Saboteur: A Novel (8 page)

Chapter 15

The phone rang and rang before he finally gave in and
switched to Nazim’s cell. The only time he wouldn’t answer was if he was at the
helm of his boat. It was off-season for travel in Egypt, not to mention late
evening, so he expected Nazim’s voice to pick up instantly. The line went
directly to voicemail instead. It was Nazim’s same generic message he had had
for all the years Downy had known him.

“Nazim, it’s Noah. Please give me a
ring as soon as you can.” Downy hated leaving messages and phones in general
for all that. He realized he had absolutely nothing to do for the rest of the
whole day. He thought of the backlog of messages at school and considered the
unthinkable. Going in on a Saturday. The office would be quiet; he could get a
ton of work finished in no time.

He suddenly realized Samara was going to be in his class for
the whole semester. What had he been thinking letting her kiss him? Oh well, he
could get used to it if he had to he supposed. It would certainly keep him on
his toes. It was funny, so many people asked him about the lure of female
students in his classes. The truth was nineteen year olds weren’t nearly as
attractive as one might believe. For Downy at least the notion of having a
romantic or sexual relationship with someone who was trying to get also get a grade
from you was the very definition of unethical, and frankly not very sexy. The
power dynamics were insulting to both. How could a student ever know whether or
not she was simply being used for her body? And for that matter a teacher for a
potential “A.” How could any teacher be objective when sex was involved?
Gratefully, he found he had little intellectually in common with his students
anyway. He certainly knew some professors who were willing to take advantage of
the situation, but the aftermath was always a catastrophe.

“Thank God for the teacher’s
union,” one professor had confessed to him. He had held his tongue, but never
felt the same about the guy again.

He felt a ping of hypocrisy over
Samara though, but then reminded himself that what had happened was certainly
no love affair. And now that he knew what was going on he felt even more
paternal toward her. He realized that feeling had a dangerous quality as well.
It was only a kiss, but my god it had been electric. Her vulnerability only
made things worse. He tried to remind himself that the word
help
had all sorts of connotations when
it came to men and women. He needed to be careful going forward, for everyone’s
sake.

As he drove toward the campus he
stretched his arms in the air and let out a loud yelp. It was his relief yelp.
They hadn’t slept together.

He yowled into the wind, “No sex
for me, please. Thank you!” and laughed.

“I’ll be smart enough for the both of us,” she had said.
What if she had had a room key in her
pocket,
Downy thought to himself.
Seriously?
Jesus
. He’d be smarter than that he hoped.

The campus was certainly easy to navigate on weekends, so
his trip took only minutes. He paused at the top of the stairs, thinking he
heard someone. Who would it be on a Saturday? His office was situated on the
western corner of campus; the “suite” as the other professors called it. There
was plenty of envy over the space, not to mention the personal secretary that
came with it. He listened again, but the sound was gone. When he opened the door
the room smelled musty and a pungent gust of body odor hit him in the face.
There must have been a janitor at work he thought. On the shelf there was the
bobble head of Julius Caesar and Mark Antony Charlie had given him after
publication of his first book. Their heads still wobbled. He touched them and
both stopped. The guy had dusted them too he supposed.
Thorough if not overly motivated
, he thought to himself, but the
goddamn smell was certainly lingering. He sat down at his desk, propping up his
feet and looking at the blinking light of his message machine. Still two
messages, though his secretary was supposed to have returned all his calls with
the usual ‘we’ll get back to yous.' Downy almost never did. It was one of the
great things about being so in demand. You didn’t have to talk to anyone you
didn’t want to.

Downy punched the button: “Uh,
hello there, Professor Downy. I’m calling from the precinct, uh…actually, this
is Detective Sullivan calling from—uh--sorry SDPD. Just needed to ask you a few
questions and hopefully set up a time to get together. Shouldn’t take long and
I’m completely flexible time wise.”

Downy grimaced. It was that again.
Of course they would want to see the house. Downy grabbed his cell and pulled
up Naomi’s number.

Guess what? Need to
let the cops into the house again. Ahhhrghhhhh….”
he texted
.

