The Sound of Silence
Disclaimer: The Equalizer and all its characters are the property
of Universal. No copyright infringement in intended.
The sound of glass falling to pieces like droplets of water splattered by a thousand gigawatt fan preceded billowing, black smoke clouds rising to the sky, hoping to leave the scene of the crime. In that moment of initial fury, before the fire, before the smoke, before the signs that related the story of what had been written in the building’s granite gravestone walls, in that moment, if one listened close enough, one could hear the screams of a thousand silenced voices, of walls giving up their strength and falling to their knees, of answering machines that would never speak again, crushed by a momentum they could never hope to stop. In that moment, life itself trembled, knowing it was forever doomed to lie in wait for mishaps such as these. And if one listened close enough, one could hear life cry – but only for a moment, for then the moment was gone.
Then the real screams began. The kind that make the body shiver for no apparent reason and the hair stick up on the back of one’s neck. The blood curdling cries of people who are in their final moment of breath – or know it’s coming soon. Or the cries of people that don’t know when death is coming, but they hope it will come faster because time’s creeping path makes them want to commit suicide rather than wait for the rescue, the long death, the quick death, the unknown.
Then the blood began to flow, at first trickling like a winter stream, and then faster . . . faster . . . faster like a river who is powered by the torrent of spring’s melted snow. And the red seeped into the ground, filling the sewers and the streets with its misery and its horror.
And the sights began. The papers and televisions were filled with pictures of grossly twisted metal, like a piece so creatively sculpted that it should appear as the first exhibit in the Museum of Modern Art, encircling the mangled foot of an unknown soul. That foot would never walk again. And some pictures became more famous than others – like the busload of schoolchildren, or those who were left anyway, who ran toward the firefighters, blood streaming down their faces, their hair and skin hanging, flopping against their ears as if scalped in a frontier war. And there were more hopeful pictures, like the one of the nurse pulling a teenage passerby from the wreckage just before a fourth story support beam decided to fall. Or the trademark picture of the EMT with a dirty, unhappy baby pulled from the wreckage of a nearby nursery school that had been located next to the doomed building, and it was doomed too, even though the baby died moments later because of smoke inhalation. So like other destructive images that has passed over the television time and time again – yet so different, because this time it was as new and as horrible as the first time.
The moment before the blast came, there was silence in the city. The city of eight million people was quiet, or that is how it seemed, at least, for a millisecond – so small one might not have heard it. But the taxis’ horns and the people chattering and the songs of Broadway and the screech of the Grand Hyatt’s gold emblazoned doors as they shut out the screeches of cars and noonday traffic. It was all silent. And then the sound of madness began.
The earth shook, trembling beneath the power of humans and their bombs, bowing before the people’s wishes to destroy. Glass launched itself from windows toward innocent passerbys as if from a canon. Flaming shots of light and dark rocketed out from their earthly orbit to strike anything and anyone in their path. Bubbles of freshly rotated oxygen from a former office building were prematurely released into the black atmosphere with a swoosh, even when the oxygen was released from lungs that no longer existed . . . but the air did.
For a moment after the explosion, no one did anything. Even the adjoining buildings that would decide to perish in the explosion waited a moment before their last breathe. The dust settled to the ground, and broken bits of cement and glass arranged themselves in no particular order on the pavement below. It was a moment of hesitation, of a hand reaching out with nothing to grasp, of emptiness.
"Preliminary reports indicate a devastating explosion at a government office building in lower Manhattan," the sober radio broadcaster’s voice unexpectedly said over the black Jaguar’s speakers. "As many as two hundred people are thought to be trapped or dead inside the ruble." McCall glanced at the radio, narrowed his eyes, continued to drive, thought better of it, and flipped a U-turn. His gut instinct told him something was wrong, very wrong.
Less than ten minutes later, he was on the wrong side of a police line, with a wide-eyed Alice pushing him back. "Listen Robert, "I’ve got mayhem here right now. I don’t need another civilian getting in the way. Please!" she practically pleaded with him. But McCall was determined. He had been in this building – worked in this building --one too many times to just go home and take reports on the tele or over the radio from uninformed, presumptuous newscasters. He could already see that the Company had not-so-discretely set up its own security division behind the police line to protect its workers but also its ever important information.
"Alice, who was in there? How many people are trapped?"
"Robert, I really don’t know; and I’ve got too much on my hands to worry about another civilian -- you. On the other side of the police line – now!" her voice took on a hard-line tone and McCall knew he wasn’t getting any favors today. He didn’t really expect any, though, not today – not with the stress and the nerves. It had actually only been fifteen minutes since he had heard the report in the Jag, and the report had come only about three minutes after the explosion. McCall had been pleasantly surprised, if one could be pleasantly surprised at anything today, that the NYPD had decided to show up as soon as the report had come in. He was, however, more than mildly concerned. The radio had described the building only as a "government building." McCall was already wondering how the Company was going to deal with an onslaught of nationwide media on one of its largest office buildings outside of Virginia and the Capital.
