From close up, those pinpricks of light I’d observed when I first opened the door were obviously the heads of common nails. The nails had been pressed into bars of what looked like molded clay, the intention to shred the flesh of anyone caught in their path. But the nails were pure overkill. There was enough explosive material in that room to take out the building. If it went off, I wouldn’t live long enough for the nails to reach my body.
Still, I appreciated the theatrical touch; as I also appreciated the way Aslan had rigged the trap after I found a second set of wires, in addition to the wires leading from the light switch. These wires began at a DVD player positioned on the floor where the eastern wall of the building met the kitchen’s service counter. They ran the full length of the room and were connected (as were the wires from the light switch) to detonators on each of the little bricks fastened to the wall.
I stood over the DVD player for a moment, staring down, until I finally hit upon its purpose. Then I began a search of the room that ended when I found the Sony’s remote control next to the computer. Needless to say, I was careful not to press any of its buttons. Instead, I carried it to the door through which I’d come, back to the rigged light switch.
I’d had some formal training in the handling of explosives while I was in the military. Enough to know that Aslan had created a dual system. The explosives could be triggered by turning on the light switch or the DVD player, either one. Thus, an intruder, like myself, entering while Aslan was out, would be the immediate cause of his own death when he switched on the light. On the other hand, if I’d made an appearance while Aslan was at home, he’d literally have his finger on the button.
Still, there was a definite bottom line here: no current, no explosion.
I went into my pants pocket, removed a small folding knife, and opened the blade. I told myself that the remedy here was apparent. If there was a break in the wire, no circuit could be completed, no matter what you did with the switch. But despite all that macho bullshit about inviting Aslan to the dance, I couldn’t bring myself to cut those wires. My knowledge of explosives was limited. For all I knew, Aslan had rigged his bombs to explode when an already established circuit was broken. How he’d do it, given the simplicity of a light switch, was beyond me, but sometimes the consequences of a mistake are so great, it doesn’t matter how great the odds against it. I’d surveyed the apartment, done my job, and fulfilled my obligation to protect the public. Who would fault me if I waited on the stairs? I’d give the bomb squad a heads-up, of course. Right after I finished with Aslan.
Good thinking, no doubt, but my timing was awful because I was still standing there, looking down at the open blade of the knife, when the outside door opened and I heard raised voices in the downstairs hall. I was seconds away from a confrontation. I had to act.
THIRTY-FIVE
Aslan came into the apartment first, edging sideways through the door. Hansen Linde followed. Though he wasn’t bearing down, he had a grip on Aslan’s trailing arm, an obviously custodial grip. A third man trailed behind. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but his vested suit, his crew-cut hair and the attache case he carried virtually screamed Fed.
I was in Aslan’s bathroom, peering through the crack between the partly open door and the frame, and the first thing I noted was that neither Hansen, nor his companion, had drawn a weapon. This was a mistake for which Aslan would surely make them pay.
He didn’t wait long. They were barely five feet into the room when Aslan yanked his arm free and made a dive for the remote control on his desk. Hansen and the Fed both grabbed for their weapons, only to stop when they realized that the plastic object in Aslan’s hand wasn’t a gun.
Aslan’s lips were moving, but nothing was coming out. Maybe he was considering the effect on his own body, on flesh and bone, should he press that button. Finally, he swept the room with his arm. A wasted gesture. Hansen and the Fed had already figured it out. I knew that because I saw the Fed’s knees buckle momentarily, while Hansen withdrew his hand from beneath his jacket, then raised it, palm out.
‘We don’t wanna do anything stupid here,’ he said.
‘Why? You are fearing death?’
‘You betcha.’
‘This is good. Now please to put guns on floor.’
The Fed hastened to comply, removing a pair of weapons, the first from a holster, the second, presumably Aslan’s, from the waistband of his trousers. He put them on the floor and took a step back. Hansen didn’t move a muscle.
‘Are you not hearing me?’
‘I hear you,’ Hansen said, ‘but I’m not gonna surrender my weapon. That’s the first rule of policing, ya know. Never surrender your weapon. Plus, I just can’t take the chance that I’ll die in this room while you continue living. I don’t wanna go before the pearly gates with that crime on my conscience. Oh, yeah. I’d be too ashamed even to beg forgiveness.’
I fell in love with Hansen Linde at that moment. Not so the Fed.
‘What’s the matter with you, Linde?’ he demanded. ‘Are you crazy?’ When Hansen ignored both questions, he turned to Aslan. ‘Look, we didn’t come to arrest you, Aslan. I’m not even a cop. I work for Immigration. Here.’ Very slowly, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and removed a business card from his vest pocket. When he held it up, his hands were shaking so hard the print couldn’t have been read, even in sunlight, even if Aslan wasn’t standing fifteen feet away. ‘My name is Horn, Jack Horn. I work in the Deportations Division of the INS.’
Aslan smiled for the first time. ‘You are tired with Aslan in your country? You want no more to be seeing him?’ He paused, his eyes flicking to Hansen, then back again. ‘Where is it you want Aslan to be going?’
‘To Russia.’ Horn shifted his weight from one foot to another. Though I couldn’t see his face, I was certain that he was smiling, and that his smile was fawning. ‘Use your common sense, Aslan. It’s the only way. You can’t stay here, not with a murder hanging over your head. It’s time to move on.’
Aslan sat down in front of his desk, the light from the lamp bathing the side of his face and his shoulder. He seemed at peace as he crossed his legs and let his weight fall against the back of the chair.
‘Is not only way,’ he told the Fed. ‘Is another way I am holding this minute in my hand.’
‘Yeah, but.?.?.’
Aslan shook his head, bringing Agent Horn to an abrupt halt. ‘Where is partner?’ he asked Hansen Linde.
‘You mean Detective Corbin?’
‘Do not be fucking with Aslan. From his life you are ignorant. Dead is nothing to Aslan. Honor is all. Tell me where is partner.’
‘I don’t know.’
Aslan nodded. ‘Now, please to put down gun. No more bullshit.’
‘Do what he says,’ Horn demanded. His hands were curled into fists, his shoulders squared. For a moment I thought he was going to attack Linde, though Hansen was much larger.
‘What you said about honor?’ Hansen spoke directly to Aslan. ‘I agree with you one hundred percent. Honor is everything. That’s why I’m gonna tell you, for the last time, that either we all walk out of here, or nobody walks out.’
‘You think I will not do this?’
Hansen’s adam’s apple gave a quick bob as he shook his head. ‘I’m not giving up my weapon, Aslan. It’s your move.’
The Fed grabbed Hansen’s arm, only to be shoved away. ‘I have a wife and children,’ he pleaded. ‘I haven’t done anything to anybody.’ Then he hesitated for a moment, his breath coming in near-convulsive heaves, before he made his final argument. ‘I’m an innocent bystander. I don’t deserve this.’