by Robert Reed

* * * *

Of his latest tale, Robert Reed says, “Once in my life have I gone overseas. The flight was awful, but France was lovely. Watching recent political events, I asked myself, ‘What if we weren’t talking about bombing the Iranian nuclear program, but instead were aiming at people that we know a good deal better? What would be the mentality in that kind of world? Would our good nature or bad push the red button?’“ These questions and other unsettling issues are chillingly explored in...

There was confusion in Booking, my reservation mysteriously lost in the ether. The bloodless beauty behind the counter explained that I could wait for tomorrow’s flight out of Chicago, or, “You can sit with the other sheep and pray for no-shows.” Her phrasing, not mine. I chose the flock, putting my name in the pool before calling the office to make appropriate warnings. But a lot of travelers were changing plans, what with the recent events. The big DC-Freedom wasn’t even two-thirds full, and I was able to snag an aisle seat. Unfortunately a lot of us seemed to be suffering from spring colds and hacking coughs. One tall and very pretty Japanese-American woman caught my eye, but she claimed three seats across the aisle. Apparently those two little boys were hers. “Oh well,” I thought, “at least they’re behaving themselves.” But the toddler began wailing on takeoff, while his older, craftier brother used the distraction to slip free of the seat belt, running amok while we cut through the evening sky.

Even with the coughing and the motherly screaming and the wild boy who kept sprinting past every few moments, I managed to sleep. But then came the realization that one of my neighbors had eaten something vicious or rancid, and now he or she was dying of some brutal intestinal ailment. Whatever the cause, whoever the source, at unpredictable moments the stuffy damp air suddenly filled with the most noxious stink imaginable, and my body and mind would be dragged out of whatever snoozing state it had achieved in the last little while.

Of course I blamed the rad-hunter sitting on my left. There were at least six agents scattered about the cabin, each dressed in the black uniform trimmed with smoky orange lines. A small woman, plain-faced and in no obvious pain, she gave herself away by never acting surprised by the outrage hovering in the air. Of course she could have assumed that I was the culprit, and she was a polite sort of creature. But I have met one or two rad-hunters, and they are not polite people. Their job demands self-centered, disagreeable natures, treating the world with all of the scorn it will endure; and if she wasn’t the source of this biohazard, I’m sure at the very least she would have stood and moved somewhere else.

At this point, I will mention that I’m not a political soul.

I was a traveler, an innocent with business on his mind, and this was only my third trip overseas, and I had never seen France. And I would see little of it now, what with the demands of my work and an exceptionally tight schedule.

Landing at De Gaulle brought new difficulties. There didn’t seem to be room at the terminal, so our plane was ushered onto a side runway, buses gathering slowly to carry us the final half-mile of our journey. Yet that complication didn’t bother me. In my present mood, I would have accepted a parachute and the attendant’s boot to my ass, if it meant escaping that coffin. The afternoon air tasted of rain and leaked fuel. I sat patiently on a bus that refused to go anywhere. I watched the pretty mother spank one boy and then his brother. Then just as I wondered if some new problem had arisen, the bus was accelerating, suddenly shooting across the tarmac and then slamming to a stop beside a crowded facility filled with angry passengers and heavily armed guards.

The consuming ugliness of the airport terminal was something of a marvel, what with its naked steel and concrete block construction. Where was the famous French sense of aesthetics? The little rad-hunter and her uniformed colleagues flashed badges and walked straight past the guards, ignoring and perhaps even enjoying the murderous stares. But I was a civilian. And sadly, I was American. To the limits of international law, I was to be shown the consideration usually reserved for dangerous dogs.

A gloved hand accepted my passport, and not one or two customs agents looked at it. The process required three bureaucrats and ten minutes of hard consideration before it was handed back to me. They never spoke in my direction, even in French. Knifing gestures were deemed adequate, and when I didn’t jump to their commands, a gloved hand grabbed my arm, yanking me into the presence of a fourth official. “You are the guest of a nation and a great people,” he reminded me. “We expect nothing but dignity and respect at all times.”

With that, I was sent on my way.

I have no aptitude with languages. Which seems odd, considering that I was always one of the bright children in school. But my employers had taken my limits into account, paying extra for a translator. A young man was at the gate, holding a sign with my name and nothing else written in a neat, officious style.

“I’m Kyle Betters,” I announced.

He didn’t seem to believe me. Lowering the sign, he scratched at his bare chin, considering who-knew-what factors before replying with a quiet lack of feeling, “Welcome to France, Mr. Betters.”

His name was Claude, and for the expected reasons we took an instant but workable dislike to one another. Small talk wasn’t part of his job description. But directing me to the luggage carousel was a valid duty, and he did it without prompting, watching with thin amusement as I hung my small bag on the very big suitcase, dragging both behind me as we continued down more ugly hallways and out into a parking garage that stank of gasoline and wet concrete.

Of course his car was tiny, and of course he took offense when I laughed quietly at what looked like a toy.

His laugh came moments later, watching my middle-aged body struggle to lift my luggage into a volume just large enough to accept it.

A pattern was set. In small pointed ways, we worked to embarrass and enrage one another. Claude lit a Turkish cigarette, filling the Renault with a toxic cloud. I cracked my window, and when he mentioned his distaste for cold breezes, I rolled it down farther. The flight left me exhausted yet I was too nervous to sleep. I watched the countryside. I studied the cars and trucks that raced along the highway. Our destination was Nancy, and I asked for a road map to better appreciate our journey across a deeply historic landscape. Claude steered me to the glove box. I opened it, finding nothing useful. That was worth a laugh, and as he drove, the hand with the cigarette tapped his head. “I know the way,” he promised. “And besides, you won’t see anything. It will be night soon.”

