Presidential Deal (13 page)

“I’m a building contractor,” he said evenly. “I have a friend who was a cop. He took me to a firing range once.”

“You’re John Deal,” she nodded. “That’s just fine with me.”

He managed a nod of his own. Given the circumstances, given the possibilities for company, he supposed he’d come out all right. It could have been Nancy Reagan, after all.

Linda Sheldon’s gaze had turned inward. “I wonder what happened to Leslie,” she said. She glanced up at Deal. “My assistant,” she explained. “And Monroe…”

Deal had forgotten all about Monroe Fielding. The man would have been front and center when the shooting started, but Deal hadn’t seen what happened. He shook his head and she looked away.

After a moment she turned back to him.

“Assume these people, whoever’s behind all this, they want to make some kind of deal. Release all the political prisoners in turn for us, or whatever it is. How long before it would happen?”

Deal shrugged, forcing away memories of various hostage crises. “Who knows? They probably have to wait until they’re sure we’re tucked away. Maybe somebody’s e-mailing the White House even now.”

She shook her head. “Poor Frank,” she said.

“Poor Frank?”

She gave him a look. “That’s right. How is your wife going to feel when she hears? And Frank’s going to have to deal with this in public. He has to be the President, too.”

Deal nodded, trying to comprehend it. He also tried to imagine what would happen when Janice got the news,
if
she were to get it. There was no certainty the world was going to learn he was part of the proceedings, after all. Maybe the only reason he was still alive had to do with Angel’s misapprehension that he was part of the President’s security force. Maybe that’s what wearing the suit had gotten him. Their captors had brought him along as a potential source of information to these terrorists, or an added bargaining chip. And if the truth were established unequivocally, there’d be no further need to keep a building contractor on the roster, would there? He’d seem pretty small potatoes compared to the President’s wife.

He took a breath, glancing about their surroundings. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about your husband,” he said. “Like I told you earlier, it’s
us
we have to focus on. Maybe there are people on their way after us right now. Maybe these assholes already have their deal cut. Maybe they’ll get cold feet and let us go.”

She stared at him. “Wouldn’t it be nice to think so,” she said. She sighed and stood, somewhat unsteadily.

She glanced down at him. “Anyway, I don’t think we’re going to get rescued soon enough.”

“Soon enough?” he shook his head.

Her hands were behind her, working at the clasp of her skirt. She nodded over her shoulder, toward the corner where the bucket sat, though her eyes stayed fixed on his. “I could wait a couple more minutes…
maybe
,” she said, “but it’s just going to come to the same damned thing now, isn’t it?”

Deal understood finally, and he felt his face coloring. “I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to his feet.

He made his way to one of the windows, waved away a wasp that hovered by the rusted mesh. Outside was a tangle of undergrowth that seemed alive with the hum of insects. “I wish there was something I could do,” he said over his shoulder.

“There is,” she was saying. “You can get us out of this somehow.”

Something in her tone suggested she might be kidding, but on the other hand, he couldn’t bring himself to look.

Chapter 20

“Can someone have beeped me?” Salazar’s voice drifted over the secure line as clearly as if he were phoning from a nearby office.

He gripped the phone tightly, fighting his anger. The voice was purposely light, that of a salesman responding to an everyday summons. And Salazar had used his accent to shade “beep” slightly, had turned it more toward “bip.” Ricky Ricardo blithely checking in from the road.

“Humor is not called for,” he responded, fighting to keep his voice even. There was a pause. Wasted moments, he thought. Even on such a line as this, encoded in, decoded out, jumping channels by the millisecond, there was always that element of risk. “What in God’s name has possessed you?”

“Calm yourself.” Salazar’s voice over the ether once again, somewhat more soothing this time. “All our samples are secure.”

He paused when the words registered. He willed away his urge to shout. “We were very clear on what was to happen,” he said. “We had an
agreement
!” He fought to keep his voice under control.

“We
have
a common interest, my friend. I did what was necessary to secure that interest,” Salazar said.

He paused, fighting light-headedness. “A
disturbance
, that’s what we agreed upon. Not a massacre. And as for the rest of it…” He broke off, unable to bring himself to utter the words. Unthinkable. Inconceivable. And worst of all, himself an accomplice.

“Why have you done this? Who’s paying you? Who’s put you up to it?”

