew, Aslan had rigged his bombs to explode when an already established circuit was broken. How he’d do it, given the simplicity of a light switch, was beyond me, but sometimes the consequences of a mistake are so great, it doesn’t matter how great the odds against it. I’d surveyed the apartment, done my job, and fulfilled my obligation to protect the public. Who would fault me if I waited on the stairs? I’d give the bomb squad a heads-up, of course. Right after I finished with Aslan.
Good thinking, no doubt, but my timing was awful because I was still standing there, looking down at the open blade of the knife, when the outside door opened and I heard raised voices in the downstairs hall. I was seconds away from a confrontation. I had to act.
THIRTY-FIVE
A
slan came into the apartment first, edging sideways through the door. Hansen Linde followed. Though he wasn’t bearing down, he had a grip on Aslan’s trailing arm, an obviously custodial grip. A third man trailed behind. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but his vested suit, his crew-cut hair and the attaché case he carried virtually screamed Fed.
I was in Aslan’s bathroom, peering through the crack between the partly open door and the frame, and the first thing I noted was that neither Hansen, nor his companion, had drawn a weapon. This was a mistake for which Aslan would surely make them pay.
He didn’t wait long. They were barely five feet into the room when Aslan yanked his arm free and made a dive for the remote control on his desk. Hansen and the Fed both grabbed for their weapons, only to stop when they realized that the plastic object in Aslan’s hand wasn’t a gun.
Aslan’s lips were moving, but nothing was coming out. Maybe he was considering the effect on his own body, on flesh and bone, should he press that button. Finally, he swept the room with his arm. A wasted gesture. Hansen and the Fed had already figured it out. I knew that because I saw the Fed’s knees buckle momentarily, while Hansen withdrew his hand from beneath his jacket, then raised it, palm out.
‘We don’t wanna do anything stupid here,’ he said.
‘Why? You are fearing death?’
‘You betcha.’
‘This is good. Now please to put guns on floor.’
The Fed hastened to comply, removing a pair of weapons, the first from a holster, the second, presumably Aslan’s, from the waistband of his trousers. He put them on the floor and took a step back. Hansen didn’t move a muscle.
‘Are you not hearing me?’
‘I hear you,’ Hansen said, ‘but I’m not gonna surrender my weapon. That’s the first rule of policing, ya know. Never surrender your weapon. Plus, I just can’t take the chance that I’ll die in this room while you continue living. I don’t wanna go before the pearly gates with that crime on my conscience. Oh, yeah. I’d be too ashamed even to beg forgiveness.’
I fell in love with Hansen Linde at that moment. Not so the Fed.
‘What’s the matter with you, Linde?’ he demanded. ‘Are you crazy?’ When Hansen ignored both questions, he turned to Aslan. ‘Look, we didn’t come to arrest you, Aslan. I’m not even a cop. I work for Immigration. Here.’ Very slowly, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and removed a business card from his vest pocket. When he held it up, his hands were shaking so hard the print couldn’t have been read, even in sunlight, even if Aslan wasn’t standing fifteen feet away. ‘My name is Horn, Jack Horn. I work in the Deportations Division of the INS.’
Aslan smiled for the first time. ‘You are tired with Aslan in your country? You want no more to be seeing him?’ He paused, his eyes flicking to Hansen, then back again. ‘Where is it you want Aslan to be going?’
‘To Russia.’ Horn shifted his weight from one foot to another. Though I couldn’t see his face, I was certain that he was smiling, and that his smile was fawning. ‘Use your common sense, Aslan. It’s the only way. You can’t stay here, not with a murder hanging over your head. It’s time to move on.’
Aslan sat down in front of his desk, the light from the lamp bathing the side of his face and his shoulder. He seemed at peace as he crossed his legs and let his weight fall against the back of the chair.