THE MUSEUM OF TERROR, says the shadow of a stencil on the concrete wall. Hidebound fiddles with the fire exit and drags him in; Zach wonders if he is to be the latest exhibit, or a curator.
There’s an old chair with straps on it. Hidebound sits him down hard, puts the straps to their intended use, and pulls up a little stool.
“Why are we here?” says Zach. He can feel holes in the chair under his hands and feet.
“Atmosphere,” says Hidebound. He removes a silver cigarette lighter from his boot.
Hidebound, Zach happens to know, does not smoke.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
István leaves to go to the bathroom and Hidebound kills Pál with a knife. It’s that quick, so Zach is still staring at the blood and wondering if this is a prank when two scarred fingers drag him by the nostrils out of the safehouse.
“Ow fuck!” says Zach. Upon consideration, he adds: “Shit!”
“Whatever puppydog pity she took on you, be grateful for it,” says Hidebound, “because it’s the only thing keeping my fist out of your brains right now. How does it feel to be a hostage, Zach?”
Like so many things in Budapest, Zach reflects glumly, it hurts.
Once they stop shaking, Sara does noisy things to the roof door with her multitool. Zach scowls at shoppers in the mall below as she thumbs Euros down a phone, then leads him into an alley.
“Szervusz,” says one of two enormous, shiny-headed men.
“You’ll never take us alive!” Zach says, trying to make his body peel off the wall and stand in front of Sara.
“Zach, meet István and Pál,” Sara sighs. “They’re friends. Friends of friends. Protection.”
“Oh.” Zach grins with relief. “I wish I’d known you had local security for yourself!”
“Sure,” says Sara carefully, “for myself.“
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Zach snaps out of the flashback and they hit the long vertical banners screaming. Sara’s fumbled a multitool from her pocket and she drives its pliers through the fabric, which is when Zach realizes she’s got their arms locked in some complicated grip, because it almost dislocates his shoulder.
They continue to descend, albeit more slowly, still screaming. Eventually Zach realizes it’s just him screaming and shuts up.
A jolt, as the pliers snap through the banner’s bottom hem; they fall fifteen feet to a balcony. Sara lands on Zach. He wishes his lungs would reinflate so he could enjoy it.
Invisible things chip the rooftop concrete as they sprint, accompanied by a staccato of sonic booms. Zach wrings his brain for what the training would have him do and remembers that, yes, this was the part where he got up to go potty.
As if summoned by the memory, Hidebound rises up before them, grinning, two-fisting pistols. “Move!” shouts Zach, grabs Sara by the waist, and hauls them both off the side of the roof.
“What the mother of shit!” she shrieks at him as they plummet.
“I was hoping I’d think of a follow-up by now,” Zach admits.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
“What about you, what are you doing in Budapest?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Zach says mysteriously.
She rolls her eyes. “You can tell me if you’re plainclothes. I’ve worked with the police here, risk management for the nonviolent demonstrations. We get along fine.”
“I’m not plainclothes.”
Her eyes saccade between the points of glare on his glasses, and she decides to believe that. He’s got a sort of arrogant puppydog energy–he’s come into new privileges and they don’t quite fit across his shoulders. Useful.
“I’m Sara,” she says.
“I know,” Zach chuckles.
“What?” says Sara. “How?”
When Zach sinks into the first-class armchair on his flight to Budapest, he is wrong to believe he’s the only one on board connected to his mission. There’s Hidebound, for instance, incognito in aviators, crammed into two seats in the last row of coach. There are the three independent agents assigned to Hidebound at all times (FBI, CIA and FDA–it’s complicated). There’s Littleford, body stiffening slowly in an insulated camp cooler, down amongst the checked bags.
And in Zach’s black silicone wallet, a girl’s face, unaware that it’s being photographed: hastily xeroxed, in case they want the dossier back.
“This is called a dossier,” says Littleford patiently. “A full background workup, daily routines, brief precis of family and friends.” He scatters the contents of the red envelope.
“She’s a girl?” says Zach, a little startled.
“She’s an activist who’s making things very uncomfortable for certain Syrian… interests,” says Littleford. “The client’s actually done a lot of work for you, here. And they want it messy. Anything else?”
“I think,” Zach frowns, “I’m going to need more surveillance photos. Like, at her gym? Maybe in the shower.”
Littleford squints at him.
“Or at least more from the waist down,” Zach adds.