WHEN STAG FINALLY had the consciousness to look around him again, they were drowning in a sea of police and fire vehicles. Two more NATO helicopters had arrived. All were focused on the plane.
But there was nothing. No movement, no opening doors, no white flag nor waving gun from the cockpit.
While the admiral was consumed by shouting into his radio, Duffy unlatched his safety harness and walked to the front of the helicopter to stare at the plane.
After a long assessment, Duffy said, “Admiral, I believe it’s safe to open the plane door. You’ll have to blow it open, I’m afraid.”
The admiral put down the cockpit radio. “You know, I’m not looking forward to using explosives on that particular plane.”
Duffy sighed. “Very prudent, but a controlled explosion is necessary. My guess is Portier used his Muscle Men for this flight. Just for this very scenario.”
The admiral gave him a long, pointed stare. Then, as if accepting Duffy’s logic, he barked into the radio, “Blow the door.”
Duffy went back and sat down. Stag looked at the plane. They were so close they could see the rivets in the tailpiece.
“I sure as hell hope those pilots don’t do anything stupid. If the bomb’s aboard, they can always make the case they were duped as to the payload.” Stag’s fingers dug into the already worn-out armrests.
“It’s Tarnhelm. They won’t be coming out.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because they have their own army. The muselmänner.”
“Muslims?” Stag asked, interpreting the German.
“No. The term goes back to Auschwitz. The muselmann was the walking dead; those concentration camp inmates too skeletal, too sick to keep living, though beaten and compelled to walk till they expired on their feet. They were referred to as Muslims because of the way they would fall to their knees and crash forward as they died. Gallows humor. Portier employs an army of them.”
“I’m still not getting it—you mean those guys in the plane—”
“They are dead. Suicide. Probably the old reliable cyanide capsule. Portier acquires his ‘army’ by buying off the terminally ill to go on suicide missions. He calls them his Muscle Men. It’s his little Auschwitz joke, you see?”
Stag sat back, absorbing this new information. Every time he thought he understood this modern SD, he was thrown another curve. Another jacked-up, fucked-up, twisted, revolting curve.
Outside, the explosives unit drew back from the plane door. They ducked and covered, and with a loud boom, the plane door was open.
Duffy watched as the first men entered the plane, automatic weapons full bore. It didn’t take long to assess.
The admiral listened on his headset.
He pulled it off and looked at Duffy. “Muscle Men. As we suspected. All four are dead.” He looked at Stag. With unnecessary formality, he said, “Mr. Maguire. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me into that plane to identify the weapon?”
Portier stared down at the screen. He was better that evening. After his interferon treatment, he’d dressed in a suit and asked Angelika to meet him for dinner. She had a particularly beautiful black dress. The silk had “shattered” with random shredding that was unique to aging silk. But this dress had shattered in the most exquisite manner. Vintage Mainbocher, he thought. Really sublime. He’d requested she wear it and ordered his best bottle of Krug from the cellar.
All was looking up. Until the notice that the plane had been stopped.
It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t the fear of being caught. Of that, he was certain there was no risk. The legal churning of an accusation like that would take years to resolve itself. It would take more time than he had. So no worries.
But now, Sadler was relaxing in his Potomac estate, master of all he surveyed. The chaos he’d so deserved was held in check. Washington continued its slog through the swamp undeterred.
The news took the charm out of the day.
And that irritating flea, Maguire, was still underground and claiming there were two bombs.
His fuckery had unraveled into even more fuckery.
But Luc Portier was alive and feeling better. Perhaps the interferon was the magic bullet he needed. Perhaps it was just another sign that he had more to do, and now more days to do it.
A knock came at the door. Angelika was there, just as he imagined her, his own special beauty, gowned in black silk rags.
He raised a champagne glass. “To a wonderful evening, my dear.”
He tried to imagine she looked pleased.