In another few minutes, yes.

He drove, and I sat, keyed up to where my stomach ached.

Eventually we abandoned the wide four-lane highway, striking out east on a narrow highway in desperate need of repair. Traffic circles announced themselves with warning signs, but Claude seemed of the opinion that driving slowly brought its own risks. After the third or fourth circle, he decided that his passenger was suitably rattled. “It is unfair, you know. What you want of us.”

I knew what he meant, and I was smart enough not to rise to the bait.

But he continued regardless. “Nations are free entities,” he warned. “We’re within our rights to do research in whatever subject we choose. How can a rational man say otherwise?”

“I haven’t said anything,” I pointed out.

Another cigarette needed to be lit. Exhaling in my direction, he pointed out, “We are not planning to build bombs. Why would we want such horrors?”

“Why would you?” I agreed.

But he heard something in my tone. “Uranium is a natural element. Does the United States claim ownership of a native part of our universe?”

“This isn’t my area,” I complained.

“Nor mine,” he agreed, coaxing the little engine to run at an even higher pitch.

Holding onto my door handle, I pushed my face close to the open window and the fresh roaring air.

“Do you think we are unreasonable?”

Claude wanted me to say, “No, you are reasonable.” Or maybe he hoped that like any good American, I would pick a fight. “My government is powerful, and you’re going to obey us from now until Doomsday.” But I didn’t match either expectation. “I don’t think about these political problems,” I shouted back at him. “Not one way or another. Really, this whole subject doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to me.”

Claude fumed in the darkness.

I looked outside. By day, this was probably a scenic drive. Massive old trees were whipping past at a furious rate. Something in the moment triggered a memory. Turning back to the driver, I asked, “Do you know why the French plant so many trees along their roads?”

Claude hesitated, and then finally asked, “Why?”

“So the German army can march in the shade.”

That did the trick. He wanted nothing more to do with this American, smashing his cigarette before throwing all of his concentration into getting me to my destination, as fast as possible.

* * * *

My slight experience with intercontinental travel has taught me that jet lag is genuine and it is sneaky. Waking that next morning, I felt rested even though I wasn’t. I felt as though my faculties had returned, but no, they were still lost out over the Atlantic somewhere. Little clues pointed to my impairment. I didn’t quite recognize my hotel room, even though I was fully conscious when I checked in. The toilet’s design baffled me briefly, though I’d used it the night before. A hot shower seemed to help, but the channels on the Sony television seemed to tax my intellect to its limits. There were no American networks, but even the French feed of the CBC was missing. The nearest thing to home cooking was the BBC, and it took three minutes to appreciate just what side our British brothers were taking in the present controversy.

I shut off the television, dressed and went down to the lobby. Claude was supposed to meet me in another hour. Our day’s first event was at noon—lunch with representatives for one of the largest retailers in Europe. I was nervous, which was good news. Nervousness gave me energy and a measure of courage. Knowing no French but merci, I headed out the front door, out into the Place Stanislas. Bits of fact crept out of my soggy memory. The plaza was two and a half centuries old, bordered by an opera house and museum and the venerable Grand Hotel where I was scheduled to remain for four busy days. I wandered south, and without getting lost or committing any major crimes, I discovered a busy restaurant that served a buffet breakfast perfectly suited to a ravenous appetite.

At some point during the meal, I realized I was being watched. It wasn’t just the staff that saw my American credit card, but it was also the local patrons who seemed to recognize a tyrannical monster when they saw one. Nobody was out-and-out rude. But when I glanced at each face, they would stare back at me, showing me what silent, smoldering curiosity looks like.

Returning to my hotel, I found Claude reading Le Monde. My arrival was noted, but the current article was more important. He focused on every word and finished his cigarette, and then the paper was folded and the butt stamped out, and while looking at my feet, he quietly told me, “I am sorry.”

I was stunned.

“For my words, my tone.” He glanced at my face and then looked down again. “It is my fault that we got off so badly.”

I agreed. But to be gracious, I said, “I played a hand in it.”

He clearly wanted more from me.

“I’m not a traveler,” I said. “My flight was awful, and I’m still hurting. I wish I had grace under pressure. But I don’t. Never have.”

Claude tried to make sense of my rambling confessions. Finally, needing to feel useful, he asked, “Do you wish to tour Nancy for a time? It’s going to be a little while before our first event.”

It was strange to hear him say, “Our first event.” Just words, but the effect was to make me thankful to have an ally in this peculiar corner of the world.

But I’d mentioned being tired, and as if to prove me right, I was suddenly aware of my own endless fatigue. “I’d rather go upstairs and nap.”

He glanced at his watch, a look of relief revealed.

“Perhaps so,” he agreed.

“Will you come get me in an hour?”

“I shall, Mr. Betters.”

But of course I didn’t sleep. I lay awake, painfully aware of the brilliant sunshine pushing around the curtains of my room. This wasn’t a natural time for slumber, and I accomplished nothing except feeling wearier than before. Then just as I closed my eyes—the moment that I could feel sleep take me—knuckles began to strike my room door.

* * * *

What I was selling isn’t important. In fact, several elements of this story are best left dressed in harmless falsehoods. Imagine several men and one woman sitting at the long table, all of them interested in American refrigerators or computers or interactive toys. What matters is that my wares weren’t simple, and Europe represented a huge potential market. One difficulty is that I’m not a salesman by trade. My normal duties are to manage those responsible for designing what I consider to be the best products of their kind in the world. Which was why my enthusiasm couldn’t be faked. Despite my various liabilities, I was a good spokesman for my company, offering my audience a long-term relationship full of shared profits and room for mutual growth.

