Volkov was ordering her around; Max had gotten inside her, taking over the load and helping her fight back. And now I saw his determination begin to creep onto her face.
A moment later, Volkov realized what was going on-did he read it from me? — and his stare went murderous. His attention narrowed to Max and Max responded, the two locked together, throwing every ounce of energy into competing suggestions and opposing methods, into beating the other, all the imperatives of a lifetime come together.
All at once Max threw his hands in front of him, defensively, like he was being pushed. His face was confused and desperate and I thought, Volkov’s hit him with something he can’t counter. But Volkov’s shoulder was up, pushing back at some unseen force, legs pumping hard just to keep him upright. He was every bit as shaken and off-kilter as Max. Whatever was happening, it was new territory for the two of them.
Until that moment, the five of us fighting were the only ones who knew what was going on. A moment later, the audience on both banks of the river gasped aloud, loud enough to be heard over the shrieking orchestra as the whole affair went public, as all assembled saw what no one could later explain, the sight replayed on video two million times after it was all over.
Two lines of energy were converging on Singh-one from Volkov, the other from Max, each hell-bent on overwhelming the other. Now, all at once, that force went visible.
A seam opened in the air, like a thick snake writhing in the night sky, throwing off the raindrops, slipping back and forth as the two men battled for control. It slithered above the orchestra tent and suddenly the music warped Doppler, like the sound of an ambulance passing in traffic, pitch wavering and flexing.
The musicians were throwing nervous looks around and above, trying to figure out what was happening. The leaders in the dome were up, staring at the seam and the men at the two ends of it. Max and Volkov were as shocked as everyone else, their mouths open, lost in their own power gone beserk.
And then the leaders were scrambling for the exit door, their bodyguards struggling to open the lock but even at a distance it was clear they’d be way too late to affect the outcome. Singh was frozen, hand still inside her bag-the confusion on her face was suffocating.
The seam bubbled and squirmed in the middle now, like a pig squeezed through the belly of the snake, the bubble rumbling back and forth as the two men poured it on. And then the seam flicked sideways, in an eyeblink, and nicked the rim of the dome itself and the Plexiglas buckled and exploded, a million tiny shards of plastic hurled in every direction.
The leaders hit the floor with the guards piled on top of them. Shouts and screams from both sides of the river, a panicked crush fleeing the bleachers.
I was running too, sprinting up the riverbank. Kate was in front of me, pushing Marat back. The harder he tried, the harder she pushed him back and I could see him really getting hot.
I went straight for Volkov. He was still grappling with the seam, puffing like a general on an obstacle course. But as the guards began hustling the leaders to shelter, he saw the situation was hopeless. He released the bubble with a wave of his hand-it vanished as he focused a murderous look on Singh.
He threw his hand out but I threw myself at him first and we went head over heels, tumbling down the side of the island. I hit a tree squarely and that stopped me but good. Volkov continued straight into the river. When I looked up, Singh was gone-when I turned back to the river, so was Volkov.
I stood the best I could, vowing to keep clear of trees the rest of my life. Tauber ran toward us, somehow supporting Max, who was wheezing as bad as Volkov. The musicians, disciplined as soldiers, were finishing their piece but looking around wildly while playing.
Kate had pushed Marat to the bank of the river, both of them grim-faced and determined. All at once, Marat stopped firing. He turned from Kate and fired at Max, who managed to block the blast with a high swipe of his hand. As he reached upward, Marat lowered his aim and fired another blast directly into Tauber.
The old man turned blue and glowed like one of those bars you break open to light your campsite. He twitched and shook, making growling noises like an animal in a trap. And then a look of recognition moved across his face-almost a smile but not quite — and he collapsed like a bag of bones.
Marat lowered his arms now, satisfaction on his face. Max and Kate turned a black look on him simultaneously. At the moment their looks converged, Marat vaporized-imploded into the night air, sucked into particles that glowed for an instant and flickered out.
And then the music was over and all was chaos, the cries of the crowd and the sound of a hundred musicians abandoning their instruments, running across the sodden lawn for cover.
Kate and I bent over Tauber but there was nobody there. He was just a shell in the grass. I flashed back all of a sudden to Dave, to the way I’d gone vacant and distant a moment after Dave was killed. There was nothing distant here-this hurt.
“We’ve got to go,” Max was saying but we weren’t listening.
“We’ve can’t just leave him behind,” Kate answered. “We-” but she didn’t know how to finish.
“We have to,” Max repeated, gesturing behind us. Turning, I saw security pouring around the front of the island, seeking culprits for the morning papers.
Kate wasn’t budging. “He-we’ve got to do something for him. Something for…respect.”
“He’s got that,” Max said, closing Tauber’s eyes and laying his head back on the grass. Kate glared at him-she wasn’t going without him. Max nodded at me and I knew what he wanted, because of course he put the idea into my head. The idea did nothing for me-I wanted what Kate wanted, to do something for the old warrior instead of leaving him on the battlefield. We’d said in Iraq, don’t miss a speck. But now I did what Max told me to, because I knew it was necessary or because he made me, I can’t tell you which. I can tell you I hated him for it. I grabbed Kate under the arm, Max took her from the other side and we dragged her as fast as we could to the river, the guards coming fast behind us.
Max threw out his hand, drawing a line over the roiling surface. That’s how we ended up on a million web videos, appearing to run across the surface of the Tiber, Kate kicking and screaming between us, while our pursuers dropped into the water seconds later trying to follow.
Now
So now we’re on the run, the best-known fugitives in the world, other than Bin Laden. TV shows regularly cite us right behind him on their ‘most dangerous terrorists’ lists. I never realized how many shows there were like that until we started showing up on them.
The video of the fight has been seen on the web over a million times. Whichever angle you watch-there were certainly enough cellphone cameras present that night-nothing’s ever clear. Which provides enough ambiguity to fuel fifteen discussion groups, connecting us to sightings of Jesus, Elvis, aliens and 9/11 conspiracy theories. Actually, the one I liked the best was the one that suggested we were fallen angels. Unless they meant we were followers of Lucifer. I may rethink my affection for that one.
It’s hard to argue that we accomplished a whole lot, once the G8 rejected Singh’s proposal and she was deposed by her own party two weeks after the conference. I can’t really argue that this world is a whole lot better than the one that might have been, although you have to hope.
Which is why I’m writing this. Max says just write it the best you can and give people the chance to see the truth in it. Which is interesting coming from him, considering he’s spent his whole life making people see things that weren’t there. But I think there’s a bit of a dreamer in him that comes out in moments like this. I find it funny, to tell the truth.