William Sanders - The Contractors.pdf - William Sanders - margozap

The Contractors

by William Sanders

We were six miles above the North Atlantic when my wrist watch began flashing, a soft pulsing green

glow like a mutant firefly. I picked up the earphones from my lap and held one up to my left ear, and a

familiar voice said, "Now."

I waited a second but that was all. I thumbed the little button to make the watch stop blinking. A quarter

to midnight, it said. Chicago time; I hadn't reset it yet. Three hours later here? Or four? I wasn't sure what

zone we were in.

That time, anyway. I laid the earphones on top of the laptop on the seat beside me and unlatched the seat

belt and got to my feet, glancing around at the darkened cabin. Up toward the front a couple of lights

were showing, and the glow of somebody's laptop screen; over on the far side a woman was trying to

quiet a fretful baby. Most of the passengers, though, seemed to be sleeping. Or trying to; now and then

you could hear bodies shifting restlessly, and an occasional muffled grunt.

I started down the aisle toward the rear of the cabin, taking the plastic pen from my shirt pocket and

holding it down by my side. The lights were on back in the galley but no signs of movement.

I could see my man, though, sitting by the window, two rows ahead of the rear bulkhead. The seat next

to him was empty, as were the seats behind him.

It was too dark to see him very clearly, but I'd already had a good look at him back while we were

boarding: a skinny, swarthy young man with a thin scrubby beard — or maybe just badly in need of a

shave — in a surprisingly decent dark suit without a tie. Now I saw he'd added a yarmulke-like skullcap

to his ensemble.

He didn't look up as I approached; I saw now that his eyes were closed. He was rocking slowly to and

fro in his seat; he wasn't making any sound but his lips seemed to be moving.

It would have been easier if he'd been on the aisle, but those coach-class seats aren't all that wide. I

didn't even have to lean over to reach him. His eyes snapped wide and white when the pen touched the

side of his neck and the spring-loaded needle drove home, and his mouth opened, but nothing came out.

A little book fell from his hands and slid off his lap to the floor as he sagged back in his seat.

I closed his eyes with my fingertips and moved on down the aisle, not looking back or around; if anybody

had seen anything, it was too late to do anything about it now. There were no sounds of surprise or alarm

behind me, though. As I came up to the restroom door I saw one of the flight attendants, a slightly

chubby redhead, asleep on one of the galley seats.

The restroom was unoccupied. I latched myself in and got a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped

the trick pen, being very careful of the needle point, before stuffing it down into the trash disposal. The

odds of anybody finding it, let alone checking it for prints, probably approached zero, but why take the

chance?

I stood there for a minute exchanging red-eyed stares with my reflection in the mirror above the sink. The

sight was less than impressive: lined jowly face, gray hair in need of a trim, overnight whiskers starting to

show. I wouldn't have bought a used roller skate from me.

Nobody was looking at me as I started back up the aisle, or at the body by the window. Everything was

still dark and quiet; even the crying baby had settled down, leaving no sound but the great soft sigh of

engines and slipstream as the big 747 bored on through the night sky.

I dropped into my seat, buckling up automatically, and sat back and closed my eyes for a moment, letting

my pulse slow down a little. Then I reached over and lifted the laptop out of its case and set it on my

knees. I stuck the button phones into my ears, took a deep breath, and opened the lid; and there was

Himself waiting for me.

And he was doing the whole bit, too: the horns, the pointy goatee, even the reddish skin. Everything but

the pitchfork and the flames. I suppose I winced; he laughed.

Grinding my teeth, I reached for the keyboard and typed:

Do you HAVE to do that?

"Sorry," he said, grinning. The screen flickered briefly and he reappeared in his more usual form, minus

the horns and the rest of the comic-book look. He'd kept the mustache, though. It made him look a little

like Harry Reems.

"Cheap and obvious, I know," he said. "What can I say? For a professional tempter, I'm no good at

resisting temptation."

I typed:

It's done.

"Yes," he said. "You did that well. Not that I ever doubted you would."

I think we cut it a little close.

"I'm afraid so. He was definitely getting ready. My fault," Himself admitted. "I was momentarily

distracted...at any rate," he said, "you were quick enough. Well done. A very clean bit of work, Major

Hackett."

I didn't bother telling him not to call me that. We'd been there before; he was just trying to jerk my chain.

I typed:

I don't think anybody saw anything.

"No. You might have noticed that the seats in the immediate area were unoccupied. This," he said, "was

not coincidence."