At least two guests spoke English. But everyone paid close attention while Claude turned my boastings into what was beginning to sound like real words, no matter how little of the noise made sense to me.

The man in charge knew English quite well. He was gray-haired and well dressed and probably distinguished on his worse day. With small winks and the occasional smile, he implied that he approved of what he was hearing, both from me and from Claude. In those thirty minutes, I turned from Mr. Betters into, “My friend, Kyle.” But just when I felt success was assured, a young fellow at the patriarch’s side leaned forward and burst into some long tirade.

Claude listened. Both of us listened. And then the one who understood turned to the other, saying, “He wants to know why this is fair? The percentages are wrong. He claims that...” Claude hesitated for an instant, struggling for the best words. And by “best,” I mean that he needed honest words that wouldn’t leave me furious. “He believes you are forcing an unfair burden on them.”

“How can that be?” I asked Claude.

Claude turned and repeated that in French. But of course everyone could read my body and the tone of my voice.

Touching his headstrong young colleague, the patriarch leaned forward. In perfect English, with a deep, clear voice, he admitted, “These are difficult days, Kyle. The tensions are felt by all of us, you know.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“It is sad.”

I kept agreeing with him.

Then he told me, “I’m not a political soul.”

Which made him just like me.

“Unlike my associates, I remember the liberation of France. I was a boy, yes, but I still remember the Nazis fleeing, and I know that joy felt by every Frenchman when your shabby-dressed soldiers entered Paris.” He nodded, eyes staring into the past. “It’s a fair statement to point out that no other nation, given your tools and circumstances, would have so gladly fought two wars against such distant enemies. If you wished, you could have fortified your continent, built bombers and missiles, and then littered the world with your nuclear weapons. You could have broken your enemies and their collaborators too and been done with the mess.”

And now he wasn’t like me. His praise buoyed me, yes. I couldn’t help my emotions. But his words and cold logic made me uneasy.

“And I do respect what the United States achieved after the war,” he continued. “This has not been an easy task—”

The lone woman interrupted. She was tall and elegantly beautiful, in her middle thirties but with a younger woman’s perfect complexion. She knew exactly what her boss had said, and that’s why she erupted into a quick rain of hot words and slicing hand gestures.

Expecting her response, the patriarch acted untroubled. When she finished, he spoke to her and the others, perhaps warning his people to behave. (I assume this because Claude translated nothing.) Then while the young people gnashed their teeth and whispered among themselves, the patriarch turned his warm certain gaze back to me. “To maintain your nuclear monopoly ... well, it is an astonishing achievement. Granted, we have helped you in your cause. We are your allies, after all. No overt threats were necessary for us to open our borders and our military bases to your radiological police, and we have given you much help, particularly with the Soviets and the Indians.”

Again, the youngsters grumbled and sneered.

The patriarch paused, weighing me with his eyes. For just a moment, he acted disappointed. Was it my expression or my silence? Either way, he sat back on the hard restaurant chair before saying the same word twice, in French and then in English.

“Peace,” he uttered.

I nodded, pretending to understand his implication.

“Peace is a precious thing. And, as I say, almost any other power, given your tools, might have tried to enslave this world.”

The woman had had enough. She stood, and with a delicious accent said, “Bullshit. Bullshit to that.”

I felt as if I’d been slapped.

“This isn’t about uranium,” she told her boss. “Maybe at first it was. Maybe when the war was finished and everyone was happy, they were good stewards for the world. But these Americans ... they do more than keep others from making atomic bombs.” She turned to me, her face flushed. “He says you’re honorable. I say you’re sneaky and subtle and tenacious and bloodless. Like machines, you and your people keep pursuing every advantage, and what happens in the end? We surrender more and more to the United States. Because every new technology is a threat, and you believe you can make our world safe.”

At that point, I laughed.

It was a mistake, and I knew it before the sound exploded from me. But a secret pride had been insulted, and sitting back in my chair, I repeated that line that I’d heard since I was a child:

“‘Somebody has to be in charge.’”

There. It was said, and no apology could take back that sentiment.

Claude was first to react. With a tight, furious voice, he said, “What about genetics? By what right should you have a monopoly on DNA?”

“What about biological weapons?” I replied.

My question was translated, and the response was nervous laughter. Only the patriarch and Claude didn’t cackle at my paranoid suspicions.

“What do you think?” Claude pressed. “That if you let us toy with microbes and crops, we’d brew up plagues that would kill only Americans?”

Really, I hadn’t thought for two minutes about our policy toward bacteria. But hundreds of hours of overheard news commentaries gave me the language to say, “The Soviets tried just that. When I was a boy, in the early sixties, they built that secret lab in the Urals and started to weaponize—”

I hesitated. This was probably the first time in my life that I had said that peculiar word. “Weaponize,” I said again. Then I said, “Anthrax and smallpox and Ebola,” with the certainty of a clinical biochemist.

“I’m not talking about disease,” the woman insisted. “I’m talking about those miracle crops of yours, the biogenetic soybeans and tomatoes and rice. If a field isn’t under your control, it’s forbidden. If your precious seeds are lost, your spies and satellites track down the thieves, burning every field that shows any sign of your trademarked plants.”

“That’s not my decision,” I managed.

Yet most of the table seemed to think that I was the president and Congress too, sitting before them in some kind of court proceeding.

Claude offered a few slow words to the others. Judging by the tone, he was trying to calm spirits.

But it took the patriarch to regain control of the meeting. He leaned forward, silencing the others. Something important was coming, no doubt about it. He shook his head as if it were heavy and looked at the others, and in French, he told his associates, “Of course it cannot hold, these taboos. These constrictions. Seeds will sprout and thrive, and there aren’t enough eyes in the sky to keep all of the American secrets safely their own.”

