On that, his aide steps into the boardroom, signaling the meeting is over. He clasps Zeb’s hand in a warm handshake; then they leave.
Andrews is silent as they descend in the elevator.
He is silent as he gets the car on 1st Avenue heading downtown.
‘Don’t feel guilty. Don’t ever feel guilty,’ he says suddenly, fiercely, and pounds his horn at a garbage truck, getting the finger in return.
Andrews parks in the basement of a drab-looking building near City Hall.
‘The Director wants to meet,’ he explains.
Zeb recognizes the building from one of his previous visits as an office frequently used by the agency in New York.
The basement has men in suits at the perimeter, one of them stopping them to see their pass, radioing ahead.
Zeb raises his eyebrows at Andrews, who shrugs and mouths, I don’t know.
They go up the elevator from the basement to the fourth floor and step into a tightly wound world.
At the elevator they are greeted by another couple of clean-shaven, neatly dressed men who frisk them, check Andrews’ identity again, and have whispered conversations in their mics before directing them to a receptionist.
There aren’t many people around — the receptionist, a few people hurrying about — but a palpable tension is in the air. He senses Andrews has noticed the charged environment too.
Zeb takes a step back from Andrews, an idea forming in his mind, scans entry and exit corridors, and spots more suits there. The receptionist steps out from behind her desk and leads them to an unmarked meeting room, where the Director awaits. Zeb trails a few steps behind, his senses on full alert.
She regards them calmly, brushes aside Andrews’, ‘What’s burning?’ and motions them to sit.
‘Andrews has briefed me on the Congo, Zeb. I sent all we know about these military contractors to the FBI and have suggested they get international arrest warrants issued. I should hear from them shortly. I have also asked them to put an alert out on all incoming and outgoing flights. It’s possible the remaining three will return to the US. Andrews, will you…’ She stops as an inner concealed door opens and the President of the United States enters.
Chapter 3
Zeb rises instinctively, Andrews doing the same with his jaw dropping open. The Director clears her throat, breaking the spell over Andrews.
The President says, ‘Clare, I’m sorry for interrupting. I wanted a word with you on that dossier before heading off to Washington. Sorry, guys, I have to kidnap your boss for a moment.’
The Director says, ‘Sir, this is Andrews, my right-hand man, and this is Major Zebadiah Carter. I have mentioned the Congo to you. Zeb was there.’
The President sizes up both of them. ‘Andrews, Major, there are many of you who work unsung and unheard in protecting our country and often safeguarding global security. Some of you work within the remit of the government and’ — he focuses on Zeb — ‘some outside.’
He looks old and weary as he addresses Zeb. ‘Major, we have let down that part of the world badly. I’m glad that you were there to raise the first alert, though Clare tells me that you did quite a bit more than that — that you have done things I’m not supposed to know about. Know this, that I am very grateful for the work of people like you and Andrews.’
The Director suggests they meet later and dismisses them.
Andrews is still a little dazed as they head back towards his car. ‘The Secretary-General and the President in one day. Andrews, my boy, you can die happy now,’ he mutters.
Andrews drops him off on Broadway with a promise to update him on progress with the FBI.
Zeb tells him finding Holt’s conduit in the US is the key to finding Holt.
Zeb strolls along Broadway, soaking in the energy, buys soup from a vendor in Times Square, and walks towards Central Park. New York is as much a jungle as the Congo is. The rules aren’t that different. The predators aren’t that different. Zeb is good at hunting predators in jungles, wherever the jungle is.
Noise drops off in the verdant expanse of the park as Zeb walks along West Drive and reaches Springbanks Arch. He finds a bench near the arch, slows his metabolism, and becomes one with time.
She comes when its pitch black, when even the foolhardy would never enter the park alone. She has attempted to take her life on a couple of occasions but lost her nerve at the last minute. She has now come to die in the park, in its most remote section, hoping the darkness and her misery will help her take her own life.
She finds a bench in the darkest part of the park near Springbanks Arch, rummages through the bag she has brought, and removes a sharp kitchen knife. She pulls up the sleeves of her sweater and turns her left wrist upward. She’s not sure how she should do this and takes a deep breath before placing the knife over her wrist.
‘That’s a messy way to die, and there’s no guarantee it will work,’ a voice calls out from the dark.
She starts, and the knife slips from her hand. She gropes for it in the dark while looking around. Nothing, just the dark and the shadows.
‘You can’t stop me. I’ll cut myself before you reach me,’ she calls out defiantly, no fear in her voice. She is past fear.
A chuckle. ‘I’ve never stopped anyone from dying. In fact, I’ve helped many toward that very end.’
‘Are you going to leave?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Who are you? Why can’t you leave me alone?’
‘I was sitting here alone and at peace when you arrived, interrupting my serenity, and now you wish to create problems for me.’
‘What problems did I create for you? I didn’t even know you were here.’
‘If you kill yourself, I have to carry your body to the hospital, talk to the police, and fill out forms…so much hassle. You’re a heavy person, so carrying you won’t be easy either.’
His tone is dispassionate, not mocking, yet she is angered.
‘I guess it’s all a joke to you, huh? I bet you don’t have the slightest clue what acute depression feels like. When you lie on the bed and the room closes in on you, the world closes in on you, you suffocate. When there’s nothing to look forward to when you wake up. Your friends, family, and colleagues give up on you because they see you as a lost cause. Death is the only exit.’
A very long pause. She’s not sure if he’s still there or gone. The park has gone silent as if listening to them.
Then, ‘I know what it feels like. I have been there. I live it every day.’
She barks out a laugh. ‘Right! Next you’ll be telling me you suffer from acute depression too. Dude, I tried taking my life twice before. If you felt as bad as I do, you wouldn’t be around.’
‘I have never wanted to take the easy way. Taking my life would be easy. I don’t want to make it easy on myself.’
She casts her eyes around, trying to find him, but can’t see anything other than layered shadows. She sits a long while, reflecting on the weird conversation. She calls out a few times but receives no reply. She’s now not even sure whether there was anyone there or whether it was just voices in her head. The adrenaline in her body seeps away, replaced by the chill-to-the-bone damp night air. She stands sluggishly, packs the knife back in the bag, and makes her way to 100th Street.
Zeb watches her leave the park and pursues her at a distance. At this time of night there is still traffic, a few pedestrians out and about, and he’s able to blend in. This is New York, after all.
He follows her down the subway entrance and watches her board a train from a hundred yards away.
He catches the down train and goes home.
He lies in bed thinking for a long time of vacant eyes, of what makes people take their own lives.