His collected demeanor in the onslaught of horror was somewhat overcome when he saw the inert body of Sterno being carried to a nearby ambulance. After confirming that Sterno was going to be all right, merely knocked unconscious by falling bits of the building’s skin, he began to search for any Company agents he might know. There were many around, but their faces were so blackened and disheveled that he had to stare hard at any one person before he could decide if he knew them or not. Finally, he recognized Stock radioing communications and holding a security line at the far end of the teetering rubble. McCall confidently crossed the Police line again, waving at Alice about fifty feet away as he explained to another nearby officer he was with her. She absent-mindedly waved back, not processing what McCall was doing. The officer saw her wave and allowed McCall to cross the line. He continued over to Stock for an evaluation of the situation.
Irritating elevator music didn’t stop the mid-afternoon sunlight from streaming into the Persian restaurant, bringing the late glow of a sun-dripped afternoon through the windows. A few tables here and there were occupied by late lunch customers, all enjoying their hot, delicious food. Ra’siim’s was a veritable delight for the Middle Eastern palate, and few who had eaten there went back to any other restaurant if they wanted Middle Eastern cuisine. Everything was as it always had been in the restaurant. Fifteen years of standing had filled its shelves and walls with memorabilia of old days gone by and hopes of new days to come. Pictures of the old Ra’siim himself were prevalent all over the walls, summing up a lifetime. His teeth flashed a bright smile as his arm encircled his heroes, his clients, his prize magazine cuisine reviewers.
His son Kes now held a bar mop in his hand, watching over the restaurant today as any good son will. Kes’ slight smile abruptly disappeared when he saw a man with dark glasses and a trench coat, too cliché to be taken too seriously, until one added the gun openly held in his firm right palm. The man nodded to Kes, asking a wordless question. Kes placed a quick but gentle hand on the man’s shoulder, "Please, we have customers here, sir."
The man in the trench coat re-thought his idiotic actions and re-sheathed his gun, nodding a quick, "Let’s go" to Kes. Kes covered the sight of the gun from his paying customers with his body as the man tucked the gun back into its shoulder holster. As soon as the gun disappeared, he led the man toward a well lit room in the back, accessible with a soft knock. On the other side of the wall, five men, two obviously New York "family members" were speaking quietly while a good seven or more simply stood and listened with patient austerity. On the far side of the table, one man was shaking his head slowly, the glimmer of a smug smile on his face – and the other four just looked frustrated. At the sight of the unforeseen entrance of the intruder, the man who appeared to have the entire room in his back pocket snapped his gaze toward Kneele who was, for some un-apparent reason, wearing a trench coat at the onset of spring. The barest glint of the older man’s smile was now gone. Kneele knew better than to interrupt business meetings – especially unscheduled, spur-of-the-moment meetings such as these.
Kneele whisked his sunglasses off and kneeled at this gray-haired man’s side, whispering a few short phrases in the older man’s ear. He jumped back abruptly as the elder man almost upset the table as he heard the news. "Christ!" Kneele heard the man say under his breathe as kicked his chair back and abruptly twisted an ankle into an unnatural position. Slamming a reserved fist onto the table, the older man grimaced and apologized to the other business associates at the table for his inconvenient departure.
The other figures at the table stood, and one spoke softly, but with a strong, ox-like voice. "Is there anything we can do?" his wide hands gestured outward, as a sign of friendly aide.
The solitary man shook his head as he headed for the door noticeably limping, one hand sweeping his coat onto his arm in a quick motion. As he reached the car, Kneele already had the door open and waiting for him. Just as he was about to duck in, Kneele reached over the top of the car with a cell phone. "Control, I have Norman downtown to speak to you."
The man nodded, taking the phone in his stride into the car, his face hardened with the grim news.
McCall shifted impatiently on his feet. Still no word about Control or Mickey. Mickey he wasn’t too worried about. Kostmayer never worked at the office, if he could help it. Control, on the other hand, was usually in the seventh story right around the corner from . . . well, it didn’t much matter now that the seventh story was pretty much gone. If his best friend had gone and . . . McCall tried to steel himself, waiting for the worst; but allowing himself some hope.
McCall switched the gun to his other hand, nervously running his pointer finger over the dappled gun butt. He had been requisitioned into the Company’s agents on the scene by Stock – even though under normal circumstances, McCall would be banished by more disapproving agents than not. But on this day, they needed all the help they could get. But although no one asked any questions, he got quite a few stares from unfriendly agents.
