Bureaucracy

 

            Nathan started blankly into the torrents pouring down outside. The rain was the closest he'd ever seen to what one would call cats and dogs. He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. He'd been there for three hours already.

            "Click. Welcome to the San Francisco International Airport. Please remember to report any unattended baggage to security," chimed an electronic recording for the umpteenth time. Jesus Christ, Nathan thought. If I hear that one more time I will hurl myself from the smoking balcony. "…And never accept baggage from strangers. Thank you." Nathan gritted his teeth and ran his hand through his graying hair. He was a short, muscular man, with the build of one who’d been an athlete in his prime and was doing his very best to keep it that way.

            Half an hour later, he retreated from the window, which was still being plummeted by nature's wrath, and sat down. He frowned. The chair was not what one would call comfortable. Shortly, though, sleep crept through his weary body.

*          *          *

            "Click." Nathan's eyes snapped open. "Welcome to the San Francisco International Airport." Mother Fucker. Nathan shut his eyes and tried to tone out the piercing electronic monotone. "Please remember…kkk…Flight 644 from Baltimore will land in 20 minutes." Nathan's eyes snapped open again. He frowned and looked at the clock. Ah, it'll only be three and a half hours late. Great. He got up, stretched, went to the bathroom, washed his face, and wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes. He sighed. 15 minutes. He walked around the airport, trotting to the end of the terminal. He admired some photographs and wandered onto the smoking platform to listen to the rain. He glanced suspiciously at a teenager who was smoking something that smelled suspiciously unlike tobacco, but quickly retreated back inside from the smell and the cold. Ten minutes.

            He walked back to the gate and stood, patiently, where the passengers would debark. Ten minutes later the first passengers walked up the ramp, dragging luggage that appeared to be straining their exhausted bodies much more than normal. After perhaps half a plane-full of weary travelers had walked by, Nathan's high school pal Miles trotted off, looking just as wearied by his travels as any of the others. The two had gone their separate ways after high school – Nathan had stayed local and gone to Stanford, majored in Biochemistry, gone on to a PhD in Physics, and gotten a job at a local lab. Miles had headed east to Yale, where he'd studied Economics and Political Science. After college, he’d become a congressman and moved to Washington, D.C. But they had always kept in touch.

            Nathan smiled for the first time that day and walked towards Miles. He checked himself, his grandfather's childhood advice running through his head. Men don't hug. He held out his right hand. Miles dropped his bag and threw his arms around Nathan, grinning broadly. Nathan's smile widened. Ah, well.

            "How are you, you old rascal?" Miles asked, picking up his bags. He motioned that they should start walking.

            "A little on the tired side – your flight was awfully late."

            "Oh, tell me about it. I guess this is what I should expect when I book flight so last-minute." He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Nathan was silent. "Speaking of which…" He prompted. Nathan frowned slightly. "I'm very curious to know what it is you had me fly all the way across the country to tell me in person."

            Nathan nodded, still frowning. "Not here," he said.

           

 * * *

      That evening in his hotel room, Miles didn’t know what to do. Nathan had told him about his discovery, and he knew, as a government employee, that he had a responsibility to tell someone. But he did not know who to tell, or how much.

      He opened his cell phone and scanned absently through the available numbers before deciding to call the Speaker of the House. Although the man was now much higher ranking than Miles and they rarely talked any more, they had worked together on several committees in years past, and Miles still considered Joel Schwartz a friend.

      He dialed the number. A sweet, young voice answered. “Good evening. You’ve reached the office of Congressman Joel Schwartz. This is Charlotte. What can I do for you?”

      “Hi, Charlotte, this is Miles Jameson. Could I speak with Joel please?” Miles had spoken to the secretary before.

      “He’s actually just getting ready to leave the office, but let me ask if he has a moment for you.”

      “Tell him it’s urgent,” Miles responded.

      “Very good, sir.” The line went quiet for a few seconds.

