The Cold Room Page 28

  Rising onto my toes, I was just able to reach the light, to unscrew the pins holding the globe in place, to finally expose a single bulb. Gingerly, I took the bulb between my fingers and gave it a slight twist. It was loose in the socket, but I didn’t test it by screwing it down. Instead, I removed the bulb, then examined the filament, positioning the flashlight behind the bulb to maximize the contrast. The filament was perfectly intact and there was no carbon build-up on either pole.

  I dropped the bulb into my pocket, next to the snap gun and the tension bar, then closed up the overhead fixture before turning to the door. By then, my brain was rocking along. Aslan’s home country was the place where booby-traps were perfected, especially as they applied to urban guerrilla warfare. According to the Russians, explosive devices of one kind or another were found in every third building when they re-took Grozny, along with a host of lesser goodies, like ceilings and floors rigged to collapse, and light bulbs filled with gasoline.

  I sat down on the landing, my legs on the stairs, facing the door at the bottom of the steps. A little voice in my head was insisting that I stay the hell out of Aslan’s apartment. Do it just the way you said, this voice insisted. Wait for him on the stairs. Take him down the minute he steps through the door.

  But there was another voice, too, a nasty little voice that whispered, Aslan killed your son. Over and over and over again.

  Of one thing I was certain. The loose bulb was not some sort of trigger mechanism. Not unless Aslan had imagined me clever enough to check the bulb out, then stupid enough to screw it back down. There had to be another reason.

  I sat there, in total darkness, until I thought I knew that reason. Then I got to work.

  I wasn’t surprised to find the door unlocked, though I admit to a flash of bladder-clenching fear when the hinges squealed as it swung away from me. I was at the back of a long room, facing a narrow table set against a wall fifteen feet away. Light streamed into the apartment through a pair of windows and the room seemed well lit compared to the hallway. There was enough light, for instance, for me to pick out a shadow beneath the table, a shadow mounted flush to the wall. I could even see little pinpricks of light, so faint I might have imagined them, within the shadow.

  But I wasn’t imagining the wires running from a light switch to my left, down to the floor, then out along the wall in both directions. To Aslan, the sequence must have seemed obvious. You climb those stairs in the dark, the first thing you’ll do, when you finally get into his apartment, is grope for that switch. The light at this end of the room, furthest from the windows in front, was extremely dim. It had to be, otherwise the shadow between the legs of the table would be revealed for the pound or so of plastic explosive it actually was. And that would ruin all the fun.

  I leaned through the doorway and looked around. The space was large, easily fifteen-by-thirty, and sparsely furnished. The Chechen flag caught my eye first, just to the right of the rain-spattered windows. I couldn’t see the wolf’s eyes – the walls to either side of the window were in deep shadow – but I knew his gaze was as mean spirited as ever.

  A worn leather sofa, an end table supporting a painted ceramic lamp, a small TV set on a rolling stand, and a coffee table littered with newspapers and DVDs were clustered before the windows. Along the near wall midway between where I stood and the windows, an open notebook computer, along with a stack of floppy disks and a small printer, rested on a metal desk.

  Facing the desk, an L-shaped serving bar partitioned off a small kitchen, its metal sink piled with unwashed dishes. A pair of doors to my right led to interior rooms. The room closest to me was the bedroom, the one I’d looked through when I climbed the drainpipe. The second room was undoubtedly the bathroom.

  I registered each of these items carefully, in search of anything out of order. When I was satisfied, I squatted down to examine the open spaces between the furnishings. I was looking for trip wires and the light was very dim, especially along the walls. But I kept at it, until I was sure I could enter the apartment without blowing myself all the way back to Manhattan. Then I stepped inside and took another survey, this one limited to the explosives, mounted six feet apart and six inches off the ground, on all four walls.

  From close up, those pinpricks of light I’d observed when I first opened the door were obviously the heads of common nails. The nails had been pressed into bars of what looked like molded clay, the intention to shred the flesh of anyone caught in their path. But the nails were pure overkill. There was enough explosive material in that room to take out the building. If it went off, I wouldn’t live long enough for the nails to reach my body.