I knew what he said because Claude, remembering his job, hunched down and translated every word.

Then the old man looked at me. One apolitical soul to another, he said, “But you see, Kyle. My friend. This is the problem that I face. These emotions are ragged and unpleasant. And not just with my staff, but with our stockholders too. I wish to do business with you. I believe what you offer is respectable and fair, and I take no offense. But I am not this company, only its servant. I’m sorry that you saw this display today, but at least now you will appreciate my reasons when I tell you no. I will thank you for your time, and on the behalf of everyone, I wish you the best. A safe, uneventful flight back to your homeland, and good day to you.”

* * * *

Like most twelve-year-old boys, my favorite movies usually involved World War II. Battles and tremendous explosions were my passion, and it didn’t hurt having brave men not even twice my age doing fearless, selfless acts. New releases were cause for celebration. My father would treat my brothers and me to a matinee, and afterward we’d wrestle our way back to the car, arguing about which scene was best and which soldiers we wanted to be like. Classic films were an excuse to gather around the black-and-white RCA, two wondrous hours spent watching the slaughter of Japs and Krauts. It seemed like such good fun, even when I was old enough to know that war was a truly awful business.

I had limits, too: I never much liked the atomic bomb movies. The best of that bad lot was the Hiroshima epic, directed by William Wyler, starring Charlton Heston as Paul Tibbets. Despite my love for large explosions, I considered mushroom clouds to be more forces of nature than tools of war. Besides, I wasn’t an unthinking monster, and the effects of the blast and radiation were bad enough to stave off any wide-eyed pleasure with that impossibly bright flash of light.

My father was an Alfred Hitchcock fan. With the excuse of an education, he took us to see the classic Intrigue. But the movie’s charms and subtle power were slow to work their way into my flesh. Espionage was a difficult species of warfare. Dad had to explain quite a lot to his boys, including how the Soviets had placed spies in the heart of the Manhattan Project and how a pair of intelligence officers achieved miracles, rooting out the bastards before any damage could be done.

“If those heroes hadn’t done their jobs,” he warned, “our world would be a very different place today.”

“Different how?” I asked.

We were walking back to the car. “Our enemies would have stolen our atomic bomb,” he said grimly, emphasizing that stealing element. Political systems aside, his sons were brought up to believe that thieves were cowards and worse. “And without our spy-busters working in the shadows, the Communists would have gotten the hydrogen bomb too.”

“What’s the difference?” my youngest brother asked. “Between atomic ... and what’s the word...?”

“Hydrogen,” I told him, using my smart, twelve-year-old voice. “Hydrogen bombs are much, much worse.”

“They’re just bigger,” Dad corrected. “A weapon isn’t good or bad. It just is. What makes it evil is how it is used.”

“Have we ever used H-bombs?” asked my other brother.

“Three times,” Dad allowed. “Only three times. And they hopefully won’t be needed again.”

“But we have them,” I added confidently.

“And we keep them at the ready,” he allowed. “Warheads on missiles, bombs in bombers, and there’s always at least one nuclear submarine hiding in the ocean, ready to fire its payload on a moment’s notice.”

This was all good and reasonable, in other words. And with that, we let the topic drop, getting back to the important business of wrestling our way to the car.

When I was in college, The Good Hand came to one theatre. I knew nothing about the little film, except that it was set in some bizarre future New York City. My girlfriend had read a favorable review and we went together, but she wasn’t a very strong person. The filth and disease and easy deaths of that first half hour proved too much. Leaning close, she demanded that we leave. And since I was hoping for sex, either that night or in my own near future, I did the gracious thing.

The title, The Good Hand, remained a small mystery. It wasn’t until eight or nine years later, living in a large city with an art house movie theatre, I finally watched that violent nightmare to its conclusion. The director, Martin Scorsese, did very little work after The Good Hand, and it was easy to see why. His hypothetical world was brutal and suffocating. Powerful, faceless entities controlled every aspect of knowledge. Books were kept under lock and key, even the least sensitive titles subject to layers upon layers of restrictions and bureaucratic hoops.

The story was preposterous, yet after the first frames, utterly believable. The protagonist was a young fellow who wanted nothing but to make a better spaghetti sauce. That’s all. The twentieth century was famous for its delicious sauces, and wanting to know more about tomatoes and basil and garlic and sausage, he filled out the appropriate forms. But one box on the backside of one page was checked when he should have left it empty, and his request was dropped into a much more dangerous pile of forms.

At that point, a brutal comedy took flight. One tiny misunderstanding caused people to die, while others barely survived. The young chef lost friends and family, and he had to kill two strangers and avoid a fast-moving car before the pursing intelligence officer finally caught him.

“This is a sad, essential business,” the officer explained to his prisoner. “If a citizen believes he can reach for any title, to slake any intellectual thirst, how do we keep our grip on society?”

“Why do we need any grip?” the bloodied but valiant hero responded. “Can’t people do what they want? Can’t they learn what they want ... just so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone...?”

Played by a young De Niro, the intelligence officer was an intoxicating mixture of acid and charm. He laughed for a few moments. Then with grave certainty, he said, “You don’t know the dangers waiting in these old texts. And I don’t know much about them either. But I’m one tough bastard, and what I do know scares me. The bombs and poisons that you could make up in your kitchen ... well, I’d do anything to protect my world from those horrors. And every time I meet someone naive, someone like you, it reminds me. Inside each of us, there’s a fatal flaw. We suffer from a crazy urge that keeps us chasing every bit of knowledge, including nightmares that can doom our species and our world.”