This made the fourth time in so
many years that police had come to their home. It had started to become
annoying because Downy and his wife hadn’t even lived in the house when the crime
had taken place. Every few years they were reminded of it by another visit from
the police. They never gave details, of course, but it had been bad enough that
they were still trying to find clues apparently. It had helped tremendously
with the price of the house though, which was undoubtedly worth a million or
more. He and Naomi had made an offer the day of because of the outrageously
gorgeous views of the ocean, even when they were still barely in the pink
because of his first book. The offer was accepted in immediately, even though
they’d underbid. He had guaranteed Naomi there would be ghosts, but that hadn’t
panned out. He wondered why the police were still interested, since everything
had been redone and painted even before they had moved in. Whatever had
happened, there couldn’t possibly be a trace left now. Downy hit callback and
the same voice from the message answered the phone almost immediately.

“Detective Sullivan here.”

“Just returning your call, detective.
Hey, I can leave you guys a key at the house, if you want to come in. It’s all
been looked at a few times now--any idea how much longer this will be going on?
You know, this makes the fourth time you guys have looked.”

Sullivan shuffled the phone. “I’m
super sorry for the inconvenience. This is an old case and we’re just trying to
tie up a few loose ends. If it’s all the same I was hoping to ask you a few
questions as well.”

“Ok,” he said hesitantly, “but you
know this all happened befo--”

“Yes, yes I know, I read through
the file and of course you weren’t occupants of the house yet, but I am brand
new to the case and I’m just trying to orient myself to the timeline. I’d
really appreciate it. You tell me when and where and I’ll come to you, ok? Take
fifteen minutes of your time at the most.”

“Sure,” he said finally giving up.
“Come by my office Monday, say ten o’clock?”

“That’s perfect. Thank you very
much, Professor Downy. See you Monday at ten.”

A silver lining, he now had an official excuse to skip
class. Samara would wonder if he didn’t show, but he hoped to speak to her soon
anyway. He wondered why Nazim wasn’t returning his call. He usually called back
within hours. He represented huge income for Nazim’s family, not to mention
their genuine friendship. What could be going on over there? It wasn’t yet time
to worry, but it would be soon. He threw open the windows. The pungent smell
was still wafting around the room and as he looked around the office he could
see dust almost everywhere. The guy had done a shit job on everything but the
bobble heads apparently. Standing there in the silence, he knew he wasn’t going
to be able to get any work done. Fuck it, he would head over to Woody’s then
and toast to an old friend. He flicked Mark Antony one final time on his way
out the door. Antony looked like he was trying to tell Caesar something
important, but Caesar wasn’t listening.

Chapter 16

The man climbed the slope of the grassy hill slowly. The
time underwater had completely drained him and his muscles still burned.
Finally, reaching the covered carriage he peered in anxiously. His prisoner was
out cold. Whoever had come past the water must have moved on unaware. In the
dark almost no one would recognize him anyway, but the daylight was another matter.
It could just as easily have been a gang of thieves. The roads were no place to
be in this part of the world in any case. Any sane man knew that. It would be
daybreak in less than an hour and he realized he was too tired to move again.
He would camp here for the morning. He could find the ruins easily when his
energy returned. He was technically way ahead of schedule anyway. He wouldn’t
need to be at the pond until three more moons had passed. It was too difficult
keeping up with the days of the week, so the movement of the moon and stars
would have to suffice. It was an ancient means of measuring, but incredibly
accurate. What good was a clock in a place like this anyhow? Half of the zodiac
was clearly visible in the night sky so he knew dawn was near. The ruins were
barely a day’s ride, even at a slow pace. He had to give credit to the members
of the network. They had made the inherent difficulties of the situation easy
to overcome, even for someone like him with limited language skills. They had
been thorough. Men of science had always appealed to him for this reason, but
certainly they were weak in other ways. Who was more self-centered, more
pointlessly arrogant, than the man of science? There was at least a sense of
one’s place in the grand scheme in the religious man, and even if he himself
could never sense the real presence of a god, he preferred the man of some
belief over the fool who could imagine nothing bigger, nothing grander than
himself. Religious men knew how to die well at least. Men of science died like
little squealing pigs. He’d seen it himself. He’d spared almost any man who
showed poise at the moment of death, no matter how much of an enemy they had
been. It was an internal rule he’d always obeyed. He reached into his pocket
for the sugar cubes and took two. One for now and one for later just in case he
slept too long. A gentle wave of euphoria overtook him.

