Chapter Eleven

 

          “Well, gentlemen, what do you make of it?”

          It was just after five o’clock. They were in the operations room, sitting in the student desks, in the molded plastic contour seats that didn’t quite fit their butts, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Brightman was perched on the desk, his feet dangling in front of them. He’d set up a portable blackboard to one side of the desk, with the telephone conversation’s transcription printed on it in white chalk. On the other side of the desk was Colonel Daniels, in a folding lawn chair, smoking a cigarette. Carter had managed to get a few hours of sleep, and he felt almost rested enough to go on his shift at six. Teddy was there, too. He’d miss a few hours of his sack time, but Brightman told them that, considering the importance of this new data, they would alter their schedule so they could all be present.

          “Colonel Daniels and I,” he continued, “have gone over this morning’s recording and we agree that it indicates a situation far more serious than we had anticipated. I have been in personal telephone communication with Donald Rumsfield, and he agrees with me that this may indicate a call for Condition Red protocol. He even went so far as to suggest that you men be dismissed and replaced with a more experienced team. I told him that I thought this measure to be unnecessary, that I had faith you, that I felt sure that you could cut it. I went out on a limb for you, gentlemen, and I want your help in proving that I was right.

          “Colonel Daniels and I have discussed this communication, and we are in agreement about its probable meaning. But before I go on, I would like your input. Do any of you have anything to say?”

          Frank raised his hand.

          “Yes, Mr. Bouchet,” said Brightman.

          “It seems to me that they are talking in code,” said Frank.

          “I see. That is a very astute observation, Mr. Bouchet. I think you have a talent for this work.”

          Frank looked relieved to hear this.

          “In other words,” Brightman continued, “you think that the eggs are not real eggs, the chicken is not a real chicken, the cock is not a real cock, the cook is not a real cook, and so forth.”

          “Yes,” said Frank, nodding earnestly. “That’s right.”

          “Alright. That’s a good start. Would any of you men like to add anything?”

          “Well,” said Carter, “the eggs seem pretty important.”

          “Very good, Mr. Pearls. The eggs do seem to be quite important.” He looked over at Daniels, and then back to the men. “Anything else?”

          No one said anything.

          “What about Farmer Brown?”

          Teddy raised his hand.

          “Yes, Mr. Larsen?”

          “I don’t think Farmer Brown is his real name,” said Teddy.

          “Yes, Mr. Larsen. Since he was speaking Arabic, it is quite probable that his name is not really Brown.” Brightman looked over again at Colonel Daniels, who raised his eyebrows slightly and knocked an ash from his cigarette into the ashtray on the desk.

          Brightman slid off the desk and walked over beside the blackboard.

          “OK. Let’s take it by the numbers.” He picked up a piece of red chalk. “ ‘The chicken has laid her eggs.’ What could this mean?” He circled the sentence in red. “In all probability,” he went on, “it refers to the completion of some project.” He circled the next sentence. “ ‘Is she still sitting on them?’ This is a possible query as to the current location of the eggs, or the state of their preparation for transport. ‘Hatching’ most likely refers to the actual transportation of the eggs. Are you men following me so far?”

          They all nodded.

          “Excellent.” He pointed to the next line with his piece of chalk. “This line about the eggs being cold probably means that they have been secured or hidden in some way, or that preparation for their transport has been interrupted.” He put his hands behind his back and faced the group. “Can anyone venture a guess about the chicken?”

          Carter raised his hand.

          “Somebody important,” he said, without waiting to be called.