The young Al Pacino played the would-be cook. “Are you crazy? This is about spaghetti sauce,” he screamed. “That’s all I want to know!”

“Not according to these forms,” his opponent countered.

“I made a mistake,” Pacino swore, and not for the first time.

“No,” his nemesis replied. “You used the system against us. You put your mark in that box to allow your nose where it didn’t belong. Your plan was clever, and you had this ingenious excuse waiting. In case an official more gullible than me happened to grab your case.”

“You aren’t listening to me,” the prisoner complained.

“I’ve heard every word,” the interrogator promised. “And now what you need to do is pay attention when I tell you this: The past is forbidden. There are things that can’t be revealed. Certainly not to the likes of you.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’m not worthy, either,” the officer replied, laughing aside even the suggestion of special treatment. Then from a shelf where important tools were kept, he pulled down a steel cleaver of obvious heft and sharpness. “Regardless what you think, I’m not a monster. I have mercy, and I genuinely want to let you off with a warning. So tell me now. Be honest. Which one is your good hand?”

“My what?”

“Which hand do you cook with?”

The hero was right-handed—a point made several times in the narrative. But he was a clever sort, having the presence of mind to lift his left hand as far as the shackles allowed.

“Very well,” said the officer, smiling with a professional coolness. Then he turned to two nameless fellows waiting in the shadows. “Hold the right wrist,” he instructed. “Hold it very tight now.”

As the cleaver rose, the hero shouted, “Not that hand, no!”

“Then you should have answered differently,” was the response. And at least one member of the audience—an apolitical sort on his best day—grimaced and curled up tight, fending off the blows that came only in his imagination.

* * * *

Following the Great Lunch Disaster, I retreated to my room and called home, leaving a very sorry report on the office answering machine. I was exhausted, and with an evening event with another French firm scheduled, I stripped and collapsed under the covers, drifting into a wonderful, dreamless sleep.

Noises woke me.

First came the precise knocking on wood, and then a loud, uncomfortable voice saying my name.

Sitting up, I assumed I was late for my appointment. Clumsy apologies preceded the realization that Claude wasn’t speaking. In fact, it was a woman’s voice. I coughed, muttered, “Just a minute,” and managed to put one leg into my pants before finding enough curiosity to ask the obvious question:

“Who is it?”

“Noelene.”

“Oh.” Why did I know that name? My mind saw the woman at lunch, but that seemed unlikely. My memory was playing games with me. “Just a moment,” I begged, fastening my pants and buttoning my shirt halfway before realizing that I hadn’t lined up the buttons and holes properly. Fine. I reached for the door regardless, and that was when another possibility occurred to me. Noelene was a sweet voice standing in the hallway, flanked by a pair of French thugs, the three of them ready to rob the vulnerable American.

No peephole had been bored into the heavy old door. I left the chain attached, and with my foot serving as a second line of defense, I looked through the tiniest gap.

My first instinct had been right. Except for her smile, the woman from lunch looked perfectly miserable. “It is bad,” she announced.

“What is?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t.” Nodding at my bed, I admitted, “I have jet lag.”

“You bombed us.”

Startled, I stepped back.

The woman stared at the chain and then at me. Her smile had become something else. The anger was perfectly reasonable, but there was compassion as well. She put her arms around her waist, sighing deeply before saying, “We could be at war.”

“No,” I managed. “Not war.”

Quietly, almost tenderly, she said, “Kyle. Please let me inside.”

I shut the door and unfastened the chain and opened it again. Then I turned on the television, preprogrammed to find the hotel’s most useless channel—classical music playing while a slide show proved what a fine city Nancy was. Where was the BBC? I punched buttons, absorbing repeated images of the same fire and smoke. The other networks were full of the news, but at least the British voices could explain what I was seeing.

“Algeria?” I managed. “What’s in Algeria?”

“Our space program,” she claimed.

“You have one?” I blurted, using an unfortunate tone.

Noelene grimaced. But for a minute or two she said nothing, allowing me to gain some appreciation for what had happened in the middle of the North African desert. Rockets and the assembly buildings, fuel tanks and even the railroad lines leading south from Algiers had been obliterated. Smart-bombs and small teams of commandoes had done the brutal work. Casualties were less than fifty, although those numbers were preliminary. Then that wise BBC voice explained that a wing of long-range Skyrangers was fueling in Missouri, preparing to strike the uranium enrichment facility outside Grenoble.

“Why are we admitting that?” I asked the television.

“Because you like us so much,” Noelene replied, sarcasm riding on her voice. “We are your friends. Your allies, on occasion. You’re giving us time to move our civilians out of harm’s way.” That’s how we did things in Israel: A stern warning followed less than a day later with a burrowing bomb, famous for its cleanliness but still throwing a horrible mess across the Negev.

Not knowing what to say, I whispered, “All right.”

She looked at my chest.

Yes, my buttons. I undid them and began again, and when success was near, I thought to ask, “But why are you here?”

She didn’t seem to notice the question.

“You don’t like me,” I continued. “And you hate my country.”

She looked at my eyes and said, “Kyle.”

It’s silly, I know. But I liked the way my name sounded coming out of her wide, lovely mouth.

“I don’t know you,” Noelene began. “And I don’t hate your country. But I know America enough to despise its government’s policies.”

“But why are you here?”

“This is my supervisor’s idea,” she explained. “When this news broke, he mentioned that he was worried about you. He turned to me and explained that he couldn’t get involved—his station and responsibilities wouldn’t allow it—but he thought that I might take pity on you. You need help. Yes? Before events swallow up all of our lives?”