Around McCall, heavy dust was still settling in the air, making it necessary to cover his mouth with his hankerchef. He coughed harshly, trying to clear his lungs, which were striving for clear air and upset when they were repeatedly rebuffed. McCall spotted a tall figure who had already crossed the Police line and was making a beeline for the ruins at a quick, if slightly hampered, clip. McCall only had time to catch the figure’s arm as he marched past, surprisingly fast for a man who was limping. "Hold on there . . . what the hell?" McCall’s face wrinkled in harsh disapproval and then widened into a relieved smile. "Control! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I thought you were in there," he gestured toward the remains.
"Nope, late lunch," Control said briskly as he took a report from an agent and began flipping through it quickly. McCall pocketed his gun, watching his old friend swing into action who was delegating activity and resources like an old pro. McCall noted that Control seemed his normal self, except for a few extra wrinkles creasing at the side of his eyes, showing the strain of a such a colossal situation lying on his shoulders. McCall wondered whether O'Phelan's had a good supply in tonight – because they were going to need it. He saw his friend disappear behind a gathering of Police and Company agents.
Twenty minutes later, Control wandered back over, his mind still taken by the readouts, reports, and speculations in front of him. McCall looked at his limping friend, genuinely concerned. "Control, what, may I ask, happened to your foot?"
Control waved a dismissive palm, "twisted it on my way over."
"Good, putting weight on will make it all better too," McCall replied sarcastically.
Control’s brow was furrowed in concentration. He dismissed McCall’s comment without a response and mindlessly asked McCall, "Have you seen Kostmayer?" He looked up briefly at McCall after greeting only silence from McCall for a few moments.
McCall tried to read his old friend’s face, but he was forced to venture into a guess since Control wasn't giving anything away. "Was he in there?" Control shrugged, glancing down at the handwritten notes he had received from an EMT and an intelligence agent on the North side of the building. The reports showed that the surveillance cameras around the side of the building (where the destructive bomb had detonated) had been destroyed, possibly by a sniper’s rifle, less than a minute before the explosion. There was no videotape of the bomb or who had placed it there – but whoever had done it had known the layout of the building well enough to see that a bomb strategically placed at the Northwest side near the architectural circular groove would create the most havoc and the most harm.
McCall figured Control’s silence was as good as an answer. McCall would have pursued the line of questioning, but Control cut him off. "How did you get here so quickly?"
McCall decided there wasn’t much Control could be doing about Kostmayer especially if he didn’t know Mickey’s location, and Control would do as much as he could. Instead of pursuing that line of questioning, he gave into Control’s obvious subject change. "Irene sent me on some errands, and I heard about it on the radio."
Control didn’t reply for a moment, thinking about other things. Robert thought he had not heard, but a few minutes later Control looked up, "Irene?"
McCall shrugged, "yes, a woman I’ve been seeing. You might know her – Irene Norton? – She retired from the Company maybe five years ago."
"Hmm . . ." Abruptly, Control looked up. "Norton? Irene Norton? She didn’t retire, Robert, she was fired." He ran a hand over his creased forehead, deep in thought. "Robert, how long have you been seeing her?"
McCall’s eyes widened as he saw the concerned look in Control’s eyes. "Oh really, Control, you can’t be thinking what I know you’re thinking – I mean really!" McCall’s British accent became a little thicker as his indignation grew. "Just because you have a crisis on your hands does not mean that my lady friend is in any way involved!"
"Robert, don’t get so defensive," Control pinned the papers he was holding onto another nearby agent’s chest with his right hand, releasing the papers into the agent’s surprised hands. Control’s left hand snapped his reading glasses off, letting them dangle, and gently touched McCall’s shoulder, trying to calm and reassure him. "Now before we jump to any conclusions, did she ever ask about the layout of the building?"
"No!"
"Come on Robert – think! Did she ever ask about safe house locations?"
"No, no. Nothing like that – well, except that she once had a . . . a . . ."
"What?"
" . . . well, she wanted to go someplace else to be romantic; so I took her to one of my safe houses out by the river. It’s not like we sleep together at every safe house I’ve ever been to – and she didn’t even ask for a safe house specifically, just someplace different"
"Oh good god, Robert, too much information." Control turned away and motioned the agent with the papers back over. He turned back briefly. "Thank you, you could have just said yes."
"It wasn’t even a Company safe house! And what would that have to do with it anyway? I mean, she didn’t ask for a safe house Control. That’s the point!" McCall was beginning to lose patience. If Control couldn’t see what he was trying to explain . . .
"Look, Robert, I have a major disaster on my hands. I don’t particularly want to know about your love life right now."
"I was just trying to clarify!"
"All right, all right. What is the location of the safe house?"
"No, I’m not going to let your men barge into a safe house when you don’t even know if she is involved – simply because she was embarrassed to tell me she was fired from the Company! I will handle this."
