Robert Knightly - The cold room

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.

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.’

‘Aslan doesn’t care about innocent bystanders,’ Hansen explained. ‘There’s enough explosive material in this room to collapse the building on anybody in the store downstairs. Maybe it’s Sunday night and the store’s closed, but we might easily have come along on a Saturday afternoon. To Aslan, it doesn’t matter.’

I watched Aslan’s mouth compress and his eyes narrow as he sought the courage to make good on his threat. He didn’t like having his bluff called — that much I knew from experience — but dying, apparently, didn’t have all that much appeal either. In any event, it was Hansen who broke the silence.

‘See,’ he said to Horn, ‘Aslan has the same problem I do. I don’t want to go to my death knowing that Aslan’s still breathing. Aslan doesn’t want to go to his death knowing that Harry Corbin’s still breathing.’

Aslan considered this for a moment, then rose to his feet, ‘Choice for Aslan is simple. Surrender and become prisoner of state, or go to Allah. Prisoner of state is not possible. In Russia, prisoner of state means Gulag. I have been to Gulag. Never again is what I have said to myself at this time. If once I am out of here, never again.’