Underground Airlines(98)

Bridge took a step up toward me. “You can appreciate, I think, why it is important, for a variety of reasons, that this experimentation, at this delicate stage, not become public. That’s all.” Now he was getting bold. Now some steel was coming into Bridge’s voice. He saw the end; he was ready. “So you’re going to hand me that package, Victor, and I’m going to take it. We are going to determine that it’s the right material, then we are going to destroy it. And then we are going to do as you have asked. We are going to set you free.”

“When? And who’s we?”

“Right now.” Just like that, his voice had taken up its old boss-man confidence. “I have traveled here from Gaithersburg with a technician named Lance Cormer. Dr. Cormer works in a special division in our service, and he has come prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

“Prepared to take care of both ends of this. He can quickly do some initial testing on the materials you’ve provided to make sure it’s what we’re looking for. Make sure you’re not—that you’re not pulling some trick here.” He rubbed his forehead. “Mind, I don’t think you are. You’re a straight shooter, Victor. You’ve always been a straight shooter.”

He puffed out his cheeks a little, and tilted his head, and I felt that he had somehow shifted, started singing in a new key.

“And, Victor, further to that, I did want to say: thank you for your service to your country.”

I had to laugh. I laughed. “Okay,” I said. “You’re welcome.”

“And also, uh—good luck to you.”

I didn’t laugh any more. What was next? Was he going to give me a gold watch?

I tried to see behind Bridge’s eyes, see how deep he went. Was he saying merely what he was saying, or was he saying he was sorry for what he had done to me, what all the world of Bridges had done to all the world of me’s?

Should I have felt in that moment a matching spirit of magnanimity and grace? Should I have extended my hand for him to clasp, placed my black hand in his white one and smiled, no harm done, life goes on? I could not feel that spirit of grace, not in that moment. Not after all I had been through in the preceding two weeks and in the six years before that. I would have had to be superhuman, I think, to feel that forgiveness. I was and am possessed of all human flaws and weaknesses. I did not want to forgive him, so I did not. On the other hand, I wanted to fire the gun and watch him fly backwards on the steps, but I did not do that, either. Call that even.

“It is important we both realize, Victor, that it’s merely an accident of history that created this problem. An accident of timing. Do you see what I mean? We were precipitous, and agents of my service were too eager to be helpful. That was all. But in time, this”—he gestured to the vial, and I saw the energy in his fingertips, wishing he could just grab it from me; I held it together—“will all be perfectly legal.”

“I don’t think so. I think in time…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. Because what I was thinking was, of course he’s right. Of course he’s right. Because this is what happens: shit gets worse. It doesn’t get better. It gets worse. Incidents ripple up, then they ripple away again. Batlisch appears, troubles the surface of the world, but then is destroyed. Disappears. Time makes things worse; bad is faster than good; wickedness is a weed and does not wither on its own—it grows and spreads.

“One more time,” said Bridge. “So we are clear. We walk together, four blocks, to a van, where Dr. Cormer is waiting. You continue to hold those materials. Dr. Cormer performs the minor surgery to remove the transmitter-responder from your spinal column. That will take about four and a half minutes.”

Four and a half minutes, I thought. Four and a half f*cking minutes.

“And then before Dr. Cormer and I allow you to leave the van, you will give us the materials and Dr. Cormer will conduct the verification process. When that is done, we go our separate ways. You need never see me again.”

I nodded.

“Yes? Is that good?”

“Almost. What about papers?”

Bridge nodded, all eagerness now. “I have a set for you. Wilson Teller, born Albany, New York. No marks, no record. Passport and driver’s license.”

“Clean?”

“Clean and clear.”

“How will I know?”

“You will know because…” He shrugged. “You will have to know because I am telling you so. Is that acceptable to you, Victor?” He smiled, very, very small. “Mr. Teller?”

I eased my head back and forth. I shifted from foot to foot.

“Victor, can you live with that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I can. I can live with that. Fine and dandy.” I said those last three words with special distinctness, fine and dandy, to ensure they would be registered by the microphone I was wearing. Button-small, tucked inside my ear like a hearing aid. Barton had fitted me for it. He had all kinds of gadgets hidden in Saint Anselm’s Catholic Promise, behind his false walls and hidey-holes. I said it loud and clear. “Fine and dandy.”



Mr. Bridge drove the van, and I rode in the back with Dr. Cormer, who did not wear a white coat or any other indication that he was a doctor; just a black suit and black shoes and no tie, and—for security purposes, or so he said—a featureless plastic face mask, drawn tight across his whole face like a second skin. Eyeholes, a hole for his nose, and one for his mouth. I rode in the back in silence staring at the blank face of Dr. Cormer, forty-five minutes across from one another in the bench seats of the van, as if descending deep into some sort of meaningful dream.