  Still, I appreciated the theatrical touch; as I also appreciated the way Aslan had rigged the trap after I found a second set of wires, in addition to the wires leading from the light switch. These wires began at a DVD player positioned on the floor where the eastern wall of the building met the kitchen’s service counter. They ran the full length of the room and were connected (as were the wires from the light switch) to detonators on each of the little bricks fastened to the wall.

  I stood over the DVD player for a moment, staring down, until I finally hit upon its purpose. Then I began a search of the room that ended when I found the Sony’s remote control next to the computer. Needless to say, I was careful not to press any of its buttons. Instead, I carried it to the door through which I’d come, back to the rigged light switch.

  I’d had some formal training in the handling of explosives while I was in the military. Enough to know that Aslan had created a dual system. The explosives could be triggered by turning on the light switch or the DVD player, either one. Thus, an intruder, like myself, entering while Aslan was out, would be the immediate cause of his own death when he switched on the light. On the other hand, if I’d made an appearance while Aslan was at home, he’d literally have his finger on the button.

  Still, there was a definite bottom line here: no current, no explosion.

  I went into my pants pocket, removed a small folding knife, and opened the blade. I told myself that the remedy here was apparent. If there was a break in the wire, no circuit could be completed, no matter what you did with the switch. But despite all that macho bullshit about inviting Aslan to the dance, I couldn’t bring myself to cut those wires. My knowledge of explosives was limited. For all I knew, Aslan had rigged his bombs to explode when an already established circuit was broken. How he’d do it, given the simplicity of a light switch, was beyond me, but sometimes the consequences of a mistake are so great, it doesn’t matter how great the odds against it. I’d surveyed the apartment, done my job, and fulfilled my obligation to protect the public. Who would fault me if I waited on the stairs? I’d give the bomb squad a heads-up, of course. Right after I finished with Aslan.

  Good thinking, no doubt, but my timing was awful because I was still standing there, looking down at the open blade of the knife, when the outside door opened and I heard raised voices in the downstairs hall. I was seconds away from a confrontation. I had to act.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Aslan came into the apartment first, edging sideways through the door. Hansen Linde followed. Though he wasn’t bearing down, he had a grip on Aslan’s trailing arm, an obviously custodial grip. A third man trailed behind. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but his vested suit, his crew-cut hair and the attaché case he carried virtually screamed Fed.

  I was in Aslan’s bathroom, peering through the crack between the partly open door and the frame, and the first thing I noted was that neither Hansen, nor his companion, had drawn a weapon. This was a mistake for which Aslan would surely make them pay.

  He didn’t wait long. They were barely five feet into the room when Aslan yanked his arm free and made a dive for the remote control on his desk. Hansen and the Fed both grabbed for their weapons, only to stop when they realized that the plastic object in Aslan’s hand wasn’t a gun.

  Aslan’s lips were moving, but nothing was coming out. Maybe he was cons
idering the effect on his own body, on flesh and bone, should he press that button. Finally, he swept the room with his arm. A wasted gesture. Hansen and the Fed had already figured it out. I knew that because I saw the Fed’s knees buckle momentarily, while Hansen withdrew his hand from beneath his jacket, then raised it, palm out.

  ‘We don’t wanna do anything stupid here,’ he said.

  ‘Why? You are fearing death?’

  ‘You betcha.’

  ‘This is good. Now please to put guns on floor.’

  The Fed hastened to comply, removing a pair of weapons, the first from a holster, the second, presumably Aslan’s, from the waistband of his trousers. He put them on the floor and took a step back. Hansen didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘Are you not hearing me?’

  ‘I hear you,’ Hansen said, ‘but I’m not gonna surrender my weapon. That’s the first rule of policing, ya know. Never surrender your weapon. Plus, I just can’t take the chance that I’ll die in this room while you continue living. I don’t wanna go before the pearly gates with that crime on my conscience. Oh, yeah. I’d be too ashamed even to beg forgiveness.’