I settled on the corner of my bed.

She considered the nearby chair. But sitting wasn’t her intention. “Your passport.”

“What about it?”

“You’ll need it and any essential belongings.”

I was confused.

“But leave your suitcase, and please don’t bother checking out of the hotel. My car is close. We can reach the highway before 17:00.”

“When?”

“Five o’clock.”

It was that late. I stared at my watch, trying to decide what to take. If I was actually leaving, that is.

“Kyle?”

“Are we going back to Paris?”

“God, no.” The ignorance of an average American amazed Noelene. “You have to leave this country as soon as possible. Germany isn’t far, if we start right now...!”

* * * *

Every face in the world suddenly seemed important. Every glance from a stranger carried menace: Do they know who I am? Do they want revenge? The average pedestrian looked tense, distracted and angry. Two old men stood on a street corner, rigid fingers accusing the sky of something or another, and though I couldn’t understand them, I had no doubt that Algeria was the topic. A gentleman in a suit and tie leaned against a stone building, listening to the static and news on a small transistor radio. A young woman walking toward us suddenly looked at me, and a smile flickered before vanishing into an expression more grim than seemed possible on such a pretty face. Then as we passed each other, she whispered a few words to Noelene.

Noelene replied with a phrase, nothing more.

“Did you know her?” I asked.

“No.” She fished a single car key from her purse. “I don’t. How would I?”

“It just seemed—” I began.

“Here,” she interrupted, steering me to a vehicle even tinier than Claude’s Renault. But remarkably, it was a Ford. A model not sold in America, but an unexpected harbinger of home. I took this as a good sign. Crawling into the passenger seat, I thanked Noelene for her unexpected help. She nodded and looked at the steering wheel, saying nothing. Then remembering the key in her hand, she started the little motor and took the wheel with both hands before facing me. “I’m doing what I was told to do,” she stated.

“You’ve explained that. But thank you anyway.”

Pushing the car into gear, she said, “I should warn you. My driving is rather spectacular.”

“What is that?” I said above the revving. I assumed that “spectacular” was the wrong word.

But it wasn’t.

Minutes later, I was wearing my seat belt and shoulder harness and my door was locked, both hands wrapped around the plastic handle above the window. As promised, we were flying down the highway. It seemed as if we were on the same road on which I had entered Nancy. Noelene admitted that it was, then added, “But not for long.” Several quick turns followed, and I lost all track of where I was. Maybe we were heading for Germany, but why was the sun on my right? Didn’t we want the sun setting behind us? I asked myself that reasonable question, more than once, and she must have heard my thoughts because without prompting, she volunteered, “We will be turning in another few kilometers. Don’t worry.”

I had so much to worry about, I let that topic drop.

“Do you mind?” she asked, reaching between us.

“What?” I sputtered.

“The radio. May I listen to the news?”

“Of course. Yes.”

A professional newscaster was talking. The man’s level, almost soothing voice might have been discussing stock prices or the weather. But then he vanished, replaced by the taped comments of some government official. Or so I guessed: Government voices have that gait, that self-importance, making pronouncements meant to represent millions but mattering only to their inflated egos.

We kept driving south.

One important turnoff was marked with what for the French was a large sign, and I was quite sure that the arrow was pointing toward the United German States. But then we were past it, and looking back, I had to ask, “Why?”

Noelene glanced at me longer than she should have. At the speeds we were driving, I wanted her eyes forward. “Do you understand anything?” she asked.

What we were talking about?

“French,” she explained.

“‘Merci.’ Maybe a few other—”

“The borders have been closed, Kyle.”

My grip on the handle couldn’t be any tighter, but that wasn’t for lack of trying. “What borders? With Germany?”

“As a precaution, yes.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“But I have a friend,” she continued. “A customs agent, and I think he’ll help us.”

I don’t like messes. I never have. And that seemed like the worst part of this nightmare—its considerable untidiness.

“He works in,” she began, naming a town I didn’t know.

“And he’ll let me across?”

She said, “Yes.”

Then a little softer, “I think so.”

Maybe this was best. Maybe everything would work out, and I could climb on a nice German plane and head home. But even as I sat back in the hard little seat—as the sun finished setting and the French scenery raced past with a succession of blurring, increasingly dark grays—I thought to look at the single key in the car’s ignition. What kind of person keeps her key on its own ring?

“Is this car yours?”

Noelene gave my abrupt question a little too much thought. Then looking straight ahead, she said, “Yes.” She used the word that one time, just to practice the lie. Then again, with more authority, she told me, “Yes,” and glanced my way, showing an unconvincing smile.

* * * *

We drove fast and far, and I applied myself to learning everything possible about this strange automobile. The speedometer had us scorching along at better than 150 KPH, riding on nothing but four doughnut-sized tires. Our gas tank wasn’t full when we began, and by the time I began paying attention, the gauge read half-empty. Despite the darkness, I tried to spot landmarks and keep track of our turns. But I’ve never been much of a navigator. Finally, summoning a measure of courage, I asked, “Do you have a road map?”

She seemed ready for my request. “Look in the glove box, Kyle.”

I was already opening it, to find nothing but the car manual and several receipts that I couldn’t read in the dark.

I said nothing, contemplating my situation.

She imagined questions and picked one to answer.

“This won’t last much longer, Kyle.”

“Pardon?”

“The world situation. American power.” Something about this was funny. I didn’t expect her to laugh, but that’s what she did: A soft, girlish giggle followed by the apology, “I don’t mean that your country will be destroyed. Nobody wants that. But you know, this power you have over the rest of us ... it’s fragile. It’s doomed. That’s what I meant to say.”