I should have known. I started to ask how he'd managed it and then decided I didn't want to know.

He said, "I wish you'd relax. You need to get some rest. Things are going to get very stressful in a few

hours."

If not sooner.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. Who's going to pay any attention to an unimportant passenger on an

overnight flight, apparently asleep in the cheap seats? No," he said, "you'll see. No one will notice

anything until shortly before arrival at Heathrow, when they hand out the immigration cards, and find that

Mr. Wazir doesn't respond to their efforts to wake him. After a certain amount of consternation and

confusion, the young Scottish doctor up in business class will no doubt be summoned."

His teeth flashed. "And almost immediately will discover that the deceased is wearing a belt of Semtex

explosive around his waist; and then for a time things are going to become intense."

No shit.

"Well, it shouldn't be too bad for you. After all, there's no reason anyone should suspect the truth. We've

used that formula before," he said. "Even a full autopsy won't show anything but heart failure, no doubt

brought on by extreme emotional stress. I tell you, that dear old woman at Johns Hopkins is worth every

dollar I pay her...so no one will be thinking in terms of, ah, foul play. They'll be looking for possible

accomplices — and," he added, hoisting an eyebrow, "you really don't fit the profile, do you? So lighten

up."

Sorry. I just killed a man.

"Thereby saving several hundred lives."

And your concern for humanity is well known.

"Touché." He laughed. "But as I already explained, up on the first class deck are a couple of aging

gentlemen who in their dissolute younger days once recorded a song expressing sympathy for me. One

feels a certain obligation."

He raised a hand and wiggled it at me. "'Bye, now, Major Hackett. Try to get some sleep. It's going to

be a long day."

It was that. And it got a lot longer before it got any shorter.

Not that anybody leaned on me, individually. Himself had been right about that; middle-aged security

consultants from Albuquerque clearly weren't high on the list of potential terrorists. Early on they pulled a

lot of passengers out of the waiting area — people with non-European-sounding names, or passports

from Middle Eastern countries, or maybe just a vaguely Levantine appearance — and took them away

for special attention; but the rest of us white-bread types mostly got to wait. Especially if we'd been in

coach; naturally the first-class passengers were long gone before they even let us off the plane.

(At least there was one bright spot: the news people had of course shown up in battalion force, but the

big story was the presence of celebrities on board, so only the rich and famous had to slog through the

mikes-and-cameras jungle.)

It was the middle of the afternoon when they finally got around to me. A pleasant, ruddy-faced Scotland

Yard inspector, about my age and size but wearing a much better suit, asked me a few questions about

my background. Private security consultant, eh? And retired military? Hm, then I must be quite an

observant chap. So had I noticed anything unusual during the flight? Any other passengers behaving

oddly or suspiciously? Anyone talking with Mr. Wazir? No? Hm, well, too much to hope for, eh? Now

where would I be staying in London? And for how long? Yes, well, officially he must warn me that I

might be called upon for further questioning, but between us he didn't really think it likely. Sorry about the

delay; he hoped I had a pleasant stay.

And that was that. Only of course it wasn't; there were still my possessions to be tracked down and

reclaimed, all baggage having been taken away for examination. The young Sikh who brought mine, after

another interminable wait, was interested in the laptop; he wanted one, he said, was this a good make? I

told him only if he was prepared to make a pact with diabolical powers. When I left he was still

chuckling.

The light was starting to fade by the time the cab finally dropped me off in front of the old red-brick

building just off King's Road. I knew I should go get something to eat, but I just wasn't up to it. I went on

up the steps and unlocked the front door and took the slow German-made elevator up to the fourth floor,

feeling the fatigue come down on me like a heavy gray blanket.

The flat was looking good, with none of the musty smell of long disuse; the cleaning people must have

been in recently. I dumped the bag and the laptop on the couch and went into the kitchen, wondering if

there was anything to eat. I hadn't used the place since last winter, but I seemed to remember leaving a

few odds and ends on the shelves.

I found some cans — sorry, tins — of soup, and a still-sealed box of some sort of biscuits. Good

enough; my stomach was in no state for anything more serious anyway. A few minutes later I had myself

a saucepan of cockaleekie heating on the stove. While it warmed I looked around the kitchen,

experiencing the usual dislocation at the familiar-yet-alien appliances and switches and plugs. At least the

strangeness had a friendly feel, as if things were trying to look right but just couldn't get the hang of it.

