Andrew Klavan - Empire of Lies

Rashid stared up at me. For a moment, he didn't react at all. He just stared like that, reading my face, as if I hadn't spoken. Then he shook his head once: No.

No? What the hell did that mean? No, he didn't understand me? No, don't hurt me? What?

"Shit!" I said.

I realized I had to take the gag off him. I guess I hadn't thought things through all that well.

I peeled the duct tape away from his lips. I fished the sponge out of his mouth, my fingers growing wet with his saliva. I knew he might shout for help, and I knew without a doubt that if he shouted for help I would splatter his brains all over the braided rug.

He must've known it, too. He didn't shout. He spoke in a fierce, rapid whisper-as if we were children having an argument we didn't want our parents to hear.

"Listen to me," he said. "So help me, I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything about any attack. I'm not a terrorist. I'm a college professor. A professor, an intellectual. I have theories, that's all. Just theories, so help me…"

"Listen to me…"

"I write. I talk. That's all, I swear…"

"No. I was in your class."

"My class?"

"I heard what you said…"

"It's just talking, lectures…"

"I saw what you are."

"It's speech. Free speech. You believe in free speech, don't you?"

"I saw. I'm telling you…"

"You believe in rights, don't you? I have rights. I have-"

I stuffed the sponge back into his mouth. I clutched him by the throat. I saw the blood coming into his cheeks. It's not my fault, I thought again. But it was no good anymore, telling myself that. In the wild energy of the moment, in the surge of adrenaline, my head had cleared. The veil of fever had become a pane of glass. I could see: It was my fault. Of course it was. Maybe not all of it. Maybe not the fact that he was who he was and had chosen to do what he was doing. Maybe not the fact that I was alone and the police wouldn't listen to me and I had somehow wound up the only man in America who could stop him. Even this-this terrible thing I was about to do-maybe even this was not my fault because what else was there, what options did I have?

But the thrill of it… Yes, that. The coursing rush of excitement, the old dark, mesmerizing sadistic joy-that belonged to me. Even at that moment, I could feel it flowing into my brain, into my belly and my groin. I could feel the old smoky sickness of lust and pleasure spreading all through me. I had been saved from this once. I had been given the strength to walk away into a new life, a better life. And I knew with cold, bright clarity that if I chose to do this thing, if I brought this hammer down, if I unleashed this flood of feeling in myself again, there would be no second chance. I would be damned to this-damned from within-forever.

"This is the first time," I told Rashid hoarsely. I swallowed hard. "This is the first time I'm asking you. If you don't answer me, I shatter your left knee. You hear? Where is Serena? Where is the attack gonna be? When is it? Where and when? Tell me."

I let go of his throat. He worked the sponge out between his lips. I helped him with it, pulled it free. The fierce, rapid whisper streamed out of him again. "Listen, listen. For the love of God, please, listen, please. I'm not a terrorist. I'm a professor. Ask the police, the FBI. They know me. I helped them!"

"That was a trick, a diversion."

"No, no, no. Do you think they haven't checked me out? Do you think you know something they don't? Think about it! That doesn't make sense. I'm sorry if you don't like my ideas, but that's all they are, they-"

"It's not all. It's not all."

"Just stop. Stop and consider. I'm begging you. You're not thinking clearly. People sit in their rooms, they think things, they watch things on television and come up with all these crazy ideas."

"The TV lies. It's all lies."

"That's right, that's what I'm saying!" Rashid whispered up at me urgently. "Look, there's still time. You haven't hurt anyone yet. You can stop this. You can get help. I swear to you: There is no attack. Not from me. I swear-"

I jammed the sponge back into his mouth. I taped his mouth shut again. He struggled to speak around the gag, but there were only strangled mutterings.

I grabbed his shirtfront. My heart was banging in my chest so hard I thought it would explode or break through. I couldn't catch my breath. The fear, the moral agony, the thrill-it was nearly enough to make me faint. I felt as if I were spinning into the spout of a funnel, everything closing in, everything sinking, swirling down to a single impossible point.

I reached for Rashid's throat again, but instead my fingers touched his cheek. My fingers played against his cheek almost tenderly.

"Please," I said to him. "Please tell me."

He was shaking his head now frantically. He went on shaking his head: No, no, no! Trying to say the words behind his gag.

I climbed off him. I grabbed him by the ankle to steady his leg. He kicked and struggled wildly, shaking his head wildly: No, no, no! The shriek was jammed back into his throat by the sponge in his mouth.

I lifted the hammer in a trembling hand. I stared down at the twisting, struggling man on the floor. My mind flashed back to The Thinker-The Thinker in Paris staring down at the twisting, struggling figures in The Gates of Hell, the twisting, struggling figures of the damned churning in the vortical force of their passion and misery and self-destruction. I knew I would be one of those damned figures if I did this thing.

I forced the thought away. I forced myself to think about Serena. I thought of her face as she was dragged out of my mother's house, as she shouted for me: "Daddy!" I thought of all the faces in the park and in the city and on TV and I loved them and I loved my country. And I thought: What right have you in the end to hold on to your decency when the life of the nation is at stake? What is your sanity compared to that or even your salvation? You can't let thousands of people die simply to preserve your own righteousness.

I held the hammer high another moment. Rashid fought wildly in my grip, shaking his head, No, no, no.

All right, then, I thought, I'll go to Hell.

And I brought the hammer down on him.

The lights outside the theater swept the night. I saw them crisscrossing over the towers and billboards of Times Square when I was still several blocks north. It was dark now, but whatever stars there were were dazzled to nothing by the radiance of Broadway. Spotlit images of half-naked women several stories high, soaring electrified soda cans and golden arches, twinkling ads for shoes and video cameras, gigantic heads talking on TV screens the size of houses: They washed the sky black; they washed the faces on the street below to a corpselike pallor. Thousands of faces, mobs of faces, hustling, pushing, flowing under the lights, chalk-skinned and dead-eyed. I shouldered through the crush of them as quickly as I could.

I had called 911 from the cab. I must've sounded crazy to the operator. I must've sounded almost as crazy as I felt. But I didn't care. I babbled it all out in response to her bored, drawling questions. A massive amount of explosives, I said. The New Coliseum, I said. The End of Civilization as We Know It, I said. There would be over three thousand people there. The secretary of state, the governor, the mayor. Not to mention the crowds in the street turning out to watch the celebrities. My voice was strained with exhaustion as I explained it. The olive-skinned driver in the seat in front of me watched me warily in his rearview mirror. I went on to tell the 911 operator what I had done to Rashid, how I had left him broken and unconscious on the floor of his office. I stared out the window. I thought: I must be completely out of my mind. I thought: My life is over.