“Now it’s your turn,” de Groot said, removing his shearling coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. Around his neck was a laminated ID, hanging from a beaded chain.
“Listen, Henrik—”
The Dutchman frowned. “Not to talk,” he ordered.
At that moment, the house shook with a sudden gust of wind, the lights flickered, and the gate below banged. Distracted, de Groot went to the window and looked out. “Storm,” he said.
“Henrik, it’s really important that you listen to me.”
“I can’t listen to you both.”
“‘Both’?”
“The Worm,” Henrik explained.
“I know what you’re going to do, Henrik. And it’s a very bad idea.”
“Oh? And just what is it that I’m going to do?”
“You’re going to shoot Mandela and the others.”
De Groot shook his head. “Put six loops around your feet—tight.” He paused. “I’m not going to shoot anyone.”
“You’re not?” McBride was confused.
“No. Now bind your feet, Dr. Duran. Around your ankles. Six loops.”
McBride bent to his task, unspooling the tape and winding it slowly around his ankles.
“There won’t be any firearms,” de Groot promised. “Just fire.” A snort of laughter jerked from his mouth.
McBride finished with the tape, and looked up. “What are you talking about?”
The Dutchman ignored the question. “Now, put your hands behind your back,” he ordered. When McBride complied, de Groot grabbed the duct tape and began to bind his wrists. McBride’s eyes swept the room, looking for a way out, something he could use. But there was only Adrienne—who seemed as if she were about to faint—and the table with the lightbulbs, drill and glue gun.
“What are the lightbulbs for?”
De Groot finished the taping, and came around to the front of the couch. Glanced at his watch. Shrugged, and sat down in a leather easy chair. “The Worm is clever. He knows it’s impossible to get at them with a gun. Even me, having a pass, working there. There’s no way.”
“Where? Where are you talking about?”
“The Fribourg. I’ve been upgrading the fire suppression system. Replacing the halon—because it’s killing the ozone, you know? And with all the Greens in town, the hotel wants to make a gesture. It wants to be compliant, okay?”
McBride didn’t know what to say. Didn’t get it. “So what? What’s that got to do with all the lightbulbs?”
“It’s a retrofit. I’ve done lots. It’s what I do.”
“What is?”
“Getting rid of the halon. In the sprinkler system. Overhead, you know?” The Dutchman raised his hand above his head, and waggled his fingers. “You replace it with a mix of inert gases, and it doesn’t cause any problems for the ozone.”
“That’s great, Henrik, but—”
“Only this time, the gas isn’t inert. It’s just gas.”
“What?”
“It’s petrol,” de Groot told him. “I replaced the halon with petrol, so when the fire starts—”
“What fire? When?”
De Groot checked his watch. “In half an hour, unless they’re running late. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to see it from here. The whole place will go up like a rocket.”
“What place?”
“I’ve been telling you! The Fribourg. There’s a gala for the South African delegation. Big banquet, lots of speeches from the schwartzes.” McBride shook his head. He still didn’t get it. “What about the lightbulbs?” he asked. “What the fuck are the lightbulbs for?”
The Dutchman giggled, and McBride realized that he was on some kind of drug. “I keep forgetting… You see the bulbs over there—the little ones. They’re for the podium. Or one of them is. When the speaker goes to the podium, he’ll turn on the light behind the stand—so he can see his notes. Because it’s dark in the ballroom. Very romantic.”
“So?” McBride asked.
“It took me almost a dozen bulbs to get it right.”
“Get what right?”
“Drilling a hole through the glass,” de Groot explained. “Without breaking it.”
“And why did you want to do that?”
“It’s tricky. The glass is so thin—you need a special drill bit, or it shatters. Even then, the filament is fragile, so it kept breaking.” The Dutchman sighed. “But I got it right—eventually.”
“I still don’t understand,” McBride said. “What’s the point of the hole?”
“For the starter fire,” de Groot told him. “I fill the lightbulb with phosphorus and kerosene, so when it’s turned on, the circuit’s completed, and the mixture explodes. But it’s just a small fire. Probably the speaker’s shirt goes up, and maybe his hair—especially if he’s using some kind of mousse.”
“Then what?” McBride asked.
“Then? Well, there’s a fire extinguisher on either side of the dais. One of the security guards will use it to put out the fire. Only…”
“What?”
“They’ve been altered, too.”
“With what?” McBride asked.
“Butane.”
McBride felt faint. “So when they try to put the fire out…”
“They make a bigger fire. Then the sprinklers come on, and the hotel—well, you’ll see it from here.”
“Henrik—”
The Dutchman tore a length of tape from the roll, and leaned toward McBride so he could place it over his mouth. McBride fell back, and out of the way.
“Henrik, listen to me. I want to tell you something about the Worm.”
“No. There is already too much talk.” Moving to the couch, he sat down beside McBride, the strip of tape in his hands. Suddenly, the lights flickered, then brightened so intensely McBride thought they’d blow. A power surge, he told himself, until the flash of light was followed by a boom of thunder, a crack of noise so loud that even de Groot jumped at the sound.
Then there was another flash of lightning, and another. McBride could feel the electricity in the air, the fine hairs at the back of his neck lifting away from his skin. The air shuddered with light. McBride couldn’t remember experiencing a thunderstorm in the midst of a snowfall. The windows were opaque with snow, and the effect was extraordinary, an oscillation of light that was almost like a strobe.
De Groot sat there with the tape in his hand, poised to strap it over McBride’s mouth, but blinking now, like a deer in the headlights.
It’s the flicker, McBride realized. He’s conditioned to it, entrained by it. Instinctively, McBride began to speak in the low, mellifluous tone that he used in his office when putting a client under. “Listen to me, Henrik. I want you to pretend that you’re on an elevator… and it’s taking you to your safe place. Deep in the earth.” Another boom shook the walls, and McBride could see the lightning in de Groot’s eyes. “The doors open. You step inside. The doors close. And now we’re going down, deeper and deeper, to the safe place.” The room flickered as lightning flashed, seriatim, beyond the window. “There’s no Worm here, Henrik. Just a feeling of perfect peace.”
De Groot’s eyes were half-open, and seemingly unfocused.
“Now, we’re sitting together on a rock, far from anywhere we’ve ever been,” McBride confided, working hard to keep the strain out of his voice. “In a little harbor that no one else can see. Just you and me, the waves, and the birds. And a light wind that smells of the sea. Can you smell the sea, Henrik?”
“Yes.”
“We’re in a wonderful place, Henrik, but… my hands are tied. Do you think you can cut me free?”
The Dutchman didn’t answer. And for a long while, he didn’t move, but sat there in the flickering light, silent and blinking. Though his face was impassive, McBride knew that a battle was raging deep inside the Dutchman, in a part of the brain so primitive that words had no meaning.
Then the paralysis gave way, and de Groot got to his feet. Going into the kitchen, he returned with a boning knife in his hand. Looming above McBride, with a look of desolation and regret, he mumbled something unintelligible, leaned over, and cut the tape from his therapist’s wrists.