      “Miles? What is it?” Joel’s deep baritone echoed into the phone.

      “Sir!” Miles cut right to the chase. “Well, I’m back home visiting an old friend of mine, Nathan Cohen.”

      “Go on…” Joel sounded a little impatient.

      Miles spoke quickly. “He’s discovered something, a weapon of sorts. He doesn’t have the money to build a full size one, but basically it uses sound waves to break things. You might have heard of or seen sound waves shattering wine glasses, but he’s developed a way to break thicker glass, like windows, and even brick. He thinks he’ll be able to break metal soon.”

      Joel was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, he sounded much more interested. “Well, why did he tell you this? Is he trying to offer the weapon to the government?”

      “No, far from it. While he recognizes its obvious destructive power, he hopes to find a way to use it for good – he said something about using it in construction or even agriculture. He intends to release it publicly, and –”

      “How soon?” Joel interrupted.

      Miles was taken aback by his sudden concern. “Not for a while, at least. He said I wasn’t to tell anyone because he didn’t want it to get out until he’d further investigated its agricultural uses and hopefully discovered a way to damage metal.”

      “Do you know how long that will take?” Joel spoke quickly, with an urgent inflection.

      “Oh, at least a week. Perhaps as much as a month.”

      “Good. Stall him as long as possible. I’ll call you tomorrow with further instructions. Bye.” Miles heard the sound of Joel hanging up.

            Miles closed his phone and sighed. Bye, he thought. He found it a little odd that Joel had pounced on this so suddenly; he hadn't realized the matter was quite that urgent, quite that sensitive. And surely it had been obvious that Nathan wasn't going to publish anything tonight – it was after ten, people were sleeping. Joel had seemed strangely high-strung. Something was out of place, something Miles didn't know. He decided not to worry about it until he got back to Washington.

*          *          *

            Miles couldn't sleep. The problem was a familiar one. He tossed and turned for just a few minutes before turning on a light and the TV. There was a Sopranos marathon on HBO. He watched nearly two hours worth, trying to suppress his thoughts and quiet his mind, before he yawned the first time. He turned off the light and the TV, rolled over, and fell asleep.

            He didn't wake up until 11 or so the next morning – he'd had a long day, hadn't slept at all on the plane, and had been up late. He called Nathan, said good morning, and offered to take him out to lunch around 2. Nathan agreed.

            Miles did a few sit-ups, took a long shower, and went down to the hotel-provided brunch. He checked his email and thoroughly perused the News, Sports, and Datebook sections of the S.F. Chronicle. He found nothing remotely interesting or unusual.

            Miles returned to his room long enough to grab his keys and briefcase, then picked up his rental car from the valet. He called in the car to let Nathan know he was coming. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Hello, you've reached the office of – Miles hung up. Strange, no answer, he thought, but didn't think much more of it.

            As he drove down Main Street, an ambulance wailed behind him. He pulled over and let it pass, and didn't think much more of it.

            A few minutes later, he turned down 14^th. He could see two police cars a few blocks ahead, directing all traffic on a detour. Behind them he registered the ambulance he'd seen a few minutes earlier, parked right in front of Nathan's office, between a fire truck and another cop car. Police and firemen milled around outside, in no particular hurry. Miles knew that was a bad sign.

            He accelerated, shot across the street, parked illegally, and leapt out of the car.

            Two cops leaned casually against their cars. "No civilians are allowed to pass, sir."

            Miles looked past the two police officers. From this range he saw two paramedics walk out of the building, carrying a stretcher. Its occupant was covered with a white sheet. Miles clenched his jaw as he imagined the grim expressions on the paramedics' faces, the frowning cops and the gloomy firemen.

            He tried to keep his voice from cracking as he asked, "What happened in there?"

            "I'm sorry, sir, but that's classified information." The cop sounded genuinely apologetic, as though he could tell Miles truly cared.

