Jumper by Steven Gould
“We found a microphone in the kitchen today. I called the police again and Mark filed an injunction. Some federal attorneys showed up and they’re slugging it out. Mark also sent a press release to every paper and news service around.” The champagne cork went pop. “The police were a little more sympathetic after we found the microphone. Apparently there wasn’t any court order obtained. Mom was outraged.”
I slid under the covers and accepted a glass of champagne. “I’d apologize except you sound like you’re enjoying yourself.” The wine still tasted like bad ginger ale.
“My that’s good,” said Millie, drinking half the glass. She snuggled down next to me. “I’m sort of enjoying the fight. I just wish I could get to them, though. When we go out, there they are, their sunglasses on. They don’t look mad, they don’t look tired, they don’t even look, well, human.”
I shivered. “Well, they don’t think I am, either.”
“What do you mean?”
I told her about my parting remark, the “We mean no harm to your planet.”
She giggled. “Oh, no! Why’d you do that?”
I shook my head. “I guess I thought that they’d look elsewhere for me, you know, like in orbit or something. I was hoping they wouldn’t look for a human me.”
“Well, I’m not so sure you should have said that. Now the military will get in on it, I bet.”
“Oh, God. What a pain.” I sipped some more bubbly, then set the glass down. “I’ve got to jump you home in two hours so I can catch a flight in Cyprus.”
She drained her glass. “Well, that’s not good. We better not waste any time, huh?”
I reached for her.
The commuter flight took only twenty-five minutes. I slept through most of it. I didn’t have to go through customs. I did ask, though, where the American woman had died two months before. A Turkish Cypriot with passable English pointed the spot out from a terminal window.
“Was very bad. See the gray area? That was black from the explosion. They scrub and scrub but it doesn’t come clean. Very bad.”
I thanked him, even offered to tip him, but he wouldn’t take it. He just shook his head and went away. I hope I didn’t offend him, but I didn’t think about it at the time. I just stared out at the gray spot on the tarmac, numb.
In reality, the gray spot was mostly the color of the surrounding tarmac. It was only slightly discolored, but the loop of news video kept playing in my head, superimposed—a gout of flame and smoke and the twisted, broken doll body.
Oh, Mom....
Will revenge bring her back, Davy? A million dead in Iran and Iraq. Fifty thousand dead in Lebanon. One woman dead in Cyprus. Will you revenge them all? What about the dead in Cambodia, Latin America, in South Africa?
They aren’t my dead. They aren’t my mother.
I felt sick. Too many dead, too many suffering. Why do people do this to each other? What are you going to do with Matar when you get him?
I blinked tears away.
I’ll answer that when I have him.
PART VI:
PLAYING TAG
Chapter 16
In El Solitario, above the water-filled pit with the little green island, I appeared on a ledge some fifty feet above the water. The walls stretched another fifty feet above me, but this ledge was over deep water. Besides, dropping from a hundred feet, you would reach fifty-five miles per hour before hitting the water. Though high divers did it, you could still break your neck if you hit at the wrong angle.
The sun wasn’t high yet, and only the upper reaches of the opposite wall were lit by direct sunlight. Still, the rock was light limestone and it reflected the light well. The water below was an unblemished mirror, showing the blue sky and white walls and me.
I stepped off the ledge and dropped. It would take 1.767 seconds to reach the water, but at a little over one second, the wind starting to whistle in my ears, I jumped away, to the top of the pit, looking down at the unblemished water.
I took a deep breath. The water looked very cold and hard, like polished iron.
Again, only this time, I didn’t appear on the ledge—I appeared two feet out from the ledge, in midair. Again, I dropped, jumping away before hitting the water.
I did this again and again and again.