I nodded seriously, as if politics were forefront in my mind. Then over the hum of the highway, I asked what seemed like a perfectly reasonable question. “How would that help anything?”

She said nothing. In a particular way, she held her silence.

“I don’t understand,” I admitted. “The world is prosperous and at peace. Why would you want to upset the order of things?”

Noelene leaned close to the steering wheel, as if willing herself to reach our destination sooner.

“What kind of world would this be?” I asked. “All right, France acquires the bomb. Then the Israelis and Egyptians, the Soviets and Chinese. Britain and Germany would have to build suitable armories. And I suppose even Canada would want two or three little nukes, just to earn their southern neighbor’s respect.” I had found my rhythm, listing progressively smaller nations. French sensibilities were triggered when I mentioned, “Switzerland.”

“Why?” she interrupted. “Why would the Swiss need such things?”

I watched her and watched the dashboard. The red silhouette of a gasoline tank warned that we were nearly out of fuel.

Noelene risked a quick glance my way. Then with eyes fixed on the blurring road, she stated, “Neutral powers wouldn’t bother.”

“Well,” I pointed out. “Perhaps they wouldn’t see things quite as you do.”

She said nothing.

And I kept my own silence, realizing just how sick of worry I was. This deep dread of mine began before I boarded the plane in Chicago, and every step of my journey had made it heavier and more acidic.

“You never should have done it,” she began.

“What’s that?”

“The nuclear monopoly ... you should never have claimed it. Never. If you had shared your nuclear plans, the genuine powers would have each built only what we needed. France would have a few bombs, and the Soviets, and everyone. Our borders would be protected. There wouldn’t be any reason for war. Why would one nation fight another if it meant that their capital would burn, their population enduring catastrophic losses?”

“Is that how things would be?”

“Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “Peace. Real peace. And some world court that would judge the nations, identifying what was wrong and making settlements between competitors. This is obvious ... so obvious ... I cannot believe anyone would think otherwise.”

“Yet I do,” I admitted.

She grimaced. “You can’t hold this power forever.”

I was terrified and extraordinarily tired, yet at the same moment my mind was sharp. Pushing my face close to her ear, I asked, “And how will you stop us, Noelene?”

She gave a start, the swift little car wandering out of its lane. Then she straightened her back and our trajectory, eyes straight ahead, bright with tears. “You aren’t monsters,” she informed me.

“I know I’m not.”

“When you realize ... when your country understands how many innocent civilians you’ll have to murder to maintain your hegemony ... well, you’ll stop yourselves. Your president will have no choice but to recall those bombers. Yes? I know this. You’re not psychopaths, and your conscience won’t let you slaughter thousands of peaceful demonstrators.”

“Thousands?” I blurted.

She fell silent.

Leaning against my door, I asked, “Where are you taking me, Noelene?”

One hand came off the steering wheel, fingertips wiping at her eyes as the car drifted out of its lane again. “To the border. I told you.”

There was little heart left in her lie.

For the next sixteen minutes, we rode in total silence. I asked myself how close we were to Grenoble and how slow we would have to be going for me to open my door and roll onto the pavement. Better that than get involved in some bizarre self-imposed hostage situation, surely. Then came the mechanical clicking of a turn signal, and Noelene was braking while pulling off the highway. A pool of fluorescent green light beckoned, gas pumps and cheery French signs and a very welcome Coke symbol hung in the bright station window. “I thought we had enough fuel,” she muttered, perhaps speaking to herself.

She sounded as worried as I felt.

“I’ll make this quick,” she promised, throwing a weak smile at her increasingly wily captive.

* * * *

I opened my door as soon as the car stopped. My mind was made up. Better to take my chances with strangers, I reasoned, than remain at the mercy of this misguided woman. I assumed that Noelene would try to stop me. She’d offer more lies or perhaps threaten me. What I didn’t expect was no reaction past a vague, “Where are you going?”

“The bathroom,” I lied.

But before I managed two steps, someone shouted her name. People were standing at the edge of the light, a large group gathered around what looked like a parked school bus. Noelene climbed out of the borrowed car and looked at them, and the worries on her face fell away. She called out several names, waving enthusiastically. Several young men came running, examining me while passing and then gathering around their good friend, talking with quiet intense voices. I kept walking. One by one, the men glanced at me, nodding happily. Stepping into the service station, I realized that I had to pee in the most urgent, desperate way. The bathroom was a small, extraordinarily clean room with one toilet and a lock. There had to be a back door out of the station. But first, I did what couldn’t wait, and then as the toilet ran, I splashed water on my face and dried my hands, wondering which way was east, and what were the odds of a terrified, language-impaired American making his own way across the German border.

But the challenge wouldn’t be met. Two substantial men were waiting outside the bathroom door. Waiting for me, judging by the hands that grabbed my shoulders and elbows. I felt tiny. I felt carried, although my feet remained on the floor with every step. A sour looking woman behind the counter glared at me, and the largest man said, “Your passport. It is with you?”

For no good reason but to be difficult, I said, “No.”

Noelene was waiting for us outside. The big man asked her a question, and visibly surprised, she said, “He brought it with him, yes.”

“I threw it out the window,” I lied. “Miles and miles ago.”

“You did what?” Strangely, that angered her. She sneered and gave a few quick instructions in French, and a hand almost too big to fit inside my right front pocket snatched up the prize. Then it was handed to her, and she slipped it inside her pocket, saying, “I’ll keep this safe for you, Kyle.”

“No,” I muttered.

“We ride in the bus together,” the big man said, giving me a bone-rattling pat on the back.

Again, I said, “No.”

“We insist.”