"Robert!" Control stopped McCall with a firm hand. He started snapping off reasons on one hand. "Now don’t think I’m going off half-cocked here. You must have met this woman in the last month because you didn’t mention anything about her the last time we had dinner. You’ve been quite out of touch for the last three weeks – rather busy, I assume – all right, so you’ve been seeing her for three weeks – stop me if I’m wrong." He paused for a moment to let McCall jump in. When he did not, Control continued. "Anyone planning something like this would need a good few weeks to stake out the premises. They simply wouldn’t have been able to do it without inside – or formerly inside – help. One week – too short to determine regular schedules. Two weeks – better, but not if you haven’t been around for a few years. Three weeks – perfect, you have enough time to have schedules down pat and contacts made. Your Norton fits all the information we have so far.
Control shifted off his uncomfortably painful ankle and continued. "I remember Norton – she was fired five years ago off the emergency sniper patrol – this report" he tapped the papers still being held by the nearby agent, who was, by this time, feeling very intrusive into a personal conversation, "this report," he continued, "shows that the surveillance cameras which would have picked up the image of the bomb and the individual who put it there were taken out by something moments before it was placed and set. Now think Robert, what can take out two surveillance cameras within a matter seconds from an undisclosed location? A crack sniper, right?
"The bomb was strategically placed to do one of two things – or both – one, to take out the sensitive New York files that have no copies anywhere else. A good fourth of them have already been confirmed as destroyed by the bomb" Control’s eyes narrowed. "We won’t know the full extent of the damage for a few days. And two, to kill as many people as possible – look where it was situated – near the cafeteria. Who knows where that is? Unless they’ve been inside? Just thank God it wasn’t absolutely full because lunchtime had already passed. But the NYPD already tells me there were street delays this morning on 2 of 3 entry streets – which means the bomber most likely was delayed. Lastly, she conveniently sends you out for errands this morning? You’re not at home, but assume that she is – you’re an alibi – not an airtight one, but close enough. Now maybe she’s not the one, Robert, but it’s my job to see that all leads are followed up."
"I thought you admired my powers of deduction," McCall goaded. Control rolled his eyes as McCall continued. "Listen, I can see your point – but I still don’t believe it. You don’t know her, Control! It’s like accusing Mother Teresa!"
"Goodman Robert! I don’t care if she is Mother Teresa herself! I have fifteen – fifteen -- suspects on this bombing right now and its only been two hours. I’ve had more than a few people come up to me and suggest you Robert – for who has better reasons than you?" Control rubbed his eyes, already realizing he had let his emotions get out of hand. The day was beginning to crack his usual sober demeanor, and he hadn’t meant to let that slip, ever. He readied himself for the onslaught.
"Oh COME ON Control – you know I would never do anything like this! There are people who think I would actually bomb the Company? That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Who said it? Who? Jason Masur? Who?"
"Just let it go, Robert. Everyone is a little strained right now, Ok? You know what happens when people get a little on edge . . . accusations fly."
"Like Irene?"
"Humor me, please? As a favor?"
McCall grunted. As if Control wouldn’t take action anyway. He noticed Control already had a radio in his hand to send a few men over to McCall’s apartment. "No," McCall stopped him. "I’ll take care of it. You have the paramedics look at that ankle – and find Mickey! I’ll give you an update once I get home."
Robert saw the unspoken, "Be careful," in Control’s eyes and nodded once. As soon as McCall had disappeared around the corner, Control turned to the nearby agent and took the papers from his hands. He mentally berated himself for letting the comment about other agents accusing Robert slip. Some of them has said it right out; and a few had just wondered how he could get on the scene too fast, accusative looks in their eyes. They had been too respectful of Control’s friendship with McCall to say more – especially after the look he had given the agent that had said it straight out. It was known within the Company as "iced lightening," and no one liked to be on the receiving end of that look – especially as it brought painful days at work later – and no one wanted to be on the wrong side of Control. The Company rumbled with nervous anticipation and shivered with terror every time its Black Operations director got that glint in his eye.
Control turned to the agent and stated firmly but softly, "have two cars follow him, I want at least four agents with him all the way home. Switch the cars off at 32nd and every four blocks. Make sure it’s no one he knows and that it is our best tailing people. When he stops at his apartment, just wait. I have a feeling either she will be there and she won’t be our woman, or she won’t be there and he’ll go looking for her. Also," he snapped as his mind tried to catch up with his plan, "I want a tracking device on the Jag. Go!"
Control had guessed right, McCall was too taken by his emotions to pay much attention to cars following him. The technique of using more than one car to tail him paid off as well, he didn’t notice a thing – or allowed the cars to follow him, something highly unusual for Robert McCall. He absent-mindly spoke to himself as he drove saying, "Irene as the bomber, really, sometimes I think he is bloody well losing his mind." McCall shook his head as he took a sharp right, driving a little more recklessly than he usually did when he was after a runaway suspect.