  I fell in love with Hansen Linde at that moment. Not so the Fed.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Linde?’ he demanded. ‘Are you crazy?’ When Hansen ignored both questions, he turned to Aslan. ‘Look, we didn’t come to arrest you, Aslan. I’m not even a cop. I work for Immigration. Here.’ Very slowly, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and removed a business card from his vest pocket. When he held it up, his hands were shaking so hard the print couldn’t have been read, even in sunlight, even if Aslan wasn’t standing fifteen feet away. ‘My name is Horn, Jack Horn. I work in the Deportations Division of the INS.’

  Aslan smiled for the first time. ‘You are tired with Aslan in your country? You want no more to be seeing him?’ He paused, his eyes flicking to Hansen, then back again. ‘Where is it you want Aslan to be going?’

  ‘To Russia.’ Horn shifted his weight from one foot to another. Though I couldn’t see his face, I was certain that he was smiling, and that his smile was fawning. ‘Use your common sense, Aslan. It’s the only way. You can’t stay here, not with a murder hanging over your head. It’s time to move on.’

  Aslan sat down in front of his desk, the light from the lamp bathing the side of his face and his shoulder. He seemed at peace as he crossed his legs and let his weight fall against the back of the chair.

  ‘Is not only way,’ he told the Fed. ‘Is another way I am holding this minute in my hand.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  Aslan shook his head, bringing Agent Horn to an abrupt halt. ‘Where is partner?’ he asked Hansen Linde.

  ‘You mean Detective Corbin?’

  ‘Do not be fucking with Aslan. From his life you are ignorant. Dead is nothing to Aslan. Honor is all. Tell me where is partner.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Aslan nodded. ‘Now, please to put down gun. No more bullshit.’

  ‘Do what he says,’ Horn demanded. His hands were curled into fists, his shoulders squared. For a moment I thought he was going to attack Linde, though Hansen was much larger.

  ‘What you said about honor?’ Hansen spoke directly to Aslan. ‘I agree with you one hundred percent. Honor is everything. That’s why I’m gonna tell you, for the last time, that either we all walk out of here, or nobody walks out.’

  ‘You think I will not do this?’

  Hansen’s adam’s apple gave a quick bob as he shook his head. ‘I’m not giving up my weapon, Aslan. It’s your move.’

  The Fed grabbed Hansen’s arm, only to be shoved away. ‘I have a wife and children,’ he pleaded. ‘I haven’t done anything to anybody.’ Then he hesitated for a moment, his breath coming in near-convulsive heaves, before he made his final argument. ‘I’m an innocent bystander. I don’t deserve this.’

  ‘Aslan doesn’t care about innocent bystanders,’ Hansen explained. ‘There’s enough explosive material in this room to collapse the building on anybody in the store downstairs. Maybe it’s Sunday night and the store’s closed, but we might easily have come along on a Saturday afternoon. To Aslan, it doesn’t matter.’

  I watched Aslan’s mouth compress and his eyes narrow as he sought the courage to make good on his threat. He didn’t like having his bluff called – that much I knew from experience – but dying, apparently, didn’t have all that much appeal either. In any event, it was Hansen who broke the silence.

  ‘See,’ he said to Horn, ‘Aslan has the same problem I do. I don’t want to go to my death knowing that Aslan’s still breathing. Aslan doesn’t want to go to his death knowing that Harry Corbin’s still breathing.’

  Aslan considered this for a moment, then rose to his feet, ‘Choice for Aslan is simple. Surrender and become prisoner of state, or go to Allah. Prisoner of state is not possible. In Russia, prisoner of state means Gulag. I have been to Gulag. Never again is what I have said to myself at this time. If once I am out of here, never again.’

  ‘Suppose we find someplace else?’ Horn asked. ‘Or you just walk away right now. I mean, if you left, there’s not much we could do about it.’

  Aslan and Hansen both rejected the Fed’s suggestion with simple shakes of the head. ‘Here is better deal,’ Aslan declared. ‘I will make trade. Bring to me Detective Corbin and I will give to you back your lives.’