I decided to collapse on the pavement. But that did nothing but strip away the last of my dignity. The men grabbed my arms and legs and carried me to the bus and up into the darkness. I smelled smoke and liquor and competing perfumes. Who wears perfume to a mass suicide? I begged to be put down, and I agreed to stand on my own, but my captors insisted on shoving me into one of the front seats, next to a small figure that looked female and was wearing some kind of uniform.

I didn’t recognize the woman. Honestly, I hadn’t looked twice at the face riding beside me in the airliner. But the black and orange-trimmed uniform was the same, and she had the same build and similar short hair. Someone or something had struck her face, probably more than once, and someone else had given her a white towel to press against what looked like a very ugly cut beside her left eye.

I looked at the bus door, ready to run.

But the big Frenchman read my mind. Standing in the aisle, he grinned down at me, explaining, “We wait for the rest. As soon as they come, we leave. Very soon now.”

My earlier terrors were nothing compared to this. Anxieties were piled high. I breathed hard, moaned and shook. My hope of hopes was to panic—a full-blown craziness born from adrenaline and nothing left to loose. I would beg. I would lie. Any excuse was viable, aiming for whatever was most pathetic. I was even sorry that I had emptied my bladder, since I doubted anyone here would appreciate riding to the Alps with a urine-soaked coward.

Through the bus windows, I saw Noelene move her car away from the pumps, parking somewhere behind the bus.

Another little car arrived, pulling up ahead, out of view. But I barely noticed. Watching my hands tremble, I wished I could call home, just once, and tell my news to whoever picked up the receiver.

Through the open windows, a voice found me.

I recognized its timbre, its smoothness. Leaping to my feet, I saw a familiar face talking to the big man and Noelene.

I started to shout, “Claude,” but someone behind me decided to shove me, dropping me to the rubberized floor.

Shifting in our seat, the rad-hunter looked down at me. The gore and shadows made her look especially defiant. Plainly, I wasn’t doing a very good job of defending my nation’s honor.

Claude spoke with the others for several minutes, arguing and explaining before stopping, allowing an increasing number of participants to take their turn. I returned to my seat, listening to every sound. Once again my translator repeated his points, making sure that he was understood. There was gravity to his tone, plus a little despair. Suddenly the rad-hunter pulled away the towel, taking a deep breath before telling me, “They’re letting you go.”

“What?”

“Your friend just saved you,” she explained, staring at me with a vivid, hateful envy.

The big man came into the bus and waved at me.

With shoulders bowed, I went to him. I would have kissed him on the hands and cheeks, I was that happy. Then I was led outside, and Claude watched me until I looked at him. Then he turned to Noelene, offering a few words intended only for her.

“I didn’t know,” she said to me.

The woman was weeping. Because of me or because of her emotions getting the best of her—I couldn’t tell which.

I started to talk, but Claude interrupted. “You have your passport? You will need it.”

Where was my soul? I stupidly patted my pockets before remembering that it was stolen a few minutes ago.

I looked at weepy Noelene.

“He must have it,” Claude warned.

She seemed more willing to surrender me than the document. But she placed it in my hands, and for a long moment, I did nothing. I was waiting for an apology. But none was offered. Once again, she claimed, “I didn’t know,” and she turned and walked away toward the bus.

“Don’t go,” I blurted.

Startled, she looked back at me.

“Go there, and you will die,” I said with all of the authority I could muster. “It’ll be like Israel, a burrowing nuke. It’ll make a huge mess, and you’ll get poisoned and die in some slow awful way.”

That fate had its terrors, but she refused to cower. Braver than I would ever be, Noelene said, “Your people won’t let this happen. How could they? We’re allies. We helped your country win its freedom.” She made a bomber with one hand, and smiling, pulled it back toward the sky. “Your president will see us, and in the end, he will give in.”

As fast as the journey south had been, the return trip was even faster. The tiny Renault rattled and shook, and its driver focused his attentions on the road, barely finding the breath, much less the need, to explain that he had traded in several favors and paid some undisclosed bribe to less forgiving souls, and that’s before he had told Noelene that my only child was back in the States, in the Mayo Clinic, dying of cancer.

“That’s why she’s sorry,” I muttered.

“A little lie,” he confessed.

Watching the same road, I said, “Thank you.”

Which made him angrier, it seemed. We were heading toward Paris and some final flight home, though he wasn’t promising that we would make it in time.

“How did you know where I was?”

He didn’t answer.

Again, I told him, “Thank you.”

Maybe he nodded. I watched but I wasn’t sure.

The car radio was turned up high. It was the middle of the night, but the voices were animated and steady, senselessly describing events of great importance. I found myself thinking about the rad-hunter and what would happen to her and Noelene. Mostly Noelene.

“I knew where you would be,” said Claude, glancing at me.

“You’re involved with them,” I guessed.

“Since the beginning,” he allowed. “Yes.” He sighed and a few moments later admitted, “But I’m glad you’re here. You are my excuse. Really, I don’t want to die tonight.”

“That’s funny,” I muttered.

He looked at me, insulted.

“I don’t mean funny,” I apologized. “I meant to say odd. It’s odd because ... this sounds silly, I know ... but some part of me wants to be with them now. You know? All those brave noble people doing what they think must be right. I don’t want to be there, and I don’t want to be a hostage, no. But there’s two women that I keep thinking about. Isn’t that crazy?”

“It is human nature,” my savior said, shaking his head wearily.

The sun was beginning to show itself. Looking east, I began to mention the first flush of dawn. But then the radio gave a harsh sputtering roar before the station fell silent. We listened to the static, and then Claude turned off the radio, and we listened to the road and our own thoughts. Really, at that point, what else could be said?