Only silence on Salazar’s end.

“Do you want more money, is that it?”

“More is always better, my friend.”

Madness, he thought. Utter madness in that voice. And yet
he
had opened the way for Salazar, had he not, held out his hand, pulled them both through the door of no return? He felt giddy for a moment, a tingling spreading through his body, a writhing current of madness inside him, a serpent all his own.

“How much is it? Tell me what to do.”

“We will let the world steep in these juices for a while,” Salazar said, “and when it is time, I will let you know. All may be made whole again.”

“I don’t see how that would be possible,” he said, weary beyond belief.

“
I
have the means,” Salazar said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Meanwhile, there is nothing for you to do, nothing that can be done…”

“I could take steps,” he protested. “I have certain information…”

“Yes?” Salazar said. “And you would want your information known? I doubt that very much, my friend. Now go about your business, leave me to mine.” And then the line was dead.

Chapter 21

It was nearly dark, and Deal was at the window, dolefully inspecting the heavy mesh and the thick staples that held it fast against the wooden frame. If he’d had a hammer and chisel, he was thinking, or a pry bar, or even a nice long screwdriver, any of the everyday tools of his trade, he could have had them out of this excuse for a prison in minutes. As it was, he might as well be inspecting a row of titanium bars.

And even if he could get them out, what next? Where was there to run, after all? The island they were on seemed little more than a glorified sand bar, one of hundreds of such flyspecks in this shallow sea.

He turned from the window, stared at Linda, who was slumped on the wobbling footstool, her head down, her gaze turned inward. Deal fought the urge to jump in, start a stream of chatter going.

He heard footsteps then, someone pushing through the screen of brush outside. Keys rattled, a bolt was thrown, and then the door opened. Two men with automatic weapons stood at the ready, peering warily inside, as if they expected a full-scale assault from their prisoners.

“Wrong movie,” Deal called.

One of the men gave him a dark look, then turned and used the barrel of his weapon to gesture at someone out of sight. Another dark-haired man in camouflage fatigues came forward and placed a plastic pail down in the doorway, then quickly withdrew. Deal noticed that he’d been unarmed.

The door slammed again, and the bolting and locking sounds repeated themselves.

Linda glanced up at him, uncertain.

Deal walked to the pail, glanced inside. At first he couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He picked up the pail, moved to one of the windows where the light was better.

“What?” she said, standing unsteadily. “What is it?”

He reached into the pail, turned, held out one of the packages toward her. “Big Macs,” he said.

She stared at him. “Come on.”

“Feels like a gut bomb to me,” he said, handing it over. “Go on, have a look.”

She finally took the thing, peeled the paper away gingerly, peeked inside. “It
is
a Big Mac.” She raised the sandwich, lifted the bun, sniffed, then tested it with her tongue.

Deal shook his head. He tried to imagine where the sandwiches had come from. “Excuse me, miss, but could you put a rush on that order, we’re fleeing the United States with the First Lady…”

Deal unpeeled the sandwich that was left in his hand. Sure enough.

“Are you going to eat it?”

He glanced at her. “Why not?”

“They could have put something in it.”

He took another look at the sandwich. “Right. Two all-beef patties, special sauce…”

“Funny,” she said. “They really could have done something.”

“For what purpose?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She sat down, still holding the sandwich. “I don’t know anything about any of this.” She glanced up at him. “Why the hell
is
this happening?”

Deal shook his head. “You’re in a better position to know than I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your husband takes a big interest in Latin American affairs, maybe he’s got something cooking, ticked the wrong person off.”

She shook her head. “Frank’s not a meddler. Just the opposite.” She tossed her hair. “He wants developments in other countries to take their natural paths. He came to Florida to tell Jorge Vas as much.”

Deal shrugged. “Maybe meeting with Vas torqued the other side.”

She sighed. “But what would that have to do with it? What could anyone hope to gain?”

Deal shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He glanced at their surroundings. “And as our friend Angel says, I’m not real sure it matters a lot right now.”

“If we knew what they wanted, we might be able to reason with them, strike some kind of bargain…” She trailed off.

“Maybe,” Deal said, “but Angel seems to have us right where he wants us at the moment. I’m not sure he’s interested in negotiating much of anything.”

“Then what are we supposed to
do?”
she asked, the exasperation clear in her voice.