Michael Kostmayer groaned, gagging on heavy dust and asbestos from the old building. He began to move slowly, making sure that nothing was hurt. The narrow triangle he was trapped in was filled with unsettled particles, practically choking him. He covered his mouth with a dirt-ridden sleeve. He shook his head, trying to get the dirt out of his hair. It rained down around him, getting into his eyes, nose, and mouth. He spat it out, repulsed, and wiped his nose and mouth on his sleeve.
Mickey tried to sit up, and only then did he notice the heavy weight upon his left leg. Already his leg had a heavy feeling, as if it had fallen asleep a few minutes ago. He sat up, noticing the broken portion of a support beam that now pinned his leg. Although he was forced into an uncomfortable position, he pushed his shoulder against the beam, moving it slightly. Only then did pain register in his leg, the sliding motion of the beam had taken skin with it. "Oh great, yea, cause that feels like home," Mickey winced. He put his back into it, and the beam bumped heavily onto the ground beside him. He gingerly picked up his foot, shaking out the pain. He was relieved that the pain caused by the beam was acceptable and that the blood produced by the beam-inflicted scratches was only a few drops.
Mickey ran a hand over his forehead and looked around. He was inside a narrow gap with the former ceiling broken in half and forming the top two panels of an oddly shaped triangle. The ceiling was now far too low to allow him to do much but crawl and creep forward on his hands and knees. He kicked out another section of rumble which allowed him access into a much wider room. Inside it, he could hear the faint sounds of two other people buried alive.
He dug with his hands until they were raw and bloody, and then he dug some more. Finally he pulled a man in his mid-forties out of the ruble, who helped him uncover a twenty-three year old secretary with her torso pinned under a boulder they couldn’t move. The man was worn out by the exertion, and Mickey could see that the woman’s only chance for survival was professional help and soon.
"Angela, honey, you just hang on," the man reassured the secretary.
"Hey, I’m going to try to go for help. Can you stay with her?" Mickey asked.
The man turned toward Mickey. "Yea, sure. Good luck, and be careful."
Mickey nodded as he moved off through the silent remains of the building. He was so far inside the interior that he could not hear the cranes and shouts creating a hubbub outside. Slowly he made progress through the rocks and cement toward the outside world. Suddenly, his foot fell through the floor as it gave way under the strain of his weight. He caught himself from falling into the next level with his arms on either side of the hole, and he extracted his body from the situation very carefully. He made his way to a standing window, and yelled down at the workers below.
An agent tapped Control’s shoulder, pointing toward the sky. Control looked up slowly. He spotted Mickey four stories up – or someone he thought was Mickey. The figure was whitened like the image of a living ghost from the incinerated ashes of the building. A wry expression crossed his face as he cleared two emergency workers to bring him down via the crane. Just like Mickey to be on the fourth floor of a collapsed building doing the Miss America wave to the crowd below. I should have kept him on a shorter leash, Control thought.
When the workers made it up to bring Mickey down, he refused to follow them until he had taken them far back into the rubble to help the man and the woman out of their perilous situations. Without his carefully planned route, it might have taken them hours to figure out the best way to reach them – if they had heard them in time. Indeed, Mickey carefully showed the way to the rescue workers as they picked through the treacherous flooring. He had marked the weak spots in the floor with rock cairns – three rocks piled on top of each other. After he had carefully seen the others lowered to the ground, he allowed himself to be taken down to the ground and examined by the paramedics. After giving him a bit of oxygen, he was later declared to be in fine health and released to his Company superior.
McCall practically ran up the steps, taking them by twos up to his apartment. His keys rattled in the doorway as he fumbled with them. After a moment, the door opened and his voice rang out, "Irene! Irene! . . . Irene?" He stalked about the apartment, stopping suddenly before the kitchen counter as he saw the handwritten note.
Dear Robert,
Sorry to do this to you, my love, but I have to run for a few days – all for a good cause. Sandy, a coworker from the Company, called me with the terrible news just after you left and asked me if I could help out – they really are having a terrible time over there. I will be busily engaged in helping move some files and so forth for the next few days so you may not see hide nor hair of me. I’ve already been lassoed into driving to Langley tonight. But don’t worry – I’ll be back as soon as I can.
Miss you already,
Irene
Robert walked to the closest, steeling himself before he opened it. When the door swung open, only his clothes hung from the wooden hangers. McCall shook his head – surely she wouldn’t take all her clothes if she was only leaving a few days. After trying her apartment and getting no answer, he grabbed his keys to the Jag.
