The Old Man(104)

Spencer walked about five miles before he reached a farming village a distance from the south side of the highway. He could see melons and some green vegetables growing on acre-size plots all the way into the village. It looked like a place where he could buy a melon and some water.

As he came into the village, he saw a young man about twenty-one or twenty-two years old. He was riding a new bicycle up and down in front of his house, apparently testing the adjustment of the chain and the gears and giving the bicycle its first lubrication. The bicycle had thick, knobby tires like a mountain bike, and it had a couple of big baskets mounted on the sides of the rear wheels so he could carry a load without affecting his steering. Spencer guessed he probably used it to deliver melons to a market stall.

Spencer stopped and stood nearby with his arms folded, watching the young man riding. He said in Arabic: “That is an excellent new bicycle.”

“Thank you,” the young man said.

“May I ask what happened to your old bicycle?”

The young man looked puzzled. “How did you know there is one?”

“Because you’re a skilled rider. This is not your first one.”

“The first one is old. It belonged to my uncle for years and years before it went to me. I still have it, but I think I’ll save it for the parts.”

“I only wonder …” Spencer trailed off.

“What?” said the young man.

“Well, the new bicycle is very good quality. If it ever needs a part, it won’t happen soon. And no bicycle ever needs every part replaced. Meanwhile, the old one is just taking up space in your house and rusting. The rubber parts are getting hard and brittle. It’s worth something, and that value is going to waste.”

“What do you suggest?”

“If you could show it to me, I might consider making an offer.”

At four forty-five on the afternoon of the third day of Alan Spencer’s absence, the people at the Tobruk Airport saw a figure on a bicycle pedaling along the road toward the cargo terminal.

The man wore Libyan clothes and he was dirty and ragged, but when he saw the row of Canadians standing by their trucks watching him, he waved at them and began to pedal harder, standing up on the pedals and pumping to build up speed like a racer at the end of a long course. He bumped up over the edge of the concrete pavement at the entrance and coasted to a stop in front of them.

“I’m sorry if I’m late,” he said. “The distances here can be deceiving.”





38


Julian Carson walked behind the visiting team locker room and along the hallway to the small concrete room. As he stepped to the steel door it opened and Waters and Harper came out, wheeling the room’s safe, which was strapped to a two-wheeled dolly. Harper held the door while Waters pulled back on the handle of the dolly and steered it out into the hallway.

Mr. Ross, Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Prentiss came out after them. Julian noticed that once again, Mr. Prentiss held his hard-sided briefcase.

Mr. Ross acknowledged him first. “Hello, Mr. Carson. You’re right on time.”

The hairs on Julian’s arms rose. He had been trying to delay the manhunt by taking as long as possible with the old man’s file. Had he kept up the tactic too long? This would have to be the moment. “I think I know where to find the old man.”

Mr. Ross stopped. “Really?”

“Yes. He was in Vietnam in 1972 working with a platoon of ARVN rangers in the central highlands when the Easter Campaign began. He got his Silver Star because he was out alone on a scouting mission when the North Vietnamese regulars were moving in to massacre his men. He engaged the enemy by himself to sound the alarm and saved his men. They all got away alive because of him.”

“Good for him,” said Mr. Ross. “So?”

“Some of those ARVN soldiers are sure to still be alive. Any of those men or their families would be glad to hide Michael Isaac Kohler. And there will be a record in this country of who they all were. Military intelligence probably has it. All we have to do is pay each one a visit.”

“Interesting,” said Mr. Ross. “But this show is over. Time to fold up our tents and go.”

“What? Why?”

“Our guy is dead.”

“The old man?” said Julian. His mouth felt dry. He had known it was almost certainly going to end that way, but he had hoped that this time, this once, it would not.

“Not him. Faris Hamzah. His enemies assassinated him right in his house when his bodyguards weren’t looking. There’s nothing to be gained by going after the old man anymore. If he’s in Vietnam, then xin chuc mung to him. He’s not our problem. Or yours.”

“I suppose not,” said Julian.

On his way back to his office, he decided he would write an obituary for the Chicago Tribune. It would announce the death of Faris Hamzah, and it would be the last thing he placed in the paper with the initials J. H.





39


“Mom!” There was silence. Then: “Mom!”

Dr. Emily Coleman closed her eyes. It had been a long day and she was at the kitchen island cutting up vegetables that she knew the boys would only pick at and pretend to eat.

“There’s a car in the driveway.”

“Who is it?” she called back.