  The offer was a transparent lie, but Hansen didn’t dispute it. Instead, he stroked his knobby chin for a moment, then said, ‘I could try him on his cell phone.’

  ‘No, do not try. For to go on with living, you must succeed.’

  ‘My cell phone’s in my coat pocket. My phone book too.’

  Aslan grinned. ‘I am not afraid you will pull gun on me. That would be suicide.’

  Hansen made a show of thumbing through his phone book, although he had to know that he didn’t have the number of the cell phone I was using. I’d purchased minutes in bulk, instead of buying into a phone company plan, and the number wasn’t listed in any registry. But that didn’t discourage Hansen. He punched away at the number pad, raised the phone to his ear, waited a few seconds, then said, ‘Show time, Harry. Get your ass inside.’

  I straightened, stepped through the door and walked up to stand between Hansen and the Fed. Horn’s jaw was bobbing helplessly, his teeth clacking together, his eyes rolling in his head. Aslan Khalid wasn’t in much better shape. His eyes were saucer-wide, his irises a pair of black dots lost in a milky sea. As I approached, he riveted those eyes to mine. Linde immediately took advantage of Aslan’s fixation, his left hand snaking up to unbutton his jacket. Now he could get to the .357 he carried in a shoulder rig.

  ‘How’d ya know?’ I spoke directly to Hansen.

  He rolled his eyes, his mouth curling into a little circle of distaste. ‘You left a goddamned swamp in the hallway downstairs.’

  ‘I was gonna clean up, only I didn’t get a chance. But what I’m asking is how you knew it was me who left the puddle?’

  ‘Well, I knew Aslan didn’t leave it, because we’ve been tailin’ him all afternoon.’

  ‘Fine,’ I insisted, ‘only that doesn’t explain how you knew it was me. Or how you knew I hadn’t come and gone.’

  Hansen laughed. ‘Some things in this life you gotta take on faith, kiddo.’

  Aslan rose from the chair, displaying the remote control as through it was a cannon. ‘Enough from this crap . . .’

  ‘Will you shut up,’ I said. ‘I’m speaking to my partner.’ I didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Who’d you break?’ I asked. ‘Nicolai Urnov?’

  ‘Yeah, Urnov. I put him in the hot seat and melted him like a stick of butter. He told me that Aslan owns a piece of a bar in Canarsie, so I gathered up Agent Horn, drove to Canarsie and there he was. It was only a matter of waiting for him to leave.’

  Aslan was virtually incoherent by then, the hate in his eyes all-encompassing. I addressed Horn for the first time. ‘Take your weapon,’ I ordered, ‘an
d get the fuck out of here. And don’t call the cops.’

  Horn looked from me to Aslan. I don’t know what message he took from Aslan’s contorted features, but he finally snatched up his gun and took off like a shot. I listened to his feet on the stairs, to the door slam behind him, then I raised my left hand to expose the AAA batteries in my palm. Aslan stared at my hand for a moment, then jabbed the ON button anyway. When nothing happened, he pressed it again, then again. Finally, his eyes darted to his left, to the DVD player still lying against the far wall.

  ‘Why,’ Aslan asked, his tone genuinely perplexed, ‘you have done this thing to me?’

  I marveled at the question as I watched Hansen’s fingers move toward his weapon, thinking that the list of reasons, should I give them voice, would go on for hours. But the question was never meant to be answered. Instead, it was an attempt to divert our attention, and it might have been effective if Aslan hadn’t paused long enough to throw the remote in our direction before diving for the DVD player. Linde’s hand was on his .357 even as the remote sailed over his head. He got off his third shot before Aslan took his third step.

  The muzzle flashes were predictably blinding in the darkened room, inducing a series of images that persisted in my retinas –

  Aslan turning, Aslan rising suddenly on his toes, Aslan halfway to the floor, eyes open, lips parted, the back of his head a spray of red particles fanning out across the room.