Outside, an agent had just finished scrambling out from under the Jag. These bugs with anti-scrambler devices always took a little longer to install. Since the Company knew quite well that Robert McCall always kept an anti-bug detector in the Jag, tracking him was always a little more interesting than with other individuals. Had Robert McCall looked to the left as he exited the front door, he would have seen a figure with a suspiciously guilty look on his face walking rather rapidly toward the corner; but McCall was furiously intent on the Jag.
He stepped into the car, buckling his seat belt with one hand and starting the ignition with the other. He flew through the streets of New York, giving a quick eye to yellow lights as he sped through. A little over a half hour later he pulled into a well-furnished summer cottage next to the river. Not only had he brought Irene here for a romantic, riverside evening, he had also used this place many times before as a safe house. It was a quaint old place, with fishing equipment decorating the walls.
McCall tried the handle; it was unlocked. Stepping inside, he soundlessly unsheathed his pistol. He stepped in, aware that she was most likely upstairs. He turned slowly on the short landing, stepping on the light toned rug there. All of a sudden, he heard the zing of a single bullet next to his head. The bullet drilled into the wall just behind him, just missing the open door and the painting of a steamboat digging its heels into a river. McCall hit the floor, returning fire until he heard a click just behind him. It was the click, he knew, of a fully loaded .44.
"Gun, sweetie." He heard Irene Norton’s familiar voice behind him. "Toss it over to the right, v-e-r-y slowly. I mean, I wouldn’t want to blow your head off for something as stupid as a small miscalculation of my prowess." She wrinkled her nose with a wide grin on her face. McCall did as he was told, only flipping over the carpet he had stepped on to reveal a hidden lever after he had thrown away the gun. He rolled his eyes in anger at himself. He should have checked the floor. He had triggered the bullet himself through the newly installed switch – and she had simply waited for him to make the mistake before entering behind him.
"Oh no, Mr. McCall, stay right where you are – you’re just the type of man to have more than one weapon. Of course, I know where you like to keep all of them," she smiled an evil grin at her captive. He couldn’t see it, his face still to the floor. She kicked his legs out as she frisked him, "Oh yes, just as I like my men, spread eagle." She laughed. "Oh I am sorry dear, that was meant to be a joke," she poked him with the tip of one foot; but he still didn’t respond, still red with anger at himself for such a juvenile mistake.
After Norton was thoroughly satisfied with her search, she marched McCall up the stairs into the main room and tied him swiftly and tightly. "I guess you put two and two together hmm?
"Why are you doing this Irene, revenge? Revenge for being fired from the Company?" McCall replied to her question with a question.
"Revenge? No, no, Robert. Revenge is a man’s game. I do this under the careful watch of a foreign government. A few useful files here, a few useful files there, another few useful files on our agents quite gone in the fire and rubble downtown. Yes, I’m sorry about the loss of life – I suppose I could have done it at night . . . but I like a good challenge, you know. Doubled security . . . hundreds more people to catch me in the light of day. It was really just a job – I hope someday you’ll be able to accept it as such. I suppose it was Control who tipped you off then? Hmm?" She waited a moment for a reply. When she saw McCall’s tightlipped face, she continued on her own. "So did he mention that it was he that fired me?"
McCall tilted his head in interest. Norton shook her head, "No? Or why?" Her voice ended in a question, for she was certainly curious if he had told that. "Noooo . . . interesting . . . I have to give him a little more credit then. The one thing I couldn’t be certain before the job ended was that we might run into him – and he might have shut the whole operation down, perhaps suspecting something was up when he found out we were together -- fortunately that didn’t happen!"
"That’s why you always insisted on nights in, Irene?"
"Well, that and a few other things," she blushed. "Should I ever wish to take revenge, Robert," she brushed a seductive finger over the buttons on his shirt, "I will. But only if I get bored, you know. I’m really just having too much fun to think about something like that right now. And if I do," her finger paused, lifting up McCall’s chin, "it will be long, painful, and v-e-r-y slow. It’s a good thing the Company gave me that crash course on torture, hmm? It was ever so useful in Grenada." She giggled as she saw McCall’s attempts to rein in his anger, his chin quivering. "Oh Robert," she sighed, "I’m just teasing you . . . or am I?"
"Irene, I . . ." McCall struggled with the words he wanted to use.
Norton smiled whimsically. "Oh Robert, we could have been so good together under different circumstances. I know we shall meet again, and perhaps then . . . hmm?"
McCall clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes in restraint. As much as he would have liked to disarm Irene and relate a piece of his mind, her steady .44 at the ready convinced him that action right now might be less than preferable. He did not reply, simply looked at her with cold eyes of steel. He couldn’t believe this was the same woman he had felt himself falling in love with only this morning. He couldn’t believe his luck at finding such an understanding woman – saying she had retired early from the Company because she could no longer stand the work. She, of all the woman he had dated, had seemed to understand him. She alone had seemed like she could empathize with his plight. With her, it was different. With her, it had been love . . . or had it?