In the moonlight he could see down
his leg. Blood had dried around the cuts from the rocks. It stung. Otherwise he
was clean. He thought of the boy, his corpse now at the bottom of the river. He
had died probably never realizing exactly what had happened, which was for the
best. Choices had to be made. The worst kind of killing was that of a youth
though. Older men had had time to accumulate plenty of sins, for which death
was almost always a justice served. He knew he had to stay focused on his goal
no matter the body count. If he was successful all wrongs could be justified,
all could be set right again. He looked into the back once more and could see
the prisoner’s lips moving, but his eyes were closed, his mouth agape. It would
be wise to chain him just in case. The man pulled the shackle from the bag in
the back and slid it up the ankle, locking it securely in place. He doubled the
chain around the center axle and fastened the smaller lock. With the clicking
of it in place his prisoner let out a low moan. From here on out he had to
prepare himself for when he woke up. That would come soon. Then the hysteria.
He would make sure not to let his face be visible this time and hope the memory
of the shock wouldn’t be too fresh. The boy had insisted it was the only way to
convince his uncle. It had backfired, as he knew it would. Once they reached
the ruins he could safely lock his prisoner in a cell. The second wave of the
sugar cube erased the need for further thought and the man fell asleep almost
in the sitting up position, eyes flickering behind their lids, a half smile
across his lips. He dreamed he was Icarus flying through the clouds, higher and
higher. He heard a voice in the dream. It was his first lieutenant shouting
that the way had been cleared. He was back on the battlefield then, where he
truly belonged. He should never have returned home in the first place; perhaps
none of this would have happened if he’d stayed with his men. Fate was
impartial though, wasn’t she, and without much effort could sway events one way
or the other.

Chapter 17

The scurry and bustle of Monday mornings in San Diego was
less hectic than he had expected and he had inadvertently shown up to work
early. He made sure everyone saw him as he passed their desks. Who could say
when it might happen again? Finally, he sat down at his chair drinking a large
coffee from Donut Haven. It had turned out to be a great spot to review the
files, since no one spoke a word of English in the place. They smiled fluently
though and he genuinely appreciated the silence. Then just to drive home the
stereotype they had insisted on taking his picture with one of those ancient
Polaroid cameras, which the woman running the place had then dutifully added to
the wall. It was a motley crew of faces. They were the expressions of people
who still insisted coffee should never cost more than 99 cents. Sullivan looked
at his watch. It was still two hours before his meeting, though he would need
to leave early since he really didn’t know his way around the campus.

“You know there’s a Starbucks a
block away from us if you need something with taste.”

 
He looked over his shoulder. It was Tierney.
Tierney looked too fresh for the morning; his shave was immaculate and his
clothing starched to within an inch of its life. He sat down in the seat
opposite Sullivan.

“Detective I wanted to update you
on some protocols you may not be used to. It is imperative here that I know
where to find you and that if asked I can speak with authority about what you
have and have not done when it comes to police work. Your laptop is connected
to the main feed here,” he said pointing to endless rows of computers and
people with headsets clicking away at them. “Please make sure to orient
yourself to the software and log all of your appointments, ok? Technically
those are Homeland Security folks over there, but I managed to carve out a
little of the budget for us as well. I know where you come from being a wolf
and hunting alone is the norm. It’s the opposite here. Methodical is the word.
It’s the only word.”

Sullivan held up the laptop turning
it in all directions like a cavemen analyzing something utterly foreign and
perplexing to him. He put his teeth to it for a taste and then sniffed it.
Tierney rose to leave in disgust, but Sullivan stopped him. “I synced my phone
with this yesterday from home, I hope you don’t mind. My appointments calendar
is updated. It’s a little too easy to hack into your shit to be honest. I
cleared out some bugs for you guys as well. Is there an actual I.T. guy or is
everybody over there taking orders for value meals?”

Tierney walked away without
speaking. Sullivan chewed absent-mindedly at his pen. So Tierney was keeping
him on a truly tight leash. Perhaps he was worried about his lack of full
disclosure on the case after all.
Nah
Sullivan thought,
he just wanted to be
the first to know if there was a break in the case.
He was snooping
. Tackett was probably shooting straight on Tierney.
He looked two desks down where the chief’s son sat typing away at his computer.

“Hey, Sheppard,” Sullivan yelled.
“You know the fastest way to San Diego College?”

“Yeah,” he said without looking up.
“MapQuest it.”

“Thanks,” Sullivan said, “you’re
the best.”