          “Yes, Mr. Carter. The eggs are important, and the chicken is also important. He is probably the expert overseeing the construction and transport of the eggs, perhaps a scientist or high level technician. ‘The hen house is dark’ clearly indicates that the operation has been temporarily shut down, due to some sort of failure of security. ‘The fox’ is obviously some sort of security threat, the army, police, or some such. When Arab One asks if the fox is in the hen house, he is told that the fox is at the door of the hen house. This clearly means that, although their operation is under suspicion or has in some way been discovered, its exact nature is yet to be revealed. This later reference –” He turned and underlined the words could not smell the eggs – “would seem to support this conclusion. Arab One becomes impatient here, demanding a return to operational condition.” He stopped and circled the words red coat. “Neither I nor the Colonel are entirely sure as to the exact meaning of this phrase. It could mean that the counter-force is under the direction of some high level authority, or perhaps that there is a mole in their own ranks. But whatever it specifically refers to, it indicates that Farmer Brown feels that pressure will continue to be exerted on their operation, despite the fact that the counter-force has a ‘cold nose.’ The cock, obviously the man in charge of the hen house, clearly feels that this is a temporary condition.”

          Carter’s brain was beginning to hurt. Wow, he thought, this guy is really smart.

          “Now,” said Brightman, turning again to the blackboard, “it really starts to get interesting.” He raised the piece of red chalk dramatically. “ ‘The dinner will be late,’ ” he said, circling this phrase. “Arab One calls himself the cook. This means he is the man responsible for making dinner. ‘Dinner’ is obviously the action for which the eggs are intended. Let’s look at this in context with the next three code words.” He moved to a blank space on the blackboard and quickly wrote the dinner / the holiday / the guest / the house.

          Whirling to face the men, he dropped his voice several notes in pitch, and said “Gentlemen, what is the holiday? Who is the guest? And where is the house?” He paused to let this sink in.

          Carter noticed that Colonel Daniels had a faint smile on his face. It didn’t seem quite appropriate, somehow.

          “To answer these questions, let’s look just a little further, to the conversation’s most cryptic part, the part that seems to make the least sense, at first glance, the argument about the number of eggs, and the strange remark that more eggs are better than none.” He underlined this part of the transcription with quick, furious strokes, and turned again, looking each man in the eye. “This is where the real argument begins, about the number of eggs. Not about whether the lights are on or off, not about the chicken returning to the hen house, not about the temperature of the fox’s nose, but about how many fucking eggs will be for dinner!” He looked at the blackboard thoughtfully, crossing his arms. “Gentlemen, if there is one thing that my years as a Special Agent has taught me, it is that the most important part of any coded transmission are the numbers. And sometimes,” he put the chalk to the board and lowered his voice to a mild conversational level, “- sometimes it helps to write them down.”

          On the board he wrote the numbers 115, 116, and 112.

          “Do any of you have an idea as to what those numbers might mean?”

          Silence.

          “Gentlemen, by what name do we refer to the most infamous act in the entire history of world terrorism?”

          There was a snapping sound. Derek had just broken his pencil into two pieces.

          “Shit,” said Carter.

          “My God,” said Teddy.

          “Fuck me,” said Frank.

          “Nine-one-one,” they all said, almost in perfect unison.

          “Nine-one-one,” said Brightman calmly. He wrote it on the board – 911. Then he put a line after the nine – 9/11. He went to the other numbers on the board and put lines in them also. 11/5, 11/6, and 11/2.

          “These numbers are dates, gentlemen, and there is a good reason that, as far as the cook is concerned, even one hundred and fifteen eggs are three eggs too many.” He whirled to face the blackboard, striking it so hard that pieces of red chalk flew off into the room like bomb fragments.

          “We know the holiday, men, the most important day of the year in this great country of ours, more important than Christmas, more important than New Year’s, more important, even, than fucking Mother’s Day. November second, men - ELECTION DAY!” Trembling, he struck the board again. “And we know the house.” He circled the part that said the guest may have left the house. “The White House.” He struck the board for a third time, completely disintegrating what was left of the chalk. “And we know the Guest. The guest is our president, gentlemen, the man that millions of Americans voted into office in free and fair elections, to lead this great nation into the Twenty-first Century, the man who symbolizes the fairness, decency, and compassion that has made America great, our Commander–in-Chief, the honorable George W. Bush!” He stopped here and stood at attention, breathing heavily.