The contents of the saucepan began to bubble and I turned off the heat and carried the pot into the front

room, not bothering with a bowl. And sat at the table having my cockaleekie — cockaleekie! The names

these people hang on perfectly good food! — and watching the street get dark beyond the big front

windows.

Halfway through the meal my wrist watch began flashing. I looked at it for a couple of seconds and then

pushed the button to turn it off.

A few minutes later it started flashing again.

I stood up and undid the watch and went back into the kitchen and put it in the refrigerator. Then I went

back and finished my cockaleekie; and then I got up and stumbled into the bedroom.

While I was taking off my shoes the bedside lamp began flashing on and off. I said a couple of bad

words and bent down and yanked the plug out of the wall socket. I wasn't sure that would work — you

never know, with Himself — but it did.

I finished undressing and got into bed. Whatever Himself wanted now, it could wait till morning. Or

maybe it couldn't, but I didn't care. For the rest of this night, I was no longer a working number.

And, he should pardon the expression, to hell with Himself.

Next morning when I got up the hallway light was flashing. I flipped it a one-finger salute and went into

the kitchen and located a jar of instant coffee. While I was waiting for the water to boil the oven light

began going off and on.

I said aloud, "All right, just hang on, will you?"

The flashing stopped. A few minutes later, carrying my cup of alleged coffee carefully in both hands, I

went into the front room and sat down on the couch. The muck was too hot to drink but I held it up to

my face and took a couple of tokes of steam before setting it down on the coffee table and turning to

unzip the laptop case.

Himself was right there when the screen came on. He didn't look happy. "Good morning," he said in a

voice that could have eaten the armor plate off an M-1 tank. "I trust you had a pleasant night's sleep?"

"Sorry," I said to the face on the screen. At least now we had some privacy, so I could dispense with the

typing and just talk normally. If "normally" applied to a conversation like this.

"But I wouldn't have been any use to you last night," I said. "Wouldn't have mattered if you'd been trying

to tell me the building was on fire, I couldn't have handled it."

"Yes, of course." He sighed. "It's just that something has come up, requiring my full attention in another

part of the world. And contrary to the claims of certain employees of the Opposition, I can't be

everywhere at once."

He sounded bitter, as he always did when he talked about the limitations he had to operate under. You'd

think he'd have gotten used to it, in a million years or however long it's been. It certainly was a

complicated business, from what he'd told me; I'd been amazed at the number of things he couldn't do—

not just wasn't allowed to do, by the rules of the treaty or covenant or whatever had been laid on him,

but literally couldn't do. Couldn't, for one thing, personally kill or even physically injure a living human;

couldn't do personal appearances on Earth, except under very special arrangements — which, according

to him, didn't include any nonsense with pentagrams; you really didn't want to get him started on

pentagrams — and all sorts of other things you'd never suspect.

And this, of course, was why he had to contract out so many of his operations, even simple jobs like last

night's. As one of the better-paid contractors, I could hardly complain; but I could see how he might feel

a certain resentment.

"And so," he said, "I'm not going to have time to brief you personally on this mission. Unfortunately,

because there are certain unusual aspects, but it can't be helped. Instead I've arranged a meeting, where

you'll learn the details and meet the people you'll be working with. I suggest you freshen up and get

dressed; you're to be there at eleven-thirty this morning."

"Okay," I said. "Where do I go?"

He told me.

I said, "You're kidding."

John Wesley's statue stands in a kind of little garden in back of St. Paul's Cathedral. The church grounds

were lively with tourists and school groups, but back here there was nobody around but John and me.

He didn't look happy to see me; I was pretty sure he didn't approve of me. But then from all accounts

there was a lot he didn't approve of.

It was a mild sort of day, for London in mid-April, but there was enough bite in the wind to make me

wish I'd worn a topcoat. It wasn't raining but the gray sky beyond the great dome of St. Paul's looked as

if that could change at any time. I turned my back to the breeze and stared back at John Wesley; and a

few minutes later a woman's voice behind me said, "Major Hackett?"

She was standing a few feet away, giving me a cautiously inquiring look: a small, compact young woman

with dark Mediterranean features and thick curly black hair. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of

a long black leather coat that hung open to reveal an attractively packed black knit dress. All in all she

was a considerable improvement on John Wesley.

I confessed to being me. She stepped forward and put out a hand. "Leila Aziz."

William Sanders - The Contractors.pdf

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