Athens, Beirut, Cairo, Tehran, Baghdad, Amman, Bahrain, Kuwait City, Istanbul, Tunis, Casablanca, Rabat, Ankara, Karachi, Lahore, Riyadh, Mecca, Knossos, Rhodes, Smyrna, Abu Dhabi, Muscat, Damascus, Baghdad, Naples, Venice, Seville, Paris, Marseilles, Barcelona, Belfast, Zurich, Vienna, Berlin, Bonn, Amsterdam.
I couldn’t get a visa for Tripoli, in Libya, but I went anyway, not even buying a ticket, just jumping past the gate agent and the flight attendant. It was not a popular flight—the plane was half empty. I repeated the process at the other end.
I tried to do at least one airport a day, sometimes two. I would get up at two or three in the morning, jump to the departing city, sleep fitfully on the plane, acquire the new jump site, and be back by ten in the morning. Then I’d call Manhattan Media Monitoring and see if there were any hijackings.
There was only one during the month of January, an Aeroflot flight diverted to Kabul, Afghanistan, by several Soviet convicts. They’d given themselves up shortly after arrival. I didn’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t. I didn’t have a jump site in Afghanistan at that time.
After a week of legal huffing and puffing, Millie agreed to a federal judge-supervised interview by the NSA with her lawyer present. She told me about it after I’d jumped her to the cliff dwelling late one night.
“They brought your friend in from Washington.”
“Who, Perston-Smythe?”
She shook her head. “No, no. Cox, Brian Cox, the guy from the NSA with the sidewalls.”
“Sidewalls?”
She touched the side of her head. “Shaved on the sides. Fleshy neck. Big shoulders?”
“I knew who you meant. I just didn’t know what you meant by sidewalls.”
“Ah. Well, he starts by asking where you are.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“ ‘Where is David Rice?’ I answered with the literal truth. I said I didn’t know, adding that we’d broken up in November. Both of these things were true—you were off flying around Europe and we did break up in November.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, I had to lie, then. He asked if I’d seen you since we broke up. I said no. I was afraid I wouldn’t sound very convincing, but I think I sounded great. I’m afraid you’re a very bad influence.
“Cox then asked if I’d heard from you. I said no. I said the breakup was very nasty and that I didn’t ever want to hear from you.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Another lie.”
I smiled and waited for her to continue.
“He asked about the cause of the breakup and I told him about the call from the NYPD. He didn’t look very surprised.”
“No,” I said. “They had to talk to Washburn and Baker to get to you, so they’ve already heard their version. I wonder if they found out about Washburn’s wife? If they interviewed them separately, they probably did. Especially if they polygraphed them.”
Millie looked angry at that. One of the NSA’s demands had been to interrogate Millie on a polygraph machine. The judge had rejected it out of hand. It didn’t help the NSA’s case that they wouldn’t talk about the purpose of their investigation.
“Cox next asked when I’d met you, how often we’d seen each other, and how intimate we’d been. I answered the first two questions and refused to answer the last one. Again I asked what you’d done to merit this investigation. He refused to answer, so I got up to leave.”
I laughed. “Vicious. I love you.”
She shrugged. “He partially relented then, saying that he couldn’t say why you were under investigation as it was classified. He did say he could tell me if I’d reconsider the polygraph. I didn’t have time to answer—Mark and the judge practically jumped down his
“Good for him.”
“I felt kind of sorry for Cox. I think he wanted to know how intimate I was with you so he could judge whether you were human or not. I almost relented and told him that I wondered why you had four testicles and a marsupial pouch, but I wasn’t going to bring things into the twilight zone. If I didn’t know about you disappearing into thin air, how was he going to ask the question so he didn’t sound like a lunatic?”
I nodded. “He has a double problem. If I’m an alien or even an unaligned human, he doesn’t want to let other governments know about me. What if they got to me first? The country that controls teleportation controls the world!”
“God bless America,” she said, dryly.
“Unfortunately, this also doesn’t tell us if they have any experience with teleports besides me. Unless they said something that implied that?”
