“But it doesn’t make sense!”
“Of course it does. They man our missile silos and we man theirs. It makes perfect sense. We have a vested interest in making sure that their missile silos are secure because if they should ever weaken in their capability then we would be tempted to start a conflict. And, vice versa, the Russians have the same vested interest in our missiles. The system was designed never to be used and this arrangement, to my way of thinking, assures that.”
He imagined a map of the world, a map with miniature missiles pointed east and west. It really didn’t make any difference. Actually it did make sense now that he knew. The leaders of the two powers had actually talked, had actually agreed on something, had agreed on a method to maintain the balance of power so cleverly.
Bernstein looked at his watch. “Well now, major. I must go. A technician will be here shortly to begin the procedure. Please don’t make trouble.”
“I won’t. Now I understand. But could you— Would it be too much to ask if I could be shown the route of my return journey?”
“I don’t see why not, major. I’ll get a map and show you while they get you ready.”
In the dark hallway outside the room Bernstein watched with a man in a fur hat as three soldiers accompanied by a technician wheeled a large packing crate into the room.
“What is it you have there?” said the man.
“A map,” said Bernstein. “He wanted to know where he’s going.”
“And you showed him?”
“I showed him a route home.”
“You know he must be eliminated. A man so insane he breaks out of a silo cannot be trusted.”
“I know. I gave him a dream to go to the bottom of the sea with.”
“He is insane. The very fact that he so easily agreed with our methods of deterrence proves it.”
Bernstein smiled. “He’s young and foolish.”
“And we are old and foolish.”
“Perhaps,” said Bernstein. “Perhaps you’re right.”
The man in the fur hat put his arm around Bernstein. “Of course I’m right. Come, comrade, I have excellent vodka in my office. You drink it with orange juice I believe.”
“Yes,” said Bernstein. “Orange juice is just fine.”
“Good. Several crates of oranges arrived from your state of Florida along with the replacement for 414. We must make use of the oranges before they spoil.”
As they walked down the hallway the sounds of hammering came from the room. The packing crate was being prepared for its journey — first by truck on bone-jarring roads, then the swaying and clacking of a railroad car, then the rolling of the ship.
“In a way I envy him,” said Bernstein. “To fall asleep at peace with the world and simply to stay asleep would be my choice of death.”
“Mine also,” said the man in the fur hat. “Only a fool would wish otherwise.”
Double Crosses
by Elana Lore
Collin Hartman felt strange killing Barton. He didn’t even know the man’s first name. He had this weird idea that murder was a personal thing, sort of like sex, where you were supposed to do it to somebody you knew. But in this case, it was a matter of not having any other alternatives that had driven him to using the marble rolling pin to flatten the fellow.
He had been surprised when he hadn’t been able to talk Barton out of calling the police, but not panicked. He had taken a deep breath, like they’d taught him in improv class, and the idea had just occurred to him. A little voice had said, “Collin, this is your only way out of this one,” and he had obeyed.
He had looked around the elegant kitchen — gleaming blue and white tile floors, teak center cooking island, shiny copper pots and pans — and had seen the glint of sunlight reflecting off the rolling pin on the counter. It was like a sign from above. And Collin firmly believed in signs. He had picked up the rolling pin and used it before Barton had time to react. His motion classes had come in handy. He was a smooth dancer, too.
He felt as he had when he’d had that car accident when he’d been in high school. Just before the impact, his whole life had flashed before him. This time it was different. Instead of his past, the two alternate presents sort of rushed out, like on a computer printout. The bottom line was, if Barton lived, he would go to jail. If Barton died, he could take the money and go away with Ariana.
Collin didn’t know what you were supposed to do after you murdered someone, so he went to the bathroom, washed his hands, looked at his face in the mirror to see if it looked any different (slightly flushed, but basically the same), and then decided he needed a nice hot cup of tea.
Ethel Berg was a kook — an aging opera star who fugued in and out of her starring roles in the middle of a conversation — but she had a nice apartment, and had supplied him with plenty of good food. He felt bad about leaving a dead body in her kitchen, seeing as how it was the only room in the house that had been renovated since about the American Revolution, but at the moment he didn’t know what else to do with the corpse.
Collin put water on to boil, rooted around in the dishwasher for the mug he had been using, then rooted some more in the cabinets for tea. Ethel had left him a wide selection. He decided the full-bodied flavor of English Breakfast was what he needed, so he sloshed some water around in the teapot to heat it up, then shoveled tea into the pot.
Collin was still a little bit high from the confrontation with Barton and the violent murder, so he bounced around the kitchen, somewhat at a loss for something to do while the tea steeped. He thought variously about fixing a sandwich, even though he didn’t have much of an appetite, calling Ariana, who was at work, and just walking out of the apartment. Ethel was due back this evening, so he was already packed and ready to go, as soon as he washed the dishes from tea — and maybe disposed of the body. He was unsure now about leaving it.
He sat at the little alcove table and sipped from his mug, occasionally glancing surreptitiously at the corpse, which had unfortunately landed at the foot of the table.
Collin had been pulling the old apartment scam. Between the acting lessons, dates with Ariana, the visits to tea leaf readers, astrologers, and psychics to find out what was wrong with their relationship, and a couple of bad days at Belmont, he had gone through most of his earnings from his last caper.
Collin had spent months planning the apartment scam, babysitting countless house plants, pets, and collections of whatever it was that rich people who went to Florida and Europe for extended periods of time collected, looking for the right mark.
There’s a real housing shortage in New York, and prices are astronomical, so a nice apartment that’s selling under market can attract hundreds of prospective tenants. At least that’s how Collin had figured it. Also, it had been done before and written up in the papers, so he had a good idea of how to proceed.
Collin had registered with this house-sitting service under one of his stage names and had gotten plenty of good jobs, but there were certain restrictions. It was hard to even have an overnight guest of the opposite sex in a doorman building, so those things were out. And some of his clients had nosy neighbors who kept bringing their own hairy little pets over for play dates with the countless Fidos and Fifis that populated the Upper East Side. He had fairly jumped, therefore, when the opportunity to take an apartment in the East 50’s for two weeks — brownstone, no doorman, eccentric old lady w/houseplants no pets — had come up.