THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2009, 1:12 PM

55 KM NE OF BEIRUT

The equatorial sun beats down mercilessly on the deserted Lebanese landscape. A black Hummer navigates the barren terrain and slowly climbs the base of a rocky hillside. It approaches a parked Jeep and two dirt bikes, slowing to a stop opposite the other vehicles. Three men in designer suits stand there awaiting the new arrival, one obviously the leader, the other two holding machine guns and staring coldly through the cloudless sky.

Two men climb out of the parked Hummer, from the passenger side an Arab, and from the driver’s side a Turk. The leader of the waiting party greets them in Russian.
“Gentlemen. So glad you could find us. Welcome.”
“Hello Yuri,” the Turk replies, also in Russian. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?”
“Ha ha ha. I’ve always enjoyed your demeanor. Straight to the point. No bullshit. All right then my friend. Care to translate?”
“Of course.”
“Tell your comrade that we know all about the American secret and it’s going to be our show from here on out. But we need his help.”
The Turk repeats the message in Arabic, to which the other man grimaces. After pausing for a moment to glare at his counterparts, the Arab speaks in a slow pained stream that is meaningless to all but the Turk. The Turk then projects toward the other men in Russian.
“He says that you advance from this point at the peril of your own demise. He does not wish to go with you. He calls it suicide. He says you are fools and you walk blindly through a valley of fear and ignorance. But he has nothing left, no reason for anything. He asks how much you offer for his help, and for his empty sacrifice.”
Yuri grins and turns to one of his armed henchmen. The henchman picks up a briefcase that had rested against his dirt bike, and hands it to his leader. Yuri then steps forward, facing the Arab, and opens the briefcase. It is full of monetary notes.
The Arab speaks, and eventually the Turk translates, “He says, ‘This is how much my life is worth to you? I will not trade my beating heart for rubles.’”
“Does he have a better suggestion?” Yuri asks in Russian, visibly annoyed.
After an extended exchange between the Turk and the Arab, the Turk responds, “He wants one million euros. That is the price of his soul.”
Yuri smiles. “Consider it done. We depart for the United States tomorrow.”

Yuri and the Arab shake hands. As they do so, Yuri notices a glint of light on the top of the hill before them. Startled, he begins yelling at his henchmen in a feverish outburst of Russian. The men quickly jump on their dirt bikes, machine guns slung around their backs by the straps, and begin to scale the hill as quickly as possible. They get to the crest of the hill, look around, see nothing. A single remaining cedar is the only sign of life in the depleted area. There are footprints all around them. Fresh footprints. They call down to Yuri, who is climbing into his Jeep.

The henchmen ride around in circles, inspecting the terrain. One rides up to the cedar. As he nears the tree, suddenly a pair of legs flash down out of the branches, kicking him square in the face and knocking him off the bike. An agile figure dressed all in black swoops down out of the cedar, disarms the henchman and uses the butt of his own gun to knock him unconscious as he lay in the sand. The other henchman begins to circle back on his bike, reaching to draw his gun. A fluid burst of fire by the man in black disposes of him. The mysterious assassin jumps on the abandoned bike closest to him and rides off, just as the Jeep and the Hummer both cross the top of the hill. As he rides he turns and fires toward his chasers. With two loud, seeminly concurrent bursts, a front tire is blown out on each vehicle. The man in black rides off alone, pursued at first by a hailstorm of gunfire.

And then all is quite as he speeds off, a lone figure racing toward tomorrow, off into the distance, away from Beirut, silhouetted by the deafeningly bright horizon.

The Arab stoicly climbs out of the Hummer’s passenger side door. His sandles splash into the dirt. As his solemn eyes follow the fleeing shape across the vast unknown he pauses to mumble to himself. “Bastardo.”

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MONDAY, APRIL 20, 2009, 3:44 PM

17 MI. NW OF BAYFIELD, WI

An old man sits alone in a tiny fishing boat, his line cast once again into the choppy waters. It is an overcast day with the last remaining chills of a long winter easing the waves across the surface of Lake Superior. The man nods contemplatively at the remnants of sunlight before returning his attention to the task at hand. There is not another human being within eyeshot.

His hair has gone fully gray now and four days growth has left him with a thin beard channeling a salt shaker uncapped. His blank glare pierces the distance for miles, past the far shore. A flock of Canadian geese can almost be heard squawking from the foreign reaches of their homeland.

An abrupt tug indicates that the man has hit paydirt. With a vague trace of feeling he immediately knows that he has hooked a seven pound lake trout. The ensuing fight is well-fought but short-lived. The fish had no chance. After, the man decides to call it a day.

Driving his old pickup back toward the homestead, the fisherman stops at a wooden outpost that has been temporarily serving as a bait and tackle shop for the past sixty years or so.

Inside the shop are two men, one of which has spent his whole life in the shop, the other only having been there the past three weeks. The fisherman enters and the older of the two inhabitants nods to him with familiarity.

“Hello, Jerry,” the entering visitor says without a smile as he grabs a small bag of hooks.
“How is it out there today?” Jerry asks.
“Bit chilly. Pretty nice overall though.” He drops some cash on the counter to pay for the hooks.
“Catch anything?”
“Yep.”
“How many?”
“Decent ones? Oh, I don’t know, eleven, twelve maybe.”
The other two men chuckle.
“Well, I’d best be gettin on then,” the old man says as he moves toward the door. “Don’t want to keep the old lady waiting.”
“Have a good one, friend.”

After the old man leaves the younger of the store’s inhabitants turns to Jerry and says, “Eleven or twelve, huh? Quite the sport, that one?”
“I reckon. He’s been comin in a while all right. Can’t remember seein anyone hook em as quick as he does. Like he knows what them fish is thinkin.”
“He’ll be eatin good tonight.”
“Nope. Never takes home a single one of em. Catch and release, catch and release, catch and release… all day long.”
“Really?”
“Hand to God.”

The old man pulls his truck up to the woodland log cabin he calls home. No one else lives for almost a mile in any direction. At least he’s pretty sure of that.

He saunters through the front door, hangs up his coat and hat and makes his way into the kitchen. He can smell the potatoes baking. He loves that smell. A fresh cobbler cools on the windowsill.

His old lady walks in hurriedly, smiles, gives him a peck on the cheek. “How was your day?”
“Just fine, thanks. I’m hungry.”
“Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Mmm. All right then.”

She hustles off and begins to busy herself at the counter. He picks up an apple and takes a loud bite. Over her shoulder she calls to him, “Oh, almost forgot, you had a phone call, left a message.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“Fella says his name was Billiam. Said to tell you that the package had arrived and you gotta pick it up.”

A loud thud echoes through the kitchen, then the house, then the forest outside, as the apple falls from the old man’s hand and erupts upon hitting the tile floor. He stares directly out the back window, questioning his fate and accepting it at once in the same breathlessness.

“Is everything all right?”

“Honey, what’s the matter?”

“You’re starting to scare me.”

“Please say something.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t you want any dinner?”

“What’s goin on?”

He zips the knapsack without expression, picks it up off the bed, slings it over his shoulder and moves toward the door. “I’m sorry baby, I gotta go.” His expressionless face deadens the approaching dusk. He pauses for a moment in the doorway, facing her for what may well be the last time.

A tear begins to form in her wrinkled eye. “Where?”

“Kentucky.”

The door slams.