“No. Well, he did ask if I thought there was anything unusual about you, in the way you behaved. I said, ‘What? Like does he speak Russian in his sleep or something? Not that I noticed.’ Then I told a half-truth. I said, ‘He’s a nerd. A cute nerd, but a nerd. Christ, he’s from Ohio. What do you expect?’ “
“Owww. Which part was the truth? Being a nerd?”
She laughed and squeezed me. “You are from Ohio. Cox gave up then. He asked me to contact them if I heard from you and that surveillance would be withdrawn.”
“Has it?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Certainly the obvious stuff has, but the house for sale down the block, the one that hasn’t sold for three years, suddenly did. Who buys a house in January? I don’t know.”
“So we assume they’re still watching. You go back to school in two weeks. It might pay to have someone sweep your apartment for wires when you get back. Luckily,” I said, letting my fingers wander a little, “I know your bedroom already.”
Her back arched and she drew in breath sharply. She moved her hand down my back. “Yeah. Once school starts, you know I can’t spend as much time with you. I’ll need my sleep.”
“But I won’t be able to see you during the day, even during the weekends! It’s not fair.”
Her hands moved below my waist. “We’ll see,” she said.
After a crowded flight into Glasgow, from London, I jumped to New York, as usual, and called MMM, Manhattan Media Monitoring. We’d evolved a little ritual. I would call, the operator would check my name on the computer, and she would say, “No, nothing.” I would thank her and hang up, checking again about five in the afternoon.
Today, she heard my voice and said, “Ah, Mr. Ross, we have something for you.”
“Yes?” My heart began beating faster.
“An Air France 727 has been hijacked after taking off from Barcelona. It’s being diverted to Algiers. We only have the initial UPI wire report. Should we fax it to you?”
My heart was now pounding and I was having trouble catching my breath.
“No. Is there any indication of how many hijackers are aboard?”
“Not in the UPI report.”
“Has it actually landed in Algiers?”
“The report doesn’t say, but it does say that the Algerians will let it land.”
“Thanks. Well, keep an eye out for more info. I’ll call later.”
I hung up and jumped, first to Texas, for binoculars and a small bag of odds and ends, then to Algiers, to the airport.
Inside the terminal a barrier had been strung blocking off the VIP terminal. Darak al Watani guarded it, armed with machine guns. There was a crowd of curious onlookers but they stayed well back from the barrier. I edged along the periphery of the crowd, asking what was happening over and over again until I found someone with enough English to answer me.
“Hijackers have landed a plane, just ten minutes ago.”
The man who answered me spoke with an American accent, overlaid with French. He carried a laptop computer and a camera bag.
“Are you with the press?”
He nodded. “Reuters. I was heading home after covering the OPEC ministers meeting, but I guess I’ll miss my flight.” He looked around. “I wonder where they’ll set up the press?” He walked off, skirting the crowd and heading for one end of the barrier. I followed at a distance and heard him speak in rapid French to one of the guards, who pointed back down the terminal. The reporter turned back and began walking briskly in that direction.
The barrier was set up before the turn into the VIP terminal, so it was not possible to see what was happening down its length. I jumped, blind, to the spot I’d visited on my first trip to Algiers. There was a group of people at the gate itself, farther down the hall.
I looked out the window and saw an Air France 727 parked out on the taxiway, perhaps a hundred yards short of the gate. The front door was open, but there was no boarding walkway rolled up to it. Through the binoculars I saw a figure in the door, a man with an Uzi-like machine gun and wearing a purple bag with eyeholes over his head. He was standing back from the door, looking out, and I had the impression he was looking into my eyes. Then he turned his head to the left, toward the cockpit, then right, toward the passengers.
When I shifted the binoculars to the cockpit windows, I could only see the pilot and the copilot, sitting very still. The shades on all the passengers’ windows were drawn.