        Finally he relaxed and pointed to the last part of the transcription.

        “There can be no mistaking it. ‘I will not cook for a new guest.’ You can feel his anger, his passionate hatred for the man who has relentlessly pursued the repression and eradication of terrorism, against the cancerous spirit of appeasement that can be found throughout the world today. ‘This is the last meal I am to cook,’ he says. This is a suicide mission, gentlemen, the act of an enemy that has no respect for human life, even his own.”

        Brightman hung his head, shaking it back forth, in apparent disbelief at the possibility of such unspeakable degradation. He walked behind the desk and slumped into the chair, his hands covering his face and gripping at the sparse hairs on his forehead. The men all sat in stunned silence. Finally he looked up earnestly at them, his eyes those of a warrior weary with struggle.

        “And so, what next?”

        They all sat, waiting.

        “Can we simply sweep down upon him and his pack of sleeper cohorts, sweep down upon them like avenging angels, arrest them, read them their rights, try them, convict them, and execute them? No gentlemen, we cannot. Why not? Because they have done nothing wrong. They have done nothing, nothing except make falafel, wear funny looking clothes, and have an innocent conversation about eggs. This is the great strength of our country, the rule of law. And they have broken no law.” He sighed, shaking his head, and slapped the table feebly with one hand. “But this, my friends, my fellow Twisters, is also our country’s greatest weakness. And it is a weakness that you – yes, you very men sitting in front of me – were created to redress. Not that we will ever violate the great spirit of our constitution, of our founding fathers. No, we will wait, we will watch, and we will get the evidence we need to be sure of our suspicions. Only then will we make use of our emergency mandate, that has happily been sanctified officially in the Patriots Act by our own legislative savants, to operate above the strangling constraints that our enemies use to subvert us, above the law, guided only by our own sacred patriotic morality and wisdom, to bring these evildoers down. And we will do more than get them, gentlemen, for they would only be replaced by others, other sleepers lying in wait. No, we will send a message to their cohorts and masters everywhere, we will castrate their efforts, render impotent all their careful work and planning, make them start all over again. Yes, we will do more than just get the men behind this atrocity. We will get their eggs!”

         He turned to Colonel Daniels, who had sat through this diatribe watching him with what Carter thought to be, again, a rather inappropriate expression of complete amazement, and clapped him on the shoulder.

        “Colonel Daniels, we are officially at Twister Condition Red. Please prepare the men for Protocol B. We know that November second is the earliest possible date for our target’s intended action, so there is no need to panic. You have ten days to get them ready.” He stood up. The men stood up, also, everyone but Colonel Daniels. “And then,” he said firmly, putting his hands on his hips, “we’re goin’ in.”

 

 

 

        Halfway across the bridge, Julius begged for mercy. Serena was almost to the second tower before she noticed that he wasn’t behind her anymore, just before she heard him shouting, his words almost lost in the early morning breeze. She stopped and looked around, saw him back almost in the middle of the central span, waving his arms, leaning up against the railing. She jogged back to where he was standing, past a couple of lone tourists, and saw that he was still breathing a little heavy, shaking his head and smiling.

        “Baby,” he said, rubbing his chest with one hand, “you are in shape. Stop and let an old man catch his breath, please.”

        “That’s what you get for smoking,” said Serena. “I told you, you didn’t have to run the bridge with me.”

        “You didn’t tell me you were going to run through the whole damn Presidio first. Shit.”

        “Honey, you can go back now if you want. I’m used to running alone.” She gave him a sly smile. “Besides, it’ll give you more time to work on breakfast.”

        He laughed. “So I got myself all kinds of new jobs here in the city, huh? You want a sex machine and a cook.”

        “And a musician. Anything else you know how to do?”

        “If there is I’m not telling you about it. Hey, I’ll be good for the whole route if we can just take a little break, OK? I’m a tourist, remember? Just a Fresno hick here in the big city. Why don’t you show me the sights?”

        “Sweetheart, I’ve been showing you the sights, ever since you got here. You like scenery better than me?"