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know…get out of here somehow. Find a boat, a place to hide, throw them off somehow.”

She glanced at the window where he’d been standing. “Can you? Get us out of here, I mean.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She stared back at him. “That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.”

He nodded. “I could use a presidential aide or two right now. That would make things a lot easier.”

“Touché,” she said. She sat back, her shoulders slumping.

“You hungry?”

She glanced up at him.

“If I was hungry, I’d eat that sandwich,” he said. “I don’t expect there’s a whole lot more where that came from.”

She stared at him for a moment, considering things. Finally she held up the sandwich. “My husband actually likes these, did you know that?”

“I think I read it somewhere,” he said.

She shook her head, took a bite, chewed. “Cold,” she nodded, swallowing.

He nodded, bit into his burger. It was cold, but he didn’t care. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

“Did they bring anything to drink?”

He glanced back in the pail, shook his head. He looked again, saw something at the bottom, reached in to pull out a matchbox. He glanced at the candle stub, shook the matchbox. Maybe two or three matches inside.

There was a pounding at the window behind him then, and they both started.

“Look,” she said, pointing over his shoulder.

Deal turned to see a hand at the mesh, dangling a plastic water bottle. He had almost reached the window when the bottle dropped. He managed to catch it, then uncapped the water, brought it to his nose. He turned to Linda and shrugged.

“What’s the worst that could happen,” she said.

“Nothing like a little dysentery to liven up life in a prison cell,” he said. He took a first, tentative sip, then a bigger swig. He handed the bottle over to her.

“It’s wet,” she said when she’d finished drinking.

They finished the sandwiches then, Deal leaning against the rough concrete wall, she sitting on the stool, her legs splayed out before her. Another context, he’d say they were pretty good legs, though now he simply registered that they’d picked up plenty of scrapes and bruises. There was a particularly vivid scratch that ran up the inside of her thigh, disappeared under the hem of her skirt. She glanced up, noticed him looking.

“Isn’t this something,” she said. She drew her knees up finally, wadded her sandwich wrapper, tossed it into a corner.

She turned back, gave him a quizzical look. “I keep telling myself it’s impossible, it’s just a bad dream.” She sighed, propped her chin on her hands. “But then I look and you’re still there.”

It brought a laugh from him. He wadded his wrapper, tossed it toward the latrine bucket. She glanced at it, then back at him.

“You have to use that?” She glanced away. “Don’t worry, I had brothers.”

“Not yet, thanks.”

She shrugged, then seemed to think of something and turned back to him.

“I’d almost forgotten why you were a part of that ceremony. All those refugees from Cuba you saved. What’s your position on the issue, Mr. Deal?”

“That it was a goddamn shame they were out there to begin with,” he said, staring out the window.

“Granted,” she said. “But what’s going to stop it from happening again and again?”

He turned back to her. “Nothing,” he said.

“That’s pretty cynical.”

“Why should they stop coming? Most of the people down here don’t live a lot better than this.” He waved his arm about their cell. “Some bastard tells you he’ll take you to El Dorado for a couple hundred dollars, why not give it a shot?”

She nodded, glum.

“So what’s your husband’s notion?” he said.

“He feels bad about the people, just like you do. He’s got a whole staff working on it.”

“That should take care of the problem.”

She glanced up. “Spare me, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s just the mood I’m in.”

She turned away. They were quiet for a while, Deal listening to the whine of insects, waiting for some idea to strike him. After a bit, she turned back to him.

“In the mood for a story?” she asked.

He glanced at where his watch had been. “As long as you make you quick,” he said.

“I went to Europe once, a trip my folks gave me for college graduation. It was a bus tour, a whole bunch of spoiled rich girls, mostly, everybody surly because canned Coke hadn’t made it to Italy yet, and neither had ice, as far as we could tell.” She paused. “We were somewhere between Florence and Venice when one of the girls started complaining she couldn’t wait ’til the next stop, so the escort talked to the driver and finally we pulled over at some Italian gas station out there in the middle of nowhere, some ratty kind of a place, you know?”

Deal nodded. He’d never been to Italy, but he’d been to those gas stations. Ask his old man to pull over in the middle of a road trip, it was sure to be the scrungiest place in sight. His old man’s way of revenge, Deal thought.