            Miles blinked his eyes furiously to keep the tears that were welling up from pouring down his cheeks as he took out his wallet. He opened it and showed the cop. "Congressman Miles…Jameson." His voice cracked that time.

            The cop nodded curtly and stood up a little straighter, hardly glancing at the ID. "Well, sir, I don't know much, but neighbors heard three shots about twenty minutes ago. We rushed to the scene but I've been manning the roadblock ever since and I don't know for sure what they found. I'm terribly sorry."

            Miles nodded, wiping aside the first tear that rolled down his pale cheek. "May I…pass?"

            "Certainly, sir." The cop stepped aside almost enthusiastically.

            Miles knew what had happened, what must have happened, but he couldn't bring himself to believe it. He walked briskly. He could see the grim expressions now. The paramedics had put down the stretcher. The white sheet still covered the entire body. Nathan was dead. Nathan was dead, and it was his fault. Why had he called Joel? Why had he told anyone when Nathan had asked him not to? How had he not realized the government would rather have Nathan dead that risk the secret of a potentially lethal weapon getting out to the public? He had killed his best friend.

            He took out his cell and wiped more tears from his eyes, both eyes now, as he dialed the number.

            Ring. "Hello, Miles,” the sweet, young voice answered.

            "Ch…Charlotte?" Miles' voice cracked yet again.

            "Joel is in a meeting, Miles. He said you might call, and asked me to pass along that he's very sorry. He said you would understand."

            Miles couldn't believe it. Anger clouded his mind. His boss had ordered the assassination of his best friend. And it must have been successful. Ahead the white cloth glowed in the sun. Joel had killed Nathan, and hadn't even had the courage to tell Miles himself. Nathan was gone forever, and Miles had no one to blame but himself.

            At the far end of the block, two police cars parted and a blue van drove in. It turned and parked next to the fire truck. Miles read the side: "County Coroner".

            "Miles? Sir?" Charlotte sounded concerned.

            Miles' voice caught in his throat. It was more than he could bear. "Th…thank you." He hung up.

            Miles stopped walking. He stood still and looked around, taking it all in. It was like a crime scene from CSI: firemen loading their truck, police talking on cell phones, paramedics preparing papers. He noticed for the first time that the door to Nathan's office had been forced open and now hung precariously on one hinge. In the midst of it all was the body. Nathan's body. The white cloth still glowed brightly in the sun.

      The coroner walked over and lifted a corner of the cloth. Miles didn't want to see, but before he could turn away he caught a glimpse of the hair. Black hair, he thought, and froze. Nathan's hair was light brown, and he remembered noticing a surprising amount of gray the day before. Miles crouched down, his heart pounding, trying to see farther under the cloth. He saw a young face, tanned, with prominent black eyebrows and a small nose. The man's neck was skinny, his build long and lanky. The coroner let the cloth fall.

            Miles looked around for another body and checked that the ambulance was empty, his heart still racing. His jaw was slightly ajar, the anguish gone from his features, his eyes no longer bloodshot. Thoughts, images, exploded in his mind. He could see a struggle, Nathan surprising the assassin with his speed and strength, coming out on top.

            Miles smiled. Nathan has always been a survivor. But what would he do? Where would he go? Miles struggled to get inside his head, to understand his old friend and how he would react to the unfamiliar situation. Nathan was not a killer. He would panic after killing anyone, even in self-defense, and had probably run away, afraid to face the police. Where would he go? Will he have to hide for the rest of his life? Perhaps they could run away together.

            Miles turned around and walked back towards his car. He had seen all he needed. Nathan was alive. He did not know how, or where he had gone, but he was alive. Their paths would cross again, eventually.

            He was half way to the police car when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket.

            One new text message, it said. He flipped it open. "It's me. Meet me at Slater Memorial Park. I'll find you."

            Miles' smile grew wider. He nodded curtly at the two police officers on his way out, got into his car, took a deep breath, and drove away.