The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (13 page)

“I’ll pay you well,” Morgan offered.

“Who said anything about money? I’m on a pension.” Tony spun the empty bottle on the table. “Maybe a gratuitous gift now and then might be a pleasant surprise.”

“For expenses, of course,” added Morgan.

“I’m never going to ask what you’re doing…but I’ve a damn good idea what it is. I sure as hell just found out the
why
part.” The navy SEAL smiled. “I’ll say this once—what you’re thinkin’ about is really stupid.”

“I was in love with her.”

“Then, Doctor…in one year…” Tony came forward in his chair and firmly took Morgan’s hands. “I’ll make you the architect you need to be.”

September 2002

“W
es…we’re square on the pickup location?” asked Tony. His truck was idling on the shoulder of the road west of Tucson at the edge of the Sonoran desert.

“Got my trusty sextant right here with me.” Morgan held up his thumb and index finger wide. “Azimuth and declination calibrated to one degree of arc.”

“Smart ass,” Tony replied. “But you’d better be damn accurate, because if you aren’t I won’t find you until the buzzards circle.”

“Maybe I’ll play dead so I can roast one,” Morgan replied.

“They taste like chicken, you know.” Tony smiled then held out his Sig Sauer. “Hey. Want to take my piece? Two-legged coyotes portaging across the border don’t like to be seen.”

“No, señor.” The Arizona sun was getting hot. “Besides…what the hell have I been paying you for these months? So I can cheat?” Morgan barely grinned. “No damn sport in that. And I’ve been shooting your toys for weeks and am sick of cleaning them.” He patted his knife. “This’ll do me just fine.”

Tony pulled an icy beer from a cooler and laughed. “Cold one to start the journey?”

Morgan shook his head slightly.

“Consider it medicinal.”

“Don’t tempt me, infidel!” Morgan picked up his canteen of water and adjusted his hat. “I’m just going for a hike.”

“That’s the spirit,” replied Tony.

“Got my iPod…” Morgan twirled his walking stick in his fingers. “What more could a nomad want?”

“Well, Wes, I could think of a few things more to take for pleasure—like a woman, maybe, or—”

“Not for me.” Morgan pointed at the desolate horizon. “Time’s wasting. See you in a week,” he said, and he started walking west toward Yuma.

He had few provisions but wasn’t concerned. Water was everywhere, and he knew how to find it. There were things to eat too—under rocks, in the dry arroyos, or scurrying on the ground. At night the desert floor would be his mattress and the stars his blanket. He was grateful for the solitude—and time to let his thoughts drift to Caroline. He fought to control the memories. As much as he hated it, he had to blot her out of his brain. Distractions might provide visible proof that he wasn’t what he said he was.

“Tony…you’ve helped a lot,” Morgan said quietly to the desert.

It was as though he had opened Morgan’s head and impregnated his brain with abilities he’d never imagined existed. Even more profound, Tony had taught him how the same intuition he used while operating—his sixth sense of sharpened awareness at the surgical field—could be expanded with his other senses to more broadly analyze and understand his surroundings and dissect what might be erroneous or, as Tony said more than once, just plain strange. Using mnemonics like he had in medical school, to remember things like the cranial nerves and other anatomic structures, whenever Morgan rode his bicycle, he practiced, memorizing the transient ingredients of his surroundings—where cars were parked, the direction and distance of unexpected sounds, and the ebb and flow of pedestrians. Each time he passed the same location, he worked to recall what had been there in the past and how things had changed. After months of practice, Morgan learned how to absorb such information without even realizing it, the mental exercises becoming a game of analytical solitaire.

His watch beeped.

He took his shoes off, turned around to face east, and knelt to say the prayers. When finished, he dusted off his pants and took a sip of water. Empowered, he continued his trek.

A dome of blackness descended, and the stars became close enough to touch—offering themselves to guide him. He located the constellation Cassiopeia and drew an imaginary line to the North Star.

“Hello there, Polaris,” he said and turned his body so he faced west.

His right arm rose until his closed fist hid the star, then he estimated the angle above the shoulder. He looked at his watch, converted the hour and minutes to Universal time, then looked at Andromeda suspended in the Southeast horizon.

Latitude and longitude—they were crude measurements, but all he would need.

“Tony, that’s amazing,” he said. “In position and on schedule.”

He walked in the calm for several more hours until finally lying down on the hard-packed ground to rest.