"Sir," Kneele reported in, "We have been tracking the progress of Mr. McCall. We’ve been delayed by the relative weakness of the signal from the anti-tracking device.
We have had a little trouble figuring out his vicinity within a three-block radius." He stretched out his open hands in despair."
Control shifted his weight again – if anything, this foot was now causing him a great annoyance. How come these things always happen at the most inopportune times? He could have twisted his foot last week, and it would have been absolutely fine – but this week . . . He looked at the gravely substance under his black leather shoe, tapping it lightly with his injured foot. This might be the best burial some of these people would ever receive. He filed his thoughts away and turned toward Kneele, "Well, give me a map with the best radius area you’ve got and we’ll work from there." Kneele started to turn away until he heard Control’s low voice again, "and send Kostmayer over here after they are finished with him at the ambulance."
Only six or seven minutes later, Mickey Kostmayer, the white building’s ashes swept out of his hair, rambled over to Control. "What’s up?"
Control rubbed his jaw, apparently not noticing Kostmayer’s arrival, as he glanced over what appeared to be a map. Mickey patiently waited, knowing the routine, until he saw a quick two-fingered wave from Control indicating he should look over the map too. Mickey moved over, looking over Control’s right shoulder until Control simply turned and gave him the map. "What safe houses of Robert’s are in this area?" he asked, concern evident on his face.
Mickey stepped back slightly. It was rather unlike Control to show emotions; and when he did, something was up. "Mind telling me what’s going on?" he asked in a neutral, careful voice.
"Robert may have just gotten himself into something he can’t handle." Control glanced to the side, thinking. Mickey heard him say under his breath, God damn that woman. He turned back to Mickey and added, "listen, he’s needs backup. Does he have any safe houses in this area?" His serious look bore into Mickey, and Kostmayer knew that Control wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t for a good reason. He glanced over the map, noticing it was by the waterfront, near McCall’s fishing "resort" as he liked to call it.
"I’ll go," Mickey said in reply, already starting to leave. Just as he started to turn he felt two pairs of hands on his back, restraining him.
"No," Control replied, "You won’t go. You will go home and rest. You’ve been through enough today." He nodded at the two men to make sure Mickey made it home. Control had dealt with Irene before, he knew Irene. If she could play Robert McCall
like a piano, she could certainly dispatch Mickey if he tried to recklessly run in there. Control had waited twenty minutes before Mickey had been lowered to safety, and he would be damned if he would let Mickey get away something else foolhardy today.
He watched Mickey stalk away, already apparently planning his escape. But Control had warned the men earlier, and they were taking every precaution. He had carefully watched Mickey’s eyes on the map, and Mickey had given away the position with a glance – Control didn’t even need the exact address. The closer he could get the tracking device, the easier it would be to locate since the signal would become stronger with the decreased vicinity.
Control waved over Stock. "Jacob, can you take over here? I’ve got a situation to take care of." Stock nodded as Control disappeared into the waiting Blazer.
Control nodded at Beth, his driver, as she pulled out into a noisy street. He relayed the expected address, and she drove so fast she almost lost the van full of agents behind them. In the front seat, another agent was busy helping track the signal and correcting her final destination. Beth shook her fists at a car that cut her off and then asked the agent next to her, "Can you hand me that tape labeled "Chase music? Thanks." She popped in the tape, and she smiled as Alabama came on the speakers. Control groaned as she began to sing amicably, in harmony:
I’m in a hurry to get things done
Oh I – rushing, rushing til life’s no fun
All I really gotta do is live and die
But I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.
Don’t know why
I’ve gotta drive so fast
My car’s has nothin’ to prove
It’s not new.
But it can do 0 to 60 in 5.2
I’m in a hurry to get things done
Oh I – rushing, rushing til life’s no fun
All I really gotta do is live and die
But I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.
Don’t be late
I leave in plenty of time
Shaking hands with the clock
I can’t stop
I’m on a roll and I’m ready to rock
I’m in a hurry to get things done
Oh I – rushing, rushing til life’s no fun
All I really gotta do is live and die
But I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.
Ahhhhh . . .
I hear a voice . . .
It says I’m running behind, and I better pick up my pace.
It’s a race and there ain’t no room for someone in second place.
I’m in a hurry to get things done
I – rushing, rushing til life’s no fun
All I really gotta do is live and die
But -- I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.
. . . .
Control simply folder his arms and crossed his legs, a careful hand covering a slight smile. Beth certainly was one of a kind. Only she would create "chase music." Only she would sing in her car in front of complete strangers. Maybe he should hand Mickey’s leash over to her – she could handle it. He shook his head. No, that would only encourage them.
