LITMIR.BIZ

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the briefcase somewhere inconspicuously. Take the elevator back down. Exit the building, and watch the explosion from another nearby location.

      “KA-fucking-BOOM!” Travis whooped. ’Scuse me, Jesus.

      Travis could visualize it all so clearly. There would be a bright orange explosion, followed by yelling people fleeing from the building, pointing upward.

      There would be screams coming from the place where some would be trapped. Incredible sounds of wild desperate fear. Death and destruction everywhere. Lots of debris clattering to the sidewalk. A splintered table here. A mangled tray cabinet there. Thick black smoke rising up into the midmorning Monday sky.

      A clamor of fire alarms and sirens shrieking warnings.

      That would shake those fat, lazy, income-taxing federal employees from their eight-hour coffee break.

      Travis picked up his work knife and traced the letters he had carved into his palms after he was released from prison. SOG. He did it again. This time taking the knife deeper. SOG. Soldier of God. His palms started to bleed.

      On the radio, Brother Dougherty shouted, “We need the faithful to be unafraid to take a stand for Jesus!! We need a Christ explosion!!”

      And as Brother Dougherty’s choir started to sing, Travis lifted his palms, offering his blood atonement and sang along.

      “He’s got the whole world in His hands.

      He’s got the whole world in His hands.

      He’s got the whole world in His hands.

      He’s got the whole world in His hands.”

      Time to do the Lord’s work.

      Travis shut the briefcase and gave a loud rebel yell.

      6

      One block over, on the top floor of a deserted home, two agents were observing Bodine through telescopes. It was the sixteenth consecutive day of watching him. They had lived in the home without leaving for a minute. They were paid to notice patterns, learn routines. The room was littered with stained, empty coffee cups and old pizza boxes.

      The morning started out like every other day.

      The target got up went into the bathroom

      “Time?” the first agent asked.

      “Seven forty-eight.”

      “The target is in the bathroom.”

      The second agent wrote it down. They were the same notes he had taken every day for over two weeks.

      “The target is exiting the bathroom and going into the kitchen.”

      “Breakfast,” the second agent said, and yawned. “I’ll bet he has the same thing for breakfast he always has.”

      The agent with the telescope didn’t take the bet. Bodine did the same thing every morning. He drank a Budweiser and smoked a cigarette. That was breakfast.

      But then he did something different. He went into his work area. When he started working on the briefcase, the men snapped to attention and rapidly started taking notes and pictures. They captured every detail of the briefcase and its contents.

      They watched and recorded as he turned on his radio. The first agent adjusted his headphones and checked the input levels on the recording system. All systems were go. The microphones were functioning flawlessly, and the audio feed was crystal clear.

      When Bodine picked up the knife and cut himself, the first agent took out his cell phone and dialed.

      The phone at the other end rang three times before it was picked up.

      No one on the other end spoke.

      “Get me Aster,” the agent said urgently.

      “He’s in a meeting.”

      “This is Team Leader One. Goddammit, put me through.”

      The agent heard the anonymous voice at the other end say, “I think you better take this call.”

      Seconds later, “This is Aster.”

      “Commander, the target is getting ready to make his move.”

      7

      Slick woke up and stretched. She walked into the bathroom, and when she was done, she washed her hands and splashed some water on her face.

      The sun was coming in the widows. Laura was still asleep. Garbo was on the foot of the bed wagging her tail, paws in the air, ready for her walk.

      Slick threw on some sweats and socks, then did some warm-up exercises. She dropped to the floor and did thirty push-ups, followed by thirty sit-ups as quietly as she could with Garbo licking her face and occasionally pulling on her socks. When she finally opened the bedroom door, Garbo excitedly ran out before her.

      Once outside, Slick let the warm Sunday morning sunshine spill over her. Garbo romped and chased birds and squirrels and in between did what she needed to do. Slick walked to the end of the property and picked up the Sunday Star Ledger and read the headlines.

      Garbo wanted to play, so Slick put the paper down and tossed a ball for her to fetch until she was no longer interested in the game.

      Then she walked back to the house, opened the door, and walked up the stairs to the bedroom, with Garbo close on her heels.

      She opened the bedroom door. Laura was awake and watching television. Charles Osgood was describing what was coming up on Sunday Morning.

      Slick put the paper on the bed and kissed Laura.

      “Good morning,” Laura said.

      “Good morning.”

      “Someone’s had a workout already.”

      “Sorry,” Slick apologized. “I didn’t mean to get my sweat on you.”

      “I don’t mind at all. What’s it like outside?”

      “It’s beautiful. I say we go for a long walk in the mountains later.”

      “That sounds great,” Laura said. “I’d love to.”

      “What’s Charles up to today?” Slick asked, pointing to the television.

      “There’re going to be stories on Stevie Nicks and Vanessa Redgrave. Stevie has a new CD coming out, and Vanessa has a one-woman show opening on Broadway.”

      Laura slid over to make room in the bed for Slick.

      It was their Sunday morning ritual: read the paper in bed and watch the Sunday talk shows. They would start with Sunday Morning, switch to The Chris Matthews Show, watch Meet the Press, and finish with The McLaughlin Group.

      They would discuss and argue every show, take a long hot shower together, then have brunch. Sunday was their favorite day of the week.

      They had just assumed their Sunday morning positions—Laura propped up on the pillows watching television with Garbo in her lap, Slick prone on the bed leafing through the “Parade” section of the newspaper—when Slick’s cell phone rang.

      “Hello.”

      The voice on the other end drew her full attention.

      “Yes, sir,” she said. “We’re looking forward to it.”

      Laura knew without asking.

      Slick clicked off her cell.

      “That was the official word. We go as planned. Tomorrow.”

      “I’m ready,” Laura said.

      “I’ll go make coffee,” said Slick. “Then we can go over the information I just got.”

      Laura picked up the remote and clicked off Charles Osgood, then sighed.

      This

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