“Anyway, the escort points the way to the john and a few of us decide we may as well go since we’re stopped. So we go trooping into this room and look around and we’re sure we’re in the wrong place.” She gestured as if this were the very room. “I mean, there’s nothing but four walls in there. No stalls, no commodes, no sinks or mirrors, no nothing. We were about to walk out when I noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Deal asked.

She paused. “You’re a good audience.”

“I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you mean.”

“I just mean you’re attentive. I gave you that little pause,” she said, “you knew you were supposed to ask.” She shook her head. “Not everybody’s so obliging,” she added.

“People aren’t obliging to the First Lady?”

She gave him a look. “Sure, some people are. All the suck-ups, as Frank calls them.”

“Sounds a little jaded,” Deal said.

She glanced up at him, shrugged. “It happens, once you get in. You work against it, but still…”

“I expect,” Deal said after a moment. They were just rattling on, trying to fill the void, but he felt a little disoriented. They’d been held only a few hours, he already sensed a strange lassitude building. He glanced at her, trying to will himself toward action, even though he didn’t know what could be done.

“You haven’t finished your story,” he said finally.

She seemed to have been drifting too. “Right,” she said. “I
was
telling a story, wasn’t I?”

He nodded, and her eyes turned inward. “The gas station from hell,” she said. “Why am I telling you this, anyway?”

“There’s usually a reason,” Deal said.

She blinked, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, swiped it against the back of her skirt. “Italy,” she said, after a moment. She glanced at him again, as if to show him she really could hold the thread of a thought.

“So we were ready to walk out and then I looked down and noticed something on the floor. There were these footprints carved into the cement, one for your left foot, one for your right, and just behind them this hole in the floor.”

She looked up to make sure he understood. “I wish you could have seen the expressions on those girls’ faces when they figured it out.”

Deal was thinking about something else, the tenor of the whole story she’d been telling. “Those girls?” he said after a minute. “Sounds like you weren’t really with them.”

“I was and I wasn’t,” she said. “My folks owned a clothing store there in Columbia. They made a little money, but I grew up watching bratty kids come in and buy the same skirt in all five colors.”

He nodded.

“Anyway,” she said, indicating the room about them, “I really liked seeing those girls made so uncomfortable, that’s what I thought then, and I never forgot it. It made me feel so superior.”

“It was probably good for them,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel guilty.”

“I’ve actually been feeling sorry for them. Something like this happens, you remember so many petty things you’ve done,” she said.

He nodded, glancing at their makeshift latrine. It was nearly dark outside now, and the insects and tree frogs had set up a deafening chorus.

“Well, go when you have to,” she said, glancing away. “Maybe that was the point. We’re not in a position to stand on ceremony.”

She stood up then and walked to the opposite window, clutched her hands at the mesh as she stared out. Something in her pose seemed so forlorn, Deal thought. They could keep this up for a few days, sure, so long as the Big Macs lasted and their witticisms came steadily to their lips. But just how long could they bear up? How long would they have to bear up? Better not to think those thoughts, he reminded himself. Better not to think that way at all.

“Not what we expected, was it,” he said.

She turned, her wistful smile back again. “Not what we expected at all.”

***

“Oh God, oh God…”

Deal woke to the panicked sound of her voice. Still dazed and groggy, he pushed himself off the rancid-smelling mattress, trying to orient himself in the darkness. He could sense her moving somewhere close by, could hear slapping sounds, tiny gasps.

“Linda?”

“They’re all over me,” she moaned. “Don’t you feel them?”

Deal groped in the darkness for their candle stub, finally found it, still warm to his touch. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than half an hour. In his pocket he found the matchbox, hurriedly fumbled out their second match. He struck it, got the candle going, held it up to see her slapping wildly at her arms.

“What is it?”

“Bugs,” she said, staring wildly at him. She glanced down at the mattress as if she had finally understood what had taken place. She stood up quickly, began slapping at her legs. “Dammit! Goddammit!” Tears glistened in her eyes now. “Bedbugs! Goddamned bedbugs. What else? What else is going to happen?”

Deal put the candle down, stood to calm her. He caught her wrist, pulled her to his side. “They don’t stay on you,” he said. “They just bite where you’re lying on them.”

She glanced angrily at him. “How do you know?” she said. “There could be anything in this mattress. Some awful insect we don’t even know about…”