        “Oh, you cold, baby. But I think you know the answer to that.” He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her close. He looked into her eyes. “You got a skyline that won’t quit.”

        She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

        “That’s being a good boy. OK, I guess you got your priorities straight. Here –” she turned him around and pointed out into the bay. “That’s Angel Island, the big one – Tiburon - over there, Berkeley. That’s Alcatraz, where I’m going to send you if I catch you with any other women.”

        “What’s that other bridge called, not the Bay Bridge, I know that one, the other one, over there.” He was pointing off to the left. “You can barely see it.”

        “That’s the Richmond Bridge. It connects Marin County with the East Bay. We should get a car and drive it sometime. Go up on Tamalpais for a picnic.”

        They looked for a while without talking, Serena with her arm around Julius’ waist, breathing together.

        “Baby,” said Julius finally. “I am so fucking happy. Best band I ever played with, best town I ever lived in, best girl I ever had. Did I just do somethin’ really right recently, or what?”

        “I am too, Julius,” said Serena, with a serious face. “The happiest I’ve been since Dad passed away. I thought I’d never get over that. A woman needs a man in her life, and you’re the first real man I’ve ever met besides my Dad.” She stopped a minute, smiled. “And you do look like him, you know. A hell of a lot.”

        “Well, as long as we don’t get any of that Freudian shit workin’. Hey, I’m ready to keep going now, I think. As long as you don’t have any more surprises in mind.”

        “No. In fact, let’s take the bus back from Sausalito. I don’t usually stop in the middle like this. I still have to make it to my Gung-fu class.” She saw his jaw drop. “And you,” she shouted back at him as she started to jog off, “still have to make breakfast.”

        Later, while they were finishing eating, drinking coffee, Julius got serious for a minute.

        “Serena, what happened to your Dad? People keep talking about his accident. What was it, exactly, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

        “No, I guess I don’t mind, with you.” She paused, thinking it over. “He fell down an elevator shaft. He was doing a gig at that fancy restaurant in the California building. For some reason he was over in one wing they were renovating, under construction. I always thought it was strange he would be wandering around there, until I talked to Terrence the other night.” She told him what Terrence had said about him and Carly, how he might have just been depressed and wanted to be alone, and maybe not paying attention to things.

        “And that’s the woman that was sitting by herself all evening at one of the back tables? That’s Carly?”

        “Yeah. The next time I see her I think I’m going to talk to her. If she’s going to come in and stare at me every night I should at least find out what she’s like.”

        “Well, just don’t let Tony get the idea that you’re fooling around with any drugs. You were sure right about that one.”

        Serena laughed. “Tony knows I don’t even smoke grass. But what do you mean? Did he say something to you about it?”

        “Yeah. Straight out. Told me he wouldn’t stand for any pot in the dressing room, or carrying when the band was traveling together. But that’s not all. Sal called me here yesterday, when you went down to the store. Said Tony talked to him before he offered me a job. Wanted to make sure I wasn’t on anything heavier than pot, especially heroin. He’s got a real thing about it.”

        Serena was putting things into her workout bag, getting ready for class. She zipped it shut and turned to Julius.

        “Well, now we know why. From what Terrence told me, he lost one group already because of it. Guess he doesn’t want it to happen again.” She started out the door. “I’ll be going straight to class after gung-fu. Don’t forget to open the window if you do any smoking.” She stopped at the stairs and blew him a kiss. “And don’t forget we’re doing early rehearsal today. Three-thirty. Andrey’s got a private party tonight at the club.”

        “Yeah,” said Julius, looking wistful. “I guess it’s my last time for Monday night football. I liked to shit when Tony told me that was our regular rehearsal slot. He talks black, but he’s real white bread at heart. Hates drugs and doesn’t like football. The man has definitely never lived in the ghetto.”

        “Neither have I, honey,” said Serena, as she started down the stairs. “And neither,” she called over her shoulder as her head disappeared from view, “have you.”