In the predawn light, Morgan opened his eyes and realized he was not alone. Another predator had joined him. Both of them were motionless, except one produced an occasional sizzle.

“Come here,” Morgan whispered into its glowing eyes.

The split tongue flicked and retracted.

“Closer,” he taunted the snake. “Don’t be afraid.”

Inches away, he watched its nostrils flair as the thick rattlesnake coiled tighter.

“I’m not going to ask again,” Morgan said.

Before the reptile could spring, the knife arched over and sliced off its head. The long trunk convulsed for almost a minute before falling still.

Skinned and filleted, Morgan cooked the meat in sage smoke. The knife brought another piece to his mouth.

“Tell the chef it needs pepper,” he belched.

Tony took Morgan to his motel so he could shower. His student was very sunburned and a few pounds slighter but otherwise no worse for wear.

“Peaceful out there, isn’t it?” he asked Morgan while he dried off.

“Seducing,” he answered.

“You said you’re going to visit the desert again next summer,” Tony said.

“I can’t wait.”

He dropped Morgan at his car, which they’d left at the Tucson airport.

“When you return this winter, I’ve got some cold-weather playtime in store for you. Don’t bring anything along.”

“Don’t have much
to
bring,” Morgan responded.

“Remember: in Chicago keep your head low. Blend in,” Tony admonished him. “My buddy knows you’ll be calling him. Isaac will teach you what you also need to know.” He smiled.

Morgan nodded and opened the door of Tony’s pickup truck.

“There’s another thing,” the SEAL said. “Your Arabic…needs more work. Your inflections wander.”

“Not an easy language,” confided Morgan.

“Go to some services. That’ll help.”

Morgan had attended local mosques whenever he was in Chicago. Most congregations welcomed him openly, only a few were wary.

“Been doing that,” said Morgan. “But thanks for the critique, I’ll work on it.”

The men shook hands.

“See you in two months,” said Tony.

The BMW motor turned over.

The nonstop drive east to Chicago was once again grueling but productive. The highway became another classroom. Every second possible he would play CDs to refresh his knowledge. Hours and hours of concentration passed the time, interrupted only by the thirty-minute runs. Then he was home—whatever that meant.

Morgan drove the BMW into the gated storage locker. After Janie followed him that day, he took no chance of having the BMW seen. It came out from hiding only when necessary—and that was rare.

Opening the trunk, he placed the black ballistic nylon backpack on the cement and pulled his bicycle off the ceiling hook. Satisfied the tire pressure was okay, he slung the pack on his back and scanned the outside perimeter before pulling down and locking the roll-top door. Confident he wasn’t observed, he rode toward the Rogers Park apartment. After a brief rest, he called Tony’s friend. Morgan would meet him the next day at a private gym on the north side.

“Krav Maga is…” Isaac said, and hit Morgan in the gut.

Morgan buckled to the floor. Isaac helped him to his feet.

“That’s a polite…” Morgan coughed, trying to breathe. “Introduction.”

“As I was saying…” Isaac’s fist hit Morgan’s chest and he fell backward to the padded wall. He had only a moment before the sole of Isaac’s foot smacked next to his ear. “Perhaps I’m not making myself—”

Morgan’s fist came toward Isaac’s face but was brushed away with a sweep of his arm while Isaac’s other hand grabbed Morgan and pulled his body close.

“KM is the art of overcoming your opponent with natural, minimal movements, using anything available as a weapon,” Isaac said.

Morgan sensed only tranquility in the man as his other hand rose and grabbed Morgan’s throat gently.

“See,” he said, “you were listening again…not acting. In my world, you’re already dead.”

Isaac’s grips released.

“A human needs two seconds to process and react to external stimuli. Think how far a car travels at sixty miles per hour.”

“Maybe…ninety feet,” said Morgan wondering where he’d be smacked next.

“
Two seconds
is a very safe distance…if you use it to your advantage,” Isaac reiterated. “Proximity is irrelevant. It’s
time
.
If
you
act first,
you
control what happens next…the knife, the bullet…your fist…your escape. Time becomes
your
tool—your
weapon.
So…give;
never
receive.”

The unassuming middle-aged man offered a handshake. Morgan shook his head. Both men smiled in unison.

“Ah! Good! You
are
a quick study,” said Isaac. “See…you’re not dead.”

“Marginally reassuring.”

“Street-fighting choreography.” Isaac’s outstretched hand remained. “Now…shake.”