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Fiction. © Copyright 2002, Jim Loy
Stephen Ahlberg was sitting in his car in the parking garage. He was on his way to work. But his motivational cassette was not finished playing; it was almost done. He was learning to be creative. Today's lesson was on taking risks. He had his headphones on.
Then he saw a man in a dark gray suit walk by, looking around left and right, as he walked. Stephen was slumped down in his seat, and the man did not see him through the tinted windows. The man walked to a corner of the garage where there was no car and stopped, looked around furtively, then reached up to the top of the concrete pillar. There was a gap between the top of the pillar and the slanting concrete ceiling. And the man pulled down a briefcase. The briefcase looked just like Stephen's. Of course that was not Stephen's briefcase, but he looked at his brand new briefcase lying beside him on the passenger seat, just to make sure. The man walked quickly to the stairs and left.
"What was that all about, Boris?" Stephen made up the name "Boris" for the man. "Drugs? A spy? A bomb?" Stephen was curious about it. But Boris was gone. Stephen would never know.
He stopped the cassette player, got out of the car, and locked it. He went to the elevator and waited, then went down to the street.
Stephen still had time for breakfast. He always drove early to avoid the worst of the traffic. He entered the diner and saw Boris, with the briefcase and a cup of coffee, in a booth. Stephen sat at the counter and pretended not to watch. He ordered coffee and toast.
Then Boris got up and went into the rest room, leaving the briefcase and the coffee in the booth. Hm? Stephen was tempted to go over and grab the briefcase and leave his own empty one in its place. No. Let's watch. He saw someone else go into the rest room, from another booth some distance from Boris' booth. Boris left the rest room almost immediately after that, and went and sat in the other man's booth, next to a third briefcase! Stephen looked at Boris' original booth, and that briefcase was still there. He looked down at his own briefcase at his feet. The other man (Stephen named him "Igor") came out of the rest room and sat in Boris' booth. Stephen could see that Igor looked somewhat like Boris, and was dressed in a similar dark gray suit. Igor got up, taking Boris' briefcase, and paid for Boris' coffee. Then he left the diner. Through the window, Stephen saw three men grab Igor. One of them showed Igor a badge. And they hustled him and Boris' briefcase into a waiting car. And they drove away.
Boris was making himself inconspicuous in Igor's booth, eating Igor's donut and drinking Igor's coffee.
Stephen was trying to figure everything out. "OK, that was the FBI or some kind of police arresting Igor. They might have thought he was Boris. They may have the wrong briefcase. Or they might still be here watching Boris." Stephen looked around. "She might be FBI. He might be FBI. They could arrest Boris. After all, Boris might have seen them arrest Igor. In fact, he probably did see it. If they knew that Boris was still here, they probably would have followed Igor and arrested him somewhere else. So they probably don't know Boris is still here."
Then a man who was sitting at the other end of the counter got up and went into the rest room. FBI? Looking for another briefcase in the rest room? Boris got up quickly, paid Igor's bill, and left.
Stephen grabbed his briefcase and rushed to the cash register. Darn, nothing but twenties in his wallet. He slapped down a twenty and rushed out the door. And Boris was gone. "Where has he gone? Should I try to find him? No." Stephen walked back into the diner and said, "I forgot my change." The waitress reluctantly gave him change for his twenty. He walked back to his seat, put a dollar bill under the plate, ate the last piece of toast, drank a couple swigs of luke warm coffee, and left.
As Stephen walked down the street, he thought, "Boris might go back to the parking garage. He might stash the briefcase there. In fact, he may have done so, already." Stephen turned around quickly and ran into a man who swore at him. "Sorry." Stephen walked quickly toward the garage. He forced himself to slow down. "Gotta give Boris time to get there and leave. He might have taken a roundabout way, to throw off pursuit. So Boris stashes it, hopefully, and somebody else picks it up. I want to be there in between." He rode the elevator up to his floor and got out. Nobody around. No sounds. He walked to his car. Nobody. He walked to the pillar. Nobody. He reached up. Can't reach it. He stepped upon a concrete ledge, reached up again, and felt . . . the briefcase. He pulled it down. He turned the dials of the lock of his own empty briefcase, to lock it. Stepping up again, he put his own briefcase where Boris' briefcase had been. And he walked quickly to his car.
Stephen was not breathing. His heart raced; he could hear it in his ears. The "Telltale Heart," he thought. He fumbled with the lock of the car door. Then it opened, and he got in. He set the briefcase down gently in the passenger seat; "What if it's a bomb?" He drove down the ramps and out into traffic. "If it's a bomb, it's probably not timed to explode. Who would want to blow up a parking garage? Besides, it's very light; might be empty." He lifted it. "Could be empty." He tried to open it. "Locked."
"Oughta take this to the FBI. Then I'd probably never find out what this is all about. I'd rather open the briefcase, and then take it to the FBI. If it's money, it wouldn't hurt to keep a few thousand . . . a few million. Couldn't be a million. How much does a million weigh? Do they make $10,000 bills? Do they make $1000 bills? What . . . 10,000 hundred dollar bills make a million. It's not that heavy. A check for a million? Could I open an account, deposit it, and withdraw some of it, and then go back to real life?" He drove home, dollar signs dancing before his eyes.