Someone shouted at me and I glanced down toward the gate. A uniformed man was talking at me, first in Arabic, then in French. I looked back at the doorway of the plane, studying each detail. I heard steps coming up the terminal, toward me. When I looked back at the voices, two Darak al Watani were walking toward me, accompanied by the other man, probably an army officer.
I looked down onto the tarmac below me. There was a baggage trailer parked in the shadow of the terminal. I jumped to it, then stepped around it, so I wasn’t visible from the VIP terminal.
Using the binoculars, I studied the doorway again, waiting, hoping for my chance. I had enough detail to jump onto the plane, now, but I’d appear right by one of the terrorists. If he were the only one, that would be fine, but if there were others, I needed to know that.
There’d be a lot of dead hostages if I fucked up.
My knees suddenly threatened to give way. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Davy? The enormity, the arrogance, and the danger of what I was attempting suddenly hit me. It frightened me, made my stomach hurt, made it hard to breathe. Should I give up?
Staring down at the tarmac, the same kind of concrete apron that Mom died on, drove back the doubts.
I’ll be careful. Please, please, please, don’t let me fuck up.
I don’t know who I was talking to, but it made me feel better.
The purple-headed terrorist in the door suddenly turned and went back toward the passengers, the Uzi swinging up sharply. The entranceway was clear.
Oh, God!
I set the binoculars down and jumped.
Someone was shouting around the corner. I flattened myself against the storage closet for hanging bags that was to the right of the door. Directly across from me was the galley for the first-class passengers. It was empty. I glanced forward and I could see into the cockpit. The copilot, twisting his head to see what the shouting was about, saw me. His eyes were very wide.
I held up my forefinger in front of my lips and mouthed the word “Quiet.”
He blinked several times and nodded. I noticed that his wrists were taped to the armrests of his chair. I also noticed that there was a space behind him, between the bulkhead and his seat. I jumped to it.
Both the copilot and the pilot started violently. The pilot said very loudly, “Merde!”
I held up my finger again, but it was too late. Footsteps pounded up the aisle. I jumped away, back to the tarmac, by the baggage trailer. I saw Purple-bag cross the entrance-way headed for the cockpit. I lifted the binoculars and watched him hit both pilots in the face with openhanded slaps. Thei
You son of a bitch.
He left the cockpit, paused in the doorway to survey the area around the aircraft, then went back to the passenger section.
I jumped back to the cockpit.
This time the pilot started, but remained silent. When I appeared, he was staring at the doorway, hatred in his eyes. There were red marks on his face and his lip was bleeding.
Again, I held up my finger for silence. He nodded firmly. I leaned over to the copilot’s right ear. “How many hijackers?”
“Three,” he whispered.
“What weapons do they have?”
“I have seen pistols, machine guns, and hand grenades.”
Shit.
I asked him, “Do they have the pins pulled?”
“Sometimes.”
I turned and took a small dentist’s mirror out of my bag of odds and ends. I pushed it slowly around the corner and used it to look down the aisle.
The cabin lights were on and the thin shades covering the passengers’ windows glowed a dull orange on the side of the plane facing the sun. I couldn’t see any passengers, but the three terrorists were in the aisle, two at the back of the first-class section and the other one halfway down the coach section, constantly swiveling his head around.
The first-class section was empty of passengers. I figured they’d moved everybody back to coach and they were making them keep their heads down.
Each of the hijackers had a different-colored bag on his head. Purple-bag, closest to me, carried his machine gun at the ready, one hand on the trigger, one hand on the stock. The next hijacker, Orange-bag, had his machine gun slung over his shoulder by the strap and a pistol stuck in his waistband. He was lecturing the passengers and tossing a grenade from hand to hand.
At least that meant the pin was still in.
The last hijacker, Green-bag, held his machine gun at the ready, like Purple-bag. I saw him skip back toward the rear of the plane suddenly, and strike at one of the hidden passengers with the barrel of the gun. I gritted my teeth and marked the hijackers’ positions well.