‘I was born in Lithuania, Mr Bell, to a family so poor that I didn’t have a pair of shoes until I was twelve years old. My father beat me and abused me every day. But one night, when I was fifteen, he climbed into my bed, drunk as usual, and I strangled him with my bare hands. I carried his body downstairs to the living room and sat him in his chair, and I poured lamp oil all over him. Then I set fire to him.’
There was a staccato knock at the van’s rear door. ‘Mr Lasser, sir? We’re getting pushed for time.’
Charles Lasser called back, ‘Coming, Michael!’ Then he leaned closer to Frank’s ear and said, ‘On that night, when my father’s body was blazing in front of me, I swore that I would never let anybody take advantage of me, ever again. I would never let anybody scorn me or laugh at me. I would always have my revenge, no matter how long it took, and I would always make sure that my revenge was a hundred times worse than what had been done to me.’
‘And you call me mad?’
Charles Lasser gave him a slow, amused smile. ‘I like you, Mr Bell. I’m sorry our acquaintance has to be so brief.’
‘Me too,’ said Frank, and as Charles Lasser turned to leave, he seized him around the neck and hit his head against the side of the van as hard as he could.
Charles Lasser gave an extraordinary high-pitched squeal, like an injured pig. Frank grabbed both of his ears and hit his head again, and again, and again. The van boomed like the inside of a kettle drum.
‘Everything OK, Mr Lasser?’ called the voice from outside.
‘Everything’s fine!’ Frank shouted back, trying to sound gruff.
‘Only a couple of minutes to go, Mr Lasser.’
Panting, Frank wrestled himself out of the suicide vest. Then he lifted up Charles Lasser’s lolling arms, one after the other, and tugged it on to him. It was a tight fit, because he was so huge, but he managed to fasten two out of the three buckles at the front. Then he took the remote control box out of Charles Lasser’s pocket and wedged it into his belt.
‘Mr Lasser! Time to go!’
Frank slapped Charles Lasser’s face. ‘Wake up, you bastard! Come on, wake up!’
‘That’s it, Mr Lasser, else we’re going to miss our twelve o’clock deadline!’
‘Wake up, for Christ’s sake!’ Frank hissed at him. He hoped to God that he hadn’t killed him. There was blood on his collar and his face was mottled and gray.
‘Wake up, will you, for Christ’s sake!’
Charles Lasser’s eyelids quivered, and then he snorted and opened his eyes. He stared at Frank, trying to focus.
‘Get up,’ Frank ordered.
Charles Lasser looked around. He blinked once, and then he blinked again. Then he filled his lungs and roared, ‘You piece of shit! I’ll rip your fucking head off and piss down your neck!’ He grabbed hold of one of the support bars along the side of the van, and heaved himself on to his feet.
Frank stumbled back. He hadn’t expected him to wake up so volcanically. He took out the remote control box, yanked out its antenna, and held it up in front of Charles Lasser’s face.
‘Stay there! Don’t move!’
‘You pathetic moron,’ sneered Charles Lasser. ‘Michael! Louis! Get in here!’
‘Don’t move,’ Frank repeated. ‘I don’t think you understand what’s happened here. You see what this is?’
Charles Lasser frowned at the remote control box, trying to get it into focus. Realization spread slowly across his face. Then he looked down at his chest and placed both his hands on his big, flat RDX breasts.
The rear doors were opened wide, and two men in brown coveralls climbed into the van. One was bald and wore earrings; the other had a shock of black hair like a young Columbo.
‘Stay where you are!’ Frank screamed at them. He sounded much shriller than he had meant to, like a panicking ballet dancer. The two men ignored him and started to push their way forward between the boxes.
‘Do what he says!’ Charles Lasser bellowed.
‘Mr Lasser?’ said the bald one.
‘Don’t you understand English? Do what he says! Or haven’t you noticed that I’m wearing twenty-five pounds of plastic explosive and he’s holding the remote?’
The man with the shock of black hair crossed himself twice. The bald one simply looked confused.
‘Back off,’ Frank ordered them. ‘Get out of the van, and then walk away. When Mr Lasser and I climb out of here, I don’t want to see you anywhere in sight, otherwise it’s boom! You got it?’
‘Boom, yes, OK, we got it,’ said the man with the black hair. He pulled at the other man’s arm and together they retreated to the rear of the van and scrambled out.
Frank turned to Charles Lasser. ‘Now you.’
‘And supposing I refuse? If you press that button in here, then that’s both of us gone.’
‘You know something?’ said Frank. ‘It would be worth it.’
Charles Lasser looked at him for a moment, and then he said, ‘What do you want me to do? Apologize?’
‘That’s up to you. All I want you to do is confess.’
‘There’s still nothing to connect me with Dar Tariki Tariqat. Believe me, I was very careful about that. Nothing to connect me, except you.’
‘Just get out of the van,’ Frank told him.
Charles Lasser wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I could turn your life around for you, Mr Bell. You could write a show for Star-TV, and I’d give it the kind of promotion that most writers can only dream about. I could pay you three million dollars a year.’
‘Get out of the van, please,’ Frank repeated.
‘Nobody’s a saint, Mr Bell, not even you.’
‘What kind of a man are you? You killed my only son, you killed my friends, you killed dozens of innocent men, women and children, and now you’re offering me a TV show?’
‘Life has to go on, Mr Bell.’
‘Out.’
Twenty-Nine
Charles Lasser shrugged and began to shuffle toward the rear of the van. Frank followed him, keeping his thumb on the remote control box. When he reached the tailgate, Charles Lasser said, ‘You’re sure you won’t reconsider?’
Frank said nothing. He was trembling all over and he felt as if his head were being repeatedly struck with a pein hammer. Charles Lasser climbed down to the ground and Frank said, ‘Back away. That’s it. Further.’ He jumped down to the ground himself and looked around. The van was parked in a lock-up garage at the rear of a derelict warehouse. Outside, there was a wide concrete apron, glaring in the midday sun, where two rusty semis were parked. There was no sign of the bald man or the man with the shock of black hair.
‘Where is this?’ Frank demanded.
‘Just off Hughes Airport. Fifteen minutes away from Culver Studios. David O. Selznick burned down Atlanta at Culver Studios. Well, what he actually burned down was derelict sets from King Kong, Last of the Mohicans and Little Lord Fauntleroy. Me, I accept no substitutes. When I blow up Hollywood, I blow up Hollywood.’
They walked out across the concrete. After they had gone about seventy-five yards, Frank said, ‘Stop. That’s it. Stay there.’ Charles Lasser stopped, and Frank backed well away from him.
‘So, you’re going to blow me up now, are you?’ Charles Lasser asked him.
‘Call nine-one-one,’ said Frank. ‘Tell them who you are, and where we are, and tell them you want to make a confession.’
‘And what if I won’t?’
‘I think there’s enough evidence here to prove that you were responsible for Dar Tariki Tariqat, don’t you? The van, the explosives . . .’
‘There’s no evidence, Mr Bell. The police and the FBI can search till Doomsday, they won’t find a single document or a single fingerprint or a single computer file that links Charles Lasser with Dar Tariki Tariqat.’