Seven serious men were in a nice motel room. Two sat in chairs; three sat on the beds; and three sat on the floor. There was a quiet knock on the door. One of the men got up off the floor with a groan and cracking sounds from his knees. He looked out the peep hole and opened the door. In came a man with a briefcase. He set it down gently on the desk before a man sitting in a chair.
This man was tall (about 6' 4"), had dark skin, a bald head, a huge mustache, dark eyes, and he said nothing. He entered the combination. Nothing, it didn't open. He spun the wheels and re-entered the combination. Nothing. He experimented with different orders of the same numbers, then one off from the same numbers. Nothing. He said something in Arabic. One of the men replied in the same language and left the room out into the hall. The tall man wiped his hand over his closed eyes and thought, "What does this mean? Wrong combination. They gave me the wrong combination." He turned the wheels of the lock. "Can anyone pick the lock?" He said something in Arabic. The other men shook their heads, no.
The man who had left came back with a toolbox from a car. The tall man rummaged through the tools, picking out a screwdriver, a knife, and a pair of pliers. He worked carefully, but was occasionally pushing and pulling with great effort. He got the knife into the crack. He moved the knife back and forth, and then got the screwdriver into the crack. He shined a flashlight into the widening crack and frowned. He wedged the pliers into the crack, and he shined the light into the crack again. He stared into the crack. He was thinking. There was silence. He looked at the man who had brought him the briefcase, and smiled an ominous smile. Then he lifted up the briefcase, held it with the hinges upward, and shook it. Half of the other men edged back in fear. Then a tiny slip of paper fluttered out of the briefcase. He set the damaged briefcase on the desk and picked up the paper. A combination. He tried the combination on the lock, and the briefcase opened with a pop which startled all of the men except him.
He rested his head on one of his hands and sighed. He looked at each man. They were all staring at him in puzzlement. He thought for a long time. Then he said something, and one of the men handed him the phone and the phone book. He dialed a number. With a cultured British accent, he said into the phone, "Hello, do you sell briefcases? Yes, good. I found one, you see, a brand new . . ." He smiled. " . . . a brand new briefcase. It says 'Northeasterner' on the outside in sunken letters. No? Do you know who might sell that brand. Thank you. Thank you. You've been very helpful." He hung up and dialed another number. "Hello, do you sell Northeasterner brand briefcases? You do? Well you see, I've found this brand new briefcase, and I would like to return it to its owner. Have you sold one recently, yesterday I would guess. it's cowhide, four digit combination, quite sturdy construction. Yes? You did? 5:37 P.M., yesterday? Excellent, could you give me the name and address? Really? Yes, I see your point. Certainly, I could bring it 'round to you. But it would be simpler for me to return it myself . . . wouldn't it? Well, I'm sorry to be mercenary about this, but I was hoping for some kind of reward, you see. Yes. Yes. Well, I see that you have a policy about these things. Yes. No. Yes. All right. I'll bring it by. Thank you. Good-bye."
He hung up, said something in Arabic, and dialed the same number. This time he spoke with a deeper voice, and with no trace of a British accent, "Hello, this is Special Agent Wilson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I speak with your supervisor or someone else in authority please. I need some information. Yes certainly." He waited. "Hello. Yes. Special Agent Wilson. Yes. W-I-L-S-O-N. I am investigating an incident which happened just outside your store. You may not have noticed it, but a kidnapping was attempted. And I am looking for witnesses. It happened shortly after 5:30 P.M., yesterday. Perhaps one of your customers saw something. Do you, by any chance have a record of purchases between say 5:30 and oh, 5:45 on that day. You do? Excellent. Yes, 5:37 . . . a briefcase . . . a Stephen Ahlberg . . . 555-1285 . . . 137 Palmview Boulevard. No other. No, that would be too late. I will be sending one of our agents around to question your employees. Thank you. You've been a great help. Good-bye."
He hung up and barked something in Arabic. They all rushed out of the room.
Stephen was on a stool in his garage. He was trying each of the 10,000 combinations. He had been at it for over an hour, and he was less than halfway done with the list he had had his computer print out. He sighed as his wife Miriam brought him a cup of cocoa. He had told her that he had accidentally locked the briefcase and he didn't know the combination. She left, shaking her head. She shouted from the other room, "A locksmith could probably open it right up."
Stephen said under his breath, "Yeah and I'd have to share a check for a million dollars, too. Or he'd think I was a drug dealer, or whatever."
There was a click, and the briefcase opened. There were ten test tubes with clear liquid in them, taped to the bottom half of the briefcase with yellow plastic tape. They had plastic caps. Drugs. you don't go to the FBI about drugs. Who do you go to? He looked out the back window and saw a man climb the back fence carrying an automatic weapon. Stephen closed the briefcase and exited the garage through the side door. He squeezed through the gap in the hedge, and onto his neighbor's lawn. He went around their house, and crossed the street. Have to get far away. He went down the sidewalk and around a corner, farther from home. Then he stopped dead. "Miriam, she's in the house."