McCall noted that he had forgotten to call Control once he had reached home – that was two mistakes today . . . mistakes that could cost him. He wondered if she would let him live – she was being far too amicable to kill him straight off. But he rarely sent people here, and who would guess this was where he was? He felt the ropes – strong. He would just have to keep working them until they came off. His face fell into a grim frown at the task in front of him.
Norton laughed a quick, delicate laugh, her eyes twinkling with an inner glow. "Really Robert, you shouldn’t take it so hard. Every man must fall from grace sometime – and the fact that you detested the Company only helped me. You were here at the perfect place at the perfect time. And you were only too glad to share memories, useful memories, of the Company with a fellow agent." She laughed again but then smoothed his jacket with a soft hand. "My parents had a warped sense of humor, Robert. Do you know what my middle name is? No?" She walked away briskly, her back turned to her former lover. As she marched out the door, she threw a last comment over her shoulder. "Adler, Irene Adler." Robert couldn’t see her face, but he could almost feel the smile that crept over her lips.
"Irene Adler," he whispered, his face crossed with trembling feelings. "The woman. Oh yes, yes, yes, she is the woman." Irene Norton née Irene Adler – the one woman who could get the better of Robert McCall at his own game. He watched her disappear out the door, Control’s men releasing him a little under twenty minutes later. McCall rubbed his scathed wrists as Control walked over, leaning lightly on a black silver tipped cane, his limp still very noticeable.
"Irene Adler?" McCall asked Control. Control simply shrugged, not replying either way. "Who does she work for?" McCall queried.
"Trust me Robert, you don’t want to know. You’ll just kick yourself."
McCall looked at Control and couldn’t tell if he really knew or was just covering the Company’s own faulted intelligence system. McCall formed a fist with his right hand. "It was an idiotic mistake. I feel like a junior agent." McCall’s jaw tightened, angry at letting himself be taken in.
Control cleared his throat. "Old Son, just how much information did you give her?"
McCall shook his head, "She was good Control, I didn’t know I had given her any."
"That’s the way the best agents are – you’ve done the same thing," Control tried to soothe him.
"I don’t really want to be reminded of that right now. She said you fired her. How come?"
"That’s a long story, Robert, and I haven’t got the time today." Control leaned on the cane, resting his sore foot in front of him.
McCall snorted but allowed the remark to pass. "You do realize she indirectly threatened your life."
Control scratched his head and smiled, "What’s new? I’ll chalk her threat up next to all the others."
"That’s nothing to play with Control and you well know it – especially after she was able to get past Company security and bomb a main office." McCall paused a moment to let his remark sink in, giving Control thought; and then he continued, "how did she do it, anyhow? The bomb?"
"Remote controlled toy laden with bombs – straight into the building as soon as she had taken out the security cameras. We have a momentary flash in a window in a nearby building from the camera tape before the camera was targeted, but when we did a frame-by-frame analysis, she was so well hidden in the window and dressed in black that we couldn’t really identify her. Could have been anyone . . . . Probably was anyone."
"So nothing to stand up in court."
Control shook his head, looking out the window. McCall gazed at the floor, "So what are you telling the reporters?"
"In two days, we’ll leak the tape and the method of delivery. Maybe a week or before the suspect’s name is released to the media."
"Who is taking the fall?"
"Whoever did it, Robert, whoever did it."
McCall shook his head in disbelief. "In other words, whoever the boys upstairs decide to target? Whoever is on the top of the hot list right now with nothing to reel them in?" He held in the explosion.
Control shrugged again, "You said it, I didn’t."
McCall watched his friend finish looking after the securing of the building. Why do I always feel like I know less than when I started with him, McCall thought.
She had left no trace, no footsteps to follow. And they searched for hours. McCall wondered whether he would see her again and under what circumstances it would be. No, he corrected himself, not whether, but when. For he knew he would see her again. Somewhere. Sometime. He wondered whether her real name was Irene Adler – or even Norton, since he now remembered where he had heard the name before. Quite a literary reference the woman had made – it couldn’t be her real name, and yet that was the only name he would ever have to reference her by. And how funny if it was her name – how funny indeed.
She was far more intelligence and creative than many other agents he knew. She had sought out the one man she knew to be at odds with the Company and used him to her advantage – even thought she knew the risks were great. She had used his knowledge to carry out her mission, and then she had used one of his personal safe houses to wait until she could safely get out of town. Damn her! The real question was "was this simply a job or a means of revenge?" And McCall had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t know until, if, she struck again.
McCall heard Norton’s footsteps fading from earshot in his dreams for nights to come. And then he could only hear the sound . . . of silence – until he woke up, sometimes screaming.