“For certain crimes only. Crimes of political terrorism. Any terrorists captured alive will be brought to trial within three days after capture. If convicted, sentence will be carried out within twenty-four hours after it has been pronounced.”
“Was there much opposition to this bill?”
“There was considerable debate. But when it came to a vote the margin was overwhelming for passage.”
Anselmo considered this in the abstract. “It seems to me that it is an intelligent bill,” he said at length. “I inspired it, eh?”
“You might say that.”
“So you will avoid this sort of situation in the future. But of course there is a loss all the same. No doubt that explains the debate. You will not look good to the rest of the world, executing prisoners so quickly after capture. There will be talk of kangaroo courts, star chamber hearings, that sort of thing.” He flashed his teeth. “But what choice did you have? None.”
“There’s another change that did not require legislation,” the older man said. “An unofficial change of policy for troops and police officers. We will have slower reflexes when it comes to noticing that a man is attempting to surrender.”
Anselmo laughed aloud at the phrasing. “Slower reflexes! You mean you will shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Something along those lines.”
“Also an intelligent policy. I shall make my own plans accordingly. But I don’t think it will do you very much good, you know.”
The man shrugged. The hypodermic needle looked small in his big gnarled hand. “The pentothal,” he said. “Will it be necessary to restrain you? Or will you cooperate?”
“Why should I require restraint? We are both professionals, after all. I’ll cooperate.”
“That simplifies things.”
Anselmo extended his arm. The younger man took him by the wrist while the other one readied the needle. “This won’t do you any good either,” Anselmo said conversationally. “I’ve had pentothal before. It’s not effective on me.”
“We’ll have to establish that for ourselves.”
“As you will.”
“At least you’ll get a pleasant nap out of it.”
“I never have trouble sleeping,” Anselmo said. “I sleep like a baby.”
He didn’t fight the drug but went with the flow as it circulated in his bloodstream. His consciousness went off to the side somewhere. There was orchestral music interwoven with a thunderstorm. The bolts of lightning, vivid against an indigo background, were extraordinarily beautiful.
Then he was awake, aware of his surroundings, aware that the two men were speaking but unable to make sense of their conversation. When full acuity returned he gave no sign of it at first, hoping to overhear something of importance, but their conversation held nothing of interest to him. After a few minutes he stirred himself and opened his eyes.
“Well?” he demanded. “Did I tell you any vital secrets?”
The older one shook his head.
“I told you as much.”
“So you did. You’ll forgive our not taking your word, I hope.”
Anselmo laughed aloud. “You have humor, old one. It’s almost a pity we’re enemies. Tell me your name.”
“What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Nahum Grodin.”
Anselmo repeated the name aloud. “When you captured me,” he said. “In that filthy Arab town.”
“Al-dhareesh.”
“Al-dhareesh. Yes. When I surrendered, you know, I thought for a long moment that you were going to gun me down. That wind that blew endlessly, and the moon glinting off your pistol, and something in the air. Something in the way you were standing. I thought you were going to shoot me.”
“I very nearly did.”
“Yes, so I thought.” Anselmo laughed suddenly. “And now you must wish that you did, eh? Hesitation, that’s what kills men, Grodin. Better the wrong choice than no choice at all. You should have shot me.”
“Yes.”
“Next time you’ll know better, Grodin.”
“Next time?”
“Oh, there will be a next time for us, old one. And next time you won’t hesitate to fire, but then next time I’ll know better than to surrender. Eh?”
“I almost shot you.”
“I sensed it.”
“Like a dog.”
“A dog?” Anselmo thought of the dogs in the Arab town, the one he’d disturbed when he opened the door, the whining one he’d killed. His hand remembered the feel of the animal’s skull and the brief tremor that passed through the beast when the long knife went home. It was difficult now to recall just why he had knifed the dog. He supposed he must have done it to prevent the animal’s whimpering from drawing attention, but was that really the reason? The act itself had been so reflexive that one could scarcely determine its motive.
As if it mattered.
Outside, the sunlight was blinding. Gershon Meir took a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and put them on. Nahum Grodin squinted against the light. He never wore sunglasses and didn’t mind the glare. And the sun warmed his bones, eased the ache in his joints.
“The day after tomorrow,” Gershon Meir said. “I’ll be glad to see the last of him.”
“Will you?”
“Yes. I hate having to release him but sometimes I think I hate speaking with him even more.”
“I know what you mean.”
They walked through the streets in a comfortable silence. After a few blocks the younger man said, “I had the oddest feeling earlier. Just for a moment.”
“Oh?”
“When you gave him the pentothal. For an instant I was afraid you were going to kill him.”
“With pentothal?”
“I thought you might inject an air bubble into a vein. Anything along those lines. It would have been easy enough.”
“Perhaps. I don’t know that I’d be able to find a vein that easily, actually. I’m hardly a doctor. A subcutaneous injection of pentothal, that’s within my capabilities, but I might not be so good at squirting air into a vein. But do you think for a moment I’d be mad enough to kill him?”
“It was a feeling, not a thought.”
“I’d delight in killing him,” Grodin said. “But I’d hate to wipe out New York in the process.”
“They might not detonate the bomb just for Anselmo. They want to get the other prisoners out, and they want their other demands. If you told them Anselmo had died a natural death they might swallow it and pretend to believe it.”
“You think we should call their bluff that way?”
“No. They’re lunatics. Who knows what they might do?”
“Exactly,” Grodin said.
“It was just a feeling, that’s all.”
And a little further on: “Nahum? It’s a curious thing. When you and Anselmo talk I might as well not be in the room.”
“I don’t take your meaning, Gershon.”
“There’s a current that runs between the two of you. I feel utterly excluded from the company. The two of you, you seem to understand each other.”
“That’s interesting. You think I understand Anselmo? I don’t begin to understand him. You know, I didn’t expect to gain any real information from him while he was under the pentothal. But I did hope to get some insight into what motivated the man. And he gave me nothing. He likes to see blood spill, he likes loud noises. You know what Bakunin said?”
“I don’t even know who Bakunin was. A Russian?”
“A Russian. ‘The urge to destroy is a creative urge,’ that’s what he said. Perhaps the context in which he said it mitigates the line somewhat. I wouldn’t know. Anselmo is an embodiment of that philosophy. He only wishes to destroy. No. Gershon, I do not understand him.”
“But there is a sympathy between the two of you. I’m not putting it well, I know, but there is something.”