He was in front of an old white house with a colorful flower garden along the sidewalk and a freshly mowed lawn. He walked up the driveway and rang the doorbell. He hid the briefcase behind a bush that was against the house. Then an old woman came to the door, "Yes?"
"May I use your phone?"
"I don't think so."
"I just live a couple blocks that way. You've seen me at the supermarket. You're Mrs. Nelson, right?"
"Oh yes. I know you. Mr. Ahlberg. How's your wife, Miriam isn't it?"
"Um, I think she's fine. I need to call the police. I think there's a crime being committed at my house."
"Oh dear. Come in. Here's the phone."
He dialed 911. "Hello, yes. Yes. My name is Stephen Ahlberg, 137 Palmview Boulevard. No, I'm calling from somewhere else. Listen, I think there's a crime being committed at my house; there might be a hostage situation. Yes. Well I saw a man with an automatic weapon, and I cut out and left. I wasn't thinking, you see. I forgot that my wife was home. Good, good, yes, thank you. No, sorry I can't stay on the line. I have to go home to my wife." He handed the phone to Mrs. Nelson. He wrote a note on the back of a deposit slip, and handed it to her. It said, "The police will want the briefcase which I hid just outside your door."
And then he ran all the way to his house. There were three cars in the driveway. He walked in the front door, "Honey I'm . . . Yikes!" He looked down the barrel of an exotic automatic weapon.
"Bill, put down that gun." A tall, dark man with a bald head and a huge mustache strode toward him, pushed the weapon aside, and shook Stephen's hand. "Mr. Ahlberg I presume."
Miriam said, "These gentlemen claim to be from the FBI. This is Special Agent Wilson. Perhaps you would like to see his badge, honey?"
Wilson flashed his badge so fast that Stephen didn't get a good look at it. There were two other men standing in the living room, with automatic weapons. Stephen could hear noises of a search being made in other rooms of the house. "So, Special Agent Wilson, you'll be happy to know that I just visited your office." The two men with weapons looked at him with alarmed expressions. Wilson showed no emotions. Stephen continued, "I left a briefcase there."
"Really? And just where is my office?"
"Federal Building." Stephen didn't know if there was a Federal Building.
"How do I know that you are not lying?"
"I don't lie. Besides, you could just call your office. Here's the phone."
"Ah, of course." Wilson picked up the phone, dialed a number and said, "Wilson here. I'm at the Ahlberg residence. Mr. Ahlberg says that he left a briefcase there at the office. Did he? I'll hang on. No? Thank you. No, I'll keep in touch." He hung up. He turned to Stephen, "They say that you did not leave a briefcase. It would seem that you are lying."
"But I did leave the briefcase at the FBI office."
"You lie. You and your wife are very near death, unless you give me the briefcase."
"Is it FBI policy to make death threats? OK, OK, I left it at an old lady's house down the street."
"Again you lie. Seize him." Two men set down their weapons and held Stephen's arms behind his back. Muhammed, which was Wilson's real name, walked over to Miriam, grasped her little finger and twisted, making a loud cracking sound. Miriam screamed and fell to her knees, sobbing and swearing.
Stephen struggled and swore for a moment, and then, "I'll take you to your damned briefcase. I hid it."
"Good. Finally you tell me the truth." He shouted something in Arabic and three of his men raced out the door, right into the hands of a SWAT team. One was shot but not dead. The other two were thrown to the ground and incapacitated somehow. Muhammed backed into the living room, holding Stephen around the neck. There was shouting and shooting. In the confusion, Miriam ran out the back door and was captured by the real FBI. Two of Muhammed's men chased her out the back door and were also captured. There were a lot of FBI men back there.
Inside, Muhammed, two of his men, and Stephen prepared for a siege. Muhammed said, "I have a plan. Would you like to hear my plan? I will kill you, who have given me so much trouble, and then I will give myself up and go to jail. My brother tells me that criminals in this country go to jail for 99 years and get out in ten years. I think that he was surely joking."
"Wait, don't kill me, and you won't serve hardly any time."
"Oh I will serve a lot of time regardless. You don't know what is in the briefcase."
"What's in the briefcase?"
"I will tell you just before I kill you. How is that? I have a second plan. I will kill you, and then my friends Faisal and Yussuf and I will kill each other for Allah. That is more glorious. We will be heroes instead of the ignominious blunderers that we have been so far. Prepare to die, Stephen Ahlberg." He raised his pistol to Stephen's head. "The briefcase contains smallpox."
Just then, tear gas grenades shattered several of the windows. One of them struck Muhammed's arm and he shot wide, missing Stephen. Stephen ran out the back door. He heard a roar of automatic weapons as he fell to the ground and rolled on the lawn. He had been shot. He lost consciousness.
Stephen survived. It took him a long time to recover. He became known as the hero who had saved the city from smallpox.
Muhammed survived. He killed his two friends, but botched his own suicide. He served 51 years of a 99 year sentence, dying in prison. All three planned to be great heroes in Heaven, but ended up somewhere else.